Hunters in Samalta: Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Wanderers, Soldiers, Secrets

The Hunter sat; still shaken, still a little broken, the wary fear of a frightened animal peering out from eyes, far too hard for one so young. But there was steel now, newly tempered. She was getting answers, and that meant progress. That meant the whole mess they had fallen into was going to be alright.

Probably.

Across from her, sitting on a slightly higher grime-caked brick ledge, sat the old mage. Eyes twinkled like glittering crystals from a mess of hair and ragged eyebrows. Dirty robes kept the warmth in those thin shoulders. By the twitch of his age-blanched mane, Allcre could well see he was still wearing that nostalgic grin, remembering days of glory under the command of the man she had been led to know as the Red King. 

“Well,” she started, “the Red King walked out of the woods without a sword and without injury. I’m guessing whatever it was that you were setting up, it required the sword (and that spirit) as a crucial part of the end result. I’m interested, actually, in what you know about the origins of the sword, as well as some more of the power behind it.”

Balthasar leaned back some, brows scrunching up slowly. “Now, that… that’s a whole different tack. I’m not really sure I should tell you that. Or that I can. Why do you need to know? You don’t seem to be overly concerned with picking it up, or finding it like some ancient queen’s jade broach in a dead man’s barrow.”

Allcre took a deep breath - once, twice, a third time, exhaling slowly to calm herself as much as possible. She checked her light, setting it down to one side. In a quiet monotone, dulled further by the brick sewer structure, she told Balthasar as clear a recounting of the events of the previous week as possible. She began with their first survey of the Cursed Zone; spoke briefly on the encounter with Balthasar in the sewer and how it figured into the rest of the tale; described their hurried days of preparation and the razor-thin margin of victory pulled out of their encounter with the necromancer; recounted the arcanologist’s findings; described, with a voice shaking involuntarily, the visions from the horrible, horrible book. 

All the while, the old man went from being a crazy old hobo under the streets of Samalta to something akin to a concerned uncle. “So you need to know about the last days of the war.”

“Yes.”

“And that means you need to know about the Red General, his sword, the Fusiliers, the whole shebang.”

“Exactly.”

The old man paused a moment, looking inward. “Your friend - this Pitt - used the power of righteous might to destroy the dog construct. His being and his sword shone. The difference is that the sword of the Red General burned. Whole legions of undead caught in its holy flame were turned to ash, liches were slapped aside like children, cackling apprentice necromancers were turned to sniveling whelps in the glare of the greatsword, and that was just in the black forest on our drive to the tower. Where the Red General strode in camp, men lifted their heads high, horses stopped panicking, sick men suffering from the Grey Plague felt comfort. He was a leader worthy of the respect, adoration, and bravery of every man under his command. I figure that whatever magic was in him, or in the sword, that would go a long way to getting the monkey off your backs. The soldiers in the ward might be too far gone.” He shrugged, an apology in a gesture. “The best we could do for the victims of the Grey Plague was keep them comfortable. The darkness took them all, in the end.”

“But how does that fit in with the sword? Or, vice versa I suppose,” asked Allcre.

“Honestly? It’s beyond me. Sure, to you I’m melting faces down here in the holes, but I was basically just a footsoldier. This was a minor outbreak, according to the veterans in the company. Apparently your Red General was a bright boy with a great idea, and like I said, I was just left here to watch over the place after the rest of the company rolled out after the big spirit worked his way in.”

“So what’s your opinion on the sword? Any chance we could, I don’t know, make another one? Find the old one? It seems like its a great tool to use against the darkness, such as it seems.”

Balthasar leaned back, scratching the back of his head. “No, no, I think wherever it is, it’s serving its purpose. On top of that, what little knowledge I have of that particular type of sword means that there’s approximately no chance and no way you could re-make it.”

“Right, alright, that’s fair… I guess.” The Hunter pondered a moment; “Who are the Fusiliers, really? The Third Hadirion Fusiliers; is that a place? Some sigil you follow? And why were you required to help out where the Utulian casters couldn’t work the right magic?”

Drawing out the word in hesitation, he answered, “Well, that’s a bit more than I can just casually reveal. Hadirion is… a land apart, you can’t get there by most conventional methods. The Fusiliers, we’re sort of your equivalent of - sappers, I think the word is - military saboteurs, and we can move unconventially. We were summoned by the Red King, so we could show up more or less at his whim.”

“Are you, or I suppose were you, part of his retinue?”

“His retinue? Soldiers in his train? Oh, no no no, we’re contractors. After a sort. We, um… this is awkward… We have a different patron deity. Your Red General was, and is, close to the White Steward, all about finding the best in people. We follow one known as the Blackguard - actually, scratch that, call him the Nightguard, too many connotations otherwise - and we’re all about overthrowing tyrants and safeguarding rebellions. Lots of business for demolition experts in that field, let me tell you.” He stopped a sentence from leaving his lips, having a thought which seemed to amuse him quite a bit. “Seems like I’ve failed in that sense; you’ve got quite the bureaucracy going, here.”

“That we do. Utulia basks in the glory of the White Steward, blessed be his name. The Red King rules by the authority granted by the White Steward and by the righteousness he carries with him.” The steel in the spine of Hunter Verily grew, and the frayed-at-the-edge look was almost pushed to the back. “Again; why were you required in lieu of Utulian casters? What did you end up doing when you made the Cursed Zone? More importantly, why in the world did you attempt to trap a necromantic incursion?”

“Because we were needed,” he immediately countered. He produced a small badge from somewhere within his tatters; a sable sircle with an embossed crescent moon of silver. As he passed the badge (cool to the touch, oddly heavy) to Allcre, a shimmering effect rippled over his features. In the dim light of the sewers, darkness gathered more strongly in the corners of the catchbasin, and Allcre’s fears rose sharply.

Where a wrinkly old man with bushy hair had sat, an entirely different creature relaxed calmly, with the same wry smile defining his features, altogether too familiar to be comfortable with. Short black horns sprouted from his temples, sweeping back over a smooth blue-skinned scalp and framing a pair of yellow-green eyes. His teeth and claws (claws!) were the same ebon as the horns, and hoofed feet terminated a pair of spry legs. He extended his hand, and numbly was given back the badge, whereupon the old man returned. 

Some part of Allcre’s training said tiefling, but the shock at having actually seen a child of human (maybe) and devil in the flesh was hard to overcome. “Hold on, you have to know exactly how xenophobic this country is. Why help in the first place, why stay?”

“You think we would have been accepted looking like that? Not hardly, kid. We had to scrounge up some energy projectors to make the locals feel comfortable, using the tried-and-true flame-whip show. Sure, we roped some native elves into the venture, but the big movers were clever little devil spawn like me. Some of us lost our fathers to the darkness, to the Outside, and we wanted all kinds of vengeance. Petty human bigotry was about as interesting as a fleabite.” 

As he rested back upon his hands, Allcre noted that devils, creatures of cold and darkness, would naturally be more comfortable in the sewers underneath a city than in the sun-baked streets above; a night jaunt would be comfortable, but not much more. Then, a few questions started multiplying, and then the natural result happened. “Who’s your father? Is your tail prehensile? Are your horns based on heritage?”, Allcre blurted out. 

Balthasar looked moderately uncomfortable as he described his complete lack of knowledge on the matter (despite the fact his tail was, in fact, prehensile). He hadn’t grown up around other devils, just other tieflings, and was unfamiliar with the slightest facets of the cultures of hell. He cleared his throat, and asked gently, “Would you like to know about the wards?”

The technical discussion that followed helped, quite a bit, for Allcre to overcome the shock and for Balthasar to get over his temporary awkwardness. Balthasar’s scratched drawings and diagrams in the silt of the tunnel (too narrow and fine a scratch for just a finger) were familiar in nature, and Allcre delved into understanding the nature of the Cursed Zone, what Balthasar was calling the Dark Ward. They had set up a resonator, a standing wave, a magical short-circuit waiting to happen that would interact negatively with anything, magic or antimagic, crossing its line. Inside the ward, funky stuff would happen to any active magic-users, but contingencies had been established, such as the magical extraction of wounded or vulnerable from inside the line.

As far as its purpose and execution went, they had crossed the river, slapping the undead about (for this was not the greatest threat the Outside had ever offered), slagged a hole through the ground into the heart of the temple, let the big man in, and set up the resonator as quickly as they could. Once the Red General had finished his work, he walked out with his priests (clearing the area as he went), and the Fusiliers left via the unconventional path. The recruited elves had gone back west to watch their side, and Balthasar had stayed behind to watch the eastern side. The tower was probably their idea of some subterfuge, and in his esteemed opinion was just them being lazy. 

“And what of the necromancer’s stone? How does that figure in?”, a much more at-ease Allcre asked. 

“Probably a shard of a stone we missed on our way in or out,” Balthasar replied, though not as nonchalantly as he meant to. “Maybe it fell in the dirt and we missed it in the big damn hurry we were in, and some poor soul wandered in by accident and found it. That said,” he sighed, “it’s rarely as easy as being unlucky when it comes to the Outside.”

“How big do stones get? What are they made of?” No, there were simply more questions. That was all she could expect; more mysteries and threads the further she went into this ball of tangled knots.

“I’ve heard of building-sized chunks, even things that were recognizably buildings, even some monument-sized ones with glyphs all over them like foul graffiti. As long as it exists, and has the right properties (mineral, chemical, whatever), it acts as a beachhead for the terrible powers it acts as a focus for. Most of the identification comes from observation of corrupted processes; green fire, funky shadows, incipient madness, reality warping, and the classic aura signature. You know it when you see it.”

Allcre raised a finger; “Wait. Aura - that reminds me - what’s your opinion on the walker, the creepy figure we came across when we first got here?” She quickly described it; not particularly good woodcraft, non-detectable aura, ease of passage through the wards.

For the first time since she laid eyes on him, Balthasar was speechless for a good two beats, then started thinking. He proceeded to have far too much fun stroking his beard, thinking out loud through muttering below her hearing, amused a little bit at her impatience. After a sufficient interim, Balthasar slapped his palms down on the brick ledge. “Either it’s a soulless construct of flesh with a full cancellation spectrum, or a standing null aura with field permutations. No idea how that would be remotely possible, but that’s my thinking outside of the box. Granted, there’s quite a few things neither you or I know about the high-level workings of the magic in the Dark Ward - sorry, Cursed Zone, I like that better - so we can assume that they’re related. Coincidence is merely the universe being lazy.”

Allcre thought on it all for a moment longer. Balthasar had been a great resource, seriously an excellent reference for what was going on and an unparalleled measure for exactly how bad it could get. She rose from her seat, crossing over to where the hidden tiefling was sitting, and clasped his hands in hers. There was a moment of vertigo; she could feel the hard, cold hands and the roughness of the claws, but she could see the soft eyes that had remembered pain and strife, that knew the necessities of hiding. 

“Thank you. Thank you so much. You’ve been really helpful, and you really didn’t have to be. You didn’t just bail on me halfway through my pestering. May the White Steward, blessed be his name, watch over you and keep you safe.”

Balthasar smiled to hid the grim truth behind it. “I’ll see if there’s anything more I can think of. I might be able to piece together what’s going on over in those wards. If you need me, remember; nighttime is better, if there’s work in the offing after dark.” His breath rose and fell, once and twice, as he looked to form the right kind of sentence. “The dark is rising again, no matter what anybody in this little country has to say. We will all need to be as ready as we can.”

<><><> 

The archivist and the two hunters rejoined at the entrance to the crypts. Allcre had been able to run to the sewers and meet with the old tiefling (and be shocked) and then return while the rest of the book’s knowledge ripped into the minds of the two men who had remained, and then confer with the arcanologist. As such, the archivist and the Red Hunter were far more shaken than Allcre, and were vocally disturbed by the fact that the old man who had saved them was anything but human. Mostly.

Pitt’s haggard look faded slowly as Allcre relayed the results of her interview with the old mage. A knotted collection of brows and lips arrayed itself on the archivist’s face, however, as a surge of more questions (seriously, it never would end) rose in his mind. After Allcre finished her summary, the archivist cleared his throat and added to her knowledge the interpretation of the Book of the Dead by the arcanologist.

The thin little man had explained that the apparent motive behind this dark power is the the destruction and consumption of life and matter for its own sake, not for control or power, purely antithetical to the will to live of creatures and beings that are alive. The stones, it seemed, had not been produced so much as found, or (accompanied by a shudder) sent. Therein lay the problem; the stones are not foci so much as conduits. 

“Apparently,” Pitt added, “the stones themselves are dangerous to speak of, so the fact that we are in a crisis already allows us to speak in guarded tones of these things. The will from Outside looks for any wayward mind to corrupt.” Pitt folded his arms contemptuously across his chest. “I admit that it is serious, but that’s just superstition.”

The archivist continued; scant records of visions given by the Book of the Dead exist, or have been written down, apart from the rites and power-usage it aims to teach. Most of the known ones were relevant to the situation at hand. In this case, and under these circumstances, the Book appeared to reveal that the Red King, in all his power, is a member of some force (or a subject thereof) explicitly oriented against the rise and appearance of necromancy, its power, and all that comes with it. Including, it seemed, the entities beyond the walls of reality.

Pitt and the archivist had grilled the arcanologist rather aggressively. Like Allcre, they had come out of the Book of the Dead’s hateful aura and been filled with a panoply of questions. 

At first, the arcanologist had weathered the storm of questions like a good little stone in the path of the wave. Once he had shaken himself free of his own minor fugue, he had turned to the two men, and professed his own ignorance on much of the matter. The three of them had proceeded to put together as much as they could. The arcanologist took one of his rings off and proceeded to communicate directly with some of his peers in the Archive, in order to get up-to-date information as rapidly as possible.

Necromancers, according to the records, could be destroyed. The downside to destroying a necromancer was that such dark power was playing some twisted game that derived from a notion of guerilla warfare. Their purpose was to be destroyed, and to soak up as much energy and resource as possible while doing so. They existed for destruction’s sake, and fought for conflict’s sake, the more perverted and deranged the better. Trapping one, then, at first seemed to be a bit of a paradox for both sides, as it removed the threat and interrupted the progress without actually nipping the necromancy in the bud. Why, or how the Red King engaged in experimentation with the stones in precisely unclear. Regardless, whatever he did left at least one free-roaming shard of a stone in an otherwise successful trap.

It had been important to note, during their hurried deliberation, that necromancy did not appear to be magic per se, but an utterly corrupted reflection of it. Stones, nodes, necromantic foci, dark power, etc. could only be destroyed by using an equal or over-estimated quantity of non-necromantic material and/or energy to cancel out the dark aura. The hypothesis had been put forward that the null aura was a result of that cancellation, and the subsequent destruction had been the root cause of all failures to observe directly the power of the stones. 

And what of those poor souls who are twisted by this power, as revealed by the Book of the Dead? No known manuscripts of a conversation with a necromancer or a lich existed, but it appeared that taking on the mantle of the dark power creates a twisted and perverted reflection of the former being.  In some cases, it was clear that the corruption was similar to a brain-washing and subsequent re-developing of the host mind. They had become slaves to their own power. The few power-hungry madmen who went looking for the stones become the worst and most terrible tools in the claw of the entities from the Outside.

To the knowledge of the three men, going over their collective memories of battles and strife in Utulia since the fall of the Mage-Lords and the defeat of Arkadi, there had been no necromantic activity in the last 300 years, either within the bounds of the country or anywhere else. The arcanologist, who had studied this particular phenomenon, had actually seen the scrying reports; the undead population is minimal and static, no advance or growth could be determined. Somehow, the trapping of the ward did more than just trap a few stones, it thoroughly interrupted the designs of the entities of the Outside. 

There had been an interesting moment when the arcanologist had gaped a moment in the middle of a sentence, scratched out a note, and stuffed it through a ring, and then waited impatiently before, three seconds later, a note came back. The arcanologist reported that he had been given permission to relay an important state secret; a huge power flux existed running through Goldspire Island, the seat of power in Utulia, the home of the Archive, and the throne of the Red King, but that it was unknown from where the power comes or to where the power goes. It might be possible that the sword was acting as a relay for that power, driving either some part of the wards or whatever was going on in the heart of the Cursed Zone.

That had led (almost at the same time as Allcre’s questions to Balthasar) to a rapid investigation of the Red King and the Dark Wars. The archive maintained the only remaining records of the Dark Wars outside the government-approved texts disseminated to the general population. The Red General had appeared at the gates of the capital out of the night, carrying a greatsword in a burlap scabbard and clad in unmarked leather armor. That sword would stay by his side, sheathed, his whole life. He spoke the language fluently, and entered the Samorian Military Academy (now defunct) graduating with honors. His first service in war was against an incursion of troglodytes from the north-west, and he was instrumental in Utulian victory. He rose like a star through the ranks; charismatic, wise, and humbly brilliant. The opening words of the Codex of the Red King were his motto from his earliest days:

Never cruel or hateful, never cowardly or fearful, for those I must protect, in the name of those I cannot save.

Along the way, he had picked up a red banner, a long cloth of scarlet dyed wool that he had embossed with the sigil of the White Steward; in those days, a popular deity for travelers and the poor, and not the center of a state religion. He had begun to amass a bit of a cult following, who became his primary officer corps in the first days of the Dark War. He had never been one to go to a temple, but on the night before he left Samor for the western front, he spent the entire time until dawn in a silent vigil by the chief altar, emerging at sunrise with a sword shining with a beautiful inner light clasped, unsheathed, in his hand. The rest is military history; a slog of death and chaos all the way to the tower, with the shining sword of the Red General leading the way. Eventually, he gave up the sword, and had begun the Arcane Prohibition.

<><><> 

Their conversation had led the three of them to a secluded parlor within the temple, and as it wound down, they found themselves quieted by what they had learned, what they had discovered, what they had found. The silence stretched on, each of them with their own thoughts. The day grew long outside. The shadows held more weight of malice than before, hidden secrets in lengthening darkness.

The Archivist broke the silence with a long release of breath, exasperated and trying for calm. “Just for the sake of clarity, let me summarize here. We show up because someone, somehow, sets off a massive necromantic spell right in the middle of a town that ate a few pairs of Hunters. We find that a plague is being set by a huge skull of nastiness hidden in the sewers, deal with it, arrest an upstanding member of the community because someone, we still don’t know who apparently, made him do it. We find a similar skull in the Cursed Zone, which sets off alarm bells throughout regional governments. Now, according to Utulia’s best and brightest, we’re dealing with a necromantic outburst because, the last time this happened, the set-up the Red King put together with some tiefling friends to trap an incursion from outside reality missed a spot. That failure apparently is threatening to overwhelm the wards because, eventually, the dark power will throw off the epic-level sword that, somehow, is crucial to the whole thing because it is relaying the massive power flow coming from our country’s seat of legal and religious authority. If that happens, it’s the Dark War all over again, without the Red King to head off the necromancers killing everybody.”

Pitt chimed in. “Don’t forget the impossible man walking into and out of the wards freely on the far side of the shore.”

Allcre added, “Oh, and sneaky elves are involved somehow.”

“Right, yes, of course. Can’t forget the more inexplicable stuff.” He sighed again, more explosively. “Is it just me, or are we in over our heads? I feel like I’m punching well above my weight here.” He cast a sardonic look over at the two Hunters. “Unless, of course, it is just me, and all of this is just another day on station for you two.”

Pitt and Allcre looked at each other, eyes meeting for a brief second. Pitt’s mouth twitched in what could have become a cynical grin of his own. Allcre looked back at the Archivist and offered an apologetic shrug. The Archivist groaned, and put his face in his hands, gripping the fringes of his hair.

“We are kind of the best of the best,” Pitt said, more matter-of-factly than anything else. “We were specifically called in to deal with this by the Samor office. Those other Hunters that disappeared here were good, sure, but we’re probably in the top ten Hunters currently working in Utulia. That said,” he added with a note of worry, “there’s only so much that three people can do. More than just skill, the scale of this problem might be out of our ability to handle.”

The Archivist’s hands fell into his lap, his face carefully neutral. “My job, literally my only job, even if things go completely sideways, is to watch, to observe, to report. That’s what the Archive does. We’re the information network in Utulia. We know stuff. I have the training to stay alive, not to throw down against damn fools, crazy people, or, fates forbid, necromancers.”

Allcre sat up, brows furrowed in sudden thought. She turned to Pitt, hand on his shoulder, and nearly shouted, “Aleph Order!”

Pitt facepalmed. “Of course!” He started rooting through his kit, hands frantically searching through pockets and pouches. As he did so, he explained Allcre’s outburst, as she was scratching out a note on a piece of paper at hand. “The Aleph Order is the core of large-scale necromancy response, and rarely used, if ever. Basically, Hunters are ordered to deal with any incursion or uprising, but if things are too big for two specialists to handle, we call in the really heavy hitters. Our superiors, and theirs – five levels up, Allcre?”

Allcre looked up, eyes unfocused for a second. “Oh, at least in the short term. If it doesn’t get up to Cardinal Allavan, I’d be surprised. Level One?”

Pitt nodded. “Level One.” He turned back to the Archivist, whose shoulders had relaxed, knowing that someone, somewhere, could help. “Confirmed necromancy, multiple active constructs, high level of danger. We almost got killed and converted, so this is the next step in escalation.” He pulled a small amulet, a copper circle with a rotating outer ring, from the depths of a large pouch. “Or, at least, it was in our training. We almost forgot because you never expect to deal with this stuff.”

Allcre, having finished her short-form report, passed it to Pitt, who rotated the dial to the numeral one. A small aperture opened in the middle of the dial, and closed behind the slip of paper shoved through. The three leaned back in their chairs, a sudden tense silence rising like the tide.

“Now what?”

“Might take a while. We have plenty of work ahead of us.”

The Archivist raised a finger, cold eyes fixed on the Hunters. “We tell the townsfolk. If they ask, we must be honest. They are going to be right in the path of the hammer-blow, when it comes. They have earned the truth.”

<><><> 

Pitt stood under a gray sky. Shield on his back, sword in his hand with tip just on the road, he could have been a statue if not for his sleeves and robe ruffling around his dark skin. He surveyed the small crowd in front of him, boys and young men backed by older fathers, with a few mothers and daughters worried in the back. He took a deep breath, and surveyed the troop.

A half-dozen young volunteers, glowing with pride they hadn’t yet earned, stood in front of a contingent of older guardsmen. Just looking at them, Pitt saw morale ready to break. Most of these men probably had friends currently withering away in the Plague Ward. They looked like someone they trusted, someone they believed in, was asking them to jump off the tallest building in town.

One of the old gaffers stood forward and cleared his throat. “Sir,” he asked respectfully, the way old noncoms talk to young officers, “no offense, but are there actually necromancers out there? Is that why we’re building up the walls? Is that why you – I mean – all those men ended up in the hospital?”

Pitt met his eyes, held them. "Any necromantic powers are being contained by the wards that the Red King himself erected. They are currently unable to break out from their cage, but that may not remain so. The only necromantic activity that has been found outside the containment zone is those injured in the assault, and they are being treated in the infirmary. We do not yet know the full strength of the threat. We are fortifying the town in advance of the arrival of more forces.

The Hunter looked out to the gathered troop, raising his voice. "We are not crossing the river to fight necromancers or their dark constructs. There is a camp, reported as being close to the other side of the river, may be in danger once the battle starts in earnest, so we are going to relocate them to our side of the border. There is a chance that this group may be sympathizers. We may need to subdue a threat to our security, which is why you are accompanying me. 

"Let me make this clear, though. We do not know who is in that camp. Murder, even of someone not a citizen, is a crime punishable by death. I am authorized to pass judgement on all citizens of this nation. No one is to attack unless I give the order, and failure to abide by that order will meet no mercy. You are to be vigilant, though. Even if the camp is not hostile, you are still near enemy territory.  Be prepared for anything that might happen. You are to protect the city, and the encampment. We will meet at the north gate at dawn.”

Pitt’s speech was a comfort to the would-be guardsmen, who started to filter out to the jobs they had been assigned earlier that day. To them, it made sense. Protection of citizens; circling the wagons; building up the walls. All the good stuff associated with the duties which they swore to follow. As speeches went, one of the better. One, still holding onto concern, raised his voice, telling his compatriots that he was going to ask a priest he knew to come anyway, “just in case.”

The younglings, on the other hand, positively swelled with pride as the speech went on. Pitt saw in them a shadow of someone he had been; full of the glory and vigor of a newly-ordained Hunter, missing the cynicism and jadedness that comes with experience. A couple of them started planning amongst themselves to bring some more friends; blacksmith's boys with arms like cord, tracker's sons with eyes and bows that could clip a hawk on a dive, carpenter's apprentices who were familiar with the woods on the far side of the Zedac. At the last, Pitt kept a chuckle to himself, thinking that the carpenter’s boys would have some sharp words for would-be heroes.

As the troop fell out, after a fashion, a worried father-looking guard came up to Pitt. “If you would be so kind, my good sir Hunter, could you keep the boys to the rear, if at all possible, where you can?” He wrung his hands nervously, and Pitt recognized one of the few guardsmen to survive the dreadful night in the Cursed Zone. “There are mothers in Samalta who would go to their grave in a week from the grief of having lost sons and husbands, sir; there are more than a few.”

He withered a bit under Pitt’s cold gaze. Pitt knew the regulations. The service required of all guards asked them to give their life for Steward, country, and King. There was room in the guard for neither weakness nor favoritism. The guard made his apologies, thanking Pitt somewhat incoherently for helping them in such a dark time, and went to join what few of his friends remained.

Pitt watched them go, eventually left alone in the open pavilion at the foot of the temple. It was all the more silent for the sounds of deconstruction happening out of sight, around corners in the town. He hoped, desperately hoped, that this would be a milk run, a simple escort mission. Samalta was a small town, made smaller by the plethora of empty houses. It might not be able to take another botched foray into the woods beyond the river. He might not be able to.

He squinted, watching the sun lower in the sky, start to dim behind the smoke still rising beyond the walls. He knew, like he could see into the quiet spaces of the night ahead, that sleep would evade him, that he would pore over maps and records for the entire night, trying to prepare as much as he could, trying to keep the nightmares away.

Pitt sighed, and slowly climbed the temple steps. Best to get started.

<><><> 

Allcre walked down a narrow alley, following a middle-aged priest whose hands were dark against the sunbaked brick of the buildings to either side. They stopped at an intersection, as a wagon team took bricks and old lumber to the northern gate. The priest poked his head out, looking left, then right. He turned back to her, a smile below worried eyes on his face. “Just another block or so.”

The Hunter was led to the house of one Gaffer Harvod, a rotund man with skin midnight-black from field labor and hair cloud-white from age, who shared his house with the unofficial center of the rumor mill, his partner and the town midwife Rose Harvod. It was Rose that she wanted to talk to. The priest had made it clear that, while he wasn’t sure, just by dint of her knowing enough information about people in general, she would know some specific answers to Allcre’s questions. At the last corner, he turned to the Hunter with a bashful look on his face.

“Look,” he started, “this is actually sort of an embarrassing place to be for a priest. It would be unbecoming for someone of my position to stoop to asking a gossip such as she for help.”

Allcre raised an eyebrow at him. “Afraid of a woman?”

The priest winced, hard. “She’s vindictive and vengeful. She’s had no problem cutting ties with the religious community. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention to any of my superiors that I took you here.” For good measure, he looked around, checking the street. “Best to get you inside so some questions can get answered.”

The door was guarded by the eminent Gaffer Harvod, lounging on a chair made from what looks like the better parts of a wine tun, a wagon, and a floor covering. At the approach of the Hunter and the priest, the assembly groaned as he stood in greeting. “Father Myur! It’s been too long, my friend.” His voice rumbled like distant thunder, full of laughter and peace.

“Too long, indeed.” The priest offered a hand in shake, and was clearly dwarfed.

Harvod turned to the Hunter, and bowed as deep as his frame could handle. “It is an honor,” he intoned, “to be visited by one so honored as yourself.” Despite folding almost in half, his head was almost level with Allcre’s.

“A pleasure,” Allcre replied, “and I’m sure the same with your wife.”

Harvod straightened up, smiling. His massive hand pushed open a door, and a bellow for Rose was answered by an unintelligible yell from somewhere in the house. Some few children come tumbling out the door, and are kept penned by the Gaffer’s huge hands. Eventually, the town gossip herself came out. Before greeting Allcre, she glared briefly at the priest, who tried his best to ignore it.

Rose, all lean muscle and grey edges, offered a hand still wet from the washing. “Sorry about the little ones, ma’am,” she commented. “Odd kids from around the town end up here. Can’t keep track of ‘em all, so I just try to give ‘em a roof as I can.” Her eyes softened looking at the Gaffer playing with the kids, no older than eight. “Come on inside, then. Tea’s on.”

The tea came in mugs, thick raw ceramic, with a powerful scent that cleared out the head in a way Allcre was unfamiliar with. “Grow the herbs ourselves!” Rose called over, obviously proud of the handiwork. The Hunter took a draft, closing her eyes in pleasure. Rose was fussing about in the other room, talking to the Gaffer and herding the kids. The outer door clapped shut, and Rose rejoined the Hunter, nervously wiping her hands again on her apron.

