Mage Backstory

8/6/2019 Mage Backstory

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The Beginning


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Sarah McClanahan, of Harrow Lane

"Wake up, dearie." The gravelly voice was more insistent the second time. Sarah felt atouch at her shoulder. "You must wake up now."

Sarah sat up in bed, perfectly awake as she had been deeply asleep the moment before. Her

mind moved as though waterlogged, but it was fear, not sleep, clouding her thoughts.Grabbing at the bed sheets, she cowered backwards.

"Who're you?" Sarah gasped. Here deep black eyes, wide with fear, take in the figure infront of her. Quickly, she brushed back the long hair hanging in a tangle around a pale, too-skinny adolescent face, still marred by sleep. The gravelly voicebelonged to an insubstantial, hunched figure, who appeared to bewearing a stained, brown sack tied at the waist with a frayed rope.The spectral figure reached in with a hand as if to pat Sarah on thehead, and leaned close.

"No time, no time, no time," The short, lumpish figure breathed,looking directly into her eyes. "I will be able to save you, but youmust listen to me, now." The ghost was old. Her hair, dirty and


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greasy, sat in a plump tangle atop her misshapen head. She had only three teeth that Sarahcan see, and her deeply wrinkled face looked like it had been shattered and badly glued backtogether. However, her expression was friendly and kind. Then, a loud ripping and apopping sound, right outside in the hallway, and close.

"Save me...but...what about Mother?" Sarah's wide-eyed stare moved from the ghost to thedoorway of her bedroom, now suddenly aware of the smoke, a wave of heat that shouldn't behere, and that her mother's bedroom is down the hall. There are flickers of light coming fromunderneath the door.

"Your house is burning. I am so sorry, dearie. Your mother sent me." The ghost reached forher again. Sarah flinched from the apparitions withered hand

limned in a pale light.

"Mother, sent?" Sarah's mind lurched, trying to absorb whatthe ghost is telling her, but her thoughts sputtered andfaltered. Ghosts don't exist. Houses don't burn. Mother isacross the hall. Sarah began to shiver, and then choked as thesmoke thickened, orange light outlining the bedroom door. Theold ghost leaned back again and sighed, speaking to herself

now. Sarah, not understanding her words, stared at the sight of the white paint on her doorand walls bubbling, blackening.

"No-one should awaken like this, the ghost said sadly to herself. By the Three, I wish Icould think of another way." And the ghost leaned forward a third time, swiftly takingSarah's wrist, throwing her back into dreams.

The fear vanished. Sarah saw her house. The fire, a furious,

multi-limbed red and orange beast, was beating on her door. Hermind detached, moved down the hall. Emotionless, Sarah saw hermother's body collapsed on the floor, covered in greedy flames.The master bedroom, bathrooms, study, down the stairs, thekitchen, dining room, living room - her mind's eye travelled the entirehouse, all of it on fire. The mental visions stopped, and she


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returned to her bedroom, watching herself.

With precise, unhurried gestures, Sarah arose from the bed. She went to her bedroomwindow, smashed the glass and stepped back. The night air was cool, clean after breathing

the clogging smoke. The dream was odd, now. Her own movements were incomprehensible.Her hands swept upwards, her head back. For a moment, Sarah saw herself in this stretchedposture. Then, her vision snapped to her own eyes. She leapt from the window, her arms heldto catch the wind. She beat her wings once, and glided to the streets below.

Sarah awoke lying in a sodden alleyway, curled into a knot, shivering, her skinny arms holdingher 14-year old body, her eyes wide and staring, uncomprehending at the house across thestreet burning. The firemen and constables did not find her for four hours.

When they did, Sarah was talking to herself, an litany of disjointed speech in a languageunknown to any of them. She stared, glassy-eyed, at the blackened, ruined husk of herhouse. They lifted her gently, put her on a gurney and into a waiting ambulance, shaking theirheads sadly at the stream of odd words, the blank stare.

The Emergency staff at the hospital recognized her. "It's Doctor McClanahan's daughter,isn't it?" a young doctor whispered, quickly shushed by the senior resident. The hospital

staff looked expectantly for another stretcher for a tense moment,and a pall descended on them when they realized none was coming.A few bowed their heads.

The senior resident clenched Sarahs gurney. Our patient ishere, ladies and gentlemen, he growled, spurring the staff back toaction. They bathed her, dressed her in a hospital gown, put herto bed. The doctors and nurses came and went, listened to her

talking, and then shrugged, not understanding - for none of themspoke ancient Greek.

Unseen by the others, the old womans ghost reappeared, sitting at Sarahs bedside. Theghosts expression was kind, but underneath there was some sadness for Sarah. She mustwalk an unforgiving path, the spirit thought. Her childhood was at an end. Too soon.


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"Dearie, you must leave England and go south. To a city called Belgrade, she said.There is a man there who will help you."

