A Story of Kyle Reigns

Kyle skulked around the Royal Palace for a week. He studied windows and doors and watched the changing of the guard. He took careful notes of which windows tended to be dark at night and how often the guards patrolled. He even took a handful of courier jobs which granted him, albeit temporary and highly restricted, access to the palace. He studied places he might hide and ever-burning torches and glow orbs. He also guessed as to what sources of light might be removed and not noticed. He felt out the ebb and flow of the Royal Palace. He observed the servants coming and going and how at ease everyone was. There was a sense of placation among the nobility that came to call on royalty, and even among the guardsmen assigned to guard the halls.

Kyle hadn’t expected that when walking these halls. He had anticipated hostile looks from every guard as he passed. It hadn’t been that long, a mere two years, since he was led shackled from the royal dungeon through some of these halls. He half, more than half, expected to be recognized at every turn by every other guardsman, but not a one cast him even the slightest of second glances. Somewhere in the back of his mind, all that set him at ease.

And all the while during his extensive scouting of the building, he was never called on by Joyce to be given his job; though that didn’t entirely concern him, as he trusted Joyce to call on him when the time came. What did creep into his mind of worries was that he hadn’t seen Sable, or Bear, or Greg, or any number of other thieves scoping out the place. He’d expected, given the huff and puff that Joyce had put on, there would be several members of Joyce’s band looking at the place. Kyle doubted that they were simply better than he, and eluded his notice.

One might call that arrogance. Kyle thought of it as he was simply better than they were in some regards.

It was the last day before an unofficial ‘couple of weeks’ had passed that Kyle watched Jace walk out of Royal Palace. It concerned Kyle more to see Joyce’s brother walking out the building than it had the entire previous absence of the other thieves had. What was the holyman doing there? Was he onto Kyle? Kyle’d followed Jace’s instructions to the letter, avoiding the shop and Signy all together while Jace was in town.

He’d listened to the big man, dressed in military finery of royal blue and gold and cut to express his martial prowess while still looking formal enough for a high-class ball, out of some base grudging respect because he’d managed to save Kyle’s life not once, but twice. And the rogue hadn’t repaid the favor.

The lease he could do would be listen to Jace. Of course, if Joyce’d told Jace what was up, he might be there to warn the royal guard of the impending theft. But that hardly made sense. The two brothers barely spoke to one another, and when they did kind words weren’t exchanged. Kyle left the edge of the Royal Palace, curiosity piquing his interest. He continued to ponder why Jace was in the palace as he shadowed the larger man across the city of Bragnog.

Kyle followed him through winding cobblestone streets, magically smoothed and glistening white, of the royal district, to the temple district where the street matched whatever temple dominated the street it was on. Kyle, halfway through the temple district, recognized where Jace was going: Signy’s shop.

Kyle sneered, curling his lip at the thought of Jace returning to the smithy he had bought for, and was currently banned from, Signy. He broke away from tailing the cleric and walked down a side alleyway. Sable stepped out of the shadows before him. He didn’t dignify the woman with a shocked response, though his heart was suddenly racing in his chest.

“What’d’ya want, Sable?” Kyle asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Joyce’s gotta job fer yuh, rooster,” Sable cooed. She smiled and slithered in her saunteringly sexy way toward him.

“You just his messenger now?” Kyle asked.

Sable shook her head and drew a finger down the side of his cheek. “Hardly. I just happened to be the one to walk away from the palace and tail you tailing Jace. Still heartbroken over the falling out?”

Kyle shook his head. “Been workin’, not thinkin’.”

“Want another distraction?” Sable asked with a coy little smile.

“No. Not right now. Does Joyce want me to come to him?”

“Mmm.” She considered him for a moment longer than Kyle was truly comfortable being considered. “No. I’ve got th’job and the details here with me.”

“So you are little more than a messenger.” Kyle took a step back and leaned against the wall of the alleyway.

“Please.” She mirrored his pose against the opposite wall. “I’m far more than a mere messenger, and this is hardly the place to discuss such delicate plans. Meet me at yer safehouse on the corner of th’temple tuh Moradin.” She then slipped back into the shadows, as though the wall wasn’t even there.

Kyle wished he knew how she did that. It was likely some magic trick he’d not stumbled across yet. With that thought, he settled on that he may want to visit an academy for a period of time and refine his raw magical talent.

He pushed off from the wall and walked back to the street. He stepped out into the street and worked his way away from the smithy and back into the temple district. He padded around behind the great stone monolith that was the temple of Moradin, then climbed up the backside in the fading daylight. He pulled himself onto a ledge and pushed open a small, stone door set into the side of the building. The room beyond came alight as he closed the door behind him.

The room was small with little room for anything more than a small bed and a table, each set against a wall. The walls were bare stone, seeming to have been carved from the temple itself. Kyle’d never bothered to decorate this particular safehouse. When he had come here, it was usually just for a night. This location was one he used solely as an emergency escape hole.

Sable lounged across the small bed, waiting for him. She sat up as the gloworbs raised the light level in the room. “Took you long enough, darling.”

“I don’t have yer shadow jumpin’ capabilities,” Kyle said.

“I’d be glad to take yuh on as an apprentice tuh teach you such tricks,” Sable said with a small smile playing across her face.

“Sure… After the job.” Kyle moved deeper into the room, standing at the edge of the bed. It took him a mere two steps to get that far.

Sable nodded and slipped a hand into a belt pouch and withdrew a map, then a sealed letter. She held the letter out toward Kyle while spreading the map out across the foot of his bed. Kyle took the letter from her hand.

He recognized the seal on the letter as being Joyce’s and broke it open. He scanned the contents of the letter. It told of what Joyce wanted stolen. Kyle put the letter down, feeling slightly dizzy. In the letter Joyce had listed a handful of items he wanted from the Royal Palace. Among them was the Crown Jewels of the Royal Family and the Royal Scepter. He’d seen the jewels once, and that was at his sentencing. He had, as a supposed murderer of a noble, been sentenced by the king himself.

He swallowed and put the letter down on the small table. Sable looked up at him.

“Yuh look like yuh’ve seen a ghost,” Sable said. There wasn’t even a touch of concern in her voice.

“He wants two of the best guarded relics in the entire realm.” Kyle leaned against the wall. “No… Can’t be done. You know, I thought he was going to ask for candlesticks or something.”

“He’s gotta lotta faith in yuh, Kyle.” Sable smoothed the map out. “Yuh ain’t gonna be going in alone either.”

“Okay… What’s the plan then? I assume you’ve got one… that you will be goin’ in with me.” Kyle pushed off of the wall and knelt at the foot of the bed.

Sable smiled, almost venomously, at him. “If you would stop worrying an’ look at th’map, I’ll go over what I’ve done devised.”

Kyle looked from her, in her tight leathers, and lounging in such a way to show off the curves of said leathers, to the map. It was a map of the Royal Palace, complete with guard stations, patrol routes, and servant movements. It was even magically animated to show the most common routes of any given patrol through the building.

“Now then… Here’s where we’ll enter. There’ll be a distraction by Grassroots here.” Sable pointed at the map as she began to lay out the plan to swipe the Crown Jewels and Royal Scepter.

