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.”

Secrets of Desylinn: The First War

By John Belliston

First there was Grandmother Chaos. Great and infinite and beyond the capacity of comprehension.

Then, born from Her womb came the Oldest, bearing his Stewpot of Fate and having no Name beyond his title. Then in a wave of light and glory came Ssita, whose love shapes the universe. Then came Ariga, whose joys and sorrows create the seasons. Nhoj burst forth half formed and hungry to claim the name his siblings had uttered. And finally in the loud wake of her brother Daras came, like the gentle whisper of an end; so distracted were her siblings she ended up naming herself.

When Nhoj and Ssita first saw each other they fell into a love so vast no poetry or song could hope to grasp it, so deep its roots formed the foundation the universe. In this time before time, Ssita pulled her gaze from her beloved and looked upon her siblings, and upon the universe beginning to congeal around them. Then she looked upon her mother, and she shuddered.

Grandmother Chaos, as the mortals would come to call her, hungered for creation and destruction. If an entity’s mind were to ever look back upon the budding universe, it would not survive Grandmother’s attention. So Ssita reached into the core of her being and tapped into the limitless love which resided within her. With infinite care and terrible speed she formed her own essence into a magic strong, flexible, and powerful enough to hold back the tides of transformational power. She would act as the font for that energy. Her will and love would take the energy of Chaos and turn into the substance of the universe. She had become the Chaosgate of Creation. For this act her siblings named her Queen.

During this phase, Daras and the Oldest succumbed to their profound attraction to each other. Their coupling was like the glacier and the wildfire, destructive, restrained, cold and yet burning, and from their cosmic crossing came Mar, the God of Light and Law.

Though Ssita’s love and power held back the full force of Grandmother, the Chaosgate itself remained incomplete. Though his love for her could consume him from within, Nhoj refused to take that place. He had no interest in rule. He sought to feed his hunger for secrets and hidden knowledge. Kingship would just waste his time.

However the young and ambitious Mar saw the lack of a king as a profound affront. So, without delay he began to court Ssita. She resisted his advances out of respect for her love of Nhoj, but the needs of the universe outweighed her desire.

So lost in his studies of the forming universe Nhoj knew nothing of the young gods advances. Daras came to him and told him of the foolishness of her brother and of the blind ambition of her son. At this news, Nhoj screamed, a deep and primal howl which vibrates through the dark places for the rest of time. Without logic or strategy the God of Knowledge hurled himself at the God of Law. Claws, teeth, and infinite divine force strengthened past the point of madness by the fierceness of Nhoj’s love.

The younger god was caught unaware. Great chunks were torn from his essence and he stumbled right into his father, The Oldest. His Stewpot spilled over and the Stew of Fate cooled and congealed into the mortal plane. Seeing the fury in Nhoj’s eye’s Mar fled down to the new creation to close his wounds and prepare for the next attack.

Using his spilt blood and the materials of the new plane Mar crafted an army. The Truths of Mar were gleaming creatures of Light, Ice, and Will. They moved forth in a terrible wave. They defined all they touched. They bound the still warm stuff of fate into weapons and servants for Mar. They shaped everything around them into unbreakable and terrible chains. When Nhoj followed after, the Truths jumped up and tried to contain the full might of God of Knowledge. The binds cut into his flesh and tore out great chunks from his form. But there was always much Chaos in Nhoj, and this he used to slide, twist, and warp his very essence to escape.

Nhoj retreated then, surprised and unprepared to face the relentless nature of the Truths. He delved into the dark places, the deep places. There he sought and looked. He delved into this strange new mortal realm. He ran and while he ran he bled. The chunks of his flesh and bone merged with the plane and formed, by accident, the strange maelstroms' bedlam which became his army, The Secrets of Nhoj.

For each thing the Truths defined the Secrets tore apart, or made irrelevant with their own wild creations. Each side fought with terrible force, but Nhoj’s army tried a thousand tactics. They hurled themselves into battle as a distraction for others to sneak on past.

As their armies made slow and terrible war across the face of creation, Mar and Nhoj fought with raw force. Hurling powerful spells, the likes of which would never be seen again, they became so lost in the fight that at times they forgot the reasons for their mighty battle.

