Thursday, October 31, 2013

The Winding Road: In Blood




By Frank Gori

Lazeron Pi pulled his mind from the darkest shadow of despair. With his voice and mind he called out to Dab and the world came rushing back. Laz’s love for Dab was the one thing he could never reason away, it was an anchor. The minotaur was the brother Laz didn’t have, and the father he never knew. Laz’s memory of his boyhood friend Dab was the only time from childhood Laz could recall feeling safe. Dab’s protective embrace made a circle of protection that Lazeron Pi’s mind could take shelter in when the darker memories came like a storm.

Lazeron found something else within that darkness, an awakening of sorts. The number that entranced him was a mathematical expression of his desire to be safe. Twenty two over seven wasn’t just a ratio, it was Dab. Being a normal wizard and trying to impose order on it was like trying to swim against the tide, fueling that ambition with the magic within your blood was like sailing with a tail wind. It was insane. Some Wizards referred to the process of training another wizard as “the breaking”, because of that insanity.

Lazeron suddenly understood the source of his breaking and his ability to shape the chaotic energies of creation without risking despair. Lazeron understood now that the number wasn’t needed, he had heard of the True Mage before, the kind of magical practitioner that could interweave and marry the magic of sorcerer and wizard. Understanding the source of his insanity meant understanding himself, which also meant understanding that the true source of his power, which was also self. If magic was a fruit tree, wizards were taking from a different branch than sorcerers, the fruit was the same.

The blood was like fire. Any brute can use fire as a weapon, it took know how to use the fire as a tool to create. From fire the tools on which civilization was built were made, it was the same with blood and magic.
As Mal began negotiating with the Sewer King, Lazeron kneeled over, faking a bout of sickness, snatched a rat and put it in his pocket. He looked up at the Sewer King and noted the slightest tilt of the head. The act was acknowledged and permission granted.

Lazeron put his hand inside the pocket with the rat and allowed it to bite him, drawing his blood inside of it. The connection was shockingly fast, the blood of Lazeron’s magic connected immediately with the arcane bond the Sewer King extended to the vermin.

The connection allowed Lazeron a glimpse of the power The Sewer King controlled, what he really was, that glimpse nearly overwhelmed Laz. Every life had a connection to magic, even the vermin. Somehow a portion of all the magical potential of every vermin in the sewer was donated to its king, every creature that decided to call the sewer home paid a sliver of power to him and all that potential together was stitched together like a cloak around his soul. He would be a potent sorcerer without the mantle of power augmenting him, with that power Lazeron would be a torch against a river.

It was a two way street, the Sewer King would understand the source of Lazeron’s power as well. With his power and understanding of necromancy he could be slain but would reform as his mind and power would spread to all the vermin in the sewer then reshape him a new body over time. To Lazeron it was familiar and disgusting.

The Sewer King’s presence in his mind was like having a film on the back of your teeth that you couldn’t quite scrap off with your tongue. The presence touched the number Lazeron wielded like a shield and lingered a moment before retreating respectfully. “Impressive, you have become a True Mage, I hope your Caravanner trades you,” the Sewer King projected.

Goading never worked on Laz. Mal wouldn’t sell him off and if he did Lazeron would bring this misbegotten hole down on their heads. “That’s the spirit, you’d make the Chaos Man proud if you did, well if you haven’t turned traitor.” Laz saw the Sewer King’s mouth moving in conversation with Mal, it wasn’t as impressive as you might imagine. Of course the Sewer King could carry on multiple conversations his awareness was divided constantly among thousands of beady little eyes.

“You understand,” The King projected. It was a statement, he could follow Laz’s thoughts not just what he projected. “Yes,” The Sewer King replied.

Laz used the mental exercise of calculating more portions of the great number to focus. It helped him cope with having that terrible power in his thoughts. Laz then mentally gathered and presented what he felt was a compelling case that he did not in fact betray the Mage’s Guild. It was his old mentor Morte Bisset setting him up, gaining revenge.

The prison had spell wards to contain a living spell, and a release mechanism to unleash it, that was Wizard work and there were very few wizards. The floor with the undead was another tell, Morte was the only wizard in Hub who specialized in Necromancy. The only problem was that Morte had been executed for his crimes against his students and the Mage’s Guild.