Fleeing

WARNING:

The Following Contains Some very brief descriptions of Violence and mild Gore.

If such language upsets you, READ NO FURTHE

 

Topkoft struggled up the hill. It looked stony and solid, but his leather boots sank into it as though it were sand. He looked to his right. Nopl, struggled the same as Topkoft did, though the senior demonslayer didn’t display any of the worry that Topkoft did. The thing at the top of the hill hardly looked human. It bore the vague shape of a woman, an obese woman falling out of a mostly destroyed robe; a robe that once belonged to a member of the priesthood that supported the demonslayers. The abomination was likely a blasphemous she bitch that had welcomed a demon to infest her form and grant her power that no mortal was ever meant to touch. Such people lost their souls in the pact and became a blight to the land. They twisted the very world around them. They threatened to break the very fabric of reality with the unholy power gifted to them.

The thought forced the fear away from Topkoft’s mind and gave him fresh vigor to climb the faux stone hill. The state of the stone beneath his feet was testament to the corrupting nature of the demon. He drew his broad sword as the demon lifted its head from its relaxed meditative posture and craned it around. The bulging hump on its back twitched a few times as it lifted up from the ground, legs unfolding from the full lotus position and touching lightly to the ground though it seemed to Topkoft as though that was a habit from mortality rather than a necessary pose.

Topkoft drew his short sword. He was nearly in striking distance. He was the youngest of the demonslayers that Vrocknar’d chosen to hunt down this young demon, and by extension, the spryest. He lashed out with his broad sword. It felt as though he were forcing his sword through thick molasses. He heard the pop behind him, then felt something wet and sticky splat across his backside. He continued to force his sword toward the demon as it stomped one foot and a jagged shard of metal sprung from the ground. Right in the way of his sword.

He smashed the weapon into the demon’s new toy with bone-jarring force. The impact reverberated back into his arm as the demon took up the shard of metal like a staff. The molasses disappeared from around Topkoft and he used his new found freedom of motion to thrust quick strikes at the demon.

The demon effortlessly turned aside each of his strikes. It pivoted, turning the shaft of jagged metal to meet each slash or gently turn away a frantic thrust. Topkoft worked hard to press the demon back, each blow closer to making contact than the last, but still nothing quite struck true.

Vrocknar suddenly appeared behind the demon. Its eyes, blood shot to the point of appearing entirely crimson, popped open wide.

Topkoft learned then that the demon’d merely been playing with him. It smashed away a double stab, pivoted, and jammed the tip of the shard into his middle. He felt the leather and metal plates buckle and bend with the impact, then flew. He tumbled through the air, away from the hilltop and the demon and Vrocknar. The world spun and he slammed down, hard, against the stone, that wasn’t stone, floor right next to the tunnel entrance they’d entered this hellhole by.

His head spun. Stars swam before him. He wasn’t dead, or even seriously injured by his short, rough flight through the air. He pushed himself up. No normal blow could drive someone through the air like that. He felt suddenly sick. He’d been touched, directly, by the blasphemous demonic magic and flung across the cavern by it. Did that mean he was corrupted? The priest’s teachings spoke of corruption taking place with but a touch and agreement.

But what if they were wrong and it could be forced on someone. It had certainly been forced on the area around the demon. The cavern wasn’t natural, the stone looked solid until stepped upon, the tunnel leading to it came from a branch that was entirely new… Topkoft fought back the urge to vomit as the most pervasive, and sinister, of the demon’s spells took hold. It was a spell that required no casting, or even active part on the behalf of the demon. That spell was fear.

It ate away at Topkoft. He was tempted to remain where he was, feign death… but then, he knew the demon would find him anyways. He pushed himself up, saw Vrocknar still engaged with the demon. The old man’s dagger flashed, and rang metallically against the demon’s staff. He caught Topkoft’s eye, and Topkoft looked away. He could see the other demonslayers scattered around the hill as well.

Nopl’s stumpy legs were all that was left of him. Ysdrial stood on his tiptoes, an earthen spike rammed through his chest, the point dripped red gore and it held him in the tiptoe position. Kopper was nowhere to be seen and Hrothgar laid near the opposite wall in a pool of his own blood, one hand still clutching the ruin of his neck where the earthen spike had slid through his armor as a hot knife goes through butter. Brovar wasn’t anywhere to be seen either. He’d either exploded as Nopl had or had fallen somewhere out of Topkoft’s sight.

Topkoft staggered to his feet. His legs didn’t want to support him all of a sudden. He met Vrocknar’s eye, saw the older demonslayer freeze, watched the demon smash his weapon arm with its staff at the elbow, and turned away. This was folly, he told himself. His legs found their strength with the addition of a goal. Especially when that goal was self-preservation. He put his legs to motion, sprinting away from the scene of all the carnage and death. He dashed into the tunnel and was barely four steps in when the walls smashed together behind him; inches away from crushing his heels.

Topkoft raced along the tunnel, running blind in the sudden absolute darkness, pumping his arms furiously at his sides. He stopped only when he ran headlong into a wall. The sole thing that prevented him from knocking himself out, or smashing his face up beyond being recognizable, was his helmet. He fell back onto his haunches and sat there in the sheer, black, darkness, listening to the soft drips in the cave and his own ragged breaths.

He couldn’t say how long he sat there, but eventually he stood. He took a moment to sheath his paired swords and fumbled for his flint and steel. If the demon hadn’t come for him so far, and he’d already written off the possibility of Vrocknar getting the better of demon, it likely wasn’t coming for him. The realization, the tiny blossoming of hope, calmed him considerably.

With that calm realization, and a spark of light from the flint and steel, came another realization. What was he going to tell the council? He’d fled from the demon he was supposed to have killed or died trying to kill. Demonslayers weren’t supposed to run away. They weren’t supposed to leave a job undone. Teams, like the one Topkoft had belonged to, frequently left the monastery keeps that dotted the land and came back with only a couple members. They usually also returned with a new raw recruit or two. A demonslayer’s lift was short and violent when he left a monastery keep, but it was a rare occurrence that an entire team was wiped out, or even reduced to a single member.

He struck the flint and steel together again over a stubborn torch, paused to listen for imagined footsteps, then did so again. The council wouldn’t be happy with him. He was almost certain of that. He didn’t know what the punishment for running was, it hadn’t happened in his monastery, but he couldn’t imagine it was pleasant or less than fatal. He struck the flint and steel again. The torch caught.

He was still among the best of the best. Demonslayers were faster and better trained than your average swordsman of the land. They needed to be to take on the magical furies of a demon. He shook a little in the darkness. He’d been the fastest, not the strongest, and nimblest of the team that had entered that cavern.

The torch caught, and he knew what he would do. He was still among the best. Hired swords were a valuable commodity. He could even train some petty lord’s personal guard. He slipped a hand under the edge of his helmet and undid the chin strap. The rest of his gear was unrecognizable, the stuff a wandering swordhand might carry. He pulled the helmet off and looked at its blood spattered visor and looked at the sunburst with a single crescent moon eclipsing the upper edge and an array of stars beyond it. Gore dripped down from the crescent moon and onto the sunburst, making it seem as though it were the early rising sun. The breaking of a new dawn.

