Old-Mage Jatembe
Founder of the Maagambya
One of Golarion’s most famous and influential figures, Old-Mage Jatembe rediscovered magic and spent decades helping lift the peoples of the Mwangi Expanse from the dust of Earthfall, then disappeared with no sign of death or destination.
Even in the earliest tales about him, Jatembe has always been described as an old man. Some people claim this to be a metaphor, while others ponder the unknown origins of Jatembe and how he spent his early life. Most simply consider age to be an inalienable fact of Jatembe’s existence, with no justification needed.
He traveled for season upon season. He wove the boat Bunta to ride the rivers. He hewed his first staff to help him cross savanna and traverse jungle. He made broad sandals to brave the snows of the mountain’s treacherous slopes. When at last he arrived at the summit of Locked Mountain, there was no entrance.
“In the ruins, there were clever boxes with hidden latches,” he mused. “It is the same with mountains.”
But it was so dark in that time, and he could not see. So, he softly sang to the hidden sun. Moved, she reached down to gift him a golden sphere of her light. It shone on the mountain’s face, revealing a door. Jatembe pushed and pulled and pushed, but the door did not open.
Jatembe heard a voice call from a tiny hole in the stone. “Jatembe, this is Locked Mountain,” taunted Obsidian from his home in the lock, “and even if your eyes can see the door, your hands cannot open it.”
“Come here, Obsidian,” said Jatembe, “and tell me what you mean. For I am too foolish, and do not understand.”
Obsidian slithered, laughing and mocking, from the hole, but as soon as it did Jatembe snatched it up and plucked off its head. “Your whispers are mine, now,” he said as he twisted the creature into a key to fit the lock.
Jatembe unlocked the door and stepped into a new darkness that drank up even the hidden sun’s golden gift. His chest stirred. He saw that from his heart a silver river now rushed into the dark gulf before him. He stood, awestruck, until he noticed a tiny shape picking its way along the shining current—a silver spider.
“Jatembe, this is not your river,” the spider whispered. “Your lot is to spiral down the silver flow and disappear.”
But even in the days after sky joined earth, Jatembe was already old and wise. He deduced the secret of souls. “But the river flows from me, and I flow in the river. How can I intrude on what I make, and on what has made me?”
The spider was surprised. She cocked her head, listening to someone secret, and nodded. “The Lady agrees. Seek your Understanding on her river.” When Jatembe looked down, his chest was no longer a wellspring, and he was already riding Bunta among the silver currents.
The two rode the river through the dark for a long, long time, until the sun’s gift shone once more. The river turned to a golden mist that flowed out of the mountain to fill the space between worlds. It carried Bunta away, leaving Jatembe standing before a creature as wise as him. It stretched its wings and lifted a lion’s paw in greeting.
“You seek the Greatest Understanding, Jatembe.” It smiled at him. Its face looked exactly like his. “But what would you do with it?” Jatembe answered. “I would know of locks and rivers and revelations. I would comprehend their connections. I would know...” At that moment, the sun’s gift split into four lights crafted from all the colors of the world.
“I do know,” said both shocked faces, as Jatembe’s very own voice now poured from each. “I know the foundations upon which the world is built. I know that a gem is not precious if it is hidden. I know that knowledge is not for me alone to hold.”
Jatembe looked around. There was no more mountain. He took his staff and his falcon’s wings. He traveled everywhere to share the gift of magic.
And that’s why we have magic today.
His large arachnid companion chirred, shaking his bright abdomen back and forth in excitement. “Wonderful, my heart! Perfect timing, perfect inflection, perfect magical accompaniment—a perfect telling. With a performance like that, Lore-Speaker Zegaji will finally recommend us for Conversant advancement!”
Ieme smiled; for once, his excitement broke through his reserved demeanor. “I hope she’s half as indulgent as you are. But maybe you’re right.”
