Free-Form RPG Begins Here

[tamrend]

The Calling

Ariana

Ariana gazed up at the ceiling, observing every crack and crevice of the vaulted space. When she closed her eyes she could still see it, etched into her mind’s eye with perfect detail and clarity. The sharpening of her memory had been gradual at first, but in the space of a few killings had accelerated to the point that she now possessed perfect recall. She had only to concentrate and she could relive any moment she had experienced in the last six months.

Six months. Six more killings. She could only imagine what new changes, what enhancements those six deaths had given her.

Next to her, the man sharing her bed began to snore. She turned on her side to study him. Moonlight glistened in his beard and cast the crooked outline of his nose in sharp relief. She reached out her hand touch the smooth skin of his cheek. There was warmth and nothing more, sensation without feeling. She had invited him to her room without really knowing why. She’d played along with her body’s impulse, and once it was over, the only change from before was a vague sense of panic, as though she’d forgotten something vitally important. Which was, of course, impossible. She couldn’t forget now, even if she wanted to.

It had been days since she last slept. She knew her body would have to rest soon, but she wanted to delay it for as long as possible. She stood up out of bed smoothly and silently. The air was deeply, bitingly cold on her bare skin, raising tingling gooseflesh. The man slept on as she dressed, drawing on tall boots over her fur-lined leggings.

It was time to move on, she reasoned. If she stayed in one place for more than a few years, people began to notice that she didn’t appear to be getting older. They began to wonder, and then to ask questions. Too many questions tended to be bad for business.

Ariana reached beneath the bed and withdrew a leather bag with a drawstring. She opened it to check the contents. Inside it was a handful of silver and gold coins and a smaller, wrapped bundle that contained over a dozen perfectly cut gems, each one a moderate fortune, representing years of bounties. She bent once more and drew out a knife sheath. The blade quivered as she strapped it to her side.

She slipped through the common room with hardly a glance thrown her way. She stepped outside and snow squealed and crunched beneath her boots. Her breath frosted as soon as it touched the air. She stopped and looked back at the inn, feeling the stirrings of fear in her breast. She had finally come to it now. The nightmares that haunted her sleeping mind, the force that kept calling her west. She had tried to deny it, but it drew her on, the pull growing stronger by the day.

She turned from the inn’s softly burning lights. She lifted one foot slowly and set it down again in front of her. The knife quivered against her thigh, perhaps sensing the change that was to come. The next step was easier, the fear giving way to inevitability.

[Mercenary]

Cast out, as so many practitioners of arcane magic before me had been, I found the sort of solace that only solitude could bring one. “The cold and lonely road I travel,” I mused. “And bloody dark.” I added to my own thought, gathering my cloak about me more tightly. I had ridden hard all day and all night since leaving my father’s castle. It was therefore reasonably to be expected that my horse was beginning to slow. His fortitude so far had been impressive. It is an interesting trait that animals possess, the ability to discern between situations where their absolute and unflagging cooperation is required and those where it is not. Horses, it seems, always ride harder when the life of their rider depends on it, and even with less urging than in peaceful times. I patted the chestnut on the neck and dismounted.

So many of the difficulties of everyday life I had lived so long without. Even having been discredited and financially ruined, I would still live without them. Magic and privilege are in that respect similar. I gathered some branches together and strode a ways off the highway before setting them down in a heap. With the flicker of a thought the wet branches caught fire easily. I tied the recently stolen warhorse up but I knew it wouldn’t be necessary. He felt an inexplicable sense of loyalty to me, inexplicable to him because I had instilled it. I melted the snow off in a small circular radius around the fire I had created and sat down. Pulling out the few possessions I had been able to gather up before escaping: a dull blade from the smithy, a small satchel of traveling food, and an archaically decorated, slim, black volume.

Sitting down by the fire, I began to reflect on the day’s events. My father had loved me and no amount of delving into the arcane magics would have changed that. His nobles, however, were a different matter. I have observed that when given a reason to think they are somehow magnificent, men of little real worth or consequence are apt to defend their power by persecuting others. My father was ailing, and the issue of who was to take the throne on his departure had become one of some divisiveness. He was of course insistent that I, his firstborn and only son, should take the throne upon his death. His vassals were of another faith, however. They would have as their new king Lord Duncan, arguably one of my father’s most brilliant army commanders and without a doubt the wealthiest and most respected of his noblemen.

A few weeks prior, my father had decided that he would resign his throne while still living, and delegate it to me. Word of this had gotten out, doubtless by some betrayal, and Duncan marched on the capital at the head of an army of my father’s finest soldiers. I had stayed with my father even until the very end. I’d have gladly died in his defense. But for every line of veteran soldiers my mighty waves of flame could reduce to ash Duncan could field still more. My father pleaded with me to flee but I would not. Seeing this, he decided to force my hand. He fell on his own sword that I might be compelled to flee. I made sure his sacrifice was not in vain and, even as exhausted as I was after such a heroic expenditure of energy, made my escape.

I turned my attention to the slim volume in my hand. It was one of the few works in my father’s library that had escaped my attention. I flipped carefully through the pages but never seemed to come to the end of the book. Finally, after what seemed far longer than should have been possible for such a short work, the writing stopped. But, to my further amazement, the pages continued. “A book that can never be finished. Marvelous.” The pages near the non-existent end were blank, presumably that I should continue it. I set it down again. There would be plenty of time to study it at length. As I lay trying to drift off to sleep, exhausted but unable to find peace, I stared up at the night sky. It was an interesting thought, and one I had had often, to think that my pursuers and I both gazed upon the same stars, the same moon. To be so divided and yet united in something so simple and universal filled me at last with the peace I had been seeking.

[Snowglare]

The rain would wash his sin away. Doran was sure of it. The rain of molten fire that would greet him in Hell. This rain... This rain was only water, and would scarce wash the dirt away. It was just as well. He'd long ago decided that the gods meant for him to live. Life was his punishment; if it lasted long enough he might well be forgiven. But he didn't want forgiveness, he wanted to go back, to undo what he'd done. But that was impossible. The gods had made sure of it, lest men like him find easy redemption. He was undeserving, like a sycophant knighted for his so-called loyalty.

The rain left clear, deep footprints in the mud. They would be upon him soon. He was ready. Not to die, he silently lamented. Not this day. This day their arrows found his cloak, while his sword found their bellies. Afterwards, he wondered if the dead men weren't worse off than him. Their entrails strewn about, their blood pouring forth willingly, made thin by the water. And who's to say they'd find salvation on the other side, or that he wouldn't? Marla could be waiting for him, could already have forgiven him. She would understand his delay. She always understood. He couldn't go yet. It wasn't his decision to make.

He buried the men in shallow, unmarked graves. The rain would wash away the dirt and scavengers would tear their bodies apart. He didn't care, it was only a token gesture. They'd have given him even less. His head they would give to the king, who would use it to decorate his castle walls. His body they would strip naked, taking all he didn't need. Perhaps they would have used his sword to kill another like him. An outlaw like him. The thought angered Doran for some reason. Didn't outlaws deserve death? Didn't he?

Marla filled his thoughts, as she always did in the forest. As children, they were never far from it, just as they never feared it. You couldn't fear what you loved. They tried to chart the forest once, found they didn't care, and fell asleep deep within, far from home. They made their way back the next day without difficulty, but their parents were nonetheless upset. For the next month they were forbidden to enter the forest. They would have been safe there, he realized. That day, if they had gone into the forest. They were always safe there. Some magic protected them. It was so close. So close.

Tears came, and Doran prayed.

[proudfoot]

I hide behind no steel or stone.
Let them come.

The words were emblazoned on a dark obsidian panel, affixed to the base of the granite statue at the head of the great hall, the statue of Melkiza Sangloria, the great hero. They were his battle cry, his call to friend and foe alike. I had read them many times, and heard them spoken aloud even more. Every social gathering, every meal time, every night before I went to sleep. They were the token of my family; the strength of my bloodline.

I hated them.

For my entire life I had been indoctrinated with teachings of the might of the family name, the power of my inheritance, the pride I should feel at being one of the privileged: a prince in the House of Sangloria. Every day and every night I was told fantastic stories of the courageous acts of my ancestors; of their brilliant achievements, their innumerable victories in battle, their insurmountable superiority over all of mankind. And I was to be the next great Sanglorian king.

There is nothing I wanted less.

Power and might had never appealed to me. The sword and the sceptre were foreign implements; I would rather have pen and paper than mace and shield. I perceived no glory in victory; what pleasure is there in being someone’s better? I had seen my father and watched the life he led. He was the most powerful man in the most powerful kingdom in the world, or so my tutors led me to believe. But I did not want to be like him. He was lonely and sad, grey and old.

But I had no choice. I had been born into privilege; I was obligated to my duty. I studied and I learned, I trained and I grew, until the day of my father’s death, when I set out to claim my right to the throne in combat, seeking to overcome my opponents in the great Tournament of Succession.

The fact that modern-day politics dictated that I could not lose, no matter the opponent, was both good and bad to me. Of course, no one told me I would eventually win by default: they were too busy telling me how much better I was than the rest of the kingdom, telling me that victory was my birthright. But I knew this was not the case. No first-born son of a Sanglorian king had ever lost a Tournament of Succession. Bribery and blackmail saw to that. But did I truly want to win? Of that, I am not sure.

These thoughts ran through my head as I kneeled beside my bed. Today I had officially written my name on the tournament sign-up sheet as the masses watched and cheered. Soon I would participate in and win the tournament I had no desire to enter.

I lowered my head to my folded hands and cried.

[Zulehan]

Light braves my cell. Better not let them see that. They'd go nuts. Poor thing'll be whipped to death by big fat old nuns.

Suddenly it's a whole lot more light, and I groan and double over in pain. It pierces my eyeball, my eye socket, goes straight through the bone and juice to the core of my head, and I burrow my face in my pillows and blankets and wretch in pain. These aren't eyes. They're testicles, and I just got a swift kick to the scrotum.

So maybe it's not so bad that they sealed off the windows and don't let the light in here.

"I'm sorry Sammy, butcha gotta get some food in ya, or you ain't never gonna get better." Glenna, the big burly old church lady that tended my eye and ribs. She's such a worrywort. She cares, but boy, she's strict. "Here, I'm leavin' a plate of food on the table next to the bed. When I leave, you eat it all up, mmkay?" I grunt in hopes of driving her off, satisfied. I can't really seem to get ahold of myself enough to do much more.

But she's not gone yet. "Oh, some tall old man, dressed nice, he came and left a note here for ya. I don't want you straining yourself to read it, now. Wouldja like me to fetch Mother Lydia? She's taken some readin' lessons."

Oh no. "No, no, that's quite alright!" I manage to moan, muffled by the covers I'm borrowed into. "I'll read it later! No rush," I nervously spout. "Thanks a lot!"

"Okay, I'll leave it here for you. Don't you go reading it any time soon. If you need anything, just knock at your door." And finally, she leaves. Another burst of light--this time I'm prepared, and fully protected--and the door is shut again. Just a shy, dusty beam left so I can see to eat.

My eyes are finally recovering. One is smashed shut voluntarily by my eyelid, the other oozing and bloated under a thick cloth wrapped around my head. As the focus of pain leaves my eyes, it stalks, lupine in its efficiency, right down to some broken ribs, and dully picks at them. They're not too bad. Maybe not even broken. I can deal with it.

I put up a good fight, if I may say so myself, but there were at least a dozen guards at the gate. Doran managed to escape; I saw him running with a speeding panic I never would have guessed I'd see from a man so damned dour and proned to moping and sighing. They roughed me up pretty bad before their Captain Gregor arrived and pried them off of me. Since Gregor and I had an "understanding," he deemed that I was free to go.

I went, alright. After some talking and conniving with Gregor, I went straight to the church, and fell flat at the door. I woke up in this room, all dark and dusty and being bandaged and fretted over by big old Glenna.

