Archon Lore

The Shadow Sleepers
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excerpt from “The stories I Read to Herman: A collection of Archon literature and lore from the Wastes

‘No darkness the light hath sewn,
such just the trembling host,
the spirit breaks new moon
upon the bows of fading coast
they cry, the aged nights
wandering wraiths of yore,
through houses and people and shade
through puddles of nether moors
while darkness shrouds them
timid souls cry not
the light has been died
the souls trek forth
lurking and moaning
as though no tongues to speak
slaughter in the shadows
where axe and sword weep
hearts to dust become
souls to shades they are
wandering in shadow’s kin
sucking life and souls and heart
beasts within darkness,
deaths, born of life"

The Weepings
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the term ‘Weepings’ actually can be translated back to the original ‘Wepastyi’ which means literally ‘souls in limbo’ and comes from the route word in Gnosi dialect ‘Wepast’ which means self-loathing. The weepings are said to subsist in a different realm of existence, flickering into reality like spirits or nymphs. There have been arguments that the first writers to record about these beings – whether mythic or real- meant to put down ‘weeplings’ but made a mistake that has been mistranslated for years and centuries since. The weepings are said to reside in a place called Babilon and to be called for only at certain times, slaves to a race referenced as the Devil’s Herd, but more commonly thought to be a race with superior technology and medical skill, that transfigured dead or maimed bodies into more Weepings. They are also noted to be weepings due to their distinctive crying sound, as if they are trying to voice protest or sadness about their lasting torments.

From Renas de Terannes account of their travels to Alteras:

The light shone bright and sunny around us as the trees shifted slowly in the shade. We halted our advance and took some time to break and eat. I was in a group, we were chatting about our lives and lost ones and the things men often mention when faced with the Herd, when oft to the side our leader, (the Vanbilt) began to crow in victory. We rushed there, weapons ready to strike and saw him fooling at playing cards. He looked at us and laughed a little, then went back to his hand. we stook back to our conversation, turning our backs and retiring across the way. The conversation lasted for about an hour’s pass, then we shifted the sands and moved on again. By this time the Vanbilt had lost all his acridity in a poor hand of cards and was looking depressed and sadden. We marched out our brethren to his side and talked with him about the loss. It was only one Daherta’s pay besides and could be easily afforded. He trekked with us for about a mile and then we broke for camp. At the camp he resided in his tent, avoiding us if possible and otherwise curtly talking us away. It was around the moon’s zenith that we heard him crying in his tent and moved to take action, though sleepy and weary-eyed. At the light in his tent we halted and sat to wonder as he took his head in his hands and cried. We moved towards the front flap with quickness to share sorrow, when one of our group noticed the flap zipped, sealed shut and unattainable. The Vanbilt’s cries turned into sobs and moans as the light in his tent swayed to a stop, darkness overcame us all and we heard the hissing of our most loathed enemy. We heard a scuffle in the tent and the familiar running of tiny, clawed and toed feet and the likewise obvious tremors of cries all around. Our blades at the draw, we choked our guns and whistles and blew. The whole camp came down on the tent like a formidable wave and passed the zipper off. It opened and the first to poke in, us, saw the familiar sing of the Herd. The Vanbilt’s head lay on his pillow, tears frozen in his eyes, he turned to motion to us but found no muscle or tendon with which to lift, his body remained skeleton with the remaining organs still pumping blood to arms and legs now severed and recycled. The torn chest showed the muscles of the body taken as trophies and the beating heart trembled before our sight. His ribs had been severed at the side and lifted too, for in his open cavity we saw the scraps left by the Herds’ minions as tenants to keep their ‘donor’ alive. I pulled myself away at the sight and then locked eye with my brothers – now turned my men- and nodded. The Vanbilt cried as he had before, sometimes smiling, sometimes laughing, sometimes just crying. I placed a hand on his still beating heart, finding the hole of their needled chemical and vowing to burn my glove on his pyre. He laughed and then cried as i placed the barrle of my pistol at his head’s crown and fired off, simultaneously pulling the heart from it’s place in his chest. He mouthed something else, and then let few tears roll. The Weepings’ master would no longer use his host for their foul and cruel torments, he would never be as them, a waking clone station for parts of others like him. I looked to my men and we carried the body to the trees, burning it with what dignity it had left. I swear at the fire’s touch the head began to exhale and cry, as if sadden or strife had won its burning, beating heart.

Archon Lore

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