The Fool's Path

A system of belief more accurately identified as a philosophy than a religion, the Fool's path has taken a number of forms over the generations, though its central themes remain largely unchanged. A distinction, however, must needs be drawn between two principal variants: Luorite and Carmaghi.

The former, and original, system came to life in the theocratic republic of Luore, a world away from Muralis and largely unknown to its peoples. The nation of Luore is rarely visited by the Muralisian peoples, accessible by taking a ship to Neuinselstadt by way of Carmagh, and from there a larger ship across the wide seas. As little to no trade exists between the Muralisian nations and Luore, Luore of course belonging to the Aeternian states, these ships are few and far between. However, were one to accomplish the trip, one would discover a culture steeped in religious awe. This ancient incarnation of the Fool's Path, unchanged by time in its Luorite cradle, centers around the presence of a godly hand responsible for the advancement of adherents along the Path. Naturally, or perhaps unnaturally, communication of one's wishes to this Supreme Being is accomplished through intermediaries who just so happen to preside over Luorite society. For a time this system of belief flourished in Neuinselstadt and, to an extent, Carmagh, only to meet its decisive end during an eradication campaign led by Durantian Archduke Erick Saint-Justfollowing a century of decline in the face of the rising influence of Carmaghi and continental philosophy.

The Carmaghi system, as one may gather, differs chiefly in the absence of a deity. It is a humanistic philosophy centering around the ability of the individual to advance along the path by their own merit. This subset of beliefs began to evolve when the Luorite Fool's Path, eager to expand, collided violently with the continental peoples, none of whom were particularly eager to swear fealty to unseen forces with so many real kings at their throats. A compromise would be slowly reached in the abolishment of the central deity in favor of the aforementioned existentialism.

The Fool's Text, the central canonical teachings of the Fool's Path regardless of its form, is too lengthy to include in its entirety. Accordingly, interested parties are invited to consult the following abridged edition, composed of the commentaries of the Bishop of Carmagh, Royal Hale.

I - II ~ Dantalion's Library It is not purely by the will of man that happiness appears. Yes, one may claim to be pleased with one’s lot, but true happiness requires awareness, of both the self and the world. To achieve these aims, one must step forward, shunning the comforts of home and familiarity in pursuit of the nebulous ideal. In these early steps one may feel the beautiful, intoxicating presence of the infinite, the sense that all doors are opened, all paths at the tips of one’s toes. It is by passion that one selects a path, identifies the favored door. No two paths are alike, and none may say upon which your steps must fall. Remember, “he who is lost in his passions has lost less than he who has lost his passions.” Still, lost is lost, regardless of the ephemera and circumstances. One is never alone, and as the Fool walks he is forever met with companions. Already he has passed the Magician, that creator of the great and terrible at whose behest the Fool’s head turns from the wall upon which are cast the shadows so long perceived as ultimate reality, only to discover the true shapes and the sun blazing beyond them. He stands opposite the Fool in the Great Library, bathing all in a light of wonder and magic. The Magician has read all within the Library, but his vision is lacking, for he cannot conceive a use for such wide and varied knowledge. Just as his light falls upon all, so too does his knowledge, but it is spread so thin that neither impresses any feeling upon the Fool. As he departs, the Fool is met with the High Priestess Dantalion1, sacred whispers flowing from unmoving lips, a book of All Things tightly closed in her arms. It is her murmur which grants the Fool insight, which urges him onward along the path for which his heart most yearns. Ah, but the Fool is young. He does not know to trust the heart, and so enraptured by the mystifying light of the magician is unable to put his faith in the High Priestess.

III - IV ~ The Great House of Ba'al In turn, stumbling blindly along a path which is not his own, the Fool is met with the Empress in the gardens of a grand estate. She is kind, yet notes of authority unmistakably pervade her speech. The Fool cannot help but trust in this matronly figure, to the point of a false security stifling his wanderlust. Following the adoptive mother the Fool enters the great house, his gaze falling upon the master of the estate, the Emperor Ba'al2. Power embodied, force beyond measure, the Emperor raises a single stately hand in a gesture of unmistakable dismissal. This is not the Fool’s place, this house of safety and power, and the Emperor will not permit the Fool to rest so prematurely. Taking the Fool by the shoulder, the Emperor leads him through the garden and, heedless of the Fool’s objections, casts him from the highroad into the maze of footpaths far below.