The council would assume they’d all died. Another, stronger and larger, team of demon slayers would be dispatched to handle this threat, the land would be safe, and Topkoft would survive to fight another day against mortal enemies. At least that is what Topkoft told himself as he dropped the helmet to the side of the tunnel.

Torch in hand, he started walking toward the exit. It was a new day, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to find some poor wench to spend it with before seeking his fortune in some meaningful manner.

End.

There will be more of Topkoft and Vrocknar and the demon and Zaurell. I hope you’ve enjoyed their little introductions… they’ll all be players in the longer fiction I write for NanoWriMo next year.

Until next week… fare thee well.

Meeting with a Demon

First, I want to apologize for the lack of a post last week… it wasn’t intentional. Other events just caught up to me. So, this week you get one that’s, roughly, a 1,000 words longer than normal. Enjoy.

WARNING:

The Following Contains Some very brief descriptions of Violence and mild Gore.

If such language upsets you, READ NO FURTHE

Vrocknar’s stomach churned. He’d been through this a dozen times before, and it never got easier. He checked, again, his stained and dented, grey steel, plate armor. He tightened a strap under his left arm and flexed his gauntleted hand. He tightened fingers around his sword’s pommel and drew in a shaky breath. This was his calling, however, and his six comrades were waiting for his signal. It’d take all of them to bring the demon down. He knew not all of them would make it out alive.

He tightened his grip on his sword, an inelegant piece of iron with a pommel designed for two hands as the blade itself was longer than his arm by a few inches. It was double-edged bastard-sword and both of its edge had been honed to a razor’s sharpness. Some may use such a sword for hacking apart an opponent. Vrocknar was a surgeon with his chosen weapon. He’d found that demons died just as easily from a sword through the ribs as any man, but hacking a bulbous limb from the beast usually just pissed it off.

He let the breath, one he hadn’t even realized he was holding, out slowly. He hated being in command more than worried for what would happen in the cave. Before him were six fellow demonslayers. Each wore a different style of armor ranging from simple leathers to heavy steel plate similar to what Vrocknar wore. Each reflected the man’s individual fighting style, near as much as their weapons told how they fought. The sole commonality among the group was their helmets. Each was steel plated in white-gold with a master-crafted, clear, crystal face-shield. They were dwarven made, and adapted to the wearer. Each swept smoothly back in a conical design to glance blows away rather than stop them outright and at the crest over each member’s forehead was an engraving of a sunburst with an a single crescent moon eclipsing the upper edge and an array of stars beyond it.

Vrocknar dropped down from the small outcropping of stone he had stood atop studying his troop. He’d wasted enough time. His stomach wasn’t going to stop churning until they’d rooted out the magic born demon in the cave and slain it. The other demonslayers gathered before him shifted uneasily. For some, such as Topkoft, it was their first outing. No one had more experience than Vrocknar, though. Few demonslayers lived long enough to bring down more than 4 or 5 of the beasts. Theirs was a short-lived, but glorious, life of adventure and brotherhood. They were well compensated, armor and weaponry gifted unto them, and meals were frequently free as well.

A troop of demonslayers was usually welcomed anywhere they went. And they were frequently thought to be the elite of the elite, the best and brightest fighters, soldiers, and, some would say lovers, of the land. A woman who bore a bastard from a demonslayer was considered to be lucky indeed.

He nodded to the half dozen arranged in a crescent around him. Each looked back to him with a grim determination in their features. He wondered, ever so briefly, if any among them had the same stomach churning he felt before every encounter with a demon. The thought passed quickly, replaced with his own determination and a thankfulness that he had such stalwart, if untested in some cases, brothers beside him. They still looked to him for leadership.

Vrocknar drew a small breath, looking past them to the opening in the hillside. The cave was dark and foreboding, beckoning warriors to their doom to introduce them to its dark mistress of night and pain. According to the local farming community it wasn’t terribly deep. Every spring they had had to root out a bear or some other wild animal that had chosen to make the cave its home, and had explored it to its ends.

But Vrocknar, and any other veteran (or studied) demonslayer knew that demons could control the very earth beneath their feet and just because the farmers said it was a small cave didn’t mean that the demon hadn’t changed that. He returned his gaze to his brothers-in-arms before him.

“We’re here to do a difficult task,” Vrocknar said. He knew he didn’t need to give a speech, but felt it would help anyways. His commander had given a speech before his first hunt, and it had helped to quiet his nerves. “But we’ve trained for this. We’re hardened and fast, and heroes of the land. We will get in there and end this menace to it. The demon is young yet –“ he hoped that report was true. A young inexperienced demon was easier to handle than a full-fledged monstrosity. “—but don’t let its human appearance beguile you. It may not have warped entirely to its demonic nature, and may beg that it is still human.” The reminder was a necessary one; demons always started out looking human.

“Let that not stay your blade. Remember your training, relax and let your well-honed instincts guide you. You’re all strong, and I entrust not only my life to your hands, but also the lives of your battle-brother standing beside you. I trust in you and feel it an honor to stand with you today in this endeavor.” Vrocknar stroked the hilt of his sword, a growling bear, looking at the warriors around him. They each nodded as his gaze passed over them. “Hrothgar, Kopper, you’re our torchbearers. Let us not fall into darkness in this endeavor. It’s been an honor. Vrsnar, sloosha-koon,” he quietly uttered the victory prayer before them and moved toward the cave entrance. They parted like silk before him and fell in behind him.

The cave entrance was like many Vrocknar had seen before, rough walled with natural cracks and furrows. The floor sloped gently down into the earth, stretching away from them like a hungry maw. The torchlight of Hrothgar and Kopper illuminated down to their first intersection. The demon had been at work in the caves it would seem. The locals had told the demonslayers that the caves held curves and a couple caverns, but no intersections to get lost at. Vrocknar repressed a sigh and stood at the intersection for but a moment before deciding to go left. It would do no good to split his force up. If it became a true maze, he may need to, to expedite the search for the demon, but for the moment there was safety in numbers.

He moved down the cave’s natural hallway, watching for signs of anything unnatural that might indicate that they were approaching the demon’s territory. He led his troop for what seemed like forever through the twisting cave tunnel. After traversing a steep slope the tunnel abruptly opened into a cavern. The ceiling stretched several spans overhead, and had an oval shape to it, stretching away with a gentle curve. Stalactites and stalagmites hung from the ceiling and rose from the floor in natural progressions. The ground near the middle surged up, forming a little gray, stony hill. At the apex of the hill sat a figure, surrounded by blue and red glowing orbs.

The demon was once a woman and still wore the tatters of a robe. It still held enough form that Vrocknar could recognize it as a robe of a priest of his holy order of demonslayers. The abomination before him, sitting calmly cross-legged atop its crafted hill in a pose of meditation, was once a priestess who studied holy texts and performed ceremonies of location. Those ceremonies verified, and sometimes divined outright, the presence of a demon when a concerned individual brought word to his order. They were supposed to be above corruption on all levels and this was the form of ultimate blasphemy. Possession, they were taught, was always a voluntary thing.

