The Winding Road: Homecoming

by Frank Gori

Somewhere between his third and fourth step back onto his old block, Lazeron realized a part of his life was about to end. When the choices you have are likely death or defection, the Merchant’s Guild doesn’t seem so bad. He hated linear thinking, beginnings and endings were for boxes and Lazeron strived to never find himself in a box. Even the block that comprised his territory was round.

He hoped his school held together and picked a new leader, but he knew even in that best case there’d be casualties. Unlike other wizards Lazeron was also of sorcerer blood and had been working the school system since he was a child. He earned his students and carved out his block, and he was granted a measure of respect for his blood rights,

It was probably all Emry’s now. Emry ran an up and coming school before he tried to take Lazeron’s block and absorb his students. Lazeron played him for fool and used a simple broken wing gambit to get Emry’s boys into an ambush. Given a choice to join or die, Emry did the smart thing. Now he likely ran -Laz’s school, The Vicious Cycles, and Lazeron’s block which was really about six blocks.

That was bad news for a few of Lazeron’s strays. Most schools were fairly homogonous, all wizards or all sorcerers, heck some were even all of the same bloodline. In Laz’s thinking the comfort of that was a mistake, there was greater strength in diversity. Laz’s strays were mostly what other mages called small powers or little fish. City folk sometimes forget that one of the most effective tactics of small creatures was to swarm.

Fourteen steps later Lazeron spotted the first signs of damage. He was already annoyed the sentries weren’t tending their established circular routes and he had gotten as far unchallenged but damaging the block was too much. The scorch marks meant either an external fight with a rival or someone got sloppy with an internal matter.

That was unacceptable. The small businesses and housing in Mage’s Guild territory operated under mage protection. They didn’t have to pay in on Merchant’s Guild or Workman’s dues because they paid their school taxes. Some called the Mage’s Guild a collection of thugs but last Lazeron checked his taxes still came out better than even Workman's dues. He did loans, sold caster services, and had working girls too. No one suffered in his domain and his strays proved to their worth to his advantage.

Marta and Snook were perfect examples. Marta was a female ogre no one would take on account of her lack of wits. The girl was indeed dumb but she had power and muscle which was a rare enough combination. She’d never be the type to advance or even be sent on a mission without supervision but she was useful. Her violent abilities and tendency were only directed at threats. To her friends she was sweet as they come. Snook lacked the raw ability to throw a lightning bolt or fireball but he used what little he had smartly. Snook used his gift to enhance his abilities with bows and crossbows, he might not be able to burn you to death with a fireball but a well placed arrow will kill you all the same.

“Relax Laz, no burn shadow. Was just for show,” said the gruff voice behind Laz.

Lazeron forgot about Zool. The man walked too damn quiet… He was right though. Showy displays of power were Emry’s wheelhouse. The boy had a lot of power but was careless how he aimed it. This indicated Emry was likely in charge as Lazeron feared. Emry lacked imagination, and to him a mage was just one thing. It meant trouble for the ones that didn’t fit into his narrow view. Price on his head be dammed, Lazeron wasn’t about to leave those that were his behind. Laz was going to collect his strays and he was going to get that fool minotaur too and burn anyone who stood in his way.

“Aw hell, I remember that look Laz. Go on back thinking ‘bout your numbers we’re supposed to do this quiet,” said Zool.

Three, then one, and four, one, five nine… Lazeron lost himself in the number for a bit, trusting in Zool’s professionalism. His invisibility circle would hold for some time. He was in the maddening three, thirty six, seven, three, thirty six sequence when the sunder stopped him.

They were at the Vicious Cycle’s schoolhouse and the copper smell of blood greeted them both. The door was wide open and Emry’s corpse was pinned to it by four expertly placed arrows.

“That who we came for,” Zool asked as the roaring woosh of a fireball and pained screams came from inside the house.

“Circle round the back,”Laz instructed in a voice that seemed distant to his own ear.