I don't know what happened to Doran. My "understanding" with Gregor lifted the bounty from his head. But I really don't know what he got in trouble for. So who's to say there aren't still people out there who don't care about the bounty? Who just want him dead?

Graham, the tall old man that dresses nice, is a good friend of mine. He's the kind of guy you can go to ask what material the local cobbler uses to make his shoes, but has never met the cobbler, or just about anyone else here in town, as long as he's been here. The note he left will surely clue me in on Doran's well-being, and perhaps his whereabouts.

As I start to sit up, the wolf named Pain sees his opportunity, leaps roaring from my ribs into my head, and I'm thrown back against the bed again. Okay, so maybe I'll read the note later. I've got time. I get pretty good care here so far, since I also have an "understanding" with the head clergy of this town. Funny, that. Some pay me for the stuff, others pay me to keep the stuff away.

Whatever. I win either way.

[Jazzmosis]

Why or how Frailyn arrived here was irrelevant, now. He stood, alone in the dense thickets. Perhaps it was chosen by the gods he no longer believed in that he would be alone, lost in the forest. He wanted to scream in anguish at his cruel fate; but it seemed pointless since nobody would hear it.

He had never been a bad person - not exactly the kindest of souls, but never the worst. During his younger years, he joined a small group of teenage renegades, commiting crimes; petty theft, acts of vandalism. However, once he reached his twenties, he decided it was no longer worth being an outlaw. Frailyn settled down, taught himself the sword, and the mastery of the bow.

Eventually, he married a fair maiden. Her name... it would never escape him. Naya. Together the two spent years together. Frailyn wept as he recalled these torturous memories. After roughly five winters, Naya and himself decided to visit a famous city. On the way there, his old gang of youth thugs confronted him. Apparently, they were upset about his leaving without notice.

Frailyn's sobbing nearly became uncontrollable.

The thugs tried to mug him to regain their lost time and effort "moulding" Frailyn. While he fought them with relative ease, they took Naya by knife and put it to her throat. Threats were bellowed, from the thugs and himself, he remembered that clearly. He recalled immediately giving in to their demands, handing over his money, his shoes, his possessions - anything he had of value. Seemingly unsatisfied, the thugs made off with his things, and his beautiful bride, Naya. Or at least they tried. Frailyn remembered attacking, no weapon in hand, with such fury that the thugs ran off in fear.

Frailyn looked at the scar in his arm. It paled in comparison to the wound in his heart.

During his fury, he had taken a sword in his left arm, using it to block a blow heading to his face. Although it hurt beyond comprehension at the time, Frailyn still managed to scare his foes off. But not before, in a panic, they took off with Naya.

Frailyn recalled passing out from the pain, and awaking days later. He spent a week searching for Naya, before finally finding her corpse; tattered, beaten, scratched, and eventually he found a knife that had been used to slit her throat.

He sobbed uncontrollably - the memories he had spent so long trying to forget always came back.

Why she was murdered remained a mystery to him; Frailyn eventually decided Naya had fought back and was killed. Probably *****, as well. The widower had attempted to find her murderers, but in the end he only became lost, and without a hope to cling to. It was as if they had disappeared off the face of the earth.

A year had passed since that, and Frailyn was now 29 years old. He had abandoned humanity. From time to time, humanity found him, but he tried to escape his pain by wandering the world. Now, as he wiped away his tears, he had yearned for human contact. But in his efforts to escape pain, he had lost himself in these dense woods. And with each passing day, his pain grew more intense and his hatred and fury for the murders grew.

Frailyn killed when he had to; in his travels he found a sword.

He continued to walk, forcing each step. Exhaustion overwhelmed him, but he knew that an end to this infernal forest would come soon.

Why had the gods abandoned him? Why had he abandoned himself? It didn't matter now; all that mattered was getting out of the forest.

[Üdorim]

'Name?'

'Mayanna.'

The clerk dropped the point of his quill and looked up at her impatiently, 'your family name, miss.'

'Twelvetree.'

Mayanna Twelvetree sat across from a tired looking clerk, fidgeting with her hair and trying hard not to appear comfortable in her tall cushioned seat. She had after all spent the last fortnight on horseback, and the worn leather contours of the chair were whispering to her; ease back and rest for awhile. It was an annoying test of willpower, but a proper lady shouldn't let herself be caught relaxing into a man's seat. The clerk dutifully went on inscribing words and names on the parchment in front of him.

'The duration of your stay?' the clerk stated more than asked.

'I accompany my step-brother to the Tournament Of Succession. He was given a late entry into the tourney and I will be leaving with him when he is done.' she said.

'No more than two weeks stay, then,' he noted on the papers. 'Nationality?'

'Sanglorian.'

The clerk looked up once more, 'you have a Moranian name, miss.'

'I, as was my brother, was given the name by my father, who adopted the name himself from his wife. It's Moranian custom,' she finished.

The clerk tapped his quill against the parchment impatiently, leaving a small trailing line of dots, 'what was his legal name prior to that, miss?'

'I told you. His name is Twelvetree.'

The clerk sighed and gave in. With a final flourish of the pen he signed the form. He dabbed the tip into the inkwell and handed it to Mayanna, 'just make your mark at the bottom and your papers will be complete.'

Mayanna signed with exhausted hands and laid the quill to rest by the inkwell. The clerk blew gently to dry the ink, and then handed over her papers in a roll. 'Enjoy your stay, and may Tristan Sangloria fare well against your brother.'

May Tristan Sangloria fare well against your brother. Loyal words, legal words, religious words. A coward's words. Mayanna walked away from the guildhouse and onto the cobbled streets where a light rain drizzled over the rich and the poor indescriminately. She made her way quickly to the inn where she was staying, worried about the dye in her wig, even though she knew she needn't be. She'd been careful in selecting the dyes and stains to use in this kingdom's weather, so much different from the desert.

When she entered her room she took off the blonde wig and unrolled her own shoulderlength auburn hair; a dead giveaway she was a foreigner. She loosened her limbs and shook her body out, stressed from walking like a Sanglorian slut. The damn women were so hard to imitate with her lean and, she was resigned to it, hipless body. Made her wonder if it wouldn't have been smarter to travel farther east and try somewhere else.

Of course, only the tournament in Sangloria rewarded performance with position. No other kingdom in the world did so; it was why so many nobles were only brutes with nothing but steam between their ears. But she didn't know if she even wanted that position anymore, to be a noble. The need for it in her heart had been quenched by the rains of this place, and all she had left was the smoldering desire for revenge.

Looking out the window at the grey skies outside, she decided that she would leave. After she had beaten as many so-called nobles as she could, gouged out the eyes of as many as possible, she would leave. She would get far in the tourney and withdraw with a noble position, she was sure. Then she would cast that noble position aside to her imaginary step-brother, and leave them both in Sangloria. Something was calling her from beyond the city's walls, and she didn't understand what it was. She thought she had known its source before she came here, but now ... She unrolled her second set of papers and looked at them a long time, before storing them alongside the papers for Coran Twelvetree, the lithe blonde Sanglorian fighter.

She layed down in a real bed for the first time in weeks, and listened to the rain splattering on the roof above her. The same rain is falling on the palace roof, she thought. So why is the King given dominion over men, if the gods weep over his kingdom?

[Mercenary]

The wan sun had long since been up, its pitiful rays diminishing the cold with all the efficacy of a child’s bare fists pounding on an oaken gate. My entire body ached from the long ride and the day’s expenditures. My overuse of magic the previous day had brought the headache I normally endured to a point of such exquisite and unmarred agony that I could scarcely employ my mind in any other endeavor, no matter how small or trifling. I would have to make a point of not expending myself so utterly unless there was a dire need.

I gathered up my things and quickly was off on the road. My pursuers would be days behind me after my lightning-quick ride of the past day and a half, but there was no point in being too lackadaisical. The chestnut’s gait resembled that of a tired old mare, not the powerful, young warhorse I knew him to be. I considered invigorating him with some simple magic but the mere thought brought my headache, which had been receding slightly, once again to full crescendo. Right, no more magic for several days.

Finding myself incredibly bored on the plodding mount I decided to chance a read of the black book. The language at the beginning was in a fine hand, probably that of a commissioned scrivener, and was very elevated. It was too much for my mind to handle in its current state. “There must be some way to diminish this damn headache!” My fingers seemed accidentally to slip from the page I had been reading. The book opened to a page much further in and on it was a rather messy jumble of letters that were just barely decipherable.

“The reader will excuse my imperfect hand as my current predicament dictates that this must be written from the back of a near-galloping horse. The thought has just occurred to me that nowhere in any of the classical texts is there any reference to the methods of coping with magic-exhaustion. This being, I think, one of the magician’s most paramount concerns I will here detail my own methods. First, let it be known that sleep, counter-intuitive as it might seem, is the most detrimental of all activities to which the magician might commit himself. Magic's employment is similar in many respects to the consumption of ale. It should not be used on an empty stomach, and the consumption of good food and drink will aid the magician greatly in his search of comfort and repose.”

I immediately took out a hardened travel biscuit and began to eat it. It was so rock-hard, in fact, that I had to consume it very slowly, letting my saliva soften it enough to chew. The effect was instant and extraordinary. The headache, while still not reduced to those levels to which I was accustomed, had been greatly lessened. The enchantment on the book had to have been one of sweeping and extremely powerful proportions. Not only were its pages endless, it had a tendency to flip to a page pertaining to what the reader was considering. I had to wonder, though, what had brought it into my father’s possession. Perhaps he had been a close friend to a wizard when he was younger? I wondered, too, what had caused the book to pass from the wizard’s hands to my father’s, especially considering that my father was no mage himself. My headache having been reduced, and my curiosity having been piqued, I was eager to return to my study of the book. It would seem to have as its focal point the practical applications of magery, something no other book I had ever read could claim. I had never used magic on any large scale before the past few days, and as such much of what I knew was derived from ancient writings and classical theory.

“Further, if I may be allowed to continue with my alcohol metaphor, the prolonged employment of magic presents certain health risks to the mage. These health risks are purely physical however, so one may practice and practice without ever entertaining the thought of some day being made into an invalid. It is difficult to articulate exactly what these risks are, as different authorities have wildly differing opinions on the subject, but I will offer some symptoms I have personally observed in myself and in my colleagues.”

“Those wizards who specialize in the lighter disciplines, that is, in healing and other so-called holy magicks, have less to fear than do their peers. Theirs is not a profession without risks, however. The effects on users of this sort of magic seem to be largely focused on physical strength and constitution. They demonstrate characteristics that might only be otherwise observed in sufferers of anemia, their dexterity and vigor resemble that of the terribly old and decrepit, even if they are young. Often their hair begins to fall out, and in the well-advanced stages they may cease to be able to grow hair at all. Further, their blood does not clot correctly at wounds and so they must take great care should their skin be broken.”

As I was already pretty well invested in the darker magical disciplines I skimmed the remainder concerning light mages, earth mages, death mages, and all manner of elemental mages until finally I came upon the section that interested me, dark mages.

“The dark mage has more to fear from the negative effects of magic use than does any other sort of wizard. At the beginning of this passage I introduced the idea that all the effects of prolonged magic use concerned physical traits, let me now introduce one small caveat to that general rule; the practitioner of dark magic is subject to an unceasing and malevolent mental assault by all manner of demon and spirit. They are frequently corrupted by the dark spirits with which they are in constant communication. Furthermore, the enormous mental strain of fending off so many demonic beings on a daily basis is in many cases instrumental in establishing mental illness. Only one further difficulty confronts the dark mage and that is the deforming of his flesh. I have observed, though rarely, dark magi who have become so deformed by the practice of their art that they resemble the demons that they summon. Their skin becomes ruddy and coarse, cracks and fissures begin to emerge, giving their countenance a distinctly reptilian appearance.”