Vrocknar ducked back into the tunnel that led to the cavern housing the demon. His troop stopped behind him. He drew a shallow breath, studying them. “It’s in there. It’s gathering its power in the middle of the cavern. If we can come at it from all sides we likely confuse it and be able to land the killing blow.” He glanced around his soldiers, his brothers, and nodded. “No heroics though. Be careful in there and let’s do this as quick as possible.”

The group of men around him nodded.

“Hrothgar, Kopper. It’s got glow orbs of its own floating in there. We’ll not need the torches. Make use of your shields instead. Questions?” Vrocknar looked around. His veterans, Hrothgar, Kopper, Brovar, Ysdrial, and Nopl all solemnly shook their heads. Each had been on at least one hunt before. Topkoft’s features, a softly tanned, angular face with the scruff of a black goatee at the point of his chin and dark brown eyes, bore the nervousness of a young boy about to get into his first scrap with an older, stronger boy. The lad noticed Vrocknar watching and the youth’s face evened out to mirror the veteran’s. Vrocknar nodded.

He drew a shallow breath. “Move.”

Vrocknar drew his sword and led the way around the corner. He skirted immediately to the right, following the rough, uneven wall. He kept his gaze locked on the demon sitting in its blasphemous robes atop its earthen dais in the center of the room. It flinched no muscle, sitting perfectly still and gave no warning that it knew they were there.

Vrocknar reached the opposite end of the cavern after an eternity of slow walking. He watched Brovar approach from his right and Kopper on his left. He trusted his other brothers had arrayed themselves around the cavern. He tipped his head toward Kopper, then at Brovar. Each flittered a hand signal down the line to the demonslayer next to them. Vrocknar waited two heart-beats, then stepped away from the wall, moving smoothly toward the demon on its pedestal.

Kopper and Brovar moved with him. He approached the demon’s backside, facing a bulbous hunch from which sprouted a third arm. The hand at the end of the grotesque extra limb flittered fingers through a gesture quick enough that Vrocknar didn’t quite see what it had done. He saw from the corner of his eye what it’d done though.

Kopper simply exploded into a red cloud of blood. Bits of armor, bone, and body matter bounced off of Vrocknar’s armor and flecked his helmet’s crystal face shield with red. Vrocknar glanced at where Kopper had been. Only a bloody ring remained where the once proud warrior had stood. Vrocknar whipped his gaze back to the demon, quickening his pace up the hill. In the moment he’d taken to look away, the demon had gotten to its feet and ripped a jagged pole of metal from the ground and held it like a staff.

Brovar uttered a war-cry, digging the toes of his boots into the ground and springing forward at a sprint. Others around the dais echoed his cry. Vrocknar didn’t. He quickened his pace, almost keeping up with the younger Brovar, slipping half a step which ended up saving his life as an array of stone spikes rocketed from the ground. Brovar wasn’t so lucky, and from the sounds of pain, neither were a couple of his fellow demonslayers. The earthen spike retracted back into the ground nearly as smoothly as it had appeared and Brovar sank to his knees, then fell, rolling down the hill.

Vrocknar closed, almost within striking distance of the demon. He growled, from his vantage he could see the demon’d felled four of his companions. Their still forms lay broken around raised mound. He didn’t take the time to do more than glance at their fallen forms. He charged the final few steps, jammed his sword forward in a wild thrust centered on the demon’s middle.

The demon spun, swiped its staff upward, and instead of running the tip of his sword through the fleshy middle of the demon, Vrocknar found himself burying the blade into a solid wall of dirt. He jolted with the impact, tried to wrench the blade free and found it immovably impaled in the wall. He let go, and drew his dagger. He slid around the wall in time to see Topkoft’s frantic duel with the demon.

Topkoft struck with two short blades, each darting and slashing in strike after strike trying to taste the demon’s flesh. The demon turned each blow with a quick movement from its impromptu metal staff; its bulbous back and third arm were to Vrocknar.

While in a standup fight of honor between men, Vrocknar would never stab someone in the back. He dashed forward, uttering a yell as he drove his blade through the bulbous protrusion on the back of the demon.

It had less effect than he’d hoped for. The demon smashed away a pair of strikes from Topkoft and brought the tip to bear against the youth’s chest. The young warrior was knocked backward, sent flying through the air, to land hard near the exit of the cavern. He started to get up.

Vrocknar wrenched his dagger in place. He twisted it and yanked it back. It left a gaping hole in the bulbous backside of the demon as it turned to face him in an absurdly slow fashion. He lashed out with the dagger, meeting his metal with its. He struck quickly, pressing forward, but not finding any gap in its spinning deflections. Yet, he pushed on, his eyes flickering from the abomination before him to the youth pushing himself to his feet. If Vrocknar could distract it for long enough for the youngest of the warriors he brought with him to succeed where he’d failed…

Topkoft pushed himself up and locked his gaze with Vrocknar. What Vrocknar saw in the youth’s face gave him pause. He didn’t feel the jagged staff shatter his arm. He was shocked by the terror and fear blazing in Topkoft’s face, and stunned as the youth turned and fled into the tunnel. The entrance slammed closed behind the wayward demonslayer just as the demon’s staff slammed into Vrocknar’s knee, dropping him to the ground. He let out a groan, lifting his good arm, despite the pain suddenly racking his body, to grip the demon’s ankle.

It bent down, studying him for a moment. It swatted his hand away and sat.

“I’m not a demon,” and otherworldly voice said from several directions at once. The distorted, once female, face’s lips moved with the words. “I am human, as warped as this form may be, like you… the elders, they lie to us. This power isn’t terrible and hell-wrought, it’s a gift from the others, the gods themselves.”

It bent forward at the waist and Vrocknar thrust out a punch for the demon’s face. It turned the blow away.

“And I’ll teach you. You’ll resist at first. I know I did, but there is a new power rising and you will make a wonderful addition. So, Vrocknar—“ the fact the demon knew his name terrified him, “—let us have a philosophical discussion of this dilemma we find ourselves in.”

R

Placeholder

Placeholder. Yeah, there will be a proper post. Just not right now. Tonight or tomorrow. Been super busy.

A Story of Kyle Reigns

Kyle stalked through the hall. Water dripped down from the loose cobblestone ceiling. He shouldered his way past a shadowy figure draped in loose fitting trousers and tunic, complete with a cowl to mask his face. The figure grunted, slid aside and Kyle continued down the corridor. He couldn’t ever figure out why someone as powerful as Joyce always insisted on keeping such hideouts. Kyle was fairly certain more than his ramshackle guild knew about the place. There had to be more secure locales to be stationed.

He moved to the door past a t-intersection lit by a gloworb nestled in the ceiling. He knocked once and pushed the door open without waiting for a response from the other side. Sable materialized at his side, closing the rickety, wooden slat door behind him. He cast a glance at her and walked into the anteroom. He stopped to look at another three doors before him. Each had a gloworb above it, the left hand two were red, the right hand was green.

“Which one is he behind?” he snapped at Sable as she sidled up next to him. He didn’t look her way, but could hear the soft creaks of her leather armor as she stood next to him. Was likely something alluring… formfitting… He glanced her direction and wasn’t disappointed. The half-elf was dressed in tight leather armor, dyed a charcoal grey, with dark adamantium studs. It was cut to display her supple assets, and likely relied on magic to protect her more vital bits as it showed off ample amounts of her thoroughly tanned skin and luscious cleavage.