After shaping and tearing apart the new plane a thousand times, the tide turned. Mar flinched at the assault and Nhoj’s Secrets sealed away his army in what would become the Blackfire Mountains. Bound by defeat and his own honor, Mar waited for the terms of the new King’s Victory.

Though it was meaningless to Nhoj, he asked Mar to kneel before him and swear fealty for time eternal. For Mar would be bound by his word. He would no more try for the Throne, and Nhoj could have both his study, and his love.

He became the Chaosgate of Void, taking the excesses of order and returning them to Chaos. He would rule by the side of Ssita, and it was their love that held Grandmother at bay.

There are many echoes of the First War left in the world. It is said that Nhoj had his servants craft a great city that served no other point than to witness the submission of the God of Law. Some say that those that fear the dark can still hear the reverberations of that first and terrible scream. And in the deep and forgotten places the Remnants of the First War remain to be unearthed. Magic unlike any other. Things unlike anything after.

Things better left forgotten.

The Winding Road: The Despair of Pi

by Frank Gori

Lazeron Pi heard the voice of his teacher Morte Bisset, “We share the ability to do magic with many others. Applying that magic with knowledge is a wizard’s greatest weapon, and makes us stronger then sorcerers.” Master Bisset was a harsh tutor and his tastes and desires still brought bile to Lazeron's throat, but Morte was right about knowledge.

The guard with a deadman’s lever was standing in the key to a wizard’s spell trap. The design was thought to be a secret only known to a handful of wizards and its purpose was solely to contain living spells. 

 

Wizard magic was mind over matter in the extreme. Manipulating the ambient energies of creation and bending them to one’s will meant imposing order on inherently chaotic energy. The mind needed to be a little broken to achieve such a feat, though some wizards called this enlightenment. Lazeron was more honest about the situation, it was the price wizards paid for power.

 Sorcerers achieved the same effect by calling on magical energy inherent in their blood. This subjected them to magic’s chaotic rules and at anytime the bliss or despair could come. The breaking protected wizards to a limited extent.

Lazeron was both a wizard and sorcerer, though the magic in his blood alone would have made him a middling mage at best. With time Lazeron would be a very potent wizard, assuming he survived the next five minutes or so. Gifted wizards learned to combine the discipline of wizard magic with the raw fueled power of sorcery into something greater.

Lazeron stole a glance at Dab. The numbers were a little quieter in the presence of his childhood friend. Before Laz bloomed into his power he shared a summer with Dab. They faced bullies, told one another trivial secrets of childhood, and on occasion shared a quiet moment in a simple brotherly embrace. The memory of that helped Laz get through some of the less innocent affections that soiled Laz’s childhood a few years later.

The irrational power of the numbers was Pi’s secret knowledge and the foundation of his wizardly might. Pi was also a sorcerer and could call on his emotions and blood to fuel his power. Combining the two was powerful but dangerous. Laz had little choice, he watched the living spell infuse itself into the guard and it was a form of the dragon spell. It would enact a transformation that would result in a creature not quite as powerful as a normal dragon, but powerful enough.

Calling on his fear and worry for his friends was easy, channeling that into the cold reason of the perfect equation 22/7 was harder. He began by associating each digit with a face, three for Mal as Malleck struggled with three identity roles around his patron son, subject, and suitor. One was for Dab as Dab was the only friend from Laz’s childhood who had survived his mentor’s envy. Four he associated with Zool because four was a number about balance and a feminine male who was both a consummate professional and comrade at the same time took extraordinary balance. One, again for Dab, five for Bellany as she was as much a star as Lazeron ever encountered, nine for the surviving female prisoners they liberated, and two for himself a caster arcane of both wizardry and sorcery.

The wall or iron and stone were up. A wall of force was his next objective, his mind associated six with his mentor as that was the number of times… Laz lost focus a moment and felt the gut wrench of despair. He was tired. Desperate really, this prison was clearly designed by a Mage and he was outclassed. The guards were a sham, they were there to force him to use his magic, his master always said his desire to show compassion to outsiders would be his death and only now was he being proven right. They needed the wall though so six dam it. Six was for Morte Bisset as six was the number of time he… the world slipped away.

