Ghostly Factions

This article originally appeared on Ex Libris Nocturnis at the URL:

http://www.nocturnis.net/articles/wraith/default/2000/May/121/page1.html
"I against my brother.
My brother and I against my cousin.
My cousin and I against the stranger."
-- Traditional Saying
Prior to the 6th Great Maelstrom, the Underworld of Stygia was a playing field for several factions.
The most visible of these were the Hierarchy, the Renegades and the Heretics, and the Dark Kingdom
of Iron shook from their battles at times.
The Hierarchy was the great, militaristic bureaucracy that governed Stygia. Founded long ago by
Charon, it protected its inhabitants from the dangers of the Underworld, stood the line against
Oblivion, and made its charges’ unlives as safe and productive as possible. It prohibited interfering
with the Skinlands, citing the dangers to Wraith and Quick alike that could be caused. And this is what
the Hierarchy said and, for the most part, what its soldiers, sailors, bureaucrats and citizens believed.
Some were far from convinced of the Hierarchy’s truthfulness, though. They looked at the long lines
of "criminals" and "traitors" leading to the Soulforges and were appalled. They read of the gross
injustices that made up its history and were disgusted. And so, they sought to rebel and overturn the
Hierarchy’s iron order by hook or crook.
The Hierarchy called these people Renegades, and treated the various Gangs like they would treat any
other criminal enterprise. The Renegades were never fully wiped out, though, and provided a constant
thorn in the Hierarchy’s side. They were emboldened by their cause, and lived for the day that the
Renegade Lord Himself would appear, unite the many Gangs under one banner and plant their flag in
the ruins of the Onyx Tower in Stygia.
And then there were the Heretics. These were holdovers from a younger, more innocent time when the
Hierarchy saw its mission as sending souls on to their appointed destinations. They spoke of a sort of
mutual surrender between Psyche and Shadow called Transcendence, and preached the way this might
be done to their flocks. And they sent many ships across the Tempest, taking their flocks to the Far
Shores, where an afterlife of joy and pleasure was promised to all.
But one day, long ago, there came a reckoning. News of the Far Shores’ rue nature -- frauds at best and
terrible, Hellish prisons at worst -- reached Charon’s ears. He acted swiftly and with anger, declaring
Transcendence a lie and banishing its preachers from Stygia. He called them Heretics on that day, and
the name has stuck ever since. Preaching Transcendence became a crime punishable by soulforging,
and never again would Stygia have trade with the Far Shores.
These three main factions were all antagonistic towards one another on general principle. The
Renegades and the Heretics were poised against the Hierarchy and were less than fond of each other.
And the Hierarchy -- who gave them both their uncomplimentary names -- was intent on stamping
them both out for their crimes, real or imagined.
But these factions were also fighting themselves: involved in internecine conflicts that ranged from
subtle politicking to outright violence. The Legions were always squabbling with one another over
something, the Renegades were attacking fellow Gangs over ideological disputes, and, as one might
expect, the Heretics were always having holy wars with one another over dogma.
Had any one group set aside its’ differences and acted as one against its enemies, things might have
happened differently. They would not, so it did not. For the want of common sense, the common cause
was overlooked.
But there were other factions as well, and some of these had a very marked effect on the squabbling of
the others, or how things turned out in the end.
Perhaps the most hidden of these, next to the Ferrymen, were the Freewraiths: those who chose to
NOT choose a side, and preferred to slip between the cracks and exist for themselves. The Hierarchy
called them "Renegades, as that was what they liked to call anyone who would not stand with them.
But the Renegades would not have them either because they would not side with "the cause," and
called them things that might not be suitable for printing here.
These wraiths rejected those names, preferring the sound of "Freewraith." They might not have been
aware of its origins as a term used to describe Guildwraiths prior to the Decree of the Breaking, but
given how much linguistic confusion reigns in the Underworld this borrowing wasn’t noticed until it
was too late to change. And so, these Freewraiths carved out an existence where they could find it,
hiding from the "big three" and minding their own business.
Another less known faction was the so-called "Boatmans Society": The Ferrymen. These powerful and
enigmatic travelers of the Sunless Seas patrolled their great reaches in their reed boats, scythes ready to
destroy any Spectral obstacles who sought to stop them. For an offering of substance they would take
anyone where they wanted to go, and were always ready to offer aid to those swamped by the dangers
of the Tempest. They were legendary figures, but far too many spoke of having seen or met one to
discount their existence.
