3. Mystic River

Mystic River


  • I hear the clanking of armor approaching me as I quietly sit on the couch in front of the fire in the Mermaid. I look up and a bright smile greets me. A glint of firelight catches his golden and blue armor, casting an aura around him that makes him almost look divine. I smile to myself. Patting the cushion beside me, I invite him to sit.

    He leans in for a hug, and as he does he slips a parchment in my belt.

    "Good to see you!" I return the friendly hug. "I hear there are some big happenings in your life… Marriage and a father... some responsibility that is... but I cannot think of anyone more suitable. I am genuinly happy for you!"

    I am truly happy for him, yet at the same time I cant help but feel a sting of jealousy, or is it longing? Hard to tell really... I have been here so many times before. He's a good man and he deserves it. I take his hand in mine. There is nothing intimate about it, I only want him to feel comfort and confidence. He's young... and... well, I really want nothing from of him other then trust. We sit for a while, chit chatting about weeks that have passed. After a moment, he takes his leave and I am alone again, watching the flames dance, casting shadows on the wall


  • OOC: A couple of days old

    _In days long past, on a misty isle in the sea, there was a young mage. She was smart, talented in magic, and enchantingly beautiful, but her greatest asset was acquiring and disseminating information. Her skills could create chaos or sow confusion by such minor efforts as a gentle touch, pretended ignorance, or a warm embrace, but also delved into the complexities of deep intellectual debates of logic or philosophy, enchantments and alchemy, or even the primal instincts of carnal desire and lust.

    She had learned early that trust wasn’t freely given, it was earned, and sometimes it evolved into something unconditional.

    She walked the great regal halls of the Castle of Valor as wells as the dark twisted corridors of the Tower of El’Ninevah. The cloak she wore was a much red and silver as it was black and purple. She shared her bed with the most valorous of knights and imbibed wine with the lords of dread. She had seen her sibling chained down to an anvil and tortured with hot brands, and watched as the Valors collected wealth consumed only by their order, while the peasants were starved as the dark red mists rolled in with their dark knights and dragons, destroying all before them. This was her story…._

    I open my eyes to find myself wrapped in the softest blue and gold cloak, my head resting on a deep, down filled pillow, cased with delicately spun cotton. Quiet fills the room and a solitary candle flickers on the desk.

    Thoughts and images race through my head…

    He is so eager to please that all I need do is ask. What damage can that do?… He is proud and happy. He deserves his chance to shine, if only for a fading moment… This is his life. I just need to listen. It’s no harm done… A question is asked, and an answer is given. Other questions, more answers… Some shared information and thoughts of my own leads him back to answering another of my questions…

    Copies of letters and briefs of reports written then set to flame… A purple and gold mercenary… the four blades… 300 coins for the retrieval of a relic… Another powerful relic, a blade it seems… the Priest Jannick… the whereabouts of a Baron, Kapolinsheezah’s true nature… a feud… a warning… the next step, a plan…

    He is nervous. I tell him not to be. His hands tremble. A suggestion is made and I return it with a soft and inviting giggle. Instinct takes over where experience has never tread. His enthusiasm has a few tricks of its own. It is raw and passionate and fulfilling. The moment endures longer then I expected, much to my pleasure. Youth has its benefits…

    I shift cautiously. He lies peacefully beside me, and I can hear his breathing. A smile creeps across my face as I gently nuzzle his warm and bare chest. He remains deeply asleep and blissfully unaware…

    I notice the papers from the desk scattered amongst the clothes and steel plates strewn across the stone floor as I slip the warmth of the cloak getting out of bed. I gather the parchments quickly, taking them to the desk and the flickering candle. One by one I set them aflame, watching the burning ash float to the floor like a feather on a summer’s breeze. No one should know what has happened here. He should not be punished for his good faith in people. I certainly don’t wish him ill, and no harm was done. The ashes stir as I walk through them on my way out the door. It’s raining outside, and it’s a long walk back to the inn and my familiar couch with the blissful fireplace in the back lounge.


  • Another night curled up in front of the crackling fire at the Mermaid scratching away with a quill in the big leather bound tome resting in her lap.

    I learned today that Aranwe’s old flame is back. Is it just the happenstance of chance, or are the sinister machinations of fate meddling with me? Aranwe returns, only to be followed by her a few days later, set against the backdrop of the things I have happening. The timing appears suspect at best.

    We were sitting under the tree in the commons when she arrived. It only took a single glance at the two of them to know they had a shared history. Call it sorcery or a woman’s indisputable intuition if you will, but in the end, I was proven right.

    She’s my old girlfriend he had said when I inquired. I know a thing or two about elves, their bonds run deep to the point of obsession. I told him as much. I would step aside out of respect for those bonds of elven intimacy, perhaps to see if the old relationship would blossom into a rose again. Elves live too long anyways. Any mixed union would be akin to the great romantic tragedies that grace the stage far more often then reality would allow for on its own. I told him I neither needed nor wanted the drama, so I would remove myself from his presence for the time being.

    It was, of course, a test. One he failed as far as I was concerned. He did not object. Well, not enough for my liking at least. Not even an attempt to an arguement.. just like the day he had left.