V - VI ~ The Grey Maze Unsettled, his direction no longer clear, the Fool is helped to his feet by a band of men in identical cowls. They speak not a word, merely bowing their heads and, having enveloped the Fool in the midst of their queer flock, leading him to the maze’s center. Here stands the Hierophant, tended by still more cowled worshipers. Be still, he murmurs, be calm. You are amongst friends, you need search no longer. This troubles the Fool, who cannot imagine so simple a conclusion after the brusque treatment of the Emperor. With trepidation he runs his hands over the proffered cowl. The Hierophant promises safety, he promises acceptance; what is the cost? As the grey, cold fabric of the cowl scratches his tender hands, the Fool realizes with horror that beneath the hoods of the assembly were not faces, but smooth, featureless flesh. Mumbling excuses, the Fool casts down the cowl and departs in great haste, rejecting security at the cost of identity. Reaching a point of sufficient distance from the macabre court of the Hierophant, the Fool finds that he is not alone in his escape. A young woman, much resembling the Fool himself in feature and demeanor, returns his gaze from across a river. At once they are in love, for the Fool has found the Lover, become the Lovers. How to bridge the gap, though? Filled with passion without end, he resolves to do all within his power to reach the girl, setting out at once along the river’s edge in search of a bridge.

VII - VIII ~ The Beast and His River In short order he comes upon the dauntless Chariot and his two towering horses, one of white and the other black. The charioteer smiles encouragingly, drawing the Fool into the Chariot and, pointing his steeds toward the swift river, roars a command. They move with such control and motivation that the waters of the river flow harmlessly about their heels, conquering this now pitiful obstacle and depositing the Fool upon the opposite bank. Without delay the Chariot departs, leaving only a cloud of dust in its wake. As the Fool gazes about he hears in the distance a roar of such ferocity that he trembles, moving toward the source only by pure force of will. His fear are realized as he finds his beloved in the jaws of a great beast3, the sinful dragon which comes upon all in their weakest hour. His depression surpassed only by fury, the Fool finds his hand moved by an unseen force, the specter of Strength which suffuses the forms of the righteous in times of need. Cloaked in the rapturous glory of the Strength the Fool steps forward and, feeling the fates cry out for vengeance, grasps the beast by its execrable jaws and rends it in twain.

IX - X ~ The Hushed Mountain No catharsis is achieved through this display. Just as abruptly as it arrived, the Strength has faded, gone the way of the Chariot. The body of the girl lies in gruesome contortion before the Fool, life long departed from the blasted frame. The Lovers remain only in his memories of that passion he so savored, and all the world has forsaken the Fool. Broken and drowning in despair, he retreats to the cave of the beast, its tenant no longer a concern. For many days he gropes about in the darkness, for this cave seems to extend endlessly into the bowels of the mountains. When all seems lost and the perpetual night whispers of endings, there comes a faint glow in the distance. All at once the shadows are driven from the hall, light pouring forth in waves of inspiration. Is this the Magician, returning to aid his errant pupil? The Fool reconsiders as he recalls the fashion in which the Magician’s light lacked feeling; it was dazzling, but without substance. No, this was no Magician, no conjurer of tricks. As the light condenses, assuming the form of a shuttered lamp, the Fool comprehends that this is a light of great power, born of true brilliance and raised in twilit solitude. This is the light of the Hermit, the introspective seeker of wisdom and truth, forever shaded, forever alone. He smiles, though the Fool cannot see the face of the Hermit, the shutters casting light full upon the Fool while obscuring the bearer in gloom. Still the Fool feels that smile, and grows at last calm. From the Hermit he comes to understand the way in which one may glean insight from an inward glance, the peace to be found in a quiet moment. While anything but satisfied, the Fool has overcome the despair of abject solitude, that fear of the silence found in the simple and excitable. Vigor restored and carrying a lamp of his own making, the Fool carries on.