“Why do yuh need’a know, darlin’ li’l rooster?”  Sable cooed. She sidled half  a step closer to Kyle. She pushed her arms behind her, stretching and presenting her cleavage at the same time.

“Ah need a job. Somethin’ different from th’norm.” Kyle pulled his gaze away from her chest, and locked it ahead. From the corner of his vision he could see her smile.

“I’ve gotta job for you,” she purred. Kyle could swear that the ‘half’ part of her half-elven lineage was cat rather than human. “One far more pleasurable than whatever he might be able to give you –“ he felt her hand brush his and then his upper thigh… through his leathers “— and remind you there’re more women in this world than the hulking she-bitch you moan and piss about.”

“Yer not half the woman she is,” Kyle snapped, and slapped her hand away.

“I think that’s the point, darlin’,” Sable cooed in response. Her fingers brushed his hand again, but that was the extent of it. “But if you’re not wanting that…” she let the words hang in the air between them.

“Screw you, Sable.”

“Gladly.” She flashed him a beaming smile.

“Which door?” Kyle knew that walking through the wrong would just loop him back to the entrance of the room and lock him into a maze of picking doors until he ended up randomly picking the right one that would dump him back into the tunnel. Stupid illusion traps. He drew a breath and looked at Sable again. His gaze flickered between the tops of her breasts and her face. She smiled sweetly at him, likely fully aware of the effect the armor’s design was having on him. She, thankfully, kept her hands to herself for the moment.

“Mmm, why so harsh, you luscious piece—“ she cut off at a glare from Kyle. “Right hand side with the green light. Thought it might be less conspicuous.”

Kyle brushed past her and to the door. He was aware of her near silent footfalls trailing after him. If he had to peg someone for being Joyce’s right hand (wo)man, it’d be Sable. Her following him was no surprise. He twisted the knob and stepped into a circular room crafted from most covered stone and lit with gloworbs. Plain, white gloworbs that threw hard shadows anywhere something obstructed the light. Such as much of the throne that set in the middle of the room atop a small dais. Joyce figured himself to be some sort of royalty (which, technically he was), a bandit king. He liked to play the part, and was lounging in the throne, one leg draped over the arm of the massive, gilded chair. It was a little out of place in the dingy, damp room.

“I’m terribly surprised to see you here, Kyle,” Joyce said. He didn’t sound surprised. “I didn’t summon you as I figured you would be wanting to patch things up with your missus.”

“Yer brother kicked me out fer the couple weeks. I need a—“

“Oh? Jace’s back in town?” While the question was posed with an air of surprise, it lacked the appropriate inflection to convince Kyle that this was new news to Joyce. If Kyle had to guess, the ‘bandit king’ before him knew well before Jace landed in Bragnog. “What a delight. The whole family together again. But, I ponder, by what authority did he remove you from your home?”

“Force o’might,” Kyle muttered. It had been more force of will than might, Jace hadn’t laid a finger on him, but it had felt rightly mighty when Kyle’d stood before the young Lord Windstrom.

“Oh, oh my. And here I didn’t think my brother had such force within him. But… this sounds a personal dispute between you two and Miss Havelock.” Joyce sat up and leaned forward. The gesture finally brought his face out of the shadows cast by the throne. Where Jace was golden haired, Joyce’s was pitch black, when Jace’s face was broad and strong, Joyce’s was narrow and devious. The brothers shared opposite builds as well, Joyce being tall and narrow, slender and wiry, the type of person capable of quickly snatching a purse or scaling a wall like a spider. Jace was broad and muscular, bulky even, though every inch of his girth was muscle and he wore it well.

“I didn’t come here tuh have yuh broker any sorta deal or outcome or whatever,” Kyle grumbled. “Tha’s mah problem. Not yer’s.”

Joyce leaned forward, resting his elbows on the armrests of the throne and steepling his fingers before his face. He let out a low ‘hmm…’ to Kyle’s statement, but nothing else.

“Do yuh gotta any jobs yuh be needin’ done?” Kyle blurted out. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable under the steely gaze of Joyce. It was sort of like waking a dragon and asking for its golden coin for the pleasure of having woken it.

“I have something I could use you for,” Joyce said after an insurmountable amount of time. He smiled, though it never quite reached his eyes, and leaned back into the shadows of the throne. “Dangerous though. You’d needa be on you’re A-game for it. Are you sure you’d be up for such a thing? Won’t be distracted?”

“I can focus.” Kyle shifted on his feet. He wanted a distraction from the storm that was his relationship with the testy barbarian; something else to focus on. “What is it yuh need me for.”

“It will take a couple weeks to prepare for… it is rather important you succeed,” Joyce said.

“What is it you want me to do? I was hoping for somethin’ more immediate…”

“Beggars can hardly be choosers, my dear Kyle.” Joyce’s voice dripped with venom. A venom that Kyle ignored. “I want you to take something from the Royal Palace. If you’re feeling antsy, go and scope out the outside of the place. I will call for you when it’s time to actually do the job.”

“The Royale Palace…” Kyle shivered. He’d never even really dreamt of pulling a heist anywhere near this scale. He shook his head. He opened his mouth to say more, but Joyce cut him off.

“Take it or leave it, Kyle. Do your own scouting of the palace if you like, but don’t come back to me before I send for you,” Joyce said. “Are we at an understanding? Can I trust you to perform this most important job? To be discreet until I call on you?”

Kyle stared at the shadows where Joyce’s voice emanated from. He wanted something immediate, but… the thought of stealing something from the Royale Palace at all was causing a distraction for him. He could see the grand halls already. He’d been there once, for his sentencing and trial near on two years prior, and knew the vague layout… He could spend a couple weeks learning the ins and outs…

“Sure, count me in. I want to hear what you want.”

“That, my dear boy,” Sable cooed from his elbow. “Will be revealed at the next visit.”

A short one

For starters, I wanted to apologize for the tardiness of this post. I usually have them ready to go the night before so I can schedule them to go up at 0600 Friday morning. I will freely admit that I’ve been slacking this week, between a couple ill nights and a couple nights not wanting to miss out on Kung Fu, I didn’t get any significant writing done… so I’m doing something slightly copoutish… a poll. That’ll be at the bottom of this post.

I also wanted to announce a brief hiatus while I do a little bit of traveling during the holiday season. Nothing major, just visiting family, but it will mean that I likely won’t be doing another post before the beginning of next year. SO… you’ve been warned.

 

And with that, I bid you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year and leave you with a poll to answer:

 

World Building

Welcome back guys. This week visits Architecture.

There will be more to come.
http://larseighner.com/world_builder/index.html

Architecture

 

The most common building material is wood and thatch. It’s cheap and readily available. Cities and strongholds have cores crafted of stone, but the common town and village possesses buildings of wood, with stone chimneys. Of course, wood has disadvantages that stone lacks, such as flammability. More than one village has been lost to a rampaging fire. Of course, in the northern reaches, the wooden buildings, with mud or mortar sealing cracks, tend to be slightly warmer than their stone counterparts.