The blacksmith was evidence in a way. Morte wanted the secret of soul forging to make himself a new kind of living death. It would be a unique brand of immortality that would suit his twisted desires. In undeath Morte couldn’t feel the things he wanted to feel. If Hodge could teach him soul forging he could create new bodies for himself, it was not dissimilar to what The Sewer King had done. 

This was a theory, but to Lazeron it had the ring of truth. He knew Morte Bisset in a more intimate manner then he desired. The elderly wizard was fascinated by the line between life and death and in that fascination he crossed lines. He was obsessed with youth, living magic, and delighted in torture. The prison was his, Lazeron knew it to be as true as the number he held sacred, the circle that failed to protect him from his master’s repellant lust.

Morte had devised a method to steal some of the magical potential from his students. Lazeron was fortunate enough to discover and expose this before his power was taken. It was another form of abuse he justified in the name of power. 

The Sewer King projected, “I see the reasoning on your theory and your conviction in evidence that is circumstantial at best. Still your fears have enough foundation in reality that I cannot discount them and I will bring this forth in the next meeting of guild lieutenants. You did not trust us when you were in trouble, you fled with the others to the Merchant Guild rather than your family, of this you are guilty and you have forsaken us and are banished from our company. If your old mentor somehow survives as you believe he does then only bringing proof of his destruction will reverse your banishment and restore you to the guild.” It had a ring of finality and the presence left.

Lazeron’s defection would stand, the choice was irreversible, but how the Mage guild regarded him was still salvageable. Lazeron would rather be viewed a friendly to his old colleagues than regarded as a traitor and enemy. Sometimes outsiders enjoyed a status near that of a guild member, it was about as much as Laz could hope for if he ever wanted to call Hub home again.

If Lazeron Pi was right about Morte Bisset the truth is he’d end up confronting the bastard sooner or later anyway. There was enmity enough between them that Morte would pursue Lazeron which was why Laz would be happy to leave Hub with Mal’s Caravan, the road would be an equalizer.

Laz could still feel the rat in his pocket without touching it. With little will he could smell with its, no her, nose and see with her eyes. It was the arcane bond, like what Laz had with his ring. A whisper on the wind carried The Sewer King’s gravelly voice which matched that oily presence, “a gift.”

Thursday, October 24, 2013

The Winding Road: Zool’s lesson




By Frank Gori

Zool felt like he had been struck by an arrow. Hodge was alive and offering to soul forge a weapon for the Sewer King as payment for their escape. Every apprentice Blacksmith dreamed of rebuilding the great fire-forge of Hodge. Finding out Hodge was alive was like hearing The Nameless God was reborn.

They say Hodge lived among dwarves for fifty years and studied a great red dragon to build the forge. The forge was based on the dragon’s breath chamber and could make a flame so hot it would melt diamonds. It survived only long enough to forge “Hallow-shard” the great sword held by the Blacksmith Guild high general. “Hallow-shard” was made of an alloy no Blacksmith has seen before or since, as the great fire-forge 
 
Yet Zool believed the elderly orc when he claimed to be Hodge. Something inside of Zool understood immediately the elder orc’s quality and were he not in the literal bowls of the city in hostile company, Zool would kneel before him.

Soul-forging was beyond the comprehension of most. Hacks used it as a shortcut to magic, discarding parts of their own experience cheaply. In the hands of a master, one who had honed a soul of worth sacrificing a piece of such a worthy individual made for a potent item worthy of legend. Such an item in the Sewer King’s defiling hands was like swallowing shards of glass, it just didn’t sit right in the gut.
The bargain was struck quickly, and Zool barely recovered from the shock before it was time to go. Hodge walked up to Zool and the Lizardman could not keep a tear from forming in the corner of his eye. Hodge took his hand in the clasp of brotherhood and drew Zool into a mentor’s embrace. In Zool’s ear he whispered, “you are more than a sunder, Zool Swiftblade. I have seen the quality that lies inside you. It just needs to be tempered by a steadier hand.” Hodge’s grasp burned like molten steel then cooled like the quench, “I’ve given you a gift and I forbid you to pass it to another until you have learned the secrets of soul forging.”
 