“Sorry about all that,” she murmured, taking a quick sip of her own tea. “Have to make a space for company.”

“Don’t worry about it,”Allcre replied. “You said those children were wanderers, orphans in the town?”

“Something like that, but never orphans. Helped half their mothers give birth to ‘em. Feel like my responsibility doesn’t end there.” Rose took another sip of the tea, deeper this time. “Now, what did that stuck-up young priest want, bringing you all the way down here to this side of town?”

Not wanting to waste any time, and as Rose clearly was interested in getting down to business, Allcre focused on Rose, midwife, gossip, mother. “Tell me about the Wanderers. What do you know, what have you heard, what have you seen?”

Rose looked shocked. “Those old nomads? Why in the world do you want to know about them?”

Allce let a pause draw out somewhat dramatically, watching Rose’s eyes draw slightly wider. “We are all threatened by what lies across the river. Samalta may be the only safe place for anyone outside the walls. We may be safer inside if there are less people outside to be … taken.”

Rose drew in a sharp breath at the implication. She knew her history. She knew exactly what the Hunter was referring to. After a bracing drink from the mug, Rose began.

In a word, the result of Allcre’s examination of Rose’s knowledge revealed that the Wanderers are perfectly strange. They roamed all over the frontier, occasionally making it as far south as Depool, but only rarely, as their real home was the broad plains under the stars. They had never respected the hard border of the Zedac between the territories of the elves and of Utulia. Rose thought that by way of the Wanderers, agents of the Elven Kingdoms crossed the border, using their glammer and magic to pass unseen among crowds. Again, for the second time that week, the memories of a certain wary and silent gentleman in a crowded bar popped into Allcre’s mind. It made sense; using neutral-party, yet friendly, primitives to sneak into hostile nations.

“Proper pagans” is one of the less invective phrases Rose used to describe their level of primitiveness; apparently, they held to the old and more barbaric ways of worshiping the spirits of the land and the air and watching the stars for signs, dotting the plains with well-hidden shrines to local spirits. Apparently, to Rose’s own dramatic emphasis, the Wanderers were even guilty of breeding with elves, producing lamp-eyed young brats, smooth-skinned with pointy ears and penchants for things like music and history, none of which a strapping young lad should be caught studying. 

That said, Rose concluded three cups of tea later, the Wanderers were mostly harmless. Occasionally, a few of the nomads would wander into town, barter a few trinkets for the odd tool, bit of supplies, or piece of news, and then dodge back into the grass with nary a coin flipped to the bartender. They never seemed hostile, just curious, almost like children gawping at things like walls and cobblestones and fountains. Rose herself had traded a few bundles of her own tea-leaves for necklaces of beads. She showed Allcre with a little shame; it was an exquisite piece, done in polished stone and bone and made of braided hair (Allcre’s guess was yak, but it had been a while). Unfortunately, Rose didn’t have any information as to the layout, population, or manners of the Wanderers. If anybody in town would have known, it would have been her, but, no dice.

Rose stopped for a minute. The Gaffer had drawn himself a stein of beer from some homebrewed stock, after offering some to the Hunter (who politely declined). She looked carefully for some sign at Allcre, who was steadily gazing back.

“Could I,” she started hesitantly, “go with you?” The Gaffer, mid-swig, frowned deeply, but said nothing. Rose flushed, almost afraid of what the answer would be.

Allcre did not immediately respond. She considered what Rose was, more than her function in this town. She was a natural gossip, already on tenterhooks with the community. She was smart, interested, curious, but clearly lacked the tact to handle what she herself had described as “dirty bastard-sons”. Speed was the essence of what needed to happen now, and having a potentially offensive guest would hamper her efforts entirely.

So, the Hunter leaned forward, placing a hand over Rose’s. “It might not be best,” Allcre said. “We need everyone to stay safe.” It was as good a lie as she could tell. The Gaffer looked enormously relieved, but said nothing.

Rose nodded, silently. Not having any more questions, the stay didn’t last too much longer, and Allcre found herself back in the street. It smelled hot, dusty, baked, so different from the herbal and fragrant coolness of Rose’s house. She had her heart in the right place, the Hunter thought. Just not her experience.

Allcre walked slowly back to the temple, having waved on the priest who accompanied her, then waited outside with the gaffer. She had so many questions. Questions about the nature of their enemies, questions about the nature of their allies, about the history of the place, about people, about things, about everything related to this inexplicable centuries-old undead-trap that seemed to be the central object of this whole damned mess. Her feet took her back to the temple, up the same steps at the same rate that Pitt had followed some time earlier. She found her quarters quiet, empty, though with the volume of thoughts rolling through her head it was barely registered. Allcre went through the motions of preparing for bed, still absorbed in the torrent of unknowns, evidence, and hunches that had started to barely precipitate out over the last few (horrible) days. Her lamp blown out, she climbed onto her cot and laid back.

Somewhere deep in her mind, she knew that sleep would not be forthcoming. There were too many questions to gnaw on, too many small pieces of information that could point one way or another, entire magical operations to consider and figure out. Perhaps it was for the best; with no sleep came no nightmares.

Night found Allcre staring at her ceiling through half-lidded eyes, watching, waiting, for answers, for the morning.

<><><> 

The Archivist took a moment on the wall, looking around, looking north. The work on the walls had started in earnest. Honestly, he hadn’t expected the town to lean into their circumstance so readily, if with a grim set to their jaw. Dust hung thick in the air over places where abandoned buildings were being torn down to make Samalta safe. If it could be torn down, it was. If the walls could be built higher, they were. The Archivist scratched his beard pensively, absentmindedly. The real question was this: would it help? Would it even slow them down?

Haldaan, a shimmering mirage in the dim light of the summer evening, lay as it had for generations along the bank of the Zedac. The Archivist, in his mind’s eye, imagined the camp of the Red King’s army stretched between the walls of Samalta and that larger city beyond, river embankments piled higher to form defenses, barricades and earthworks stretching for miles. Allcre had told him about the chance encounter in a tavern en route, a strange man who pointed them towards the citadel which, even now, stood firm against time and circumstance. He dropped down onto scaffolds erected that afternoon, and disappeared from the sight of Samalta as soon as he hit the grass.

The road to Haldaan had been, and remained, an arrow-straight line from the waystation that Samalta had started out as. The sun-baked dust, every so often, didn’t quite cover the paving stones that had been carefully laid out by the Mage-Lords, and even the span of years since Haldaan had been abandoned to its ghosts had not yet erased the wagon tracks. The Archivist could also see, to his relief, no fresh or strange tracks on that path. His footsteps grew more confident, relatively; his passage might go unnoticed by wary hunters in the tall, dead grass.

His path stopped, briefly, as he came to the old canal entry. A barge-path had been laid into the plains, water diverted from the mountains and sent flowing down towards the frontier. A bridge crossed that canal just as it reached the Zedac, giving it more weight and wider banks than could be cut by the river in its current state. That bridge had been thrown down by the Red King. The path now forded the old canal, damming it entirely. At some point, the Archivist figured, there must have been a foul and stagnant lake that was a dream for irrigation, but there was only a light depression now. No tracks in the silty, open flat. More relief. He took note of a few loose stones, some larger blocks he could hide or rest under, and moved on.

Haldaan was close enough to be more easily examined now. The woods on the other side of the border had thinned out, with some of the trees even containing leaves, broad and green. They grew right up to the moat of the dusty city, and the Archivist smiled thinly, without mirth. Hiding places would need to be that much better if there was a wealth of them just around the city. He could see the thickness of the reinforced north-western walls, the broken road-gate, the fallen canal-gate. Through walls leaning precariously, he could see buildings in their last stages of total collapse. The years had not been kind to the urban center of the frontier.

The evening drew long shadows in its train. Broken foundations which had served mills, farmhouses, odd stables and taverns, stood like scattered teeth in the plain, more visible in the low light. The sun, now a dull red disc slipping towards the horizon, spent its light in the remains of the smoke from the trees had burned. The brick of the city proper took on a rusty hue, but the darker stone of the citadel went almost blood red.

In a flash, the Archivist looked back up to the top of the citadel. He had seen a flicker, a reflection perhaps, something metal. His powers of observation were excellent, and well-honed, but at this distance even he could only pick out –

Movement. Faint, and barely a guess, but his instincts (and mild paranoia) had served him well. There were people, definitely in the city, definitely in the citadel. He felt comfortable working in the dark, but so did practically anyone that could possibly be spending their summers in the wreck of a city.

Considering the angle of the light, the possible options for finding a safe refuge within Haldaan’s walls, and his general unease with the whole damn situation, the Archivist decided to stay outside the walls that night. He found a mill’s base to be suitable; from the city, he would be nearly impossible to see, but with the cracks and flaws in the old brick-work he had a vantage point on any approach to his safe spot.

Settling into a corner, where he could fail to get sleep like every other night that week, the Archivist looked out on that city. How it figured into their future, he wasn’t sure. He was going off of the word and tale of two Hunters, into a place that almost guaranteed contained enemies of the Utulian state, where safety could not be ensured.

The night fell uneasily, quickly. The stars came out, and their light was thin. A silence lay on the plains that was entirely unnatural. The Archivist waited, watching, bracing for the morning.

<><><> 

A tense hour had followed the initial Aleph Level One report. Allcre and Pitt sent out some very simple orders to the effect that masons, carpenters, and any able hands available should get to work tearing down the abandoned and disused buildings that littered Samalta like sores. The walls, in such a state of disrepair as to be nearly useless, were to be repaired with the materials scavenged and recycled. The rest of the hour was spent planning between the three of them; where they should go, who they needed to pull behind the walls, further ideas and possibilities.

Messages started coming in a trickle, then a torrent. Authority was granted to Governor-Priest Hammaran to oversee the defense organization, with automatic deputization of the Hunters and station Archivist. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of troops were being drawn away from stations to Samalta; the Fourth Sappers had been mobilized, the Fifth and Eighth Infantry Divisions of the Second Legion were being re-directed off the northern front, the hitherto rumored Archivist Security Force would be brought in, all on top of fully twelve pairs of experienced Hunters. It would be a month at least for the disparate forces to arrive, so any preparations possible were ordered to happen.

The most chilling missive came late, direct from the Archive.

Based on the available information and the confirmed Aleph Level 1 situation, we have found it highly probable that the missing Hunters were lost to the powers of necromancy. Whether they have been sacrificed or converted remains unknown without further direct observation. By any means necessary, keep the situation contained until help arrives in force.

<><><> 

The first suicides were found that night.

<><><> 

And lo His burning sword banished night, driving back the lich and the risen and the foul necromancer. Sacrificing a great part of His power to destroy the enemy, He safeguarded all of Utulia, and by His watch we are kept safe to this day, never to see that dark foe rise out of the dark once more.

-Conclusion to the Cardinate-sanctioned account of the Dark War

Of Blood and Brass: Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Exposition

The first thing that visitors noticed was the noise. To be perfectly clear, it was the change in noise. There was a hush, a wave of whispering like grass before the wind, a rumble of exclamation like the engine for the rumor mill being kick-started. Where there had been auditory chaos, an entropy of noise spread in all directions, there was an epicenter of looking, listening. Every stand-owner’s heart beat faster, every company man stood taller, every crier and hawker of wares shouted louder into the openness of sound and then, suddenly, quieted. As suddenly as it came, it went, right back into the chaos.

There were five of them. Five not-quite-right visitors. No entourage, no accountants attending, nobody. Only five.

<><><> 

Deep in the HCEC’s Outer Pavilion, where hundreds of shopkeepers had set up stands in appropriated bazaar spots, someone in workman’s garb (simple, yet clean) wandered through, occasionally buying food and munching it idly, picking up odd trinkets and mechanisms, weighing tools and implements in a broad hand. There was an air of practical curiosity around the figure, a humble nobility in the appraisals.

Eventually, the sprawling exposition campus of Broadson’s Farming Manufactory saw that figure, far enough back from the stand to keep out of conversations, but close enough to clearly be interested. A broad, slow smile crept across the features of this working-class visitor, below eyes that took in every rivet and gear of the massive combines that sat smoking and gleaming in the Inner Garden, eyes that ravenously took in the shirtless laborers feeding the boilers that had been red-hot for hours. Sam Broadson got chills from those eyes. They had no place in a face like that.

<><><> 

Tesibius’ voice took some getting used to. It was like children’s stories about river spirits talking; somehow, the random splatters and burbles of a stream were supposed to form recognizable words. Being encased in a closed system of glass tubes and brass bands, the Inquo’s voice was a combination of fluid moving through a brass organ somewhere deep within the system, and the odd settlings and gurglings of the water in general. Calling it a voice was really not doing it justice. He said things. People knew that he said things, and responded accordingly.

He was in favor. He still thought that, as a side trip, they could break into some hidden vault with unknown treasures (at least two pairs of eyes rolled, but you couldn’t tell with the Shaman’s mask). Whether that happened or not, this would represent access to a whole new biome, a place where alchemical and biological wonders would be in excessive abundance. That, in turn, would open doors to a serious alchemical monopoly.

The construct leaned forward, resting gentle clockwork appendages on the table’s varnished surface, careful not to leave the faintest mar.

Furthermore, the thought continued, surviving accounts of the Underdark described an organism that distilled and used ambient magical energy. Finding a third form of energy production besides chemo- and photo-synthesis would jumpstart sufficient research to make one despair of the endless questions. Among them, the construct noted seriously, was the creation of a biological construct to house the Inquo form, such as it was.

Tesibius smiled (or, at least, the board members knew he was doing that smiling thing, despite no outward physical changes). Who wouldn’t, on top of all that, not want to wonder at the marvelous craftsmanship of the Lady of Life in the presence of no less than dragons? Content with arguments placed on the table, the construct leaned back, fingers clicking softly in concert 

<><><> 

A tall figure with fiery red hair strode through the HCEC. The spontaneous exposition and convention that had sprung up in the days following the out-of-the-blue article in the Courant interested that figure not at all. Wherever the red hair was seen, so were the piercing eyes, appraising machine shops, workbenches, craftsmen and artisans in the slightest glance, carrying a weight of sneering judgement the most haughty monarch could barely manage. Though hundreds, even thousands of visitors crowded every hall and corridor, this one stood out. You couldn’t help but try to impress those deadly eyes, and fail.

The impatient path was abruptly halted in front of the alchemical spread of Haven Haemonetics and Homunculi. A much shorter tiefling with his half-orc girlfriend ran right into the impeccably dressed figure, and the apology immediately offered died on his lips. Those eyes, up close, were like watching knives being made for the express purpose of a slow death. The tiefling just stopped moving, barely breathing for the fear, and his girlfriend ran away at a dead sprint that would have done her orc chieftan grandfather proud.

Leaving the devil-spawn idiot behind, the figure strode into the Haemonetics sprawl. There were visits at every stand and bench, listening to lectures, testing the samples, measuring with deadly eyes the enhanced volunteers the company produced. No longer mired in the old accusations of necromancy, HHH was using alchemy to increase speed, strength, reflexes. In short, while their PR focused on labor abilities and medical applications, there was really only one thing that the visitor stayed at for longer than a minute; military applications. Super soldiers. Enhancement in a test tube.

Kan DerVeeldt, senior consulting alchemist for the HHH, saw those eyes change. It was the hunger, no longer judging but coveting, that made the cold sweat break out. There were bad memories of a particular gnome he associated with that look.

<><><> 

While the construct Tesibius was making his points known, Irvin sat back and looked over the article again. He skimmed a few lines, and then his eyes unfocused. His breathing quickened. His fingers started counting, then just shaking. The very tips of his hair started to change color imperceptibly to an iridescence. Dragon blood and scale, a whole new class of reagants, sample collection, traps, products…

“I’ve decided.” The outburst cut through the pause after Tesibius stopped talking. “I want to go.” There was a short, awkward silence as the rest of the board waited for further explanation, watching the gnome’s hair turn an excited yellow. Just as a different voice was about to be raised, the pieces of Irvin’s thoughts came crashing together into the whole he was waiting for. “It goes like this. Farthington: you get an unreasonable new hold on the weapons market with that plant they just mentioned. Tesibus is already in; I want to go. Kai: you know you can't ignore the possibility of a totally unique and new adventure, and Shamus over there is outvoted no matter what he wants, whatever the hell he wants.”

The Shaman rested a pair of dull-colored fingers at the bridge of his mask’s nose as the alchemist strolled over to the construct and started a muttered conversation. A burned but recognizable tail (nobody wanted to know why, how, or when that tail was procured or turned into functional charcoal) was produced as charcoal as drawings and schematics began to flower on grubby paper. Completely oblivious to all but these plans, the gnome sat on the edge of the table at Tesibius’ hand, diving right into the ideas that came to mind like a wildfire.

<><><> 

One moment, there was an empty space of floor. The next, there was an officer.

The uniform was not recognizable, but it was more than that. The way that the boots shone, the polish on the bronze buttons and low-profile medals, the featureless deep of the black and the brilliance of the red, all of it was secondary, costume, the frame. It was the eyes (it was always the eyes). Below a helmet that would have been as bright as chrome for lack of surface imperfections were it not jet-black, two killer’s eyes coldly inspected the vista before them. Those eyes had watched cities burn on their master’s command. They knew the screams of the dying. A bed of ice would be a comfort compared to the mercy in those eyes.

The position was perfect; in the main convention hall, the two primary armaments manufacturers had set up right next to each other, with rows of military products gleaming, ready for inspection. APCs, models of airships and carriers, mobile fortifications, gleaming guns, tickets to weapons tests later in the week. The officer could see attendants spot-polishing as necessary, demonstrating loading and unloading. From the occupied position, the military wealth of Haven was laid out and visible.

The officer stood there for two hours, perfectly still, merely watching.

<><><> 

"What a wonderful opportunity for profiteering. What a wonderful chance to acquire spoils." The metal of the Shaman’s bones produces a series of clacks that brings the room to silence for a while. A sarcastic laugh rings out, tinged with the otherworldly quality of his strange lungs. "I do not doubt there are spoils to be found. Maybe we could get ourselves a barking dragon."

Casting aside the pretense of humor, he gently laid his beautiful tin mask on the table, revealing the protruding metal bones and unsettling glass eyes. The visible and colorless muscles settled into a neutral expression as he paced softly on the thick carpet.

"What I am about to say is not going to be popular, but I must offer my perspective so that our group can function as it needs to. I am truly privileged to be in such good company as I seek my answers and ride my life into the infinite. I mean this. But, as I have said in the past, I cannot support profiteering. The Underdark is not a treasure trove; it is an unholy abscess. It may contain answers, knowledge—spoils, even—but we cannot forget that Khoriv fell into the maw of something great and terrible. The Underdark is a shadowy wyrm that writhes in its apparent stillness."

An escaped terrarium beetle, flipped onto its back, took a moment of the Shaman’s time, pausing to crouch silently and flip it over with his little finger, rising to continue his address.

"We see cause and effect, and we need cause and effect, but seeing this opportunity as either cause or effect is folly. The moral world is made of arcs and tendrils, though we perceive instances. I am eager to join any expedition so long as we fear the shadows and respect them as they thrash about."

No one cared to meet the glass eyes as they scanned the room, but the expressions of the other board members illustrated some lack of understanding, some concern, some worry.

"Fear not. I am eager to seek out any knowledge that may help me make sense of my condition, our condition, and something in me longs to delve into the Underdark. It feels right, though I have my worries. Let us respect the unknown, terrible, entropic dangers that await us."

<><><> 

Sister Lai of the Order of the Silver Star knew her place. One of the most shunned religious orders in Haven (and that was saying a whole lot), they were one of the three groups which considered dragons to be not-bad. The heretics of the Ascendant Fire claimed that through eventual reincarnation, all stood a chance at becoming a dragon, and the apostates at the Silver Flame claimed that slavery under the dragons had been the only way to achieve righteousness. The Black Sorrow didn’t count, since they were equal opportunity death-cult evil-worshippers. The Silver Star, however, knew that because the dragons were not completely evil, they were capable of understanding right and wrong to a greater extent than small-minded mortals. They knew morality was a longer game, and though Sister Lai did not understand what that long game entailed, she trusted that a dragon could, perhaps, eventually explain it.

She had helped Mother Superior Foli set up the tiny corner stand after paying the convention manager the space rent. They had handed out a few dozen pamphlets, not counting the three that were shredded by angry members of the Silver Flame. It was a good day; there was less hate with the rumor of dragons around.

There was a moment when Mother Superior Foli and Sister Cho had left her alone to man the stand while they went and got food. A moment when a tall figure clad in a featureless white robe approached the stand, their face filled with a surprised curiosity, as if there was an unrecognizable but lovely smell in the air. Sister Lai had been surprised herself, for a moment; if the robe was so white, why wasn’t it more shiny and obvious? As the figure stopped before the stand, looking over the pamphlets and artwork, Sister Lai got a look at the eyes, filled with a sadness deeper than oceans, a mirth higher than clouds, a strength like cold stone. Their eyes met, and Sister Lai experienced a vertigo, double-vision, as she saw something impossible.

The figure left, and Sister Lai could only say to her fellow nuns, “It wasn’t white… it was silver!”

<><><> 

Howard Armon Dalius Farthington rotated his ring, a broad steel band emblazoned with the symbol of his work, with mild unease as the Shaman finished talking and returned to his seat. Feeling that the time was right for his own intervention in the discussion, he cleared his throat, pulling the protruding coat of his pinstripe suit into better position around his expansive self.

"Gentlemen!" Howard leaned forward and laid his workman’s hands on the table in front of him, palms face-down, fingers splayed. "I must say, that I would like to hope that none of us would take our own mortality, nor the risk of foregoing enjoying any rewards from this little venture, quite so lightly! Indeed, my dear Shamus, I myself wouldn't underestimate the dangers posed in exploring the vast and unknown Underdark! No, not even if I had my trusty original Dailus Mark I with me!" Howard chuckled at his own joke and beamed at them all brightly. A faint groan of indeterminate origin issued from someone else, but the momentum was his.

"Oh no, no, no, no, no... such casualness won't do. No, it won't do at all." Howard spoke quickly and in a slightly chiding manner, as a father reclining would speak to a growing son. "But gentlemen," he said, resting one thick hand upon the Courant, "in all seriousness, I think that we absolutely must embark upon this quest. Fame, fortune, and knowledge are always useful in my book and I never turn down a chance to make either history or bank. But I think that prudent precautions are important and a level of preparation ought to be considered. Only one life to live, eh?" Howard smiled, nodding at the Shaman in respect.

The prototypical capitalist then turned his attentions on Tesibius and Irvin. "And I just have to hear what you know about this thaumo-synthetic plant, my good Tesibius! And Irvin," Howard said, shifting his gaze towards the alchemist, "if you're in the business of learning more about dragons, just let me know! I have been eager to make some better connections in the Imperium for some time now.” He paused, speaking more to himself. “Real dragons! If I could only have access to some of their military-industrial technology and methods..."

Howard seemed lost in thought for a brief moment before shaking himself out of dreams of gears, steel, and profits. He then put the end of the rolled up newspaper to his chin, his brow furrowed. "Hmmm," he said before looking up and moving his eyes to the only member of the board yet to speak at the table. "You've been rather quiet Kai, what are your thoughts on the matter?"

Kai sat up straight, his reverie broken, his gaze now focused in the present. Since his turn reading the article, his mind had packed up a few important things already. A few small tomes, custom-bound down the street and prepared for loving decoration once their crisp, blank pages had been filled; writing utensils for the road (good, solid charcoal, not one of those ridiculous tail disasters); a small pack of necessities. His mind had already left the building with these items in tow and started traveling, for the moment the words "enter the Underdark" had crossed his retinas, the rest had been merely a symposium of little bright points of happiness. Reconstructing the tension. He shivered with delight as that phrase passes through his consciousness again now.

Ponderously, he said, "I can't recall the last time you bothered to ask my opinion, Howard." Kai does not mean this as a barb, of course. He is simply casually observing the length of time this has taken. It's generally clear they will not agree, but here lies a clear exception.

"I am for it, of course. I understand your concerns, Shaman, of course, but I am sure you know full well not one among us will not seek to pursue this opportunity. I have little doubt we will succeed in acquiring the privilege," he noted, not cockily, just matter-of-factly. "The chance to learn firsthand what has become of an entire society, an entire region lost to the records of history, in all this time isolated from the rest of the world -- what could possibly be more interesting? Sure, we could stay here and read about it someday. But as lovely as books can be as a source, there is absolutely nothing quite like seeing a thing with your own eyes and experiencing it with your own mind. And the fact that it comes with an adventure and so many other mysteries only adds to the case. Surely, we must go. Even were we certain to only find this writhing, unknowable, probably metaphorical wyrm of yours, still I would insist. Would we be true disciples of the Nomad if we planted our roots here and ceased to seek out the new and the unknown? Should the day come that I desire such a thing, I would renounce my path immediately."

He stood up, eager to begin his preparations. "I believe we are decided, then?"

There was a brief pause before the shaman raised his voice hesitantly. "The very notion of such an adventure gives us all pause, indeed." He clasped his hands, tendons clearly twitching, and began to speak cautiously: "A major point of concern is, I believe, the military inclinations of the dragons. If we allow them access to our technology, I fear the worst regarding how… creative they might get. That being said, a sort of performance or exposition may be one of our only ways into their inner sanctum.”

His hands moved, balancing in the air the ideas put forth. "I feel as if we have sufficient Nomadic ability, and technological, alchemical, financial prowess that we could use to show ourselves off not as able fighters but as… entertainment? A distraction. Of course, this would not be our true goal, although a troupe of performing artists is no less noble than any other institution of purpose. We could be... The Halcyon Troupe. Or Group, depending on our mission." He chuckled, a thin sound from such a throat as his.

"I say we dazzle them, confuse them, and keep things strictly superficial, strictly economic. They will doubtless inquire about my appearance, but careful costuming should take care of that. As for Tesibius... Do we want to reveal our mechanical man? I don't know if my ideas are making any sense, or if they are feasible, but perhaps they resonate with the group in some way?"

Tesibius considered the idea. He was in favor either way, but in his consideration there were some minor problems. First, while he was capable of deception magics through his own powers, he was more a student of life magics and could not put up more than a simple defense. Second, any deception could be brushed aside by the legendary prowess of dragons. These were ancient creatures, steeped in lore and power, and the obscuring of form by a spirit less strong than they would go over poorly. Finally, and with emphasis, he really wanted to get in the good graces of the dragons, and not risk anything. There were some things they might not want to show the dragons, but why risk it? One thing the Shaman got right was the idea of entertainment; they should be dazzled, blown away by the work put on by the Foundation.

Howard nodded, starting his addition in the not-quite-silence after Tesibius stopped speaking (it was always strange not going off of auditory cues for conversation). “We must play to our strengths, which are many. Anything less and we risk the money, the fame, the opportunity, and I think we are all clear on how important this is. I believe we have significant preparation ahead of us; we should meet at the end of business today and go over our initial plans, start fitting them together.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them as over a fire, a wide and predatory grin fitting his features well.

<><><> 

The Farthington Industries and the Transitive Anthropology Foundation separately applied for and got huge exposition spaces in the HCEC Main Convention Hall. Howard Farthington was a high-leverage sort of man, and despite the obvious complaint of “they’re basically the same thing, why do you need two you complete bastard” he was able to strong-arm the ad hoc exposition board into doing what he wanted. It was capital well spent.

The Farthington/TAF campus was, therefore, easily twice as large as the next biggest competitor (as it certainly was understood to be a competition). Half of the convention hall was filled with a tightly organized display of the absolute mastery of the combined organizations. Petrochemicals and alchemicals were produced in small and fiercely precise batches, overseen by Irvin and his immediate staff. A small weapons foundry, with the fastest assembly workers in the company, had been running the whole day, producing dozens of Mark I rifles every hour. Lecturers were drawn from the general research staff to describe the host of products and projects being developed within the massive facilities to the north of Haven proper. Kai himself was doing a lecture series describing the expeditions funded by the organizations in great detail, resplendent in his traveling gear, walking through his memories with the hundreds of available artifacts. The Shaman was part of a small, slightly disturbing, yet quite popular exhibit where he did calisthenics (with his mask on) while people watched. Howard was everywhere, gladhanding politicians and competitors alike, always watching for the dragons, always counting ticket sales.

Tesibius was manning the terrarium exhibits, his nature hidden from view with a small cloak of magic and flannel. Visitors came through regularly, more to enjoy the peace and quiet, to marvel at the biological curation, than to investigate. It was a quiet corner, and it was his. Tesibius was happy, for his work to be appreciated, and to walk among the humans. It had been a while.

Sometime in the late afternoon, he found himself alone among his plants and creatures. He did not tire in any normal sense, but it was nice to not worry about people touching fragile specimens. The construct wandered through his territory, taking note of any problems. His attention was so focused on his work that he almost ran into a visitor. Tesibius looked up to offer an apology, but stopped short. A question then rose in his mind, but was quieted almost immediately as the obvious answer prevented it.