The bliss roared in his blood as Lazeron called a swarm. No circle, no abjuration, nothing the numbers could claim. Gods the bliss felt good. He called another spell and held it, rewarded again by the bliss. It was like sex, truffles, and being admired all at once. With a swarm of wasps at his command and lightning ready to pour out of his hands Lazeron walked in his own front door.

He giggled at a stupid thought. Some snippet of proverb, saying you can’t go home again.

Lash-ti-Nowish: An Overview

By John Belliston

Lash-ti-Nowish (The Night Wind) Overview

When the Goddess Ssita looked upon the lonely beauty of the Dragon Sands she sighed.  From the ripples in the sand came the Lash-ti-nowish, the Night Wind, the Snakemen. Though legless and not known for their brawn, the Lash are renowned for their indomitable personalities and the powerful pheromones at their disposal. It is often said a Lash could convince a stone to buy sand and sweet talk the ocean to drink a sip of water.

Since their creation by Ssita, they have spread out across the desert and beyond, across much of the world. Though not as numerous as other races the Lash have the most long-reaching and powerful influence.  From the Steps of the Library to the furthest points of the Southern Islands the Lash either have direct power or whispers in the ears of the mighty. With a few words they can tear lives apart or sow the seeds of new nations. 

All their power links back to their most important belief. In their own tongue, “Lash lok Shamshar,” or "the Wind Moves the Sand." Empires and coinage, the life and death of man and nation,  all things are ripples in sand. The Lash-ti-nowish aspire to be the wind which creates them. They seek wealth and power, and don't care if they have the appearance of it. They become advisers to manipulate the powerful. They don't horde coin, they control commodities. They let others drown in coins and claim crowns and thrones, instead moving in small and subtle ways. They always know how to make others into the enemy. They moved from Imperial slaves to glass and southern spices without a drop of blood being shed - at least according to their records. 

The Lash have the most complete historical records in the known world. Stretching from almost the mythic beginnings of their race to the present day. The Kindred, Krishtog and other barbaric races see this as pointless, and the Dwarves, Abira and other civilized folk see this as excessive. However the records serve an important purpose in Lash-ti-nowish culture, keeping them informed once they awaken from the long sleep of 'Harshtar'. Every five to ten years each snake falls into a trance like state during which they will shed their skin. It can last for a few hours or days but grows a little each occurrence. For older Lash, 'Harshtar' can even last for years. This state is such a fact of their life that many plan their lives around it. The Old Ones and wealthy even create elaborate tombs for themselves to serve as comfortable places while they drift into the “skin sleep”. The lower castes do as best as they can. They find trusted friends to watch over them, or at worst bury themselves in the sand and trust to the repulsive pheromones to protect them. This consistent loss of time drives the Lash toward their fastidious records, thereby assuring that no matter how long the sleep, the Awoken can know what happened while they slept. 

Within the Dragon Sands there are ten Shamshars, each one corresponding to one of the colors of dragon and having their own quirks and local customs. The Gold are known for their immaculate diplomacy; the Silver for their impenetrable bank vaults and overly complex laws of politeness; the Iron for their profound secrecy and creation of miraculous works of magical glass. Each Shamshar holds to the deep rooted caste system which controls the lives of them all. At the top is the Congress of the Old Ones, who rule without question and live a life of utter opulence. Below them are the Sacred Bankers and Bureaucrats, a priest caste who live in accordance with their holy book “The Ripples of Worth”.  At the very bottom lie the Ecdy who are given the tasks that none other are willing. They are treated as less than slaves, as slaves at least once had economic value. 

Though there is a great inequality between castes, there is none between the sexes. There are almost no physical differences between the two and it is immensely difficult to tell the difference. It is considered the height of rude behavior to even speculate on which sex a Lash is. The one exception to this is during the mating process when it is considered a necessity to know, and is handled as quickly as possible.  

Each of the ten Shamshars has a different choice for the order of those between the Ecdy and the Sacred Bankers. Warrior, merchant, artisan, hunter, scholar, and laborer all vie for position within the different sands. This arrangement causes much of the conflict between the different Shamshars. If it weren't for the absolute authority of the Old Ones, the Children of Ssita would have long ago torn themselves apart. 