    I kissed him on the forehead, like a friend, then told him a lie, or at least half of one, about some pressing wine business I had. I was expecting a delivery from the Ferret. A servant named Urgh was to take it to my storage in Droibo’s.

    It was follow up on a conversation a couple of us had had a few months back about who holds finest selection of wines in the region. I had declared The Mermaid had the best selection anywhere. The Grapevine, the Mithral Mug, the Coppers could not come close enough to compare, although I knew very little of the Banshee, or the taverns of Silver Valley.

    As we were discussing it, the Admiral walked in and bent a curious ear to the conversation. After a few moments he boldly stated he could provide the best wine for anyone’s taste. Always quick to challenge, I asked him to prove it to me. I would be willing to purchase a crate of red and a crate of white if it suited the taste of my desire.

    She stops for a moment staring into the fire, the quill lightly running across her cheek. A mischievous giggle escapes her lips before she resumes work on her precious journal.

    The Admiral arranged for a private tasting from some of his own casks, where I had a chance to sample his wares. The tapping proved to be quite satisfying and went long into the evening. I was delighted with the entertainment to be had over a barrel of wine.

    So in the absence of an elven lover, I should endeavor to enjoy and consume every drop of the aged red and white… or rather golden mulled wine I am soon expecting.

    After all… it is my desired taste.


  • It’s yet another evening spent in solitary repose in the Mermaid with a glass of mulled wine in my hand. Like so many other nights, I cast a jaded eye about the Inn looking for anything that might pique my interest.

    Men playing cards…

    Lackluster entertainment at best. My legs carry me to another section of the inn even though there’s little hope for the evening at this point.

    Men playing cards and drinking…

    This bunch is a little more energetic, but still lacks in any sort of merit to me. I return for another refill of my glass. As Kat pours, the door to the Mermaid bursts open and a familiar face enters in accompanied by a burst of chilly night wind. He barely breaks stride as he steers his way towards me.

    “Are you bored Milady?” He asks politely as usual, taking a seat next to me at the bar.

    “No,” I reply, but the tone of my own voice calls me a liar.

    He nods, although it’s in counterpoint to his disbelief.

    “How’s business then?” His finger traces across a pool of wet on the bar top, and his eyes follow it for a moment before he looks up. A sly smile slips like a passing shadow across his face. He plays the game for show.

    “You know I don’t have a business…” My eyes follow the slow swirl of his hand, then up his arm, across his chest, coming to a stop at long last on the smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. “…although I’m working on it.”

    “Well,” he responds aloofly, “if I weren’t so busy I would help you out… but I have more… important… things to attend to.”

    I can’t resist the chance to challenge him, knowing full well no one in here will pay any attention. Feigning surprise, I lean in closer, letting my golden hair drift across my face, drawing his attention back to me.

    “Such as?” I whisper.

    He makes a studied effort of looking around before lowering his voice. “Things that make me feel not so… dead.”

    I whisper back, so close that my lips brush his ear ever so slightly. “I see. Well sir, if there is anything I can assist you with… please let me know.”

    “Actually, I had hoped you would”

    I set my glass on the bar and walks out of the tavern and into the chill night air. He follows shortly after.


  • …comfortable seated in her favorite spot in front of the fire, swirling the glass with rich scented wine, she carefully opens the first letter sealed with the insignia of the Bardic College. Its the letter from a legend and knight and one of the strongest voices this land known. A soft sigh of satisfaction escapes her as she reads the letter written in flowing script

    @57e7cd0926:

    Dear Mystic,

    You ask about the House of Locke, specifically, the Baron. It is a topic I am fairly well versed in and I will share with you what I can if it will aid in the destruction of this evil man.

    The house of Locke has been involved in the "dark arts" for a number of years, probably ever since the Barons wife died. He went into mourning from his loss, and for whatever reason turned to necromancy to extend his own life, investigating the mechanics of becoming a lich.

    Both Ferdinand and Maximillian Locke aided their father willingly in his goal, raiding temples and ancient places to recover the artifacts and information he sought. One item I know of was an artifact of Jergal (the former god of the dead), another was a vorpal blade stolen from the temple of Lathander that not only could slay a living being, it could also separate the soul from the body.

    To complete the process of becoming a lich, the Baron eventually began working with an ancient dragon named Kaoplin'sheazah, who laired in the Bloodstone Pass in Damara. Initially the forces of the light and the forces of the dark of Narfell combined to seek out the Baron, recover the artifacts, and defeat him, but as would be expected they fell to bickering due to their different intents and their efforts ceased.

    Several years passed, until eventually I encountered the Baron again. He had returned to Narfell for undisclosed reasons, and had with him a dark companion, who I later found out in combat was a Mummy Lord. Working with Shallyah, we together defeated the Mummy Lord but the Baron was long gone. This would have been more than six years ago now, and I believe at that stage he had completed the ritual of lichdom.