The visitor was tall, not tall and thin, but off-scale tall. His clothes were woven from a fine golden flax, with threads of red woven in intricate patterns. He was completely bald with skin as dark as charcoal, which provided an exquisite contrast for the light green eyes that now curiously took in the construct’s appearance. Tesibius, however, saw something vastly different. To a spirit, the world looks far different than that seen by mortals.

He saw the years and the power. He saw the vast knowledge that he was measured against in that inscrutable mind. When a hand extended to touch him in the center of his ‘chest’, he expected a far different set of digits than the hand of flesh and bone. When a grin of surprise spread across the visitor’s face, he expected a far different set of teeth than the perfect pearly whites on display. A spirit’s double vision takes in what is, not just what is seen.

This visitor, this dragon, was practically twitching in excitement and curiosity. Tesibius knew (he knew) that he was completely unknown to this ancient mind, and currently unknowable. He felt that, perhaps, there was more than just economics behind the treaty. The two creatures from outside the mortal ken spent a few more minutes together before the dragon bowed, and left.

<><><> 

“You what?”

I know what I saw.

“There’s no way, we didn’t see it, him, her, whatever, at all-”

That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.

“No, good Tesibius, there honestly isn’t a way that happened. My man at the ticket booth saw no-one like that.”

Your man was wrong.

“How did you get so lucky? How? I must have seen half of the visitors to the expo, my throat will be sore for weeks, and I didn’t so much as catch a glance

Really?

“Really.”

Do you want tea for that?

“Actually, would you mind? I’m sure you’ve got something good.”

“Tea needs aside, I was kind of expecting someone to show up. I heard just before lunch from one of my old staff members who got poached by Haemonetics that a really weird guy, all red or whatever, rolled up and acted like he knew everything.”

“Who?”

“Who what?”

“Who got poached?”

“That kid, the uh, where’s he from, back country Arimicia, the hick. Wanted to study creature development for farming. We stay in touch.”

I liked him.

“We all did.”

“If this was a dragon, are we surprised that it moved in mysterious ways? It went where it wanted, saw what it wanted, and left. As the wind blows without source or home, so a dragon must fly… or move.”

“Honestly, that’s an entirely fair point.”

“Did you hear about the officer?”

“I saw him when I went out for some food. He stood like a stone of hate, like an engine of fury and death idling in the snow. I avoided him like the plague.”

I am even more glad I didn’t leave the terrariums.

“Seriously.”

“So what now?”

“I guess we wait? It all kind of went according to schedule, and a lot of other deals and business happened besides the dragons.”

<><><> 

The sigil of the Imperium is straightforward and immediately recognizable. On a background of an context-appropriate color, a metallic circle is embossed, circumscribing a dragon displayed affronte with head to dexter. Banners of Saurian legions have text, mottos of their company, names of their origin districts, sometimes additional details. The diplomatic corps has the dragon passant in peacetime, perched overt in war with small humanoids in its claw.

A package had arrived at the foundation, with two letters. The first was from the attache to the Imperium embassy in Haven (an incredibly imposing Saurian by the name of Doriadus). Inside was a congratulatory letter with a request for an audience in three days’ time to discuss the second letter. The second letter, which Howard had resisted opening until the board had gathered, was contained in an envelope of unmatched paper quality. On its surface, a red-gold sigil, with the words De Imperium Draconis Nobilis in impossibly fine letters below. The silence was a physical presence in the boardroom as Howard solemnly opened the envelope and withdrew the letter.

By authority of the Golden Emperor, Protector of the Imperium, Flame of Bahamut, Mighty and Invulnerable:

In accordance with the Eighth Treaty of Haven, signed on Midsummer’s Day in this year of the Age of Fire:

By unanimous vote of the Council for Underdark Expedition Selection:

The submission by the Farthington Industries Company, and by extension the Transitive Anthropology Foundation, for exploration of the Underdark through the Coboldia Delve is probationally accepted. Further progression towards a successful bid will be fulfilled by more extensive presentation.

The five representatives of the Council will examine the board members of the Transitive Anthropology Foundation accordingly:

Tesibius, Inquo and construct of ancient make, by Cauraelus of the First Order.

The elf, shaman of indeterminate origin, by Ardurian of the Second Order.

Howard Armon Dalius Farthington, master of his industries, by Ordiadus of the Third Order.

Irvin Wildhair, artificer and alchemist, by Elodicius of the Fourth Order.

Kai Longstrider, adventurer and nomad, by Harodaius of the Fifth Order.

A representative will inform you of the additional details and examination criteria that you will need to meet in order to submit a complete bid for the exploration contract. A successful bid will result in a final interview with the Council, financial backing from the Imperium for preparation, and travel visas through the Neutral Zone and to the Delve.

Offer no less than all you have to show.

 <><><>

Three other companies received similar letters, the Courant quickly learned: Haven Haemonetics and Homunculi, the dwarven construction firm Kopatel, and an international team representing the HCEC itself. The dragons had made their offer to Haven’s (and the world’s) finest, and though generous things were being given, they were offered in a claw.

Of Blood and Brass: Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Harbor in the Stars

The land is old, and full of stories. Myths, legends, fables - truth in the guise of wisdom, and lies in the garb of history. In the highlands of Arimicia, with little difference in the older places of the world, the story is told:

In the beginning, the Maker rested atop a hill, shaded by a tree, with a smithy at the base of the hill so he might work. All around, unformed water swirled by the foot of his small mount. He grew restless, sat awhile pondering the work he could accomplish, and turned to the forge’s heat to craft all things. At first, he could only craft the land; mountains, deserts, plains and valleys. It was good, but bare. He took water from his trough and trickled it over the land, forming rivers and lakes. Mist and then rain spilled forth from the water, cooling the still-hot land. The Maker began to craft things with greater skill: the beasts and birds, trees and all things that grow green, filling the land and air and sea with life abundant, some even with the ability to speak. It was good, but wild and untamed. At last, he turned to his greatest work, creating the races which would fill the land and know it as their own. Elves, he made from birchbark and soft clay. Dwarves were wrought from iron and granite. Men, in their variance, were crafted from the sands of a hundred beaches. Giants were at first made from ice and lodestones, but when the ice began to melt there were a mess of smaller copies, which were reinforced with bone or leather. As the forge grew ever hotter, the Maker wrought dragons from precious metals and the white-hot embers of the fire’s heart. When the Maker was finished, the forge threatened to burn the world and force him to start anew, so he drew it and himself into the sea, plunging the whole world into darkness.

In the wake of light, the different races banded together and convened, looking for ways to bring back the light. The dragons, proud as ever, left first, claiming they could make their own fire, flying into the east over the sea and taking their light with them. The elves took up bows and shot silver arrows into the darkness above, piercing the sky with thousands of small lights, each one of them given a name. The dwarves built a single mighty ballista and launched a great luminescent stone upwards, leaving the moon in the sky for sufficient light but destroying the ballista in the process. The giants, and the orcs who are their spawn, claimed that they did not need the fire, and that they could live without the light. Men, on the other hand, had watched each of the races come up with ideas, and found each of them lacking. They took an elven bow, some of the great timbers from the ballista, a dragon scale that had been left behind, and proceeded to make fire, burning bright in the darkness, waking the light from the edges of the world.

Was there actually a Maker? Were the ancient races close enough to discuss a cataclysm of darkness? In all likelihood, no. But, despite the widespread popularity of the above creation story, we do have some history from before the Hall of Kings began recorded history in Khoriv-that-was-Zabad-Dum. 

We know that in the dawn of prehistory, there were elven cities more magnificent than any seen on the world today. A schism happened, magic ran out of control, death and destruction on a scale more unearthly than we can imagine was visited upon our world. The fury of elven wars of yore likely re-shaped much of the world, but without records beyond what the oldest of the fair folk will tell, we have nothing. We have only rumors of what happened prior to the 30,000 year record we are lucky to have.

We know that the earliest arrivals of dwarves, men, and the conglomerate of creatures known as the Northern Culture (orcs, trolls, ogres, and giants) are contemporaneous. Dwarven early history and language appears very similar to that which persists among the orcs, who retain and use written language the most of all the North. Men, however, appeared in Arimicia and spread westward and southward, filling up the entire eastern coast of Calidicia south of the Fire-giant territory. There are excellent archaeological finds showing that there was significant trade with a stabilized elven culture from the earliest points, and with all or most of pre-Disian Dwarven culture.

Our current geopolitical history, however, is shaped by three major events, which I am sure you are all familiar with. The first is the Utulian Period, wherein a highly xenophobic theocratic military governorship disrupted the trade patterns of eastern Calidicia and removed a net producer and exporter from the network of man, allowing for the dominance of dwarven-produced goods. The second is the Dwarven Civil War, separating the Cult of Durukh from the Third Line of Dwarven kings and severing the Dwarven economy from the bloodmetal stocks residing in lower Zabad-Dum, functionally crippling Dwarven economic power well into the Fourth Line. The third is the Southern Run, midway through the Age of Steel, which saw all of Arimicia and much of Calidicia put under the sword of the orcs sweeping southward, destabilizing the region permanently while under the orkish rule. Without strong militaries of men and dwarves, and with a stretched-thin line of orc holdings, the cataclysm at the beginning of the Age of Fire slammed into an unprepared, undefended, and isolated Elven civilization. 

The eastern regions of elven control fell - city-states along the Calidician coast were burned - Voorstad was raided, burned, and occupied - Khoriv fell, taken from underneath by a path carved through the Underdark - the Bronzewater coast was kept under the shadow of dragon-wings - all of it fell, in a matter of decades. Trade ground to a standstill, politics abandoned for the caste system of the dragons where we were marginally more useful than slave labor, and the accumulated wealth of two civilizations and the natural wealth of a third were taken as forced tribute. It would be two and a half millennia before the mythical Seven Dragonbanes were forged and used to drive back draconic hegemony by the greatest heroes of that age. 

It is a quirk of fate, then, that the beginning of the Age of Fire brought not just the doom of civilization but its savior. Whatever the dragons were fleeing in the east (and west, according to global weather surveys) drove before it a wave of refugees, millions strong, carrying with them culture and language and religion. A small handful of cities became metropolitan centers of immense diversity, thriving on a population perfectly accustomed to seeing beings of a hundred different shades and hues in their daily life. They became political undergrounds, activist warrens, seething masses of rage waiting to boil over. And boil over they did, to our eternal gratitude. 

<><><>

Haven! City without kings! City of spires and domes! City of a thousand delights!

Or, at least, that’s how the poets describe it for the travel brochures. There is something to be said for the ironic humor of the population of a dirty, grimy, over-packed, smog-choked metropolis that they unanimously name it Haven. Thought the official name of the city is the Commonwealth and Free City of Bronzewater Bay, that name only applies to the borough where the Bronzewater River and the Southstone River meet, adjunct to the trading district. 

It is a dark city, cold and full of secrets. Winds come howling down off the Sukrovisks, ancient homeland of the Dwarves, skirling and running down over the yellow-silted river, among the quiet barges and the chattering steamships. They race alongside the massive freight-laden trains howling across the landscape on tortured bands of steel. They cut at the coats of the guards of the city, the sprawling edifice by the bay where many hundreds of ships come to pay tribute. Two great rivers meet only as they fall into the ocean between the rising levees and towers of the growing city. A newcomer might shrink at the intimidating size and grim quality, but to many it is merely home. For the Ancient Dwarves who founded it, it was Zihwirin'ushulak, the Bronzewater City, and since the world changed the Dwarves called it Brovodalavrovyy. The Dragons, who took and burned the land beyond the mountains that rise on the southern horizon of the city's walls, who find use in trade and diplomacy through this city, named it Aerisinus, as they have chosen to name everything they once owned. For those who call it home and took refuge in the city that stands apart at the center of the world, it is known simply as Haven. It speaks volumes of the sarcastic and cynical nature of those who live in such a crime-ridden, oft-threatened metropolis.

Haven stretches for miles, with boroughs and neighborhoods going by hundreds of names, though it is best understood when split into three major districts by the two rivers running through it. 

North of the Bronzewater is Portside, the industrial hub of the city and the major freight and shipping terminals of the region. Most of the old Confederacy Navy base had been turned into more shipping land, but the Feds are able to keep a presence and a garrison there for stability reasons, matched by a joint task force of Dwarves. As Dwarves are wont, when space topside runs out, the only way to go is down, allowing for more storage, more industry, more space. 

East of the Southstone River lies the orderly streets of the Marble Rise, the business district capped by the government district with its embassies, senatorial chambers, and bureaucratic offices (with rumors of more serious prisons with dissidents, traitors, and political enemies of the Free City beneath the hallowed greens). High-end residences, home to the owners of massive corporations, banks, and interests, preside over high-end markets and all manner of restaurants. Auburn Street, Glade Row, Marshal's Avenue, Oldport; names which rang loud for notoriety and opulence are found in the heart of this district. 

South of the Bronzewater and west of the Southstone, the biggest section of the city is also the poorest and least cared for. The Blackstones, divided into Upper and Lower Blackstone, are separated by a single road kept in good quality so that travelers from the Rise could get to the Haven Passenger Transport Terminal, to take trains to the IEZ and Khoriv, or airships to Helathia and Voorstad. North of that road, the better residences stand, built stronger (mostly) and scarred less by poverty and graffiti. 

Outside the city walls, even in the shadow of the Governor's Palace, extensive slums and suburbs spread well beyond the city walls. These places are not Haven proper, but they feed into the massive, brooding organism that Haven has become. Labor in the factories and shops, consumers for endless goods, prey for the predatorial criminals and corporations alike, is what these people represent. Little more.

<><><>

And yet, despite the poverty, the graffiti, the crime and sedition of the underpaid masses, rising above the soot and smog are the beacons of light and progress that, just maybe, make Haven not entirely a sarcastic joke.

It was in the Bronzewater Bay University that a dwarf and an elf, working together, built and demonstrated the first reciprocating steam engine. Within the walls of the Haven Senate Chamber, peace was signed between the Imperium and the Free Cities. The first steam-powered ships of air and sea were launched not from Corriston, or Zhukorosk, but from Haven’s Portside docks. The Haven Cultural Exchange Center is a museum, art gallery, political meeting place, house of worship, and grand bazaar all wrapped up into a sprawling sandstone and brick building. 

Of course, any list of prominent members of the Haven skyline would be incomplete without the Transitive Anthropology Foundation, the most forward-thinking and progressive institute for the study of the condition of life and what it means to be alive. Rumored to bankrolled by some of the most powerful corporations in Haven, it houses not one, but two unique individuals; an elf shaman who had been rebuilt (there is no better word for it) at some point in the deep past, and a remnant of the Utulian Period that combines both animated construct and actual life. The gilded doors, the open lobbies, the parlors and galleries, the arboretum and motor pool, the gymnasiums, the laboratories, and the signature anthropological theater made the cathedral-esque building a magnificent tourist attraction for laymen and academics alike.

<><><>

A small bell was rung by an attendant deep within the structure. The attendant in question was looking closely at a newspaper, reading the headline above the fold while absentmindedly yanking the chain that closed the contact that resonated with a half-dozen other bells in the likely chambers of the Foundation’s board members. She walked away from the chain, still reading, bumping into a few rushing porters and offering a distracted, mumbling apology.

The first bell rang sweetly among the trees. A soft, clear chime carried through the space nicely, crafted so as to not disturb the wildlife, and to not get soaked up by either the running water or the wood of the arboretum. Granted, it would have been heard anyway by the room’s sole occupant. In the midst of the trees, having just finished pruning his favorite beech, the hissing and burbling of the glass-and-brass man waxed softly as he stood up. Light from the delicate mechanisms inside played out just so against the broad leaves of the knotweed bush that was his next interest. The framework of his body, holding the glass and tubes together, was old, but a fresh plate of gilded steel had been bolted to his front, bearing a single name he had chosen for himself. Smoothly, like water flowing, the automaton strode out of the arboretum and into the lift.

The second bell rang in one of the several laboratories, more harsh and clanging than the first. A cry and a gasp of relief echoed afterwards as the room’s sole occupant woke up with a start, accidentally kicked a beaker full of an experimental upgrade of the tried-and-true alchemist’s fire, and caught it a fraction of an inch before it hit the floor. The gnome’s deft little hands rummaged through a mess of pockets and pulled out a few globs of resin, stuck the bottom of the beaker to the workbench, and climbed off the broad stool he had been standing on. His arms stretched out in accompaniment of a yawn, and the hair that had been short and black grew, changed hue, and popped to blonde and wavy at the culmination. The gnome smacked his lips, glared up at the bell still ringing (too loudly for his taste), and wandered off through the lab towards the stairwell, fiddling with a few experiments on his way out.

The third and fourth bells were ignored. There was nobody to hear them, unfortunately. This is why there were more than a few bells. It had been calculated to be more efficient than having manservants follow the board members everywhere, especially after the Barking Toad Incident. That had just been lazy.

The fifth bell was actually a gong. The contact triggered a small hammer that rang the broad plate of bronze, inscribed with sigils of prayer to the Nomad’s many servants. The grotto it stood at the entrance to had precisely two occupants. One, a dark-haired human, was wearing no shoes, and had skin. The other, an elf wearing a mask, had no skin. They sat meditating as a breeze (from whence to to where none could tell) played about their skin. The gong rang again, and the human sighed. Another day, another meeting. Such order was horrific; and yet, it was effectively the only obligation he had. It was nice to share the Shaman’s grotto - 

But the Shaman had already left, a strange pull on his senses drawing him up and away as silent as cats-paws when the hammer first brushed the bronze plate.

The sixth bell, a small replica of the bronze monstrosity in the clock tower of the Foundation, rang out clearly atop a desk. The desk was empty; its occupant was already at the meeting. The man of business sat reading the same newspaper the attendant had been so distracted by, his thick hands holding the paper wide open so that his sharp green eyes could voraciously devour the news - the most excellent news. Reports on his various industries, his stock futures, and small labor problems lay aside. If he could really, truly work this opportunity to its maximum potential - why, his name would be brought up in discussions for appointments to the Merchant Council in Voorstad when the Confederacy elections came around. While business was always on his mind, there was the restlessness in him; the yearning for adventure that all men feel at one time or another.

The small (and very specifically designed) conference room gradually filled with the board members; the man of business was already there, the pneumatic man arrived first, the shaman was followed shortly by the academic, and the alchemist arrived smelling like chemicals (as he usually did) dead last and fifteen minutes late. Each of them, in turn, got a long look at the above-the-fold story dominating the Haven Daily Courant:

DRAGONS OPEN THE BORDER

ADVENTURERS TO BE INVITED TO COBOLDIA FOR UNPRECEDENTED EXPEDITION INTO THE DEPTHS OF THE WORLD

Last month, rumors that a diplomatic exchange between the Free City and the Imperium would result in something spectacular came to fruition. As part of a trade deal for redwheat and minerals, the Imperium has offered to hear bids from any willing and worthy expeditionary groups, paid in relevant capital. The winner of the bidding will be given the express permission of the Arx Draconis to enter the Underdark through the abandoned Coboldia Delve, which by treaty has been sealed off for eight hundred years...

...the Underdark is the nigh-mythical network of caves and tunnels which, apparently, the dwarves at the height of the power explored and colonized. After the Dwarven Civil War, the darkdwarf-controlled Underdark operated as a separate country, until the dragons burned their way into Khoriv by way of the old dwarven roads. The Delve was the mining complex constructed by the Imperium to reach the Underdark so that they might attack from below. Political sources in the Senate say that the treaty with Haven implies treaties with the Dwarves, which could usher in a new era of peace and prosperity with the Dragons...

...cultural representatives from the HCEC say that the investigation of what darkdwarf society became would be instrumental in reconstructing the tension of what we now denote as Ancient Dwarf Society, pre-Civil War. In addition to being host to potential treasure troves undisturbed for thousands of years, the exploration of the Underdark could unearth records of history never before realized, going back almost to the beginning of civilization in Calidicia, perhaps even to the elven explorers of old... 

...as of this publication, a dozen groups have already begun to jockey for position. From a coalition of mercenary guilds swearing “undying allegiance” to the dragons for this opportunity, to Pike’s Pistols and Popguns from Helathia offering regular shipments of weapons to both dragons and eventual expeditions, it looks like there is a frenzy of economic activity going on. We at the Courant attribute this to recent rumors from dwarves in Haven about the riches of the old empire, including theoretically impossible Gates to other worlds rich in jewels and precious metals...

...in short, this is both an incredible opportunity for Haven’s finest and for Confederate diplomacy, both economically and politically, for now and the future. This may well become the cornerstone of peace in our time. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so the Courant wishes any members of a possible expedition the best of luck!

The gnome looked up at the other four members of the board, having read the article in question last. His eyes were wide with surprise. After gaping for a moment, trying to string a proper sentence together, he laid the paper down and cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, “are we doing this?”

Briarheart: Chapter 2

Chapter 2: First Impressions A blustering lash of wind off the sea brought with it the pungent reek of fishguts above the tide-line. Calliope’s face scrunched up, too quick to control, and her short groan of disgust was met with stern glares from the priests still huddled around the fort door. The rangers, on the other hand, shared her concern. One or two held cloth to their face; the town reeked. The land and air were saturated with it. A group of oxen, lowing clearly from the farm by the forest rising above the town, voiced their complaint mightily. One of the priests, a young zealot barely old enough to grow hair on his chest, was talking to a gaffer by the corner. Calliope’s sharp ears caught the gossip flowing from old man to young; so-and-so sells whiskey out of his stoop, his-and-her’s sons are oddly hale this time of year, that old Bocshi woman keeps to herself and her herbs, the roads north and south along the coast are clear enough, witches in the woods, so on and so forth. A steady stream that should have been taken with some measure of salt, and loud enough to hear. Gossip, however, was not sufficient to clear the stink. A fallback, really the fallback was called for, certainly. The young woman’s eyes scanned the crowd, looking for faces distracting enough to draw her mind off her nose. There were a number of young men in the crowd, and the gaps in groups that indicated a handful more; they would be the central commodity of any such town, and their absence is understandable. Some were the lean and weathered fisherboys, others were the thickly-muscled farmer’s sons that resemble nothing so much as oxen, and a few robust-looking brothers flanked their father with stern faces and crossed arms. For such a backwater town, they were especially healthy-looking. Another swirling breeze sent hair awry, carrying with it an even greater stench of fish and seaweed and blood. Too much dead animal scent for Calliope, by far. Hydra, seeing the look of disgust, offered an arm and a look of concern. Calliope, suddenly seeing a better prize, gave the silk-wrapped consort a wink, and slipped through the crowd after an old woman who had sauntered away down one of the town’s dirt roads, away from the mob, away from the sea. <><><> Hydra’s heart was pounding, and she was distinctly aware of the fact that she should have been paying more attention to the introduction of the town offered by the little fervor-wrangler and the old man. Her instincts had been right, perfectly, so. Meodoset had become a musty closet filled with old clothes worn too many times by necessity. Shaye was raw. Raw like winter, raw like sex under the stars, raw like an uncut gem glittering with hidden light, Shaye was bursting with hidden beauty. To hell with the smell of fish, the rank and wet cousin to the reek of dried fish at market, to hell with the constant groaning of the oxen. The salt, the tingle in her nose and lungs of the sea, was singing a siren’s lay that set her heart drumming. She looked back over the crowd, trying to see where Calliope had gone. She was nowhere to be seen… but that was probably okay, the young huntress could handle herself. Hydra turned to the edge of the crowd and began to move through, aiming to walk out on the long docks bleached grey by salt and sun. Behind her, one of the rangers called out. “Need any protection, miss?” Hydra glanced over her shoulder; it was Zoran, the broad dark-haired man with the lantern jaw, a man that her mother (so long ago) would have called “quite a catch”. The rest of the rangers, a sallow group in general, were either shooting daggers at the presumptuous Zoran or seething with hardly-disguised jealousy. Hydra smiled, a soft wrinkle in her face scarf. Zoran would get a personal thanking for his assistance later. Touching the long knife at her side, she called back, “I have all the protection I need,” to which a joke about pig intestines was made between the rangers, accompanied by sniggers and hushed laughter. That was that; she turned away in disgust, before the talk went past the point of appreciation and delved, as it always did, into the obscene. No need for that, ever. <><><> Out of the (raw salt and fish) frying pan and into the (smokes and incense) fire. The inside of the herbalist's home, sunk three feet into the dry and sandy earth, was filled with the tantalizing vapours and smokes of incense and a few small braziers. A clay-brick oven crackled with a dry pine fire, sending yellow sparks up towards the clusters of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. Thyme, rosemary, widow's bell, canterflower, nettle, garlic, cloves, and dozens of others gave the whole space the distinct feeling of being in a glade. The smell alone was enough to make her eyes water, and the sensory glut plucked a chord deep within Calliope. As the girl began to hum, Dame Zera gives a half-smile, like listening to a lutist in Dorn's dive play an old ballad. The old midwife leaned over and tossed a few choice leaves in a nearby brazier, sending up a thin blue smoke into the room. Calliope’s calming tune was almost interrupted by the grace of the woman, finally illuminated in the flare of the brazier. For a moment, the huntress believed that she was looking at her grandmother, long-estranged and oft-remembered. One eye was blind and white, and its pair was the deepest sapphire she had ever seen, flecked with moonlight, and set in a browned and wrinkled face. An expression of pleasant surprise crosses the old healer’s face, patiently following the soft melody of the huntress. The smoke carried with it a soothing silence; no more mutter of the gathered crowd, no more rumbling of the sea, no more oxen commenting on the quality of the grass. The feeling of change eventually wended its way out of Calliope's fingers, replaced by a calm increasing with every breath and note of the little hummed tune. A sort of amusement danced behind Zera's eyes, watching the young girl handle no small manner of stress. Calliope’s mind, released from the focus, began to jumble a question; how can I help, how can I find the children, I want to help the rangers find the lost ones, do you help with minds as well as bodies, and so on. What comes out, at the end, blurted more than asked, is “Can you teach me to heal?” "I can teach you to heal," Dame Zera said. "I can teach you how to splint a bone, clean a wound, burn a cut. But then I would teach you the ways of a hundred plants, the ways of a well-blown glass, the niceties of smell and touch and taste. Then I would teach you when to use the flowers and the buds and the stems. From there the days and nights of watching the stars, learning which planets govern the plants and seasons, learning the most efficacious times to do certain things. Perhaps, in time, I would even teach you when not to heal, but merely to listen." She hummed a few bars of her own tune, smelling deeply the wafting steam off a pot bubbling by the fire. She then leaned in, her blind eye no less interested in the jerkin-clad woman still pale from a near shockm though wide-eyed about the wealth of knowledge Zera was claiming to have. "But I am not so sure that is what you mean, young one. Is it?" She smiled, a genuine display of warmth. "But come, before then, tell me where you learned the little melody you were humming." Calliope laid an elbow on the table, resting her face on a hand. Her eyes still tracing the intricacies of a face that so, so many must have worked their way into over the years, she answered, “It’s just something that has always been a part of my life, from as far back as I can remember. It keeps me calm.” "Oh, I'm sure it does," the old woman said, almost more to herself than to Calliope. "It's an old rhythm, a round that used to be sung in some... intricate rites. I'm not sure how much you were taught, but that particular melody is called the Atonal Harmony. It soothes the fragile resonance of a beating heart, and eases the untempered mind fraught with change." She smiled, though this time here eyes glittered with questions rather than with a warm glow. "I heard and saw the honorable company enter town; where precisely do you fit into that? As far as I can see, you are a young whip of a woman with an eye for adventure, but this is no mere survey. Tell me, child, why have you come?" Calliope was more than a little shocked. Her parents had warned her against it, but nevertheless, she had been taught magic by her grandmother. And, apparently, she had been practicing it this whole time. Despite the warm nature of the herbalist, it wasn’t clear whether or not the old woman could be trusted, so her abilities would have to be kept a secret for now. “I have so much respect for the realm of magic,” Calliope answered. “I cannot stand the idea of someone using it for cruel things such as harming children. I have talents, and I want to utilize them in any way that I can to help.” Dame Zera smiled, “Well then-“ A bell tolled clear, wrenching Zera’s mood and attention away. Calliope saw anguish, worry, concern, surprise; fear. The old woman, without a word, took the young huntress by the hand and led her out, walking shakily back towards the central square where the mob awaited the word of the authority. <><><> Hydra couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this elated, this unnatural electric feeling that drove her heart wild with anticipation. The closest she could recall was her first kiss; at the tender age of 13, she had found herself in the intimate company of another gypsy girl a few years older. They had been passing through the Avindale frontier, on the other side of the Cailena Mountains, and the two young girls had run off to explore a copse of beech while Hydra’s parent were setting up camp. There was a memory; the gentle touch on Hydra’s bare face, the smell of lavender on the other girl’s breath (what was her name?), the soft gaze of something more than just a quickening of the heart. She had said… She had looked Hydra in the eyes, deeply, so deeply, far deeper than the flawless skin and the turquoise eyes, so much different than the prying way men (and women) looked at her now. She had been looking at something no one else had seen. She had said… “You’re beautiful.” For that, Hydra would never forget the moment, the brush of lips, the heart pounding out of her chest, begging to be set free, a sensation rippling through every fiber of her being. As she pulled off the scarf and gazed into the sparking ocean, dark and impossibly huge, the salt air kissing her lips, the same sensation ran through her, the same yearning, the same freedom. Oh gods, the sea. Nothing more and nothing less than the most life-shaking, awe-inspiring thing she had ever seen. She walked among a few sailors, bent over boats and ropes and fish, too busy to look up at the silk-wrapped consort. She walked among them, too entranced to look down at them. The day was bright, slightly chilly, with a faint breeze. On land, this had meant barely anything more than the occasional waft of dead fish, but here, by the docks, the break from the waves crashing on the beach and tossing the boats means the chill was driven home by the fine spray. The breeze was kicking up waves, long and slow rollers with crested foam atop their brows. The sun overhead and the cloudless sky gave the sea by the shore a bright blue-green, a deep turquoise that fades into a deep, rich, royal blue of deeper water, roofed by an azure sky deeper than any she could remember. Though the palette is restricted, broken up by the worn grey of the docks and the vibrant green of the seagrowth clinging to the dock's foundations, the simple fact of the matter was that the sea was alive. Her eyes, sharp as ever, saw in the near distance a disturbance on the waves, a broaching and spraying. Keeping her eyes fixed, she turned to an old sailor who had been working an awl through a spliced knot, some indeterminable marine task. "Are there rocks out in the water?", she asked. There was a moment as the old man gummed his teeth behind a wreath of bone-white beard. After a minute or so of patiently finishing his task, he looked up briefly at the waves distant, before answering in a thick accent. "Not b'tween the Moggans and the Caylens; 'tis deep and true. Naw, 'tis a pod of bull whales. Nary a day w'out a sight, makin' rounds from h'up north t' sou'ward. Y' can catch eyes on the tails yonder." True to his (heavily accented) word, a massive dual-lobed tail lifted out of the water, shining wet and black in the sunlight, before slipping under the surface of the waves with barely a splash. "They're the guardians of th' waters 'round here. No-man lifts a fish out the blue when a bull pod sluices by. 'Tis the worst of luck." He spat over the side of the dock, neatly into a receding wave. "Water to water. Wonder if th' witchery plaguing the poor landsfolk is a bull-curse, some damn-fool fisher from up the coast cutting a young'un. Gods help us all if it is." Hydra offered herself the same luxury with her response, looking for another massive tail but only seeing the interruption of rolling waves, feeling the spray on her bare feet from the crash of turbulent waves. “Cut up a young one? You mean a fish?” "I mean a young'un. Look yonder!" He pointed out into the midst of the pod; a small black body, long whiskers trailing from a blunt nose, leapt up out of the water almost with its entire bulk, flipping over onto its back and slapping the water with its fin. "A child of the deep. Precious few, they are, protected by the bulls of the pod. You'll ne'er see such a curious soul, looking to experience all of the ocean's mysteries without ever learning what they are." A grin waggled his beard, a deep chuckle settling in his eyes. "When I was a young lad, my da took me out, and scared me senseless when a child nosed up under the dory. Near tossed me, but one look in those big eyes and you see all you need to." Hydra was entranced, looking out at the huge beasts rolling by like small hills migrating southward. She could almost taste the joy of the (still huge) juveniles, crashing through the surface of their world without a care for consequence. She looked back, and met the inquisitive eyes of the fisherman. Almost shyly, he said, “Y’ know, what with the time of day, there's a small cove a mite south of the town where that pod will like to stay, deep and calm and sheltered from the open waters. If you're interested," his voice dropped to a whisper, "the lads could show you the way. At nightfall, ask for Jory in Dorn's. You'll need this." He pressed a small oilskin into her hands. "Best to keep it hidden away." Hydra thanked him, and with one last look of longing at the ocean, turned back towards the town, but not the plaza. She silently promised the pod of whales, rolling past like sentient hills, that she would return to them at nightfall. She opened the small package, wrapped so carefully in oiled leather. Inside, almost glaringly bright against the dark leather, a charm of bone lay. The bone was thick, very dense, carved into a shape like a tapering thumb or a horseshoe, round at one end and squared at the other. The square end had a few holes drilled into it, through which a leather thong had been tied. The round end was marked with a rune, resembling a sort of double-wave but strange to her eyes, and yet… The rune was singing to her, in a language she could not comprehend but that was understood, soul-deep. The world fell away aroun her as her focus was drawn into the sigil carved and inked on the surface of the charm. The trance was interrupted, and the package wrapped up and stowed in a fold in the silks, as a bell tolled close at hand, and a rise in the crowd’s murmur carried clearly to her ears. <><><> The head priest and the mayor stood on the steps of the fort, looking out over the assembled crowd. The mayor cleared his throat, and announced the strictures that would be put in place for the investigation’s duration. Curfew of sundown. No person would leave the village without one of the witch-hunters present. All persons must be accounted for each morning. The rangers would be patrolling the town boundary, ensuring no passage in or out save on business. No boats would leave the beach; this includes the Farlight, the galley pulled up at the dock. Any townsfolk capable of casting or using any magic must come forward for investigation of their powers. The head priest would have complete jurisdiction and judicial authority until such time as the witchery was dealt with. Any information on witches would be rewarded handsomely, and any corroboration with witches would be punished severely. According to the mayor, these were only the beginning. If it became necessary, the priest would assume temporary governorship of the town. Riders would be coming regularly for reports, so in order to solve their problems as easily as possible, everyone would have to pull together to oust the hateful witches. Calliope looked to Dame Zera. Hydra touched the bone charm. Malevolent magic was afoot, and neither of them hoped they would be caught in it.