This system creates some of the most blatant inequality across all of Desylinn. However even the lowest of the Lash endure their hard lives because eventually they become Old Ones. At a particular age, which varies by the individual, when they go into Harshtar they shed their skin and turn a vibrant white which grows more translucent with age. Then all they need to do is present themselves to the Congress and accept their new place. Though many of the most desperate and mistreated try, it is almost impossible to fake the transformation, and those that do tend to suffer swift and brutal consequences.

The Winding Road: Careful

By Frank Gori

It had been a long morning. It was Malleck’s third recounting of the previous evening’s events before he snapped. Liara called him in first thing in the morning and she interrogated him herself. She had everyone separated and would make everyone else would go through the events three times. He would go through them until he broke and Liara understood exactly how to do so. It reminded Malleck of his lessons growing up.

As wards of the guild, the orphans had been walked through a room and asked to recount everything they saw. Details were important, as they told truths which were otherwise concealed. The children who had performed the best were rewarded with easier chores or more allowance.

Those who excelled at the challenges graduated to being assigned longer conversations and advanced observation and analysis. They learned to read people. Malleck was also a trained in deception, intimidation, linguistics and in the art of engineering. He understood the world around him with the finest education available.

Liara was a precise woman, and she took in every detail when someone spoke in her presence. Every pause, every tonal shift, every body language cue spoke volumes to her. Each telling of the story provided more information. Malleck was a talented liar, but that was partly why the repetition was so critical. It was hard enough to lie to Liara once; three times was a gauntlet.

Liara’s wards went from destitution to the best of everything. Those that could keep up were given increasingly difficult lessons and responsibilities. Regardless of success or failure they were all still Liara’s children, but Malleck didn’t want that. Malleck was no child, each test made him stronger, he was determined to make Liara proud, to be seen as an equal.

To Malleck every smile told a story. Liara seemed to have a thousand different smiles, but Malleck felt she reserved one just for him. The first run through of the evening’s events her smile told him she was being supportive but concerned, the second telling her smile was the one she wore when she was plotting something, this time she wore a smile that told him he was going to be tested soon.

She liked to ask questions after the first walk thru. She used a raven awakened and endowed with telepathy on her other guests, partly to unnerve them. For Malleck she whispered in his ear. It was intimate and awkward for Malleck.

Liara always looked the same, like a fresh lovely young maiden. Her beauty hung on a razor’s edge of being ripened. Her look fell short of the self assured confidence of a matured beauty, instead she seemed unspoiled like a spring meadow untouched. It made it easy for fools to underestimate her.

Those soft full lips whispering in his ear sent a shiver down his spine. Her impossibly delicate hands touched his shoulder when she spoke in a gesture of comfort. It created a sexual tension that was spoiled by maternal memories, and it was entirely on purpose.

“After Zool deflected the bolt, five men with blue hatchets rose and drew their weapons. I looked for the exits and spotted Lazeron coming in. At the time I thought him the Chaos Man.

My eyes swept the room for the crossbowman and I saw him calmly reloading his weapon on the far side of the bar. Human, dark hair brown eyes.

Someone shouted, “Shenanigans” and the voice was masculine and deep, likely from an ogre or minotaur. It was loud and high in the room, I couldn’t place the voice to a spot were someone stood. I suspect ventriloquism.

Everyone else seemed to pause in that moment except for us and the strike team sent for us. Our waitress Bellanie tripped in such a way that tied up three of the four intended attackers.”

“That sounds rather convenient.” She distrusted Bellany’s presence and motives. Malleck could understand that position, he suspected the girl was either Music Guild or some kind of professional cutter and possibly both.

“An ally with a sense of timing is a treasure indeed.”

Liara nodded to concede the point. It was a merchant guild proverb, one she likely authored.

“Zool seized the moment to close the ground by leaping upon a table and stabbing the one man not tied up.

The crowd seemed about to rush the entrance which Lazeron discouraged with a fireball.

Bellany lit one of the four men on fire and I used magic to improve my aim before firing on the crossbowman.”

“What of your training? Why did you not see this coming?” Liara may as well have stabbed him. Malleck couldn’t stand disappointing her, and the quite true reasons felt like empty excuses in that moment.