There was the rustling sound of the gray and yellow anadi’s transformation, and then Kedari wrapped Ieme in a warm human embrace. Ieme laughed and kissed Kedari on the cheek. The horns signaled midday meal, and the two set off to find food and a spot to talk.
“I wish I could include more sources,” mused Ieme over goat pepper soup. “‘Jatembe bound the serpent-god’s flayed skull with its own tongue’—that’s much more interesting than Obsidian.”
“Add intertextuality next performance,” mumbled Kedari through mandibles full of ackee. “Right now, we know Zegaji will want Jatembe’s deeds post his magical discovery. What comes after?”
Ieme wiped his mouth and proceeded. “Jatembe sought out exceptional individuals and asked them to give up their names to serve their people. These Ten Magic Warriors then helped Jatembe build Nantambu and used one hundred and eleven scrolls to found the first library of the new Magaambya Academy. They formed the Magaambya’s five branches and gathered students from across the Mwangi Expanse.”
They reviewed what they’d prepared about the Old-Mage’s greatest deeds: how Jatembe heard the cries of Ird’s trees and plants, felt their fear of the city’s monstrous conduct, and helped them rise up to engulf it. The battle at the Doorway to the Red Star against the King of Biting Ants, whose eyes crawled across every leaf and tasted every person and animal, and the triad of Swarming Cathedrals he controlled. There the Eleven Heroes fought alongside the first Iobane, whose psychic power helped scatter the insectile sorcerer’s body and mind.
Next, the tale of Agohbindi the Splintering Child, the gruesome Spawn of Rovagug, which once snuck beneath the flow of the Vanji to attack Nantambu. Tempest-Sun Mages kept it at bay but were cut down by shearing beams and thousands of gleaming teeth. Jatembe called fire and lightning to stun its many bodies, then turned his magic into trees that bound the creature and kept it from reassembling.
Ieme tapped his chin as he finished. “You know, rare Rain-Scribe records mention crackling or burning trees that disappear every few years. Others speak of ‘splitting sickness’ in some communities, where wounds don’t heal and the afflicted eventually fall apart.” He swallowed. “Or where they immolate their families and shamble away. Maybe Agohbindi is reassembling.”
Kedari shuddered. “Let’s work on the other performances. Leave Agohbindi for the Rain-Scribes.” The two found an empty amphitheater. Kedari went through the story cycle called Jatembe’s Legacy. He started with “Blackbird and the Wingless,” where Blackbird teaches cities to fly, and ended with the traditional “Old-Mage Collects His Thoughts.” In the comedic tale of the days just prior to his disappearance, Jatembe’s knowledge flees and hides all over Nantambu. The Old-Mage must chase after each thought to trap it in a book, forming the very first copy of Wisdom of Jatembe. Kedari even included the copy Ieme had gifted him in his performance, continuing the tradition of students passing on their knowledge to those that came next. Ieme adopted a creaking voice for his first-person account of “Grandfather Traveler and the Iron Hag,” in which a twice-and-twice-learned wizard outwits an evil witch, trading her a cup of yasht instead of a lake of souls. He binds her by her own words, and supposedly the two meet “whenever eight dozen followers catch nine dozen thrushes” so that he may set her to some benevolent task. Light caught Ieme’s eye. The sun dipped toward the horizon, and the mosaic tiles of Nantambu’s towers shone. “It’s getting late, but we’re almost done. The finale?” Ieme smirked, anticipating his friend and partner’s response. “Evidence that Jatembe might still be alive and active!” Kedari adopted Zegaji’s lecture stance and pitched his voice in imitation. “Look at ‘Grandfather Traveler’s Deal and the Dead Shepherd.’ It’s all but explicit that Tosof is a psychopomp, and the exact wording of her statement that Grandfather Traveler ‘will live to see the flying city rise and fall a second time’ is present in multiple sources.” He waved his legs excitedly. “That can’t be coincidence.” “Well, it could be, but you also followed dozens of leads to reputable sources. Zegaji respects diligence.” Ieme squeezed Kedari’s shoulder. “But prophecy is no longer certain, and our other examples aren’t as sure. Reports of an old man visiting fried insect stalls and amber dealers on the same dates every few years? A similar man asking about masks of very specific colors?” He gestured outside to where the sun’s last rays were illuminating the towers, where mosaic depictions of the Ten Magic Warriors’ distinctive, colorful masks purpled in the twilight. “Have the Warriors’ first masks actually reappeared after all this time? And if they have, would Jatembe—assuming he’s alive—come back to claim them? If so, why in secret?” Kedari dipped his abdomen in an anadi shrug. “Who knows. But it’s a wonderful detail to dangle in Zegaji’s face! Sounds like the kind of lead you’d need Conversant authority to follow, doesn’t it?” Ieme laughed. “Fair enough. You know... I think you’re right.” He looked over the amphitheater stands and imagined tomorrow’s audience. “We’re ready.”