Hunters in Samalta: Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Answers Do the dreamers truly walk from a place of sleep to waking if their dreams are still seen with the waking eyes? When fear of the dark pervades the day, when sound echoes strangely off of doors and across the floor, when a pair of madly burning eyes are seen with waking sight, is it really a dream after all? Do mere nightmares draw such screams from the hearts of those it afflicts? Under a pale dawn, the day was bleak and grey, though the sun did shine and the birds did sing. Allcre was in her quarters, meditating and praying, soaking up the herbal tea and incense like her life depended on it. Pitt was laying back on his cot, glaring up at the ceiling through sleep-deprived eyes. He had said nothing, and thus had exhausted the conversation. Their silver-goateed companion, having pulled them out of the wards single-handedly, was writing out the report in the next room, keeping an ear on them. Occasionally, he would look over, make a mental note of their unchanged condition, and return to his writing. Occasionally, a guard would come in from the western gate, where double-guards had been posted and the barricade had been rebuilt, giving him a report. No patrols crossed the Zedac, on Hammaran’s orders. The guard would look to the sealed and faintly glowing plague ward door, shudder, and leave. The groans of the plague ward next door had had its unfortunate poisoning victims replaced with the injured and dying from the horrific battle in the Cursed Zone. The few priests he had been able to wake quickly had placed as many blessings as they were capable of on the ward. After the ward had been sanctified, some of the healers mentioned to him, ever so quietly, that perhaps it would be a mercy to end their lives, to burn their bodies as a precaution following the old ways of the wars. Their symptoms were plague-like, but the severity had been sufficient to put them into a coma, right to the edge of death. Somewhat. Greatly concerning to him was the fact that while masquerading as legal and visible authority, he had come across the guards for the ward that morning in a state of near-hysteria. They reported (more like gibbered) that odd noises and movement could be heard from the outside of the sealed doors. A small crowd of relatives had gathered outside the temple, asking and begging to see to the injured and offer them comfort. The Archivist, feeling that secrecy was a cautious route in this circumstance, had ordered the well-wishers kept far, far away from the plague ward. When the sun came up, blocked by a pillar of smoke and ash rising from the forest, the city counted its losses. There were men dead, men injured, and they had been hidden away by these outsiders. What had happened in the dark? Why? Who were these Hunters to order men to their death? The townspeople were barely better informed than the Archivist, or the Governor-Priest. It had been surprising, and especially so, that the dog-thing had caused so much trouble for those it had lightly wounded, and even those who had been merely splashed with its blood. In light of that fact, the two blacksmith’s sons who had dragged the beast and thrown it over the edge had been completely safe, protected by the wards when everything slipped sideways, but still covered in that foul black blood. Necromancy was an odd art, no question. No, scratch that, there were a lot of gods-damned questions, and it was about time there were some answers. The first sign of the arcanologist was the cloud of dust from the southern road. A single wagon, drawn by a few horses large enough to almost be aurochs, was trailed and led by a company of hardened dragoons bearing the colors of the Red Order. The wagon, despite the auspicious guard, was emblazoned with the silver “A” of the Archive, a sigil rarely seen on the frontier (if ever). The gates were swung wide by the guards, and the lead of the column led boldly under the southern arch. The central plaza’s peace was shattered by cries of "Make way! Make way!" Clattering hoofs and shining armor sent the water carriers and the children flying out of the path of the cavalry. The carriage rolled up, and out stepped a man of undeniable quality. He wore the same robes as the Archivist (still writing of green flame), but instead of a tattered and road-worn shift it was a piece of tailored finery, embroidered with gold and silver. A thick silver chain bound a sable cloak across the back of this man, flowing and heavy. The man took off a pair of spectacles, cleaned them on a corner of his cloak, before replacing them on his face and pushing them up his nose. He straightened up all five thin feet of himself and stepped forward. The captain and lieutenant of the dragoons, nearly a head and a half taller, escorted him into the inner courtyard of the temple. Behind him, a few pages began unloading crates of books, scrolls, and samples from the carriage, unfolding trolleys on the ground and beginning to load them up. As he waited for the representatives of Samalta to receive him, he pulled a tall broad-rimmed hat and place it on his head, securing the level of the hat with serious precision. A few priests hurried out, robes flapping in the hot breeze. They stopped short, asking this obvious figure of power if there was anything, anything at all he required. A reedy voice, weighted with coldly assured authority, stated, "I would like to see the dog creature first, and the report of the Hunters second." <><><> “Janis, the hacksaw. Cut here, and here. Callun, the foreceps, and remove this section.” rip rip rip crunch schlorp “Excellent. Thank you. Janis, please adjust the lamp. The windows are poorly placed for light.” A chapel left for odd seasonal rites, the occasional vigil or marathon prayer session, or extra relic storage had been taken over entirely by Gavol Rhyanon the Second, senior arcanologist of the south-western region of Utulia. Heavy canvas sheet had been stretched over the central floor around a rough scaffolding upon which the beheaded dog-thing’s corpse had been laid. Its head lay under a growing pile of pieces cut away to expose deeper and deeper sections of the twisted body. Just beyond that was the wash station for the pages, elbow deep in ichor more often than not, and the woefully inadequate vomit bucket (also for the pages). As the survey had progressed, more and more finely-tuned instruments had emerged from packages and boxes, arrayed in a series of lenses and crystals on metal struts around the body. The flesh appeared burned and rotted, many days dead, and the bones were warped and twisted like they had been left in a fire-pit for too long. Some power had taken this dog and utterly corrupted it. And yet… There was no aura. Nothing. Not the ambient aura of trees and wind and mud, not the profoundly soul-freezing aura of demons or the mind-burning presence of angels. Precisely a null aura. Hence the panoply of instruments; a null aura was almost unheard of, and was the center of some very interesting theories back in Samor. The problem with those theories had been how to create a null aura in a stable environment that didn’t require a constant casting. The solution, somehow, lay within the pony-sized corpse of a dog corrupted by some dark power that stank to high heaven. Halfway through the exam, Gavol had called for the report of the Hunters. He had not called for the Hunters, the archivist, Davur the dragoon captain (who felt responsible for Gavol, believe it or not), and the portly old Governor-Priest of this backwoods city. Closing the door in their face, he quickly scanned the report, looking for the moment of the dog’s death. Satisfied, the frown that had been cornering his face loosened up a bit. After that, it was just formalities and general note-taking, dictating to the pair of pages who were regretting their heavy breakfasts. The pages nearly fell out of the small chapel, gasping for air and dry-heaving their way to the open courtyard nearby. Unperturbed, the short arcanologist strolled out of the chapel that was emanating a reek worse than a battlefield full of corpses on a hot day, bearing the parchments of his notes and a few choice samples (in sealed bottles). He took the collective silence of the five covered mouths and noses as a prompt to begin. “If we can move into the area of my study, I believe that we can go over my findings in a more private and appropriate setting.” The assembled agreed with muffled noises and vigorous head-nods. Inside the study, a small sacristy given over to the stacks of books deemed important and the drawings and sketches in progress by the pages and by Gavol. The arcanologist laid down two sheafs of paper; the thin report of the excursion into the Cursed Zone penned by the archivist, and the thicker examination notes by the arcanologist. As per the contributions, the goateed man sat at the left hand of Gavol during the discussion. There were two primary results from the examination of the dog and the after-action report. The first was the summary of hypothesized forces behind the creation of the dog-thing itself, and the second was the implied phenomenon that occured during the battle. Both pointed nefariously in one direction; but he digressed. Powerful magics, really strong magic and all of it brute-force, had taken some wolf, dog, or other canine (or canines) and warped it into a foul reflection of what it had been. One wound in particular, a separation of flesh and rampant tumorous scar tissue around the throat and head indicates a death-related sacrificial ritual, centered around the rite of killing the animal and then, likely, filling it with whatever power changed it. The aura described by the archivist indicates that this power, with all its dark indication, is necromancy, the art of unlife. “So, the figure we saw, the figure that walked up to the Hunters and more or less brushed them aside, that would be the necromancer?”, the archivist inquired, sending an apologetic look to the wide-eyed Pitt and the shrunk-inward Allcre. “Most likely, although we cannot rule out it being a servant of whatever darkness lies within the walls.” “And the dog ritual, is this a significant indicator of a coven, or something older?” The arcanologist frowned a bit. “Not that I know of, but necromantic covens and the like are often easy to conceal, unless someone slips up and casts a spell in broad daylight, which is what I recall you lot having been brought here to deal with after the other poor bastards bit the dust.” Pitt speaks up, a waver in his usually booming voice. “We found a demon skull, of sorts, in the cistern that we traced the spell to. Is there a connection between demons and necromancy?” “Generally, no. We don’t have much information, but what we do have suggests that demons make excellent raw material for necromancy. Unfortunately, a witch-hunt every time someone shouts demon in a crowded room ends up dragging necromancy into the picture. Davur here has killed a few demons, and having read his after-action reports, this is precisely nothing like those episodes.” Moving on, the second implication was that the effect of Pitt’s actions indicates the presence of a Source of Corruption. The power Pitt used to kill the thing was of a very specific type. It was known that in times of dire need, the White Steward has favored the few with an Aspect of Righteousness, granting them power far beyond their normal abilities. All the known texts and the church-approved tomes on necromancy indicate that victory over necromancy almost universally has required that sort of power surge. Unfortunately, it has also left little or nothing remaining of the necromantic aura, preventing any sort of advanced study. The only thing that had been consistently observed is that in every coven of necromancers, there was always a chunk of some unknown mineral, usually on the chief necromancer, which registered a null aura before disintegrating rapidly and imploding. This was an incredibly strange phenomenon, and the Archive had a running bet on what it actually is, as well as an eighty thousand crown bounty on any successfully recovered Necromancer's Stones. His personal theory was that it was a focus for some form of otherwise unusable and somehow sentient dark power, which was supported by the fact that every instance of survivor's reports from a battle with necromancy stated that they didn’t cast aspects, but a single burst-type of this energy which produced wildly variable (but apparently controllable) effects such as the creation and control of the undead, sapping life energy, and full-stop nullifying of enemy spells. Hammaran raised a hand. “How… how do you know so much about necromancy?” The arcanologist gaped a bit, thrashing mentally around the implication. “A long study of it. The Archive has never laid down the sword against dark powers, and Utulia is kept safer by our work.” “Then shouldn’t we tell the people?” the old priest retorted. “Telling the people of Samalta that the darkness is rising again, that all are needed to come to the defense of city, realm, and King would shore up their morale wonderfully. To say nothing, of course, of the families of those fallen in the Cursed Zone, and the comfort they would know in understanding their loved ones’ sacrifice.” The mustachioed captain slapped a hand on the arm of his chair. “Hear, hear! Why shouldn’t we? In one stroke, we’ll have all the defense we need and plenty of new conscripts for the guard.” Leaning in, the archivist agreed. “I am absolutely in favor of full disclosure. The unknown might drive the commoners to do something rash. If they know the truth, they’ll turn to us for protection, guidance, or they’ll just flee. It’s not like they’re going to rebel.” “Save that we don’t know what you are capable of,” the sharp voice of Hunter Verily called out. “Who can you call? What can you do in defense of, as the good man said, city, realm, and King?” The moustache bristled magnificently for a moment before the captain’s retort. “I command a hand-picked company of men capable of combat on foot and horseback, small enough to be mobile, large enough to provide protection, though not enough to mount an assault as we should wish to. Each dragoon’s saber carries a Minor Ekovos in the service of the White Steward, and each has trained in anti-caster combat with that spirit. If we need more men, outside what Samalta can provide, a few days can get a Hunter-level accompaniment force here, a week if they need to bring the supplies for an extended stay.” He looked over to the arcanologist, to Pitt. “We are, after all, going to mount a counter-attack on the darkness, correct? To halt it’s rise?” The arcanologist tried to hide his grimace and failed. “I wouldn’t say the darkness is rising, per se…” “WHAT?” Five voices rang out before delving into a babble. Pitt’s battleground voice capped it out. “I agree with the captain. Either we wait for reinforcements, hole up in Samalta, come what may, or we launch an attack, straight to the heart of the problem, and cut it off at the source.” He looked around. “Any better ideas?” “Yes. I like living. Let’s not die in a suicide mision. We don’t have nearly enough information, and to be honest, I don’t like the idea of it anyway. I’ve been the furthest of the assembled into the Cursed Zone, and the miasma at the center makes it incredibly difficult to move or complete complex actions. If the Necromancer’s Stone is on the person of the necromancer him or herself, then I think we’re just going to get slaughtered and resurrected with nothing to show for it.” A brutally sobering silence followed. During that silence, Pitt and Allcre were exchanging glances. It had been a while, and they were a little rusty after the recent trauma, but their communication was swift and effective. Allcre looked the arcanologist right in the eyes. “How did the Red King manage it, then? In all seriousness. We’ve probably been fed a slightly different version of the truth than most of Utulia, but even then we’re given nothing. What do you know that we don’t?” The arcanologist sighed, deeply enough for such a small man, before looking to the Governor-Priest of Samalta. “Is there a large metal door, somewhere in your crypts, that you have never opened or seen a key to?” Hammaran’s brow knurled in though, before hesitantly he replied, “Yes, but I don’t see how that’s relevant.” “Trust in the Archive. It is. Follow me.” With that, he swept out of the room, leaving the rest of the company in his wake. <><><> Deep within the catacombs of the Temple, in a sort of chapel unto itself, was a small museum locked away behind a thick metal. The Governor-Priest didn’t have a key, but he found it without much difficulty. Reaching within his robes, Gavol retrieved a key with a small flat head that he fit into a hairline crack between the door and the wall. A resounding click was followed by muffled thunder from within the door itself before it swung ponderously open. Pitt and the dragoon captain, carrying a small clutch of boxes specifically picked by the arcanologist for their age, held the door open for the rest of the small group. The inside was a museum, a snapshot in history, a treasure chest for the curious, a shrine for the honorable, a monument for the devout. It was the storage bin for every surviving relic of the oft-praised final days of the Red King’s victories in war. There were banners from victorious companies, heralds and helms and swords and shields, carefully kept in oilskins and sealed containers. Books and charts were pulled out of dusty old chests. Clamped between ceramic plates on a central dais were sheafs of battlefield orders, written in the battle language of the Red Order, a tongue kept alive in honor of the Red King. Pitt and Davur translated it from the short-hand into the common tongue of Utulia for the other four crowding around their shoulders. After the first few order sets, the voices of Pitt and Davur grew in awe; these had been penned by the Red King himself before he ascended the throne. The army of the Red King had fortified the river in three places, defending major crossings. The first and largest was at Samalta, forming the basis of the current walls and towers. The second and third were flank-guards protecting the larger city to the north and the canal connection it had to the interior. The army had been following a retreating force of undead, clearing and liberating towns as they went, all the way to the river Zedac. Notes indicated that most of the war council thought assumed there would be a counter-attack at some point, driving the need for river defenses. There had been a few sorties while the defenses were constructed, easily deterred. Less seasoned priests were given plenty of opportunity to test out rites and spells of holy fire on the undead, proving to be very effective at the rank and file level. Concentrated efforts to use the same on more powerful undead required more priests with greater power and experience. References to a rite called Eye of the Beacon were spoken of; it appeared to focus the holy fire into a sort of lance of light, allowing for greater targeting, using a lensed instrument called an Avenging Glass. One of the more successful sorties made it over the river wall in Samalta, though it was crushed before it did too much damage. The Red General himself, sword glowing with holy light, strode into the fray and beat back the enemy. He had forced the surrender of their lieutenant, and dragged her at swordpoint to the plaza, where he interrogated her extensively before ordering her burnt on a pyre. This was the sadistic Sinister Lieutenant of Arkadi, whose name is expunged from all but the most important records. An order made by the Red General that night commanded the presence of the Fusiliers. From where, it is unclear. On the night of the harvest moon, the undead had crossed on rafts well north of the defenses, sweeping down from the flank and swarming over the redoubts so carefully constructed. The surprise attack, numbering some 38,000 undead, overwhelmed the third defenses in the city itself, and nearly broke the river defenses. The retreating forces joined up with at the Samalta camp, giving the Red General an effective force of 33,000, with no cavalry whatsoever. Chief among the undead attacking were hound-riders, things like men riding things like monstrous dogs. Horses wouldn't go near them in battle, and the smell of them drove the stabled creatures mad with fear. Capable of launching over shield-walls, these hound-riders had thoroughly demoralized and broke the lines of soldiers loyal to Utulia more than any other enemy. Most of the time, being killed by the undead meant you rose again in a day or two. Soldiers killed by the hounds were rising in minutes. A retreat had turned into a panicked rout, and the northern defenses were crushed within the hour. A long night still lay ahead of them. The Red General saw the devastating counter attack and made a quick decision. He organized the remaining troops into effective defenses in Samalta, giving them the order resonating through the centuries: "Engage the enemy, and do not lose."  Open ground favored the undead and the hounds far too much. This is where the story deviated from the known accounts of the last days of the Dark Wars. The arcanologist hurriedly began scratching out notes on the next sets of orders. The battle history taught to the population was that the Red King went into the forest of madness alone and defeated the Necromancer alone. The Hunters were taught he entered the woods with an elite band of priests, to make for the Tower of Arkadi and confront the Necromancer in the heart of her power while her forces were occupied with the Utulian legions. It was generally agreed that the Red General came back out without his sword. The book before the assembled claimed that the Fusiliers, an outfit clad in strange garb and covered in darkly glimmering tattoos, had joined his bodyguard of elite priests on their fateful journey to the tower. A report by a staff officer under the Red General claimed that they worked wonders with "fire and wind", using relics to project fire like whips. They bore scimitars and spoke an odd dialect of the battle language. On the Red General's orders, they were left well alone. Several of the outfit, however, were seen carrying masonry tools, having never cast a single spell. The after-action report of the Battle of Samalta was occupied with the last-ditch defense of the city. The hound-riders were kept at bay by the walls, and fire cast down from the battlements destroyed the undead by the score. However, the wall was breached by the weight of unliving flesh, and chaos was brought down on the troops within, forcing a retreat through the streets. As the bodies mounted, hope waned thin. A flash like dawn came from the west in that darkest hour, roughly from the direction of the tower, and as one the driving force behind the undead ceased, allowing them to be killed and burned in great numbers without difficulty. Utulia lost, out of an army numbering 58,000, nearly three quarters of its force to the undead, and another eighth would succumb to what would later be called the Grey Plague. While the burning was underway, the Red General strode back out of the forest and into legend. Reports say that he was glowing with the Aspect of Righteousness, unarmed, and unscathed. While popular legend had it that he walked out alone, Hunters knew that he had returned with most of the retinue of priests, now sworn to silence, who stayed with him until their death. The book before you agreed with this; no mention is made of the Fusiliers. When an advisor asked him what had become of his sword, he only replied, "I have no need of it any longer. My last war is finished." This quote had been left out of every single document anywhere else that you or the arcanologist has seen. Most interesting, of course, to the history buffs in the room, was that last quote, since the beginning of the Arcane Prohibition was generally attributed to that day when the Red King stamped out the power of necromancy. The arcanologist, referencing some of his oldest books, declared that no record of any speech made by the Red King at any time divulged information about what happened; most of the story appeared to arise from a convention of the Cardinals in Samor, establishing the official narrative of the events of the Dark War (as it was then called). The fairy-tale of him defeating the forces of darkness single-handedly had been a remarkably effective re-spin of the actual (and extremely dire) events of his last days in Samalta. A silence lay drawn out after the last words of the last orders were spoken. Having taken a few hours, hours of reliving the hope, the despair, and the last-minute victory, there were a few plates of food brought in by the pages who had gone back upstairs to clean out the chapel. Pitt almost looked himself, basking in the glory of his eternal leader, but Allcre and the Archivist seemed more pensive, more thoughtful. Allcre spoke first. “Well. That was singularly useless. I mean, sure, interesting, but not particularly helpful in taking down a necromancer risen from the ashes of her defeat.” She sighed. “But it raises so many more questions that it answers.” “Right, and that’s especially true about that one anomalous creep that we saw when we basically first got here. That walker, that emoting, registering, noticable guy we saw walking outside and back into the wards. We need to know about the wards, how the Fusiliers interact with that wall, anything. We need to know how it is possible that a necro thing is able to pass through the gate itself.” He shook his head, looking down into his lap. “What’s their angle? They’re stuck inside, except this one guy; their endgame, their ambition, their motive is to escape, so why do such an obvious thing, such a difficult thing, as passing the demon skull into Samalta?” “We’ll need to capture the walker, then. When he walks outside, we’ll just grab him.” The captain sat back, satisfied for a moment with executive power before realizing the herculean task it required. That statement opened the floodgates. So many questions about necromancy, hoping to worm their way through a chink in the armor. The mere fact that a couple well-seasoned Hunters and a retinue of trusted guardsmen were slapped silly by a single necromancer who, while inside the wards, created and sustained multiple constructs, meant that possibly no-one in Utulia, dragoons and Hunters included, were prepared to fight necromancers if what had already occured was any indication. This wasn’t a fight-them-off event anymore, this was a conflict in the brewing that should have been setting alarm bells off from Samalta to Samor. Where did the Necromancer’s Stones come from? How are there more than one, and how did the Red King justify leaving another one behind? Can necromancers work without them? Do these stones project an aura on their own? How did the Red King’s army find the necromancers and stones in their own time? How does the casting work? How does the power work? The arcanologist got a little quiet while he listened to the flood of questions coming from the Hunters and the archivist, the sluggish stream coming from the captain, and the growing anxiety and stress of Hammaran, all the while glancing over at a locked box nestled between his other books. After ten minutes of constant argument, he abruptly got out of his chair and pulled the latter two up, ushering them out of the room with profuse thanks for their cooperation and help, and wishing that they would enjoy the day outside of the cramped and dusty catacombs. Once the door was closed and sealed behind the two, he withdrew a single silver candle from deep within his pockets and lit it. The candle gave off a strange bluish light, filling the space with an odd glow. He fiddled with it for a while, watching carefully the way the shadows fell around the room, taking a long time without speaking to the three other occupants of the room. Once he was satisfied, he placed the locked box right next to the candle. He took a deep breath before continuing. “The fact that I have this box in my possession is a state secret of the highest order. If you disclose to anyone at any time that you have seen me hold or open this box, I will be forced to have you and them killed with the greatest prejudice and speed afforded by the agents of the Archive. I will not ask you if you understand, because I do not wish to condescend.” He took the silence for the consent it was, and unlocked the box. The book was thick. There was no title written on its cover or spine. The cover was black and the pages blue. If a guess had to be made about the book, it would be that the it was bound in human skin, dyed with darkened black ichor. An odd light, a sort of anxious terror, had filled the eyes of Gavol. “This tome is the only known complete copy of the Black Grammayre, otherwise known as the Book of the Dead. As it is relevant to your questions, it was captured during the Dark War by the agents of the Red King, forerunners of the Archive. It was taken from the still-unliving hands of a lich in the service of Arkadi at great cost. I beg that you remember that cost, that sacrifice, above all else, despite what may come.” The book opened, and madness poured out. <><><> The beginning. A mote of light in an endless nothing. It is neither void nor space; it is an absence of absence. The mote breaks into a thousand glittering shards, describing a sphere set by four strong shards, each driving its part in the new creation. Your eye is drawn to what lies beyond. From the edge of creation paths lie in two directions. Inward goes the sane, the rational, the beautiful. Outward goes… Outward goes the opposite. Insanity, irrationality, cruelty and apathy beyond measure, an infinite expanse of horror peopled by uncaring beings of strange powers. A miasma of a glittering darkness, a sentient gibbering force, sends tendrils between the shards into creation, wishing to end itself and end all things, to consume what wrought it and thereby kill itself. Oh foulness, oh madness, oh horror, horror, horror… … The stone. An obelisk, a true xenolith, plunges through a gap in clouds the size of worlds. Screaming into empty space, it radiates madness like the sun radiates heat; an oppressive, burning force, felt even through the vision. A world, a dark ball of rock surrounded by an electric blue corona, comes into vision, and the stone spears it like a skewer ruptures meat. A few travelers see the strange writing on the side, visible clearly in your vision. They work with the stone, experimenting with its power. They draw it out, and are taken by it. Insane laughter is heard resonating through space, through the stone, through the newly anointed necromancers. Madness spreads. Creatures run, run, all too slow, and the maw of the undead feeds. A race of people, humanoids of odd form, are consumed body and soul by the spreading darkness. In a short time, the only sounds on this world are the cries of the not-yet-damned and the hungry groans of a billion undead. Crowned kings and queens of this wretched world, the former casters and academics of great renown, look upward to the stars. Yet, the stars answer. Great lances of light spear down from the heavens, and into the darkness and into the breach dive legions of soldiers. Clad in close-fitting armor, wielding swords shining bright as daylight, they send spells and blades cutting through the uncountable undead, pressing towards the very heart of the dark domain. The world was consumed; now it is burned. The final battle on the steps of the citadel nearly halt the momentum; but not quite. The greatest light yet, a being of impossible size riding down on eagle’s wings, dives into the heart of the stone. A silence is heard; a ringing sound in the absence of immense sound, but on a magical resonance. The hopeless eyes of the destroyed monarchs of the dead roll backwards. The light leaves a world torn apart, glassed, crumbled, cold. … The rock. A meteor streaks down over a farmland, and a young girl goes out into the forest. She comes upon a circle of creatures that look like old women, but their skin is rotting, falling off, carved into shapes unforgettable and terrible. She screams; their knives end her voice. The next day, the young girl exits the wood, bearing a strange amulet, and murders her father. The farmhands follow. The animals of field and forest go the same way. At nightfall, they rise, and a strange force attacks the sleeping hamlet nearby. In a week’s time, the force has swelled a hundred-fold, and it is not so strange, but bears the faces of friends and family. A town falls, burns, is consumed utterly. War is declared. Panic is kept from the populace by careful address. A leader rises, bearing a sword shining with daylight. The war is long and horrible. Each fallen soldier, unless burned, rises again. Each victory is measures in bodies turned to ash. Each defeat is measured in bodies turned to undeath. The power of the sword-wielder is barely enough to stem the tide, though just barely enough. Power is given, and taken. Power is canceled, and made raw material. Magic is warped. Null is the result, positive magic is understood, antimagic is what is produced. The resonance is reversed, and flattened out. Communion; speaking with the gods through the stone, the amulet made of a rock uncreated but spawned. Their command, their power, their unnamed selves projecting through tendrils of darkened miasma with origins beyond the time and space of creation. Sacrifice; the gods demand the blood of murdered innocents. Destruction; more than just unmaking, but consuming and thereby un-being. <><><> Allcre gasped, throwing herself out of the vision. She saw the flickering lights on the archivist’s face, in Pitt’s eyes, the awful terror of the arcanologist. She scampered across the floor on hands and knees, opening the door and sealing it behind her. She had questions for an old man better answered than these stories. <><><> A hundred such tales; tales of the stones bringing plagues, raising hellbeasts, giving unlife to the dead and murdered, corrupting the power-hungry and the vengeful. Such is the history of the kings and queens of the dead. Such is their trade. Such is their power. Such is their meaning; the consumption, the ending, the suicidal forays into a guarded creation. The endless, mindless, sanity-wrenching horror. The Warp. Creation undone, a universe of the dead. The end. <><><> The visions ended. All too abruptly, it seemed. Each had taken their own meaning from them. Each came away a little changed. “So you see,” the arcanologist said, “just going after the stone is a complicated affair. They are messages, from the outside. Precisely what they are remains to be seen. Which is why-“ Pitt started and looked up, staring wildly around the small room, anxiety dawning bright on his face. “Where is Allcre?” The archivist figured it out almost immediately. The revelation was not helpful to Pitt. <><><> Some four hundred yards west and ten feet down, Allcre crept into the brick culvert they had waltzed into only a few days prior. She strode down the raised walkway, turning up the dry pathway, following the dark path, occasionally looking over her shoulder for someone following her into the sewers. She reached the flood control mechanism where she, Pitt, and the archivist had first met the curious man they knew as Balthasar, who had basically saved them from the effects of the demon skull they recovered in the central cistern. She looked around; it was exactly the same. “Balthasar! Come out; I need to talk to you!” she cried out. “Hey, Balthasar!” A swish of wind, a flash of light, and he was there. An old man, spry, and half-cracked. He hung from a lead pipe crossing the outflow from the cistern, watching Allcre very carefully. “Who are you?” “Who am I? I told you that, I’m Balthasar. You friendly neighborhood sewer-savior.” “No. More than that. Who were you?” “When?” “Approximately 300 years ago. Say, oh, before the walls of this city were built.” Balthasar was taken aback a bit. But only a bit. “Why?” “It’s important.” “What?” “I said, it’s-” “I know, I’m kidding with you.” “Really?” “Yep. I was titchy little magelet, if you’ll believe I ever didn’t have a righteous beard like this.” “I could see it.” “You’re just being nice. No need to be nice to an old man who’s live in the sewers for two and a half centuries.” “What happened to those fifty years?” “Well, the Prohibition took its sweet time getting out to the frontier, and I hung out with the Wanderers, shared their astronomy and smoked their marsh herb. Good times, good people, good stuff.” “So what were you doing? Were you around here?” “Oh sure, yeah, right in the middle of the fracas. Hell of a fight, though it didn’t last too long. I’m not a betting man, but I would have bet wrong that last night.” “So how did he do it?” The old man stopped his ramble, paused, and sat down. He looks up with the eyes of a much older man than he is now, one who looks more responsible. “You have to understand that we all did it for him. He was so much more than we ever could be. We looked up to him. He figured it out, you see. He figured out how to beat them.” Allcre looked up. “It’s hard, but its not hard to figure out. Just an overload of energy.” She shook her head, backtracking. “Wait, wait, you were with the Red King?” Balthasar smiled, a sort of fanning out his beard. “We didn’t know him as Red anything then. He found a cool banner and just kept it around. The legend grew, as it should have. That was the plan.” He leaned back. “Back when I was in the Third Hadirion Fusiliers, we followed that guy around like puppies. Did his laundry, ran his orders, built the wall, everything.” Allcre frowned deeply. "Hadirion... I'm not familiar with it. Where is that exactly?" "It's not important. We did take on a bunch of native elves, though, from just over the river. Probably more concerned with the state of the trees than anything else." A flash of memory hit Allcre. A stranger in a bar, a cryptic message, unparalleled control of spellwork, and eyes, eyes that shone with starlight... a beacon to be lit on the last tower of the ruined city, she had seen it every day... “But that was the clever bit. Sure, you can destroy them easily enough, its just an application of firepower. But to beat them, you have to trap them. You can’t just destroy them; you have to keep them harmless. We set up this huge barrier, and right at the heart of it we set up a perimeter for the big guy to roll in and do his stuff with the big sword, and then we jaunted right out. I was left for after guard, and when I’m done here, I’ll go back and be with my pals.” The old man grinned, a nostalgic smile looking back over his centuries. “He made a deal with a brilliant old stogie of a spirit, set the whole thing up, got the sword fixed up and everything.” His smile cracked a little bit, and he looked at Allcre for the first time with an inquisitive eye. “How is he doing these days, hmm? What happened to that sword of his? Shouldn’t be just left lying around.” And the Red King knelt and took the sword, bright as day, from the hand of the White Steward, promising to build a realm free of sorcery, necromancy, magery, and all manner of corrupt power that would overcome the righteous and the kind. -Codex of the Red King