The Ferryman seemingly turned their backs on Stygia when Charon proclaimed himself Emperor, but
they never fully abandoned it. They openly made their wishes known when the dead of Germany’s
concentration camps overwhelmed Stygia’s ability, or desire, to deal with them, insisting that a place
be made for those lost souls. And, more recently, they set into motion the events that led to the doom
of Stygia, and the return -- however pitifully brief -- of Charon.
There are only a mere handful outside the Boatmen who know the full scope of their meddling, and
they are not disposed to speak of this. Those who might talk have been claimed by the Maelstrom, or
its agents. Some secrets are meant to be forever stilled:, and this is one of them.
And then there were those who worked in secret, meeting when they dared and pushing the boundaries
of what they knew for the benefit of all, or at least those who could pay. Despite Charon’s Decree of
the Breaking, those Wraiths who called themselves Guildwraiths – "Criminals" to the Hierarchy --
continued their ways of learning, researching and making their services available. Most Wraiths
thought they were gone and destroyed, but they should have known better: since when does a decree
alone create a compliance with its words?
The Guilds were apart from the three main factions, and yet there were also intertwined. Anyone with
a talent for any one Arcanoi could be observed and judged worthy of inclusion, regardless of which
group they belonged to. How many Legionnaires were also Guildsmen? How many Renegades or
Heretics had a secondary loyalty? The exact numbers might never be known.
The Guilds manipulated Stygian politics in their own way, and quite ruthlessly, too. Indeed, some
Guilds were so entrenched in Stygia that they could not be attacked as some of the others were. Stygia
would have been destroyed without the Pardoners, after all, and the production of its Soulsteel would
have ended without the Artificers. Had the Guilds taken full advantage of this, and pooled their forces
together, they might have succeeded where they failed so long ago. They could have taken over the
empire with a single, concerted action.
But the old rivalries and angry words and deeds of the past were too much to ignore. The Masquers
and the Artificers were trying to be the leaders of the rabble. No one was certain where the Oracles’
true loyalties laid, or what they even were, and no one was sure the Haunters were really up to. Even
the individual Guilds were hotbeds of intrigue, with inner factions and secret cabals vying for control
of the Guildmaster, or his head.
They were a hundred hands tying one another down when they should have been lifting one another
up. What they could have done, had they been willing to work with one another and not just against,
could have been dazzling. And in the end they did come together all at once, but only to discover that
the ones they’d helped cast out -- the dread Mnemoi -- held the key to the Empire’s salvation. By then,
it was too late to do more than watch the events unfold: such is the price of pride and folly.
Now that the Storm has washed the old order away, those who remain to fight over its remnants are not
what they once were. They find themselves strengthened, or diminished, in a new game with entirely
different rules. Only those who have the presence f mind to adapt will prosper in the times to come.
Those who do not will be swept away, and perhaps forgotten.
Freewraiths
"Hey, save the sales pitch, pal. I got better things to do that join with the Old-timers or those morons
who can’t think of anything better to do than fight over a streetcorner, or pray at it. I just want to
get by and be left alone. I need your help, I’ll pay. Until then, let me be."
-- Tony DiSilva, Freewraith, Chicago Necropolis
There have always been those Wraiths who fell between the cracks the others left in their wake.
Discontented with the Hierarchy, yet unhappy with the Renegade or Heretic options, these Wraiths
instead created an existence for themselves. They banded together for shared protection, or else set off
on a lonely course away from the maddening, accusing crowds.
The more social Freewraiths hid in Conclaves in the Shadowlands, taking refuge amongst the masses
and doing their business in hiding. Those less likely to desire company went their own way, hiding in
their quiet Domains or wandering the Underworld in search of whatever answers they sought.
Occasionally, the Hierarchy would catch one or two, but to their credit they would rarely inform on
their comrades. And so their quiet existences went on, at levels perhaps unguessed at by their Hierarch
adversaries.
With the coming of the Storm, the fortunes of the Freewraiths changed dramatically. Most of those
who stayed in Conclaves were able to weather the storms, given their tendency to use underground
Haunts. And when they ventured above ground, they found that they were no longer in the minority.