Even in the earliest tales about him, Jatembe has always been described as an old man. Some people claim this to be a metaphor, while others ponder the unknown origins of Jatembe and how he spent his early life. Most simply consider age to be an inalienable fact of Jatembe’s existence, with no justification needed.
Jatembe and the Locked Mountain
In the days after sky joined earth, Jatembe searched the ruins of those who came before. He had a powerful desire for knowledge and drank up whatever he discovered in the wreckage. He rolled facts and stories around in his head, tumbling them until they were like precious gems, shining in his private collection. When he learned that the Greatest Understanding was kept deep in Locked Mountain, what else could he do but seek it?He traveled for season upon season. He wove the boat Bunta to ride the rivers. He hewed his first staff to help him cross savanna and traverse jungle. He made broad sandals to brave the snows of the mountain’s treacherous slopes. When at last he arrived at the summit of Locked Mountain, there was no entrance.
“In the ruins, there were clever boxes with hidden latches,” he mused. “It is the same with mountains.”
But it was so dark in that time, and he could not see. So, he softly sang to the hidden sun. Moved, she reached down to gift him a golden sphere of her light. It shone on the mountain’s face, revealing a door. Jatembe pushed and pulled and pushed, but the door did not open.
Jatembe heard a voice call from a tiny hole in the stone. “Jatembe, this is Locked Mountain,” taunted Obsidian from his home in the lock, “and even if your eyes can see the door, your hands cannot open it.”
“Come here, Obsidian,” said Jatembe, “and tell me what you mean. For I am too foolish, and do not understand.”
Obsidian slithered, laughing and mocking, from the hole, but as soon as it did Jatembe snatched it up and plucked off its head. “Your whispers are mine, now,” he said as he twisted the creature into a key to fit the lock.
Jatembe unlocked the door and stepped into a new darkness that drank up even the hidden sun’s golden gift. His chest stirred. He saw that from his heart a silver river now rushed into the dark gulf before him. He stood, awestruck, until he noticed a tiny shape picking its way along the shining current—a silver spider.
“Jatembe, this is not your river,” the spider whispered. “Your lot is to spiral down the silver flow and disappear.”
But even in the days after sky joined earth, Jatembe was already old and wise. He deduced the secret of souls. “But the river flows from me, and I flow in the river. How can I intrude on what I make, and on what has made me?”
The spider was surprised. She cocked her head, listening to someone secret, and nodded. “The Lady agrees. Seek your Understanding on her river.” When Jatembe looked down, his chest was no longer a wellspring, and he was already riding Bunta among the silver currents.
The two rode the river through the dark for a long, long time, until the sun’s gift shone once more. The river turned to a golden mist that flowed out of the mountain to fill the space between worlds. It carried Bunta away, leaving Jatembe standing before a creature as wise as him. It stretched its wings and lifted a lion’s paw in greeting.
“You seek the Greatest Understanding, Jatembe.” It smiled at him. Its face looked exactly like his. “But what would you do with it?” Jatembe answered. “I would know of locks and rivers and revelations. I would comprehend their connections. I would know...” At that moment, the sun’s gift split into four lights crafted from all the colors of the world.