Briarheart: Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Road from Meodoset

The world was waning. The forests crept back in, and the plains were tramped down by cattle and horse.

In an era of myth and legend, cities were raised with immense power, and empires mapped out the land and sea and lit the world with the beacon of civilization. Rumors of these cities, now dust filled skeletons of stone and ruin, say that they were like the mountains and the ocean; wonders of the natural world unto themselves. In time, their armies slaughtered and their towers cast down, the people of these civilizations turned either to endless wandering or to barbarism. The former became a rare sight on the slowly fading trade routes. The latter became known as the Fallen, holding vassal states in fear and thrall among the great plains and deserts.

A few isolated cities still stood, hidden away and defended from the failings of other city-states. Some took refuge in the fallen edifices of their forebears, others to high mountain valleys, but many are half-inhabited shells. The inheritance of the great civilizations was fear, death, and poor crops in bad locations.

Humans, generally speaking, were the foremost inheritors of the cities and safe places. Elves faded into legend, alien and unknowable creatures to be wary of in the deep forest, spoken of only in whispers. Dwarves, for a time, kept to their mountain strongholds, but through calamity and the Fallen’s greed, they were reduced to a class of wanderers and laborers. The greatest empire, centered on the Golden City of Bocshur, produced a race of half-elf gypsies that had claims to grandeur yet were reduced to cons, frauds, and cheap tricks. The Fallen, the barbaric horselords of warmer climes, were seen as less than human.

In such dark times, religions of austerity and order sprang up, giving virtue to the abject poverty and divine right to kings and lords of tiny fiefdoms. Missionaries traveled with the few trade caravans spreading the word of the Lord of Elysium and a message of hope and life after death, and preachers serving the Lord of Judgement held forth on palace steps extolling the virtues of an orderly and just society. Not all took kindly to these evangelists; many who had found themselves pushed to the edges of the light cast by civilization looked to nature for guidance. The old ways have a strong, yet hidden following. Even when their world balanced on the edge of a knife, the inhabitants of these small cities would fight to spread their belief.

One such city was Meodoset, the capital city of the surprisingly stable Kingdom of Meodos situated in a long mountain valley far to the south. The tall Moggan Range was the edge of their world, and the Cailena Mountans were their wall against the Fallen. A dozen or so small villages clustered as if for warmth around four keeps, which in turn protected the capital. This was a land locked in the Iron Age, fallen back from the sophisticated metallurgy and craftsmanship of a former age. Magic, as always, was used by smith, farmer, book-keeper, and mason alike, though so much spellcraft had been lost that those few who pushed the boundaries of power were seen as mad.

In the reign of Ceolan the Third, King of Meodos and High Priest of the Church of the Golden Heaven, a lone rider came galloping up the valley from the coastal towns. Nearly killing the horse in the process, the missionary burst like a fox into a henhouse through the streets of Meodoset, crying his dire message to the very walls of the palace. The King himself came forth to recieve him. The missionary, clad in homespun brown and wore wild-eyed than most priests, gasped one word in a great silence.

“Witches.”

A plague had fallen upon the fishing town of Shaye. Children had gone missing. A pox and a curse lay on the sleepy township. Such evidence could not be ignored. The riots and panic that broke out in the capital were unacceptable. The King sent his answer. By nightfall, the King had commissioned a dozen hunters to go west.

<><><>

A hawk flew high above the trees, watching the progression of the dozen witch-hunters and the few city-folk accompanying the party. The witch-hunters were a mix of boring old priests from the Church of the Golden Heaven, a few hired swords, and a brace of shifty-looking ranger types from the woods, carrying crossbows and knives that gleamed oddly in firelight. One or two of the rangers looked to be almost noble, comfortable around priests where most country folk were not. The non-hunters were a classic set of would-be travelers; a smith, a scribe, and a consort.

The smith and the scribe were perfectly ordinary. They said their prayers, they did their work, they helped the hunters. The consort? Now she made for an interesting creature.

The consort was the only non-Meodosian in the group, clad in the rosy red fabric (which might have been silk, though it was quite thick) and the leather armor of the Bocshi. Like most of her kin, she had wound the fabric around her face and hair, bridge of a slender nose and a pair of violet eyes peeking out at the world around her.

Needless to say, the consort was the subject of a fierce (and quiet) bidding war amongst the men. She had been an impossibly sensual addition to the expedition, though the rebuttal from the priests had been met with a surprisingly clear story.

“No, ma’am, you can’t come with us. I’m sorry.”

“And why not? I’m a gypsy; this is what I do. I travel. Meodoset was becoming cramped. It was no longer suitable.”

“Well… if you put it that way…”

“Which I do. I don’t peddle my wares on the road, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

“Oh… No! No, not at all, that wasn’t… look, it doesn’t seem like woman’s work…”

“Really? Have you seen the size of my knife? Do you think I, of all people wouldn’t know how to defend myself?”

And that had been that. The priest had been hard pressed not to melt into those eyes; the hawk had to give him credit for that fine performance. Though the priest may not have been particularly familiar with it, the consort had an aura that practically screamed magic. It was incredibly subtle. She had never seen the consort cast, tacitly or otherwise. Maybe… a little interaction might be in order.

Granted, the hawk had a soul not entirely hawkish, and the mind of a clever woman used to keeping (and finding) secrets.

The hawk caromed down into the trees, feeling it necessary to return to the party. A few minutes later, a slender woman slipped out of the bushes on the side of the road, carrying a brace of coneys in one hand. Though the rangers gave her odd looks, they were happy for her catch. It was a welcome addition to the party, having such a skilled woodswoman as Calliope with them.

<><><>

The ancient legend of the hydra, from days when men traveled upon the sea in great ships, described a creature striking from the deep, capable of re-growing two heads when one had been cut off. The consort, considering that she was capable of kicking scum and criminals to the curb, and that she was able to reliably pick up more clients than she refused, found it apt and well-nuanced.

And there was the whole innuendo part. She found that laughs were the easiest ticket to a new client. Hydra was a memorable trade name; she had even commissioned a rare malachite brooch cut into the shape of a serpent to fill the title.

The priests were an interesting lot. It was difficult to work with them, as they were clearly hiding whatever feelings they wanted to develop underneath a sheen of what attitudes they thought they should cultivate. The discomfort they were feeling from traveling was opening up all kinds of rifts in their nature, allowing her to see what they were really feeling.

Combining the self-loathing of perfectly natural human impulse with a need to be righteous little shits made her want to leave it all behind. Thank the stars they were getting out and actually living for once, and that she had never actually grown up in a city. At least the rangers and the sellswords were there to provide clean, honest manly vigor. Without that, she would have gone mad at priestly proximity.

The girl, however, was probably the most interesting person on the road at the moment. She spent very little time with the group, save to bring back the product of her hunting. Hydra had the distinct sense that the woman, a whip with green eyes and a devil-may-care smile, was really only bringing back the game whenever she felt like it. There was a general rogueish character to her, almost making Hydra nostalgic for the mischevious band of friends her gypsy family had been. Almost. Not quite.

The city commissioner and the priests had taken her story at face value. She had, certainly, been feeling a little cooped up in the tiny city, and for all her success the road was calling her. Traveling towards the sea, something she had never seen, seemed like an excellent adventure. The witch-hunting was a good excuse, and her ability in a fight with her knife on top of her ability to read people like a book made her a valuable asset.

She could almost smell the sea. A smile that would have melted the King stretched beneath the veil.

<><><>

Shaye lay like a pile of driftwood on a bluff above the beach. A cluster of huts gathered around a small stone fort, and a few dozen dories and fishing boats were dragged up on the sand beneath it. The salt tang of the sea breeze had carried over the low hills for hours, but the town itself either was too cold or smelled like fish. Its residents, hardy men and women who had built and re-built the town on a stormy and icy coast, came cautiously out of their homes and shops.

The priest leading the expedition strode up to the fort and walked right in, leaving the rest of the party to mill around outside. The rangers and mercenaries gathered in and talked amongst themselves, while the priests gathered around the doors of the fort. As always, leaders went first and everybody else did the grunt work, and the poor bastards knew it.

Calliope sidled up to Hydra, who had walked her horse in from the town limits. Both of them had been looking out over the crowd; there were angry faces, sad faces, scared faces. Some looked like they had barely slept for weeping, others looked like they were impatient with the whole affair. All of them were clad in a similar garb of brown or black cloth, all very orderly and neat. Muttering from the crowd was like the deep murmur from the waters edge, not a hundred yards distant.

Calliope leaned in, whispering, “Want to explore the town a bit? Get the lay of the land?”

“Of course I do.”

Master and Commander: Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Smoke on the Water

Captain Mayakis walked calmy back along the deck towards the bell. She looked out at the fog; it was as thick as she had ever seen it, on these waters or any in the Inner Reach. A tough-looking half-orc seaman, standing almost head and shoulders above her, was watching the sea from the rail. “Sailor!” she barked. “Ring the bell, once at intervals of a minute or so.”

“Aye, captain,” the sailor rumbled. Looking ahead into the fog, he began to ring the bell softly. The ship rolled forward through the sluggish waves, the silence of the sea and the fog smothering all sound but the soft tones of the ship’s bell. Even the windmage, who had been casting an array of spells to watch the fog, had stopped to peer into the grey mists ahead.

Whip, a slender elf midshipman, came down from the quarterdeck. “Captain, report from the Lightning, ma’am, by way of the windmage. The Captain would like to know, and I quote, why we are playing at being a bell-tower and ringing the bell off-watch?”

“Our Master Peynor heard a noise in the fog,” she answered. “The charts say that there is no land in the direction we’re passing, and we can barely see the Lightning. If there’s a ship ahead, we should make it ‘ware of us. Don’t you agree, Mr. Whip?”

“Aye, ma’am,” he slowly spoke. “Should we beat to quarters, ma’am? Seeing as we’re close to pirate waters now?”

The Ship’s Master came running back to the bell mount, looking concerned and more than a little uneasy at the ringing, the possible ship up ahead, and the question the midshipman had asked. There was a ship he had lost in much the same way, and he would rather never set sail again than risk a repeat.

“Captain,” he whispered, “what are you doing? If these are pirate waters, should we be advertising our position to a potential threat?” His urgency carried clear, even though he was keeping his voice low.

Mayakis frowned. “As you say, Master Peynor, we are almost in pirate waters. I would rather we remain prepared and safe.”

“Precisely, Captain. We should go forth with the utmost caution, which includes keeping a low profile.”

The captain nodded her assent. “I bow to your experience in these waters. It’s your watch.” With that, she walked back towards the stern and her cabin, telling the windmage on the way to pass on the message to the captain of the Lightning that a ship was up ahead, and they had rung the bell to warn it, as per procedure.

Turning to the stringy midshipman, Peynor issued a string of commands; cease the bell, keep vigilant, prepare the boats, prepare the guns. The few gun crews came out on deck, hurrying their ammunition to their stations. Where the Lightning had a brace of eight-pounders on the top deck and a full row of twelve-pounders below, the Tempest had a smattering of six-pounders and a few carronades along the rail. Peynor resumed his post near the bow, watching with his keen eyes the edge of the fog.

Mage Vantoros meditated for a moment, then opened his mouth to tell the Ship’s Master the other captain has heard the response-

-and stopped. A frown crossed his face; an awkward look for an otherwise distinguished gentleman. He strode up toward the bow, tapping Master Peynor on the shoulder. When he got to the seat of the bowsprit, he pointed outward with a single gnarled hand.

"Sir, what do you smell? The wind ahead is fouled with something, I do not think it is a ship. It does not move."

At first, it was only a hint, something like ash on the wind. The smell, to the elves aboard, was rapidly registered; an oily, thick smoky smell, pitch and resin burning away. The mist itself seems to draw in close and dark, and then there is a sound. They could hear a bell pealing wildly, ringing endlessly in no watch cycle or buoy call, but a clear distress signal, above a crackling roar. Soon, the sound became clear through the fog even to the most dead-eared veteran hands.

A breeze rolled down off the Narrows, sweeping aside the mist like a great curtain. To the noth and south, the long jagged ridges of the thin islands rose up to the great cliffs facing the Wide Reach, barely covered with scrub and littered with rock. The fog banks were swept aside, unveiling a dark sea under a grey and cloudy sky.

All too soon, the source of the disturbance was made clear.

There it was: a ship, foundering in the calm sea, burning mightily with its rigging almost all gone. A small handful of sailors were adrift on wreckage, having jumped ship. A scant few remained on the ship, beating back the fire as best they can, ringing the bell like madmen. The Lightning came out of the fog, and the sound of the officers screaming for the crew to beat to quarters was an immediate response. The sound of cannons being rolled out of the gunports acted as counterpoint to the chaos of the ship on fire.

The captain ran back up on deck, staring out in shock at the mess of masts, hull, and wreckage. This had been a large ship, larger than either the Tempest or the Lightning. The Callendon Trading Company flag, the same as the one flying from the mizzen aboard the Tempest, draped singed and scorched from a ruin of rigging. The heat of the fire was like staring into an oven, even at this distance.

Midshipman Whip started and nearly fell down against the backdrop of a score of sailors staring in frank shock at the burning wreck. There had been few pirates willing to cross most of the Wide Reach in living memory, and none that had run the Narrows. What Peynor saw on their faces was fear, plain and simple. The Tempest was an essentially unarmed ship, with none of the thick-hulled construction the Lightning saw. They knew this, the officers knew this, he knew this.

The Lightning sailed out, tacking on a course around the wreckage, guns carefully pointing in every direction in order to protect the Tempest and the remnant of the burning ship.

Mayakis sprang into action. “All hands! Make ready the boats! Back the sail, keep us off the wreckage! Lieutenants, I want crews ready to go immediately to search the wreckage! Lively!” She sprang down the hatch amidships, making a beeline for the surgeon’s office as the deck sprang to life under the command of her officers.

She opened the door without knocking. A mousy middle-aged man looked over his spectacles at her in frank shock. “Steven, get your mate and prepare your infirmary. We have a wrecked ship with possible survivors, and I need you ready to recieve them.” A short pause. “Prepare for burns and broken bones, some near-drowning. Whatever you can.” The man had no time to respond before the captain was out the door, onto the next part of the rescue.

Back on deck, the longboats were already over the side, and the yawl was being hauled topside from the hold below. The longboats began their row over, and a few sailors began swimming over to the rescue boats. More stayed by their pieces of wreckage.

Peynor looked over the site of the wrecked ship, seeing men on board the ship, no longer ringing their bell, and the men in the water. “So few,” he murmured. “A ship this size could have almost a hundred men at her command if she were a cargo hauler, much more if it were an escort.”

As the yawl began sailing on the winds drawn in by the fire, its men made slower progress with the larger boat by poling off the wreckage, occasionally picking up a man or two. In time, it made its way to the beleaguered ship, beating out the odd sparks landing on their sail. Over the roar, it was impossible to hear what the crew was saying to the men aboard, but it took little convincing. Five men jumped into the water near the yawl. Three men crawled in. One was pulled up, and the last was not seen again.

A sudden tremendous crack like a cannon shot echoed over the water, drowning out for a moment the sound of the dying ship. The remnant of the mainmast gave way, toppling into the sea opposite the yawl. The mast acted like a sea anchor, dragging the ship further over and fully broaching her, flooding her hold beneath the rail. In no more than a few minutes, the ship slipped beneath the waves, leaving nothing but ash on the wind and the burning wreckage.

Once the longboats were brought back and the yawl returned, the captain turned to Peynor. “Take command of the deck, get us sailing, get us back on course. Tell the Lightning we need to leave. Have the able-bodied officers brought to my cabin at the earliest opportunity.”

Master Peynor did so with characteristic alacrity, ordering t’gallants rigged and the Lightning brought about. The longboats were stowed and the yawl brought aboard. Three of the dozen sailors had to be treated for wounds other than burning, and all but one of the officers were laid up in beds with wrappings and tonics for their significant burns. The last officer was a half-orc windmage who had used his familiar to protect himself and shield the others from the worst of the heat. He winced with every step, his tusks exposed in a rough snarl from pain. Peynor escorted him into the great cabin, closing the door behind him.

“Mage Thorikkson, we are glad that you are still alive, and especially glad that you are able to answer some questions for us,” Captain Mayakis began. “I need to know what you were doing out here, what happened to your ship, and what manner of attack you have weathered. If they are anywhere nearby, it would be best to have the information quickly.”

Though he glared at her through one baleful eye, the old wizard bowed his head in deference. “I was the commissioned windmage aboard the Callendon survey ship Dawnseeker, ordered on a routine patrol of islands in the north of the Wide Reach and invited to inspect their mineral wealth.” He shuddered an old man shudder. “The islands to the north are sharp rocks with little scrap of life upon them, filled with gulls of desperate quality. Our hold, however, was filled with whale oil, having found plenty amongst those islands. We were not meant to come back for another year or so, but the captain and his officers elected to return to Porwraight by way of Turion to offload and make a tidy profit for themselves and the company.”

“Why would they do this? Going against company orders? Were there no dissenting voices among the officers?” Peynor asked. It seemed odd, to say the least.

“Nay, sir. The captain was a persuasive man. He claimed that the islands held no wealth, but their demonstration of the liquid resource of the Wide Reach would allow them to come home to much acclaim. Thus, none but the supercargo offered resistance, and even he agreed it was likely the company would allow for superseded orders in such a case.”

“Unlikely,” the Ship’s Master grumbled. “A mineral survey ship, finding whale oil? Pfah.”

“Enough, Master Peynor,” the captain remarked. “Let the man tell his tale.” She turned back to the mage. “So, you were coming down to the Narrows, and were attacked… what, last night?”

“Aye, even last evening, ma’am. The wind shifted all of a sudden, and a lofty tall ship came bearing out of the open sea and lay into us with a terrible attack.” Again, he shuddered. “Twas not a raid, nor a scare for a pretty token. They stole my wind out of the sails and spat fire at us. Devils.”

Peynor raised his eyebrows. “Not cannons? Actual fire? What was their insignia?”

“A black flag, sir. Some odd rune painted on their sails, like a mountain, or-“

“A wave. I know the symbol.” Peynor began to worry in earnest. It was the Black Reach again, those most vicious bastards with their occult sorcery, coming out of the gloom with a ship crewed by the damned, spitting green fire from their cannons and sailing on a wave of corruption…

“Well, I got a good look when they spat the fire at us, good clean yellow it was-“

Hold up. Peynor raised a hand, and spoke haltingly. “Not… green flame?”

“Nay. Bright as daylight, it was. Scorched the hull, near severed the rigging, and turned us about. Didn’t even come aboard, just burned us and left. Fucking pirates.” He spat on the floorboards in disgust.

The captain and ship’s master exchanged a glance. The captain was satisfied, but curious to know the master’s thoughts. The master was simply mystified. “Please, Master Peynor, you obviously know something of these criminals. Share with us an anecdote, if you will.”

The sailing master sat down heavily in his chair, staring at the table, focusing on events a world and a lifetime away. “When I was younger, still full of my own ambition, a ship I was commissioned on was attacked, pillaged, and sunk, all hands save me lost. I don’t like to recall it; the only thing I will say is that it was one of the most horrific events of my life, and that rune was their sigil.”

He looked up, a frown crinkling his brow. “But this is far different. It’s the same rune, ostensibly, but without the, you know, total horror and death. So it’s different. On top of that, I’d wager this ship the Dawnseeker fell victim to had the same equipment as that the Lightning defeated a little while back. High-energy projection weapons? Seems too lucky a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Dawning comprehension was crossing the captain’s face as the old windmage sputtered, “I cannot follow what you mean. Are you saying this was no accident?”

Mayakis declared, “No. It was a message. And we will answer.”

Planetfall: Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Ghost Ship

Like a great dusky rose, Salsharu the Great spread out underneath the Dauntless, a roiling sea of storm and cloud with an endless horizon. No air to slow her down, no sky to form a dome over her head, Heather was for the first time in months, perfectly happy. She released the cabin’s Foundation and felt the natural accelerations of the gunship.

She was free.

There was no direction save her own, no up or down but as she defined it, no constraining parameters, just a perfect open three dimensional space. Since the beginning, she had been incredibly uncomfortable flying along a plane in atmosphere, even aboard a craft in orbit, but once she got into the empty vacuum interplanetary space she was at home. She was the center of the compass, and the world shifted around her.

A quick touch of the controls, and the Dauntless was belly-up, the spread of the gas giant “above” her head. She quickly realized that the gunship was a fantastic ship to fly, and took a moment of maneuvering and adjusting to simply enjoy the sensitivity, the pure thrill of surety in null-g. The Dauntless cut the edge of its path like a knife, and she could well imagine how perfectly it could (and would) maneuver between ships like a flitting sparrowhawk, turning and unleashing the fury of a firinado’s joy. This was flying.

She looked briefly at the reports coming in from the orbital sensor network, and adjusted their course to approach the low-power station. Playing a card of caution, she reduced power to a few high-reading areas of the ship, turning it so that it would not present as much of a target. There was no need to confer with the rest of the crew, in her mind. It was the obvious choice. She was an independent operator, and having two whole teammates (who were only tangentially on the same page as her) was irksome.

Felix had been halfway through suggesting the same when he felt the ship change course. Checking is HUD, he sighed. Of course, our pilot is more than right in determining the course the ship takes, he thought sarcastically. Where was the communication? He was even in the mood to be professional with the likes of these two, but with Etheros working on 20 words a decade and Heather utilizing to the fullest the vocabulary of an ant, he was fairly certain he was going to be doing the one talking.

