EPISODE 1: The Magician
A dark whisper. A malevolent pulse rising from the void, heralding the final awakening of primordial horrors from their deathless sleep.
There's a little known, centuries-old story...a group of Magicians, a religious Alchemist, an 800-year-old French Crusader, and Death, all had one thing in common – they knew the end was near...
It’s a tale lost to time, to legend, as the records of these exploits have been concealed from history. Part of a secret etherial war, spilling over to the Earth. Setting frail light against the devouring dark. The mortal against those that lie beyond nature — an indomitable struggle etched in blood, bone, and shadow.
A disjointed vision. Jagged pieces of a dream. Daylight cuts through a thick haze in a wide-open field. A solitary figure stands in the center of the vast openness, arms stretched out. His face, his identity, are obscured.
He whispers an invocation. His voice sure and steadfast. As the orison ends, the sky opens. White clouds quickly grey... then blacken. A red light burns from the heavens. Something supernatural is afoot. Thunder crackles. Bolts of lightning strike the ground around the figure. Leaving five, black, charred, smoldering spots. The faint outline, points of a star.
Then, blood begins to rain down from the lacerated sky. The man’s eyes abruptly open, he’s possessed by something dark--
It’s a hot summer night, the year is 1867...REGINALD BLACK is jarred awake from his disturbing dream. This nocturnal vision isn’t the first of its kind for him. He’s had the dream before, each time, the same...an unseen soul, propelled by dark forces, hell-bent on bringing mankind to its knees. To Reginald, it’s a sign, an intuition, a premonition, the end is coming. In his heart, something needs to be done, but what? Seems a response of supernatural proportions is required, but Reginald is just a man...
He came from humble beginnings. Born in the East End of London in 1833. His father a sailor. His mother a Romani, whose family emigrated as Gypsies a century before. As a child, he suffered from seizures after contracting meningitis. Though the disorder resolved itself, it disqualified him from following his father’s footsteps, serving in the Royal Navy.
In his formative years, as his father was at sea, and his mother took ill, young Reginald fell under the care of his Romanian grandparents. It’s there, he learned to read tarot and perform sleight-of-hand tricks.
BARKER: Step right up and see the one and only “Master of Illusions” REGINALD BLACK...
Plying his trade, Reginald became a popular stage magician, journeying across Europe, performing tricks, wowing audiences far and wide...
Yet in the shadowed corners of his travels, Reginald heard whispers, half-spoken tales told among those practicing smoke and mirrors. They spoke of old-world magic...not the parlor tricks they performed, but the raw, force that slumbers beneath the skin of the world. It could be harnessed, they said, controlled, shaped, manipulated...but how it was gained, none ever spoke plainly of the price...only that it was always paid, somehow, someway.
In 1860, during the Carnival of Venice, an extravagant Austrian celebration, the entertainment at a popular costumed ball was a little-known illusionist, The Astounding Vexmoor, and his assistant, Banerjee. The latter being billed as “having dealings with otherworldly forces”.
Nestled in the crowd, Reginald watched as the pair summoned a ghostly specter on stage, conversing with it...its voice like breath through a crypt. Having seen iterations of the trick before, Reginald knew this was no illusion, it was a spirit, tethered to the plane between existence, peering back into our world. After the show, he approached Banerjee, questions burning in him like coals. But Vexmoor intercepted Reginald, threatening him for inquiring about the trick - as such was taboo amongst illusionists.
For years, Reginald traced their path through faded clippings of their act. A breadcrumb for when the time warranted. He knew Banerjee was in-tune with things beyond the known.
Real magic does exist. It’s an unseen force, a nucleus of vitality occurring between the natural and the supernatural. An essential frequency, an ethereal pulse binding all living things together.