"B..Belgrade? Leave London? Why is this happening? Im frightened. Sarah felt a rush ofemotion; afraid, sad, and lonely but for this ghost. She felt as if the spirit was her onlyconnection to the world.

"Now, now, Sarah. Well be strong together, you and I. Musnt be sad, not with the workweve got ahead. Eyes forward, like Mother said. Sarah missed Mother and tried not tocry. Mother loved you and left you well provided for in many ways, love."

"I am too young to travel so far by myself, Sarah sniffed. And won't it be dangerous?"

"Not for you, Sarah. Not for you." And the ghostly crone reached down to the frayed ropebelt around her spectral waist, gently patting a pair of gleaming, razor sharp, shears.

Sarah felt some courage returning. This old ghost would guide her. Deep inside her, feargave way to purpose. Answers would come in time. She would see Mother again someday.

Rest now, dearie. Youll need all your strength. The old woman began to hum a lullaby thatSarah remembered as a child. It was as if Mother was there, tending to her.

The exhaustion from the fire, the ghost, her escape, Mothers death and her anguish crept out of Sarahs bones and soul, as a wave of calmness descended and she felt pulledinto the warm embrace of sleep. Remaining at her side, the spirit waited as the doctors andnurses made arrangements for the night and left the room. Then, among the chrips of medicalequipment, the ghosts melody grew louder and a fogbegan to fill the air. Sarah, still asleep,

rose on a cushion of the fog as it then wrapped around her. Swaddled in the obscuring mist,Sarah inhaled deeply and dreamed of flying.

The next morning, the hospital staff would find a body of a young girl that they had noreason to suspect was anyone other than Sarah McClanahan. The doctors pronouncedher cause of death to be trauma, exposure, and exhaustion. The girl and her mother were


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buried together two days later, near the grave of her father. Mourners wept for the kindfamily that was taken too soon.

Sarah awoke among the tall grass in the shade of a lindentree. She felt as if she had slept

for a week. She looked down; she no longer wore the hospital gown. Instead, she waswearing what she had worn the day before the fire, dressed for school with a red bow in hercombed, long hair. She puzzled at why she was not afraid. She looked around; she was inthe corner of a large graveyard, inside the tall, iron

gates. Outside was the bustle of people and cars,chattering and honking, speaking a language not herown.

Spirit? she whispered. What do I do?She looked and waited but there was nothing.Then, a wind blew at her back, ruffling the grass around her. The gust took up petals from aflowerwreath left at a gravestone near her, scattering them towards a hut ahead. Thats astart, she thought.

Sarah tightened her bow and walked towards the hut, eyes forward.


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Peter, of Novo Groblje

Peter the gravedigger closed the door after the old woman left his shack. She stumbleddown to the main street, lost in thought about the things he had told her. Like his otherclients, she left as if she were carrying a stack of books so much to think about, so much toponder so much the spirits had said to her through Peter. Peter the gravedigger, Peter thespirit talker, Peter the heretic.

The woman had come twice this week already. Two years ago, she lost her husband and wasleft reeling. Unfilled from the well-intentioned but shallow comforts of her friends, she hadsought out a spiritual guide in her Orthodoxpriest. Father Nikolai tried his best, but hers wasa sadness he could not mend.

The woman knew of Peter but never dreamt of

going to him. Peter was an outcast; they saiddemons followed where he walked. Somethingpulled her to him, over the hesitation and doubt, and to his hovel on the edge of NovoGroblje. Six months ago she had first paid him a visit, but it only took the first one to makeher forget the hesitation and doubts forever. Over a cup of tea, Peter had spoken for spiritsto her, including a visit from her beloved departed.


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This was the story of all his clients.

Peter put the small roll of money she had given him into a jar he kept under the sink.

Honorable money, he thought. It was a pittance compared to the hefty sum of cash in thestrongbox under his bed, the product of his relationships with the criminals who also called onhim, but after hours. The gangs thought he was crazy, but they valued his anonymity andproven results. Peter was off the grid and seemed to always be a step ahead, like someonewas always watching his back and also around the next corner. Yeah, something like that,Peter thought.

He asked for quiet from the dead, for just a moment, so

that he could rest. The spirits obliged and he felt themleave him. He craved these precious moments of quietwhen his work with the living, and the dead, was completefor the time being and he finally could be as alone as therest of the world thought he was.

The woman's session had, as always, involved her ownloss, but even Peter could not dictate what spirit came

and willed. During her visit, a new spirit had come, one he had not communed with before.The visitor had almost no form, and Peter had to sum up the whole of his focus just toconnect at all. He sensed only that the spirit came with a message, not for a client but for him.In his soul, Peter felt the spirit speaking to him but he couldnot understand the words.

But the message was for him, and it was of vengeance.

