He knew what was coming. Nothing left in her crib but some weird-looking flowers. This kind of shit happens all the time.
Yesterday, the day before, tomorrow. A beer sounded good, but a bottle of scotch sounded better. She sat in the back and stared at the seat in front of her. She was trying not to cry, or scream or something.
Kurt Janney was on her mind. She written down everything that was in his pockets and been fascinated by the heavy metal disc with the star on it. Was he a Devil worshipper? One of those pagans like the girl her brother had dated for a while? Jewish — or was that six points on the star? Who was this guy? And the wound. Big, deep, jagged, but no blood on his shirt. He should have been covered in blood. That was definitely a bloodstain. She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed it against the plastic.
It was still wet. She looked around the train and saw a young man with a handful of paper. He looked annoyed, but he also looked like he had a long commute. She got up and walked over to him. Bernice wrinkled her nose. I think he might have been hurt. He got off… what, two stops back. If anything, he sounded relieved. Bernice showed him her ID. Bald, I think. Kept slamming his face against the seat.
She sat down across from him. Maybe it was just the blood. The man leaned forward. About the time this book fell apart, I saw him staring at me. And you know, I swear I saw frost form on the window next to him. The other officers were buying him drinks. The captain was a fun drunk. Sean stumbled out of the bar and down the street. Driving was out of the question. He could barely walk. His apartment was only a mile or so, anyway. As he walked, it seemed to Sean that the city got darker.
Shadows were deeper, and he saw people moving, people without faces. Too much scotch, he thought. And then the voice, plain as life. His voice, but deeper, calmer. More sober. Contents 5 Them. Sean started to walk faster.
He reached the street, hoping to hail a cab. He stopped. The cab was waiting across the street. He stepped toward it, and then saw the things moving again. Do they have names? They do, Sean. They all have names. They always did, yesterday, today and tomorrow.
Sean walked on. He reached his building, and started climbing the stairs to his apartment. He felt fire in his legs as he climbed, but he kept climbing, ignoring the pain, ignoring the burning, until he reached his door.
He tried the knob, but it was locked. He pulled a key out of his pocket — had the key always been gold? The things were inside. It was ridiculous, of course, but that was crime scene work for you. You found which clues could be followed. Bugs nesting in a corpse. Body temp. Muscle rigor. She found frost on a window and walked down the block. The sounds were horrible.
They were the sounds that she imagined Kurt Janney must have made as he died. Hideous, gobbling sounds, a throat laid open but with no blood. She followed them from the stop that the man had said the skinny guy had taken, down the block and toward an apartment building. She followed them up the stairs and to a door at the end of the hall.
It was deep and gentle. From the inflection, Bernice guessed he was black. Steven, right? Higher pitched, but mean. They were talking about Kurt Janney. She knew it. She stared at the door as if hoping it would disappear. I saw fire and I heard thunder, and then I heard voices of praise. Bernice stood up. She should call the police. She should call backup.
She reached into her pocket and took out her cell phone, and entered a text message to Detective Brennan. Found Kurts killers. She pressed it, and suddenly she could see through the door. The people inside the room looked over. The door had become transparent. The light no longer stopped when it reached the wood, but passed through it and illuminated the room. Bernice looked through the door and saw them: Steven, just as the man on the train had described him. Two women, one only in her mid-teens, clean, trendy clothes, the other older but skinny as a rail, with bad skin and a haunted look.
A black man, muscular, tall, tattoos of vines up and down his arms. They stared at her, and she ran. She made it outside and stopped under the streetlight.
She willed the light to leave her alone… and it did. They ran straight by her and stopped in the mouth of the alleyway. The skinny girl was rubbing her hands together as though washing them, and her nails hurt her, drawing blood. Bernice, not knowing what else to do, followed. The light obediently stayed away from her, and no one saw her, not the four killers and not any of the other passersby. He ducked into an alleyway and pulled out his gun. They had killed Kurt Janney.
He knew it. He knew it because he saw Bernice following them. But then he looked again. Bernice was… invisible. He knew she was there, the way he knew where his bed was in the dark. The light seemed to shy away from her, somehow. Shadows, right? This time Sean Brennan understood the voice and its mission. He stepped out in front of the people.