The moment would haunt Zool. As Hodge drew away Zool knew that he intended to die. They had not broken Hodge in that cage. Whatever the fools from the Workman Guild sought, they had not taken it. Hodge was trading his life for the lives of seventy eight other souls and he was resolved to do so.

Zool could feel the new mark on his forearm, Hodge’s mark. In a saner world Hodge would have passed that mark to his finest apprentice before he died, and with it a measure of his skill and power would live on. For the first time since his apprenticeship Zool yearned to work at the forge, for the first time in over a decade he yearned to be a maker. His master told him he lacked the talent, but for the first time Zool didn’t believe it.

As everyone else filed out of the Sewer King’s receiving chamber, Zool lingered. The mark on his arm was imbued with strong magic and the guild would want it passed on to a more worthy hand. Forbidding Zool to do so until he learned the secrets of soul forging would make things complicated. Yet it all felt like… providence.

Dab’s meaty oversized hand roughly clapped Zool’s shoulder, “Come on, we got to go now.” Zool pondered drawing his magic and steel against this Sewer King for a moment, but the mark seemed to gain weight with the thought.

A last glance toward Hodge was all Zool could afford because in the end he had work to do. The boy who daydreamed of rebuilding a forge that mimicked dragon-fire had another calling to answer. Zool afforded himself a second to salute Hodge, so he choose the salute of a student to his master.
In that moment Zool understood that it wasn’t his master’s assessment of his worth that held him from becoming a maker, it was his own acceptance of it. Another time soon Zool would stand before the forge and follow the instructed work of a new master but for now…

Seventy seven backs needed watching.

Monday, October 21, 2013

Iconic Cleric: Saleth

By John Belliston

The snakeman slithered elegantly through the crowded street. His skin had been meticulously cleaned with a sand bath only this morning with sand he had brought in from his homeland. He lived amongst the barbarians but refused to damage his scales with their soaps and water. “Keep your body pristine. Even if it is illusion, the sand will think more of you.” He smiled at a young minotaur woman laboring in the street. A small bloody wound lay on her arm. As he lay a gentle hand to reassure her that she had the strength, a trickle of shadow energy flowed from his hand and closed her wound. She smiled up at him and thanked him. She would feel indebted to his kindness and refusing a reward would deepen her respect. He had seen her being trained by one of the more influential of the Carpenters. His smile had been wider and the scent of him more masculine as she worked by his side. She would talk of the Lash-ti-nowish that helped her.

And the price of Snakemen glass was about to be debated in the Grand Assembly. But Saleth already knew that.

The Wind Moves the Sand.

Though there are thousands who serve within the ranks of the Priest Caste, it is a truly select and tiny few that bear faith powerful enough to become a cleric. Each one carries with him a sigil to reflect the deeper understanding of the wind and sand, a personal reminder of the moment they found their faith. Saleth carries a copper ladle. When he was young and foolish he found himself abandoned by his caravan. Lost in the hellish heat of the Black Shamshar, days passed. Madness came and went like a wild wind across his mind. His eyes barely open, his skin cracked and bloody beneath the scales, he begged for Daras' sweet release but the Lady of the End refused to come. He was found moments from breathing his last by one of the convicts exiled to the black wastes. The convict offered him a copper ladle. He gave Saleth a drink of precious water and asked for nothing in return.

Saleth holds all that he has become and all his works as the direct consequence of that tiny act of kindness. It is that idea that fuels the flame of his faith in the Ripples of Worth. Each of the priest caste must over time decide how best to manipulate the sand and shape the world. Saleth selected kindness as his weapon, for a kind act creates many after affects, and those who are wise can use those effects to their advantage.


According to the Chroniclers within the Meticulous Bureaucracy, Saleth is the 425th priest to bear the name Saleth. Its previous owner was remarkable only in the manner of his death, having been savagely torn apart in an Unkhan raid. The newest Saleth seeks to bring new honor to his name, but will play by his own rules. Like all Lash he pays service and fealty to the Old Ones though over time that loyalty has become more and more of a charade. He travels the world, as many others do, not to work towards the benefit of the Old Ones in their Tomb Palaces, but to see what ripples his kindness will make. Saleth wishes to change the world… and to watch exactly how. 