Time passes and with it memories are worn away. A bloodyluxury for the living, Peter thought. He could never forgetwhat spirits like this one reminded him of without end. Thathe must set things right, that he must avenge his avatarwould accept no alternative. Those who had wronged hisline had lived and died and their offspring had never known


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Peter, she will need your help. She is young, but she is powerful. Others will want her andyou must protect her. The spirit womans words were soft yet commanding. She will helpyou as well. With her, you will repay debts owed long ago. Debts ofblood and treachery. But you must protect her.

Peter felt himself acquiesce. That surprised him; he was not thetrusting sort, especially not towards strangers whether they be oldspirits or young girls. But he knew his path was to help this cronesward. The apparition vanished, leaving Peter alone in his hut.

There was a knock on the door and Peter the gravediggerjumped as if hed seen a ghost.


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Seamus Meany, of County Galway

Meany's bad eye was acting up again. Maybe another piece of scar tissue jabbing him

from his brow, if he was lucky. His real worry was that his luck was turning against him, bitinghim back for the busted straight he had un-busted a couple hands ago. His luck had a way ofturning bad. Spectacularly bad.

These damn video cameras. He couldn't leave the table now, anyway not this table and notthis game so he shelved the concern and left it to fate to decide if his tricks would end upmaking his night interesting. Hed seen the inside of more than a few casinos interviewrooms, the kind without cameras, or muchetiquette for that matter. What was one more?And maybe the backstage tour of a Cold Warhotel-turned-casino would be interesting.Painful, but interesting. Outside, youngrevellers sipped overpriced cocktails on aterrace overlooking the Danube. Rich, sharplydressed, carefree and...well, a waste of oxygenand calories, Meany thought.

Look at your hand, you wanker, Seamus Meany reminded himself. He breathed out slowlyand focused on the cards in front of him. Here, at a 500,000 table in a most back of thebackrooms of Casino Beograd at the Hotel Jugoslavija, there wasn't much else for him todo.


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He was used to playing these stakes, but the idea of losing a hundreds of thousands neverwent down well. The gambler's despair at losing only got Meany halfway the rest of theagony he felt was betrayal, at the hands of the cards and chance. Sometimes he wasn't

supposed to win, but he didn't like that at all.

What made this game especially raw was the fact that none of the money on the table was his.In fact, none of the winnings would be his either. The guy in the bad suit passing himself offas Hans from Vienna had made a pitch for Meany's services and now here he was. Playing amulti-million Euro game with someone else's money. Meany felt better knowing Hans waseasily traceable in a dozen ways and that within any ninety minutes he chose; Meany couldend his line and free another lost soul. That always made Meany feel better.

The casino was brand new and the city's first real go at a luxury gambling experience. Fromthe moment he walked in, Meany felt that it would be a good home for him. He felt energyeverywhere not like those flashy but dead-cold places in Vegas or London. He was even alittle grateful to Hans for at least providing a contract that would bring him here, otherwise he

never would have even known the possibilities.

So it all came down to this game. The pile of chips in the

middle of the table represented a stake in the casino, withHans' investment riding on Meany's expert play. Hanswould hold the deed to a sizeable portion of the casino ifMeany won. IfMeany handed it over. Earlier, smokinga Dunhill on the terrace and watching the barges go by,

Meany had changed his mind about all that. He liked this place too much and he wanted in.He was playing for what would be his own piece, after some renegotiations. Seamus Meanywas a good negotiator.

Around the table, the remaining few three Serbs and a Hungarian watched and waitedfor Meany to make his bet. The fat Hungarian yawned and sagged into his chair. Eighthours of poker wrapped in the stress of an all-or-nothing investment had taken its toll. Hismind had allowed his body to relax a bit; he knew he had the strongest hand. Even theincredibly lucky, disfigured Irishman across from him couldn't beat his flush. The Hungarian


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that which was broken. The Reverend knew this was another test of his faith and foundstrength in his mission.

He was blessed, he thought, to have survived the last

test; Loves departure from Mississippi had beenanything but smooth. Three years ago, he had been a

young and energetic parish priest on the edge of Biloxi.He had a hunger to mend souls and lead Gods childrenon a path to His love. The few dozen congregants werehis sole focus; he had none of the illusions of grandeurthat drove many of his fellow preachers, to at the center of a stadium-sized megachurch onnational TV on Sunday mornings. He never understood how those televised sock puppets

could deceive themselves to think they had any connection to their flock, let alone the Lord.

Still, it felt bleak. His congregation wanted to believe and feel filled with words of faith, butoften he left his own sermons bored. He looked out on empty faces, stuck in neutral andlooking for something they had given up hope of finding. His church was full of goodintentions, he thought, which he remembered also pave the road to hell.