The ornamentation of a building directly relates to how rich or poor  a settlement (or establishment) is. Small villages usually have almost no decoration to their buildings outside of drying herbs, or other utilitarian decoration. In small establishments, the ornaments are useful as well. In towns large enough to have building dedicated (and visited by outsiders) to this or that trade, they are decorated to advertise that trade. A smith will have horseshoes or other metal work hanging from his shingles or sign, a miller may have empty grain sacks hanging about his building. The inn would be brightly colored and have a sign with a bed. Etcetera, etcetera. In large towns and cities where streets and alleys exist, signs proclaim what buildings are. They’re decorated with painted murals and the richest have small stone murals in geometric patterns. Strongholds have elaborate gargoyles, frequently crafted to look like the abominations that human mages become after using magic too long. All to remind the common folk of what to watch for should a ‘demon’ begin to walk their ranks.

Most buildings outside of strongholds, castles, and some portions of cities are all a single story. Inns are two stories, with a third story being considered ‘tall.’ A story is usually between 10 and 12 feet tall, with a squat building being a mere 7-9 feet tall. Strongholds range in height from 60 to 90 feet (with walls usually higher), though both extremes are rare, and subject to available resources. In cities, residential homes are a single story while market districts tend to grow up to a second to provide a living area for the shop owner above the shop. There are, of course, extremes to everything. The capitals tend to be larger, simply built on a grander scale, than cities. They sprawl both in size and height with multiple districts. Then there are the legendary outposts and strongholds left over from before the Uzas Event when the human world was a little more spread out and prone to building larger structures (sometimes with the aid of the dwarves).

Smaller establishments have utilitarian designs that don’t waste space. They tend to be square, but triangular and circular homes aren’t unheard of or even uncommon. As civilizations grow, so do the buildings. Inns have hallways linking rooms for sleeping, strongholds have large dining halls and hallways designed to funnel foes as well as provide passage for people. Palaces waste space all over the place while being designed to twist and circle to confuse those entering them.

There is typically one family to a house. A typical house is large enough to house a family comfortably, being 4-5 rooms with 2-3 of those rooms being dedicated to sleeping. The style varies from establishment to establishment with city buildings being bigger and grander in style than those of your common farm or small village.

Lower-class buildings are always wooden and are frequently nothing more than a multiple room shanty. Middle-class buildings have more rooms, cover a larger area and are more likely to have a second story. Upper-class homes are never found outside of cities and are more frequently stone than wood. They comprise almost all shops and inns, and are always two stories tall. City buildings are, typically, bigger than rural ones and constructed to a higher standard (not including shanties or shacks) with better materials. Rural buildings are almost always utilitarian in nature.

In rural areas living quarters are frequently offshoots from a main central room. That room usually houses a fire or hearth used for cooking and heating the building in the cooler months. Two story buildings frequently have bedrooms on the second floor for privacy (in the case of shops) or the convenience that heat rises and helps to keep them warm in the winters. In strongholds, castles, and palaces, Parlors and libraries are common, but are fairly rare in other, smaller, buildings, the exception being Inns. Those frequently have a parlor for entertaining guests, but outside of those… buildings just don’t waste the space. Buildings are heated via fire and cooled by opening windows or ‘skylights’ to let heat out naturally.

Birth of a Godtouched Being

WARNING:

The Following Contains Some very brief descriptions of Nudity

If such language upsets you, READ NO FURTHER

The pale, full Moon hung low, but bright, in the night sky. Beneath her the land sprawled out, cool in the late Harvest season. Fields of wheat dotted the valley a small farm house and barn usually nearby. In the soft glow of the full Moon, each field appeared to be large sheets of flowing and wavering gold. And to some, especially the common folk who would survive off the harvest provided by this valley, it was more valuable. But not everyone was peacefully slumbering, waiting for the first candle hour to begin the day’s harvest. The Harvest Festival was nearing, and most needed their rest to be able to be ready for it. The celebration of a successful harvest was most important indeed.

Zaurell was among the few who were not peacefully sleeping in their bed. She stood near the head of the valley, a point that narrowed into a pass leading up into the Aquilafour mountains. Stone steps, carved into the mountain’s foothills itself, stretched out before her, leading back down into the valley. Nearly no one traveled by this route, outside of the Timekeeper for the valley, and certainly fewer at this time of year. Yet she had felt compelled to come out on this night. Something within her, or perhaps outside, had drawn her from her warm, cozy bed to the first of the stone steps leading out of the northeastern edge of the valley.

And so she stood, ebony skin, a rarity for this portion of Temnita, glistening in the cold, pale moonlight as though her bare, taut body were studded with a thousand minute diamonds. Her dark hair was plastered to her head and strands stuck to her sweaty face, and despite the obvious signs that she had run here from the valley floor, she hardly breathed hard. Her chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm, expanding and contracting, handful sized breasts sighing through the air. Such was the need instilled in her to climb the foothills of the mountain that she hardly noticed her nudity, or the small tendrils of steam rising from her body in the cool night air.

But such was the task compelled of her. And so she stood, staring out at the valley; her home spread out for her to view and study. Comprehend, the sweat slowly cooling on her, the Moon slowly rising behind her. She gazed in small eyed wonder at the golden fields and the thatch huts near those fields. She knew who resided in each building, and their profession. This was a tight-knit community.

The Westles, named for the family’s ancient plot of land at the western edge of the valley, were the millers with a large, slowly turning windmill in the foothills of the western ridge. The baker, Gloaith family, slept peacefully in the stacked stone and mortar hut with a tall chimney near the Westles’s windmill. Zaurell loved to walk near the baker, particularly early in the morning. The Gradona family had the largest farm near the center of the valley. They were the leaders of the community, pillars that kept everyone else strong. When someone needed something, the Gradona family was there to help. If they could not, they saw to it that someone in the community did.

Somewhere in the back of Zaurell’s mind, she knew that the community would hardly approve of her current state of dress, but the compulsion to stand on the hill fogged her mind to the point that she didn’t notice it. Even as cold settled into her, goose pimples flecked her arms and her nipples hardened, she hardly noticed. Her studying gaze had fallen on her home.

Zaurell was the daughter of the vintner. The Boroski family were the black sheep of the community, but no less important. Their fields were filled with grapes, as dark this time of year as the family’s skin-tone. In the squat, wooden, thatch roofed hut, she knew, were six rooms. Two held her siblings, two brothers each, one held her parents, another a lavish, for the valley, dining room. It was complete with metal plates and two pronged forks; welcoming gifts from the other members of the valley who had welcomed Zaurell’s father’s, father’s, father. A kitchen comprised the fifth room, complete with a stone chimney for the cooking fire. Smoke rose from the tip of the chimney, and the cold finally touched Zaurell and she shivered.

That chimney also warmed the house. Every bit was warm and welcoming. Especially her room that she shared with Kedegy, the baker’s son, the man she called her husband. Just the thought of her warm house, and warm bed, and his comforting warmth wrapped around her was enough to push the compulsion back. Her breath clouded before her, the Moon rising near to its apex. She wrapped her arms across her chest, rubbing them and shivering in the cold night air. She took a step back from the small outcropping she stood on and turned to return to the stairs to return to her warm and welcoming bed. She took two steps and glanced up at the Moon. It hung full, and bright, and alluring, and mystifying in the night sky. She tried to take a third step and ran into a solid wall of air.

