Right now, Iggy is having what could be termed “a turning point”. Until now, he’s been content to wander around the neighborhood, helping people in need, trading stories for material aid, learning the lore, hearing the history.
Then he got involved with a school friend, and it led him to fighting a monster, avenging murders, confronting demons, and mapping a mysterious otherworldly lighthouse.
People call this the Actuality. Iggy spent time in Shadow, like many people did. This, like returning from Shadow, has been an experience where things felt like they got suddenly and uncomfortably real.
Iggy can’t just continue his old habits any longer. He needs to be prepared. He needs to be able to contribute - to safeguard - to investigate. And right now, he feels very unprepared.
He’s a first Degree Maker. He already has an idea for his ascension to the second Degree, but that idea got a lot more urgent after recent events. He already knows he needs to find a more senior Maker to pursue that ascension, but he needs to tell those seniors what he found as well. Magical mysteries are catnip for all the vislae Iggy has ever met. They will go to the lighthouse unprepared and they will suffer for it. Like he did.
He needs to tell someone senior what he found. And maybe his insight (scant though it is) and dedication (foolish though it was) will impress that person, enough that he can start on the road to ascension.
It’s time for him to Make something of himself.
The Narrative of Three Brothers lives in a pretty nice house. It’s well appointed, in a traditional style. Tables, chairs, and other furniture is made of fine imported wood. Curtains, carpets, and other textile-based furnishings are woven out of fibers from creatures under an entirely different sun. The dishes are all of the same style, with proper utensils for eating different types of food - specialty soup spoons, for example. None of it matters any longer, because the life of the Narrative is bound into an enormous book, propped up at a 60-degree angle at the center of the living room thanks to a sturdy wooden stand.
The book is the result of numerous and expensive visits to the changeries. There’s a clever mechanism for automatically turning the pages, a brass-and-glass clockwork vocoder for reading the text aloud, along with an enormous quill pen and a vat of ink for adding to the book. The Narrative of Three Brothers is a vislae. They author the book. They are the book. Like some vislae who live in the Noosphere or in other more esoteric regimes, the Narrative lives inside itself. Their story is all here, being written and rewritten constantly. At the moment, the book is open to a particular page. On it, the text reads, “One day, the Narrative of Three Brothers was visited by an associate…”
“Greetings, friends. To what do I - we - it owe the pleasure of your company?”
The Narrative can sometimes see the future, and sometimes the past - but what’s written can be rewritten. Strong narratives sometimes take the place of truth, so consulting the Narrative is always a gamble. Still.
“I have a story today,” Iggy explains, and briefly outlines what the group experienced at the lighthouse - innocent buttercups, fascinating materials, and a vision of the Styx. The story is that of a temptation and the price of hubris - the sort of thing the Narrative likes.
“But I need someone who’ll take this as more than a story,” he adds. “Someone I can warn. Someone who maybe will help me in turn. Help me be more ready for the next time I run into something like this. I’m convinced it’s going to happen, if I keep associating with these people.”
As Iggy tells his story, the words write themselves across the pages. Each time a page is filled, the machinery turns to the next page with some seeming amount of contemplation. The Narrative’s next communication comes with a measure of confusion.
“It- I know of your blight. The Lighthouses are many, and odd and cursed things. We- It does not know much about them, but there are records of many throughout our City of Truths; the Poppys by the shore, Roses and Honeydews and Morning Glories. The Order of the Lighthouse. That is the only name for them in our many pages, through our narrative.
Perhaps it- we can help you- him find a better ear to listen and a wiser tongue to tell.”
Iggy pauses. “I don’t want to insult you by asking for someone else, and suggest you can’t help me. Rather…” He thinks for a moment, about himself, about his recent experiences. “You seem like you’ve found a direction to go, as a Maker, as a vislae. Someone who knows how they’ll do their duties as a priest of the church. I haven’t found that yet. Maybe I’m still too green.” He reaches up to touch his leafy hair with a smile.
“But I’m glad such things are known of. And anyone you endorse is certainly someone worth talking to.”
The Narrative’s response is reassuring. “It would be far from an insult, as it was an offer I- it made of its- our own accord. We- I am but a record for many others, and ourselves, which is how we wish it to be. We have done our part as we- I could, and that is what I- we have to offer. Many use us as a record for their own stories, many who can offer much more aid in physical and authoritative manners.”
The page turns. “On manners of the self, we- it has less to offer. This path presented itself by happenstance; a hobby became a passion project became a job became a life became a self. The act of Making and the art of magic are themselves wroship and devotion enough. One will find what they need in time, as long as they- you live a life of contentment.”
The words seem to come with a smile, hanging in the air.
“I am this–” Iggy indicates his hair, his prominent veins, the craggy aspect of his face and form. “But what is a tree that’s been uprooted? A message to myself whose meaning I’ve forgotten.”
“Meaning is what you make of it,” the Book muses.
Iggy shrugs, just a little, and shakes off the contemplation. “Very well. My story must continue. This ‘Order of the Lighthouse’ - who might tell me more, or where might I go?”
“What is it you would like to know more about regarding the Order?”
Iggy thinks aloud. “The lighthouse was unmapped according to my colleagues, and therefore presumably unknown to whoever made the maps they consulted. Is it always thus?”
“Yes. All of these Lighthouses seem to have appeared after The War, and thus are not charted on most maps.”
“Beyond that, we chase some kind of dangerous figure, with connections to the demons and the Pale. The vision I received was assuredly of a sight under the Pale Sun. But are they connected, or simply two mysteries that happen to share geography?”
“None seem to know. Unfortunately, the dangers of the Lighthouses are varied and vast, and as such one cannot tell what hazards may or may not be two sides of the same broader threat.”
Iggy hms. “Beyond that, what is the significance of the flowers?” But he stops himself, and asks a different question. “A lighthouse is meant to show the way through darkness or fog. Who is navigating the path these lighthouses illuminate?”
“An unknown or unknownable code, perhaps. Again, none have provided an answer to that one, although some others have asked.”
“‘Nobody knows anything’ would cut down on your page length,” Iggy jokes weakly. “I suppose we all tend to verbosity. Bunch of magic nerds that we are.” Intention crystallizes in his mind. “Very well. To fight whatever’s out there, I’ll need arms and armor. I asked about a more senior Maker. Now I’ll be more specific. Help me find a blacksmith.”
“You can find the quadruplets in the Celestial Bazaar. Quad’s Arms, they call themselves. Pinky, the smallest of the four; a sadist and a bladesmith. Pointdexter, the oldest and most perceptive; artillery auteur, master marksman. Midus, magic fingers; explosives. And Thumbelina, the smallest and youngest, and a true crafter of arms. A humorus bunch of siblings, all identical.”
Iggy smiles in appreciation. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to let you know more, if I learn more, about the Lighthouses. Our chief demon hunter vanished unexpectedly, but on his return we’ll resume our hunt.”