Thursday, October 17, 2013

The Winding Road: King's Ransom

By Frank Gori

Caravanner Malleck found negotiating with the Sewer King disconcerting. It was the lack of eyes, he decided. Normally a person’s eyes betrayed much of their inner workings for those who knew what to read. Eye movement could indicate truth and falsehood, dilation indicated surprise or fear, even the speed at which someone blinked could provide a skilled negotiator like Mal with information.

The Sewer Kings eyes were torn from his skull with claws, and in their place were orbs of green amber within which flies had been trapped. Perhaps most disconcertingly, Mal would swear they fluttered their wings from time to time.

The elderly dwarf that claimed kingship of the sewers was also clearly insane.

The King demanded not only monetary tribute but that Mal surrender over either Lazeron, Bellany, or himself to the king as a prisoner. Lazeron was without doubt in trouble with the mages guild, he had not only defected which was a rare and dangerous act to begin with but he had also brought the majority of his gang with him, which could be construed as an act of war unless he left Hub entirely. The Sewer King was in the mages guild. Mal could understand why he’d not want to allow Laz to slip through his fingers. 

Mal could even understand his own value. Liara would pay a handsome ransom for him, or one of the other guilds would pay more and kill him just to wound Liara. If it came to it Mal felt he had no choice but to surrender himself.


What Mal could not comprehend was Bellany’s value to the Sewer King. She was comely, and as deadly in her own way as Zool. But Mal and Laz had value to the heads of two guilds, Bellany was nothing to that.

“If you tell me why you want Bellany, I might consider it,” Mal bluffed. He had no intention of handing anyone over but he needed more information, he needed a better look at his opponent's ivory. The Sewer King clearly believed himself negotiating from a dominant position. The tiles he concealed had to be strong ones, and this was a game of scrim Mal had best not lose.

“I smell Jax’s seed has taken root in her, he would pay handsomely for her, or you,” the elderly dwarf smiled showing that some of his teeth had also been replaced with amber. It was an unpleasant sight. Mal could feel hundreds of tiny eyes on him as the room darkened and the patter or tiny claws scraped and scratched creating a menacing buzz of background noise.

Mal understood that the Music Guild was far more than a bunch of entertainers, that they were the criminal element of Hub. The Music Guild was powerful and inevitable, if Liara were to destroy it it’d simply infect the other guilds. It was like beheading a hydra; leaving the Music Guild intact was a wise decision. But Jax was just their chump figurehead, a preening bard they used as a distraction for the real business of the guild. He could and would pay something for Bellany, just less than the Sewer King might expect.

A fight in these tight quarters in the Sewer King’s home would end poorly. A few of them might escape, but it was just as likely they’d all die even with Laz back up. Mal had painted himself into a corner and surrendering himself was the best option available.

“Let them go and I’ll soul forge you a weapon of your choice, on my honor,” a gentle even voice from the huddle prisoners spoke. It was the elderly orc Blacksmith.

There was a collective gasp. As good a negotiator as the Sewer King was, he failed to hide his surprise at the statement. Mal had probably betrayed his shock as well, soulforged weapons were extremely rare and valuable, it cost the Blacksmith something of what they were to make one, and the smith that knew the secrets to such craft were rare and in high esteem.

The practice of soul forging was common during the Marian empire and some say was part of the cause of the fall. Today it was used sparingly and with consequence, offering it to the Sewer King was a measure of profound respect and required tremendous skill or foolish bravery.

“What is your name smith?” the Sewer King demanded. The rats and other vermin buzzed and squealed now into what could well be described as a dull roar. It was the Sewer King’s tell, he wanted to take the offer. If the offer was genuine he’d be a fool not to.

