Anamnesis ex Reddit

A one-shot played using Anamnesis. This post is published under the CC-BY-SA-4.0 licence.

The shadow and minor arcana cards for this game were drawn and posted on Reddit as part of a group game. I drew the major arcana for each prompt from my Thoth deck and added the names of the minor arcana (though didn't really integrate them consistently into the scenes).

Shadow Card: Death

Act 1

My eyes open to brilliant golden light and for time immeasurable the light is all that I can see, all that I am. Slowly, creeping in from the edges of my perceptions, the world gathers itself around me as the glorious light recedes. I am standing in a narrow alleyway, dusty clay bricks build uneven walls either side of me, a dry earthen path leads ahead and behind, and the hustle and bustle of a busy marketplace can be heard ahead. As the disorientation passes I realise, with curiosity that I don't know where I am. This quickly gives way to a more concerning realisation that I don't know who I am. The sun hangs high in the sky above me and I take a moment to consider.

1. The Magus & King of Pentacles

I feel the weight of something in my hands. Glancing down I see that both hands are wrapped around the shaft of some kind of sceptre, the contoured surface feels right in my grip as if it had been made for me to hold. The head is ornate and shaped to resemble something akin to a blossoming flower or a dancing flame. Perhaps something in between? The sceptre is heavy, not just with the weight of the golden metal, but also with the authority I sense it grants me. This is symbol of power, my power, and I feel it pulsing through every fibre of my being. It's balance is true, I hold it out in one hand and it is easy to wield. It doesn't feel like a weapon, my instincts recoil from that use, instead I sense this is a badge of office that marks the bearer with some hidden significance. I bring it close to my face and turn it over in my hands, scrutinsing the surface for clues. I think I can make out a faint cursive script spiralling around the shaft, but it is etched so softly that it is merely a whisper on metal. It evades my attempts to read it and I must accept, for now, that there are still some secrets beyond my reach.

0. The Fool & Queen of Pentacles

Reluctantly drawing my attention away from the sceptre, I take in my surroundings. Everything here is coarse and harsh, the colours and shapes strain my eyes to behold; the distant market sounds grate on my nerves as the raucous din refuses to achieve harmony; beneath my bare feet the ground is dry and unyielding, my feet already begin to ache and the earth is hot under the noonday sun. Even my body, charged with vitality as it is, feels untested and uncertain. Or perhaps the uncertainty is my own, I have yet to test its capabilities and limits. I turn several times on the spot, both to take in my environment and to test my own balance. My body moves with a fluid grace that makes me think of music, was I - am I - a dancer? I bend to press a palm against the baking ground and deny the urge to flinch as the heat sears me. I lift my hand slowly only when I am satisfied that I have experience the heat and the pain enough to learn something of my limits. This world will not bow before me and my presence here will inevitably cause me harm, but I feel that this is also in some way the reason that I am here.

9. The Hermit & Two of Pentacles "Change"

The only slight reprieve from this rough world is the cool and gentle sensation across my body, I feel a silken cloth wrapped about me in a complex arrangement. I reassure myself that this is not a shroud, that I am not dead, I feel too alive for this to be the case. The silk is voluminous and conceals my form easily, a length of it even coming up to cover my head and cast my face is shadow. I could pass unrecognised if I chose, though I suspect the richness of the fabric itself would draw attention. I pull the cloth about me jealously, as I fearing someone will take it from me. Extending an arm I appreciate the depth of the blue and green pattern, a series of interlocking rings almost entirely cover a black backdrop. As I allow my eyes to wander over the fabric I think I can see ripples flowing over the surface, despite the lack of breeze in the alley. The inky void behind the rings hints at some deeper lore thatm like almost everything, refuses to share its secrets with me. I bring the sceptre into its folds, cloaking its light temporarily, and carefully walk the length of the alley ahead.