A silence hung between the elf and the bad blood, but their body language betrayed a litany of emotions. She was genuinely surprised at his lack of vigilance, his shame quickened to anger for a moment as his mind raced through it all. The bar was crowded with nearly two hundred men and a third wore the blue axes. Liara waited as Malleck thought it through to the logical conclusion.

“I wasn’t the main target, I was a secondary target.”

Liara nodded for Malleck to continue.

“Whoever this was, they hired a bunch of men and got them to stuff that bar for the meet. That means either we have a leak or the Mage Guild does. Lazeron was the main target though, the majority of cutters went after him, tried to get him flanked. We actually got lucky on those five jumping the gun, had they not…”

“They would have killed Lazeron, and managed to flank you instead. They’d have separated you from Zool and cut you down.”

“Got to be a new player in town, one with coin to burn and likely they were the ones that set the fire. They failed to kill Lazeron but still managed to make the Mage Guild look bad and probably are using the damage to recruit more in the labor guild.”

“You see what must happen, my darling boy.”

Malleck did, his vision blurred a second as he realized what it meant.

“Careful what you wish for.”

Secrets of Desylinn: Creation of the Humans

by Frank Shaw

In the eons after the First War was fought and lost by Mar, he secluded himself from the other gods, seeking to hide the shame of his loss of the Throne of the Void and the hand of Ssita. While he laid hidden Ariga, who had longed for the young god for some time, went to him with her own loneliness. She nursed him back to health and as she brought him out of his melancholy, their loneliness blossomed into love. 

They were soon betrothed, sealing it with a kiss. Ariga, in her joy, created the Great Southern Forest around the spot where she and Mar’s love first blossomed. She fashioned guardians out of the very trees and tasked them with keeping this spot holy and sacred to the couple. The forest was as vibrant as she was. Still in her youthful form as a young girl she felt no greater joy than when she was with Mar, and the forest blossomed when they spent time in each other’s company.  

Yet for ages uncounted the couple remained betrothed. The forest Ariga had created remained vital and green even as she went from youth into the form of a maiden. As time went on and Ariga waited she grew in wisdom and understanding and passed from a maiden into that of new mother. Childless however, she continued waiting for Mar to formalize their betrothal into marriage. The Great Forest aged too. The trees went from a vibrate green to deep reds and yellows, giving up their fruits and nuts for harvest.

And yet still she waited. 

She waited through the births of Bahu and Tiala. Watching their love bloom and the short passionate courtship they shared. 

She waited through the birth of the dragons, noble creatures that they were. She watched as they divided themselves into factions and beseeched their parents for peace.

She waited through the creation of the dwarves. She watched the dragons accept stewardship over the dwarves. She then watched with wonder when the mortals divided themselves into factions like the great dragons. 

As she waited in the form of a new mother, though she had no child, Mar grew distant. When Ishari was born, a wild passionate young goddess, it was her that Mar went to, seduced away by the goddess of lakes and rivers. Tempted away by the new goddess, Mar went to Ariga and broke off their betrothal. 

Shattered, Ariga wept. Ariga aged. As she aged, the forest below did as well, losing its foliage and leaving the trees bare. Ariga went to the world below to hide her shame, seeking solitude on islands far tothe south of the mainland that Tiala had told her about. It was on the largest island that the sorrowful goddess hid. Hiding her face in her arms and weeping out her sorrow. 

How long Ariga stayed there none can say, for the gods reckon time differently than mortals do. But small lakes of mud had formed from her bitter tears. In desperation to stave off the loneliness that she felt she sculpted small dolls from the mud, all in the form of Mar. These reminders did nothing to quell the pain, and her weeping began once again. 

Small comforting pats upon her cheek moved her from her grief. The little dolls, three in total, had gathered around their weeping mother’s ancient face and were set to comfort her. Willing away the pain they surely felt emanating from her. It was this that woke her from her grief. These imperfect replicas of Mar peered innocently up at her, seeking only to quell her suffering. 