“The young practitioner of dark magic who may be reading this might well become discouraged upon discovering what horrible maladies await him. Take heart, young mage! For though your price is higher than that of your colleagues so, too, is your reward. Of the few dark mages I have met, and there are precious few of them, not one possessed anything less than the capabilities of even the grandest of light or elemental wizards. And there are certain measures to be taken in preventing the onset of these deformities. I met a wizard once who, though quite insane, was an intensely powerful dark wizard and yet he possessed none of the lizard-like traits that so characterize other dark magi. Just what methods he used I am not well educated enough to be able to describe here. I leave that to the budding dark mage who may be reading this to discover. But, let him know that there is indeed hope.”

[proudfoot]

Uharo wiped the sweat from his face with one forearm and let his sword-arm drop, his longsword hanging from his hand. Across from him his opponent stood and waited with a smirk on his face.

“You grow tired, Uharo,” said the man, chuckling softly to himself. “I would have expected more from you.”

Uharo’s face tightened in rage; he fought to hold it in. Losing his temper had cost him before. He wouldn’t let the taunting get to him this time. He raised his sword to continue. The man across from him did likewise.

“Prepare yourself, Uharo. I’m feeling… cruel, today.” The smirk grew into an open-mouthed grin of anticipation.

Uharo leapt forward, bring his longsword down in a sweeping arc which was easily deflected. Uharo moved with the parry, allowing his sword to be swung around to his side, pivoting with it until he stood sideways. He put the momentum to use, bringing up one leg into a kick aimed at the other man’s chest. The man jumped back and laughed.

“Come on, Uharo. Such simplicity from someone with such a big mouth. I grow tired of these games.”

Uharo bit back a cry and thrust his sword toward the man’s face. It was easily slapped away.

“You’ll have to do more than that to win the tournament, young one,” taunted the man. “If you don’t improve yourself by then you’ll be out after the first round.”

“Shut up!” screamed Uharo. His chest heaved with rage as the man laughed. Uharo stumbled back against a wooden wall and clutched the handle of his sword with both hands, his knuckles white and his face a contrasting red.

“I thought you were motivated, Uharo. I thought you wanted to become a great fighter. But at this rate you’re only going one place, and that’s the loser circle. I don’t know why I’ve even bothered to train you over these few years. I always knew you’d be a failure.”

Uharo raised his blade in front of his face. “I won’t lose,” he said quietly. “I don’t know where I might end up, but I know it won’t be here, stuck in a worthless hole, in a dead-end job, lording over a handful of children.”

The trainer’s eyes narrowed into slits and he grimaced. “You, young friend, are out of line. I think it’s time you go to bed.”

“I think not.”

“Uharo,” said the trainer, “go to bed.”

“Hikana,” said Uharo, his face a mask of defiance, “go to hell.” In one fluid motion Uharo dropped his sword, reached down to his leg, gripped a smooth knife by the blade, swung it out of its holster, and let it fly toward his teacher’s head.

But his teacher was faster still. In a blur of movement he dodged and countered, flinging two razor-sharp needles at the speed of sound. They knifed through the air and found their mark, piercing Uharo’s ears and pinning him to the wall. Uharo screamed.

The trainer stood and stepped in front of Uharo, his face a livid contortion of red. “This session is over. Go to your room and stay there.” He turned and walked away

Uharo reached up to the quivering two-millimetre-wide needles and gripped them. He ripped them free with a cry and sunk to his knees, holding his head as blood mixed with tears.

[Unvision]

“Closing time,” he announced, wiping out a tin mug with a stained rag. “Any last orders?” He finished drying it and flipped the mug upside-down before setting it on the shelf behind him.

The bar was the only place in the small tavern still lit and the only place still occupied. This was how it ended every night. The same three patrons on the same three stools at the bar, the same tired atmosphere, the same reek of ale and vomit and the same fogged up lantern struggling to illuminate the same scene.

All three of his customers set down their mugs and pushed them across the bar. That was part of the tradition too. The keg was almost empty. He filled the tankers half way then split the remaining trickle between them.

He took a scrap of paper from beneath the counter and scratched another tick on it next to each of their names with a bit of charcoal.

“Ya don’t mean’a tell me yer gon’ter charge us fer that?” slurred the gentlemen in front of him, waving his hand in the general direction of the mug and coughing, his breath mingling with the general foulness of the air.

“We all know ya’ don’t have any money left anyway. I’d put money down that you ain’t paid fer a drink in a year and you’ll never pay fer a single one of these marks!” belched his companion.

They all laughed and hiccupped and drained their mugs and stumbled out of the bar and into the cobbled street. The bartender wiped their mugs with the same dirty cloth and kicked the logs in the fireplace apart so only ashes and dying coals remained. He felt along his calf to make sure the knife was still there, grabbed the lantern off the wall and the keys from beneath the bar and went into the street. The room was finally smothered into darkness as he closed and locked the door and headed in the direction of the docks.

#

Waves slapped lightly against the bulkhead as the moon reflected off the water and made ghosts on the pilings. The bartender carried his lantern down the main dock past the sloops and ketches and turned onto a smaller dock. He walked down the weather-grayed planks and set his lantern down in front of an old cutter that was missing its sail. Other boats and pylons absorbed the waves here and the boat barely rocked as he stepped easily up onto the deck. He yawned, walked to the end of the boat and pissed into the harbor before walking around to the front of his boat to pick up his lantern. Finally he descended into the cabin and blew out the wick.

[Zulehan]

I'll just have to get up slowly, that's all. Then, read that note. Then get the hell out of this sickhouse.

I lift my back from the bed, first. Rise up to get my elbows under me. Then a bit more, and--ow--I'm sitting up. Throw my legs out over the bedside, and I'm still fine. It'll be nice to get some warm cider in me, clear my head of unimportant things like broken ribs and aching heads and the possibility of having to wear some sleezy looking eyepatch for the rest of my life. That'd be terrible for business. But I'm alright just yet.

A cup of water, a crusty slice of bread, a slab of beef in some dubious looking gravy, half a steamed potato. Nice. I plan out my next five minutes: water, note, bread, potato, try the meat if I'm still hungry. I drink half the cup, and pick up the note.

Samuval,

Linda and the remaining Breymond host appreciated the package you sent. Linda herself was intoxicated when she received it; she mistakenly paid too much. The money is under the sand.

Doran ran south, into a forest few enter. He slew the soldiers that followed, and is now an outlaw. The king is not happy, and as such, your deal with Gregor has shrugged off Doran's predators only temporarily.

Little yet known of Doran's initial crime. Seems he stole a valuable object, got caught, ran.

G.

PS: C is in tune. The rays have five notes piano, eight notes forte, five notes finale. The clouds have ten notes piano, fifteen notes forte, ten notes finale.

The mention of Linda's drunken accident makes me chuckle. What a dumb old woman, wasting away like that. I don't think it's sad at all. I don't care much about what happened to Breymond Academy, either. Except, of course, the irony of it all.

Graham had a brother, Duke, who liked me a lot, and got me into the Academy for free. Duke was kind of a weird guy. I was the young tall brash blonde in my prime years, with youthful features and tender eyes, and he was an eccentric, feminine bachelor in his forties, with too much money and not enough friends to share it with. I think he adored me in ways I don't want to be adored, if by old bachelors. But I got a free education, so he can kiss me full on the lips if he's so inclined.

Well, no, he's dead. So are most people related to Breymond, now.

Breymond taught two things: trade and alchemy. I took both, because I was smart enough. As an alchemy student, I got access to the libraries, and as a trade student, I was close to the professors. Combined, I had the opportunity to weasel my way into access to the deep, stinking cellars that housed the old books. Purely for studious reasons, of course.

Scanning the shelves, I found one of these was curiously stacked all with green books. They line Graham's library now, and I'll spare the details on how I got them there. But in them, were quite a lot of interesting and useful facts. Take, for instance, this excerpt that I memorized.

After removing the cup, dip the stem again into water, powdering it under water, and roast it over a calm flame of Thames ash. Its blackness begins to diminish. Grind it well in some clear water with Stotta's pine leafs and roast it again. It begins to be green, and then this blackness will disappear. Remove the pine leafs. When you see the powder beginning to turn green, be sure you are in the right path. Move it then when it becomes quite green and has the appearance of temyadlis techii. This will show that the process is right, and the powder has lost its sal savminaic which would have corrupted it.

That's how you make weeping powder. Graham, a music lover, calls it finale. It takes four sounds worth of weeping powder to kill a grown man. Twenty sounds makes one note. A note will balance perfectly, in weight, with the eye of a cow.

I left out the part about which mushroom you need in the beginning, of course, but you get the idea.

As I notice that it's raining outside, I dip some of the bread in the gloppy mess of beef and gravy, and have a bite. Not bad. I forgot how hungry I am.

[Mercenary]

The book had continued to fascinate me over the course of the next several days. The sky seemed to grow darker with each passing day even though the season was tending more toward Spring than Fall. I was so absorbed in the ingredient lists for various potions to increase mental stamina and aptitude that I almost missed the telltale signs of an ambush. A large tree had been laid across the road I traveled. A man before it had sheathed a cheaply forged broadsword and two men behind carried longbows with ease. I could easily devastate them with magic but I did not relish the idea of having headaches again unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Good day gentlemen.”

“We’ll be having your purse, stranger.”

“You’ll sooner be having death.”

“We’ve got ourselves a fighter here, lads.”

My head began to ache in anticipation of the bolts of fire I was about to hurl. I nearly groaned as I lifted my arms. But before I could cast I heard the sounds of mortal struggle from behind the fallen tree. Both archers had been gutted with a blade and lay now in their own brigand blood. With ever so light an application of my screeing ability, I noted that their purses had been swiftly removed as well.

The man, who was now holding his formerly sheathed sword, began to grow fearful. His wide peasant eyes looked this way and that. The shadow of an armed figure flitted from behind the tree and the last brigand collapsed in agony. Suddenly, I found myself faced with a threat potentially more deadly than what I had been confronting before.

Hoping to disarm any hostility the figure might hold for me I said lightly, “Good day, friend. Thanks for helping me out there.”

“No trouble at all. I should really be saying the same to you. I’d been lying in wait for a long time hoping someone would come by to distract them. Robbing brigands is generally a dangerous and profitless line of work but I saw that their purses were heavy with coin.”

“Excellent so we both profited.”

He sheathed his sword and I exhaled imperceptibly.

“So what’s your name fellow? I’m William.”

“Victor. Where are you headed now with your coin burden?”

“Nowhere truly, probably spend it all on harlots and gambling.”

“Noble employment for any coin!” I laughed heartily. He might become a good source of information on the local culture and customs; I was always in search of information, no matter its kind. “Say, are you up for a pint?”

“Sure, I know a great place just down the road a bit, right on the edge of town.”

“Oh, there’s a town around here?”

“Only the capital of Sangloria, friend.”

“Fascinating.” I said with a grin, “Shall we?”

[Jazzmosis]

Frailyn continued to wander through the forest, hacking through vines when they stood in his way. He considered himself a tortured soul - a forgotten shamble - of a man. The pain of losing his love, Frailyn knew, would haunt his life for eternity.

Further and further Frailyn pushed on, until he noticed the thickets were starting to become more scarce. Although still surrounded by forestry, he knew that the escape could not be far now. With a slight spring in his step, Frailyn walked on.

Despite the aches and pains he felt, Frailyn moved forward. In fact, the aches seemed to have dimineshed considerably, with the good news he thought was just outside the woods.

Further and further he walked, imagining a glorius field that he could soon step into. But.. suddenly he realized that the woods were once again becoming thicker.

"I hate you." Frailyn said aloud, hoping maybe a god would hear him, despite his disbelief.

Ready to give up, he collapsed to the ground. He lay there, for how long he didn't know - or care. Leaves rustled nearby, and for a moment he caught the glimpse of a squirrel. Beside him, the wind sprinkled dirt over his sword. What's the point in living? The lost wanderer thought to himself. Suddenly, a noise caught Frailyn's attention. Not far from him, he heard the sound of hope. "A creek. . ." Frailyn said. He pushed himself off the ground and grasped his sword. He must find this creek. It would lead him out of this infernal wood prison.