He still had his gun in hand, but kept it lowered. Sean was a good man. Sean was a good cop. Sean had already radioed for help, she was sure of it. She would be safe, and these people would go to jail. Steven glanced at the others.
The man in front of them was a witch, yes, but somehow… there was something different about him. The other witch was still behind them, of course. But two witches, so soon after his vision? Jill dug her nails deeper into her hand. She was just repeating. Language was starting to leave her again. Soon all that would be left was meaning, emotion, intent.
Then she could judge this man for what he was. And Jill was making bugs crawl on her flesh again. Oh, there were no real bugs, but Sheri could feel their little legs.
But Tyrone was frightened. The jungle was back. The jungle was here. There were beasts, but where? Was the man with the gun a beast? His eyes fell. Steven turned sideways and motioned the others back. Are you the light or the shadow? Tyrone was good at this, too. Sean seemed to understand what was happening.
She grabbed for sound, for light, for anything again, but all she managed to do was short out the streetlight above her. A searing pain shot through her stomach, and she dropped to one knee. She saw fearpainselfpreservation from the woman and lossgrieffearcourage from the man. She pointed at the woman, and Bernice started to itch. The bugs were on her skin now. Sheri slipped behind Tyrone and watched the woman as she dug into her flesh. She was glad that Jill had sent the bugs elsewhere. She concentrated on the woman, keeping her slow, keeping her in place.
Steven had to go on faith, but sometimes Sheri just knew. Tyrone looked at Sean, and nodded. He chanced a step toward him, and whispered to him in that quiet, calm manner he used with the animals. He recalled the jungle, the cool waters of the streams, the rains that fell in bright sunlight, and he gave that to Sean.
And Sean, now completely sober, stood there staring at a woman cowering in shadows, writhing in pain and fear. In that woman, he saw them.
This was what the voice had meant. He raised the gun and fired. He sipped his coffee and tried not think about last night. That had been some party. At least he had, though. Sean pulled a bottle of orange juice out of his pocket.
The other crime scene officers were having trouble focusing. Close range. Plenty of blood this time, detective. What time? See if you can find a paperboy, a hustler, a hooker, someone who might have seen something. See if any of the local hoods are especially agitated today. It made Sean sad to waste their time, but there was nothing to do for it. The investigation had to run its course, and then die off. It was the only way to keep the real work going.
A small, gray cat darted into a building. All rights reserved. Reproduction without the written permission of the publisher is expressly forbidden, except for the purposes of reviews, and for blank character sheets, which may be reproduced for personal use only.
All characters, names, places and text herein are copyrighted by CCP hf. The mention of or reference to any company or product in these pages is not a challenge to the trademark or copyright concerned.
This book uses the supernatural for settings, characters and themes. All mystical and supernatural elements are fiction and intended for entertainment purposes only. This book contains mature content. Reader discretion is advised. These are they who by the permission of God disturb the elements, who drive to distraction the minds of men, such as have lost their trust in God, and by the terrible power of their evil spells, without any actual draught or poison, kill human beings. They may bear scars on their soul, relics of abuse that twisted their perception of magic as the most vicious force in an already cruel universe.
They may have undergone Awakenings that broke their perceptions, an experience they were not ready for and could not endure. They may have spent time among the orders, learning magic just like their brethren until some event encouraged them to turn against their own. And they may have inherited a legacy of denial and violence through no direct fault of their own.
Whatever the cause of their discontent, they do more than simply withdraw from the practice of magic. They become its enemy. They strike down mages, burn grimoires, smash what Artifacts they can. Their creeds are numerous, but the core choice is always the same: I will not have this in my world. There are none so blind as those who will not see.
One of the more interesting, and potentially frustrating, aspects of the Banishers is that they so frequently have very few traditions of their own. But Banishers are often self-taught, and very frequently treat older mage 10 traditions as something that should not be listened to in the slightest. As a result, the Timori are a diverse lot. Similar to all mages, the Banishers are shaped by the events that surrounded their Awakenings and their encounters with other willworkers. Unlike most other mages, Banishers reject the traditions that would otherwise help them become masters of themselves.