With the absence of the Hierarchy, and the distaste felt for what remains of the Renegades, a
significant number of Wraiths who have come over since the outbreak of the Storm have been calling
themseles Freewraiths. And a number of former Hierarchs have been joining as well, no longer seeing
the point in clinging to what they were.
This does not mean their existence is as easy as it could be, though. The Storm is raging, the Spectres
are hungry. The Renegades are perfectly willing to take on anyone who won’t join them, and they’re
usually better armed than most Freewraiths. On top of that, many remnants of the Hierarchy are still
trying to coalesce things back to what they were, and the Freewraiths are seen as an obstacle.
All the same, things are better than they were, in spite of the new troubles. The rightful name of
"Freewraith" can be spoken aloud, and their existence cannot be denied. More importantly, they no
longer need fear the forges simply for saying "no" to all of the above.
The Freewraiths are free, now. They won’t be going back down to ground anytime soon.
Renegades
"Well of course we’re glad that the Hierarchy’s fallen! Who wouldn’t be? But now we’ve got to
make sure the new thing to take its’ place isn’t just as bad, eh? If we roll over and let some of the
others run the show, especially those East-side splitters -- treasonous, sell-out bastards (spit) – it’s
going to be twice as bad as before.
"I’ll die again before I let that happen, but I’m not going down alone!"
-- Roddy McCool, West Armaugh Irregulars, Ulster Necropolis
The Renegades’ situation has spiraled out of control.
The Storm brought them the greatest victory with its destruction of Stygia, and the Hierarchy as a
whole. But it also decimated their varied ranks, sending many of the rabble to their final ends. And in
denying any one group or coalition the glory of the kill, the question as to what would replace the
Hierarchy was undecided. So, as they had done since time out of mind, the remnants of the Gangs
picked up their weapons and went to war with one another to see who would win the prize.
One would think that the Maelstrom would provide a common enemy for them. It has not. One would
also think that the Spectres who ride its winds would provide a better target than their fellows. They do
not. All they have done is provide an even greater incentive for the Renegades to attack one another,
beyond ideology or delusions of grandeur: self-preservation.
In this age, only those who have Haunts will survive the Storms. During the worst of it, having a Haunt
makes the difference between going into a Harrowing and remaining somewhat unscathed. Land is
power. Survival is strength.
So Gang battles Gang -- as well as Cult, Freewraith, Hierarch and Guildwraith -- over territory, and the
protective places that come with it. The victors survive, and the losers must run for new cover the next
time a wavefront hits, or else steal it from someone weaker than they. This cycle of fighting and
fleeing goes on, punctuated only by the wavefronts and their accompanying spectral invaders.
Just to add to the confusion, the Enfants have learned by watching, and imitated what they have seen
without understanding the true reasons behind it. Many new Wraiths who came over since the
Maelstrom began have formed Renegade groups which are Renegade in name only. These "Renegades"
fight to take what they want from the weak, not thinking of any day when they might be sitting in
dominion over a saner, better Underworld.
With the decimation of the true Renegade’s ranks, these "Renegades" outnumber the old by three to
one in some areas. Some of the new Gangs’ ranks are swelled with former Hierarchy members, who
fled for greener pastures once the old, hated order collapsed. Such Gangs could rightfully be called
small armies, and some Necropoli are under the control of such Gangs. It’s probably only a matter of
time before such Gangs start trying to carve large parts of the Underworld for themselves.
And that is the situation the Renegades of the age of the Storm find themselves in: partially victorious
yet still beaten, and in danger of losing their very meaning to a multitude of naive imitators. The
proper Renegades fight themselves and their usurpers and try to win, hoping the rumors they hear of
the Renegade Lord approaching are more than just idle gossip.
Guildwraiths
"With the fall of the Hierarchy, we are free and clear to assemble and openly sell our services once
again. It is nothing short of wonderful, in spite of the circumstances we find ourselves in.
"Speaking of which, I think I see a darker cloud on the horizon. Shall we talk business inside?"
-- Master Librae (Jaime Rodriguez DeGotari), Usurer, Madrid Necropolis
The fall of Stygia has been the kindest to the Guilds. Once hunted as "Renegades" and denied the fact
of their existence, they can now go about their ancient business in a much more open manner. The
proud banners and sigils are hung outside their shops, the well-wrought masks of station and office are
worn with pride. The great council of the Guildmasters meets once more -- when it can -- and the
common Wraith need never fear dealing with their subordinates openly.