[proudfoot]

Uharo lay still on his bed, his head resting flat on the thin sheet of foam that he called comfort. Thin streams of blood still wept from his ears, but he was by now quite finished with any real tears. Resentment was building in his heart; had been building, in fact, for months. He had been shoved around, pushed to the limits, mistreated, and mocked by Hikana, the man who had “rescued” him as a child, for years, since before he could remember. He did not know how old he was now; eighteen, nineteen, who knew? How long had Hikana taught him, trained him, moulded him? How long had Hikana beaten him, berated him, hated him?

Too long.

Uharo stood and stepped lightly to the leaning board that was the door of his room. He lifted it quietly and set it aside, moving stealthily through the opening and down a shadowed hallway filled with other doors like his own. He leaned around a corner, saw nothing, and crept on. Coming to a flight of stairs he moved cautiously down, avoiding the steps he knew would betray him by walking tiptoe down the solid railing.

At the bottom a new hall awaited him. He slid down it to a new row of doors, proper ones with handles and hinges. And at the end of the hallway the largest of the doors, imposing its presence upon the darkness like a pair of glowing eyes in the jungle.

Uharo stepped up to it and pulled a thin metal object from a pouch at his side. He manoeuvred into the lock and twisted it slightly. The door slid cautiously open, Uharo moved through, and the door closed again, with no more sound than a whisper.

There was a bed in this room, a relatively luxurious one with a mattress and pillows. On the bed lay Hikana, his face a rictus of anger and loathing, even in sleep.

Uharo stood beside him and gazed into his face, the face of the man that had controlled him his entire life. He reached one more into the pouch on his leg and withdrew several short lengths of rope, intertwined into several connected loops and knots. He carefully slipped each of the loops around Hikana’s arms, legs, and neck, then tied the remaining length to the legs of the bed.

Satisfied that they would hold, he soundlessly lifted a knife out of his thigh scabbard and plunged it into Hikana’s stomach. Hikana awoke with a scream.

Uharo stood with folded arms and watched as his teacher writhed in agony. Gradually the flailing slowed and subsided into hyperventilation. Hikana raised his head as far as he was able and looked into Uharo’s eyes. His face showed a mix of anger and betrayal.

Uharo held the gaze steady as he reached for a third time into his pouch, withdrawing from it the two bloodstained needles that had pierced his ears earlier in the day. “Hikana,” he said, “I thought you might want to see me do this before you died.”

Hikana’s eyes widened in bewilderment as Uharo took each needle in turn and bent it with his hands into a centimetre-and-a-half ring. He took the rings and slid one into the hole in each ear so that they adorned the wounds like jewellery.

“I thought you might want to learn a final lesson, Hikana,” said Uharo, cold as steel. “There is more to strength than dexterity; there is more to power than skill.”

He pulled one final item from his pouch: an ornate dagger, its hilt carved from bone and its blade black as death.

Hikana’s eyes nearly burst from his head, and he screamed again, blood gushing out from the wound in his stomach.

One corner of Uharo’s mouth lifted in a smirk as he did what he had wanted so long to do.

[Snowglare]

Doran tired of tears. In fact, he was downright sick of crying. He resolved that morning to give it up. After all, he was still being hunted. There was no time to cry. No place. If the hunters had forcemarched through the night, they could be as close as the last already. He had to press on, to Heighton, where friends could hide him. If he still had friends there. They may remember all too well his last visit, how he made off with three thousand marks worth of jewelry, fine silks, and a certain gem-encrusted falchion. All were the property of nobles, no friends of his, and they could not have known he took them, but the falchion was the town's greatest treasure. His disappearance would have been noted, his involvement surely suspected.

If trouble came, he would find a way to escape it. If his friends abandoned him- Oops. He had forgotten, no, almost forgotten about Sam. Once he reached Heighton he would get word to Samuval somehow, arrange a meeting. If he yet lived. Doran would not cry for him. What he resolved to do, he did. He next resolved to acquire a horse. His feet were killing him.

[Unvision]

Later, William would question why he had agreed to follow a man who had been ambushed because he had his nose stuck in a book. In fact, he would start questioning himself as soon as they arrived at the tavern, realizing that to spontaneously share a pint with a man who’s life you had just saved was a bit odd. However, William was a firm believer in being kind to strangers. That was, unless they were robbing you, of course, in which case you slit their throats and gave them what was coming to them.

He knew he wasn’t the brightest, but he could swing a sword around pretty well, he was informed about the goings on of the world to a degree to which most men of his position were not, and, which was more, he could drink those same naïve characters under the table. Vaguely he was aware that there were probably ulterior motives at work and that the ale was more than just a reward for gutting a few brigands, but that same reward was doing its very best to help him forget that. At one point it may have occurred to him that his new friend Victor wasn’t drinking much, but he didn’t pursue it. If a guy who couldn’t defend himself on horseback from a couple of bandits wanted to know about Sangloria, what did it matter to him? He couldn’t complain about a heavy purse and free drinks.

“Well, the first thing you should know is that you’ve come at a rather interesting time. Or maybe it’s uninteresting, depending on which way you look at it,” began William.

“Why do you say that?” asked Victor.

“The Tournament of Succession. Of course, we all know the fighters are bribed and threatened into losing to the prince anyway, but it brings many people to Sangloria. I figured that was why you were here.”

“Me?” He laughed and pointed at his book, which was sitting closed beside him on the bar. “Not the fighting type, you might say.” He took a small sip from his drink. “Anyway… the Tournament of what? Which prince?”

“The Tournament of Succession, and Sanglorian king’s son. Let me explain. In Sangloria, when the king dies, there is a tournament to determine the next king. Everyone who wants a bit of money from the royal treasury signs up, gets bribed into losing, and then the prince becomes the next king, everyone goes home happy. Foolproof.”

Victor chuckled. “That sounds like rather a waste of time.”

“It’s traditional. More importantly, if the losers do well, they can be awarded lesser titles.” William wiped his lips with his sleeve. “Another pint please. I’m thirsty from all this talking.”

“Another drink, of course,” Victor apologized. “Sorry, but I know little of this area. You have interesting customs,” he finished, making sure to let William take a few deep draughts lest he get it into his head to ask questions.

The bartender slid another mug of ale toward the pair in anticipation – he knew where this was going. He was well aware that the foreigner was still nursing his first drink, but was a firm believer in the idea that it wasn’t the place of a bartender to judge. He’d been working this bar long enough to know that the fastest way to lose customers was to judge them. Of course, these men would only be passing through anyway: they sat at the end of his bar, away from the lantern.

It seemed like every month or so William ended up back in this bar, downing drinks on someone else’s coin and sloshing local gossip around with his loose tongue. Eventually, it would get dark and his three regulars would come in to drown their worries in ale and to pretend they would someday pay off their tabs. The stranger would have his fill of local news and William would have his fill of cheap ale. They would leave, and then about a month later William would be in the bar again for another round, so to speak. But it wasn’t his place to judge. He wiped the bottom of a mug with his dirty rag and hummed an old Sanglorian drinking song.

[Markle]

Still riding a high from tonight's riotous chat session, I now post the following:

Another short summer was coming to an end, evidenced by the abrupt blast of icy wind that drove Fe Sera yet closer to her fire. She was accustomed to the weather of the region, but not accustomed to enduring it alone. The thirty-fourth day since her expulsion she spent near the base of an intimidating peak, a jumble of cliffs and spires, perpetually capped with snow.

From here, it seemed an insurmountable obstacle, but this was where the road led. Just like the order to put such a wall between themselves and the world, but they weren’t the only ones to brave this environment. Several times in her journey she’d hidden from passing caravans, both merchants and warriors, traveling the same road as her. She didn’t know why she hid, but the urge was overpowering each time she heard the creaking of wooden wheels coming down the road behind her.

The behavior was particularly puzzling considering that she believed finding and joining a caravan to be her best hope. Presumably, the travelers knew where they were going and how to get there, while Fe Sera knew neither. She looked into her fire, trying not to remember how many nights it had been since she’d had something to cook on it. Also a problem best solved by joining with more prepared travelers.

She was distracted from her thoughts by the buzzing arrival of a fist sized winged insect. It set down on the dirt an arm’s length away from her, attracted to the heat and light of the fire. The creature was a uniform gray, blending in with the dust and rocks of the gloomy landscape. She’d never seen one before, though she’d lived near here for as long as she could remember, probably longer. Curiosity for the moment banished concern, and Fe Sera moved slowly closer to examine it.

It was similar to the flies that swarmed through in the summer, though it was much larger and sported a stinger and a pair of powerful looking mandibles. Those flies had proved frustrating subjects of practice, time and again. Such simple creatures, but she could only effect them in the crudest of ways. A part of her had long wanted to give up, but a much stronger part, the stubborn streak that had somehow survived her transformation, the eventual cause of her expulsion, overruled such urges.

Once again pushing away reservations, she looked inside the insect, followed its senses through the simple nerve clusters that served it as a brain. Simple, just like the flies. She watched herself through its eyes for several seconds, with an effort translating the creature’s vision into something her own mind could parse. This was the easy part, and she could spend hours tracing the nervous system, until she felt she knew it completely, could predict any response to any set of stimuli.

Still, she’d meet with failure when she tried to go further. As now, when she reached into its consciousness and attempted to prompt a flutter of its wings, the simplest manipulation she could think of. The reaction was a moment’s confused flailing, then it snapped its mandibles as confusion became aggression. It took flight, stinger bobbing menacingly as it flitted around the fire looking for a victim.

Before it could find one, an uncontrollable burst of anger burned through its cells, paralyzing it. It dove into the fire, and Fe Sera sat back, exhaling loudly. The masters could control a swarm of the flies at once, make them fly in complex and beautiful patterns, could dictate the flight path of a falcon miles away, could direct the growth of a plant, could even influence other humans. Five years after her transformation, she could only kill.

The masters said her former self hadn’t been fully committed to the transformation, hadn’t created the clean slate a student needed to truly learn. And, when she continued to fail, and more importantly, punish her experiments for her failures, she’d been banished, to die in the wastelands outside the settlement.

Discouraged, she looked up at the peak, which grew more ominous by the minute as light left the valley. It seemed to radiate hostility, from the jagged boulders at its base to the cloud-obscured summit. Impassable, she thought again, but she realized that she herself must have traversed it at one point. Rather, her previous self, the person for whom her loathing grew with each day.

One became a true member of the order through what was called the transformation ritual. When a pupil became sufficiently skilled, they were to rewrite their own history, erasing from their mind their old identity and in its place providing only what knowledge and history they needed to continue their studies. Most with any talent underwent the transformation soon after beginning their schooling, the manipulation of one’s own mind being infinitely simpler than influencing the energies of another being.

For obvious reasons, none remembered the origin of the ritual, but its most logical purpose was to strip young students of the arrogance that inevitably sprouted as they learned to toy with the flow of life. Before the transformation, they regarded themselves as humans becoming superhuman, after the transformation they were born anew as equals in a society where their abilities were commonplace.

When, for any reason, a student didn’t completely rid themselves of their old memories, it served only to impede them as they attempted to progress in their studies. Most went mad, the rest found themselves less capable than their peers, or even completely incapable. Students were warned of this, but Fe Sera’s old self had apparently ignored the warnings.

She’d awoken from the ritual with a name from a language she no longer knew, a handful of confusing but not particularly meaningful images rooted in her mind, and an ever-glowing ember of anger in her heart.

Light was gone now, only the silhouette of the mountain remained to taunt her as her fire slowly burned itself out. She lapsed into a mental silence for a time, ignoring the cold as she stared into the distance, thinking of nothing until a set of rhythmically swaying lights appeared down the road. The lanterns of a caravan, rushing through the night to be free of this place before the first storms. This might be the last one, but still she felt the compulsion to stay out of sight.