She looked to the silver, full Moon hanging above her and shivered, though not from the cold night air. The Moon spoke to her, she knew, and inside her she could feel Her call.

“I can’t…” she murmured, softly. Her breath misted in the air before her as she watched the Moon hanging overhead. She shook her head, her lips twisting down into a frown. “I… I know nothing of war, M’Lady. There must be someone else.”

She shook her head, though her gaze never left the silvery disc hanging in the night sky. She shivered again, and shook, twisting her head vigorously from side to side.

“No… It can’t be…” she whispered. Her eyes fell to the ground before her, brimming with unshed tears. “I don’t want that.”

She was silent for long seconds, her head cocking to the side slightly as she listened to the Moon. She shivered and shook, tears spilling from her eyes onto her cheeks.

“No… They can’t all die. There must be some other way,” she pleaded. But she knew, just as she had known that she must leave her warm, comfortable, and safe bed, that there was no other way. The Moon told her so. Just as the Moon had compelled her to come up the stairs without so much as a nightgown, and look upon her peaceful valley; her home. And know that it would be destroyed.

Zaurell knew that it was a certainty if she did not agree. It would happen as certain as the sun rising and the Moon setting. And yet it was still hard for her to come to the conclusion that the Moon required of her.

“I don’t… Magic corrupts,” she sobbed. She knew that power corrupted, and absolute power corrupted absolutely, and that magic was among the most virulent and powerful forces out there. And that came with a horrific price for any man or woman to work its miracles. Their bodies twisted and minds warped, they became demons that broke nations and tore the earth asunder.

They became abominations that could never return home. Return home to their warm beds and loving families… to the arms of their husband. As selfish as it may be, Zaurell found herself stuck on that point, crying silently in the cold night. And yet, the Moon spoke on to her. Zaurell’s tears slowed, and she hiccupped once, looking up at the Moon once more.

“Are you sure?” she asked, sheepishly. “Of course… M’lady, Mistress…” Her voice steadied. She let go of herself and wiped tears from her eyes and cheeks. “I trust you. Of course I do… Tell me what I must do to save them. To save him.”

Zaurell nodded, letting her arms fall to her sides. “I’ll need clothing, Mistress.” Her nudity, and a sudden realization that any night owl among the community would have seen her climb the stone steps at a flat run, caused a sudden fire to light in her cheeks. But she refused to move, acknowledging only the Moon for the moment, letting the moonlight kiss her flesh.

“Of course, Mistress,” she murmured. “I accept you grace.”

The moment she finished speaking, something yanked her up so she stood on her tiptoes, arms thrust back behind her as though tethered to the ground by her wrists. She arched her back, as though a string were attached in the center of her chest and tugged upward as her limbs were pulled in the opposite direction. She quivered and cried out. A rush of essence flooded her. If she had to describe it, she could only say it was as though life itself had been thrust into her.

It only lasted a moment before she collapsed to the stone on her hands and knees. She sobbed for a few long moments, convulsing and reeling from the experience. When she finally quieted, she rose and was not entirely Zaurell any longer. A portion of the Moon resided in her, and it was reflected in her very being. She knew she could reach out and touch the world through magic now, and that the Moon would be disappointed if she misused this gift. She was now capable of changing the very essence of the world around her. Cold no longer touched her.

She no longer felt conscious of her nudity, a portion of the Moon resided with her and a Goddess didn’t care who saw Her flesh. Zaurell drew a deep breath, bent down, felt through the earth below her until she found metal she desired. She drew it up through the rock and dirt until it oozed out onto the surface and pooled molten around her feet. She drew it up around her, fashioning it into silvery plates and chain links of armor about her, the soft cloth padding forming as an afterthought of her mind to complete the armor. A silver bastard sword grew at her hip.

Zaurell blew out a slow breath, a wave of fatigue passed through her, though she felt it pass quickly. She was Godtouched now and minor inconveniences like fatigue were a thing for lesser mortals.

“Where must I go to save my valley, my Mistress?” she asked quietly of the Moon.

World Building

Welcome back guys. Enjoy the Calendar for the world I’m making.

There will be more to come.
http://larseighner.com/world_builder/index.html

Calendar

There are two generally accepted calendars in existence, the above ground calendar used by the civilized races of Temnita and the underground calendar used almost exclusively by the dwarves. From here on in I’ll preface each further question with A, for above and B for below.

A: The day is broken down into smaller units by candle hour. The day starts at ‘full candle’ with the rise of the sun every morning (when the timekeeper starts a day length candle burning) and ends roughly just before the sunrise the following morning when the ritual is started over again. Time is uniform in the fashion that the timekeeper starts the candle burning and the candle itself, slightly magical artifacts of elven and dwarven make (it reforms itself upon melting entirely down), is marked into hourly sections. As the time candle burns past each mark, the timekeeper sets off some fashion of notification, be it a bell, lighting a watch fire, etc. In more rural settings, folk tend to just live their lives by the rising and setting of the sun, worrying less about strict times and more about the coming and going of the light.

B: The day is broken down into 12 candle hour halves. The dwarves use complicated water and magical clocks to tell time, some even going so far as to carrying personal pocket watches. In cities, time is announced much the same way as above ground, though out in the tunnels it is less important and less regulated.

A: Months are 40 days with a lunar cycle that is monitored and tracked and marks the beginning and ending of the month. A new moon (nothing overhead) marks the start of a month, while the full moon marks the midway, and the sliver of a waning moon marks the end. The month is further broken down into weeks which are each 8 days long, though a week is usually only tracked when festivals or harvests or other significant events occur. There are 12 months to a year, with the year being broken down into four seasons (making the year 480 days long). The four seasons are: Harvest, Winter, Sowing, Summer. The 12 months are (from the beginning of the year and organized by season) Sowing: Plantare, Scroa, Hrovst, Summer: Stranka, Festoon, Polxi, Harvest: Zatva, Gathering, Luktre, Winter: Noc, Hladan, Snijeg.

B: Months and years are all but nonexistent below ground. This lends an almost timelessness to dwarves who only keep track of festival and ceremony days. It is among the duties of the timekeeper to also track the days so that festivals and ceremonies are done at the correct time of the above ground year. Though, ultimately, if a timekeeper slacked off, not a dwarf would likely notice.

A: Holidays and festivals are usually region specific. Towns and villages and cities have their own days for festivals and carnivals and it varies from place to place. The near universal ones are: Harvest Celebration, Winter Solstace, Summer Peak, and Sowing Gathering. While these festival days are centered around the harvest, they’re celebrated in almost every city as well.

B: Dwarves hold several crafting days and host grand drinking celebrations that last for days. None of the festivals are ever exactly the same, and frequently they’re named for a local hero or champion.