These beings made her smile, even if for but a moment. She gathered up more of the sticky mud and fashioned dolls in her maiden form giving each to the models of Mar that she had already created. She watched them for a time. And for a while they were amazed at the new world around them. Soon however they began to seek respite. Searching across the island and finding nothing to stave their hunger the little dolls came back to Ariga, and pleaded with her. “We hunger, but there is no food, please show us how to find it?”

Ariga was alarmed by this for she had no need of food herself. She reflected for a short time and realized that if the forest bloomed as it had when she had been young they would find an abundance of food. She changed her form, thinking of the joy she had shared once with Mar, and taking some happiness from the small people that she had created. With these thoughts she grew younger, moving from crone to maiden. The islands began to grow green and the plants that had remained dormant sprung with life. 

Ariga showed the people which plants she had made to eat, which plants to use to build shelters with, and what animals could be hunted safely. Their hunger sated the little dolls danced, sang, and coupled with each other joyfully. She watched them have children, grow old with age and wisdom as she had done. And eventually die, grieving the loss of their dead with bitter tears. She then watched their souls gathered by Daras who returned them to the Realm of the Gods. As Ariga watched with wonder at the beauty she had created through her sorrow, she grew youthful again going from maiden to girl, and far to the north the Great Forest blossomed once more. 

She wept again, this times her tears were joyful. She named the people Tama’arig, or Ariga’s children. Before returning to the realm of the gods Ariga gathered up many of the people that she had created, spreading them over all the islands of the south. She promised them that this was their place and they would be protected from the lands far to the north. And so it was until the slithering children of Ssita came.

The Winding Road: Dab Koom

by Frank Gori

The mage walked into the bar just in time to ruin the best day of Dab Koom’s life.  Earlier that day he followed a lead on a new employer and was hired on the spot. His new boss advanced him two weeks pay, a fine blue hatchet indicating employment, and extended a tab to him at the Sawhorse, the best carpenter bar in Hub.
 

It felt good to work as a carpenter again. Dab was tired of fighting for his dinner in dive bars against opponents he knew nothing about. Dab saved money for months to get forgeries from a Music Guild painter that would pass inspection. The papers got you the belt, the belt allowed you to work honestly as a carpenter. Dab’s original guild belt got revoked when the man who had taught him was caught embezzling funds from the guild. His near journeymen status revoked, Dab either had to find another occupation or suffer starting over as an apprentice first circle again.
 

Dab had chosen to become an underground pit fighter instead. Unlike some of the other fighters that blew their money like it was always going to be there Dab saved. He saved and saved, figuring he’d start a business somewhere or be a small town carpenter somewhere away from Hub. His last opponent was a bear and all he was given to fight it was a dagger and a wooden shield.

Fuck fighting.

The Sawhorse was in a celebratory mood tonight. Several men with shiny new blue hatchets, indicating they were his co-workers,  all seemed to be drinking freely on the same tab. That blue hatchet was the finest tool Dab had ever held, the weight perfectly balanced and the edge sharp enough to shave with.
 

Dab had just ordered his third crab apple cider from the pretty half Elven bar maid when it got quiet. It was a bad quiet and about half the bar looked when the mage came in. The mage was tall for a human and skinny, with dark black hair and large blue eyes that manically scoured the room for someone.

Dab knew it was a mage right off because of the fine dark grey silk robes and light blue sash, which restrained a pair of wands. As a minotaur carpenter Dab knew little about wands but for the stories that they could shoot fire. What Dab did know for sure was he didn’t like bullies and when several men seemed to find their weapons and proximity to said wizard, Dab knew he didn’t have much a choice.
 

Dab remembered hearing the sound of steel chiming on steel then a loud crash and someone yelled “Shenanigans” before it all faded to black. His next thought as he awoke in the alley with a pounding headache and the unfamiliar weight of a full purse of coin at his belt was that he hoped the mage made it out ok. 

They’d ask him later about the waitress, a comely half elf girl with seductive full lips, a quick smile, and agile body. He remembered the grace in which she flitted about the crowd avoiding groping hands and her uncanny ability to deliver drinks without spilling a drop. The girl waited tables like a master mason carved stone and had he more money he’d have tipped her well.