For some Guilds, this has merely been a return to glory. The Pardoners and the Harbingers, though
they had to be careful with their dealings, were more or less tolerated by the Hierarchy due to the
essential nature of what they did. The Artificers were able to work almost openly as well. The others
were not nearly as lucky, and suffered greatly for it.
The end of Stygia has also brought about some dramatic changes of fortune within the ranks of the
Guilds themselves. The mighty are falling and the banished have been brought back to grace.
The Artificers, once the paragon of political force in the Stygian Underworld, have come under fire.
The practice of Soulforging, which was once synonymous with the Hierarchy, is being openly
questioned and violently opposed. With the fall of the Hierarchy its social institutions are being torn
down as well, and the tearing includes anyone who aided, abetted or approved. As a result the
Artificers are being run out of Necropoli, chased from their forges by angry mobs.
The Alchemists, once part of the Artificers Guild, have regained their place with the fall of the Dictum
Mortuum. Now that Soulforging is in disfavor, their Arcanos of Flux, coupled with Inhabit, is being
used to bring useful items across the Shroud. And now that their talents have been properly recognized,
they seem poised to replace the Artificers at the table of the Greater Guilds. Given the distaste many of
the Guildmasters had for Lord Ember of the Artificers -- now missing, presumed lost -- this coup
might actually be encouraged.
The Mnemoi, once hated and reviled for what was seen as an unpardonable treachery, have been
redeemed. It now seems that their "betrayal" was just a ruse, created by Charon Himself to preserve the
Empire, somehow. Many Guildwraiths are still uneasy around the formerly banned Guild, though,
especially those who aren’t so inclined to believe their version of what happened: the Oracles’ word
only goes so far. Still, they have the shame-faced backing of the Pardoners, and that is enough to
smooth most disputes. For now.
Conversely, the Chanteurs have fallen. Their former Guildmaster sold his fellows out to curry favor
with the Jade Empire. His Guild is no more, or so they say. Any who would remain loyal to that name
no longer have the political power to sit with the others, and have been cast out. In that state they are
grouped with the Solicitors, who are still on the outs and, reportedly, still conducting a healthy trade
regardless.
Once there were thirteen Greater Guilds. Now there are fifteen, perhaps soon to be fourteen if the
Alchemists run their cousins out. The politicking is starting to make the rounds, in spite of all that’s
happened, and it’s anyone’s guess as to what might happen next.
All the same, the Guilds are calling this their Renaissance. They now see a chance to do what they’d
tried to do so long ago with the failed Coup: create a better society in their own image. They have a lot
of competition in this, but they’ve had centuries to plan for this day.
What could possibly go wrong?
Heretics
"But Brother, how can you deny what I say? Have you not heard the tales of the Mnemoi?
Have you not spoken to someone who was there? Charon has transcended! The man who
claimed it a lie has proven himself the liar! It is as though Pilate fell to pray before the Cross!
And if Charon, who called it the worst of lies, could do it..., why, anyone can! Why do you still
doubt?"
-- Brother Henri Fallon, The Church of the Burning Soul, Paris Necropolis
Much like the Renegades, the Heretics have gained and lost from the Maelstrom. They have gained the
greatest moral victory of all in learning that Charon, who applied the name "Heretic" to them so long
ago, Transcend.
But, at the same time, this victory has brought no peace. They have a very hard time convincing
anyone who was not there that this happened. Many of their own number won’t believe it either. They
have also had a hard time deciding which route he took towards Transcendence, with each Cult
insisting it must have been their own.
And though the way is open for them to ply their trade with the Far Shores once again, the Storm turns
any trip there into an even riskier venture than before. A few of the more committed -- or is that
insane? -- Cults have tried to make the journey since the fall of Stygia. None have returned as they said
they would.
Still, the Heretics have gained one thing they did not have before the Storms: freedom. They have the
freedom to operate openly, without fear of Stygian reprisal. Cults take to the streets after the
wavefronts recede, spreading their version of the Good News to the Wraiths. The days of having to
preach in secret are over and done with.
Of course, with the new open style of preaching come new problems, the least of which is the sort of
heckling and scorn that Skinland sidewalk preachers have to deal with. They also have to deal with
their fellow Heretics who, emboldened by this new freedom, are taking it as an opportunity to deal
with their especially "misguided" rival Cults. It isn’t an uncommon thing for one group to be attacked
from behind while preaching, and then have the victors preach to the crowd while the losers’ plasm is
still drying.