As a result, Banishers vary tremendously in their methodologies. It becomes difficult to make general statements about their works and goals apart from the obvious. A cult driven by religious fervor will have little in common with an atheistic loner who opposes Awakened magic through his own cold logic.
In the interest of presenting more options, Banishers also offers a few new takes on the witch hunters of the Mage setting. Can the deniers of magic possess magical philosophies? And what are some other ways that a Banisher might manifest? Theme and Mood Banishers invoke a theme of violent ignorance. The Banishers are the epitome of this concept. Their understanding of magic is flawed, and from that flawed often willfully so understanding arises the de- sire to harm, destroy and nullify the works of Supernal magic.
The irony is that in the World of Darkness, this impulse might actually be directed positively — there are monsters out there that humanity does not understand, and perhaps the human race would be better off if these monsters were exterminated. Promethean: The Created. White Wolf. August Over time, the mages became filled with hubrisand began fighting over how best to lead the world.
Summoners Soul — Spend a willpower and get an extra 5 or 4 dice. The Abyss that separates the two worlds prevents most of humanity from awakening to magic, and hampers the power of mages trapped in the Fallen World.
Mage: The Awakening — Wikipedia. How many of these splat books are worth buying? Mage the Awakening The Abedju Cipher. Mage the Awakening - The Adamantine Arrow. My Awakening. The content of this PDF is perfect if you intend to read it from a laptop or desktop. If the content Awakening Kundalini not Found or Blank , you must refresh this page manually.
The universal force known as Kundalini has been shrouded in mystery for centuries, yet it influences our every breath, thought, and emotion. With Awakening Kundalini, one of the West's most respected teachers and researchers in the field explores this spiritual principle in unprecedented depth, with detailed guidance for discovering and working with it directly.
In India's spiritual teachings, Kundalini is known as the principle within that compels us to evolve and grow. Traditions across the globe have described it as a force that lies dormant within us and, when awakened, connects us to the energy of creation and profoundly elevates consciousness. With his unique expertise in modern psychology, neuroscience, meditation training, and spiritual traditions, Lawrence Edwards clarifies for readers the many dimensions of Kundalini awakening, including practices and meditations for recognizing its manifestations and preparing the body and mind to enter its expansive, empowering flow.
When experienced skillfully, Kundalini can be the most profoundly transformative experience of our lives. Awakening Kundalini makes available a complete and practical resource for tapping into this transformative force, and realizing our ability to live 'radically free. Mage — the Awakening 2E. Mage the Awakening 2E.
Internet could be cruel to us who looking for free thing. But both of us … Download mage the awakening adamantine arrow pdf free shared files. We fool ourselves. As mystics from cultures the world over have said from time immemorial, we are only sleeping, dreaming that we are awake. If this is true, then reality is not what we think it is. We see only that part of life that filters through to our dream. There is a greater world out there, full of things unseen and literally undreamt. To know it, we have but to Awaken.
That is what a mage does he Awakens and begins to consciously dream new things into existence. In the dreams, these great worms of legend would rise up into the winds, one by one, circle the spire with their beating leathern wings, and set off toward the infinite horizon, to places the dreamers could not imagine.
No other creature stirred on the isle and no spirit hunted there; no being dared intrude upon the dragons lair. As the dreams progressed, the dreamers came to realize that the dragons never returned.
Each night, another dragon would leave, so that the remaining numbers grew small. Finally, the last dragon took wing and glided away, to the west, never again to be seen. The dreams continued to come, but now the isle was empty; nothing moved there. For many nights the dreamers saw the isle, abandoned and forlorn, and knew that it waited for them. The island had called to them, compelling them, seeking new inhabitants. Following the lead of the dreamers, small bands of mortals set out to sea from many different lands, each following the vision given to them in dreams.