They’d ask about the melee with the bad-blood and the scrawny lizardman. They’d ask who called out about their being a shenanigans and why he helped the mage, all fine questions he’d wish he’d had answers for but it all faded to black.
 

The blackout bothered Dab. It’d make sense if he'd had another half dozen or so ciders, but truth is Dab wasn’t even buzzed. He remembered seeing the mage and a spark of recognition and that was it. For some reason he recognized the mage and saw things were about to get ugly for him, he remembered thinking he owed the man something as he stood up. He even remembered thinking how the fellas he was about to fight were all wearing blue hatchets like his, but that was all Dab could recall.
 

On waking in the alley, he found himself armed with 4 hatchets, wearing some kind of chainmail, and he had a purse  with more money then he’d ever seen. It was old empire coin though which was passingly strange. Dab’s first thought after processing his condition was that he was late for work. The building he was hired out of was burned out and that’s where the Brute Squad caught up with him.
 

Admittedly Dab probably shouldn’t have fought them bringing him in. Even without bringing arms to bear three members of the Brute Squad were going to have a rough morning.
 

According to his captors there was no true call for shenanigans, and the two or so blocks of absolute chaos around the sawhorse tavern was being classified as a riot. The blue axes at his belt weren’t marked by a member of the blacksmith guild meaning they were illegal and while there were plenty of corpses to account for with apparent axe wounds in a deadly bar melee (though most of the bodies were burned severely.)  No one found any blue hatchets except on him, and no one knew about a new employer looking for carpenters.
 

There was also a fire. A fire that spread and burned everything within two blocks of the Sawhorse and dozens of people were victims of the melee and the fire.  According to the Brute Squad, witnesses described Dab as the instigator, and that he and the Chaos Man brutally attacked the crowd causing the ruckus.

Talking with the Brute Squad triggered some more recollection. Dab now remembered the mage, no wizard’s name was Lazeron and he wasn’t the Chaos Man. But even a self admittedly slow minotaur with a headache could tell it would do him no good to mention that. The brute squad was going to pin this mess on him and there was nothing to be done for it. He hoped Lazeron escaped the fire though.

The full purse Dab was found with contained empire coin which wasn’t really in use anymore. The kindred had melted and repurposed the gold and only loyalist scrum still carried it, thinking it still retained any value. They also found his papers out as forgeries and another purse on him with more pay then he’d walked in with.

 Whatever the truth was didn’t matter, the Brute Squad was going to torture him into a confession and then hang Dab publically. He’d be paraded before the crowd, which would shout obscenities and throw things at him, and his siblings would suffer for sharing his surname.

In a desperate moment Dab held onto one thought, the wizard would come. For reasons Dab couldn’t quite explain, he felt he knew Lazeron’s character and he’d not be left to die, he’d just have to hold out against the torture long enough for rescue.

Secrets of Desylinn: The Five Gifts (the Creation of the Dwarves)

By Dominic Ford

Long ago, when Dragons walked the empty world alone, they began to struggle mightily to find their place in this vast world. With so much to explore and so little to do, the Dragons began to grow restless. As the clans grew and the younger dragons began to mature, they began to squabble with each other. This led to a variety of inter-clan struggles, often resulting in egg stealing and ritualistic dueling. The Elder Dragons watched this with fear and trepidation in their hearts, and knew they had to intervene before one Dragon forgot their divine heritage and killed another. The Elders convened at the First Forge, and discussed the various issues the clans had with each other. After days of petty squabbling, they finally concluded that they needed the assistance of Tiala, the mother of Dragons.

Each Elder brought forth a small token of their clan for their mother, and Tiala rushed quickly to help her children . She listened carefully to their concerns, and then at the end presented them with the First Gift, which became the Lost Gift. This was the Song of Dreaming, the Dragon Horn of Sleep. Simply blowing the horn played a sweet lullaby which sent the listener to a long sleep filled with vivid dreams. The council agreed to only use the horn against the worst offenders, but as time passed their resolve slowly slipped. Finally a young Dragon was sentenced to a long sleep for building a wall a few feet higher than his older neighbor desired. In a fit of rage the young Dragon seized the horn and blew it long and hard, sending the entire council of Elder Dragons into a deep sleep. When they awoke, the horn was gone, lost forever. Thus was the First Gift received, abused, and lost.