    If you wish further information regarding the vorpal blade, Priest Janick of the Shrine of Lathander may be able to help you. Due to the length of time that the blade was in his care, he may be able to scry upon it or at the least give you a description of it. He was involved in the hunt for the Baron and can likely give you a run-down of what happened.

    As to other avenues of information; Pyotr, Oscura's number one Mage was also involved in the hunt for the Baron and enquiries with him may bear fruit. Maximillion is unlikely to speak with you as he is completely devoted to his father, and Ferdinand has passed on to the afterlife so is unable to be questioned. Otherwise, divinations would be my recommended course, and if you wish it I am willing to cast a Legend Lore spell for specific subjects to aid you myself.

    May the Red Knight guide your mind and your spells,

    • Lady Val Kyrie

    Then, she folds it back, four times, and whispers softly the words of protection.

    As I erase one letter away
    You'll forget Lady Val what you sent today,
    And when the last letter is erased and burned
    The knowledge of this–shall never return

    She leans forward close to the fire and places the parchment on the hot ember coal and watches it burn.


  • KAPOLIN'SHEESAH

    Mystic is curled up on the sofa near the fire in the Mermaids, she has her black leather bound book in her lap and a quill in her hand. She weighs her thoughts and words carefully in her mind and slowly puts them visible on the piece of parchment.

    @f78d59ef6a:

    Sir QuelCoth
    Receiving this letter may come as a surprise to you, we have spoken briefly on occasions before and now I would like to seek your advice on the matter. I have spent many days in the library researching and been visiting the local taverns in the outer part of Oscura but found nothing of value.

    Please, let me explain, the surface and region between Norwick and Peltarch has been visited and torched by what is claimed to be a half dragon, and in relation to this, there is the mentioning of the Baron Locke and something with the name of Kapolin’Sheezah.

    Me and a member of the Tribune fought the spawns of undead that appeared through a portal, I think, and on several other occasions red lightening burned the grounds and destroyed the gates of Peltarch. Many brave warriors from various parts of the region have been forced to defend themselves and the good land.

    I did briefly speak with Maximiliam Locke, but he was quite unwilling to give any information regarding the whereabouts of the Baron, and well, I am not really sure I would like to face him alone either as the rumors claims he is actually one of three liches now terrorizing our land.

    I have no further information, and then I thought of you and our last conversation together with Mr Alucard. You are, after all the Dreadlord, and I am sure with your prominent status have some interesting information, the type of information that is not easily attained and perhaps share this with me should you wish for it. You may not have any interest in the land above but perhaps your assistance in resolving this brings some personal gains as well. I do not know.

    What ever this is I would like to ease the land from the burden it causes us, Fendon is already one lich blade too many.

    Kind regards
    Mystic River
    Independent Scholar of the Arcane Arts

    She folds the letter four times, then she makes two almost identical letters. She packs her belongings and walk out on the streets of Peltarch.


  • Mystical Gloves of Strength

    A tremor passes through her hands as she speaks the words of power,
    channeling the magical energies through her until the very air at her
    fingertips ignites and the flames erupt into a searing hot conflagration
    fanning out to engulf the cedar and sage piled beneath the large copper
    cauldron. Shadows flicker on the walls, twisting and turning in a chaotic
    dance as they gain in substance straining achieve a life of their own. She
    can feel their hunger as they reach for her longingly, eagerly waiting and
    whispering in ravenous anticipation.

    A sudden chill traces down her spine. She turns, but no one is there.
    “Abbey!”

    Her call falls to silence, save for the cracking of the fire and hiss of
    sap being driven from the cedar. She listens in cautious stillness, but
    the only other sound is the slightest of moans as the flames suck more air
    into themselves, building to caress the blacked bottom of the cauldron.
    The ping of heating metal breaks her vigilance, reminding her of the task
    at hand.

    “I thought so… I am not surprised.”

    A pitcher of cold water from an east running mountain stream, poured in a
    slow circle around the inside edge of the cauldron, violently boiling
    before it reaches the bottom. A lump of beeswax, it’s fragrance, sweet and
    warm, filling the room as it melts.

    She spreads the fire with an iron hook, reducing the heat and allowing the
    ritual oil to simmer with small eddying currents, then reaches for the jars
    she stored from her earlier work.

    She pours small round corns into her hand, holding them out over cauldron.
    “Pepper for protection, confidence, strength, and alertness.” Her hand
    closes on them then turns over, holding for a moment before opening,
    tumbling the ingredients into the heart of the vessel.

    Another glass jar, packed with a much larger seed.

    “Acorns from a burr oak.” She drops in a score of them, one at a time.
    The next jar contains bark from the parent tree, dried and crushed to a
    fine powder. Three scoops from a gold spoon. It spreads out over the
    surface, floating like the cork it’s often used for. She stirs it with a
    long handled ladle, pushing the floating ingredients down, cajoling them
    into soaking up the molten wax. The chant passes her lips softly, like a
    lover’s kiss on a blissful morning.

    Little seed with cap so fine,
    Grant your strength and make it mine,
    Make me sturdy as your tree,
    As I will so mote it be.

    At last… the remains of a once proud and stout Masterwort, known for its of potency and vigor, a basic ingredient of any formula of power. So simple, so common, so strong.