Having passed through the hushed deeps, the path growing ever steeper, the Fool emerges into the light of day on a high terrace overlooking the bustling city below. For a moment he laments, seeing no means by which to descend, only to recall the teachings of the Hermit. He sits, lays down his pack, plucks from its folds a telescope, and begins to watch. He watches the lives of the people below pass, watches the many seasons of their existence pass, the ebb and flow of the mortal tide. Thus the Fool learns. He sees his own journey repeated time and again, love discovered and cruelly torn away, vengeance and despair, conformity and flight. He comprehends the cyclical nature of the mortal condition, the way in which history rhymes, grasps its manifold refrains. In these meditations, the Fool’s perception is altered. No longer does he simply see a town; the Fool sees a wheel. The Wheel of Fortune has made its presence known, and the Fool has learned to see at once both the strokes of the brush and the painting in its entirety. So too has he learned that with the coming of winter a path is formed by snow within a ravine, an avenue of which the Fool avails himself at long last.

XI ~ The City of Justice Much changed since he last walked amongst men; the Fool meanders through the streets of the town. In the market the Fool observes a child, consumptive and wretched, being thrashed by a merchant. Consulting an onlooker, the Fool learns that the boy has spilt a barrel of fruit, bruising and thus devaluing the crop. This boy is a servant of the merchant, and in this city it is legal to discipline one’s workers for poor conduct. As the merchant draws back his hand to deal yet another cruel blow to the ailing youth, the crowd is parted by the approach of a tall, robed magistrate. Eyes obscured by spectacles reflecting the light of the setting sun, he pronounces in measured tones a command. The merchant is aghast, having been told to cease his brutality and withdraw. He protests his rights as owner of the boy, quotes the ancient laws of the city, yet never dares meet the cold, heedless gaze of the judge. The Fool at once recognizes this robed man; he is the Justice Raguel4, for he alone amongst the judges seeks to satisfy not the letter of the law, but its spirit. Having heard the arguments of the merchant, the Justice looks to the boy. Why do you suffer, he asks. The boy says that he is starving and ill. Why do you not purchase food and medicine, he asks. The boy says that he is poor, and that his parents cannot afford to support him. Why do you not use your earnings from this merchant, he asks. The boy says that he is given no salary, for he often damages products and cannot afford to replace them otherwise. The Justice grows silent. He knows the laws of man, and that the merchant has committed no crime. However, he knows the laws of conscience, the laws of heaven. He sees that the laws of man have failed to recognize the laws of heaven, and so at last the Justice speaks. You derive from this child labor, and lose but a small fragment of profit per annum by way of his folly, he says. This affinity for folly would be easily remedied with the simplest of medicines, he says. But you retain the child in his present condition, for in his suffering you have found a slave, and in the long term you have profited by his pain, he says. This is against the law of the conscience, against the law of heaven, and so do I circumvent the law of man to dispense upon thee justice. So saying, the Justice draws his sword and strikes down the merchant, bidding the child to take the purse of the deceased. Having served his purpose, the Justice departs. The Fool has seen all, and by way of his philosophical perception comprehends. The law of man, he discovers, is at all times inferior to that of the laws of conscience and heaven, and all must in time face Justice.

XII ~ The Hanged Man's Tree Leaving behind the city of Justice, the Fool comes upon a dense woodland. In the center of the wood the trees part, a great hill rising to the heavens. The fool mounts this hill, kneeling to rest beneath the lone tree at the peak. In the snow he observes a glimmer, cast by coins of uncertain origin. Baffled, the Fool gazes skyward in search of the source of this unexpected boon. To his horror, he face meets that of another, a smiling man hanged from a high branch by his ankle. Why do you smile, asks the Fool. In death I achieve more than possible in life, returns the Hanged Man. I realize my purpose in death, and reify the spirit of my cause, says the Hanged man. The Fool ponders these words, recalling some seasons earlier observing from his perch processions of men entering the woods from both sides, after which only that belonging to the City of Justice returned. Are you a soldier, asks the Fool. I am a prince, Agares5 by name, responds the Hanged Man, and I led my men here to die. My people have long quarreled with the town from which you came, and they have come to believe that their King cares nothing for their plight, says the Hanged Man. I came, of my own will, to martyr myself, to prove to the people to whom I owe my happiness that they are not forgotten, to give them the courage to live as men, he says. The Fool nods in understanding and returns the coins to their place in the snow. I will tell them of you, says the Fool. All along the Hanged Man smiles, for he has perished, his final wish being fulfilled. The Fool sets off, solemn and thoughtful.