They sought the island where, far from the lands of predation, they knew they would be free to forge their own destinies, unafraid of the night. They came to the isle, following the pole star, and saw that it was exactly as seen in their dreams. Mortals from many lands, speaking many languages and following different customs, came together, and by silent assent settled in peace with no conflict, for they had traveled far fleeing from struggle.
And still they dreamed. The island sent them new visions, and showed them how they might learn to master the strange sights to which their sleeping minds had been privy. They began practicing the techniques of hesychia, the stillness or incubation, in which they retreated into dark caves and their bodies entered deep sleep while their minds traveled to far astral realms beyond the ken of other mortals.
There they met the Others, the daimons of their own souls, the hidden twin of each soul traveler. These judges challenged them to prove by what right they came on astral roads to the Realms Supernal, and set them to a series of tests. Many failed, sent back to their bodies in sorrow, unable to again journey forth in dream.
But some succeeded. These few returned with their souls aglow, lit by a celestial fire. They could see into the Realms Invisible and ken the secret workings of Creation, the principles and substances from which everything was wrought. Through the sympathy their far-journeying souls now shared with the Realms Supernal, and the knowledge they gleaned from studying realms.
The sea of time grows murky as one approaches the distant past. Ruins, artifacts, cave paintings all this evidence of history tells an incomplete tale. Even master mages cannot part the curtains of time so far back to see what truly occurred.
The magical orders have a mythology about their beginnings, the legend of a fallen civilization and a war for the throne of reality.
The names for that civilization are many, most of them lost over the years, but even the Sleeping know one of them and seek evidence of its truth: Atlantis. For many years uncounted in the far distant past, mortals suffered at the whim of monsters, hunted by spirits and preyed upon by bloodthirsty revenants. Mortals in those times adhered dogmatically to fearsome superstitious customs, which proved their only means of keeping weak spirits at bay while appeasing the strong ones.
Beset by creatures stronger than they, culled by howling beasts whenever they migrated into territories whose borders they couldnt possibly perceive, mortals found it nigh impossible to advance above their need for survival, to envision ways of living outside of fear. Then came the dragon dreams. Certain mortals, in lands scattered far and wide, began to dream of an island, a lonely land jutting from a windswept sea far from any known coast.
A spire rose from the center of the isle, pointing at the pole star; it seemed to the dreamers that this was the axis of the world, the pole upon which the bowl of the sky turned.
And upon this pole, at its apex, nested the dragons. They made their very thoughts real, imagination rendered into matter and flesh. They had discovered magic. It was as if all mortals were asleep. Only the dreamers of the dragon isle who had returned victorious from their astral journeys were Awake.
The magi dreamed with their eyes open. They pondered how it was that they among all mortals had attained this gift. It seemed that only on their island refuge, within its deep caves removed from the tumult of the senses, could their souls fly free of their bodily fetters and touch the astral stars.
But mortals had lived in caves before, and had withdrawn from the world in deep meditation, yet none had Awakened. The magi suspected that the island itself had mystical properties. Had it not been the abode of dragons, creatures made from the celestial fire? Had it not guided them there through dreams?
Had it not called to them, and had they not answered? Investigating the depths of the caves with their newfound vision, they unearthed huge crystals in shapes that suggested bones. Some believed they had found the remains of dead dragons.
The power resonant in the crystals had called to sensitive mortal souls like moths to light. Was this the secret of the isles power? Crystals that resonated with Supernal energy? They named the caves the Dragons Tomb, and built their city atop it. Later mages, skeptics raised in the modern world, would scoff at the tale. They would know that places could well up with magical energy, and even take upon the atmosphere of the Supernal Realms provided that a shard from a mages soul, distilled into material form, anchored its higher energies.
But dragons? Surely not. The defenders of tradition would state that the dragons were dream emissaries, not literally winged reptiles, but Supernal ideas representing the concept of magic itself. The crystal bones acted as conduits to the Supernal, the source of magic. In this way, some would say, Atlantis formed a natural version of what would later be called a Demesne, a place pregnant with Supernal power where magic could be practiced as of old before the Fall. The magi of Atlantis traveled once more to the forsaken lands from whence they had come, searching for new clues into the Mysteries, the tantalizing yet obscure secrets that ruled over everything that was, is and shall be.