“My name is Hodge, you been around long enough to know it. I speak the truth, on my anvil and my hammer.” Hodge kept his tone even and his eye rose to meet the amber orbs of the Sewer king. His pose was one that spoke of a man with deadly know how and defiant courage. Mal judged this was no bluff.
“Once he finishes your sword he is also free to return to his guild with an escort,” Mal added. The Sewer King’s face twisted into a grimace then returned to a disconcerting smile. It was enough to tell Mal he had hoped to keep the Blacksmith. Still, the deal was too good to pass.

“Bargain struck,” The Sewer King extended his hand toward Mal to seal it. No doubt he’d sell information on them but Mal saw no other way to get everyone out safely and shook on it.
The Sewer King touched his pinky to his jugular and drew it across the apple of his throat. It was a Marian gesture which meant: I’ll yet have your blood. Mal spit between his feet which was a gesture of violent contempt to Marian sensibilities, or a gesture of respect for one’s martial prowess to the kindred.

The Sewer King let it pass and they soon left. Hodge and Zool shared a moment before departing and something passed between them. Hodge was a familiar name to Malleck and the Sewer King exacted a steep price indeed, the man was thought long dead, a soul forged blade from his hand would be a powerful symbol for the Sewer King to claim.


The bargain was the least bloody one he could strike. Mal had a sinking feeling it was a bargain he’d one day regret.

Monday, October 14, 2013

Iconic Monk: Garkk

By Scott Bingham

“We should take up the Mage’s contract and the Blacksmith’s be daMMNGH…” Whatever else the opposing Foreman had to say quickly became a muffled mix of curses and cries of pain as he disappeared beneath a flurry of blows. His violent work done, Garkk separated himself from the tangled mess and hopped upon his chair, bellowing across the Assembly Hall.

“The Mages shorted our members from our last contractual agreement. Besides, if we favor the Blacksmiths and support their claim upon the downtown warehouses, we pit the two against one another! They would enter into a bidding war with us the benefactors!” Roars of support were soon followed by heated argument and more than a few fists were thrown. Garkk nodded to himself in satisfaction. He had spoken clearly and his influence among the Assembly was growing. The goblin looked across the Hall to the Grand Foreman, his greedy eye falling upon the Gavel. It would be his. With every meeting and gathering of the Assembly, Garkk was making himself heard and gaining support from among the other guilds. It was only a matter of time.

Every goblin faces the realization of their limited lifespan and the need to either live a meaningful life or to die a glorious death. A young goblin called simply “Garkk” determined that his was a life meant for more than the sweet enticements of battle and the call of a bloody and magnificent death. Garkk was set upon becoming a someone, a person of influence who would be remembered for more than their grisly and blood soaked end.

After taking the Goblinmark, Garkk threw himself into his work as a laborer and as a fighter. His talent as a fist fighter shined and he was taken under the wing of the Kindred Monks. Through their extensive training he learned to master “The Haze”, the fury fueled focus of their order. However, despite his life among his brethren and the influence of the Kindred whole, Garkk grew dissatisfied with just how far he could rise among his peers. With every passing day he grew convinced he needed to depart Kindred lands and pursue his desire among a different culture, one wherein he could climb higher than any among his Kinsmen.

Nonetheless validated among his people and considered one of high standing, Garkk left the pits of the Kindred and found his way to Hub. From there the young goblin wasted no time in joining up with one of the lesser of the Workmen’s Guilds, his fervor and determination as a laborer allowing him to rise quickly through the ranks of the guild. The Goblinmark inspired Garkk to further the interests of the guild and to keep them free of any outside manipulation. This also led Garkk to spend more than his share of time serving on the Brute Squads, readily enforcing the tenacious authority of the Guild. Within the short span of a decade, Garkk was elected by his guild to act as Foreman.

Though considered to be a bit volatile, Garkk has proven himself to be effective among the Grand Assembly with both voice and fist. Garkk has cast himself among the Assembly as one who holds the needs and best interests of the Workmen’s Guild most dear, acting as advocate of the Guild’s authority and their aspiration to hold the respect of the other Guilds. It is among The Rabble that Garkk finally saw his path made clear. Setting his sights upon the Illustrious Gavel of the Assembly, Garkk would fight and bellow and draw the support from the other guilds until his vision was realized and the title of Grand Foreman his. Garkk fervently seeks to make the position more than it is and feels that he alone can fulfill such a role. 
 