“I do know,” said both shocked faces, as Jatembe’s very own voice now poured from each. “I know the foundations upon which the world is built. I know that a gem is not precious if it is hidden. I know that knowledge is not for me alone to hold.”
Jatembe looked around. There was no more mountain. He took his staff and his falcon’s wings. He traveled everywhere to share the gift of magic.
And that’s why we have magic today.
History Lessons
“Well, what did you think?” Ieme’s four conjured lights flared as he dispelled them, reflected briefly in his silver cheek tattoos.His large arachnid companion chirred, shaking his bright abdomen back and forth in excitement. “Wonderful, my heart! Perfect timing, perfect inflection, perfect magical accompaniment—a perfect telling. With a performance like that, Lore-Speaker Zegaji will finally recommend us for Conversant advancement!”
Ieme smiled; for once, his excitement broke through his reserved demeanor. “I hope she’s half as indulgent as you are. But maybe you’re right.”
There was the rustling sound of the gray and yellow anadi’s transformation, and then Kedari wrapped Ieme in a warm human embrace. Ieme laughed and kissed Kedari on the cheek. The horns signaled midday meal, and the two set off to find food and a spot to talk.
“I wish I could include more sources,” mused Ieme over goat pepper soup. “‘Jatembe bound the serpent-god’s flayed skull with its own tongue’—that’s much more interesting than Obsidian.”
“Add intertextuality next performance,” mumbled Kedari through mandibles full of ackee. “Right now, we know Zegaji will want Jatembe’s deeds post his magical discovery. What comes after?”
Ieme wiped his mouth and proceeded. “Jatembe sought out exceptional individuals and asked them to give up their names to serve their people. These Ten Magic Warriors then helped Jatembe build Nantambu and used one hundred and eleven scrolls to found the first library of the new Magaambya Academy. They formed the Magaambya’s five branches and gathered students from across the Mwangi Expanse.”
They reviewed what they’d prepared about the Old-Mage’s greatest deeds: how Jatembe heard the cries of Ird’s trees and plants, felt their fear of the city’s monstrous conduct, and helped them rise up to engulf it. The battle at the Doorway to the Red Star against the King of Biting Ants, whose eyes crawled across every leaf and tasted every person and animal, and the triad of Swarming Cathedrals he controlled. There the Eleven Heroes fought alongside the first Iobane, whose psychic power helped scatter the insectile sorcerer’s body and mind.
Next, the tale of Agohbindi the Splintering Child, the gruesome Spawn of Rovagug, which once snuck beneath the flow of the Vanji to attack Nantambu. Tempest-Sun Mages kept it at bay but were cut down by shearing beams and thousands of gleaming teeth. Jatembe called fire and lightning to stun its many bodies, then turned his magic into trees that bound the creature and kept it from reassembling.
Ieme tapped his chin as he finished. “You know, rare Rain-Scribe records mention crackling or burning trees that disappear every few years. Others speak of ‘splitting sickness’ in some communities, where wounds don’t heal and the afflicted eventually fall apart.” He swallowed. “Or where they immolate their families and shamble away. Maybe Agohbindi is reassembling.”