XIII ~ The Morning Star Beyond the trees the Fool discovers a field of snow. Trundling along, the savors the taste of the flakes, the crunch of the powder and he moves, gleeful at the thought of sharing the news of the Hanged Man’s martyrdom with his peoples. Surely they would reconcile with their King, and their lives would become harmonious. Yet as the Fool passes under the gate, he sees upon the distant battlements a group of will-o-wisps, which upon nearing are revealed to be torches. Cries of outrage fill the air, and in the cold light of morning the Fool beholds a regal head being erected upon a great pole. The Fool balks, for he is too late. The sacrifice of the virtuous Hanged Man has been meaningless, and the people have become regicides. O men of passion and spirit, roars the Fool, why have you slain your father? He is no father of ours, retorts the leader of the mob, he was a profligate and a scoundrel. His son died for you, fought for you, loved you, cries the Fool. The mob grows silent, following the extended hand of the Fool to behold upon the horizon the tree on the distant hill, a lone form swinging from its branches. The torches fall, the mob casts down its gaze, the leader alone remaining defiant. The sins of the father are not absolved by the virtues of the son, he declares. The Fool is stunned; such callousness! As the sun rises above the castle, a ray of light falls between the towers and illuminates the face of the speaker. He is a man of fair aspect and long hair, garbed in plain white robes and a sash of gold about his waist. His jaw is firm, his lips full and red, his eyes a variant of deep brown appearing almost crimson in torchlight. He smiles, and his beauty is rendered terrible by the circumstances, the head of the King glaring down from on high. This was necessary, barks the blonde man; this is the only way to save the people. Rejuvenation comes from blood, not wine, he roars. Only then did the Fool recognize him, the voice of the Hermit recalled at once to memory: Only man has the capacity to become Death, Destroyer of Worlds. The Fool looks into the blonde man’s eyes, and knows that it is Death who stares back. Yet he sees in Death not something to fear, something monstrous, but something vital and sublime. The deaths of the King and his son had shocked the Fool, shocked the people, but as Death said, these acts were necessary. The Fool looks back, looks ahead, ponders the Wheel of Fortune, and quietly agrees that through such violence will come a new, better day. The Fool stares up at Death, nodding slowly. You are right, O angel of rebellion, and you are acting justly, says the Fool. You have violated the law of man, the law of kings, but you have respected the law of conscience, he says. You have done what Prince Agares the Hanged Man could not, he says. You have given your people a new path, free of the stagnation and decay of old, he says. Death laughs, and the sound is cold and high. Traveler, says Death, you are wise, but you speak with an authority that is not wholly your own. Take from this a new path of your own, and know that Helel6, Bane of Kings and Light of Morning, at all times watches, says Death. Nodding calmly, the Fool looks back. The Tree of the Hanged Man, the City of Justice, the Hushed Mountains, and all which rests beyond, he muses, are of a path that here concludes. Resolute, the Fool steps forth, bidding farewell to the past and embracing the morning.

1 Dantalion ~ It is unclear to whom earlier authors allude with the use of specific names for the archetypal embodiments. Research has unearthed mention of Dantalion in reference to a Murotian figure, some scholarly quasi-mythical being said to restore lost knowledge to those who make the appropriate gestures.

2 Ba'al ~ Ba'al appears to be an alternate name of Bael, perhaps in reference to the Murotian King of the same name.

3 The Beast ~ The nature of the beast fought at the river is quite vague, though references to streaming locks and a quadrupedal anatomy suggest a great cat of some sort.

4 Raguel ~ Raguel is one of the more apparent allusions contained within the text, referring to the "Judge of Judges" which supposedly served in the Murotian conception of a "Court of Heaven".

5 Agares ~ A mystifying reference indeed. There are two noteworthy variants of "Agares" in Pre-Unification history: Agress Renault, a particularly noble tribal chief of northern Ghalea and Agarade Markel, the supposed general of the Murotian expeditionary forces. Perhaps the Hanged Man Agares presented in the text is borrowing from both figures?

6 Helel ~ The most interesting allusion is no doubt that of the Death embodiment, Helel. He is portrayed as a revolutionary, with description ranging from regal to sinister, often both at once. He is even openly referred to as the Angel of Rebellion, the Bane of Kings, and the Light of Morning. The foremost title is applied with some familiarity by the Fool, suggesting a common knowledge of the figure at the time of the writing. It is almost certain that, by considering the angelic references, the revolutionary tones and the association of the figure with morning, the author intended to reference the anti-god of Murotian faith, the Morning Star Venus.