    A ghost wind crosses the chamber, surprising the fire back to life. The
    shadows take on new verve, gaining in size, and suddenly frenzied in their
    activity, tearing themselves from the walls to cavort around the chamber,
    brushing at her bare legs as they pass. The wind howls and swirls around
    the cauldron, drawing vapors out, the smells of sweet and astringent
    warring with each other.

    Into the pot goes the heavy banded leather gloves. Magic flow in her veins
    as she draws upon the earthy powers her draconic ancestors learned to bind so long ago, pulling and twisting them to the shape of her bidding. She anchors the flow to the gloves then uses the strands to guide in her own energies, willing her life spirit into them. The spells follow… Shield,
    then the Bulls Strength, empowered to it’s maximum potential… She gives it everything she can muster. Memories rush past her…

    …An Island in the mists… a Knight of Torm… lessons from the mage in black…a pack of hungry wolves… anger and jealousy… a cold and lonely land…lovers, past and present… a tower bathed in purple… fires under cauldrons…the green canopy of a tree overhead… waves on the ocean, a ship bearing a trunk… Smoking embers… Hungry shadows rushing in on her..

    The strain of the enchanting overwhelms her, and she collapses. It is the moment the shadows have been waiting for.

    “So mote it be“ she whispers while the shadows feeding of the excess energy still hoovering over her spent body. On the floor besides her is a pair of gloves


  • Mystic is curled up in front of the fire at the far back room in the Mermaid Inn. She has a strained and troubled look on her face. Those that know her to be one of the regulars in the tavern, make a note that she is certainly not the perky, curious and warm usual self….

    She has a large leather bound book in her lap, and is flipping through the somewhat stiff of age pages. She is searching for something specific as she murmurs.

    “Hot air ignites easily and provocation leads nowhere but for the worse. I never wished her ill, but her words are unjust. She is impulsive, ignorant, and doesn’t have a clue…”

    Suddenly she stops at one page and a lone finger traces the words written in thick dark ink, it seemed like ages ago. She then leans down to grab one of her bags on the floor by the caoch, looking for a piece of parchment and a quill set.

    With the old leather bound book as small table in her lap, she scribbles:

    Ardent Cashail , Norwick guardsman and scout

    Then she folds the paper four times: East , West, North and South.

    For a brief moment she hesitates, but then tosses the folded piece of parchment into the fire. As it burns she whispers quietly:

    All actions, thoughts and words of hate,
    becomes your own decided fate
    By all up high the words and wise,
    by oceans wide and deep blue skies
    Day and night I wish to thee,
    this is my will and so mote it be

    She pauses for a moment and a tear falls …

    When I say these words again,
    I pray the magic was in vain


  • A letter is slipped under the door of Maria tower.

    Dear Maria

    I am hereby resigning as an initiate by the spell weaver keep. I cannot work with mistrust and I will not tolerate being your pawn by giving me an ultimatum. I told you, Aranwe and Romulus of my worries about Sirion and Ardent. His arrogance and stalking known by everyone and Ardent impulsive hot air are ignitions themselves asking for trouble. I have nothing to do with their approach to things, nor am I responsible for the consequences.

    This is not my war. I want no trouble. I hold both you and Kyan, in great respect, but this because of the arcane arts you both are able to and responsibility to guard it for whatever reason.

    I myself wish no other things than to do as I please without meddling in anyone’s affairs, which more than often simply just have to do with powers over other. I do what I must to survive, hopefully to make some profits in the end.

    I have not once hurt a person in this region, I have cared for all new faces I found in Norwick, giving of my charms to secure their path and advancement, and for that I am hated, called a criminal and even now I hear Ardent hinting me being a necromancer. I am a blood mage the energy my body consumes hold no dark magic. But I honestly think you know that.

    Kind regards
    Mystic River

    PS. I did speak to Kyan, but as I said to you, he naturally does as he pleases. I hold no power over him…And yes I must confess the most mean thing I ever did was telling Lyda she was a bad mother.. this was some years ago.


  • ASSIGNMENT

    The fire burning in the hearth of the back room at the Mermaid cast a warm reddish hue over the couch and the golden haired woman sitting on it. Laughter and the sounds of merriment from the main hall drifted about the room, as they so often do at the inn when the weather turns chilly and men gather to play cards and drink beer.

    Mystic was cozied up on the couch, a glass in one hand and a pen in the other, her long legs folded under her, supporting the edges of a large leather bound tome she was pouring over, flipping pages at leisure using the base of the glass to turn them. A few pages she lingered on longer then others, the quill in her hand softly scratching notes for herself when she found something of interest. Beside her on the cushions was a silver serving tray cradling a warm carafe of red wine mulled with almonds, sweet raisins and cinnamon sticks, along with a basket of strongly scented gingerbread and saffron buns. A small sigh of contentment escaped her ruby lips. She was feeling very much at home.