Mortals there witnessed their power, and word of them spread as rumors and legends. Many left their homes to seek fabled Atlantis, the island of the magi.
Only a few found it; the rest wandered the ocean for years. No chart marked its place; the stars no longer guided mariners to its rocky shores. Only those who saw it in dream could find their way. The newcomers went to the tomb and sent their minds inwards, but most of them failed the tests of their daimons and were lost in the uncharted wildernesses of their souls.
Their empty bodies took days to die. Others were severed from their bodies by the terrible demons they found dwelling within their own dreams. Only a very few in any group could pass the tests and become magi. Rumors came now and then of foreign sorcerers, men and women who had also attained the Realms Supernal on their own, far from Atlantis, but they were rare. These people more often than not destroyed themselves by misuse of their power or were killed by commoners who feared their wizardry.
Only on Atlantis were the Ars Mysteriorum mastered and codified for others to learn. The loose confederation of immigrants to the island soon organized into a city-state led by the magi. They called it Atlantis, which in their polyglot tongue meant the ocean spire.
Over time, the enlightened founded separate orders to. The practice of magic was intertwined with the theory of magic how it was that the mortal mind was able to will reality to do what it wanted. The Atlanteans believed that the practice of magic was the purposeful incarnation by a mage of the Supernal the heavenly or celestial into the lower, prosaic realms of matter, including the subtle realms of spiritual matter called ephemera. The mage, by virtue of his souls attainment to the higher realms, could bring the rulership of those realms down into the common world through sympathy, the principle that like can affect like regardless of distance.
But a sympathetic connection through the soul was not enough. The mind had to understand the complex Tapestry of the universe, how the Patterns of various things were woven into a whole. Only by understanding the threads could a mage weave them into Patterns of his own devising. These threads were the 10 Arcana that comprised all of reality from high to low.
The Atlanteans also pondered the reasons behind their art. They knew with certainty that there was more to reality than what met the common eye, and that there was more than one state of existence beyond the material. They believed that behind the many forms and shapes of things, the world was in fact One, heaven and earth together in a single continuum. Subtle veils divided the realms and states of being from one another, separating high from low and creating the illusion of division.
Mortal souls originated from on high and descended to the lower realm seeking manifestation in flesh. Once their sojourn was accomplished, they would ascend again to their source to be renewed. On their descent, they would strip away their celestial raiment and don garments of clay, discarding memories of the Realms Supernal.
They arrived in the lower world ignorant, like children eager and curious to learn anew. When their cloaks of clay finally crumbled, they would rise again as sparks from a flame, called by the stars to return in glory, mature with the wisdom they had gained during their time among the limited and uncomprehending forms of the lower realm. So it is said that mortals came to be, clay bodies worn by luminous souls in forgetfulness.
But the reason behind why mortal souls were forced to descend at all became a source of contention. Some magi claimed it was how the universe came to know itself. Others said it was a punishment levied by mad and cruel gods, a terrible cycle designed to keep mortals from becoming more than gods.
Still others said it was a challenge meant to be overcome, a trial that only the fit could pass. Only those whose souls had journeyed inward to the Astral Spaces and who passed the tests put to them by their daimons could remember the truth and so ascend in life and escape the cycle of incarnations. Spurred by the imminent destruction and corruption of the world, the exiled mages banded together and assaulted Atlantis, climbing the star ladder and wrestling with the celestial mages in their heavenly palaces.
Their struggles were terrible. The two sides clashed in a chaos of realms, and the losers sorcerers on both sides were flung from on high back into the lower realm. The power to warp the very skein of Creation soon outstripped the wisdom of those who wielded it.
The hubris of the magi rose unchecked. Many generations after the first had established Atlantis, their legacy turned sour. Mage turned on mage, and so was born the first wizards war. The victors claimed Atlantis as theirs, and drove the losers to the far corners of the earth.
Then, combining their power, they wrought a great spell and erected a ladder to the Realms Supernal. They spurned the traditional astral paths by which a sorcerer could approach the higher realms by means of a soul journey, for they sought to walk the celestial reaches in their own bodies.