Act 2

I emerge from the narrow canal of the alleyway into the life and activity of the marketplace. The broad plaza, with its mezzanines and recesses, is a sea of brightly coloured awnings and a cacophony of voices competing to be heard. I stand for a moment, bolstering myself with my inner reserves to withstand the tide sensations, and then plunge head first into the crowd. Seeing tall buildings on the far side of the market, I carve a path towards them, something about them tugs at my mind.

21. The Universe & Six of Swords "Science"

As I push through the market I start to attract attention and I realise that I stand at least a head taller than anyone else in the crowd. I hear voices, first indignant poeple I've cleared from my path, and then trailing behind me curious voices wondering at the tall stranger in their midst. I'm halfway across the plaza when they start to notice specific details, the style of my silken garment, glimpses of the sceptre within its folds, and perhaps even my regal gait. Just outside of my comprehension I hear a word repeated that escapes my grasp. I can't slow my pace, my momentum carries me inevitably towards my goal, but I strain to hear the word and understand its significance. I press on through the crowd as they whisper about the past, old powers, and things thought lost to a nameless doom. I know in the pit of my stomach that the word that continues to elude is my own name. As much as my inner drive urges me to reach my goal, the threat of hearing my name clearly repels me from where I have already been.

18. The Moon & Queen of Swords

I step off of the plaza onto a boulevard lined with date trees and tall buildings with deeply recessed windows and doorways. I see few people as I make my way along, appreciating the shade the trees provide, and those I do see look well-appointed and concerned more with their own affairs than speculating on those of others. One building in particular catches my attention and I find my pace slowing and then halting outside the arched entrance. The sides of the arch are carved, each from a single piece of sandstone, to resemble a pair of date trees bowing to touch at the top of the arch. I know I have passed beneath this arch many times and in my mind's eye I see the shaded courtyard beyond, the ornately tiled fountain at its centre, and the figures that meet there to share rumours. I understand that I shared many secrets here, and kept at least as many back for my own purposes. I hear the echoed lore I gained here, the knowledge beguiling me enough to want to step through the archway now. I catch myself as I am directly under the arch and pull myself free from memory's grip, telling myself that it isn't really memory that beckons to me but something else. Something I would gain no benefit from returning to.

1. The Magus & Ace of Swords

I spend the rest of the day striding purposefully through the streets, not knowing my destination and suspecting my path is overly complex and circuitous, but nonetheless knowing in my heart that this is the path that I must take. I pass through the alleys between the workshops of the potters and stonemasons, hearing the trundle of wheels and the chipping of stone, smelling baking clay and the exertion of labour, catching glimpses of bright glazes and pristine slabs of stone. I cross the open plaza of fountains where the older women gather water, wash clothes, and watch the children. I hear the splashing of water, the slap of wet cloth on stone, and laughter - the high voices of children at play and the raucous laughter of the women as they work. As I pass the temples I smell clashing scents of incense, fresh fruit and flowers, and the coppery smell of blood. I hear many voices and languages and prayers, all reaching upward to the same heavens. This place is complicated and varied, it has many facets and many centres of importance - of power - for the people who live here. My journey is nearing an end as my bare feet trace the final length of the sigil my path has drawn across the city. A tall house stands before me, apart from the surrounding buildings which seem to draw back from it to keep it at a respectable distance.

Act 3

The building is tall, narrow, and twisted; gently spiralling a few degrees with each of its many levels. It reaches up to the firmament like a gnarled staff driven into the earth. The construction is sandstone blocks, like the surrounding street, but complemented with exposed and weathered wooden beams and window frames. Each of the narrow windows is tightly shuttered and gives away no clues at to what they conceal. The front door, up a short flight of steps, is painted a worn and flecked shade of purple. Faint chalk markings run along and up the steps before flowing up over the surface of the door. With an unwavering hand I touch the outline on the arch softly and feel a stirring of memory and power. I hear a dry and stiff creak as the door opens inwards and I without hesitation I step forward into my house.