The Elder Dragons, again at a loss and now without even the basic punishment of the Horn, turned to their divine father, Bahu. Their gifts woke him from slumber, and he immediately determined that their conflict stemmed from nothing more than boredom. Bahu developed and taught each clan secret methods for creating a strong material, unique to each clan. This formed the Second Gift, which is the forgotten forge lore. This was the True Secret of Fire, purest Dragon Steel. Naturally, the clans were far from content with their own secrets and sought that of the other clans. Each clan engaged different methods, varying from the Iron hiding in forges and Gold seducing Masters to Blue scrying for secrets and Silver torturing those who opposed them. This only served to increase the inter-clan conflict, as each clan had new reasons to be angry with the other clans.

Worried and unsure of what to do next, the Elders once again went to Tiala, seeking her wisdom once again. Tiala was greatly displeased to see her children again, and flew south, across the great plain and beyond the Southern Lands, on the border between the Dragon mountains and the great birthing place, which had become the Dragon Sands. Here she diverted the winds and dried the land, and created a desert valley trapped by high mountain wells. She called for the Elders, and they came, one at a time, to answer their mother. Tiala showed them this new place, the Third Gift, the Dead Lands, and promised the Dragons this would be a place of solitude, where they could think and consider their actions. Each Elder, save the White, waited within the confines of this desolate valley until the flesh rotted from their bones and their power infused the sand, the air, the mountains with powerful and dangerous magic. The White Elders stand today, guardians of this ancient place, torn between their final respite and their sacred protective duty.

Younger Dragons knew they couldn't last long without a council of Elders to watch over them, and each clan set their own criteria for who should sit on the council. The Silver dragons chose based purely on age, the Whites based on number of offspring, the Coppers on crop yields and the Blacks on an election system. Each clan chose a different way, but eventually a new council was convened, but the strife and conflict between clans was stronger than ever. At last, the Dragons turned to Bahu a second time, pleading for something to end the worst crimes - the egg stealing and the constant shedding of blood outside formal duels. Bahu found the worst offender, a Dragon who had stolen at least twenty eggs from each other clan. With this criminal Bahu set the example and began the Rite of Dra-keth, ripping off the dragons front wing bones and cursing the Dragon to amplify pain and hunger, remind her of her crimes and feeding on her intellect. This formed the Fourth Gift, the unmentionable gift, the path to Destruction, the Dra-Keth.

After several years of performing the rite only against those who most deserved it, the young Council grew concerned again. The authorized blood duels were getting more frequent and less lenient, and the Council worried it was only a matter of time before one Dragon killed another outright. Finally they went to the first forge and spent five long months in prayer and meditation, avoiding all food, drink, or carnal vices. Thin and weary, they called upon both Tiala and Bahu for guidance. Their parents arrived to find the young councilors on the brink of starvation, and knew the Dragons needed something to keep them occupied and distracted. Tiala and Bahu exchanged a knowing look, and developed a plan. Tiala formed dozens of small creatures and Bahu breathed them to life. This was the Fifth Gift, meant to be the Great Distraction. This became the Pure Honor, as the Dragons became virtual gods to the Dwarf Children.

The Dwarves, inspired by their parents, began feuding almost immediately. The Dragons, attempting to be as excellent parents as their own, quickly began to intervene. They spoke of patience, of service, of clan loyalty above your own, of family and honor. The Dragons began to follow their own advice, and the danger of murder seemed to lessen gradually as time went on. Still, strife boiled under the surface. Bahu and Tiala knew that someday the Fifth Gift would fail their jealous and difficult children, just as the first four did. Until that time, the Dragons would be occupied with their children.  

