Weird Tales v1#4 June 1923

Weird Tales v1#4 June 1923

The Murders in the Rue Morgue - by Poe, Edgar Allan

The Chair - by Mereness, Dr. Harry E.

The Madman - by Hipwell, Herbert

The Siren - by Collier, Tarleton

The Escape - by Henze, Helen Rowe

The Invisible Terror - by Thomason, Hugh

The Voice in the Fog - by Leverage, Henry

The Gray Death - by Sugarman, Loual B.

The Blade of Vengeance - by Lewis, George Warburton

The Man the Law Forgot - by Burns, Walter Noble

The Phantom Wolfhound - by Kline, Otis Adelbert

The Well - by Kilman, Julian

Osiris - by Shirk, Adam Hull

Jack O' Mystery - by McLaren, Edwin

The Jailer of Souls - by Craigie, Hamilton

Desert Madness - by Miners, Harold Freeman

The Evening Wolves (Part 1 of 2) - by Triem, Paul Ellsworth

The Moon Terror (Part 2 of 2) - by Birch, A. G.

Inspiring Illustrations - The Alchemist

34). The Alchemist

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

In all of Khromarium there is perhaps no single individual better known and yet still an enigma than the man known only as 'The Alchemist'. That he is a mage of great power is undisputed, but his origins remain unknown as does his name.

Years ago a strange ship sailed into the docks of Khromarium; a ship without sails, without crew, and with only a single occupant. It was a small ship but the man who emerged from its hold seemed too old to have crewed even such a vessel no bigger than the long boat off a galley. When he turned and lifted the ship in his hands and then proceeded to fold and refold the vessel till it was smaller than his hand, smaller than his fingers, so small that those watching had to look away as what they watched became more than wondrous; it became disturbing to the senses of what should be and what should not.

This was the arrival of the Alchemist. Not a display of raw power, but power was there, subtle and practical. He appeared as an old man of white beard and hair, not tall, perhaps shorter than average, not fat, nor thin, nor so old to appear feeble. As he turned to walk along the quay a staff of smooth white wood appeared in his hand as if a branch, straight and unblemished, grew from a dark core of nothingness.

The Alchemist settled near the Street of Trade where it crossed the Quarter of Craft before emptying into the Sea Market where the goods fresh from the holds of ships were sold and the pens of exotic animals and slaves were kept. He found an old building that had suffered in the Cold Riots many years before, partially ruined with a roof holed by fire and walls stained with smoke. A small crowd of layabouts, longshoremen, traders and sailors had followed at a respectful distance from the docks where he had arrived and watched as he step lightly across the overgrown yard littered with debris and enclosed by a short iron fence. The doors of the building had been nailed shut but they parted at the touch of the Alchemist's hand and closed silently behind him.

A flash of light burst from the windows and the holed roof, out the top of the broken chimney. The light suffused the walls, swept across the yard, caressed the iron fence, the broken gate. When the light faded the iron gate was black, the yard bare except for a carpet of wildflowers and herbs, the walls of the building a rich brown, the windows glassed and shuttered, the roof whole and the doors more solid and dark bound with what might be silver and etched with runes that none could read, and open as if waiting visitors.

The Alchemist stepped from his new abode and shut his door behind him, locking it with a small silver key and turned toward the nearby market. He shopped, and talked of small things, and laughed. He hired servants to watch his door and tend his garden and cook his meals. The Alchemist seems never short of gold and what he cannot find for sale he hires adventurers to find for him, and within his brown-walled home he sells potions and pills, salves and solutions which will dissolve steel but not harm flesh.

The Alchemist is liked, respected and somewhat feared by his neighbors on the Street of Trade, but he is well-regarded and a source of pride for proud Khromarium.