Six… six was something.

Lazeron felt strong arms embracing him, lifting him up. Then they went away, six.

A maze was before him there were six paths. All seemed wrong, he knelt for some time there and wept. Then he felt the eyes of something malevolent and angry on his back, it was a lion and a serpent at the same time, and Laz had to run down a path or be consumed. Instinctually he took the fifth path a path that made him want to dance. The path was beautiful and vibrant and he smiled a moment despite the danger. He had to find Dab, Dab would be in the labyrinth and Dab would keep him safe.

The fifth path ended at another juncture of six branches but he could hear Mal giving orders down the third so the third path he took. He sensed Bellani in Mals path which meant they’d probably be lovers but there was an infinite amount of potential within Bellani if she chose to let it flourish. Laz had a brief moment where he could almost hear her discussing the death path with one of the nine. It made him scream.

Was that his scream? No, it was not.

Death came in the form of a boatman, he had but seven fingers and the life of one of the nine would be his toll. Mal didn’t know that so he accepted the bargain. 

“Don’t bargain with Death, Mal,” Laz tried to call magic to fight it but couldn’t latch onto the number enough to do so.

Ballany’s unborn baby giggled and Laz returned to the maze. This was confusing but then it all became confusing after his apprenticeship as a wizard. 

Zool was there at the maze; he raised his hand and smacked Laz six times. Once again Laz’s mind drifted to Morte, his debased love sometimes involved striking. In tribunal his defense was that he needed to break Laz’s mind and abuse was the fastest way. Something stopped another round of smacks from Zool, Mal, the unborn infinity and Pi would dance forever in the maze but something stopped it.

Something was important…

The arms were still there. Had they always been there? Propping him up and keeping him from being eaten by the serpent? Only in the moment of their absence did he notice they were gone.

“DAB,” Lazeron screamed it and the world came rushing back.

They were in the court of the self proclaimed sewer king, the boatman suddenly made sense. Lazeron briefly missed the comforting insanity of Despair. The sewer king was a potent Mage and would exact a heavy toll for passage.

Lazeron opened the sight and glanced toward Bellany confirming his fear, the life within her was strongly magical. He wondered if she knew. The Sewer King would surely notice.

The Winding Road: A Compentent Guardsman

by Frank Gori

From the moment Lazeron opened Dab’s door and an alarm filled the building, Malleck had been scrambling. He gave orders while his mind wrestled with the situation. The group needed him to give orders, to keep the illusion of control. Panic was something they could ill afford.

Mal rattled orders instinctually: “Free every prisoner on the floor and gather any weapons and uniforms you can find. Capture any guardsmen that look like officers and kill the grunts.” The prison was the kind of trap you didn’t see coming until it was too late. Extra prisoners were extra bodies. Bodies that could provide the group with more force and bodies that in all honesty were expendable.

Dab was in the lowermost basement of the five in the facility. Access to each basement was secured with an iron-barred, reinforced door with stout braces. The ground floor had a portcullis, and the whole facility had about double the expected guardsmen.

The new guards proved to be a double edged sword to Mal’s plans.  The extra bodies employed by the enemy made getting in without opposition possible. New faces weren’t suspicious, and the honeypot trap set by Bellani the night before procured the team uniforms. Now however, those new faces were going to be trouble on the way out.

The liberated prisoners proved to be both a help and a hindrance in getting out. Several of the prisoners were prominent members of other guilds, or foreign visitors. There came a point where Malleck expected a scandal in every cell.

Malleck found and freed an elderly Orc Blacksmith who had been imprisoned for over a decade, a Kristog bard who had once filled taverns and concert halls in the city, a lizardwoman cleric, and they were even insane enough to have another Mage. Malleck had found at least half a dozen possible sparks for a guild war, which told him something else as he captured level by level: this was too easy.

Even the trap on the third basement which released over a hundred zombies and skeletons in relatively tight quarters wasn’t quite deadly enough. Of the seventy souls he liberated, about two dozen fell to that trap. Without Lazeron’s magic there would have been many more dead, but it was still too easy.