16. The Tower & Five of Cups "Disappointment"

I walk the halls and rooms of the house, the walls looming over me as they reach up to the vaulted ceilings, searching for any trace of my life. The rooms are almost bare, minimally decorated and the furniture covered with musty sheets. I push open the shutters of each window I pass, slowly filling the house with daylight. Midway up the house I find the first of the notes, a scrap of paper torn along one edge, hastily scrawled words spilling off. As I progress I find more, increasingly more legible and increasingly more manic. Some are reminders to complete mundane tasks, excruciating in their precision. Others are lists of obscure ingredients and materials for unknown purposes. The paper varies, sometimes notepaper, sometimes pages torn from printed books and written over. The handwriting is the same across them all and I confess to the empty stairway that I am afraid to annotate them for it will confirm that they are written in my own hand. By the time I have swept the lower two thirds of the house, I have assembled enough notes to see that I was obsessed. Obsessed with the accumulation of arcane knowledge, first for it's own sake, and then for some greater purpose that the notes only alluded to. Nowhere in the notes could I find humility, restraint, or a recognition of my limits.

21. The Universe & Ten of Cups "Satiety"

I reach the uppermost floor of the house; the study dominated by my vast wooden desk and high-backed leather chair. I run my hands across the surface of the desk, savouring the warmth of the well-oiled wood and the voiceless memories it stirs inside me. I venture to the far side, sliding the chair away, reluctant to take my seat behind the desk. That feels too much like taking ownership of the identity of the person who lived here, and I am not yet certain I want to do that. My hands find the drawers, either locked or jammed, they no longer cooperate with me. All except one which glides so easily I feel like little more than an accomplice to it's opening. The sole occupant is a small volume I recognise as my journal, where I kept meticulous notes of my research. The now-open shutters allow light to shine across the desk where I gently set down the journal. I notice a faint tremor in my hand as I open the cover and turn to the latest entry. As I turn the pages I see iterations of diagrams and rituals, a slow but steady development of ideas, and on the final page its blossoming. A working to achieve apotheosis via descent into the entropic sub-realms. A dangerous rite but one that could yield great benefits. Or perhaps it already had?

10. Fortune & Queen of Cups

I push the journal across the desk, I've taken in so much information since the alleyway and my mind reels under the weight. As I move to push the drawer shut, something catches my eye. The journal wasn't the only thing in the drawer after all, I frown, the memories are new but I was certain this drawer was solely for the research journal. I carefully extract a wide and narrow folio tied shut with a sun-faded ribbon. The cover is plain, and gives away nothing of it's contents. As my fingers close on the ribbon I feel my hand freeze, it takes concerted effort to pull the ribbon's binding loose and open the folio. Parchments flows from the folio across the desk, dozens of faces stare up at me, or rather dozens of copies of the same face for clearly I had only one subject who I drew repeatedly. In one sketch his face is in profile; tousled hair tied back carelessly, one stout hand resting idly against an equally robust chin, a rounded nose wrinkled slightly as if in distaste. In another the subject stares directly at me; his broad face dominated by an intense pair of eyes that smoulder from beneath heavy brows. A mouth not accustomed to smiling yields to a slight curve, and I feel a tantalising shiver play up and down my spine. Other images are more candid, some so initmate that I feel heat rising to my face. The studies of my subject's hands suggest someone who has toiled for many years, while the settings where he is at repose hint at a more luxurious lifestyle. I surmise he posed here in my house and wonder how open we were in our relationship.

Act 4

I cross the room to the window and sit beneath it, back against the wall and legs folded beneath me. The fragments of memory are assembling, shards catch the light and dazzle me, jagged edges cause me to recoil from their touch. I feel myself drift back and forth through scenes from my past, reliving moments without context, one in particular keeps returning no matter how much I try to push it away.