Needless to say, this isn’t winning them many converts. But with Transcendence sounding better than
ever due to the Storms, the Heretics act with faith and hope: faith in what they are saying, and hope
that what they have to say will be heard.
Hierarchs
"Listen, Enfant. Before you start making fun of what I’m saying and calling me an "Oldtimer,"
you should remember where I’m coming from. I’ve been here for fifty years, keeping these
streets clear of Spectres and Renegades and God knows what else so new Wraiths like yourself
could have a fair shake at this.
"Maybe Stygia has fallen. Maybe Charon came back and left. Maybe it’s all just a bad rumor
the Dopplegangers are spreading. But this city needs rebuilding and your ass needs protecting.
So are you going to help or are you going to..., hey! Come back here!"
-- Marshal Ian Brood, Iron Legion, Philadelphia Necropolis
Of all the factions who were around before the 6th Great Maelstrom, the Hierarchs have fallen the
furthest. Stygia is no more and the authority that came with it is meaningless, now. In spite of their
retaining the old names and ranks, they have been reduced to nothing more than ordinary Wraiths. Any
Hierarch who forgets this is likely to join his comrades in a Harrowing, or worse.
There were once eight Legions, each maintaining an army and a bureaucratic body. Each was ruled by
a august Gaunt, called a Deathlord, from Stygia. And when their Emperor, Charon, went missing in
1945, these Deathlords ruled the Empire itself amongst themselves.
The Hierarchs like to think that the Legions were effective institutions, keeping a dead empire running
constantly, if not always smoothly. But some say that without Charon’s influence, the Legions fared
poorly in this task. Still others say that they weren’t any worse without him, and that Charon Himself
couldn’t control their excesses. What started out as a noble enterprise became yet another bloated,
hostile and suspicious creature of state.
Then came the Storm to wash them all away. Now there are really only five Legions left: the Legion of
Fate took extreme losses and crumbled, their Deathlords fleeing the aftermath; the Legion of Paupers
was lost without its Deathlord, who disappeared during the worst of the fighting; and the Penitent
Legion has dissolved as well, with its former members shamed by their previous association with it.
Depending on how far from Stygia a Necropolis is, the citizens may not have been informed of
Stygia’s fall. In those cities the Hierarchy still rules, though they are living in hope of reinforcements
and instructions from Stygia that will never come. Sooner or later they will lose too many Legionnaires
to hold off the storms, the Renegades and any other factions, and a lone messenger will wander in with
a horrible tale to tell. Nature will then take its course.
In those cities that have heard of the empire’s fall, the Legions are in poor shape. Those who tried to
shake their gladii and demand compliance were overthrown and beaten down. Many of their civilian
corps and military personnel walked away from their posts, deciding it wasn’t worth it anymore. Most
of these have taken their chances with the Freewraiths and Renegades.
With the threat of immediate reprisal and an endless stream of reinforcements no longer there, the
Legions can only keep order with the help of the citizenry. The only way for the Hierarchy to get that
help is to earn the respect of the people. Unsurprisingly, few such Necropoli are very orderly: whipped
up by Renegades sensing an easy kill, the masses -- including former Hierarchs -- are happy to destroy
what might help them. The forges are torn down, the forgers fed to the flames, and in the shadows the
Spectres chortle and laugh, anticipating the fun to be had.
The Iron Legion is proving its worth at this time, providing the best plans for Maelstrom survival and
being willing to go out and recruit amongst the Enfants. The presence of silver-haired, elderly Wraiths
extolling the virtues of the lost Empire has given rise to the nickname "Oldtimer," used to describe any
Hierarch. Some of these Oldtimers have been very remarkable in getting people to listen, but others
have fallen prey to old habits and made things worse.
Having been used to ruling by fear, leading through example and respect is a difficult lesson to master
for the Hierarchy. Those that can learn the difference between the two will influence people and
survive. Those that can’t will join their beloved empire in The Void.
The Returned
"I was on patrol when the storms came. I had just ducked the blast we received before, and
then that second wave hit us. It tore me to pieces. I had heard stories of what such things were
like from older Wraiths, but I never realized how bad it really was. It felt like I was being
ripped apart with sandpaper, and then the spectres chewed up what was left. My Harrowing...
mon dieu. I do not want to even think about that.