    The sorceress set the quill down on the tray, then ran her fingers along the edge of the book, savoring the feel of the leather binding, still supple after all these years. She turned another stiff page, listening to the scuffing sound it made mixing in with the crackle of the fire. The book was a prized possession from the old days on the Isle. Her sister had once told her to be rid of it, but Mystic had hidden it away, claiming it had been destroyed when the black knights had pushed through Morian, burning and pillaging as they went. There was no reason to worry Moon about a book with a haunting history and many, many secrets…

    Marked ingredients

    Salt
    The most basic element in the protection spells…. CHECK

    Beeswax
    Bees are well known for protecting their home. Beeswax has many uses in witchcraft and magic for balms melting it and then mixing it with any oil
    or candles…. CHECK

    Spring water
    Water from a cold east running mountain stream... CHECK

    Citrus blossoms
    To purge and purify a location or object also provides a clean refreshing
    scent... CHECK

    Dragonhead blossom
    To enhance the strong lemony fragrance of cleanliness. A must as goblin
    repellent, and in this case, a substitute for lemon balm, only stronger. It does not lose its fragrance. It also helps a discourage heart ailments and
    lightens the spirit... CHECK

    Lavender
    Not only known for the beautiful purple color of the flower, lavender is a
    traditional aid for sharpening vision and clarify thinking, which makes it
    an excellent herb for scholars.... CHECK

    Also used in various love potions… NOTE! Can attract fey. Also good as anti-depressive.. With a light laugh she murmurs, “I should save some for Elva.”

    She reaches for a quill, turns to a blank page, and just starts to write... as she does it seem to come naturally… fervent even… to point of obsession… she adds all the ingredients as a list:

    Mystics Goblin Repellent –sustainable tower cleaner (citrus/lavender)

    1. Salt. 1 Barrel (circle salt around the tower)
    2. 4 candles (made of beeswax place north, south, east and west)
    Mix the following:
    3. Beeswax. 1 Barrel (melted)
    4. Stream water. 4 Barrels
    5. Citrus blossoms. 1 Barrel (dried)
    6. Dragonhead blossom. 1 Barrel (dried)
    7. Lavender. 1 Barrel (dried)
    9. 1 barrel of acid. --scribbles on the side -- (could fish gut bombs work to make the mixed oil burn into the stone bricks of the tower to make it stick? – test)
    10. 1 catapult or 4? (expensive)

    At the bottom of the page scribbled…(to be chanted as the barrels of
    content are thrown from all directions)

    Goddess, a favor I call Thee
    Wrap your web of magic around me,
    Form a shield to protect my Right,
    And help banish the goblins from this site

    “I wonder if this will work?” She sets the quill down for a moment, musing to herself. The ingredients and the created oil substance are not that difficult to find, although it’s the quantity that presents the challenge. Picking up the pen again, she scribbles in the margin: Ask Maria to perform the ritual at her place in the tower. She tickles he nose with the feather. “Maybe first I should do some experiments" Another note, scribbled then underlined: Buy empty vials for test.

    She snaps the book shut and with a slight tremor passing through her hand, grabs the carafe of mulled wine letting the warm liquid fill her as she drinks it with great longing. She leans her head back against the couch, closing her eyes, letting the wine and the scents in the air play with her senses. Just like a dream she can feel his presence… Wrastlyn, the dark mage, once more tracing her jaw line, playing with her golden locks, all the while telling her all about herbs and infusions, the most basic ingredients of the precious art of alchemy


  • BEDAZZLED

    “I have something to show you Mystic.”

    “Oh.” I purr, truly delighted by his attention.

    Romulus and I have a very special relationship. We can talk for hours on end, and it seems like this could be another one those precious moment that don’t happen as often as one might wish. We do care for each other, but these things are left unspoken, although he did confess his jealousy of the elf Aranwe, despite knowing he has no right to be. He is married. On occasion, I wonder if he himself is even sure what his exact feelings are. I find it a comfort to be with him, even if there is a certain tension between us. I tease him constantly because I can. I know he would never bend his vows to his wife, and for that I love him, dearly.

    We walk for a day northwards, then west towards the cliffs with the shipwreck, seeking out a cave down the shore. Along the way our discussion turns to enchanting. He wants to learn more, and I am naturally willing to teach him all that I know… within reason. I will show him the hidden charms he seeks, and instruct him in the use of ritual items to enhance his powers to infuse that which he wishes. When we finish, I’m sure he will be as grateful as always.

    He takes me deep into the cavern, a climb were he helps me, and I help him. Every twist and turn holds a new surprise that ensnares the senses and builds upon the wonder, until at last the cavern opens up on the sacred shrine that many seek and few obtain, hidden from all but the most eager of adventurers. I can hear the distant thunder of waves crashing on the shore mixed with the howling of the wind echoing about the chamber, rising and falling in volume like they are building to some incredible crescendo. Our lights sparkle off of a million tiny crystals in the rock walls, each catching a tiny glint and amplify it back until we stand bedazzled by our encounter. Each time we move, the reflections make the room spin in an explosion of colours so intense we have to close our eyes to withstand it. It is like nothing I have experienced. I have no other words to describe it.