One summer evening, he preached under a sizzling sodium light surrounded by flying bugs,

Love received a Sign. Wiping sweat from his brow, he caught a glow from cross over hisshoulder. He turned, and faced a blinding flash emanating from the cross. He felt a heat hehad never known, it washed over him like a boiling sea and he knew he could not bear it.

Gods love... he whispered, before a series of spasmsforced him to the floor and consciousness left him.

The Reverends world went silent and dark. He lookedaround he was knee deep in the muck of delta mud. It was

the sort of swamp land hed hunted nutria in as a boy, orsnuck off with a group of friends and a case of hooch. It

was hot, damp and green with life. He breathed in the heavy air, trying to make sense of hissurroundings. He jumped when he heard a womans voice.

You are in a blessed place, Reverend, she breathed.


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Love turned to see a beautiful woman, all in green, who seemed to melt into the earth andfoliage. He was too stunned to speak. He had never had visions or felt prophecies revealedto him not that his he hadnt implied divine guidance to his congregation but he never

imagined it would be like this.

Everything is as it should be here, the woman continued. Butit is not so where you are from.

W-w-who... what are you? Love stammered.

I am a messenger from God, she said directly. Years ago, you

answered the call to lead your flock out of pain and darkness.You have given your life to preach the truth, but you feelhopeless. Your flock is hopeless.

Her words resonated deeply with Love and his frustrations.

Let go of the chains you wear of your own volition. Celebrate love and loving. What otherswould call sin is but a prison built on overzealous faith. the figure said. The Lord wills it.

She vanished, along with the trees, the swamp, and everything around him.

For the first time in his life, Love had no idea what to believe. He felt at peace here, but thisapparition was like no revelation he had heard of, either from more senior evangelists or hisown reading of Scripture. Her words swam in his head, with visions of ecstasy and joy. Hesearched his faith for an answer, a rebuttal, and came away with nothing. He wanted tobelieve, and he wanted a vision. But no sign from the Lord would be simple, would it? Hishead spun.

Reverend Love awoke on a sofa in one of the churchs offices, surrounded by parishioners.There was a cool wet cloth on his head, and someone had unlaced his shoes. After assuringthem he was alright, he spoke of his revelation to a hushed room. I felt Gods love, he toldthem, and His might struck me down, because man is weak, but I will heed His sign andpreach on.


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Love preached on. He told of his vision and the message spoken through him. Word of hisexperience spread. His congregation grew as worshippers came from Biloxi and beyond from Moss Point, along the Gulf Coast and even from the outskirts of New Orleans. His

message of liberation seemed to feed his congregation like no sermon ever had.

It was not long before his fame caused problems. The other churches quickly grewconcerned or jealous, Reverend Love would say of the new interest in this message.Loves cult, they decried, with Reverend Ellis at the head of the pack. Soon thereafter,Love got a taste of the bayou way of settling disagreements when his church caught fire lateone night. The local police and fire marshal had told him it was too dangerous to douse andthe lot would have to be condemned. Then the messages scrawled on his front door,

written in lighter fluid on his lawn and set aflame, and enraged, nameless phone calls. Lovewas no longer welcome in Biloxi.

Reverend Love gathered his flock one last time. He would not put them in danger any longer.He would leave and preach on in a new place. Some would join him, some would promise tostay and remain faithful to his teachings.

But where would he go? The Reverend would let the Lord decide. With a map borrowed

from the local library, he prayed for guidance. A summer storm emerged outside, turning thethick summer heat into violent cloudbursts and electricity. Love kept praying, lighting a

candle when the power failed. The wind and rain blewharder, throwing open a window and fluttering curtains.The candle toppled, plunging Love into darkness as hekept asking for Gods help. Then, in a flash oflightening, he saw it. The candle wax had been thrownacross the map, an unmistakeable line to South

Eastern Europe. He peered close, lighting a match tosee where the wax led. Belgrade, Love read aloud.

He had arrived in Belgrade two months ago. Love selected the site for Hope Floatsbecause he felt the place awash in Gods love. Amongst the despair and debauchery flowingfrom the other restaurants and clubs along the Danube, he felt like his establishment glowed


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with righteousness. It was a beacon away from the others false garbage, peddled to youngrevellers as a harmless good time. A weakened soul didn't sound like a good time to him.

He never thought the power he felt emanating from his new chapel would be so powerful as

to reap such a bounty of Seekers and fill the ranksof his church so quickly. Too quickly a thoughthe sometimes felt with a pang of worry in his gut...

So many questions... Why was everything going sowell? The underworld that seemed to runBelgrade's nightlife entertainment why did theyleave his ministry alone? Why did a conspicuously

prosperous new establishment not run afoul in a city of corrupt inspectors and tax collectors?

And what, in the name of all things holy, was that crazy man doing outside the splav? Thepale man in old, dusty clothes had a whiff of death about him, and he seemed to be trying to

get some girl past his acolytes.

So many questions... and, by God, it was time to get some answers.

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