Garkk’s end lay not at the edge of a blade but in the memories of all the Guilds and the entirety of Desylinn as the one who had united the Workmen’s Guild, bringing meaning and respect to the title of Grand Foreman.

Thursday, October 3, 2013

The Winding Road: Steak

 by Frank Gori
 
The undead boatmen walked in perfect step with an oppressive silence as they lead the seventy eight survivors of the jailbreak. Beetles the size of dogs soon flanked the group, letting off a weak yellow-green light adequate for those who saw poorly in the dark. After a few minutes the wide sewers narrowed into tunnels and the beetles took to the ceiling. It was crowded and the ceiling above barely cleared Dab’s horns.

Before long there was a set of double doors flanked by a pair of misshapen looking humanoid pikemen. One seemed to have no neck and his skin was jaundiced and erupting in boils. He was also bigger then Dab, and had enough ogre in him to be recognizable as such. The other guard looked to be a draconic reptile of some sort.The doors opened of their own accord and the pikemen stood to attention and stepped to the side in unison displaying discipline and precision. Beyond them was a well-lit throne room.

On a throne made of coprolite sat what looked to be a cross between a rat and a dwarf wearing a tall crown of amber, within which was frozen a white rat. A necklace of diamonds and teeth adorned his neck and in his hand was a scepter with a skull head. His face elongated like a rats and whiskers protruded from below his nose. He had a long beard that had been dreadlocked and his scalp was shaven. Amber gems replaced one of his eyes, which judging by the claw marks had been gouged out.

Like the others, who all followed Mal’s lead, Dab bowed his horned head slightly. Non-kindred rightly understood it as a measure of respect. but often missed the threatening tone. To a minotaur the gesture said, “my best bet might be to lower my horns and charge you now.” It was appropriate.
When Dab first started pit-fighting it was a desperate move to earn money. As a young bull he assumed that was why everyone fought in those pits. Dab was a veteran of a lot of fights now and knew better, some people had an urge to do damage and were willing to take a beating for that chance. Weak looking opponents sometimes had this trait and they could really hurt you if you under estimated them.

Dab had never understood that mentality until now.

The self proclaimed Sewer King offended something deep inside Dab. Were there not others to consider Dab might be more inclined to follow that ruinous urge. The Sewer King clearly commanded power and trying to charge him down would in all likelihood end poorly. Yet something inside Dab would gladly take that chance.

A voice inside of Dab stoked that fire inside, he was near snorting, thinking violent thoughts throughout the Sewer Kings introductions. It took Laz stirring still in his arms to snap Dab out of his hate filled reverie.

As impossible as it was, Laz seemed to be coming out of despair already!

“Ah so the traitor is waking up I see,” the Sewer King said in his vitriolic high pitched voice.
“Laz ain’t no traitor” Dab said in a low grumble. He did snort this time and stamped his right foot reflexively. Bellany’s delicate hand touched his shoulder in a gentle gesture of restraint. It was soothing and Dab managed to gain control of his inexplicable desire to attack.
Dab looked at the King again and saw it. There was a slight smirk on his face betraying his intentions, he wanted Dab to attack. 

Dab then remembered the blood Mal had spilled in oath. The Sewer King wasn’t concerned with Dab at all, he wanted Dab to attack so he could use Mal’s oath against him! 

Shame acted like a drift of snow over the fires of Dab’s anger. He had almost put Mal in a bad position after all that had been done to save him. Dab also realized that everyone was watching him now, he had been bull headed and now he needed to do something to make amends. He looked around for a moment then dropped to one knee and bowed his head more deeply in a genuine gesture of supplication.

The Sewer King let out a delighted laugh of triumph thinking the gesture was for him. Dab made eye contact with Mal and the look was enough to convey what lied between them. Verbal sparring and negotiating was not a battlefield Dab belonged on.

Mal started to speak and Dab stood in silence, uncomfortably aware of all the beady little rat eyes watching him from all around. In the court of the Sewer King, a minotaur pitfighter would quickly become steak.