    We spend almost the entire night there…

    Some days later Romulus calls on me again. He’s gathered all of the things I’ve told him to for the first part of his work: amethyst, a translucent violet stone with hints of blue, lapis lazuli, a deep blue stone with incredible depth, and lastly the inky darkness of black onyx. Of the three, I’ve decided the amethyst is the one that reflects his disposition the best. The semi precious stone enhances the personality and natural charisma of the wearer, which are the strengths that I see in Romulus. Enchanted properly, and set in a golden ring, it will bring out what he all ready has in abundance.

    He wants to show me the enchanting facility in the legion tower, so I go with him. When we arrive, he takes my hand and guides me down a narrow staircase. I catch my toe in the long rich fabric of my heavy cloak and fall. His reflexes and agility are superb, and he catches me like I knew he would. My soft bosom presses against him as my golden locks spill over him leaving us briefly in a private tent of cascading hair. I can feel the warmth rising between us in the cool air of the stairway. So close… I pretend coyness as he gently sets me down. How I love this play between us.

    “Thank you Romulus,” I murmur as I kiss him lightly on the cheek. He takes my hand and we continue down the stairway and into some sort of workroom.

    I have to admit my disappointment as I look around. The room is spartan at best. I had thought the legion had more resources available. Unsuitable. I quickly advise Romulus to speak with Maria about using spell weaver’s facilities as even the Oscura Library has better amenities then this.

    We deliberate over the work he has before him, and I ask to see the crystals again. He opens his bag and picks out two rough uncut stones and hands them to me, a jagged edge cutting me like glass. I drop the crystal on the bench and a spurt of my blood falls on it, the red on violet making a stain that looks black. It runs down the surface of the stone, and then dances like a shadow come to life, before the crystal absorbs it like a sponge. I watch it for a moment before bursting into amused laughter.

    I toss the gem back to Romulus with a smile. “Well, if you fail in the process, you may blame me, the crystal is now Mystically tainted.”

    I whisper something else in draconic as he tucks the amethyst away, but he doesn’t hear me. Just as well…


  • As Romoulus watches, a giant black cat circles the legion tower with a parchment in its mouth. With a sudden burst of explosive and athletic power, the cat makes a leap up the stairs to the tower entrance. It scans the area, then, standing over six feet tall on it’s back legs, leans heavily against the door, pushing it open with its paws.

    Dark, powerful, and unpredictable, the cat is an intimidating presence, but the soft purring sound coming from it takes away the sharp threatening edge it would normally have. Seemingly eager to satisfy, the cat drops the parchment on the wooden floor at Romoulus‘s feet.

    He can sense the feline is smiling at him… perhaps with… compassion? Strange. Not something one expects from such a beast. …Or is it a hint of arrogance and dominance? Possible. Could there be another spirit present?

    Taking the delivery into his hands, the parchment unfolds revealing a letter.

    –-------------------------------------------------------------------

    Dear Rom,

    I have been thinking about what you want to accomplish. It is a very powerful enchanting that you are attempting. Nothing easily done, nor are the ingredients easily found. I assume you will use the golden ring you spoke of.

    I would recommend looking into the following:

    Polish or enchanting oil. This is the easiest part since I have all the ingredients you need.

    Concerning gems, there are three stones I believe will work, and they are: Amethyst, Lapis Lazuli, and Black Obsidian. However, their spiritual, and magical, properties are different, and one of them should be handled with extra care.

    Finally, regarding spells, I would recommend the following: clarity, clairvoyance, eagle’s splendor, and endurance. To finally trap all the energies inside the ring, I would use a shield spell or bull strength spell. If you do not master any of these spells I am sure there are mages that you can ask for help in order to transfer them into a crystal.

    These are my recommendations, which I am more than willing to discuss with you. There is a reason and rational for everything presented to you above. Of course you may discuss this with Val or Maria as well. They are both very knowledgeable of the enchanting process and very experienced.

    Love,

    Mystic River

    Looking up from the letter, the cat has vanished, leaving not so much as a whisper to mark it’s departure.


  • A WITCH'S LAIR

    I catch my breath… We’re just coming to the misty pond after a fairly successful dance with the goblin shamans and assassins when he asks me.. “You want to head west?” Judging from his gaze he has already decided that’s what’s next.

    “Ah, well let me just rest for a moment and we will continue.” I reply.

    We walk past the west side the lake. Goblins lay scattered on the ground all twisted, limbs loose and heads turned, necks broken and guts spilled into a goblin stew. This is all the doings of Aranwe. I have watched him for over a year now, closely, and he so loves to sneak up on them and slit their throats. Not even a breath escapes as they fall on the ground. Carefully I have been holding back, giving of myself to see him excel. By now he is free to fly on his own, he hardly needs my presence. He can do it all on his own…

    We head up the slope of the bear cave and as we do I stumble upon some rocks and roots. The roof of the bear’s lair is weak and I carefully watch my steps as I climb. Aranwe is, of course, already up there setting up a campfire. I smile at him. He is still young. I bite my lip as the thought passes my consciousness; he is simply adorable in a so very determined way.