Still cramped in the operations control seat, Etheros was silently agreeing with Felix. Whatever plans were formed, the BLADE trooper wanted to know about them. Generally speaking, following orders was his forte. The Alliance had used him well in that respect, unleashing their Iron Dog whenever they saw fit. Up until, of course, Etheros had handed in his resignation. It had been disconcerting, initially; Etheros liked being part of a plan, even if he was part of a larger plan than he understood. He wasn’t overestimating his own cunning; logistics and strategy were not his strong suit. Playing to his strengths and recognizing situational weakness? He was unstoppable on the ground.

The last time Etheros had been in a chain of command had been during the Iron Cleanse, a rousing success, and largely of his own doing (though he would have preferred to act rather than lead). It was more efficient and less complicated to act on intelligence rather than create it. That said, having to rely on, or rather depend on Heather’s accurate judgement felt wrong. Failing to communicate opened up massive weaknesses for operations. Divides between the tight-lipped pilot and the impossibly disloyal mercenary meant things would fall apart in a hurry.

“When docked, how shall we proceed?” he asked on the link.

/WE HAVE TO DOCK FIRST, METAL MAN. COMING UP ON A DEBRIS FIELD; HOLY SHIT, WHAT DID I MISS OUT ON?/

The ship begins to shudder periodically as point defense lasers begin firing automatically, taking care of random debris and odd shards of metal in passing. The space is full of them; longer range sensors show that this orbital level is full of small shards, at a range of different speeds, all clustered around a larger metal object; likely the station itself.

As the Dauntless approached the station, a crackly radio signal burst in on the chatter.

"- and we can't let them have it. This is Betun Atmospheric Research Station, code 00629-B5, signing off for the last time. ... ... ... Mayday, mayday, this is the Betun Atmospheric Research Station, we are heavily damaged and losing hull pressure. If you are receiving this message, you are within the range of a ham radio pulled together by the tech support staff aboard the station. We were observers in the fleet actions around Lormandorion, but a stray macrocannon shot gutted our main power supply and comms and nearly split the station. We have no armed combatants aboard, we have no rebels, we have nothing. We only need help, medical aid, transport. If you're a scavenger, the eighth bay on the third ring has all our rare metal supplies and the manufactory; we can open it for you for aid, just take us with you. There are some other ... ... important research ... ... function ... ... it's in the storms ... ... -"

It weakened and weakened, finally getting cut out, before the Dauntless reported that the signal was too weak, probably damaged recording in addition to faulty power supply. Based on the recording, it seemed to be on a loop, waiting for a proximal ship to actually start transmitting. Not a great design.

Up ahead, the station loomed. Nearly a kilometer across, three rings stacked on a large central column would have spun lazily, but a massive wound had severed one of the rings, burst open a second, and heavily charred the last. The central column was bent and open in places, ice crystals forming around open wounds in the super structure. Heat sensors showed that the station had cooled immensely, almost to the ambient temperature of the space around it. Very, very faint power signatures were registered, but an interesting aspect was that the radioactive signatures of a reactor explosion or a resonator collapse were absent entirely. The Betun Station was almost dead; crippled, sure, but not quite gone.

Etheros, while listening to the recording, had begun to get itchy. He needed a plan. This was a dangerous part of space, and the fact they had been close enough to observe the massive fleet engagement (which he had supported on the ground) around the moon of Lormandorion meant that, if there were any survivors, they would likely be rebels. He needed a plan. Damn well should have done it from the start.

“Felix, Heather. Establishing list of objectives.

“First: Find the source of failure.

“Second: Rescue one survivor for information.

“Third. Eliminate hostiles. Keep one alive for information.

“Fourth. Rescue survivors.

“Fifth. Resource collection. Confirm or advise.”

Heather heard the list; it was like a program. It was understandable. She responded in kind.

"Addition: Attempt to restore power to small portions of the base. Upload logs and information, find recorded video feed. Priority: communication between the three bases. Attempt to find communication and upload links to view them remotely before investigating in person. Identify all bases. Locate missing base. Loot bodies and storage units for hard copies of passwords and information. If confronted by combat, then keep it contained within one area. Allow no communication to be passed between engaged enemies and those elsewhere. If survivors are located, then keep note of their position but do not engage with immediately. If hostiles engaged in conversation, then take note of important data."

A pause, then...

"Possible hypothesis for power failure: ...There's a giant hole blown through one of the rings. Potential problem: Little room aboard Dauntless for survivors.  Desperate survivors may pose a threat."

Another pause. Felix was already shocked.

“Additionally, the audio log indicates the station was in possession of something more valuable than the rare metals.” She played the log again, focusing on the very first section. That should be enough to satiate them and their need for plans.

Etheros leaned back in his seat (as much as he was able), drumming his fingers across his gun. Gods above, over a hundred words. Wonders would never cease.

Felix began laughing into the channel, commending Heather on speaking and calling her out on her refusal to communicate (save for this outburst). Finishing that, he stated in his professional tone, “Besides that, yes, I agree with the outlined plan as well as the potential problems highlighted currently. Your observation is appreciated and noted, but the message is looped and they might be referring to their research data. Or they might not be, we will find out when we access their systems and ‘save one survivor’ as Etheros so nicely put it. Seeing as our metal giant is generally reserved, and you seem content with twiddling your thumbs and dreaming in your mind, I’ll do the talking with the people station side. For all other situations, I assume Etheros and I will deal with insurgents and you will deal with technical problems, correct?”

“Yes.” There was the Heather he knew.

Etheros was simply glad to wait, making sure that the other two would maintain radio silence. He got radio confirmations from both, and peered out the porthole as a section of medbay drifted past. He wished Felix wouldn’t talk so much. An incursion into possibly hostile territory simply was not the time.

Heather piloted the small gunship in towards the station’s bulk. Slowly, slowly the vast spread of metal drifted by, damage from impacts pocking the otherwise smooth metal, blown out portholes peering in on thrashed living quarters, scientific labs, equipment bays. It was desolate, but it was empty, a ghost ship adrift around its home. It was disturbing them, seeing the waste of space go by unlit and unwarmed. A program finally pinged and Heather drew it up. Seeing the layout of the station, she sent the schematics to the others after a brief pause.

There were four docking stations on this type of station. The first and foremost was the terminal docking station for long-term stays, located at one end of the central stack (on the opposite pole from the power array). The second and third were spin-jump stations, designed to capture small ships and fling them away from the ends of the first and third rings. The fourth was a small access hatch on the inside of the engineering module spinning on the small connecting axis between the main stack and the power array.

Unfortunately, all but the first required power to open and operate from the inside. The terminal docking station had doors to keep debris out and an atmosphere in, but the gunship could easily take out those doors. By all accounts, with the power off and the state of the station, it appeared that losing atmosphere was not an immediate concern.

After a few minutes, the Dauntless was lined up outside the terminal dock. One of the doors had been ripped in half, leaving a hole several times larger than the gunship needed. Visible inside was a shuttlecraft which had been pinned to the back wall of the bay by the door, its tether still largely unharmed. Cautiously moving in null-g, the gunship moved in and lined up with its belly hatch pointed towards the tether opening. It was perfectly dark, save for the small reflected light from the planet below and the spotlights of the Dauntless.

First out was the soldier, his engaged heavy plasma repeater liquid-cooled in the vacuum, his sword itching to be taken into hand. He drifted out, quietly clasping the edge of the tether, and shone his lights down the umbilical. Nothing. He pulled himself into the retractable hallway and its broken airlock, noticing the sealed bulkhead further down the hall. Next was the mercenary, feet pointed towards the opening and both pistols trained downwards. His boots made contact and soundlessly gripped the floor, producing a vibration that shook loose a few ice crystals. Last was the pilot, drifting in on her pack, hovering slowly through the hallway encased in a very advanced chrome-and-ceramic suit. Her mobile uplink to the Dauntless secured, she was a busy array of signals going out into the station, knocking on the doors of countless systems and breaking into them as much as the limited power allowed.

All was quiet. Nobody was home.

Hunters in Samalta: Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Bosom of the Darkness

The day waned fast, a blood-red sun sinking into the west over the vast unknown jungle.

Allcre stood cautiously at the edge of the trap. It didn’t seem like much of a trap; the various components of the cage were hidden in the bushes, the soldiers were all crouched under various pieces of cover, and she stood out in the open flanked by a pair of priests. She was nervous.

It was the night of the second day since their mad rush had started. The woodcarver’s guild had been, surprisingly, more than instrumental. They had helped with the construction of the cage and the ballistas, but they proved crucial to the transport problems. Roustabouts had scrounged up labor for a few days hard work, clearing a path from the trail leading into the Cursed Zone to the gap in the wall and building more supports for the bridge over the Zedac. The craftsmanship of the weapons, the cage implements, and the quality of the soldiers was more than she had expected. To be honest, she had expected the craft and spine of the frontier residents to be lacking, so far from the light of Samor. It was a pleasant surprise.

The very air was saturated with magic. Long years of training under Allcre’s belt made her feel distinctly uncomfortable with the baseline aura of the Cursed Zone. Something was inherently wrong about it; she couldn’t put a finger to it, even knowing the evil aura of demons and the blasphemous auras of the purely arcane. It ate away at the fringes of her power, casting long shadows across the narrow clearing and the marshalled power of Samalta and the White Steward.

Darkness began to creep like a fog between the trees as the light of the setting sun ceased to bleed over the edge of the clouds. She could well read the nervousness on the dark faces that she could see, hear the hushed whispers and the frequent shifting, feel the unsettled souls of the townsmen. The buckets of holy water and the rope winding around the clearing they had marked out gave them a sense of security that would begin to fray the moment the sun went down.

In the depth of their silence, a distant baying of a hound carried through the woods, more rasping and filled with hate than any she had heard. The intermittent growling and barking of that dog were quieter. They grew near, and grew loud. One of the priests beside her began to pray, a quiet litany of protection against evil. Allcre joined him, out of respect, and out of a growing sense of anxiety, a gnawing reprehension she could not explain.

The baying went quiet; the predator drew near. After ten minutes, when the first stars came out in the dark sky above, a low snuffling could be heard from the direction of the path. An ear-ringing howl shook the air, and the monster stepped forth.

To the laymen, unschooled in magic and unable to see the finer aspects of reality, a beast the size of a pony stalked out of the woods, sniffing towards the trap, ignoring all else around the clearing. In the dim light suffusing through the air from the relics, the skin of the thing glistened, soaked with the damp and blood of the recently dead. Muscles twitched underneath ragged wounds, failing to impede the beast’s forward progress into the well-laid trap. Yellowed fangs gleamed, slavering and dripping, caging a red tongue shaking with the force of the growl it uttered. Two nostrils sniffed the air, and a pair of eyes like those of a madman zeroed in on the Hunter and her priest companions. It began to move in earnest. None but Allcre had its focus.

In Pitt’s eyes, ensconced in the woods beside on of the ballistas, and those of the more powerfully adept, the beast was a whole different kind of terrifying. He could see, more or less, the aura of the pile of holy relics as a beacon in the night, illuminating the souls of the men under his command and a little bit of the area around. When the beast entered the clearing, he could see the beast plainly. He also could see that it carried with it a dark malevolence, a wispy aura that issued onto the floor like a thick river-fog, seeping into the very dirt of the open clearing. With every step, it drew a swirling power in with it. Pitt did not think that the beast was capable of casting, but it carried with it an aura that could well disrupt the cage’s operation. So be it.

His hand fell, and the night was filled with fire.

The ballistas fired as one through the flames that erupted, shining with a brilliance that only blessed fire could carry. Spinning through the light, rods of metal and wood thudded down and trapped the beast in the tight corridor. It hunched, just for a moment, looking up at the sudden threat, and that was enough. The trap came down hard over it, pinning it to the ground by a broken paw and forcing its head through one of the holes. The impact was enough to stun it, and a low moan issued from its mouth.

Laughter broke out as Pitt moved into the circle, Allcre coming up the corridor of flame. They stopped at the head of the beast, looking down onto a ruinous snout. Amidst the celebration, they remained quiet and professional.

Pitt kicked it lightly with a boot. “I honestly expected a lot more trouble. Get the other casters up here, we’re going to flip this thing.” He turned to one of the younger men in uniform. “Run back to the gap, tell the woodcarver and his men that we’ll be on our way soon.” The man saluted, grinning madly, and sprinted back through the thin trees to the barely visible wall.

A man in guard uniform, with his trademark scraggle of a goatee, came up bearing the blessed rope. He had already tied appropriate loops in it, and Pitt took them gladly. The Archivist leaned up against the trap, looking down at the beast with undisguised interest. “Interesting to see them up close,” he remarked. “I have a slight problem, however.”

Pitt and Allcre both looked up sharply. “Now what?”

The Archivist looked around at the men that had let down their guard, at the beast beneath the trap, at the lines of dwindling holy fire. He looked back at the Hunters and said in a strained voice loud enough to carry to the men, “The dog that chased me was smaller.”

Had a spell of silence been cast, it would have acted barely any faster than those few words. The Archivist darted into the trees, shouting to Pitt that he would take overwatch and make sure the group didn’t get flanked. The ballista-men grabbed their bows and dove behind the quickly forming shieldwall. Their reprieve was only for a moment.

Baying, howling, barking, the utterances of half a dozen monstrous canines sounded from the twisted woods, a call to their brother. Allcre looked to the beast in realization; the smoke, the smoke, it wasn’t just an aura, she didn’t have time to explain, the first words of spells were on her lips -

- the beast began twisting up out of the ropes and the chains, a sudden surge of power rusting and rotting the cage around it, its snout straining against the ropes, teeth spreading wide in a growl, a bite, a claw -

- Pitt moved first, sword drawn up and around, blade engulfed in flame, his whole being shining -

- from all sides save from the wall, dogs came, bounding across the clearing and leaping over the holy flames, running straight for the circle of soldiers suddenly filled with a fear they could not explain -

- the arrows and spears of the soldiers passed right through the flesh, ripping tendon from bone, blood black and foul spraying the adjacent, their screams rending the night air -

- Pitt’s blade came down hard, severing the head and glowing painfully bright. The dog immediately collapsed as a wave of energy went through its body in a sudden flash, the remaining trap components shattering into dust. He reached out, and grabbed two men, strong blacksmiths who had chosen to bring hammers into the woods. “Take the beast and go. GO! If all else, we need this, bring it to the wall!” They nodded, hoisting the dead beast as its black ichor dripped over their clothes, grimacing in pain as they went. Pitt turned back, and channeled his energy into Allcre.

Allcre raised her hands, crying aloud the last parts of her spell, and in all directions fire blazed out. Pitt’s assistance was like fuel on the blaze, and a tide of light and heat blasted out into the trees. Long dead and rotten, the arborous corpses took the flame and went up like torches, filling the air with smoke and heat. Two dogs had gotten in close enough to harrass the line, having already killed two men and tossed them like ragdolls away from the line. Her flame incinerated them, eliciting a yelp that gave Allcre such excellent satisfaction. Cries of pain came from the others, but they stood steadfast against the blaze, resisting at a distance what their brothers had not at point blank. The onslaught of fire was failing to work; there was some other force in play here.

In his tree post, the Archivist looked out over the impromptu battlefield. Four dogs remained, anchored in the ground by some dark force giving them strength. His sight in the darkness was exemplary; thankfully, nothing had revealed itself in the dense copses to either side of the trap field. In the center, slowly moving towards the wall as a formation, giving time to the blacksmith’s boys as they hauled the corpse back to the wall, Pitt and Allcre were pouring fire (rather futilely he thought) into the dogs. The crane mounted on the far side of the wall -

- the flames rising high into the night sky, birthing thick black smoke, began to turn a curious and somehow familiar shade of green -

- oh no, the wall -

- how in the hells -

“HUNTERS! We’ve been surrounded! Make for the wall, the wall!” He jumped down and darted between the trees, dumping everything he could into a headlong sprint. He pulled a dagger out and neatly severed the tendons of a dog thing as it jumped for one of the woodcarvers. A handful already had succumbed to the dogs, and were desperately trying to beat back the beasts with pikes.

His guard’s uniform whirling around, the Archivist quickly sent out deadening spells, tripping spells, everything in his arsenal at the dogs. There were only three, but it took him an unreasonable amount of power to disrupt them and let the carvers beat them to hell. Even in their death throes, they spat blood and bit deep into limbs. The men up on the wall were crying out, pointing towards the flames rising high and green like a corpse-flare above the trees, visible even through the smoke.

Right on cue, the line of soldiers (so few!) retreated through the trees, Pitt barely keeping them from routing, Allcre and the remaining priest tossing beautiful spells into the trees alongside the bowmen doggedly marking their targets with shaft after unaffecting shaft. The pikemen were having a rough time of their own, fending off the dogs and hoping to keep the flanks alive.

And then the dead man by the Archivist’s foot reached out and grabbed the sword he had dropped not moments before, rising with a broken leg and a shredded torso, his red blood turning a foul shade of black.

It would be difficult to describe the thread of thoughts in his head at that moment. The closest approximation would be the cold mass of a panic thundering down about his ears, the realization of precisely what had gone wrong cascading around his ears.

It was not he, however, that called out first. One of the men on the wall, calling encouragement to their friends on the field, saw a dead man rise and screamed aloud a warning. Even the mighty Pitt and the cunning Verily, Hunters of great renown and skill, could not keep the line from routing. Alone they stood against the darkness and the flame, shining like beacons of hope as their comrades fled before the face of madness. The dogs cowed in their presence, snarling at the day come again.

Out from the darkness stepped a figure, covered in shadow and smoke as though it were part of it. The dogs by its side howled, painful screeching cries for their master. Pitt and Allcre looked upon that darkness, and remembered nothing more of that night. Too great had been their expenditure, and too great was the strain. Their minds broke like tinder, if only for a moment.

The goateed man, scrawny and unable to fight like Pitt, unable to command respect like Allcre, saw their light falter, and dumped the last of his power into a desperate spell.

First, Radiation, away away -

- Pitt falls to his knees, and the censer drops from Allcre’s hands -

- then Sympathy, together to me -

- the gaping maws of the monsters open wide, red tongues lolling out in anticipation of their new meal -

- then Movement, fast as you can -

- the figure looks up, sensing, speaking in such a horrible voice -

- catch you with Subduction. Let it be!

An explosion between the Hunters and the dogs throws them all awry, but the Hunters shot like arrows away from the site, parallel tracks in a high arc out from the center of the darkness. Lazily almost, they sailed over the wall and landed softly on the cleared grass outside. A few of the survivors had set up a pyre, and the few dead that had landed outside the walls were being dragged to the fire to burn and be ended. The flame outside the ward stayed yellow and hot, resisting the influence of the dread power within. After a few minutes, they completed their task, laying the breathing bodies of the Hunters in wheelbarrows and trundling them ahead of the wagon upon which the corpse-dog lay.

The last thing the Archivist saw in the Cursed Zone as he watched the rear of the much-reduced column was the cloaked figure, standing silhouetted against the green flames and their poisonous smoke. In one hand, it held the leash of a corpse-dog, baying for the blood of the survivors, yet resisting at the edge of the wards. Beside it stood the corpses of men who had walked the streets of Samalta with their families, now consumed by the dark fire of the necromancer. The roar of the crackling flames drowned out any other sound, threatening to burn all of the shadowed forest of the cursed land within the wards.

Its eyes, visible even at that distance, were as a pair of stars in a constellation of madness, impossibly burning eyes that promised far more pain. They were planets of ill omen unto themselves. Worse than they was the locus of power that he could see with his eyes closed, the nexus of madness shining with darkness, shadowed in light, an impossibility and a hole in reality. It was… alluring… a tempting offer of nothingness and greater power… Feeling the edges of his reason slipping away, the Archivist wrenched back his focus from the hateful necromancer, and ran after the injured and decimated warriors of Samalta.

The night ended, and the day waxed grey. The pale sun shone over a city no longer secure behind its stone wall, unable to shake the terror of the night. The Hunters woke that afternoon, crying out and in a cold sweat, unable to believe they had left the nightmare.

The arcanologist came the day after.

Holy fire in the flesh

And light within the bone

Burn the tainted tokens

So will death leave me alone

-ancient verse, source unknown

Planetfall: Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Man of Steel, Double Face, Death’s Angel

There was thunder in his dreams. The faces, all the faces; bleeding, burning, dying, screaming, cursing. Above their chorus, the even thunder of war rolled on. It had been a safe place, the only home he knew, before the battlefield became a charnel house.

Even before he was fully awake, his massive hand had found his pistol and unshakingly leveled it at the door. The Harrier Falcon had rebels aboard, part of the crew and under command of a neutral captain, but it was foolish to trust in others for safety. I have no doubt that half the men aboard would jump to skin me alive, if not for Heather. He smiled, shifting his bulk on a groaning steel bedframe. Maybe they would, just a moment. Regardless of the murderous feelings of the Falcon’s crew, complacency led to arrogance, and arrogance led to a quick, cold grave.

A scarred hand reached out, finding the light switch in the cramped cabin. For anyone else, it would be perfectly comfortable, but for a BLADE trooper, his 7’8” frame barely fit. Despite the cramped quarters, there were morning ablutions to be done. One muscled arm reached out for a weapon, and the other for cleaning. Dismantling, inspecting, cleaning, and reassembly; heavy plasma repeater, the Verifle mutli-purpose battle rifle, flamethrower attachment, the massive handcannon of a pistol, and the keen longsword, symbol of his deserted office. The quartermaster had tried to advise him of appropriate storage use, but after being glared at by a man and a half reflected in the spotless sheen of a small armory, the ship’s weapon attendant bowed out.

Then, the work for his body. Shave, clean, prayer, and inspection of the power armor, as much an appendage as his arms and legs. Without it, Fordrick Etheros, Order of the Blad, Brother of the Iron Lord, Commander of the Iron Cleanse, and Iron Dog of the Alliance was intimidating. Inside the hulking augment suit, covered in weapons as was his wont, he was downright terrifying. He gave it a small pat. Soon. Almost at the end of this voyage.

He stood and prepared to leave the chamber with sword and hand cannon strapped on, when a rap came on the door. The deep bass rumble of the BLADE trooper carries clearly through the metal door: “Yes? What is it?”

“Orders for you, sir.” The voice quavered; one of the younger orderlies, no doubt. Etheros swung the door open at once, meeting the awed gaze of the young officer in the corridor. The corded mass of muscle that was Fordrick’s arm removed the plasma display from his outstretched hands.

“Orders. Thank you…”, but the boy was off running, either from nerves or errands. Etheros’ gaze swept the corridor. There was no trusting this crew. Rebels might pull a “prank” on a long-standing enemy such as he. The door was closed and locked.

When the BLADE trooper had first arrived at the Harrier Falcon’s berth on the Orrd Military Command Platform, the first reaction had been that he was a war machine, a robot. While this was not entirely untrue, his reveal as a flesh-and-blood augmented human was the source of much shock and awe among the troops, and a fair share of curses from a contingent of ex-rebel crew members. The only one that hadn’t been scurrying had been a short mercenary with a long and clearly customized sniper rifle, who exhibited no fear whatsoever in Etheros’ presence. Heather, too, had reacted uniquely, but that was for another whole set of reasons. She had seen the true face of war, and much of her outward emotion had been pushed deep down.

Being a living weapon was, at best, a job lonely beyond reckoning.

Etheros opened his orders and wished he hadn’t. Recon. Wonderful. Back in the academy, some of the old-school combat professionals had a saying; Reckless Exploration Causes Open Neck. There was value, of course, in learning the lay of the land and the enemy’s positions, but over-eager thinning of ranks in order to extend eyes and ears in three dimensions was foolish at best in space combat. Considering that, Etheros was merely happy to have something to do besides sit on a worn frigate for three months. What to bring?

You are ordered to locate and survey the three atmospheric research stations of Salsharu, all of which have gone dark and/or unresponsive to communications. Rebel forces may have taken control of the stations, and Andarali research stations are a necessary tool for the peace. There is Alliance military data aboard the stations of importance to military operations around Salsharu, and you must attempt to retrieve it. Your prioritized objectives; neutralize enemy threats, protect Alliance assets, rescue survivors.

He went into the armor, lights flashing and gears whirring as it closes in around him. At first, the suit constricted, as it always did, and then the neural uplink drove home into the port at the base of his skull, and the suit became a perfect extension of himself. An encased had goes out to the weapon rack, passing over weapons until he removed the heavy plasma repeater, strapping it to his body. Next, the longsword and the handcannon, looking briefly at the inscription on the base of its grip.

Our finest student.

He ducked out into the hall, leaving his room and its contents (and their memories) behind. Like a tank barreling aside smaller trucks, he waded through the crowded corridor with ease, entering mission parameters into his helmet. Each objective was part of a greater plan, though over carefully and prioritized in order to most effectively and efficiently carry out the mission. Such was the way of his life.

Arriving at the mess hall, he took a massive quantity of food and sat down in an isolated corner, attacking his food with gusto while his helmet rested on the table. After a moment, he re-adjusted to compensate for the slowly deforming chair beneath his bulk. His gaze swept the room, occasionally returning to the door, waiting for his companions, waiting to measure their quality.

<><><>

There were days when Kaladin Trivi, known as Felix, had not been exploring every inch of the small ship he had been assigned to for three months before this mission. Those days were spent working over his gear, tirelessly cleaning his armor, his beloved rifle, his knives, all the while poring over diagrams of the ship in order to find ways into the places he hadn’t discovered yet. Such were the habits he had drilled into himself from boyhood. Know your environment was one of his commandments.

When open access had been denied, Felix had brought to bear his second greatest weapon; his charm, of course, was almost as sharp as his knives. His assertive and confident personality gained him trust, his easy buddy-buddy attitude enamored the crew of him, the piercing green eyes simply grabbed the attention of their focus, and his comfort between both Alliance and Rebel forces aboard the ship made him the most well-connected man aboard the little microcosm of the Falcon. Put bluntly, he was the mechanism of the rumor mill.

It was odd, certainly, for most of the crew to see a man waltzing around and talking to both sides about logistics, tactics, and epic battles of the war that had claws dug into the skin of all the survivors. To the keen eyes of a few, however, it seemed almost an act, as if the expressions and responses Felix gave were the intended ones, rather than an honest or sincere comment from the mercenary. When he wasn’t cracking jokes or telling stories, he was going around the ship clad in most of his armor, pistols and knives openly carried, a calmly resolute expression plastered on his face. He was a professional, the habit said. He was not to be taken lightly. He was a victor in a war where everyone lost.

Truth be told, Felix gave not one single fuck about the mission he was headed towards. In fact, he really didn’t give a shit about the war, either. Whatever data was shrouded in the hearts of the low-orbit research stations was absolutely irrelevant; the data was just a part of the report, part of the parameters. From the start of his role in both sides of the war, and in every mission before and after, he had been interested in the money deposited in his accounts. The act of a professional was a safeguard, a guarantee that the mission would happen as smoothly as possible with the lowest risk that he wouldn’t get paid at the end of it all.

On the day the fleet had reached high orbit around Salsharu, Felix had been approached by an orderly, a junior officer, who had handed him a plasma display, looking a little nervous around the edges. Felix took the offered data, thankful that the official orders had finally made it into his hands.

“What’s the matter, kid? Run into a giant?” The giant super-soldier was, by far, the easiest target of teasing Felix had ever known, hated by rebels and not trusted (for some strange reason) by the Alliance.

“He wasn’t that big, sir.” A sheepish grin from the junior officer, a quick beat, and…

Felix laughed, a well-practiced chortle, widening the orderly’s grin. “Regardless, it’s good you found me. Thank’s for the slate.” They exchanged fairly sloppy salutes before the orderly scampered down the corridor. He turned on the plasma display, briefly glancing over the orders.

You are ordered to locate and survey the three atmospheric research stations of Salsharu, all of which have gone dark and/or unresponsive to communications. As there may be some remaining rebel factions aboard, this has been provided for under a military command. Scientific data aboard the stations is of importance to the peace and to space flight around Salsharu. Your prioritized objectives; retrieve the data, rescue any Alliance personnel.

This better be easy. I’m almost ready for the full fix. He strolled into the canteen, greeting a few spacers on the way out before he noticed that the “Iron Dog” was already plowing through a meal and sitting alone. For the first time that day, a genuine smile spread across Felix’s face. He calmly strode over to the armored giant, dropping his tray to the table with a clatter. “Hey, spacer. Ready for the day?”

The massive soldier glanced briefly over Felix’s kit. “Morning, Felix. Is that all you’re wearing?”

The mercenary snorted in response, taking a bite and chewing quickly. “Of course it is, leadbrain. Unlike you, I don’t need to get shot while I’m doing my job. With your size and your particular armor, you might as well paint a target pattern on your chest.” A smile spread over his face as an idea dawned in Felix’s mind. “Actually, now that I mention it, could I do that? Let me paint a target, a big red one, right on your center of mass. You know it’s go great with your eyes.”

Etheros smiled coldly in response, knowing when he was being baited. “Sure, while I’m sitting. I’ll procure the paint myself.”

That wasn’t the right response. “I have a strange feeling you don’t actually mean to use paint.”

The cold smile was a fixture, now. “If you can reach my chest, you can use whatever you want.”