The time for a choice had arrived. She could give in to her fears, fears she didn’t even understand, and freeze to death here, or have a chance at survival with this caravan. An easy decision, it would seem, but she couldn’t force herself to what she knew was the correct course of action. The struggle between her instinct for self preservation and her inexplicable paranoia persisted for several minutes as the lights drew closer.

Tears of frustration, fear, rage, and confusion flowed from her eyes, the battle reaching epic heights as she dedicated her whole self to defeating the alien thoughts. Finally she withdrew into herself, calling on the same techniques used during the transformation, and scoured the voice of caution from her mind. She woke seconds later, and pushed herself off the ground, feeling light headed, still in a state of emotional turmoil, but ready to do what she had to, to save herself. She started toward the lights, stumbling awkwardly, yelling semi-coherently, making a spectacle that would be impossible to miss.

[Mercenary]

I had been quietly suffusing the ale with magic the whole night, and as William had drunk a good deal of it, he, too, was now suffused with magic and would thus be easily recognizable even from a great distance; magicians have an eye for that sort of thing. It was by such method that I picked him out of a crowd in the market square of Tellur, Sangloria’s capital.

“Good day, William. Say, come over here a moment.”

“Hail, what is it?”

“Would you consider entering the Succession Tournament we spoke of yesterday?”

“I’m pretty handy with a blade, but I’m not sure I could make it to a prize-winning position.”

“I might be able to do something for you there, for a share of your winnings.”

William looked at me quizzically. I concentrated mentally on increasing his physical constitution and strength. Some magicians like to use their hands for gestures, but it’s all theatrics and habit; the spells work whether the greatest and most profuse of gesticulations are gone through or none at all are performed.

“Have you sharpened your blade recently, William?”

“Just yesterday morning before slaying those bandits.”

“Good, take it out and give it a feel.”

William drew his sword and ran his hand lightly along the length of the blade. “It feels dull…that’s impossible.” He pressed the sword harder into his palm, so hard in fact that were he not magically protected it probably would have severed his hand. “That…is amazing.” He said with wonderment as he sheathed the sword, noticing no pain as the skin reformed itself from the light indentation that had been made.

“You’re not invincible, but damn near. I’ve been working on that bit for quite some time. And I’ve other cards to play as well, but now that you are assured there’s no reason to demonstrate them today.”

“So you’re a wizard then? If you’re so powerful why didn’t you lay waste to those brigands?”

“I could have, but it is rather a hassle; I was hoping they would let me go in peace. Had you not come along, they’d have been just as dead.”

“I’ll sign up for the tournament today! But, how much of my winnings did you say you wanted?”

“Just a pittance, my real prize I will explain to you later.”

“Sure, I’ll be off then.”

I waved goodbye and began to head towards the center of the city. On all four sides of the thatched and stone labyrinth that was Tellur was a wide, cobbled road heading out as straight as modern engineers could manage. I made my way up the slight incline that gave the castle the highest ground in the city. I stopped fifty yards from the front gate, the black, wooden portcullis and dark gray stone walls resembling a dragon’s gaping maw.

In my days as a mage in Tyrran I had heard of a great mage of the light who resided in Tellur. He, apparently, served the royal family with distinction and had for years. As such, I felt fairly confident he would be at the tournament watching the family’s son perform. He might even be playing the same tricks I was, I didn’t know enough about the light disciplines to say whether or not they contained any spells like those I possessed. Either way, he was sure to have some possessions that would serve me in my travels. I intended to pay a visit to his apartment in the castle during the tournament.

I gazed up at one of the three high towers of the castle. It was clear which room belonged to the mage; the very uppermost chamber of the third tower practically oozed with magical essence. All was set for the tournament to take place. All that remained to do was wait for it to begin.

[Mercenary]

I knelt in prayer. My comrades were often fond of joking that the only things I did more often than praying were fighting and cursing. I had a lot to be forgiven for, then, and the praying was required, for hours a day. That wasn’t why I prayed, however. When most people pray they think they are talking to God, but he does not hear. Only once one has committed himself fully to the pursuance of God’s justice does the Almighty begin to listen.

When I was younger I was discontent; I would have done anything to die were the canons not set fast against it. My father had died fighting for God. I had begged him to take me with him when he had left our quiet home. He had said that I was still too young, and promised to take me on his next campaign. There wouldn’t be a next campaign. There was one form of suicide the canons were most definitely not against, however, and that was martyrdom. My father had been the greatest fighter the world had ever seen and his father before him had been a priest. National records held that he had slain fifty men in the Crusades. Though these “men” would seem to be our brothers both in faith and in race, they were not. Disagreements in the church have never been well tolerated. God has but one word and it is absolute.

It was with those convictions that I threw myself headlong into one of the bloodiest of the Religious Wars. It was said that on one field alone during the Fifth War, in which I took part, were slain thirty five thousand men. Having at that time no desire to live, I decided to fight until death found me. I plunged into the enemy’s ranks in similar fashion as my blade did malign their flesh. But even as I was, surrounded and without hope of support, death still did not find me. My mighty blade whistled and cut down heathen after heathen. My sword devoured without mercy that day, but it was to no avail. My faction was routed utterly, nary a man survived. I looked back through the thick ranks of enemy soldiers to see my comrades fleeing as cowards. Now, death would find me.

But it did not. As all hope seemed lost, I heard the words of God. I had still some good work to do, he said. Though my blade leapt from chest to shield to leg to axe with a fire and vigor not of this world, my arms did not tire. Though the heathen’s blows did fall on me as a rain, I was unharmed. I battled my way to the other side of the heathen’s ranks and made my escape a hero. They dared not even pursue, for they had witnessed how legendary was my prowess in battle.

Shortly thereafter, an end to hostilities was called, and a King owing allegiance to that vile and heretical sect, The Universalists, took to the throne. What was more, he had a son who practiced in dark magic. I again considered seriously the possibility of taking my own life. But now, God was with me and I knew it. Under a new name I was able to reclaim all my family had lost in the war and then some. And with the Lord’s help I was even able to ouster that Godless king and install myself on the throne. Many men take great pride in being masters of their own destiny, not I. I couldn’t want for anything more than the Lord’s hand guiding my fate. Nor could he want for his subjects anything less. It was for this cause that he brought about the redemption of the Determinist forces, and the just installation of one of their number on the throne of Tyrran, the holiest and mightiest of lands.

“Lord, do I not tremble with righteous fury?”

I waited long for an answer. “You do.”

“Then hear me!” I shouted.

“Your throne will not be legitimate unless the son is dead?”

“Yes.”

“And you, in all your might, cannot bring about this heretic’s death?”

“Am I the mightiest fighter in the world?”

“No, a handful of others are your superiors.”

“Then no.”

“The son has the potential to be the mightiest sorcerer the world has ever seen. You would do well to tread cautiously. There exists in the world a magic blade of terrible power and insidious design. I will detail for you how it is to be destroyed. I leave it to you to discern just how this information will aid you.”

“Thank you, Lord.” I said, voice quivering with reverence, not a drop of which was insincere.

[tamrend]

Ariana stooped to drink from the stream. She cupped the freezing water to her lips, drinking deeply. Bending lower, she splashed and scrubbed at her face and neck. The bitter cold helped to clear her head. She could still feel the pull, though, a tugging on her mind leading her now southwest. And she still had the memory of the dreams, of watching her youth and strength wither away in a matter of moments.

She pulled the knife from its sheath and held it at arms length, running her gaze over it. She used to do this often in the beginning, wondering where the weapon had come from, how such a thing could come into being. Realizing what it would mean to live, what she would have to do to survive, she had considered death as the alternative. Back then, she had believed there was still a life worth living. She had had hope for the future. After nearly two centuries of killing, of watching friends grow old and die, of growing more and more detached from her own humanity, hope was nothing more than a memory.

Now, the one thing that stayed her from taking her own life was the one feeling she had that was still keen. Fear. The stains on her soul were deep and many. If there existed a world beyond death, surely she would suffer an eternity of torment there for what she had done. She would face whatever it was that twisted and pulled her before she would chance that.

A rustling in the grass made her bolt upright, her hunter’s instincts taking control. She listened more closely and discerned footsteps, a single person, probably a man from the heaviness of the tread. Her hearing was sensitive enough that she would have time to hide before he appeared if she wanted, but she saw no reason to do so.

“Greetings,” she said in the local dialect, the moment he came into view. He was nondescript except for a grizzled face and ragged clothes. Remembering the knife belatedly, she tucked it into its sheath and fastened it down securely.

[Jazzmosis]

Frailyn stumbled through the woods until he found the stream. He dropped to his knees and drank the sweet potion, feeling the energy revitalize inside him. It had been nearly a week since he'd drank anything - he'd been eating leaves and grass for days. When he had his fill, he observed the current - it would lead him away from the woods - at least he hoped it would. North.

Gathering his wits and his hopes, Frailyn followed the stream. How long he walked, he did not know - but he assumed it was a quarter of a day. He observed in delight as the trees were growing thinner and thinner. When he needed it, he drank some water from the stream.

The horrid memories of his lost wife were less torturous now - there was hope, there was an exit to this forest.

However, he realized that he was, once again, dead tired. His feet ached as did his legs. Must push on... Frailyn thought to himself.

Joy filled his eyes as the sun shone through the field - he had finally reached an end to the forest. The grass rolled on, the stream trickled off into the distance. He was free.

"Greetings." He heard a voice say. Startled, the man jumped backwards slightly. He looked suspiciously at the voice's owner - and his memories flooded back.

This.. woman.. she looked remarkably similiar to his lost wife. There were key differences - his wife was taller, and a different colour of hair. He stood from a short distance, far enough to that he could not see her details - like eye colour. Frailyn wanted to say something - anything. He'd yearned for the human contact, now he was amist it. Say something, you fool! His mind demanded.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The woman had a blade in her hand. She must have thought he was no threat as he watched her latch it into her sheath. Remembering his sword that he'd been dragging, Frailyn stuffed it into a sturdy hole in his shirt and roped belt. The blade tugged at his shirt, and caused the man to shift his weight awkwardly.

Dammit, say something!

"Who... who are you?" He asked weakly, his voice trembling slightly.

Not waiting for a response, he blurted another question. "Where are you headed? Myself - I'll go anywhere."

Idiot.. His mind scolded. Don't look like you're begging to go places with her - don't be desparate. You'll scare her off if you're too forward.

Frailyn immediately looked to the ground. "Sorry. . ." He apologized. It was only when he thought about what had just transpired that he realized he had said all three sentences in a row.

Wait for a response. He instructed himself.

"My name is Ariana," she said, nonplussed by the stranger's odd outburst. "You look like you've been out here a long time."

Frailyn looked down. "Sorry." He mumbled, half to himself. He turned his full attention to the woman he stood near. "I guess I have - I got lost in the woods." He kicked a rock away from his foot. "What are you doing out here?"

Ariana crossed her arms in front of her. "I am merely traveling through this land. Where I'm going is no one's care but my own."

Frailyn apologized again. "Forgive me, madam." He inspected her - he could not deny her beauty. Quickly regaining his composure, he continued his useless questions. "You're traveling alone? Aren't these lands. . . dangerous for just a woman?"

"They are dangerous," she admitted. The knife wriggled in its sheath, the motion too small for Frailyn to notice. Though she restricted her kills, the knife was always thirsty for blood. He was the first person she had encountered since setting out. "Perhaps more for some than for others. You don't want to go that way." She pointed north. "Runath is about three days away, but you'll freeze to death in those clothes before you ever reach it. Your best chance would be Kalagost. That's where I'm heading."

"Forgive me for saying this aloud, but you are quite a gorgeous woman." He blurted, then immediately cursed himself for letting his attractions get the better of him.