Inspiring Illustrations - Outside the Khromarium Gate

32). Outside the Khromarium Gate

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

Kromarium is vast and older than man. Streets and towers and catacombs that wind their way into the bowels of the earth like a wyrm gnawing at the heartstone of the city. So vast is Khromarium that losing oneself in its twisting paths can become being lost in passages of time and space and dimensions not hospitable to man. It is said that the center of the city can never be found, always there will be another tower, ruined manor, gaping pit where the dank sewer waters gush down and down and down, another street or alley to follow deeper and deeper along ways that should not be trodden if there is any wish to return.

But Khromarium is a city filled with life as well and the precincts that surround the walls and its many gates are lit with fires both mundane and magical. Cleanly swept are the corridors of the wealthy and powerful or littered and stinking with the refuse of the outcast poor and discarded souls. Merchant squares abound, strange passengers from stranger lands view wares from coach or palanquin. Street musicians play and thieves ply their trade. Courtesans demurely pass brothels where their less fortunate and less expensive fellow professionals bare their own bare and berouged wares from doors and balconys.

Outside the gates of Khromarium can be found philosophers, beggars and scribes. Soothsayers, hedge-wizards, and shamans can be found in abundance, but any with more earthly goods are shooed away and into the well-taxed environs of the city walls by the passing guardsman and mounted patrols of the city. The business of the mind, the soul, and the mystical is conducted along these thoroughfares by any but the well-established masters of these professions, beggars and mendicants excluded.

Tellers of fortunes, popular among the Kimmerians and people of Rus, have small tents inside the city gates, while a more well-regarded practicer of divination can be found sitting upon a waxed or oiled cloth on the verge of the great road close to the iron and wood portals of the city. There is a hierarchy and tradition among the traders in the ephemeral outside of the gates and woe-betide any who would usurp another's spot of buttocks smoothed grass that may have been occupied for generations or passed down from journeyman to apprentice from time immemorial. 

Inspiring Illustrations - The Blunt Monster With Uncounted Heads

31). The Blunt Monster With Uncounted Heads

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

Deep within the forests of the Coast of Scars can be found the ruins of a small stone tower. Its foundation stones are very old and show the marks of fire and of war. How many times the tower has been tumbled and rebuilt none can say, but a few stories of its latest incarnation remain though the upper most levels are cracked and roofless.

Of late a man has come to dwell within this ruin. He is thin and austere, robed as a priest or a sage or crafter of spells. His name is not known, though some call him 'The Mage' or the more lengthy 'The Summoner of Small Daemons'. And that last name is very apt.

All about this man run the smallest of Daemons, run, dance, fly and cavort about him as if around their heart's desire. Should any approach this man with malice in their hearts these Daemons turn from merriment to a vicious defense. Even the greatest of the Devil-swine which haunt the woods give him and his horde a wide berth for those that have not have met their fates buried beneath a thousand small teeth and claws and a thousand more waiting for their chance to blood themselves on their larger kin.

'The Mage' seems pleasant enough, but his flock of small Daemons deters visitors of a more wholesome sort. With each passing day it seems a few more of these tiny Daemonic forms join the throng which surrounds the old tower though some are always flying or scuttling afar to do their adoration's bidding. And as time passes the fewer Devil-swine there are to be found in the woods, though the nearby City-State of Dorset, long overrun with these foul piggish Daemons and their progeny, seems to be swelling in compensation.

How long it will be before 'The Mage' turns his attention to this Daemonic concentration, if that is his ultimate goal, none can tell, but it has been long years since the Coast of Scars has been as clear and safe from the swine-men or their Daemonic masters as it has become due entirely to this unnamed man and his abhorrent following.

Inspiring Illustrations - The Robe That Terror Wears

30). The Robe That Terror Wears

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

A cold wind blows from the sea and with it she steps upon the shores of Hyperborea. The storm walks with her and seeking life she brings the frozen death to the land. Her touch is blue ice as are her eyes. Innocent, the curse she bears is a slow moving doom that no spell, no sword can touch.