"But while I was there, eight whole months went by here. There is nothing left of what I was
before the storm. My Circle is missing. My Centurion is a Heretic. Her Marshal is a windsock.
There is no Hierarchy, there is nothing left. Everything has changed.
"So that is why I am here with these men instead of arresting them. What is your story, my
friend?"
-- Former Legionnaire Auguste Oliver, "Renegade," Monte Carlo Necropolis
Less of a faction and more of a social phenomenon, the Returned are those Wraiths who were lost in
time as the Labyrinth failed them.
When the 6th Great Maelstrom erupted, something happened to the Labyrinth itself. No Wraith is
entirely sure why, but a tremendous explosion ripped through its core, and sent the worst Maelstrom
ever recorded racing through the Tempest and Shadowlands. A great deal of the Labyrinth was
decimated by this blast, and the spectral hosts that would have provided the Harrowings were either
destroyed or out riding the storms, shrieking and gibbering in glee.
As a result, a large number of Wraiths lost in the initial wave -- some are estimating at least half of the
Underworld’s population -- were left waiting for their Harrowings. And some of these Wraiths were
left waiting a long time indeed. Even today, some ten months after the outbreak of the Storm, these
Wraiths are just now coming back.
The Returned are lost in time. They have come back to find that months slipped past them in what
seemed like a few hours, and time did not slow its passage just for them. Fetters have been lost due to
neglect, or attrition. Circles are nowhere to be found. Domains have been claimed by others, and those
they called friend and foe have either disappeared, lost their significance or traded places.
The rules have changed. Many Hierarchs have come home to find that calling yourself "Legionnaire" is
a good way to go back to the Labyrinth. In those places where the Hierarchy still holds on, they are
called "Deserters" and reviled for being gone so long. Renegades have returned to find that their
struggles abandoned, their Gangs full of strangers and the glorious dreams twisted or nonexistent. Most
can’t take the changes and leave. Some get a little help from the point of a sword.
Of course, for some of the Returned, the outlook isn’t as grim: the Freewraiths, the Guildwraiths and,
to some extent, the Heretics have a better deal going. But if a Wraith’s own personal affairs suffered in
her absence, the better political situation isn’t much comfort.
And then there’s these scary tales that are making the rounds.
Some of the earlier Returned are beginning to suffer from some kind of problem, they say. Stories are
whispered of wraiths flaking apart like dry leaves. Some are leaving scorch marks when they use their
Arcanoi, and others are having trouble using their Arcanoi at all. In some places, those who come back
now are snatched up by whoever’s in charge and never seen again.
Exact names and details are hard to nail down. Everyone’s quite tight-lipped about the whole thing,
especially the Returned themselves. Slowly but surely, it’s becoming apparent that saying how long
you were gone is a bad idea in any crowd. Those Returned who can blend in, do, and drop their guard
only with old friends and allies and occasionally foes -- as returning makes for strange bedfellows --
who have also come back late.
The Ferrymen
"The old order is no more, and yet we remain. We have a duty that has never changed, and a
trusted mission to perform in its cause. We must do what we have been doing since time out of
mind to help the lost, the searching and the needy.
"And so I go forth, regardless of the Storm, to fulfill my oath. And you will not stop me with
your gun and your pathetic rabble, little "Deathlord." You wish my scythe? Then come and take
it."
-- Solomon the Quiet, Ferryman
The gaunt, drawn and enigmatic Ferrymen seem to be everywhere and nowhere in these times. Just
about everyone’s heard a story of something amazing seen in the Storms, or a great tale of how such a
one pulled a boatful of lost voyagers from certain doom. But actual sightings of the Ferrymen are
harder to pin down. It’s always a friend of a friend who saw them.
It might be possible to doubt that they exist, but the evidence is such that anyone who seriously voices
such thoughts aloud is shouted down and called a fool. Did they not figure in Stygian history? Did they
not act to save the city of Stygia? Were they not there at the end to aid the survivors? Didn’t you hear
what I said my friend told me?
But then, this is a new Underworld, filled with even newer Wraiths who may not have heard such
things. The Returned may sing the praises of the Boatmen, but who are they to be trusted? The
Heretics may alternate between praising and cursing them, but they’re crazy. And the Hierarchs will
say anything to get people to listen to them, even if all they can do is curse the Boatmen for meddling
too much, or not doing enough. So many perspectives and so little clear vision to benefit from.