They stormed the heights and claimed the thrones of the gods for themselves. Ruling from on high, no longer bound to earth, even their petty dictates and whims became real, for they stood over the lower realm and influenced it with their very thoughts.
The subtle veils were rent, and the higher and lower worlds came together the pure mixed with the impure, and the universe trembled. The ladder shattered, disintegrating into dust, leaving the victors beyond the reach of the earthbound mages.
Where the ladder had been, reality cracked and fell into itself, creating a rift between the higher and lower realms, a terrible void that sucked life and energy into itself.
The Abyss divided the realms once more, keeping the high, pure realm from the taint of the low. But this was no subtle veil, permeable to returning souls. It was a gulf of unreality, an aberration that was never meant to be. What was before a single world became two worlds the Supernal World and the Fallen World, with a vast Abyss between them. The veil between the worlds of spirit and matter hardened, becoming the daunting Gauntlet, a barrier impassible except through magic.
Shaken by the reverberations of the ladders destruction, the foundations of Atlantis crumbled and the island sank beneath the waves. The mystical place that had birthed the magi was no more. The survivors would later wonder: Was this the primordial event that created myths of the Flood and the Tower of Babel?
Or perhaps the war reverberated throughout Time itself, endlessly repeating its disastrous finale in every human civilization to come. Once again, the enlightened escaped to the far corners of the earth and there began the long, slow process of relearning what was lost.
Hunted once again by monsters, their progress was slow, for the needs of survival came before the slow study of the Mysteries. Whats more, those souls that had not already been touched by the Realms Supernal grew dim, like cold lumps of coal hiding dim cinders within. Many forgot their magical heritage and their souls entered a slumber deeper than they had known before. This great decline was known as the Quiescence, the Sleeping Curse.
The Lie. Cut off from the higher realms, divided from their birthright by the Abyss, souls could not maintain their luminosity and so fell into Sleep. Worse the gravity of the Abyss pulled on them and weighed down the lids of their inner eyes, causing them to refuse any vision of the higher world.
The mages those who remained Awake could no longer work their magic before those who. With the Abyss between them and the Supernal World, the source of magic, mages power began to wane. It became harder and harder to draw the Supernal energies across the void, and when they could be drawn, they sometimes arrived warped and twisted, with effects unwanted by their wielder.
In a number of years, all contact with the higher world would be gone and all of humankind would Sleep forever. Then, one by one, the Watchtowers appeared, their flames sending beacons from the Supernal Realms across the vast night to the souls of the Awakened. Legends tell of five Atlantean kings, the mage heirs of the Awakened City who led the fight against the Exarchs. They climbed the ladder and dueled within the celestial palaces.
When the Ladder shattered, they remained in the higher world and continued to resist the Exarchs. These were the Oracles, their numbers few but their powers potent. Realizing the danger the Abyss posed for the lower world, the Oracles broke off their fight with the Exarchs and set off through the Supernal Realms. Using lore beyond the ken of the Exarchs for they were royal heirs, privy to magical knowledge allowed to only nobles they each erected by magic a tower in a single Supernal Realm, modeled after the tall spire that had guided the first vessels to Atlantis.
Five towers from five. Slept without invoking the powers of the Abyss. Only a rare few in any place at any time remained Awake, tending the flame of Supernal knowledge, keeping the lore of magic alive. Each invested into their tower the virtues of their own souls and the sum of their magical knowledge, imbued into the very stones of the structures.
The Watchtowers sent visions across the Abyss to mages in the Fallen World, calling to them as Atlantis had once called to their ancestors.
Those who interpreted the visions properly and remembered the old ways retreated to caves or secluded towers, sheltering themselves in the dark. They lay their bodies down and, following the lure of the Watchtowers, sent their souls onto astral roads long untrod. Through harrowing journeys, some of them finally arrived in astral form at one of the five Watchtowers. There they carved their names into the foundation stones and awoke in their bodies. But they were no longer forsaken, for their names had been writ by their own souls.