6. The Lovers & Knight of Wands

I set down my charcoal and look up from the image that is taking form on the page. My subject, the man from all of my artwork, has turned to face me and his previously detached gaze has become a scowl. The light and shadows that took so long to capture on the page are lost and I sigh. In that exhalation he hears something unintended and the old conversation begins anew. He speaks dismissively of my work, the great project of enlightenment I have dedicated myself to, and I begin to bristle. Seeing this aggravates him further and he edges ever closer to the unspoken ultimatum that has hovered over us for months. One day he will ask me to choose between him and the work and I sense the inevitable heartbreak it will cause us both. With distance, and repetition, I see past the confrontational tone and the casual disrespect, I see the rejection he feels when I speak of stepping beyond and seeking apotheosis. In his words I hear the silent question - what will happen when I go where he cannot follow? I set down my work and walk form the room, his voice echoing after me as I make my way down to the lowest room of the house, the secret laboratory secluded in the foundations.

19. The Sun & Ten of Wands "Oppression"

I drag myself away from the memory and out of my introspection. I haul myself to my feet and turn to look out the window, the fading heat of the setting sun warm against my face. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing until I am confident that the tears on my face have dried. I walk slowly, uncertainly, down the stairs and effortlessly, helplessly, find the hidden door in the entrance hall. It slides open and sepulchral air hisses free, the narrow stairs beckon to me. I make my way down, my hand on the wall to steady me, when I reach the laboratory I fall to the ground. He's here. Or he was here. His body lies immobile and empty on the floor in the centre of the crudely drawn circle of symbols. I can't take my eyes off of him, but even with my peripheral vision I can see that he's used an earlier version of the schematic, one that I'd long since discarded as unfit. I must have forgotten to properly destroy it, in my hubris I must have failed to even comprehend that someeone else could grasp it enough to use it. I should have shared the work with him. This journey should not have been for me alone, we should have stepped across the boundary together, hand in hand. The tears have resumed and this time I make no attempt to stem their flow.

13. Death & Prince of Wands

I set down the sceptre, undeserving of the authority of conveys. I have failed my lover and my great work and amends must be made. I stride to the work bench and select the chalks and oils I will need to draw the correct form of the circle around us both. Now that I am set to my task I find myself unable to look directly at him, my shame is too great. Once the circle is ready I ignite the censers and sit in patient silence as the smoke fills the room, wrapping us both in a hazy shroud. I begin to intone the syllables of the incantation of descent, the entropic sub-realms are an unforgiving place (or absence of place to be pedantic) and I know that I must be swift. I will descend, find him there, and then we will both ascend. Ascend to this world and then beyond to the true culmination of the great work.

Moonrise - Act 4

A series played using Anamnesis. This post is published under the CC-BY-SA-4.0 licence.

Shadow: The Moon (Anxiety, Illusion, Intuition) 

ACT 4: WANDS

SCENE 1: QUEEN OF WANDS

I turned the pages over, no longer wanting to look at them, and took a moment to sit in silence and contemplate their blank backs. My mind was filled with the echoes of my past actions, swirling fragments becoming ensnared in a web of implications. I didn't like the pattern taking shape, and the looming presence lurking at the centre of the web - something patiently observing my reflections - was all too real. I stood and began to ransack the room, pulling open cupboard doors and desk drawers until I found, at last, my stylus and a small pot of ink that had not entirely dried up. I gathered the pages from the box and stacked them, still face down, on my antique wooden desk beside the stylus and ink pot. I took a seat at the desk, allowed my breathing to settle, and began to write.

The stylus scratched on the dry, gossamer-thin pages as my shaky hand inscribed a halting letter to my family. I tried to find adequate words to express what I'd seen since my return, how the sight of the fallen grandeur of the palace had shocked me, and how seeing their final resting place had rendered me silent. As I wrote, the shadows of my past deeds gathered about me, peering over my shoulder and whispering to themselves about the omissions in my account. I pushed them from my awareness and wrote as if in a trance, my stylus tearing the pages in places, until finally I could write no more and dropped the stylus. As I clenched and unclenched my hand to relieve the cramp, I felt my eyes drawn to the page, compelled to read the words that had flowed from me in an uncontrolled torrent. The handwriting was little more than a scrawl in places, but I was nonetheless able to discern key words and phrases. What I saw confirmed my fears and I pushed the pages away from me in the vain hope that they now held the memories and that I could cast them away forever.