A: The different races date the years differently. The humans date the calendar by the Uzas event. A cataclysm of human mages that nearly broke the world and was stopped by a unified human army lead god-touched knight. While there are multiple countries, and nations, and clans, and the like, this unifying event marked an important point on the calendar, and years have since been numbered by it. The current year is 436 AU. Few scholars, and no common folk, bother counting the years before. Elves, on the other hand, count years from the origin of their communal history, calling it year 15042, their long age giving a different perspective to the world, and opting not to use the human counting method. Orcs count years by the life and death of a clan chieftain; I.E. Year 1 of Grolzam, or Year 8 of the lead of Hlrasktar.

B: Dwarves don’t bother counting the years.

A: Humans use two methods. In cities, and sizable towns, there is the timekeeper who sounds a bell or lights a signal fire at every hour. In more rural settings, folks gauge the passage of time by noting the position of the sun in the sky. Elves use the same methods as humans, though some carry magical clocks crafted by the dwarves.

B: Dwarves make extensive use of magical and water clocks that are calibrated to an hour candle. Almost every dwarven home has at least 1 clock, and expeditions outside of the dwarven holds there is usually at least one person with a pocket watch.

World Building

Welcome back guys. As I stated last week, I’m not doing NaNoWriMo this year, and am instead doing a series of world building exercises. Below you can find a link to the exercise this little diddy came from. Enjoy the Rules of Magic for the world I’m making.

There will be more to come.
http://larseighner.com/world_builder/index.html

Rules of Magic

Magic is powerful. There’s little magic cannot do. It is possible, with enough study, practice, and meditation to move mountains, carve new riverbeds, fjord rivers, devastate armies, and all but grant someone immortality or truly raise the dead. While some necromancy allows a magician to animate corpses, even caught permanent zombies or walking skeletons among other monstrosities, resurrection is beyond the scope of magic in Temnita. The sole other limitation is that it cannot actively undo the physical corruption and mutation that magic has on the human body.

There is a difference between miracles and magic, though the vast majority of people don’t know the difference. When people see things they cannot explain, they almost always blame magic and begin seeking a magician. However, the difference between a miracle and a magical occurrence is that a miracle is caused by some form of divinity reaching down and touching, however briefly, Temnita. Magic is always crafted by mortal beings. Given that magic and miracles do the same things (move mountains, change rivers, cause massive armies to spontaneously explode, cure wounds and illnesses). Which leads into another aspect that is commonly attributed to magic instead of a divine presence: resurrection. Someone truly rising from the grave is a miracle.

Magic is a muscle. It can be trained and flexed and strengthened. It also wears a user out. Magic comes from the personal willpower of the individual caster wielding it.

Becoming a magician is accomplishable by any and everyone in Temnita. All is initially required in a ritualistic sacrifice. This sacrifice comes in the form anything that was living, be it an insect, animal, or another sentient being. Once the rite has been performed, an individual is opened up to the magical forces of Temnita and can exercise his will on the world around him. Alternatively, someone can hold to become godtouched, and perform miracles. But that only happens once in an era, with the godtouched becoming legends and living myths. This only applies to humans. Elves and Dwarves (though their metal work) are born with the ability to channel magic.

To actively cast spells, one merely needs to exert his will over the natural world. Most practitioners don’t realize this. They go through elaborate rituals, and somatic gestures, and chants to bring forth their will on the world. This is also the way spells are passed down, magician to magician. Not though explaining that will is required to bring change, but a complicated spell or ritual is needed. Now, earlier necromancy was mentioned. Animating corpses, or creating anything that will continue to last (outside of the physical manipulations wrought on the world) does require a ritual and a small sacrifice to make such a thing permanent. The sacrifice is a very small portion of the caster’s spiritual energy, deadening him slightly to the world. A necromancer commanding an entire army of permanent undead is a truly horrifying thing as the necromancer himself is a true walking abomination to life and the natural order of things. So far to the point of killing the ground around them as they move about.

Spells, for the most part (rituals to make things permanent aside), are instantaneous. A person who’s mastered casting spells without some minor ritual, does so at the speed of thought. Otherwise, it takes a mere couple seconds to make a hand gesture, chant a word of power, or burn the right reagents. Rituals to make things permanent take considerable time, varying from half a day to months depending on the desired effect and its scale. Spells can be stored, but only in a handful of legendary items that are kept secured by those who would not see them used, or lost to time.

Two wizards working in concert together to accomplish the same task are more likely to step on one another’s toes when trying to do such a thing. There have been rare occasions where two mages have successfully combined their magical efforts to amplify an effect. The exception to this is when performing rituals to make something permanent.

Magic is horrifically addictive. It is also physically and mentally exhausting to use large quantities at a time. At the same time, a magician needs to use more and more to get the same sort of ‘high’ as he did when he first opened himself to magic. The true downside though, is that magic warps the man’s body whenever he uses it. The effects are never fatal, and always cosmetic. It starts by causing bumps and boils, or twisting limbs out of the way they were meant to be and the end result is a demonic looking abomination that people fear.

Given that magic warps folk into twisted abominations, not a lot is known about the laws of magic. To humans at least. Elves and dwarves aren’t twisted and warped by magic and to them its not taboo, but very few are willing to share with humans. What is known is that magic corrupts the physical form and is seen to corrupt absolutely and is a thing to be feared (hence the distrust for elves, as they can manipulate magic without fear of that physical corruption). This leads to the belief that the abominations that result from the use of magic are also tainted in spirit and mind as well. This is inaccurate, because while the physical form is corrupted, and addicted to magic, the mind remains pure and untouched. Now, a good individual may mirror his new monstrous appearance, but it is a choice rather than an outside influence by the magic. But folk just don’t know that.

There are a few different aspects to magic that gives it some flavor. “Healing Potions” have been made before, but most frequently those are merely concoctions of restorative herbs. True magical potions are extremely rare and wondrous items to possess. Enchanting items is an artform mastered only by the dwarves, though humans and elves have been known to bestow permanent effects on items.

Magic is practiced by all races and both genders. Elves have mastered a sort of stagecraft magic while dwarves are master artisans and reflect that in their enchanted weaponry, armor, and other items. Orc shamans have mastered the ‘point and shoot’ variety of magic, reveling in the destructive potential of magic. Orcs are also the most likely of sort to create lasting undead.

A person’s magical aptitude for magic changes over the course of their life. As with any skill, practice makes perfect and magic is no different. With practice a person can cause larger changes to their environment and conjure up greater spells at a lesser time. That being said, with time and use the addiction (for humans) grows as well, driving them to use more and more magic and warp their bodies further and further. Magic ability is only exhausted when the individual dies. No other way is known to sever someone from magic once they’ve opened themselves to it.

No one knows of a way to sever magic from an individual who’s embraced it already.

Magicians, human or otherwise, pay a price to be magicians. For humans, it’s the corruption of their physical form, the addiction to magic, and the eventual shunning of their peers. Or their eventual spiritual death if they choose to create permanent effects. The up side being that they learn magic far faster than the other races. Elves, dwarves, and even orcs, all must spend years of study and contemplation to fully realize their magical abilities. Dwarves take up apprentices who learn the spellcraft and enchanting from master and soforth. Elves teach a long lineage of pupils in the ways of magic, taking years to convey concepts that humans grasp in days. Orcs stumble through the chaos and emerge with an arsenal that takes years to develop.