She shrugged. "You wouldn't be the first to notice. Since it seems likely we'll both be going the same way, perhaps you should tell me your name?"

Edited by Snowglare to include additional dialogue, courtesy of Tamrend and Jazzmosis.

[Mercenary]

“Who the hell is that idiot?”

“He’s not one of ours, sire.”

“This much I know. Still, this may yet prove a boon. I was expecting to lose two score men in capturing her. Perhaps if this fool distracts her we won’t have to lose any. Very well, Captain, give the order for the heavy infantry to take to the path on either side of them. Have the longbowmen at the ready.”

“Aye, sire.”

The armor-clad Captain hurried off and I spoke to my other advisor.

“How many arrows will she take before she is wounded enough to be captured, but not so crippled as to be of no use to us?”

“Of the blessed arrows, a score. And beware the blade, even when she is incapacitated the enchantment gives it some mobility.”

I passed the information on to my archers. Twenty were to stand down while the other twenty launched their arrows, all of which had been blessed by the Archbishop of Tyrran before setting out. These were my finest warriors. I had brought only those warriors who had proved their mettle in the Religious Wars time and time again. First, that God might smile on their endeavors as he does on mine, and second, because this woman was presented to me as being so powerful that anything less than veterans simply would not suffice.

My soldiers moved in with practiced silence and efficiency. I gave the signal and my archers rose from their hiding places and loosed their arrows. The woman’s catlike reflexes came instantly into play and she dove out of the way, avoiding fifteen of the score of arrows.

“Captains, fire at will!” I shouted. My five archer Captains began to nock their second arrows while the heavy infantry converged from both sides. I ran down the wooded hillside to join them. The woman had been unable to move terribly far, recovering as she had been from the multiple arrow wounds, and impeded by the wood and metal still embedded in her flesh. I held up my hand to signify that the Captains should cease firing.

The man was barely able to stand he was trembling so hard. I used the hilt of my sword to bash him in the skull. No use having a civilian complicating the already complicated matter. “Carry him to the camp, if he moves, kill him.” Two of my warriors carried out my command.

“Ariana,” God told me.

“Ariana, I offer you greetings. I am Duncan, Lord of Tyrran. You are now my subject. If you perform the tasks I set for you with dedication and skill I may reward you with fiefs of land or simply let you go, if that be your wish.”

“The blade!” God warned.

I raised my sword with a quickness born only of years of practice and the slightest of aid from the heavens. The blade, which had been lying on the ground beside Ariana, had flown up and towards my chest. I deflected it easily and it clattered to the ground. Now that all the infantry had arrived a sum of some five score heavily armored men stood around in a tight circle. I reached down and picked up the blade.

She had been silent thus far but now she spoke. “You cannot possibly hope to kill me, magic damned arrows or no. How can I be made to do your bidding, then?”

I laughed, “I know how to destroy this little trinket of yours. Does that change anything?”

If a woman who has twenty arrows in her and a hundred hostile armed figures standing over her can have a souring of expression, Ariana had it then.

I laughed again, “Bind her in irons! To the capital!”

“Sire, what shall we do with the man we have taken captive?”

I paused, waiting for God to offer some opinion, but he did not. “Bring him along. I’m sure we’ve got a cell waiting for him somewhere.”

[Rend]

The damned souls called him Torment. Bringer of Suffering. He was Asmodeus, Arch demon, the Prince of Vengeance.

Asmodeus thundered along Hell’s twisted byways, scattering lesser imps and gargoyles as he passed. No one was happy in Hell, especially not the powerful. Asmodeus, of course, was extremely powerful among the Damned, and this translated into a horrible and unique torture that belonged only to him. Each step was searing pain. Each breath was choked and cloyed with brimstone, ash, and the bitter weeping only one cast from Grace can know.

The appearance of the one who brings only lamentation and suffering was utterly terrifying by design. His once beautiful, angelic features were twisted, corrupted by eons spent in the infernal pits. He stood over thirty feet tall by human reckoning, with obsidian scaled wings spanning further to his sides. His chest was all knotted muscle, stone hard and laced with wicked scars. Truly, he was a creature forsaken by god and all that is holy.

Small souls cringed in their molten pools as Asmodeus came upon them with all his fury. With minimal effort, he snatched the first one up, piercing the wretch through with his black talons. Flicking his muscular digits--reminiscent of dexterous saplings--Asmodeus tore his victim’s abdomen out. Having sated his fury, he then tossed the soul down into the flaming pit, simultaneously relishing the screams. Asmodeus trudged on, stopping randomly along the causeway from the Lake of Fire to the Fields of Sorrow only to crush one of the Damned under his hoof, or to slash the limbs from another.

The Fields were awash with the moans of the Damned, as they wallowed in their eternal misery. Asmodeus regarded the sound as grating and horrific, as if nothing else in all of creation could have been worse. Given his location, Asmodeus was mostly correct. Regardless, the wailing and sobbing of languishing souls prompted the Bringer of Suffering to take magnificent retribution on his tortured prisoners. Gathering up a score of souls in his thick grasp, Asmodeus plodded to the edge of a cliff overlooking the Lake of Fire, and hurled the souls, screaming, into the inferno. This did nothing to ease his pain, nor did it lessen the deafening howls floating in the acrid air of the Fields. Such was expected in Hell, for never did Demon or Damned alike find comfort in the Pit.

[Mercenary]

I watched William and his opponent circle each other like predatory cats. Watching fighters was exquisitely entertaining. The man struck with great alacrity and accuracy. The blow caught William in the shoulder but the blade just rebounded, though he wore only a leather vest. The crowd gasped. The man swung again and William caught the blade with his bare hand. "Showing off his power a little too much," I mumbled to myself.

William crushed the end of the blade with the newfound strength I had instilled in him. He let it drop and the man looked at his ruined weapon. His gaze returned to William, eyes now wide with terror. William gave him a princely smirk, and the man dropped to his knee in surrender. The crowd cheered.

I stole quietly away from the crowd, leaving William to continue dominating without my watchful presence. The magic I had instilled in him would remain for several days, so strong were the spells I had used, just to be sure he did not trust them too much and end up paying with a limb or his life. I knew the wizard would be at the tournament but I couldn't find him. That worried me.

I made my way quickly to the castle and approached the gate.

"Halt, you can't enter here."

I leveled the guard with a wave of flame and strolled through the rapidly falling portcullis. The guards on the wall began raining arrows on me. I tried to incinerate them as they flew at me but I was not yet proficient enough for it to work. I sprinted for the inner-keep, making it without a scratch. I hurried up the spiraling stone staircase, laying low guards as they stepped out of their rooms. Time was absolutely of the essence. It was entirely possible that the wizard knew something was wrong and was on his way back. A wizard of his power could destroy me without any kind of difficulty.

I finally reached the room I knew from prior observation to be his. It was small and Spartan, as I had suspected it might be. A small bed and dresser made up one wall, while the door, the window, and a rather drab painting comprised the other three. My fear was consuming and I didn't feel I had time to carefully study which things I wanted to take and which I didn't. I had brought a large leather bag and I began to hastily throw things in it: scepters, staves, vials with odd-colored liquid in them, tomes, and most of all jewelry. I was sweating profusely. I turned towards the door and it creaked open. My whole body tensed and a wave of dread swept over me.

It was just a creaky door, and I was too nervous. I hurried towards it and made my way down the stairs. The guards, apparently, had been mounting a resistance force. Twelve soldiers waited at the bottom of the stairs for me, weapons drawn. I hurled a weak ball of fire into their ranks as I came around the last corner of the circular central-column around which the spiraling staircase revolved. It was more theatrics than power but it was effective nonetheless. They scattered and allowed me to pass through, not noticing that the flame had injured no one.

As I entered the courtyard once again I saw that the portcullis had been raised. It struck me as odd that, in the face of a robbery and, as far as they knew, an assault upon the castle, they would open the gate. It soon became apparent why they had done it as a squadron of mounted knights rode into the courtyard. As powerful as my magic at times seemed to be, I held little faith that anything in my arsenal could defeat this new threat.

The nine knights formed a semicircle and pressed me towards the castle. "Halt! You are hereby under arrest." The leader said to me as two others dismounted to escort me into the dungeon. A third took my things and spirited them off. Magical constitution and stamina enhancements or no, I was too exhausted to put up anything resembling a fight. I surrendered.

[proudfoot]

Uharo stood against a wall and watched the people pass in the dreary pre-sunrise morning. No one paid him any attention, which was fine with him. He peered out from under his hood at the cobbled street and the small shops and stores. Shop owners were preparing for the day, putting up signs, cleaning their floors and the sidewalks in front of their stalls.

Uharo rested his hand on the sword strapped to his waist. What was he going to do now? He had killed Hikana in a vengeful rage, giving little thought to consequence or what came next. Now he was exiled from his home of more than fifteen years. Where could he go?

It probably wouldn’t be too hard to find some dive to sleep in. Maybe he could get his hands on some money to pay for food, as well. That might be the hard part, getting the money. But there was more than one way to skin a cat, he knew. Either a job for some shop keeper, or a dark alleyway; the options were there.

But after that, even if he did secure some place to sleep and eat, what could he hope to achieve? His entire life had consisted of lousy meals, a hard, damp bed, and training with an abusive criminal. He had no social skills, no working skills, no connections. He had only his wits, a fancy dagger, and whatever he could acquire through petty villainy.

It was a nice dagger, though.

He reached down from the hilt of his sword to feel the dagger strapped against his leg, on the inside of his loose-fitting pants. He smiled as he remembered the way it had moved and swung, seemingly of its own accord.

His reverie was interrupted as a gust of wind blew a piece of paper in front of him. It bounced and bobbed above the ground for a moment, then he reached down and grabbed it, lifting it to his face. It seemed to be some kind of advertisement, like many he had seen plastered all over the city streets he had been walking. It said:

Tournament of Succession

You could be the next King of Sangloria!
Think of the fame! Think of the glory!
Think of the money!

Sign up today to fight in this
national tradition of personal combat!

Interesting, thought Uharo, fame, glory, and money sounds pretty good. Maybe I’ll give it a shot.

[Mercenary]

Languishing in my cell, with only my agony for company, I began to consider very seriously the possibility that this career wasn’t for me. I had spent far too much power energizing William for the tournament—I wondered how he had fared, and whether, should he have done very well, he would request my release—and on various other magical endeavors that day. Nothing had been done with finesse. Everything had been over-theatrical, ill thought-out, and heavy-handed. I let out a wail of anguish and self-contempt possessing an intensity that only prisoners ever seemed capable of producing. When next I hear such a wail emanating from the bowels of a dungeon I shall know from experience what causes it.

Magic has a cost. My body and mind were now paying for the previous days extravagances. Unfortunately, the fees attached to goods already enjoyed or services once rendered are not subject to later negotiation. I writhed about on the cold stone floor and clutched at my head trying to shake free the miniature smiths who were there hard at work. They hadn’t brought me any food or water in the day or so since I had been locked up. My headache was of such ferocity that I doubted whether those implements would retain any of their prior efficacy.

I began to reflect again on the fate of my father. God, I hated myself. My every fancy he had entertained. When his spoiled son had wanted to learn the dark arts against his better wishes did he steadfastly refuse it, as many fathers would have done? No, he sought out a teacher and paid for the lessons. His permissiveness had cost him his throne and his life, and perhaps his eternity as well. And now—now a religious maniac was on the throne. Could history possibly take any turn except that which it had already taken many times before? Fanatics, even when they have won, will still bring peace absolutely and unflaggingly to ruin.

Tyrran couldn’t have wanted for two more diametrically opposed rulers in such a short span of time. My father was leaning always towards a more liberal and permissive form of government, and Duncan, surely, would move it in the other direction. With Duncan at the helm Tyrran couldn’t but face religious polarization of sweeping and world historic proportions. Pogroms, burning villages, and roads lined with refugees were what awaited the once great nation of Tyrran.