SCENE 2: PAGE OF WANDS

I gathered myself and rose to my feet, I could remain here no longer. As I crossed the room to the door, my attention was drawn to the orb, it still lay where I had left it, but the bloody fingerprints somehow seemed more prominent, more accusatory. It stopped me in my tracks and, after a long moment, I picked it up and carried it with me as I left the palace. I retraced my steps back to the great dining hall, where my family were waiting for me, patient as ever. I reverently placed the orb in the hands of who I assumed was my eldest child; it was only fitting that they take their long overdue place on the throne. Gathering my shroud about me, I exited the palace, closing the ornate bird- and flower-carved doors behind me for the last time. The gates swung open at my touch, as before, and sealed behind me after I crossed back into the city. I did not pause to check if they would readmit me to the palace grounds, instead venturing along the main boulevard towards the city gates.

At each junction, I paused and listened in all directions, hoping in vain to hear the sounds of life somewhere in the city. Silence hung over the city like a shroud and I was accompanied only by my guilt. As I passed the ornate park, where I had taken my past paramours to break their hearts, I heard the words of that last one as loud as if they were standing beside me. I picked up the pace and practically ran to the gates, not stopping to listen at the junctions I raced over. I only paused once I was safely through the gates and had put a fair distance between them and myself. The dark night around me offered no indication of where else I might go, so I returned to the only other place that I knew; the cliffside tomb where I had first awakened.

SCENE 3: TWO OF WANDS

I sat on the edge of the cave mouth, crossed-legged and in silent contemplation of the crashing waves beneath me. There was no place here in this world for me anymore, and I confess that for the longest time I gave serious consideration to leaping from the cliff to the rocks below. My grim reverie was interrupted by the rise of the sun on the horizon before me. What began as a soft glow became a pale blue light spreading across the sky, and then a river of gold began to extend itself lazily towards me. I raised an outstretched hand as if to grasp the golden light, but it remained forever just out of reach. Realising that it wasn't me that it was trying to take hold of I crept back into the cave and gently lifted the crown from the dais. Holding it out in front of me, I edged towards the cave mouth, offering the crown to the rising sun. As it pulled itself free of the horizon I had to close my eyes in the face of its glory, but kept the crown extended to it. As the sun's warmth touched my skin and I felt its embrace fill me, the weight in my hands slowly lessened until my hands were empty. I opened my eyes, shielding them with my now empty hands, and saw that the sun was now clear of the horizon, surrounded by an intense corona unlike anything I had seen before. I slowly lowered my hands, feeling the shroud slip from my shoulders and crumple to the floor. I stood in the full light of the sun and allowed its light to fill the cavern utterly. Its light touched every surface, washing away all shadows, until there was no trace of the past left.

Moonrise - Act 3

A series played using Anamnesis. This post is published under the CC-BY-SA-4.0 licence.

Shadow: The Moon (Anxiety, Illusion, Intuition) 

ACT 3: CUPS

SCENE 1: TWO OF CUPS

Shaken by the memories of accusations, I made haste along the boulevard. Hateful, treasonous, words echoed in my mind and my body reacted to their memory by taking flight from danger. My path was eventually blocked by a large pair of iron gates, an unfamiliar crest emblazoned across them. A featureless lock held them shut, though when my fingers made contact with it lines of sigils lit up and flowed across its surface. With a dry, rusted, creak the lock disengaged and the gates swung open. Lights alongside the path beyond lit up in pairs, moving forward from the gates to the palace ahead. As I walked along the path I heard the gates close and lock behind me but I was too distracted by the towering edifice before me to be concerned. In contrast with the buildings outside, the palace had rough stone walls fronted with colonnades and topped with cupolas. Alcoves vied for space with each other and within each was a extravagant figure, each face stirred distant memories that remained out of reach though I saw a clear family resemblance among them all. I pushed open the ornate doors, carved with bouquets of flowers and swooping birds, and entered the halls of the palace.