    What has become of me? For years I mocked my sister’s and Iathouz’s love for each other. I called it an abomination, a sickness, a short lived passion with nothing but pain in the end. I did everything to pull them apart.

    Maybe I was jealous after all, but Aranwe is nothing like Iathouz. They share the skills that is it, but while Iathouz was a notorious assassin under service of the necromancer Higgins, Aranwe is a faithful of Corellon. I find it ironic. The flash of images comes before me: on the isle a white stag’s head on a pole… the poisoned waters… the hawks fallen feathers… Corellon’s grove severely violated and the black knight’s blood soaked blade, red eyes grinning with lust for more… That time I had escaped, I had quickly vanished …

    I glance at Aranwe, he is carefully watching every step I take…

    I take a few strides up, jumping over some twisted tree roots. I’m finally up there, but the ground under me suddenly gives way. I reach for Aranwe’s hand but the force and speed of the fall pulls him down as well, and we both plummet. I feel weightless in the air as he pulls me close and twists his body to shield me from the impact at the bottom. I land on him heavily and bounce to the side. I hear him groan loudly in pain, then half drag half roll himself into the darkness. Then everything goes still.

    It’s pitch dark and silent. I try at first to orientate my bearings but I fail. Reaching inside myself, I draw on my powers, speaking the spell softly, making a light hover above us. I quickly scan the small den. It’s dry for the most part, save the moist dirt from the roof that collapsed under us. Earthen walls, scattered twigs and branches, and a few tufts of hair are matted to the floor. Aranwe is crouched up against the wall holding his side. There are some cuts and nicks on his face… he seem to be alright. I move closer to him to check his injuries better. Another whisper and a second light clings to the earthy smelling air around us. The wound to his side is not that bad, but he is heavily bruised. A cracked rib perhaps. A drop of blood falls from my eyebrow. I realize I’ve got a few cuts and bruises as well.

    There is a look of surprise on his face, maybe even a bit of shock. The situation hits me suddenly and I burst out in laughter. “This is typical isn’t it?” I say with a playful tone. “You and me stuck in a small den of… heavens know what creature”

    There are leaves on the ground, roughly piled like some sort of bed. Too small for a bear… A badgers lair? Possibly, but one not used for quite some time. The leaves are untouched, soft and dry, they almost look inviting…

    I look up. I can barely see the sky above through the hole with all the roots hanging down. With the last few rays of the dying sun filtering through, it almost looks like a weird druidic chandelier. I can picture the cave lined with shelves of exotic ingredients with a large cauldron boiling on a smoky fire in the center, almost like a witch‘s lair or hedgemage‘s den. For a moment, the place takes on a wickedly sinister feel… like there is something forbidden here.

    I turn back to Aranwe. The way he’s sitting, he could almost be a bound victim. I shake off the vision. “We can climb that, no worries just let’s tend to our wounds and rest up.”

    I am no priest but I am good at nursing wounds. I learned that long ago… a skill much needed even for a blood mage, and it simply serves me well.

    In the flickering light from above us, I study Aranwe’s face to determine his mood. The shock is fading and the immediate tension seems to ebb out, there is no present threat and he is now busy looking over his wounds. As he does, I gather our packs scattered around us, looking for herbs and bandages, anything useful to clean us up. I drag them close to him. The cavern is warm and well isolated. The earthy smell tickles my nose again.

    “It is not that bad” I say holding my laughter back.. “I been through much worse than being stuck in a badger’s den.” I unclasp his cloak and gently remove it from his shoulders and then my own and spread them on the leafy pile. I line up the necessities… herbs, bandages, ah.. bottle of spirits… No water unfortunately… “I should need a bottle of wine,” I whisper to myself amusedly.

    With a clicking sound, I let loose Athame from my belt then turn to Aranwe. I crawl up close to him so I can release the clasps of his chain armor. This I have liked to do for a long time… His side is aching a bit, and I have to use the knife to bend a twisted buckle to relieve some pressure, then slowly pull it off of him, revealing the soft shirt he wears underneath.

    He is silent and I have no idea what he is thinking, but knowing him, he is more focused on getting out of this trap than anything else. I hand him the bottle of spirits.

    “You better drink some of this. Tending to those cuts and bruises and a possible broken rib is going to hurt.”

    He takes the bottle and nicely does as I say, spitting and hissing as he does, but he drinks it.

    “Easy now.. save some for your wounds. It’s the only thing we have to keep them clean.” He takes another quick slug and passes the bottle back to me.

    “I need to wrap those ribs.” He nods in agreement but is still too focused on our current predicament. “Take your shirt off.”

    “Oh, yes, of course.”

    He struggles a bit raising his arms over his head, but the shirt comes off revealing his toned skin and compact muscles. He has the sinewy strength of a young man who works with his hands and spends a lot of time in the outdoors. I drape his shirt over my shoulder, then pour some spirits on a cloth and start at his shoulders working my way down, cleaning off the sweat and grime as I go. I can feel how solid he is, and the warmth coming off of him. He shivers for a moment as the alcohol dries off his skin and a ripple passes through his frame.

    “That’s cold,” he murmurs.