I turned to my black volume; they at least had left me with this to ease my pain. Because I had it tucked deeply in my cloak, or because of some minor miracle performed by a divinity who surely hated me for my alignment? Maybe God ruled more as my father had than as Duncan would, with compassion and understanding. Perhaps not all who drink from the dark cup are damned by its contents.

The method had quickly become familiar and easy to me; the book opened to a page concerning the combat of magic fatigue without aid of food or drink.

“There are two further methods for the alleviation of magic fatigue, these are: rest and abstinence from the practice of magic for several days, or the immediate reapplication of magic.”

Fantastic! All I had to do was use magic again and the magic fatigue would diminish? It was too wonderful to be believed. Before reading another word I warmed the stone floor with my talents and felt the veil of pain miraculously lifted. I enjoyed the rush of feeling back to the other parts of my body. When one is in great pain the mundane sensations the rest of the body experiences are forgotten and forsaken in favor of focusing more completely on that which is the cause of one’s pain. Nothing, then, is more satisfying than a return to the study of those sensations once the source of the pain is extinguished. The feel of chill air around my fingertips, the steady and relaxing pressure of the warm stone floor pressing against my back, the delightful sensation of blood rushing to the task whenever I contracted a muscle: all took on a divine palatability. For a minute I was too enrapt in the absence of that pain which I had for an entire day been enduring to even finish reading the passage I was on.

When I had finally come down from my post-coital-like reverie enough to resume my perusal of the passage, the first words struck me as a thunderbolt. “In all but the most extreme of cases the former rather than the latter method should be used. Magic, again, like alcohol, is very addictive. If the latter method is made use of too extensively the wizard runs the very grave risk of getting into the habit of using magic to fight the effects of magic fatigue. For every hour this method is maintained the withdrawal symptoms will be so much the greater when the magician’s grip on the aether is finally allowed to loosen. Never have I witnessed an addiction more destructive to the user’s physical health than magic addiction, nor one as quick to manifest itself.”

I suddenly felt sick at what I had done.

[Snowglare]

The river was swollen from the rain. No, there was no river here. A stream that thought itself a river blocked his way. It was too deep for crossing, the current too treacherous for swimming. He would have to find a way around this overgrown puddle. The sun was hot, the grass green, and the rain done. But there were always more tasks for the rain here. The clouds were heavy as a nursemaid's breasts, ready to feed the land. Doran had to reach Heighton soon, or he was as like to die from a chill as a blade.

He found a small wooden bridge that was still above the water level. He approached it warily, looking every which way for spying eyes, but ultimately reached the other side without incident. He quickened his pace, eager to make Heighton while it was still daylight. It might be safer to enter the town under cover of darkness, but Marten would doubtless be asleep by then, and he needed the old man if he hoped to contact anyone else. Doran risked the main road to make better time. Rather, he moved parallel to it. Were he ahorse, the smooth dirt path would have sped him along, but afoot he had no worries of catching a root or a loose rock and tumbling over. Especially not in the daylight. He would have to think hard on what time to leave town, assuming he was given a choice. Night and day each held their own dangers. All the more reason to stay hidden. In a room with no windows, night comes whenever you wish it.

Or whenever your captors wished it. Whatever happened, he was not going back to a cell. Never again. The gods would surely let him die before that. Even Silth, the trickster god, would not be so cruel. The light comes, and the light goes. Ever at their bidding. The thought of someone having that kind of control over him first frightened, then angered Doran. I will snuff out their lifelight if they come for mine. He spied stone walls in the distance. Walls he knew.

[Khalic]

The clouds ride off east, straddling the horizon with the pink-hued sun on top, like a cherry, or the habitué. Neither are always on top if you want to prove me wrong. Desserts and sex have exceptions.

Either sounds good about now. A nice pastry pie. Piping hot pie for dessert, and a warm body and maybe pair of tits for second dessert. A warm bed. A hearth. Hell, it'd be nice if my own body was warmer than cold and wet, and nakeder than covered in damp clothes. Sitting better than sitting between puddles eating other than soggy bread and dry meat salted to shrivel your tongue.

The water hasn't soaked through everywhere quite yet, but sitting down in the drizzle always gets your *** wet. So it soaks through into your unders and sits clammy on your skin and you squish when you walk and you curse.

That's my theory on why rain gets people down. Because the people that come in are mad because they got their asses wet and then they give a bad tip or they tell you where to stick your chipper dry-*** conversation.

And it rained just long enough to mess up dinner.

I swallow my last bread and press my clashing teeth together on a stiff bit of jerky and pull. It tears slow and stubborn and then snaps. I drop the piece between my thumb and finger back onto the other strips and chew its unsiamese twin like I mean it.

While I chew I mull my wet clothes, and my soggy ***. I'm off duty, and I was planning on sleeping out here tonight since they don't pay me enough when I'm on duty, but I've suddenly decided that a dry bed sounds like a deal at a few dozen crowns and a slight chance of mugging and rape. And I could use the practice.

So, I start walking, chewing out my ire at the wetness and the walk. The sun sets, and the constellation Heighton looms on the horizon.

[proudfoot]

Uharo stood in front of a narrow-faced man with a pen and tried to stay calm.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” the man was saying.

“Yes, I’m sure. Why would I be here if I wasn’t?”

“You have your own reasons, I’m sure. I’m just not sure you understood the implications of participating in this tournament. You’re what, eighteen, nineteen? People die in these tournaments. Are you willing to die for this?”

“Look, I know all that, just put my name down and let me decide my own fate, ok?”

“Alright, alright, calm down boy, it’s your life. Uharo, was it? There’s your name; here’s your time slot. You just barely made it in, by the way. Today was the last day for sign-ups; the first match is two days from now.”

“I know,” said Uharo, “I’ll be there.”

“So impatient, youth today,” scoffed the man. “Run off home, then, and go swing that sword around a bit. You’re going to need all the practice you can get.”

Uharo glared and opened his mouth to retaliate, then thought better of it, turned, and stalked out of the building. I’ll show them, he thought angrily to himself, I’m no mere boy.

The dagger strapped to his leg glinted viciously in the late afternoon sunlight.

[Zulehan]

I had to spend two days in that damned church. Two days. It's like a prison, where the guards are old fat ladies. And they're everywhere.

I could have left, maybe. Gotten some work done. There are chemicals to be made, merchants to con, friends to help, burned out shells of former professors and smiths and family members, the terminal addictions of which to satisfy.

But the fat old ladies are not without boon. I recovered rather well, for two days worth. All I have left is a ridiculous looking eyepatch ("Ya mustn't take it off for another fortnight! If I catch you wonderin' town without it, you're gunna get such a hiding!"), some pain in my side ("Rest, rest for a week at the least. Don't you dare be workin' or dirtyin' with the harlots, ya hear!"), and, needless to say, a headache, which I can't tell is from the fight or the nuns. All in all, not bad.

On my way home, rummaging through my pocket, I've come across the note again, all crumpled and familiar. That reminds me: Graham requested a meeting at location C. Good choice.

Just a couple blocks down from the church is a respectable little inn called Cameron Arms. It's a nice place, has a history to it, the kind of history you can feel in the handle as you open the door, and smell when you walk in. The smell of dust and wood and someone with a similar kind of age, who is probably very uptight about its cleanliness.

It's not a long walk away, either.

When I get there, I know exactly where to go. But Graham is an odd guy. He has me buy a drink, walk practically the perimiter of the common room before I can stop at his booth, and sit at an adjascent table. I mean hell, the code is good enough. No one knows what we're doing. And anyone street smart enough to actually figure this stuff out, is probably in business with us in the first place. This just makes us look peculiar.

Sympathetic to his concerns, I put a tall glass of rich, warm cider on my tab. I don't carry money on me, and I haven't been to any of my spots since the other day. Around the room is a soft but annoying sound, like the trickling of a stream that's too good to hit the stones, and so, jumps gaily down the waterway. That's what gossip sounds like.

This place is rather prestegious; the regulars are all about the toned-down voice and the hyped-up gab. It's as if the talk of the town is really exciting, but too important to be heard by the next table. People.

"It's good to see you."

The drone's a good cover for the important stuff though, Graham and I of course, and as such I barely catch his signal. Without much of a glance, I seat myself at a table, and sip my cider. It'll last me the meeting.

"Pay no attention to the eyepatch." Why do I bother, though? The guy has no sense of humor. Apparently, neither do the patrons of Cameron Arms; I'm getting uncomfortable glances.

His low voice cracks nonchalantly like an uninterested dad reading a book. "Your friend is expected in Heighton soon." Doran he means. "Malia can intercept and assist, if need be." She's my associate in Heighton.

"Have her do so, and have them leave Heighton soon after," I suggest. We need to solve his fugitive problem soon.

"Malia intends to meet someone of importance in Ansdelham. Something is happening there that you will be attending." The way Graham says this speaks volumes. His usual pace being a paragraph a week, volumes are monumental coming from him. I have to get to Ansdelham.

I drink my cider. "Can things be arranged for my arrival within two days?"

"They are. But take your time."

"I'll be taking ten sounds of forte. A gift for Malia." She'll have to pay for it, but sure, 'gift' works.

"The rays," Graham suggests.

I have two stashes. One of them is a valley a bit north of town, a spot I used to go. There, I admired the shafts of sunlight piercing the clouds, and thought, 'I think someone should bend them.' It's on the way. The other stash is on a hill, south of here. That's where I admired the clouds themselves.

I finish my cider and leave. Our conversation is over, and I'm tired of the looks. Tired of this eyepatch. I wonder if everyone would stare less at a lumpy, purple, swollen shut thing on my face. Oh well. Good cider though.

***

I am an efficient traveller.

First stop, home. Grab my travel bag, already packed just in case; grab my bedroll, grab my keys. One is to unlock the stables. The other is for the rays.

Grab some bread and salted pork and fruit from the usual, Mr. Whitehead. Sells good stuff, bread that doesn't get hard. Grab a feedbag.

Swing by the stables, sneak in the back, see Edgar for a horse. Edgar's hooked young. Sips the sweetwater often. Forte, says Graham. Call it forte. The young are easily saved, though. Just enroll them in the military. The high they get from sweetwater is easily forgotten when they're stuck in some muddy broken fort five hundred miles from home, dying or scared to death of dying. That's a very different high, I guess.

That's the last stop. I ride north.

I drop off a quickly written note at the rays as I pass by, wasting no time but to grab a small bag of forte and a few crowns. It's pretty this morning. No sun yet, clouds are there to catch it just in case.

[tamrend]

Ariana leaned back against the swaying side of the wagon and closed her eyes. Sleep tugged at her, cradled her seductively. Her body had completely healed from the arrow wounds after two days of lying quietly, but it had drained her strength. She remained awake by force of will alone. The night she had left Runath, she had succumbed to the need for rest, believing that the dreams might be gone, but she was deceived. If anything, they were worse than before, and she had woken a few hours later feeling more fatigued than when she had gone to sleep.

She listened to the breathing of the two men in the wagon with her, standing guard. They were still very much at the ready and wary of her, but that would soon pass. While she waited, she began to visualize the mechanism that held her captive. Her wrists and ankles had been bound in thick steel manacles. They were fashioned from plates of metal forged into loops and held in together with bolts. Her arms had been bound behind her back. Heavy chains hung from each and ended in a ring set into a thick metal plate set into the floor beneath her.

The guards' breathing had relaxed marginally. They believed that she had gone to sleep. Ariana considered her options. The chain was too thick and strong to think of breaking. There were really only two possibilities for escape. Breathing slowly and evenly now, she began to pull against the manacles. She wiggled her arms back and forth, hoping to use leverage to weaken the metal around the bolts. After a few moments of this, she gave it up as useless.

One possibility left. She felt beneath her until her hand touched the ring in the floor. She curled the fingers of one hand around it, but the manacles prevented her other hand from reaching. She gave it a pull to test it and found it distressingly solid. Still, there was only one way to know.