In contrast with the exterior, the interior's decadence had been violently rebuked. Frescoes were smashed from the walls and lay in piles of rubble, statues had been dismembered and scattered, heaps of broken furniture were piled as kindling. The palace had clearly been attacked but only inside, I wondered how this could have come to be as I crept through the chambers and passages of this once grand building. As I went I saw frequent signs of habitation post-assault; tapestries bundled into crude nest-like beds, the bones of small animals strewn across the floors of some rooms, and at every barred window were deeply gouged scratches. Eventually, at the far end of a vast ballroom, I found them. Close to a dozen withered, partially mummified, bodies huddled in a corner behind an overturned table. They held each other in their stiff arms, as if comforting each other in the face of some great tragedy. Or perhaps just the quiet end of a once great dynasty now fallen so low. I crouched beside my family and for what felt like forever I held their hands and mourned with them.

SCENE 2: SIX OF CUPS

I made my way up the vast central staircase as it wound it's way around the edges of the central hall, passages branching off and burrowing deeper into the vast mass of the palace. The weight of the cracked opulence now weighed on me as heavily as the sheer volume of stone and metal of its structure. One corridor in particular drew me along it, something about the way the shadows fell across the faded and torn tapestries perhaps? As I padded along the carpeted length my hand traced a line along the hall, my fingertips feeling the cracks and scratches that pitted its surface. I came to a halt in front of a large set of wooden doors which I felt certain barred the entrance to my personal chambers. The doors held firm despite the damage about them and I wondered if even in their madness and despair my family had spared this room out of some sense of respect. I pushed against the doors and they reluctantly gave way with a dry groan, revealing a room filled with dust, cobwebs, and discarded objects that clamoured for attention in my memory.

Louder than the rest was an iron orb resting atop a pedestal. It sat in a shaft of light from a high window, dust motes danced about the orb like an entourage, flickering away as my hand reached out to pick up the object. Much like the crown in the cave, the orb was wrought iron inlaid with gold. The gilded patterns formed whirls and spirals that my eyes struggled to follow, the effect was almost hypnotic. As I turned the orb over in my hands I saw that, as with the crown, the surface was marred with bloodstains. I froze the weight of the iron sphere threatening to slip from my hand as I recalled the moment I had pried it from my father's hand. My hands were awash with crimson though enough time had passed that they were now merely sticky as opposed to slick. The marks on the orb and crown were my own fingerprints, left when I stole them from the dead king's throne room.

SCENE 3: KNIGHT OF CUPS

The orb still in gripped tightly in my hand, I staggered across the room to the grand fireplace. It had stood cold for many years and held none of the comforting warmth and light it had once offered me. As I gazed into the ashes in the grate, I noticed that it was slightly askew and that there were the faintest finger marks in the ash around it. I knelt and with my free hand I brushed the ash away from the edges of the grate which I then slid aside. In an alcove beneath I saw an ornately carved wooden box. I knew that this box was unusual as unlike nearly every other object I apparently owned this was not carved with birds and flowers. Its surface was covered in geometric patterns of overlapping triangles and scattered, solid circles. As I ran my fingers over it I felt a shudder of anticipation and the box almost seemed to hum with the dormant power of forgotten meaning. I set the orb down beside me and used both hands to lift the box from the fireplace and rested it in my lap.

The lid slide softly aside under the gentlest of touches and heard the barest hint of a sigh as if an airtight seal had been broken. Inside the box I found a sheaf of papers covered in strange diagrams and scribbled marginalia. I recognised some of the notes as being in my own handwriting but had no direct memory of writing them. I spread the pages across the floor in front of the hearth and began the laborious process of deciphering them. They hinted at some kind of ritual or perhaps alchemical operation, a working that would present a body in a state of deathlike sleep and preserve it for generations. A partial page, apparently torn from a diary, weighed doubts about the safety of the procedure but ultimately dismissed them as being worthwhile in the face of brewing rebellion. I found no traces of concern for my family's safety, either in the pages or the embers of my memory.

Moonrise - Act 2

A series played using Anamnesis. This post is published under the CC-BY-SA-4.0 licence.