They once more claimed sympathy with the Realms Supernal, although each only in that realm in which her Watchtower stood. Watchtower of the Golden Key: Founded in the Aether, the Realm of the Celestial Spheres, where lightning illumines the sky and magic falls like rain. Watchtower of the Iron Gauntlet: Founded in Pandemonium, the Realm of Nightmares, where the labyrinths of the mind can drive one mad and all paths are illusion.
Watchtower of the Lead Coin: Founded in Stygia, the Realm of Crypts, where the treasures of the earth are hoarded and all things must one day end. Watchtower of the Lunargent Thorn: Founded in Arcadia, the Realm of Enchantment, where time runs strangely and a carelessly spoken word can rule ones fate forever.
Watchtower of the Stone Book: Founded in the Primal Wild, the Realm of Totems, where flesh is forever renewed and the ephemeral is as solid as matter. The Lone Watchtower Some mages in later years claimed a secret teaching.
They spoke to those they deemed worthy of another Watchtower the first, they said erected in a realm long forgotten and unreachable from this side of the Abyss. Only a very rare few can find their way there by strange astral paths and carve their name into that mysterious towers foundation. What powers this Watchtower sends to its mages are unknown, for any whose name is written there do not reveal its secrets. The modern magical orders have many legends and theories about the Lone Watchtower, but no evidence of its existence has ever appeared for public scrutiny.
Fallen World Awakened only by strange happenstance, the causes for which are still debated by mages in the modern age. If only mages could know just who would Awaken, and how and when, they could more easily bolster their numbers and work to ensure the Awakening of humanity. But there seemed to be no such laws or guidelines. Even mages, masters of the miraculous, had to rely on rare miracles to maintain their lineage.
Without the mystical foundation of Atlantis, mortals could no longer willingly choose to set out on soul journeys to attain the Realms Supernal. Only those who were already mages could reach the new Watchtowers, and even then the journeys were hard and not all returned.
But Awakenings were not denied to Sleepers. By Oracular magic, miracle, happenstance, divine grace or sheer luck, a mortals soul could stir and find itself at the gate of a Watchtower. If his will was strong enough, he could carve his name into the towers stones, and so secure for himself mystical sympathy with the Watchtower and its realm. He would return Awakened, changed by his sojourn in a strange land. As time passed and the Abyss widened, the journeys of the soul grew fewer, but Awakenings still occurred.
Sometimes, the soul would not walk the astral paths during its trials but instead perceive the external world through Supernal vision, causing the mind to think it had gone mad, beset by hallucinations and devilry.
Ordinary people and things became like actors taking the role of Supernal entities, enacting a mystery play for the souls benefit. Those who could guess the plot of the play and take their proper role within it were graced with Awakening.
Those who failed to anticipate the script or refused to take part soon returned to Sleep, their trial reduced to a memorable nightmare, no more significant than any other dream.
The actors recruited for such mystery plays were unaware of their parts. Only the Awakening could read the cipher of experience and discern the truth of what occurred.
Everyone else went about their lives normally, unaware that they had been puppets of the divine. Or did mages merely project onto them their altered perceptions? Was it all in the subjects mind?
Regardless, those who passed the trials of the soul could make what was in their minds real, and so the question was moot.
Where the Atlanteans could willfully enter the soul journey of Awakening in the Dragons Tomb, mortals in the. The Exarchs the pretender gods were largely forgotten. If they still existed, they remained unseen. If they acted upon the world, they did so in ways that could be interpreted as the works of Nature or the whims of fate or, eventually, as random chance or natural law.
No one remembered that their own kind had once become gods. No one, that is, but mages. Cabals of the Awakened handed down their secrets to a select few, ensuring that their methods of casting the old magics remained true. They, of all people, suspected that the Exarchs still ruled in heaven. But they did not rule unopposed. The Oracles also existed in the celestial reaches, working to foil the selfish dictates of the first pretenders. Once in a long age, it is said, a mortal mages soul may attain the Final Key to the Mysteries and ascend across the Abyss to the Supernal World and so become an Oracle or Exarch and impose his own will on the workings of the universe.
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