Summoning all of her strength, she braced her knees against the floor and heaved upward on the ring, hoping to rip it out of the floor. The floor of the wagon creaked, but the ring would not budge even a hairsbreadth. She strained even harder, but knew it was a vain effort. The moment had been wasted.

A million white-hot points of light exploded inside her head. Pain rolled through her, pushing its way out to her fingers and toes. Something rough and unyielding pressed against her cheek. When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to see that it was the floor. She looked up from the corner of her eye at the butt of a spear hovering just above her temple, then shifted her gaze to the man holding it. He looked on her with the cold, wary gaze of a veteran, but tempered with something else. Pity.

“Do it,” the other guard said. The pain only lasted for a single, excruciating moment before she slipped into blissful oblivion.

She awoke to darkness and cold. Her head swam and the world tilted as she tried to move and found her hands and feet still bound. She was lying on her side, facing a wall. Memory filtered back to her through the fog and she uttered a curse of frustration.

“You’d best not say such things when the Lord Duncan is about.”

Ariana wriggled and rolled herself around until she could see the man who had spoken. He was totally bald but for a thick, black mustache and his clothes were marked with the same device as all the other men she had seen. He held a pipe in one hand and had a spear resting across his knees. “Why is that?” she asked him.

“Lord Duncan doesn’t take well to blasphemy. You should take care.”

“I’m not afraid of Duncan,” she said, and then ruined the effect by beginning to shiver.

He reached into a bundle and dropped a thick woolen blanket over her. He sat back to regard her. “To be honest, I’ve a hard time guessing what he wants with you. You must be some kind of abomination to still be alive after having so many holes put in you.”

“I’ll do the same and worse to your Lord Duncan when the time comes,” she said. Thinking of that awakened a warm glow of satisfaction in her chest. She basked in the feeling, unable to remember the last time she had felt it.

The man shrugged and puffed at his pipe and said nothing more until morning. She lay on her side, not sleeping but actually feeling better off in that regard for her time spent in dreamless unconsciousness. Duncan had something planned for her and he thought he had a way of controlling her. Unless he wanted her to die, he would have to give her the knife back soon, two weeks at most. Then she would see how much control he had.

[Jazzmosis]

Unaware of what had just transpired, Frailyn soon found himself tied with rope at the wrists, and his dirty sword snatched from him. He cursed himself for not defending the lady more...adequately. In fact, he hadn't put up much of a fight at all. He assumed it was his lack of swordplay that got him just tied with rope. Seemingly unworthy of a cart that he noticed his brief companion was in, Frailyn walked alongside the pawns in the army. Only one seemed to care.. or even notice him. The only thing that bound him was this infernal rope around on his wrists. "Heh..." He chuckled.

"What are you laughing about, fool?" The guard asked harshly.

"I'm not much of a threat to your leader, am I?" He responded, smirking.

"I suppose not. Either way, don't try anything funny. We're not partial to cutting your throat - I doubt King Duncan would -"

"Shut up!" Hissed another guard. "Do not speak of his name in front of the prisoner!"

Frailyn logged that name away in the back of his mind. Perhaps I could fake being tired.. and collapse... He had already begun his escape plan. No, that's ridiculous. They'd put a knife in me for sure. He stopped thinking, looking at the two guards who were still arguing. Nobody was paying any attention to him. He looked to the right - if he could squeeze past the two guards and make a dash into the bush, he'd be free. However, with no weapon, survival could be tough.

The two guards continued to argue, the topic trailing from King Duncan to who's wife was more attractive, to which sword was crafted more skillfully. Frailyn walked along, waiting for his break. Alas, he saw it. One of the guards had turned slightly from him - his sheathed sword capable of being grasped if Frailyn timed it right. Run, you fool! His mind urged him to proceed.

With quick and surprising agility, Frailyn bolted from his calm walking pace. He set his eyes on the sword, still sheathed but not clasped. Taken by surprise and slow to react, Frailyn felt his fingers curl around the hilt. With his wrists still bound, he grasped the sword tightly and tugged with all his might. It stuck at first, but his strength proved the victor as the metal scraped from it's protection and broke free from the sheath. Spinning, Frailyn slashed the sword around in a whirlwind fashion until he once again faced the direction he intended and the sword was infront of him. He looked in front of him - the first guard was pulling out his sword to create opposition.

Frailyn took the final step at him, hunched down, and drove his shoulder into the guard. He immediately rose upwards, forcing the guard off his feet and sent him hurtling to the ground. Stumbing slightly, sword still tightly in his grasp, Frailyn dashed from the army and towards the shrubbery. He looked behind himself to see two guards persuing him, and the third climbing back to his feet. Well done, old boy! His mind praised.

"We're not out yet. . ." He reminded himself, leaping off the trail and tumbling into the ditch. He immediately sprung to his feet, scampering out of the way of a sword that was thrown from a guard.

"Catch him fools!" A voice from behind called.

"Make him bleed!" Another called.

Frailyn sprinted, adrenaline pumping, into the high grass. It was only up to his waist, at best. The guards were hot in his trail, probably only 10 or 20 feet behind. The escapee ran furiously, seeing another small ditch ahead. The grass dipped in with it, before rising immediately afterwards. He hurled his body in, sideways, the stolen sword parting the dirt beside him. He rolled to one side as the three guards got nearer.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a foot stomp beside him. He took the split-second advantage and slashed at the ankle. The guard cried in pain and fell, dropping his sword and clutching his leg. Frailyn jumped to his feet, ready to engage the next guard. They clashed swords once before Frailyn stumbled on a rock behind him and fell.

"He got my ankle! Bastard got my ankle!" The wounded guard cried out. Frailyn rolled again to avoid the sword from cutting his head in two, and kicked at the second guard's knee. He heard a loud crack, and watched as the guard's leg bent backwards.

"Ahhch!" He cried, collapsing to the ground. Frailyn rolled to his stomach, forcing himself up with his still-bound arms. He turned to face the final guard, who had backed off considerably.

"Not quite the useless fool now, am I?" Frailyn commented.

Ignoring the comment, the third guard turned to the second. "Give it to him!"

Only than did Frailyn notice the fallen guard winding his arm back, sword in hand. Frailyn immediately dropped under the grassline, hearing the sword whizz by his head, mere inches from a fatal strike.

"Damn, you missed!"

"Then you get 'em, Sajun! Bloody hell my knee's out!"

Frailyn heard rustling of grass. He crawled free, hoping the wind would make the grass he pushed away unnoticeable. It worked. "Can't find the bastard!" Sajun called out.

Frailyn crawled to within 10 feet of Sajun. Still haven't seen you, he assured himself. He then sprung to his feet, rushing at the final guard. Frailyn won again. The two crashed into each other, the escapist landing on top. With the butt of the sword, Frailyn mashed Sajun's face.

"You bastard! You bastard! You killed Sajun!" The second guard screeched.

"Relax," Frailyn said. "He's just unconscious. Lost a few teeth though."

"I'll kill you, murderer!" The guard retorted.

"Fine. Then stand up and fight me."

The guard let out a string of curses. "You bloody know I can't get up! You kicked out my knee!"

Frailyn smirked, then approached the guard. In the background, he saw the first pulling himself from the fracas, back towards the walking army. "Night night." The escapee said to the second guard, and kicked him in the face. He fell, unconscious. "Oi!" Frailyn called the first guard. "Might want to drag your friends with you!"

The guard mumbled something, but Frailyn did not hear it. He sat in the grass, and cut himself free by placing the sword in his legs and ripping free the rope. His wrists were sore, but he was free. Quickly searching the two unconscious guards, Frailyn stole some rations. He then took the shirt off of Sajun's back, his chest protector, sheaths and belt. Once satisfied, Frailyn swiped the two swords from the ground and the sheathed them. Odd.. he thought to himself. They don't have daggers on them.

Frailyn scampered out of view and began to follow the army from afar in the bushes, out of sight. With no other purpose than to redeem his poor fight whilst alongside Ariana, he decided he would lend whatever aid he could to free her from this corrupt king's clutches. He followed the cart into the city, but could not follow it when it disappeared behind guarded doors.

Exhaustion was starting to creep over Frailyn. After his daring escape, he only realized he needed rest. In the morning, he could continue his redemption and attempt to free the lady he'd only met briefly. Nevertheless, he had made his decision and would die trying to fulfill it. This was why I met her. Why else would I be here? Surely, this can not be fate. She needs my help and I lend what I can. Frailyn thought, nearly aloud. I owe it to my dear, sweet Naya.

He then slunk off, searching for a tavern or an inn.

[Mercenary]

Marble columns, rich tapestries, the warm glow of dozens of well-tended torches, the soothing notes of a skilled minstrel: I left it all to descend into a pit recommended only by rot, chill, and despair. Even knowing, as I did, that I was soon to leave it, the dungeon was possessed of such a powerful character as to evoke strong feelings of dread and revulsion as I descended the stairs. If the effect was so potent on me, a mere visitor, I couldn’t, no matter the extent of my fond and idle imagining, fathom the effect it had on my prisoners.

“I disapprove.”

“Wasn’t I who built it, Lord. Can I but use those resources my predecessors have left me?”

“More care can be taken.”

“Shall I have her taken upstairs and bound with silk rope to have her escape as our other prisoner has?”

Thunder struck God’s disapproval, though the sun shone brightly and the birds yet sang.

It was a strange feeling that now overtook me. I had never thought of God as anything but a loving parent and mentor, determined at all costs to protect me. I was ready to die for him at every turn. Ever since I had taken the throne I had started to resent God’s power over me, and he must surely have noticed my resentment building. Now that I was King I no longer wished to have my fate in the hands of another—I wished to break free and forge my own destiny. But, being as God controls all things regardless of whether he speaks to one or not, it was probably advisable to keep on speaking terms with him.

The woman awaited me in her iron manacles, freezing and destitute looking, just how I like my women. I offered her a condescending smirk as I entered.. I sat down on a wooden stool, which one of the wardens had earlier delivered to her cell for just such a purpose.

“Good morning, Ariana.”

I got only silence from her, which made it all the easier to take my coaching from God.

“I am the King of Tyrran. That title may not inspire in you anything in the way of fear, respect, or reverence, but I know another king whose title might. Do you know to whom I refer?”

She did not.

“I refer to the King of Kings, creator of men--” I stopped, she was smiling. “You dare to mock God?

“God doesn’t exist.”

She didn’t believe it. She couldn’t. I quickly regained my composure, sure she hadn’t noticed that her out and out blasphemy had caused me to lose it. I laughed a cruel, deep, ancient laugh. “I commune with God every day of my life and you would presume to tell me he doesn’t exist?”

“Why does he not commune with me, then?”

I rose from my stool and moved closer to her, towering over her, my shadow darkening what was now her entire material world. “To say that God is obligated to speak to every peasant, serf, and prisoner-whore who dares to ask is a sin worthy of the damnation you’ve already earned.” I spat, my venom was never more potent than when speaking to my spiritual inferiors. “God will speak to you if and when he wills it and no sooner. I could tell you that I knew your name and location from God, and why even I should seek you out, but you’ve probably already justified that to yourself as coincidence or luck. How feeble is the reasoning of an infidel.” I was so close to her now that I was speaking in a violent and forceful whisper, her chains prevented her from shying away.

“But you were putting on a brave face, weren’t you? You believe in God as strongly as I do. I look in your eyes and pierce your soul, stained and twisted though it might be. You think he doesn’t know? You think he doesn’t care? God knows all; I know all. I know about the man you killed last week in the Inn; I know about the first man you ever killed. The grass seemed ‘dreadfully green’ that day didn’t it, Ariana? I know about all the pain and guilt you have suffered through, the hatred, the disgust. I know, too, that rather than nobly sacrifice yourself you chose to kill, you chose the dark path of self-preservation.” She was shaking now, whether from the cold or th