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.