In the frozen wasteland that she leaves behind her a shadow moves. Her tormentor follows casting chains of ice upon the dead. To save the land is to save her and face what she cannot.

Already the path she has taken is filled with white death. Villages are stilled, silent tombs whose doors are opening as a greater evil emerges into the cloud-wrapped day. All is darkness as if evening had swallowed the noonday sun.

From the northern shores of  Hyperborea comes the call for help as an endless winter begins to swallow the land. A woman walks alone ahead of the desolation, but is she cause or merely, as she claims, related by those few who have survived her encounter, merely a victim chased by darkness, swallowed by madness and running, running, only a few paces before the storm.

The villages along the Striped Gulf beg for help as their neighbors are caught within the approaching darkness. None have returned of all those who have searched for answers. Only the woman who walks ahead of the storm.

Inspiring Illustrations - She Speaks A Scarlet Mist

29). She Speaks A Scarlet Mist

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

Who can say when the blood of man was polluted with the foulness of undeath. From what blackened and defiled corner of Old Earth where first they arose is unknown. Every corner of the globe speaks of them, Bruja, Dachnavar, Draugir, Chang Kuei, Mara, Striga, Vampire.

In Hyperborea it is the same, though only at Ix of the Black Gulf at the Rim of the World do they find welcome. In all other lands are they hunted and if found slain, though it is no easy task. Vampires are social creatures that form a family with a patriarch or matriarch ruling over them, but these paternal figures feel no love or attachment for their offspring and will use them for their pleasure and their defense willingly sacrificing all those they deem their 'children' for their defense or even simple gain. At times these Hyperborean vampires will tire of their family and will slaughter them all gathering their tainted blood in great casks like wine to be aged and consumed at a later date.

Vampires always choose the strongest or most beautiful or talented humans to be their victims and future 'children'. Around this family are collected groups of ensnared servants or 'thralls' as the Norse from Vikland call them. These are half-drained victims of the vampires who ensorceled into fanatical loyalty to their vampiric masters.

While vampires may be found in ruins, catacombs or graveyards, they often join the society of large cities such as Khromarium or Ptolemides. Some have taken over Norse halls or holdings of the Rus or villas of the Hellenes near to Ptolemides.

There are rumors and traces of a vampiric brood gathering in the vast metropolis of Khromarium and the local guard as well as a cabal of certain powerful sorcerors are interested in finding them. While a small bounty is placed on the capture or heads of any proven thralls, a much greater reward can be gathered for the bodies (living or dead, but living pays better) of any of the Vampiric family. The Lord or Mistress of the clan would garner the greater reward but such a capture or even a defeat of one of these monsters is deemed unlikely.

Inspiring Illustrations - The Great Spirit of the Woods

28). The Great Spirit of the Wood

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

Amid the dark recesses of Hyperborean forests rests the God-King of ancient days. So old that he is nameless or if named it is forgotten before Atlantis drowned or the passage to Old Earth was lost in the mists which surround Hyperborea. He is known as the Great Spirit of the Wood to his followers and the woodland beasts and sentient monsters that dwell within his green boundaries.

He rarely shows his face beyond the heart of the woodlands, but a few incautious travelers have seen it, dark and brooding, his hair a dirty white entwined with leaves and branches but worn as a living crown. The Great Spirit does not take desecrators of his sacred groves or deep heartland lightly and the doom that may fall upon such are torments that can last an age, bound within the flesh of a great tree, living as the tree lives, but exposed to the pain of all that comes to the woods; the bite of axe, the touch of fire, the rot of age and devouring teeth of insects.

The Great Spirit calls to not only the trees and plants of the woodland, but to all those creatures, including man, who live within. He is no peaceful ruler and roots fight for nourishment from the soil and sunlight from the sky, beasts stalk the weak, the weak burrow and gnaw at the roots of tree and plant, the dead nourish the living, and so it goes on and on, the turning wheel of time, life and death, overseen by the Great Spirit, lord of all that transpires.