The guardsmen fell back too quickly and orderly. The men must have had orders to merely delay the escape. Aside from the trap the guards only seemed to commit to stopping the prison break at a couple bottleneck choke points. Zool and Bellany made those encounters costly to the guards, the design of the prison made those choke points costly to Mal.

When they reached the portcullis at the top Mal understood.

Perfect spot to set up archers or a magic user, or they could have rigged a deadfall to bury everyone. Instead Mal found a lone guardsmen with  resolved look on his face and his hand on a lever contained in an opened lock box.

“Listen, you don’t need to die today. Just let us out and you’re free to go or you can join us, but I warn you: Try to pull that lever or act against us, and I’m going to order Laz here to immolate you,” Mal stated in a calm voice.

The guard looked at Mal and smiled a half-hearted smile, “I pulled the short straw.”

Mal calculated the situation a little differently in the moment the guard spoke. Based on his posture, the man was holding the lever up. This was a mechanical trap of some sort, already triggered. Killing the guard would set it off.

The guard was also standing inside a circle half inscribed on the floor half up the wall. A simple act of will revealed strong warding magic.

“Whatever that is, I can tell that you will die as well. That doesn’t need to happen. I can prop that lever up,” said Mal, adding a touch of magic to his words. Alas, the guard’s eyes remained clear, and he seemed to shake off Mal’s words.

“I pulled the short straw: Make peace with your favorite god. We’re all going to die soon,” the guard replied.

Mal pressed forward, “I can tell you don’t want to die.”

The guard replied, “Of course I don’t! But I believe in something… I pulled the short straw so I’m going to do it.”

Mal queried, “Then why haven’t you?”

 Another alarm went off and the guard smiled as he replied, “I was waiting for my friends to get out.” He let go of the lever as a purple fire enveloped him. The mechanical noise of shifting gears strained and plates in the floor shifted breaking the circle.

A dagger darted through the air, jamming the lever, but the dagger snapped right out almost immediately. Magical missiles of force energy slammed into the guard to seemingly no effect.

“Run,” Mal shouted as he turned away and followed his own order.

The guard screamed, as his features began to rapidly shift. Bones cracked and flesh was torn, revealing scales the color of polished iron. The man’s body contorted grossly as he gained size and mass. Within a matter of seconds, the man was twisted into a rather large dragon.

Mal had spent those few moments running, as did his immediate companions. Some of his liberated prisoners had not, and were subsequently caught in the first blast of fire. A blast of cold soon followed, and then a hammering sound.

A quick surveying glance told Mal he had lost another seven or so men, but none of the folk he had come in with.

“Laz, tell me you can do something here,” Mal said in a pleading tone.

“I can buy us time,” Laz said, and began casting.

A wall of iron, a wall of stone and a wall of force followed.

Laz made the motions of casting something else, but twice seemed to fall into a violent and confused haze. Mal knew despair when he saw it; Laz had been pushed too far.

Laz bought them time, it was going to have to be enough. They’d have to find another way out.

Roughly forty pairs of eyes were on Mal. The dragon guard’s hammer-shaped tail was smashing away at the portcullis in a steady rhythm.

“I’m open to suggestions…”

The Winding Road: Wizard Lazeron Pi of the Mage's Guild

by Frank Gori




Lazeron tried to ignore the numbers, but as he circled the bar a third time, he couldn’t help but notice them in the cobblestones. The pattern was Chaos to an untrained eye. Along the route he walked every few cobbles had a sparkle of glass in the stone, three, then one, four, one, five, perhaps the pattern is over… Nine, two then six, five, and three again what did it mean! He checked for a tail but wondered once more of the numbers and their hold on him.

Lazeron closed his eyes and counted to five, then took nine measured steps outside of the path he was on and toward the door. The numbers and their meaning served a purpose but they could wait. Within the bar was the Caravaneer he was to meet, and all the wizards in the Mage’s Guild were counting on him not screwing this up.