"See, it's that smile that worries me." Felix took another bite of food, and then used his fork to accent his words. "I have that strange feeling I would lose the hand I tried to paint you with. I like my hands quite a bit, you see." Kaladin took another bite and chewed for a few seconds, a thoughtful look on his face. "I suppose I could leave that experiment for a field test, where I could successfully respond to whatever retaliation you threw at me." Felix waved his fork in a dismissive manner, a chuckle accompanying his action. "Another day, another mission."

There was a pause, slightly longer than just normal, as the cold smile fades. “The only response you would be capable of giving would be a choked apology.” In punctuation, Etheros speared some more food on a fork.

Felix instantly responded, “Testy, testy! Just wanted friendly banter, no need to go inquisition on my ass. We’re on the same side now, save your skull crushing for the rebels,” with the last phrase dropped to a whisper. He stabbed his fork into the last bit of food onto his plate, placing it with exaggerated air into his mouth. "Though I can promise you it won’t be me choking.” The smile quickly disappeared, replaced by a more disinterested expression. "Any plans for our entry into the space stations yet? You've commanded legions of people before, so you must have some sort of idea on how to approach this job."

“We go inside. We look around. We grab some people and shoot some other people. We leave. Repeat ad finem.”

Looking up and down Etheros in an exaggerated manner, Kaladin snorted again. “I knew I liked you for some reason. Couldn’t be that scarred rag you call a face, but I knew it was something.” Felix stopped for a moment before referring back to a sticking point from his plasma display. Reading off the expedition roster, he asked, “Uh, who is this Heather? It says she is a specialist, but I’ve never heard of her, which is saying a lot because, you know, I worked both sides.” As the tension ratcheted up through the bulkheads, the mercenary asked more quietly, “Do you know her?”

The glare could melt steel. “Yes.”

<><><>

A soft gong rang in a small space aboard the Harrier Falcon. Inside the cockpit of the Dauntless, a modified gunship residing in the cramped hangar bay of the much larger frigate, a pair of bleary eyes opened and looked at the display. There was an alert. There were actually about a dozen, but one in particular that required her attention. She yawned, stretched, and pulled the data jack from the headrest of the cockpit.

Heather, a solitary and introverted individual, was distantly aware of having been assigned a bunk in a regular cabin aboard the Harrier Falcon. She had taken one look at it and walked right back into the cockpit of the gunship, leaving only when absolutely necessary. She didn’t like the idea of being found, per se. Having a regular bunk with regular people meant that she could have been found at a regular time. Not ideal. Besides, spending more of her day with the spirit of the Dauntless made her more aware of the ship’s mood, temperament, and general thought patterns. Firinados were fiesty, belligerent, and aggressive, daredevils every one. After a few moody spirits and truly rabid bonded creatures early in her career, Heather had made a point of always knowing what was going on in the mind of the ship. The ship, after all, was the most important member of the crew. Every one else just helped. Sometimes. Ships were simple, far more sensible (or straightforward). People were complicated.

Which made the current mission a wet bag’s worth of Valandian moon-fish. She had to deal with two whole other people. She had cracked into the sealed data for the orders, and she had wanted to break out of the hangar bay that instant. Most of the three months had been very carefully trying to analyze the other members of the roster and learn about them so that she could react adequately. The rest of the crew, she left to be dishonorable scumbags doing their dishonorable scumbagging.

She nestled the data jack into the port at the back of her head, syncing with the ship’s functions and greeting the firinado. Drawing off the Falcon’s power through the Dauntless’s power cables, she began running the highly sophisticated programs which represented the sum of her presence in the data streams running through the gunship, the frigate, and most of the fleet. Shimmering silver-white in the air in front of her, runes on her arms flaring to life, she quickly dismissed some of the lower-level alerts and looked to the big one.

The alert pulled up a camera feed from the mess hall, whose microphone had picked up a lightly armored individual saying “Heather”. He had been talking to Fordrick Etheros the Efficient, who (true to nature) had remained tight-lipped and confrontational about the whole matter. That singular quality of the BLADE trooper which made him the perfect soldier also made him one of the select few that Heather found even remotely tolerable. He had been made aware that Heather was operating an array of monitoring programs that would trip at any mention of Angel in general.

To all but Etheros, she was a specialist with adept-level infiltration and pilot skills. Low-to-nil people skills. Some missions, some successes, mostly unassuming, no crazy action, though with a surprising high honors upon resigning. That, of course, was just the unclassified material. The only record of her actual military activity was kept in a sealed file, requiring the highest security clearance to even know about. The mercenary, a tried-and-true fair weather friend to the Alliance, was not on that list.

Out of a fleeting curiosity, Heather pulled up the file she had sent one of her better programs to accumulate. He had been able to weasel his way into the officer’s quarters, had been seen talking to almost everybody aboard, and had apparently explored nearly every inch of the ship. The only spot he hadn’t worked his way into was Heather’s refuge, the cockpit of the Dauntless, for which she had built a security clearance barrier that only she could access. His record was the scumbaggiest; he had played both sides, though with particular skill. His ship had been wrecked on one of his last missions, leaving him more or less adrift.

She unplugged from the ship, closed the programs, and left the cockpit only after she had made herself look as unassuming as possible. Apart from her simple clothing and fairly plain face, the only thing standing out about her was the augment on her back, a streamlined array of scaled white metal. She left the cockpit, taking the plasma display out of the hand of the orderly talking to the chief of avionics. She had read the orders, but there was no reason not to let the orderly fill his.

<><><>

A few minutes later, the pilot strolled into the mess hall. Without weapons or a uniform, she was seen as a civilian by most of the crew, and therefore to be ignored, as much as possible. However, their attention was brought around hard as she got a tray of food and sat down to the glowering giant and the somehow nonchalant mercenary.

Rumors were already being formed; who was the girl? What made her so important? Where did she come from? Her hab unit had been unoccupied for most of the trip out, and that was curious. Why did they need that most temperamental of beasts, a gunship of all things, for what was assumed to be a recon mission of low-orbit stations? One of the petty chiefs, an Andaral native of more than a few decades of service, was overheard to claim they were hunting double-rebels, separatists who were going rogue against the establishment and the anti-establishmentarians.

In an age-old tradition of interplanetary crews with nothing to spend credits on, a betting pool sprang up, engineering against avionics against operations against communications. Bets on what they were looking for, who they were fighting, what they would find, sprang up around the classic neutral ground, command. Informal communication networks among the enlisted sprang up in order to monitor every move of the three specialists, and Heather’s programs went into overdrive.

Up on the bridge, the captain planted his face firmly in both hands, a deep sigh radiating outward through his tired body.

<><><>

The mercenary watched as the plain looking woman sat with them, no greeting at all, with only a glance towards the super-soldier. He could not read her. It wasn’t that he wasn’t highly skilled at reading micro-expressions, it was that she could not be read. It got right under his skin. Unease started its deadly spiral, a long-treaded path. He felt fine in the presence of the BLADE trooper, as he knew precisely the boundaries he had with the overlarge human. But this woman? This pure unknown? She was a blank slate, and that lack of knowledge was merrily adding fuel to the fire. Within seconds, a blazing fury raged up at this woman who (he felt) was acting all high and mighty before one of his most expensive tools triggered within his armor.

Discipline.

Heather, of course, was having similar problems. She had just seen a flare up of some unpredictable emotiona nature within the mercenary which had not been detailed within any of the files she had found. Her inner disconnect did not betray the fact that she was alarmed that such a volatile human being was assigned to this mission. He had apparently only been stopped by a powerful program, using (at least) a Third Aspect. Such programs were expensive, incredibly so. This threw off all of her careful preparation, all of it now twisting in the void, how could she interact with him?

People were incredibly high-maintenance in a social and emotional factor that she wasn't wired to be able to deal with, and as such, conversations usually irritated her as much as they did the person that she was interacting with. He was currently labeled Red, as opposed to Etheros, who was Blue. The colors were sort of a code system which she assigned to people to keep her in a certain mindset when interacting with them. There were three categories. "Red" was for the majority of people, people she didn't know and therefore couldn't trust in any capacity. Red people ranged from an enemy who was addressing her to an average citizen walking down the street. "Blue" was for those that she trusted not to actively want to kill her, like Etheros and a handful of others she had met, most of them now being dead. She was able to spend time in their company without having to expend a lot of energy attempting to engage with them. "Sepia" was for the simplest relationships she had with others. Professional relationships, such as those she had with her higher-ups, as well as active hostiles. She didn't need to treat the Sepia people like actual people, and could could comfort herself in not needing to deal with nuanced social interactions with them. They were simply part of her larger system, as much a part of her programs as the code and spirits that she wired to them. She was good at accounting for variables in human action when running a program. "Red" and "Blue" people, however, required variables that had no purpose.

There were fire-response drones painted a less vibrant red than Felix Trivi was to Heather at this moment, despite her resignation to working with him.

Now calmed, Felix extended a hand. “Do I know you? I haven’t seen you arund the ship these past three months. My name is Kaladin Trivi, and you can call me Felix if you want. It’s a pleasure to meet you; always nice seeing another shorty.”

A pause, a careful consideration. What? Was this an insult? Or just a greeting? Probably something requiring a response. So… name.

“Heather Luminox.”

Oh, wait.

She shook his hand, releasing it quickly.

Felix mentally sighed. The fact that it was probably just a quirk did little to abate bad-Felix thoughts. Behind the blank face, thoughts whizzed by at orbital speeds. The pause between name and shake secured his opinion on that. Instead of flying into another rage (and requiring another high-cost Discipline pulse), he took comfort in the fact that, for all their inadequacy and red tape, Alliance brass wouldn’t assign incompetents to a company including a BLADE trooper. Etheros was a super-soldier. Felix was a super-soldier. This plain, unassuming, lightly augmented pilot was therefore also, on some level or another, a whiz-kid at some mission-relevant bullshit. She was like Etheros, in a way; he was a brute force thinker, all paint me and see what happens, I’ll crush your head between my rippling biceps, graaahhh, be gruff, be stoic, be a soldier. As she was obviously not a conversationalist, and he couldn’t simply nuance his way into her mind, he decided on a different tack.

Leaning forward on his arms, he spoke softly. “You’re weird. I don’t know how to handle that. You don’t answer questions in an appropriate timing, and you seem to be thinking in your own world. I’d rather not go into a mysterious station with someone who I can’t read, so let’s try and establish a connection. I tried with the shorty quip, but you didn’t seem to pick up on the fact that it was a friendly comment, meant to create a foundation for whatever business relationship you and I will have. How about this; tell me one thing you like doing, and we can go from there? I have a fairly wide breadth of skills, so we might have something we can talk about, or at least pretend to have something to talk about since you don’t seem like a talkative person. We don’t have to go further than that, and I can tell you don’t particularly have a want to form a relationship with me. However, we are a team, and we all need to be on at least the same book if we want to finish this job as soon as possible.”

The dark eyes looked up from the food, a chunk of meal resting on a fork utterly stable in the pale hand. It was visible that the eyes held much knowledge that was never going to be divulged. Heather appreciated the directness of the conversation. She realized something, then. Etheros was great in a tough fight, able to take and deal damage at obscene rates, a blunt hammer in all circumstances. She was a scalpel, trained and designed to do a small set of particular things in a particular order in order to accomplish specific orders, many of which turned out to be crucial to Alliance victories. Felix, on the other hand, had fought on both sides of the war, was apparently loyal to money and not to employer, had an impressive military lineage and the superiority complex that came with it, and a driving need to succeed. She realized exactly where he would fit in for most of the mission’s parameters.

Felix saw the intake of breath, and began the thought processes for conversation.

“You talk a lot.”

Clearly satisfied, she tucked back into her food. Etheros choked on a bit of gristle.

<><><>

Three tables away, the engineers mate, three enlisted sailors, and a passing midshipman could barely breathe from not laughing. They could not believe their luck. Truly, Salsharu the Great held mighty powers.

<><><>

“Yea, I guess I do, after all.”

Felix had once seen a farmer on Andaral who owned an ethanol-driven tractor. He had been trying to escape with his family, but the tractor was failing to start, repeating a sort of choking cough over and over without actually running. It seemed a rather primitive technology, but Felix hadn’t been able to get a good look at it after he killed the farmer. That repeated hiccup was, effectively, what his mind was doing. Bad-Felix was positively bellowing for blood, and Good-Felix was trying very hard to seem nonchalant about the whole matter. He had tried to connect with her, she had given him limited opportunity, he had taken that opportunity, and then he had been shut down. Just like that. He simply had no idea what the hell was going on with her.

He sighed, resting his head on his hand, letting his face fall into a position of resignation. “Look, can you at least tell me what you do? Then, I’ll leave you to your mean, go watch a movie or something, I don’t know.”

Surprisingly, she answered. “I used to be a specialist in the Alliance military. I’m not anymore. I fly ships and infiltrate systems.” To say nothing of her self-developed hacking skills, unparalleled pilot skills, and competency at stealth on all fronts. To say nothing of her genetically enhanced intelligence and her training to be an intuitive coder, spirit-worker, and runecrafter. It sufficed, she supposed. “Everything not fighting and talking.”

The PA snapped to life, eliciting choked coughs from the table of spacers nearby who had been listening very intently indeed. All conversation forgotten, the terse commands of the first officer barking throughout the ship send every soul aboard scurrying for gear, for ladders and hatches, terminals springing to life. For the first time since the last fire drill, the brass bars of the officers aboard were seen outside their quarters, running about coordinating the Harrier Falcon's operations.

"Avionics to standby, communications to standby. Orbital maneuvering is complete, and scan route entry is a success. First waypoint station approaching, contact in T minus 38 minutes. All hands to stations. Repeat, all hands to stations. Dauntless crew, Dauntless crew, report to hangar bay prepped for launch."

Etheros put a hand on Felix’s shoulder, holding him back as Heather practically sprinted for the exit, headed straight for the Dauntless. There had been a rabid dog he had come across during training, so long ago, that Felix had reminded him of. Wagging tail, friendly bounce, but crazy in the eyes and foaming at the mouth that Etheros only had seen when the dog had sank its teeth into his hand. The dog was dead, but the lesson was not.

“You’re lucky,” he said quietly to the mercenary. “This is the most Luminox has spoken in years, I believe.” As he readied the seals for his helmet, he paused to look Felix in the eyes. “Most people barely get past trading names.”

With that, they strode off to the hangar bay. Time for action.

When they arrived, avionics was in an uproar. The singleships were cleared into their bays, the myriad workbenches and tables were stowed away, and the launch rack for the gunship was already warming up. Heather had been practically flying down the ship’s frame before the PA had been silenced. For three months, she had just been waiting for the order to start preparations and take off into the sky above Salsharu. There was literally nobody on board who would understand how infuriating it was to be on a ship that a brutally inferior helmsman was piloting. If it had been worse, she would have marched to the bridge and kicked everybody out herself. Or, rather, made Etheros do it. The fact of the matter was that she missed it all. The smooth motion and brilliant spirit of an interplanetary craft, the sensitivity of macrocannon triggers embedded in the software of a warship, the fast flight around planets that she could feel with the spirit itself: for all the good reasons she had resigned from military service, she had missed the ships.

The Dauntless appeared as a bird of prey; a knife's edge of metal ran from the nose aperture to the shoulder of the falcon-bent wings, and from there back to the long handle of the single high-impulse engine. The cradle had been removed, and all the power conduits charging the reservoir of the firinado inside the gunship had been pulled back and coiled. The avionics and engineering teams had done a really excellent job replacing the offensive hardware with more hab stuff in the small bay slung between the cockpit and the engine, as well as switching out half the point defense lasers with comms arrays. Instead of the mirrored surfaces covering the knife, there were now bristles and pointy bits (though the plasma cannons underneath the wings had been left, being the most ingrained into the ship and most favored by the ship's spirit).

Inside, it was much as one would expect. This was a ship of war; the cockpit had enough room for a pilot, the operations bay had room for one occupant, and the engineering compartment had one terminal. The main hatch is through the floor of the central compartment, right into the hab space the gunship now carries. There were no smooth surfaces, no trimmed and beveled edges. This was a ship of war. It damn well looked like it.

The gunship groaned and leaned as the eight-foot BLADE trooper clambered up through the access hatch into the tight central corridor. “Pilot, anything I should be aware of about the ship?”

Plugging into the ship’s systems and running diagnostics, Heather answered curtly, “I’m aware of the ship. Go be aware of the guns or something.”

Felix hauled himself up into the ship, still chewing on the parting words of the super trooper. All business, he had waded through the busy crowds to the gunship, and settled into his role on the ship.  He eased into a chair in the hab space, unslinging his rifle and leaning it against the bulkhead. “All ready in the hab unit.”

Etheros, being as large as he was, sighed deeply at Felix’s message while he was still trying to fit into the small cramped space of the operations bay. Eventually, he found a mostly comfortable spot, keeping his weapons within arms reach and being able to operate the guns effectively. “All ready in operations. What’s our method of approach on the stations?”

/STRAIGHT DOWN, METAL MAN. YOU READY FOR THE G’S?/

A new voice in their headsets rang out. A ringing, raspy tone that with every syllable promised adventure, daring, and death-defying activity of the highest order. There were Orbital HELO jumpers all three of them had known that were the most balls-out, badass, crazy bastards Andaral every birthed, and this ship simply felt another couple notches up that scale.

In other words, a classic gunship spirit.

(In the early days of Andarali spaceflight, ships built from pure technology were exceptionally limited. Efforts to incorporate magical structures increased the weight far beyond acceptable limits, and the power required was simply not feasible. Spirits were occasionally contracted for experimental and prototype ships, but they were rare, as the ships cost more energy than many spirits felt comfortable expending.

Then, in a flash of midnight recaf and hastily scribbled equations, came the Arcane Resonator. The Unified Thaumodynamic Theory stated that all of the Aspects had a particular wave function which stacked and produced what was called the Full Wave, the underlying (and impossibly complicated) quantum mechanical substructure of reality. Gravitons, electrons, protons, and a host of other particles were associated with different functions that were separable from the Full Wave, associated with one or another Aspects and their many facets. What if, the crazy hypothesis went, the Full Wave had its own particle? The Full Wave had been proven to be complex, but not irrational, and not fractal in nature. Could approximations be done to produce a particle trap?

By all records made, it could. The first (successful) trap captured perhaps 1 in 10^38 particles (ar-quants, they were called, though they were apparently dense enough in space). It was enough to register, and after a year of slowly building it up, the battery expended all of its energy, and slightly warmed someone's tea at thirty paces.

The race was on. A handful of Andarali tech companies threw together research divisions overnight, and within the century there were 15%, then 28%, and eventually the maximum 37.4% efficiency traps. Scaling provided whole different issues, but once magic could be drawn in at reasonable rates, contracting spirits merely became an issue of getting them to sign fast enough. Andaral learned to capture the power of the basic underlying structure of reality, and leapt into the stars.

And, of course, brought some truly rambunctious spirits with them. Like firinados getting dumped into the central processor of gunships.)

Felix, already fairly comfortable in the hab unit, arched his eyebrows in surprise over the comms. A pang of nostalgia for his own ship, triggered by the firinado’s voice, was quickly overrun by a mixture of curiosity and worry. Firinados were gunship spirits, magical creatures who lived for the thrill of battle and nothing else. “We have a firinado. Why? These spirits are battle creatures. Why give us a gunship with a firinado for a S&R mission?”

Etheros felt much the same way, trusting the gunship to do its job, but not understanding why top brass had elected to give this particular mission a gunship in the first place. “I can’t say. All we can do is remain alert during recon.”

/WE JUST WENT THROUGH A WAR, WE ARE INVESTIGATING STATIONS WITH IMPORTANT RESEARCH ABOARD, AND THERE COULD WELL BE REBELS IN THIS PART OF SPACE. ALERT? YOU BEST BE ON YOUR TOES, METAL MAN, ELSE YOU’LL BE ALL COOKED./

Felix nodded. “Fair enough. I’m sure it’ll be a pleasure working with you.”

Etheros agreed. “I’ll stay alert enough, thank you.” Never one to turn down someone advising caution, he still wondered about the real reason behind the mission. Why the expenditure of such valuable manpower?

Heather came in over the link. “We do not know what we will find, and it is best to bring to bear the best possible tools in the event of the unexpected. Command clearly anticipates some combat. Additionally, it is difficult to escape from the inside of a base. It is also best to take something strong to the center and clear a path outwards. You should also be aware that command may have plans or knowledge they are not yet telling us, but are prepared for.”

Such things were known in the Alliance military. She had been involved in more than a few such operations. Her only concern was that the Dauntless might not have been the best choice for a stealthy mission, when it could very much jump into the fray all on its own.

“We enter under the radar, only attacking in self-defense or in case of a necessary tactical advantage. It is often the case that the first shot leads to heavy fighting for the duration of the mission, so we will choose our first shot carefully.”

“Very thorough thinking.” Etheros thought much the same, but had his doubts (strange, for a soldier). He had never gone in under the radar, as he was as stealthy as a battlecruiser burning hot for the enemy flagship, all guns firing at will. The First Blade kept his concerns to himself; he was not the pilot. No reason to disagree.

/WELL IF THAT’S ALL YOU MEATBAGS HAVE TO SAY, THEN LETS GET THIS PARTY STARTED./

At the fine touch of the pilot, the launch system catapulted the Dauntless out from the hangar bay of the Harrier Falcon. The twinkling lights of the stars were crystal clear as you flew in orbit above the dark side of Salsharu, the gentle rosy color of the dawn giving the edge of the planet a rim of red against a great black void. Far, far below, faint flashes of gigantic lightning strikes lit up a storm in the atmosphere of the gas giant. In high orbit, the rest of the fleet has deployed, and probes surrounded the planet and provided an overwatch for the multitude of rescue missions.

The Dauntless’ sensors deployed. For the first time, the ship was seeing more than shooting, extending its range of sight (and therefore effective combat range) quite a bit. With Heather acting as a brilliant liaison, the firinado inside looked outward for its targets and goals.

There were three stations, identical to one another in construction. Aleph, Betun, and Caphus each were self-sustaining research communities with populations of up to eight thousand residents. 10% of that was the actual research staff, while the remainders were support staff and permanent residents. At some point, that 90% gave birth to political agitators, and the Orrd Campaign lit the fires. During fleet actions around Salsharu, the stations had gone dark for one reason or another. The problem was; which ones did what? Without any returned and coded signal, it was impossible to tell the three apart.

The network of probes were picking up two signals, after pinging the lower atmosphere quite hard and thoroughly. One signal had a minimal return, indicating low power and low operational status. The other signal had a higher return, but was not returning contact whatsoever.

Time to suss out the rebels.

Hunters in Samalta: Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Game is Afoot The crypts beneath the White Steward’s temple in Samalta contained many most interesting tomes. Some dustier and almost illegible scraps of parchment claimed to be cargo manifests in the logistics train of the Red King himself. More notable pieces had been re-made in stone and sheets of tin, given their own shrine. On occasion, these shrines had locked doors, and only one man had the key. Out of his ceremonial garb, the Governor-Priest Hammaran seemed less a figure of noble authority and more, say, a shopkeep tired of haggling with his customers. Even his stately pace was gone, replaced by an even shuffle in dusty tunnels with their low ceilings and their twists and turns in the foundation of the temple. He didn’t like the crypts, he had almost forgotten where the keychain was, and even though she was far out of earshot, he could feel the potent gaze of the Hunter Verily. In the closest thing the crypts had to a frontdesk, Allcre pored over a massive book, glancing up every so often at the black skull resting on the table beside her, dust powdering the dark skin of her hands to a grey. The damn thing had a menacing quality about it, edging in on her logic and observation with a sort of panic, an anxious claustrophobia exacerbating the dust and silence of the stony room. It would unsettle her if it had been a yellowed skull mostly rotten from the humidity of the dense forest, with half its teeth missing and the remnant of a predator’s toothy grin barely hanging on. Instead, it was a single piece of some black substance, barely reflective, hinged at the jaw, and of a truly impressive size. She didn’t want to look straight at it, eyes drawn into the inky darkness of the skull, but she didn’t want to look away. There was no trust for that skull, none at all. Her book was a thick tome written by a pair of witch hunters some years back, with some excellent work on demonology. Demons, so it said, were creatures of ice and cold, working by way of fear and deception. They would not choose to enter into combat, but if pressed they were a fearsome menace. In such a land of warmth and light, the influence of demons was (thankfully!) rather easy to spot in the open. Rooting out a demonic presence required a successful banishment or a corporeal destruction. Either way, by holy flame or mighty spell, demons left no physical remnant when returned to the Ether. Why this demon had left a skull remained to be seen. Regardless, the skull itself was a mighty specimen. It was one of the more fearsome predatorial skulls she had come across. It's teeth, all sharp pointy bits, were securely attached to the skull and jaw and were more bony growths than anything else, providing a little extra leverage on a bite at the cost of a small vulnerability. The thing’s bite strength, just from the sheer size of the skull and the thickness of the keels involved, would probably have gone through a thick bronze shield without much difficulty. Intelligence could have been high, indicated by the size of the brain cavity with respect to the rest of the skull, though it appeared to rest rather far back in a heavy braincase, almost like a counterweight to the jaw and forward bits. Visual ability was implied to be sorely lacking, leaving smell and hearing as the primary senses. It's horns were mounted on the back of the skull and swing forward to the point where they could have almost acted as tusks. The literature claimed that demons preferred to impale victims on long claws, biting down on their skull and removing the head entirely. Gruesome, but effective, and terrifying. The Archivist sat next to her, quietly watching her work. Hammaran had given him a few maps of the woods in what they were calling the Cursed Zone, revealing a rough terrain map that was quickly extrapolated into a measure of forest density; lowlands had more trees, and the marked positions of the old necropoli from the time of Arkadi were probably built on the higher ground. Granted, from his short time in the woods, there was little variation in the elevation, and the map was as good as it was going to get. On top of that, at the request of Pitt, he had done as good a sketch of the dog-thing as possible. It was a nasty business. Allcre put her quill down, finishing one stretch of observations. She began limbering up, calming down, concentrating on the spellwork ahead. The Archivist leaned forward. “Need help with the analysis?” “Of course,” Allcre murmured. “Just hold it steady, and up from the table a bit. I’ll need you to turn it evenly as I’m observing it.” “Gotcha.” With long, spindly fingers, the Archivist gently picked up the skull, tilting it slightly downward and facing towards the Hunter. She raised her hands over it, and began the work of Brother Valsane’s Second Analytics. From her hands glowed faint light, catching and highlighting the edges of the skull. The Archivist, familiar with the spell’s operation, slowly turned the skull, letting Allcre illuminate different parts and edges, analyzing every facet. The minimal drain of power allowed Allcre to focus and thoroughly observe the magical properties of the skull. To her surprise, though she wouldn’t dare let it come through to break the concentration, it appeared that the continued application of the Analytics (whether the Judgement meta-aspect or the Stimulation aspect) was either revealing or producing an aura. With a crash the door opened, like a house falling down in the enclosed space. Allcre’s concentration broke, and the light from her hands sputtered and failed. The Archivist dropped the skull and whirled on the door, preparing a spell to blow the interrupting party back. Pitt warily stared back, then looked at the skull dropped hastily on the floor. “When you’re ready, we’re starting the meeting upstairs.” He backed slowly out of the room, closing the door much more quietly than before. The Archivist released his breath. “Well, shit. That was less than fun.” He followed Pitt out the door after grabbing the sketch and map, waiting only a moment at the door for Allcre. Allcre didn’t care. She was a little frustrated that her spell had been interrupted, a little more peeved that the Archivist had dropped her skull, and most of all angry that the skull had been broken. She reached down, and picked up the tooth knocked off, and paused. An inner layer, like a single tree ring, of silvery metal lay within the black stone of the tooth. She quickly re-summoned her broken spell; yes, the silvery metal specifically was containing the aura, and the black stone was barely registering. Interesting. It was more on the bad side of auras than the pure wrong she had felt stalking a unknown subject in the woods, but it was information and data. She quickly wrote down her observations and laid down the tooth by her quill. More oddity. Upstairs, Pitt had gathered a small crowd into the study of Hammaran. The captain of the guard with his feathered helm, a few craftsmen, and the current Master of Ceremonies in the temple had gathered, making the small room slightly cramped. The addition of both Hunters and the Archivist made for a stuffy enclosure. “Alright,” Pitt began, "this is a the top priority assignment. All expenses will be paid, at double your rates, but this directive must be executed flawlessly. Needless to say, things will be said here that must never leave this room. Is this understood?"  Pitt took the stunned silence as an agreement and continued. "We have reason to believe that a dark magic construct is-“ The woodcarver’s guildmaster began coughing in shock. The chief blacksmith stared in blank shock. The captain of the guard, a more hardy man of forty years, spoke first. “A dark magic construct? What is this nonsense? How do you know?” Allcre plunked the demon skull on the table, eliciting much the same reaction from the gathered men as the Archivist had with Hammaran earlier that day. “This is a demon skull. We recovered it from the Cursed Zone. We’ve encountered no less than two dark magic entities, one of which takes the form of a dog. We’re dealing with dark enough magic, I assure you.” Pitt looked to her with thanks. “As I said, it was and is prowling within the confines of the cursed zone. We have been ordered to secure and contain it alive for further study by our superiors. Preliminary reconnaissance places the beast at approximately the size of a small donkey, canine in form with a very muscular build. Based on the description of the beast and the terrain provided within the Cursed Zone," he unrolled the roughly drawn map of the Cursed Zone as made by the Archivist, as well as the sketch of the dog-thing itself, "I have decided to go with a flying 6 with a 4-point lid reinforced with both sanctifying and regenerative wards. We will be using a fire-wall guide with a double cross closure and a holy beacon for bait. Final confinement will be a combination hold-anchor tie with weld-assisted locks." The awkward silence told Pitt that he would have to elaborate a bit. "Fine," he sighs. "Let's do it like this." He pulled out a wad papers, noticing a small cringe from Alcree as she saw that their entire mission rested on some crude sketches that Pitt had thrown into his pocket perhaps a half-hour earlier. Pitt’s plan was straightforward, if complex and obscenely costly. At one point or another, every craftsman voiced concern, disbelief, or outright shock at the demands of the hunter. The city would have to melt half its silver coinage, the trained rune-writers of the temple would be working non-stop if it was to be completed in any reasonable amount of time, the Archivist and the Hunters would be required to help build the functions of the trap, and the risk was immense. There were bars to build, launchers to make (and test!), chains to put together, and some hardy fools to bring past the wards. The only person unperturbed by the whole matter was the woodcarver’s guildmaster. Apart from his initial shock, he had taken the whole thing rather well, taking notes on dimensions, adding his own personal expertise to the construction of the launchers, the posts, and the incorporation of different metals into the woodwork. He was an old hand at making odd objects for holy men, and his sons had all (once or twice) gone over to grab odd wood from the readily available lumber across the river. About halfway through the discussion of business, Hammaran came up the stairs from the crypts below, a little dusty but interested in what the raised voices were about. With only a few minutes involvement, he readily volunteered his abilities. Dozens of individual spells worked by rune into wood and silver? Done. Holy fire? He had just the thing. A relic to act as bait? He excused himself, returning with the bones of a local martyr’s hand encased in a gilt censer. He was the leader of this city, and he needed to set an example. Once the assembled were in agreement, and were aware of what they had to put together and the resources available to them, Pitt outlined the plan. "This is where we will strike, in the small corridor by the break in the wards." Pitt marked an area just inside the wards. "I want the launchers positioned along the edges of the trap, and the lid readied for deployment beside them. For added protection, we will isolate the beast's movements by employing holy fire. This will turn the entire field into a corridor and with the posts cutting off the retreat, the beast will be forced into our trap.  Alcree, you will be the bait. I need you to begin a purification at one end of the trap itself, with the censer close at hand. Nothing big, but enough to get that thing's attention. Here's how we will deploy." Pitt took out a clean piece of paper and began drawing. While he was drawing, Allcre was smiling like an adder. Too often, bronze-clad soldiers got to throw down against terrifying monsters, but this time she would be center-stage. She began considering how to make her quality as bait far greater than just a censer and a spell. “Once the beast has cleared the back perimeter, the back row of launchers will fire so that your posts cross and end with the tails almost touching. Don't worry about being exact, the wedding spell will hold them together, but closer is stronger. This will cut off its retreat. At that moment, we will light the fires to its flanks. When the beast has crossed into the center, the back row of launchers will fire aiming for where the first had hit the ground. When the beast has backed into this corner, the middle row of launchers will fire aiming so that the points meet and the backs touch where the second round ended. This round is the most important as it completes the ward. You will not be alone, however. We will need ground support to force the beast into position. Once the ward is in place, the wedding spell will join the tops and create a temporary ceiling that the beast won't be able to break through. We will then bring up the lid. We will place it on top and secure the chains on the red dots to the intersections of the six posts. Once that is complete, the beast will be contained. We will fasten the manacles to its limbs and then, and only then, will I temporarily suspend the weld on the post spheres. We will flip the entire structure, bring all 6 spheres together and reweld them into a triangular pyramid. We will then very quickly exit the cursed zone where a wagon will be waiting to take the cage to a safe location. "Captain, this is the most important assignment you and your soldiers will ever undertake. I need six of your most accurate ballista gunners or archers and another 6 of your most disciplined soldiers. I don't want brave and stupid, I want soldiers who will do exactly what I say when I say it. As for you, guildmasters, this needs to be completed yesterday. Take all the resources you need, but I want the work to be perfect.  Any defects will weaken the wards and put lives on the line. Gentlemen, let us serve our king and god proudly. Dismissed!" Pitt stood sharply, turns, and marched out of the room, on to the next task. The Archivist rolled up out of his chair in the corner, stretched, and whistled approvingly. “That, my dear countrymen,” he intoned, “is the power of a Hunter.” Darkness is but the absence of the light. The goal of a steward is to prevent darkness from destroying what is already lit. -Tome of the White Brotherhood