Throughout history, it’s gone by many names - alchemy, witchcraft, chaos, lucidity. Magic is a sustained force drawn forth through the ancient command of the classic elements -- Earth, Fire, Wind, Water, Sound, and Light. But it’s not confined to these alone. True mastery runs deeper, twisting the very threads of reality, manipulating the flow of Time, distorting Space and Distance, bending Gravity’s pull, and twisting Consciousness and Perception. But such power is extremely rare in form.
Some are born with these natural abilities, in-sync with these energies. But like any instinct or impulse, it must be refined and perfected to wield fully. For most of mankind, natural gifts are rare. Yet magic can still be practiced through spells, incantations, and written rites, often buried in arcane tomes and forgotten texts. But be warned -- magic found in books is often distorted, corrupted, or tainted forms of natural powers. These types of enchantments and sorcery carry consequences, especially when employed without proper guidance. And the repercussions can be both physical and ethereal, opening dark gateways to dangerous things...hence the term Black Magic.
To the masses, magic has long been labeled as forbidden. For small minds, how can such a harmony exist between man and nature? By the mid-1800’s real magic had vanished from public view, practiced only in underground circles. The Age of Enlightenment, followed by the Reason of Intellects, pushed old-ways aside to die in the record of myth. The world’s sensibilities changed, and fewer people wanted to believe in what they didn’t understand.
Magic, and dark forms of mysticism, through continued villainy by the Catholic Church and other organized religions, had become outlawed. Yet there were those still in pursuit of spell-casting, hermetics, and hexcraft. Elusive and bootleg versions of any book promising even a sliver of true magic were highly coveted.
Though most surviving works were diluted, fragmented, and mistranslated from obsolete languages, and at best, enabled simple charm-work in the form of parlor tricks. Those who used this type of magic masqueraded as true practitioners, claiming genuine abilities in the craft. But in truth, few understood very little beyond what effortless abracadabra the writings could conjure.
In Reginald’s case, witnessing the act at the Carnival of Venice...followed by his haunting, prophetic dreams, he knew fate to be too aligned to be mere coincidence. And in the small hours of that summer night in 1867, he’d rise from his bed, trying not to wake his wife, Diane.
Passing the room of his young son, Orem, Reginald paused a moment to watch his boy sleep peacefully, unaware of the dangers lurking beyond the dark veil of the known world. The innocence in that room felt like another life entirely and the reason to act. On to his study, Reginald, would urgently write a letter, addressed to “The Great” Banerjee. The ink bled onto the page like an open wound, the words coming quick.
REGINALD: Dear Sir. I take up my pen this evening with a most troubled heart. I had a dream, not sprung from memory, nor idle fancy, but a spectre of foresight most vivid and dire from some other, wretched place. I beheld a soul, guided by dark forces, bent upon the conquest — nay, the ruin — of all mankind. This visitation was not the first of its kind, and I fear it shall not be the last. Deep within, I sense with dreadful certainty these dreams are not merely the folly of an overwrought mind, but a herald of things to come — a warning of a great Evil on the horizon. Thus, a question has seized my thoughts, refusing to relent: If there be forces of darkness that move in secret to undo the world, ought there not also be those willing to rise in its defense? By trade, I am but a simple illusionist making a living, entertaining crowds. There’s little I can do to stop what I’ve seen, as I wield no true power, nor claim to possess the gift of genuine sorcery. But I’ve witnessed your act and heard whispers and tales of those, such as yourself, who possess true powers of the supernatural. But you are forced to suppress your god-given abilities for fear of prejudice. The world may not know, but it needs men like you to protect it. That is why I am proposing the creation of an alliance, a clandestine fellowship. Comprised of the most powerful conjurers, diviners, clairvoyants, and mystics. Posing to the outside world as entertainers, like me. But behind closed doors, strengthening powers so that someday, someone might stand against the creeping shadow when it arrives...I place this thought before you, with all the earnestness my soul can muster, in hopes you shall consider it not the ravings of a madman, but the plea of one who has seen too much to remain idle...Yours Truly, Reginald Black.
TO BE CONTINUED…