Shadow: The Moon (Anxiety, Illusion, Intuition) 

ACT 2: SWORDS

SCENE 1: TWO OF SWORDS

The features of the cavern had either been examined or were items that I'd rather leave alone for the time being, so I decided to venture outside to see if anything else was familiar. I carefully walked up the narrow path as it wound its way up to the top of the cliff. The wind whipped past and tugged at my shroud as if urging me forward, upward. I cast a glance down and saw the waves crashing against sharp rocks some way beneath me. I decided against looking down again and instead concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other until I was at the end of the path.

Here I was confronted with a scene of vandalism. A great iron pedestal stood close to the cliff edge, a pair of feet and ankles emerging from its top. At the base lay the rest of the statue that had the once stood here. The salt air had not been kind to the statue's features, but their crown was still recognisable atop their head. It bore an uncomfortable resemblance to the one I'd left in the cavern below, and as I considered the fallen statue I came to understand that the weather-worn features were once my own. I sat at the base of the pedestal and stared at my fallen image, deep within my mind I knew the statue had been erected to survey the landscape; a representation of me surveying my kingdom. Looking further inland, I saw a land slope downward towards what appeared to be city in the distance. By this point the sun was beginning to hang low in the sky, so I rose to my feet and set out towards my city.

SCENE 2: PAGE OF SWORDS

I reached the walls of the city shortly before dusk and through broad sections that had been reduced to rubble I saw the ruins of vast buildings. I picked my way across the ruins and gazed upon the desolation of what I assumed must have been my once-proud city. A open area stood a short distance from the wall and upon closer inspection appeared to be an overgrown park. The ruined buildings around me felt stifling, they pressed against me with the weight in both stone and significance, so I sought respite in the park. Among the verdant growth, lines of worn stone hinted at pathways and borders lost to nature. Perhaps these were landscaped gardens once.

I absent-mindedly followed a series of weather-beaten mounds that I suspected may have once delineated a winding path. As the light rapidly faded, replaced by the collected light of a crowded starscape, it occurred to me that I was following the path by memory. My senses were haunted by faint echoes of the aroma of exotic flowers. Where my eyes saw dense foliage either side of me, my mind's eye saw elegantly sculpted topiaries resembling mythical beasts. I felt a hand in mine and an air of tension looming; I knew that this seemingly romantic walk was destined to end in heartbreak for at least one of the two parties. With this in mind my steps slowed, both in the memory and now, as I tried to delay the walk's outcome as long as I could stand to.

SCENE 3: NINE OF SWORDS

I left the winding paths of the park onto a long boulevard which eventually took me under a crumbling arch and out of the park. The buildings that lined my way were somewhat more intact; tall, sleek structures with the remnants of geometric patterning and faded colours that must have been vibrant in their heyday. I suspected that each must have once been a monument in its own right, testaments to the might of my city. I wondered how far their reach had extended at the height of their power, and that in turn brought the dawning realisation that I knew so little about the wider world. I stopped in my tracks at this thought and gazed about me. My eyes were drawn to a curious sculpture which stood in front of a nearby building, a pair of stylised figures posed in heated debate. I wondered what was the source of their conflict, why it had be chosen to be immortalised in stone, and why it was placed here.

I reached out to touch the sculpture but withdrew my hand in shock as soon as it touched the cool stone. In my mind I flashed back to the outcome of that walk in the curated gardens. The path between the topiary had led us to a small clearing with a low stone bench, the edges carved with flowers. Here we had sat in awkward silence, each unwilling to break the tranquility of the garden with our words. Eventually entropy won, as it always does, and we had quarreled. I began by trying to politely, respectfully, disengage myself from our series of trysts, claiming that the need for an appearance of integrity must be placed above our own needs. I was lying; I had been here before and had this conversation with others, my words were obviously rehearsed. They were seen through, how could they not be, and not only was my own honour challenged but that of my dynasty. I recoiled in shock at the anger I was being presented with, stood shakily, and crossed to the edge of the clearing. It wasn't meant to be like this, it was never like this. As I returned to myself I saw that my still outstretched hand was trembling.

