Conjurations and Summonings
I read this in some Dusty old Wizard Book, and Thought you might be Interested…
“Of the many Fiends which roam the Eternal Wastelands that are the Outer Planes, most can be Summoned by a Mage of Sufficient Power. But let it be said that the Wizard must know what he is looking for. It is foolish in the extreme to attempt a Summoning without knowing what to expect. In my experience, I have happened across three rules which should guide a prospective Summoner.
One: Know what you seek and where to seek it.
Two: Know how to restrain thy Fiend.
Three: Know how to banish it when its deeds are done.
“Let me reiterate this point, that it be most clear: those Fiends who are Summoned to this Prime Material Plane from Beyond are oft disposed of a Foul Temper. In order that they may not vent their considerable rage upon the Summoner, the Construction of a Magical Circle of Warding is most crucial. The prospective Summoner must be most diligent to inscribe the Circle exactly as instructed, lest the Beast find a flaw and thus be able to harm the Mage.”
…Primes, eh? They’re a Laugh a Minute.
Now that reminds me of a story me old mother used to tell me. Hold on, it’s all coming back to me now…
The Conjuration
Her brow furrowed in agonised concentration. She knew that the next incorrect gesture would be her last. So far, she’d been lucky. Although the knotted silver rope lasso should be in her left hand, rather than her right, she’d compensated. The terrifying thrill of success rose like bile in her breast. Her heart thrummed in time with the sorcery. Brilliant magnesium electricity danced in the phosphorous air. The floor rumbled like a beast.
She barely noticed it at first, but slowly the vortex grew in intensity. Over a few seconds (or were they hours?) the wind grew, whipping her robes into a billowing frenzy. She shouted the fiend’s name aloud over the gale. “Vorshlarax”. Her voice was cracked and her throat parched with the evil in its name. “Vorshlarax!”
With a rumble so deep the witch could only feel it, the fabric of space itself tore asunder. Screams of the hells echoed around the walls of the summoning chamber, and for a moment, she could smell the acrid stench of the foulest layers of the Abyss.
Then all was still. The sound, the burning red skies, the heat. Before her, a tendril of smoke caressing its frame, stood a thing from her nightmares. Vorshlarax had arrived…
The Summoning
As overheard in the Rampant Dretch, a rather seedy tavern in Sigil’s Hive Ward.
“So, Cutters, there I was, hipped in Plague-Mort and about to get scragged by a bunch of lousy Hounds. They’d cornered me—must’ve seen me peeling that leatherhead grocer down the Merchant’s Row. I’d fair enough run out of tricks, and they knew it. Well I backed off, as you do, down an alley, but some bubbed-up old buzzard pointed them right to me for a copper. ‘Course, curse the Abyss, it was a dead-end and before I could even holler they’d grabbed me. I thought they were about to Lose me, like, when this sparkly gemstone whooshes down over the rooves and heads straight for me. I tried to struggle against ’em like, thinking it were some addled-wizard spell, but the thing slammed straight into me chest. Next thing I knew, everything was all hazy, and I felt meself being stretched real fast.
“Then the smoke cleared and I was standing in some room, all stone and gold runes on the floor. The place smelled like the Dustmen’s Palace. Standing in front of me was this mage, dressed old-fashioned like, with a pointy hat and all. She looked dead surprised to see me, like I did her, really. So we stood there, all peery for a second, and then she says ‘You’re not Vorshlarax.’
“Well, I had to laugh. Her face went all scared, and I had an idea. In this real spooky voice I said ‘No, I’m Dispater of the Hells, and I’ve come for yer soul.’ You should’ve seen the look on ‘er face! I managed to keep me expression all angry, and I dribbled a bit, for effect, like I s’pose Dispater does. I’ll credit her she weren’t completely convinced though, so I ripped off me shirt and showed her me scales. Guess I’m lucky I’m a tiefling really.
“I stepped out of this circle she’d drawn on the floor, and her eyes went all glazed. Then she picked up a big sack of coins, and gave me them, begging me for mercy like. I laughed again, for effect, and stepped back into the circle. She seemed a bit happier, and waved her arms around a bit, saying ‘Abjure!’ or something.
“Before I knew it I was back in Plague-Mort, with a huge bag of jink and the Hounds had gone. Lucky day I guess. I love the Clueless, sometimes. So that’s why the drinks are on me…”
Source: Jon Winter-Holt, mimir.net