Unseen by most, the Ferrymen still perform the duties they swore to do so long ago. Those seeking
Transcendence are accompanied, those who need longer counseling are taken to those Far Shores
worthy of their patronage, and the servants of Oblivion that get in their way are sent back to the Void
that spawned them, in pieces if need be.
In this age, they have retaken an old charge as well. Now that the Dictum Mortuum has fallen, the
Boatmen take action where they can against those Wraiths who commit the most egregious harm to the
Quick. Though they cannot affect the Skinlands as well as they might like to, they have other means by
which the ravagers of the living can be dealt with. Stories of avenging Ferrymen actively hunting such
malefactors down and sending them into Destruction Harrowings are making the rounds and giving
some pause.
But there are only so many Ferrymen, and there are so many lost souls and Spectres to tend to
beforehand. Not enough of these Shroud-breaking monsters can be dealt with to make a dent. At least
for now. Sooner or later the Storm will have to end, and then there may come a Reckoning..., provided
the Imbued don’t beat the Ferrymen to it.
The Spectres
Oh, how wonderful. It’s always a wonderful thing to watch (them) run for /cover/ when
the storms hit. The fear..., it’s like nectar. (I) could stay /here/ all day and be gorged. And
(I) would, too, but (She) would have (me) do other things with (my) time.
And so (I) obey.
-- An Apparition-caste follower of Zyras
Although they are more of an opposing force than a faction, one cannot overstate the direct influence
that Oblivion’s forces have on the Underworld at this time.
The dead live their unlives around the pulse of the dark tides. They venture out of their shelters when
the storms ebb, and retreat back into them when they rage. They bar the doors and hide, praying to
God or Fate that the darkness won’t pound down the door and carry them away like it’s done to far too
many before.
And with the wavefronts, and even without, the mad Spectres are there to ravage, destroy and, more
importantly, feed. They are Oblivion’s footsoldiers, priests, spies, saboteurs, and terrorists, insane to a
man and ever so willing to share their pain with others. To be in the company of The Void is to know
that one has but a short season to serve it: the challenge is to tear down as much as is possible, and
convert as many as one can, before Oblivion takes you, too.
Spectres are creatures of the true darkness, their brains tuned to the alien radio of the Hive-Mind and
their bodies glowing with Oblivion’s power. They follow the dictates of Oblivion as interpreted by the
Malfeans or, in the case of those who follow none, themselves. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which is
worse.
The Maelstrom got off to a juddering start for the Labyrinth, this time. Though there were more than
enough Spectres to form a good, solid front at the storm’s break, the explosion that destroyed the
Labyrinth decimated their backup. As a result, the Harrowings have been slow to process, and the
reinforcements that would have otherwise come with this Maelstrom were just as slow to process.
The explosion also destroyed a number of the Once-Born Malfeans, leaving many Spectres bereft of
direct leadership and somewhat aimless. Some of the Once-Born were lucky enough to be elsewhere,
and their forces were able to decimate or convert great numbers of these sad, lost Spectres. More Once-
Born -- or would-be Once-Born, at least -- have risen up since that day, gorged on the slaughter of
thousands.
And in the Labyrinth itself, something has changed. The Never-Born, lulled to slumber long, long ago,
are starting to turn in their sleep. The whole of the Hive-Mind stirs and whirls as their incoherent
thoughts start to take sharper form. The explosion did not even scratch them, and it may have only
made them more powerful than before. And if they awaken..., what then? It took Charon’s last ounce
of strength to stave off Gorool: what happens if they all wake up at once and attack?
The average Wraith knows nothing of these matters, of course. They only know that when the Storm
lashes out the Spectres accompany it. The Oldtimers say the storm has to be fought, but no one seems
willing to go out and do that, just now. The time of martyrs is over, and the age of self-preservation --
no matter how short-sighted -- is now.
And so it goes. The storms come and the storms destroy, or wear down. The stress and horrors of the
endless tides convert more fellows with each passing, and the Labyrinth’s ranks swell in sympathy.
Today’s ally is tomorrow’s Doppelganger, or was he tainted all along? The Wraiths are frightened and
scared into inaction or panicky, foolish choices.
And the Spectres are having a wonderful time with it.