The Winding Road: Sunder Zool Swiftblade

By Frank Gori

Zool wore a tight smile as his eyes swept the room once more. Only those who spent enough time with the Geato Abira would even notice the smile, as lizardman reptilian faces were hard to read for mammals. It was his all-business smile, one his employer Malleck would recognize.

Despite being a blacksmith, Zool wasn’t very muscular. His strength was unremarkable and he was undersized, even for a Geato Abira male. Sometimes mammals assumed he was an adolescent, or simply assumed he was weak. Those who underestimated his abilities soon learned otherwise; the broken sword tattooed on his sword arm signified his skill at arms, though few recognized the meaning.

Malleck, Zool’s employer, was of mixed heritage. The blend of elvish and orchish traits seemed to work on the mammalian females. Zool was hopeless with women and occasionally liked to watch Malleck work his charms in hopes of learning something. Geato women found his mastery of steel too feminine. Being a warrior was women’s work.

The Sawhorse Tavern was a shit place for a meet. Place was crowded, and the spilt beer and scattered oyster shells would be murder on footwork if the night called for a fight. Unsurprisingly, the furniture seemed to be of solid construction, it was after all a carpenter’s bar. Zool made a mental note of every chair, table, and stool that would hold his weight, he also noted that the carved log booth corner Malleck chose was too far from the exits for a quick escape. He flexed his sword hand, if it things went south Zool and Malleck were going to have to fight their way out of this dive. Part of him hoped for a fight.

The Blacksmith Guild took him as a Sunder, accepted for his power of destruction rather than his gifts as a creator. Zool was recognized for his abilities rather then judged by his sex. His craft work on any object other than horseshoes was entirely unsuitable for sale, and so he was most commonly trusted with tool sharpening when they didn’t have sunder work. He simply wasn’t gifted with the creative power of a Smith. Dealing death was his gift.

Zool heard a song in all metal, which defied explanation and was somehow tied to his magic. Very few Magus could master the talents, but steel bent to his will in a variety of ways. Zool could sense every scrap of metal nearby, and could attract iron headed arrows to his shield. He could lighten his armor, call his sword to his hand within ten feet, and more easily part the armor of an enemy. His ability to cut steel like paper was why he wore the Sunder badge, in some ways the dedication he applied to his craft defined him.

Zool could move through various fencing maneuvers with the fluidity of quicksilver and the speed of a striking serpent. His techniques were unorthodox, no other Sunder strapped a buckler to their sword arm melding defense an offense in an intentional imbalance. He wore a tail spike that sometimes drew laughter, but only with those who didn’t witness its use.

Every Workman carried his tools and most of those tools doubled as weapons. The bar patrons were all armed, and about a third of the room carried blue hatchets of high quality. A small group of them kept glancing at Malleck, telegraphing their intent. One of them kept mindlessly stroking his axe, which was just obvious. Given the numbers, Zool didn’t like the odds. If things got dicey, he and Malleck would both have to use magic. If the Chaos Man realized that, his reaction would just make things worse.

Zool muttered to Malleck, “you always bring me to the nicest places.” It was a code, a heads up for his client to prepare for trouble. Zool shifted his weight on his stool and quietly repositioned his hand. The stool was far enough back so he could clear his scabbard on a cross draw. Zool recognized the implications of the Workman’s impatience, they were waiting for the mage.

Zool took a pull off his hip flask, and new strength coursed through him. The five grunts knew he made them and were boldly striding forward. Zool accessed the floor space and made a decision. As he hopped forward to close on the five orcs he spotted the crossbowman.

A swift act of will and a flick of his wrist and he snapped the bolt out of the air, the strike made a note that pleased Zool. Three of the group of five that were to swarm in got tangled up by a clumsy waitress, making it an uneven two against one, Zool decided on the larger one first. Killing him quickly would put the odds even more in Zool’s favor.

Just as he closed with his intended foe, something struck the orc from behind and killed him. One of the two tangled with the waitress was clutching his heart and someone yelled “Shenanigans!”

A dagger flashed past Zool and landed squarely in the throat of the crossbowman, and about a dozen calm faced killers stood up as the rest of the bar erupted into Chaos.

Zool smiled, hazard pay was triple.