Kedari shuddered. “Let’s work on the other performances. Leave Agohbindi for the Rain-Scribes.” The two found an empty amphitheater. Kedari went through the story cycle called Jatembe’s Legacy. He started with “Blackbird and the Wingless,” where Blackbird teaches cities to fly, and ended with the traditional “Old-Mage Collects His Thoughts.” In the comedic tale of the days just prior to his disappearance, Jatembe’s knowledge flees and hides all over Nantambu. The Old-Mage must chase after each thought to trap it in a book, forming the very first copy of Wisdom of Jatembe. Kedari even included the copy Ieme had gifted him in his performance, continuing the tradition of students passing on their knowledge to those that came next. Ieme adopted a creaking voice for his first-person account of “Grandfather Traveler and the Iron Hag,” in which a twice-and-twice-learned wizard outwits an evil witch, trading her a cup of yasht instead of a lake of souls. He binds her by her own words, and supposedly the two meet “whenever eight dozen followers catch nine dozen thrushes” so that he may set her to some benevolent task. Light caught Ieme’s eye. The sun dipped toward the horizon, and the mosaic tiles of Nantambu’s towers shone. “It’s getting late, but we’re almost done. The finale?” Ieme smirked, anticipating his friend and partner’s response. “Evidence that Jatembe might still be alive and active!” Kedari adopted Zegaji’s lecture stance and pitched his voice in imitation. “Look at ‘Grandfather Traveler’s Deal and the Dead Shepherd.’ It’s all but explicit that Tosof is a psychopomp, and the exact wording of her statement that Grandfather Traveler ‘will live to see the flying city rise and fall a second time’ is present in multiple sources.” He waved his legs excitedly. “That can’t be coincidence.” “Well, it could be, but you also followed dozens of leads to reputable sources. Zegaji respects diligence.” Ieme squeezed Kedari’s shoulder. “But prophecy is no longer certain, and our other examples aren’t as sure. Reports of an old man visiting fried insect stalls and amber dealers on the same dates every few years? A similar man asking about masks of very specific colors?” He gestured outside to where the sun’s last rays were illuminating the towers, where mosaic depictions of the Ten Magic Warriors’ distinctive, colorful masks purpled in the twilight. “Have the Warriors’ first masks actually reappeared after all this time? And if they have, would Jatembe—assuming he’s alive—come back to claim them? If so, why in secret?” Kedari dipped his abdomen in an anadi shrug. “Who knows. But it’s a wonderful detail to dangle in Zegaji’s face! Sounds like the kind of lead you’d need Conversant authority to follow, doesn’t it?” Ieme laughed. “Fair enough. You know... I think you’re right.” He looked over the amphitheater stands and imagined tomorrow’s audience. “We’re ready.”
Species
Ethnicity
Age
Old
Children
Gender
Male
Aligned Organization
Founded Settlements
The Ten Magic Warriors
Jatembe’s disciples wore animal masks with gold inlay. The descriptions of these masks replaced their names, and their deeds earned them many titles.Azure Leopard, the Patient Warden: Legend tells of this human woman with the power to tame the storms, and most consider her the patron, if not founder, of the Tempest-Sun Mages.
Black Heron, the Wings of Knowledge: The most famous of the Ten Magic Warriors, Black Heron is best known for uniting the Shory peoples and sharing Jatembe’s knowledge of aeromancy magic, leading to the empire of Shory Empire.
Carmine Jaws, the Hyena Who Looks Between: Though historians argue whether this omnimancer was human or a gnoll, he is considered the basis for the Magaambya tradition of accepting gnoll students without question.
Elephant, the Conjured Chronicle: This woman chronicled the countless feats of Jatembe and the Magic Warriors, and eventually helped to establish the Uzunjati.
Golden Snake, the Tireless Guide: Another source of historical contention, revisionists often argue the green-speaker was a nagaji, yet most evidence suggests this magic warrior was a serpentfolk.
Ibex, the Flourishing Field: Ibex’s legacy lives on today through many herbal medicines and healing techniques that originated through their work.
Shifting Frog, Storyteller of Past and Future: This Ekujae seer indicates that the strong connection between the Magaambya and Ekujae elves stretches back to the school’s founding days.
Verdant Spider, the Speaker of Needs: A shy baker from the south, Verdant Spider gained respect for championing ordinary people and helped establish the Magaambyan tradition of service.
Whistling Kite, the Vigilant Star: This renowned emancipator is always depicted as an intelligent hawk.
White Bull, the Horn-Forger: Though this iruxi is best known for his fearsome visage when wearing his horned mask, White Bull’s greatest achievements were in architecture.
Comments