Master and Commander: Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Westward

In the beginning, it is said, the tradewinds swept across trackless and uninterrupted seas. Creatures that never saw the light of day ruled the abyss beneath the ocean’s surface. The sky itself was filled with light and splendor. When the first stars came to the world, they thundered into the sea and broke the abyssal deep. Fire from within the world sprang up, and the Archipelago was made.

In time, life too crept and crawled and grew over the many islands. In the cold north of the Upper Reach, orcs built fortresses of wood and stone, raiding each other and the warmer lands to the south aboard longships and rakish galleys. To the east, elves built their swan ships from the white wood of their jungles, raising beautiful cities that overlooked their coastal plains and kept watch over the Closed Reach. The Inner Reach filled with the sails of human traders, making their way between the city-states and fighting petty trade wars over colonial rights. To the south and west, the Lower Reach and Wide Reach lay unclaimed and almost inhospitable, dominated by sheer cliffs and rocky coastlines, headlands barely graced by scrub and grass. There, the miscreants and outlaws fled, past the mining and agricultural colonies, almost to the reaches of the Archipelago. There were some, it was said, that traveled over the edge of the horizon, and when they were surrounded by nothing but the deep, dark ocean, the abyss crept into their soul and filled it with madness.

In an age when all the islands of the Archipelago were mapped, and the light of civilization waxed brilliant, a lone ship limped back into Turion, the westernmost port of the Inner Reach. The Lightning was a ship of excellent repute and a veteran honorable combat. Her scorched hull and tattered sails were more than shocking to the representatives of the Callendon Trading Company. Upon making berth, the captain was rushed off the deck of his ship and behind closed doors of the office, where the trading company made sure to get out of him all the information they could. Whatever was discussed within the confines of the company office, it was rumored, laid the groundwork for what came after. The grain trade from Crane’s Hold was crucial for the cities of the Inner Reach, and the Callendon Trading Company enjoyed (until that point) an easy monopoly.

Two months later, the Tempest slipped her lines from the dock at Turion, joining a small convoy out into the Wide Reach. She was a fine-lined and weatherly bark, originally a fast mail carrier in the Inner Reach for the Company, now refit for a long journey westward. Joining her were the colliers Dalstan and Rosebud, both square-rigged and flat-bottomed craft, the blunt-nosed escort frigate Fury, and the Lightning, the ship that came out of the west with its fateful news.

The week that followed, before the colliers and their frigate turned southward along the boundary between Wide and Lower Reaches, was relatively smooth, as the convoy traveled around the edge of the great island on which Turion stood. The Fury and Lightning had friendly broadside competitions, the bosun’s mate aboard the Rosebud produced a cask of fine whiskey for every captain in the fleet, and the astronomer aboard the Tempest got an excellent measurement of an occlusion of two planets on a very clear night. Of course, all good things came to an end, so it was with hearty goodbyes that the Tempest and Lightning were left to cross into the Wide Reach.

The passage through the Narrows marked the edge of the Inner Reach. The Narrows themselves were two parts of a wide ring of islands, made up of crumbling volcanic rock, stretching for hundreds of miles in a thin curve though they might have been perhaps a few miles across at the widest. A strait went between the two, and ships bound from Turion passed through it into the open sea of the Wide Reach.

On the day the pair were set to cross through, the captain of the Tempest was in her cabin, looking over the orders she had recieved. The wax seal with the Callendon Trading Company mark was long broken, and the papers well-thumbed over.

“…the Lightning, having returned out of the Wide Reach with clear damage, was the cause for immediate concern among top Company officials. The western grain trade is of foundational value to the cities of the Inner Reach, and allowing a new threat to go unchallenged or unchecked would be lunacy, to say nothing of irresponsible business.”

All very interesting: she hadn’t been on the dock when Captain Ailandos had bumped the pier at Turion, but she had discussed what he had done at length before they set sail. Energy weapons of incredible caliber, wind-working magic of exceptional quality, and a crew more willing to go down with all hands aboard than strike the flag, found in a pirate crew, no less. Her deft olive-skinned fingers rolled a weathered gold ring around her hand, a soft rhythm of her body and mind.

“Acting Captain Caradog reported that, after Captain Ailandos was injured in the initial encounter, the Lightning pursued the pirate craft towards one of the central peak islands of the Wide Reach. Upon arriving, the Lightning was caught in a close-quarters ambush. This turned out to be in favor of the Lightning, as her guns were able to destroy the pirate after a small handful of broadsides with acceptable casualties.”

Ah, the famous gunnery of Callendon’s finest. The Fury had gotten close, once, but the Lightning had gotten off three broadsides to the Fury’s two more often than not. The captain looked out a porthole; a half-mile distant, barely visible through the thickening fog, the frigate smartly moved along with t’gallant and topsails set and her staysails rigged slack. Still, it was curious that the elf Caradog, an otherwise cautious first lieutenant, would order annihilation of the pirate vessel so rapidly. Ailandos had been tight-lipped about that.

“Return to Turion was unchallenged, and supplies were given from encountered traders passing through the Narrows. The information Captain Ailandos gave to company officials upon the return of the Lightning is secret, and should remain so in order to protect the morale of the crew.

“Your orders, similar to the orders of Captain AIlandos of the Lightning upon its refit, are to take the Tempest into the Wide Reach, reaching the islands of the final encounter between the pirate vessel and the Lightning. You are to investigate the islands for any sign or trace of an established base of operations, and to follow any leads you find to determine the source of the weaponry and instruments used against the Company.

“May the Lord of Judgement grant you fair battle.”

And then all the signatures of the stodgy company officials. She looked back out of the porthole and frowned; the fog was now too thick to see the Lightning at a casual glance.

As if on cue, the portly Midshipman Gavile knocked on the door and called in, “Captain, the Sailing Master has requested your presence.” His footfalls on the ladder up to the deck echoed softly, and the hatch opening let in the faint noise and bustle of her crew.

Minutes later, the captain stepped smartly out onto the quarterdeck, clad in her greatcloak to ward off the chill of the fog. Gusts and waves set the deck at an uneven roll, and the reach tack the sails were set for barely helped. The Tempest, a fast ship now stuffed with all manner of cargo for the civilian complement, was surrounded by a deep fog and its unnatural silence. She stalked off the quarterdeck and searched for the sailing master.

Up at the bow, the sailing master stood, peering through brilliant eyes into the fog. He was worried; only a fortnight on the sea, and there was something in this fog. He could taste it. His pointed ears were straining to hear bells, ropes, anything apart from the Lightning’s usual noise. His hair was unruly and unkempt, forgotten in his utter focus on the fog ahead. There was an odd smell on the wind, one he couldn’t quite place…

“Master Peynor.” Lesser men would have spun around; he had known the captain was looking for him the moment she stepped onto the deck of the Tempest a minute prior. His concentration barely wavered.

“Captain Mayakis. Been poring over the orders again?”

A faint pause. “Yes. No use taking what the Company says at face value.”

“Hmm.” It was a job, and as far as his wishes went, he was set. Nevertheless, it was a job, and he was under orders to follow his duties. “What do you think of this fog?”

She snorted. “Blasted stuff. I figure, we have maybe two minutes to jump to quarters if the Lightning comes veering out of the fogbank, if we’re lucky. On this tack, we may not come across another vessel, but that remains to be seen.” She rested her arms on the rail, looking out less attentively at the thick mist ahead. “Perhaps we should ring the bell at intervals; more than just the watch bells. Act like a buoy-“

“No!” Peynor cleared his throat. “No, don’t do that. We’re almost in pirate waters now, don’t want to give away our position.”

He could feel the confusion coming off the captain. Was she that much of a lubber to not take the word of an elf watchman at face value? She certainly had been comfortable in command, though that counted for little with this crew. He heard her stride away without a word. He closed his eyes; he would have given anything for his old captain. This woman was… somewhat untrustworthy, though perfectly competent.

In the moment he closed his eyes, his ears barely, barely caught a telltale he had been waiting for and dreading. A faint bell, softly ringing in the fog, from ahead instead of from the side of the Lightning.

Part of him wished it was just a native fisherman, or a reef marker, or something. The rest of him prayed for anything but pirates.

Planetfall: Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Above Salsharu the Great

Life began on the planet of Andaral. It’s quiet forests, shallow seas, and rocky highlands supported a broad range of quickly-developing life, leading to the primary race known as the Travelers, for something in the very life-blood of this people drove them to wander the world. Mages grew strong in the arts of navigation and arcane smithing, producing ships and flying craft of incredible quality.

For a long time, the Andarali were confined to their homeworld, looking upward at the stars and planets in their sky. There was Falou the Evenstar, and Karraya the Messenger, the inner planets between Andaral and its sun. They revered Orrd the Slow and Valandi the Bright, but above all they looked with awe to Salsharu the Great among the outer planets, a dusky rose-colored planet which the scryers and the mages found to be most powerful of all the wanderers in the sky. With a consort of dozens of moons, it trailed across the sky in great celestial company.

With great effort, the Andarali built ships capable of traveling across the void between the planets, bringing together the system known now as Adravyre.. Mathematics and powerful magic allowed them to found immense platforms and stations as waypoint above the different planets, calling powerful spirits of the Lord of Stars to watch over them, summoning spirits of the Nomad and the Abyss to drive their ships forward and to slip effortlessly through the darkness between planets. In the inner worlds, the worship of the Lord of Iron grew strong, holding the restless Travelers in one place, while at the edges of the system the Travelers aboard great ships never stopped moving. The culture began to split; the moon bases around Salsharu and Valandi agitated for separation, and the embattled populations of Orrd finally lit the fire.

There was a war, a bad one. The solar system of Andravyre was plunged into civil conflict between rebellious factions in the scattered stations of the outer planets and the central Andarali government of the inner planets. Without the necessary resources, the rebels were soundly beaten, but in the conflict a number of stations went dark from damage or self-defense. Without the logistical and moral support of those stations, rebels were losing millions-strong holdouts every month. Part of the peace treaty between captured rebel leaders and the Andarali military governorship was to send crews to see what happened to the lost stations. A score of ships were sent out, convoys that drifted apart to visit clusters and stations. There were moon bases, high orbital waystations, and low-orbital habitats of Salsharu that had gone dark during fleet actions around the great gas giant. Their orders were to determine where they went, and if they still lived on.

The first indicator of the aid convoy’s arrival was the flare of impulse engines adding newer, brighter stars to the constellations. The largest were the carrier’s; fully eight kilometers of deck and hangar with a bristling array of drives on a well-trussed spine, blasting away to slow down the immense inertia of the flying city. After that, the larger decommissioned warships, having replaced most of their energy weapons with comms arrays and swapping the connections of their battery sheds from operations to the drive systems. Rounding out the fleet were a handful of frigates, hangars filled with recon singleships and power hub barely straining. Many of the ships still bore their scars.

One of the frigates, the Harrier Falcon, dropped into low orbit, decelerating far slower than the rest of the fleet. She cut a trim line, even with gun emplacements having been hastily replaced and scars of conflict leaving pockmarks and slagtrails across her armor. Once she rolled into stable orbit, her aggressive look was altered by plates expanding, her hangar bay doors opening up, and compact flight profile stretched out, like a cat would in the sun.

The bridge of the Falcon was a round affair, a sweeping semicircle visible at all points from the chair of the captain. He was a tired old man, having fought too hard and lost too many friends in the war. Retirement hadn’t been an option, not after the treaty was signed. He was put back in the chair, given a crew that was fully a third rebel, and sent out to the Outer Planets. Had he been given a chance to visit Orrd, he wouldn’t have worried over much. The planet was a smoking wreck, having been the central battleground for most of the war. There were tales of the horror there; Orthon was mentioned both as the tinder and the ash. Had he been ordered to high orbit around Valandi, it would have been alright, since it had been well behind enemy lines and only captured in the last days of the war, the treaty itself having been signed aboard the Valandian moon of Loranuir. Valandi was nice and peaceful nowadays, even if a few centers of rich rebels had decided to play both sides.

Salsharu, however, was another story. The great fleet actions around the moon of Lormandorion had brutally severed the logistics of rebel forces, and ground actions had dragged the locals back into line. The captain looked over at his second mate; the poor woman had been in a similar position in a vanguard company harrassing the flank of the rebel fleet. She was still scarred. Every time a piece of battleship or a chunk of frigate went sailing past the viewscreens, she flinched, causing the scars on her face and neck to writhe like snakes in the dim lighting.

Salsharu had been the most populous, the most prestigious, and the most important planet in the system, save mother Andaral herself. Now, it was a graveyard, the scattered debris of hundreds of broken ships adding to the rose-colored rings of the gas giant. If there were any stations left among the rings, he could well believe that they had been shredded to pieces by shrapnel, or gutted by loose macrocannon.

He sighed; it was all so pointless, but they were the terms accepted. Calling up once more the list of missions and targets, he pulled the one from the list that had interested him the most. A barely toned-down gunship, an armored and gigantic super-soldier, a specialist operative, and a mercenary, investigating three research stations in the lowest orbits possible while remaining above the atmosphere. Seemed odd that three such capable people were assigned a scroungy recon duty. Beckoning an orderly over, he handed over the sealed packet with the stamp of the Andarali Alliance, sending him running down the narrow corridors of the frigate.

The captain leaned back in his chair, offering up a small prayer to the Lord of Iron that the work of those three might be finished quickly and without fuss. With any luck, they wouldn't have to worry about ferrying up the survivors of a wrecked station at all. Too much fuss.

Hunters in Samalta: Chapter 1

[This is the first written chapter of an ongoing game, happening in a world I had the hubris to imagine I could run about six different IRL games during a busy semester of senior year in college. In particular, this story as it stands has the distinction of being the source of my interest in dice-free RP. We join our heroes in the city of interest: Samalta, a city on the frontier of a powerful theocracy, facing down its darkest days since the country's conception.] Chapter 1: On Law and Justice In the temple of the White Steward in Samalta, it is said that pride laid the foundations of the city and faith has kept it alive. The pride comes from the city's fathers, who believed they could found a great city as a pilgrimage, honoring the last days of the Red King's final war. The faith comes from those few who believed, in time, that they stood as a bastion of civilization on the edge of the deep jungles. They looked outward, past the keep and dark temple of a defeated enemy, watching the far shore of the River Zedac. Samalta grew, and flourished, and waned. In its waning, it grew weak, decadent, and vulnerable. The incense filled the air with its herbal smokiness, the prayer candles and votive lamps illuminated the fine stonework of the sanctuary, and the only sound was the faint murmur of people trying, ever so hard, to be quiet. Mere moments prior, the Hunters visiting from the capitol city of Samor had walked brazenly into the temple, gained an audience with the Governor-Priest Hammaran, and found an established clergyman (a clergyman!) of the city to be guilty of high treason and sedition, in addition to accusing him of communication with the powers of evil beyond the western border. The poor fool, a strong and well-liked man, had been reduced to a cowering wretch under the gaze of these foot-soldiers of the Red King. He confessed; he had been in a debt, he had been approached to move a strange object, he had been paid in hard cash, he had been protected from the plague which had decimated Samaltan life. The bronze-armored Hunter of the Red Order drew his sword embossed with the seal of his authority, and proclaimed the priest's doom. Looking over to the white-robed woman by his side, clad more simply yet radiating no small power, the Red gestured slightly. With years of experience with each other and with the law, the Hunter of the White Order nodded her assent, communicating volumes on law and its application. Turning to the priest held on his knees by the temple guards, the Red spoke. "For crimes committed against the White Steward ('blessed be his name', the White muttered), his servants, and his realm," the Red began, "You, Priest of the White Steward Khalenn, are hereby stripped of your office, all titles of nobility, and taken into custody for the remainder of your natural life. All assets you possess are to be seized and brought into the domain of the White Steward ('blessed be his name'). This shall be carried out in accordance with the Convention of Altar Rock. This judgement has been carried out in the presence of the White Steward ('blessed be his name') and with the authority of the Red King. May it lead you to repentance and may you find favor with the White Steward ('blessed be his name') in the next life." At the notice of some confusion among the members of the court, especially frowns and darker mutters, the Red spoke again. "The purpose of the first two parts of the punishment is to remove any power that he or any of his descendants may have or inherit. These charges take place prior to deposition, canceling any inheritance. Any children or relatives who possessed office or title independently of his status retain their power but not the ability to pardon him. Natural life ends 6 months after the body of the prisoner is either cremated or buried under the ground. After that point, any person found to be still living will be considered a necromantic construct and killed on sight. The Convention of Altar Rock is the central conference on crimes of sedition. It lays out the rules for punishing criminals in league with the dark enemies of Utulia, and deals primarily with the removal of a criminal's assets. Anyone subject to its ruling can be deprived of their assets, but not to such a degree as would lead to death. If the criminal is not thrown in prison where he or she would be fed, the criminal can not be deprived of the most basic of necessities. This convention also covered employees and dependents, and is applicable to this merchant. Any legitimate laborers in the employ of this criminal will be paid for services rendered and then released from any contracts or bonds. Any dependents will either be given enough funds to provide for 1 year or be taken into the care of the church, should they be unable to provide for themselves. While the money for the one year is enough to sustain life, it will not be at the most luxurious level. The funds will be enough to sustain the family at 120% of the poverty level in Samalta. After that time, any dependents should have gained the ability to provide for themselves or else suffer the consequences. Any person whose total assets are less than the 120% threshold will automatically be taken into custody, but the remaining assets would go, in total, to any dependents." The White was trying very hard to suppress a smile, as she knew the moment her white teeth showed, it would be immediately visible against her dark skin. Poor frontier folks; they had had no idea what a capitol Hunter was capable of doing in a court. Not even the priests were safe, and even with that sobering thought, it was always nice to break out the old-school laws. As the Red was finished talking, he turned around and strode out of the chamber with the White close behind as the guards remanded the nobleman and took him to the prison. The wife and daughter of this priest wailed, filling the near-silence with a tone as piercing as a bell tolling funeral rites. Where Hunters walk, evil and sedition trembles, for theirs is utterly righteous judgement. Entering a small side chamber, the portly and opulent Governor-Priest followed the two Hunters as quickly as he could, his entourage of courtiers not far behind. Closing the study door behind him in the face of his advisors, the fat politician began sputtering. "This is outrageous! What authority, what arrogance... why do this, and what are you doing? I'm not even familiar with the Convention of Altar Rock! Explain yourselves!" Seating herself in a well-varnished wooden chair, the White turned to the Red. "May I take this, Hunter Pitt?" "Of course, Hunter Verily." Pitt sat down heavily on a solid-looking devan chair, resting his greaves on a side table and crossing his braced arms over his chest. She turned to the Governor-Priest, clasping her fingers in front of her as would a teacher, her little jewelry and badges of station tinkling faintly. "The Convention of Altar Rock was, in effect, a war council. During the early stages of the war against Arkadi, the Red King and his captains were forced to deal with merchants and the like who had been seduced by the powers of darkness, much as the wretch outside. They had been promised places of power after the victory of the necromancer, and therefore had been open to the idea of sabotage, subterfuge, and espionage. Altar Rock itself was a holy site, a monastery of the White Brotherhood before it was desecrated by the undead. It was considered that traitors in the nearby city had aided a few powerful undead creatures and sent them towards the monastery. A few weeks of interrogation, and the traitors had been found out. Most of the generals advocated for immediate execution and allocation of their resources to the war, but the Red King ruled that they had been seduced, and their property should go to those who had been affected and betrayed, not the soldiers. Immediate family would be provided for, but just enough. Pitt's speech covered most of it, legalistically. This war council became the fundamental rule of law when dealing with witches, the undead, and traitors. The Convention of Altar Rock was likely the most used piece of legislation during the Arcane Prohibition and the subsequent rebellion." Easing himself into a seat, a humbled Hammaran sighed deeply. "Well, I can only assume that you know this better than I. I have been forced to deal with petty politics and frontier trade, never expecting this horror." He paused slightly. "Wasn't there a third with you?" Right on cue, a slender man who looked particularly wind-blown dropped down on to the table from... somewhere. Peering out from the muddied, dark-blue hood was an almost painfully thin face, graced by a silvery goatee and exceptionally curious eyes. The Archivist looked only a moment at the incoherently spluttering politician before turning to his companions. "We have a problem." Out from his voluminous cloak drops a skull the size of a horse's; fanged, horned, and black. Much the same as the skull that was recovered from the well, where the source of the plague was determined, and much the same as the skull that doomed the priest. The incoherent spluttering stopped mid-stream, accompanied by an inward gasp and rapid prayers. The Hunters leaned forward, concern crossing their brows. Pitt spoke first. "Where did you get this?" Rapidly speaking as always, the Archivist sat down on the table and said, "I went well into the Cursed Zone" (to more vehement prayers from Hammaran) "and found a huge broken ziggurat, built with a massive statue on one side. Lots of bones in the field before it. Picked this one up; might have been the source of the last one. Also found a way into some crypt. Didn't go in." Allcree (known formally as Verily) poked the skull, to the immediate consternation of the Archivist. "Big ziggurat, field of bones, known demon activity? On top of that walker in the woods, we might be dealing with... you know...," she looked over to Hammaran, now a silent and blanched man way out of his depth, "...stuff." Stuff left better unmentioned, like the return of the Red King's last war against that most evil of magics; necromancy. Pitt nodded sagely. "Yes. Stuff." He looked up at the Archivist. "Anything else?" The Archivist, returning the skull to a pocket hidden within his cloak, nodded. "Had to deal with some pretty nasty bad magic in the Zone, and I ended up being followed and chased by a huge dog-thing. Size of a small horse, fangs and growling, plus some nasty looking surface features. Open wounds, burned flesh, really nasty. Didn't follow me all the way out; I out-ran it." With no small pride was the last point made. His perpetually wind-blown features made sure of that. Reaching back into the cloak, the Archivist pulled out a thin sheaf of paper. "Additionally, the Archive sent me a note. They've been getting the reports, and responded right after the one I made about the dog. They're sending an arcanologist." Pitt groaned. "Really? Another book-worm? I'm sorry, but the last thing we need is a detail fanatic slowing down our investigation." The cloaked man shrugged. "I like them. They tell me things I don't know, and I like knowing things I don't know. It saves me from doing things I don't like: for example, running around in a thick miasma of bone-laden turf in a Cursed Zone pursued by a dog-thing. That's no fun." He looked back at the paper. "Also, the Archive wants a dog-thing. Preferably alive, but they won't fault us for killing it. The arcanologist is getting here in three days, so they want us to have the dog-thing by then." Allcree, thoughtful as usual, mused, "Another pair of eyes and a more specialized expertise couldn't hurt. We will need to go back in there; that madman in the sewers mentioned the Crow's Keep just beyond the wall." A moment of memory, of running through dank brick-lined tunnels, dealing with the immense power of a mad mage, bolting up through hidden tunnels in barely any clothing through the halls of the temple just days ago. Pitt shuddered, remembering his questionable choices of impromptu clothing. The Archivist declared, "I think if we head back toward the center, make a bit noise and deploy me as a scout to watch for ambushes, we'll run into one soon enough. If nothing else, I'd like another look at the creepy ziggurat with Pitt watching my back." Pitt nodded, turning his sword over in his hands. "Seems like a reasonable plan. Might have to come up with some major contingencies, though, both tactical and magical." Realizing they had convened a council of war (of sorts), the three looked to Hammaran and his edifice of local knowledge. They were met by a gasping mouth, wide eyes, and a man far, far out of his depth. Where no man dare treads, the soldiers of the Red King go fearlessly. -Codex of the Red King

Rules and Regs

If you are new to this community, welcome! If you’re an old hand from before the Journal, welcome back (fucking nerd)! 

Updates for the storylines will be Tuesday and Saturday, as best as I can keep deadlines.

In order to get into a game, you must do the following things:

1. Make a gmail account, and send me the address so that I can communicate with you via the preferred method and get to know what kind of stuff gets your gears ticking.

2. Follow this blog. In order to get updates on the game that you are/will be in, I will need you to be aware of what’s going on; otherwise, you get to be an NPC.

3. Be patient. I will want to work you into a game at the proper moment. 

Other than that, this is a dice-free community, focusing on narrative RP, world-building, and doing some truly epic shit. Games can (and likely will be) on the broad spectrum from deep future sci-fi to eldritch horror to high fantasy. I look forward to running you through the worlds you jump into.