To his knowledge, he was the first non-sorcerer to play the Chaos Man for an outsider. Of course he didn’t know about playing the Chaos Man until he was asked to, so his knowledge was regrettably limited on the subject, but it stood to reason he was the first. Wizards were a relatively new phenomenon regarded by most sorcerers to be dangerous and possibly unstable. Lazeron wondered if the real Chaos Man shared that opinion, if he indeed existed anymore. Knowing he was to play the role shook the foundation of what Lazeron thought he knew of his own organization. One thing was certain, whoever did run the guild ran a far more restrictive and controlled regime then outsiders perceived, the pressure was on to perform well tonight.

The dominant line of thinking was that magic was inside everyone, it was simply easier for sorcerers and the like to access magic then it was for the average person. The power was wild, mind altering, world altering, and addictive as hell. Usually to use magic was divine, it felt indescribably good, but the more you used the less that was until despair as deep and indescribable as the bliss overtook the magic user. In the depths of despair even raising a blade to kill oneself was like climbing a mountain, not worth the effort.

Wizard’s fought that. Lazeron truly felt by the force of his will he could control the raw powers of creation itself. To him that secret laid within the numbers and when he used a spell he could connect with the numbers. He no longer felt bliss or despair, but that was limited, his mind was limited and magic was really unlimited. Even the numbers seems to stretch out into infinity.

Every wizard had their own way of imposing a semblance of order to the bliss, letdown and despair. Lazeron could safely use the protective magic of what he called abjuration. His numbers were somehow related, but the highest form of their unending pattern was on his right hand, where twenty two was over seven.

Tonight the numbers needed to wait; he was going to follow protocol to a tee. He was to be within two hours late, he was to impose some sort of game with the subject, and give the Caravaneer whatever he wished within reason for a price. He brought dice, he found comfort in the feel of his dice. A comfort. Numbers were sometimes the only thing that made sense.

Calling the memories held within the amulet Lazeron was issued washed him over in a moment of bliss. He reveled in it a moment longer then he should have before using the numbers like a mantra to stave off the effect: three point, one, four, one, five, nine, two, six… The rationalization of an irrational number, that paradox was magic. Then numbers balanced the bliss and then came the tide of memories about Caravaneer Malleck. Some were from previous assignees, others were from observers, one particularly unnecessary one came from a high end courtesan. Malleck’s identity from dozens of perspective came to fruition in his mind all at once.

The heady addictive rush of the bliss was something he expected. Better than sex, drugs, food, even the joys of love fell short. Magic was life piled upon life. Life without it was too little, too small. The air he breathed was less necessary.

Mixing that rush with the sudden power and intimacy of new knowledge was an intense new spice. He found he knew Malleck, like an old friend might, and he found he rather liked the bad-blood. Continuing the farce had been hard on the last few stand-ins, he suddenly understood the reasoning for using a wizard. Lazeron might seem crazy but he was accustomed to dealing with that and concealing it from others. In a way his numbers were both his greatest weakness and strength.

Still, Lazeron circled the block round the bar a fourth time.He needed to separate the memories and emotions of the amulet from his own. With more time Lazeron was fairly certain he could use the amulet to strengthen his control over magic. The potential was there to bolster his will. He let that thought slide away, he had to be professional.

He had come down enough to observe that there was a Workman’s Guild leader stirring up a crowd of workmen. Something about the cost increases on tools needed for their trades, and outrage with the Blacksmith’s Guild.

Lazeron’s stomach started to knot up, someone was using magic in the bar. It was a rare gift to sense magic, rarer still to discern things from the sensations. He could not place why but the disturbed nature of this magic was somehow familiar. It took him a moment to realize the magic was fueling the temper of the crowd. The ugly undercurrent in the crowd of the bar would not need much of a spark to lash out like an inferno.

If Lazeron failed his duty tonight the guild might strip him. The Chaos Man could never fail, which was made clear whne Laz was assigned his role. Should he make the Chaos Man look weak he'd forfeit the lives of all witnessess and he'd be forcable stripped of his magic and left into a permanent despair.

Lazeron ran in the bar hoping it wasn’t too late, the magic he sensed felt finely controlled and nauseatingly impure. It was like tasting a fine wine then getting a sour and rotten aftertaste.Somewhere a bell rang and a trace of magic came into fruition above the third booth to his left. The magic was a contingency, this was a trap. A basso voice rang out with the call “Shenanigans,” and The Sawhorse erupted into absolute chaos.