Moonrise - Act 1

A series played using Anamnesis. This post is published under the CC-BY-SA-4.0 licence.

Shadow: The Moon (Anxiety, Illusion, Intuition)

ACT 1: PENTACLES

SCENE 1: FOUR OF PENTACLES

My eyes snapped open suddenly and I saw stone high above me. I woke up laid out on a stone slab in what appeared to be a cave overlooking the sea. The floor was worn smooth by the passage of feet but the curved walls and ceiling retained their rough-hewn texture. I eased myself down from the slab, testing my legs against my weight and finding that I could stand firm by myself. I cautiously walked towards the mouth of the cave, it opened directly onto the cliff face and I could see the waves crashing against the rocks below. A thin ledge ran left to right across the cave mouth, leading to narrow steps carved into the cliff face that reached upward to the clifftop above.

As I took in my surroundings I realised that I was wearing a loose sheet - a shroud? It had slipped from my shoulders and as I pulled it back around them I noticed a tattoo emblazoned across my chest. In the centre was a stylised heart with a crown atop it. Spreading out from around it were dozens of roses, gradually shrinking in size until the reached my shoulders. I placed my hand over my heart, both the tattoo and my actual heart, and felt the latter hammering in my chest. I frantically examined myself more thoroughly, wondering if I had any other tattoos; I didn't find any in places that I could see without a mirror. Wrapping the sheet around me more securely, I tentatively edged back to the mouth of the cave to further observe my surroundings.

SCENE 2: FIVE OF PENTACLES

I took a deep breath, the salty sea air filling my lungs, and something else underneath it. The baking scent of earth, perhaps ceramic, on a hot day. As the wind ruffled the sheet around me I felt my thoughts carried further. Images of a similar scene filled my mind, but in this other vista I stood on a veranda with a marble balustrade. I felt the heat of the tiles beneath my feet, the sun had been bearing down on them all day and had only now cooled to just this side of tolerable to stand on. Rather than the beauty of the scene, I felt a sense of anxiety and impending loss. I calmed my breathing and tried to step back from the memories in order to better examine them.

While the full details of the memories, and my own identity, still lay beyond my reach I was able to grasp that I had been worried about a loss of status and power. At the time I had been watching the calm of the ocean in the hopes that it would translate into mental calm, but the fear was persistent. Unable to quell the fear outright my grip on the balustrade's edge had tightened as I tried to force my mind to quieten. Reliving the experience I found that this time the efforts succeeded, albeit now it was unwanted, and I felt the memory slip from my mind as my thoughts stilled.

SCENE 3: KING OF PENTACLES

I turned back from the edge and walked back into the cave, toward the slab I had awakened on. In contrast to the rest of the cave the slab had clearly been carved by hand. It was hewn from the living rock of the cavern but decorated with flowers and birds. Roses and doves as far as I could tell though the dais had clearly been exposed to the elements for some time and the finer details had been worn smooth. For the first time I noticed a bundle of silk laid at the foot of the dais, purple silk held down by the weight of some object wrapped in it's folds. I cautiously approached it, kneeling to feel the parcel in my hands. Beneath the soft, smooth silk I felt something hard and rough. After a tentative lift revealed the item was light enough to carry, I placed it on the dais and slowly unwrapped it.

At the heart of the unfurled silk sat a crown. A crudely wrought ring of iron with jagged, cruel, spines arrayed along one side. The surface was cracked and scarred as if exposed to a great heat and then cooled too quickly. Glistening detailing had been applied to create a delicate web of inlaid gold. For a time I stood in quiet contemplation. The crown stirred memories but they stayed at the edge of my awareness, shrouded in  the same looming dread from my earlier recollection. Hand trembling slightly, I reached out slowly before darting fingers made brief contact. The crown sat there unfazed, but I caught a glimpse of what for a moment looked like a bloody fingerprint on the rim.