    I hand him the bottle. “Drink some more, that will keep you warm.” I take the roll of bandages from my pack and kneel behind him to begin wrapping this ribs. I have to press myself up against him to reach around. I whisper in his ear as I pass the bandage from one hand to the other. “You know this has to be tight to work.”

    He takes another swig from the bottle. “Try to be gentle.” he whispers back. Gentle is not what I have in mind.

    I reach around him a second time and pull the bandage as tight as I can get it. His sharp groaning intake of breath sounds like pain or the start of something more interesting. After a third and forth time around I tuck the loose end in and pin it in place, grazing him enough with the pin to give him a sense of danger. He stiffens for a moment, then stays tense as I run the backs of my nails up his spine. I work the tips of my fingers into the tops of his shoulders relaxing the taunt muscles at the base of his neck. The effect is almost instant. I lean in close again to whisper in his ear as I run my hands down over his chest to take final check on the bandage torso.

    “Feeling warmer yet?”

    “Much. You know I think I can climb those roots and lower a rope down to you.”

    It takes everything I have not to claw deep furrows in his chest.

    There are times when Aranwe is far too focused on the wrong things. He is responsible and reliable despite being very young by elven standards, but there are times he just doesn’t get it.

    “It can wait. It’s safe in here, and we need some rest. Why don’t you lay down on the cloaks for a moment?”

    “I’m fine.” He stands, but between the pain and the spirits, he’s less then steady on his feet. “I feel a little lightheaded. Maybe I should lay down for a few minutes.”

    I guide him to the makeshift bed where he stretches out. When he looks at me, I make sure I wince like something is hurting me.

    “Are you all right Mystic?” He tries to sit up again, but I push him gently back down with my hand. The bewildered look on his face is priceless.

    “I think I might have injured my ribs as well.”

    His shirt is still draped over my shoulder. I take it and hold it out at arm’s length to the side, letting him get a good look at it, then let it drop to the earthy floor. He looks at the shirt, then back to my face. I lean in a little and his eyes drop to the row of buttons down my front. Now he gets it.

    “…oh.”

    I can feel his concern give rise to excitement…


  • Mystical Gloves of Fencing

    The flickering light from the small cedar fire under the cauldron cast shadows on the wall of the darkened chamber that seemed to dance and cavort as if they had a life of their own. I take a small handful of powdered cayenne pepper and toss it into the fire. A small plume of smoke rolls up past the cauldron and assails my nose with a sharp acrid scent that brings my mind into sharp focus. I check the simmering fennel oil once again. It was time.

    The lump of bee’s wax melts and spreads out into the oil, softening the scent. It contains the gift of protection for home and community. I stirr it in with a thin glass rod.

    I use my Athame to dice then crush ginseng root, scraping it from the cutting board and into the mixture. Long recommended to increase energy, it also helped respiration and recovery for exertion, aiding the user’s physical and mental prowess.

    Parsley in two whole unblemished sprigs goes in next. Ancient gladiators knew the herb would grant them strength, cunning, and agility, so it was often chewed before battles to assure victory. I turn the parsley in the oil with a copper spoon, gently infusing its aromatics into the mixture.

    Stunningly blue flowers and pungent leaves of rosemary I chop finely and add, the familiar scent reminds me how hungry I am after fasting in preparation for the enchantment. Used often for cooking, rosemary is prized among herbalists as a tonic for bringing energy and increasing blood flow to tired muscles. It also sharpened the mind’s ability to react quickly to danger, and to remember details when in stressful situations.

    I spread the cedar coals beneath the cauldron, letting the potion steep over a low heat, inviting the ingredients to release their powers and join together to increase their potency.

    Patience is the key…

    The gloves are finely crafted double banded leather, cut from the supplest of leathers and stitched with precision. Into the palm of one of the gloves I place a spell crystal imbued by a wizard with the cat’s grace spell. It hums lightly with the magical energies contained inside of it, seemingly eager to be released. I then place the gloves into the potion, using the copper spoon to ladle the herbs and oils onto them liberally. The gloves soak it in greedily almost as if they were parched from a long workout.

    I awakened the gloves to the weave coursing through the tower by casting Resistance on them, then I watch with satisfaction as they start to draw energies to themselves with a puff of smoke. Into the inflowing stream of magic I add Shield, that the gloves might guide the hand inside to greater protection. The gloves takes on a shimmer as the magic bind to the potion infused in the gloves. I touch the gloves with the gemstone inside and whispers a command word, releasing the spell from its crystal prison. It trys to escape into the ether, but is snared by the energies enwrapping the gauntlets and is pulled down into them, forming a writhing and pulsating tangle of magic’s.

    I close my eyes and take a moment to focus my energies drawing power from the weave and the core of my being, moulding it, shaping it, and sharpening it. The Bull Strength spell formed on my lips. My eyes open and with a snarl I drive the spell through the gloves like a spear, pinning the other spells in place, binding them permanently to the gloves. They were complete

    As the gloves lay smoking in the cauldron, exhaustion is overtaking me… but he will be satisfied for sure... my companion.


  • FORGING A MONSTER

    It’s a crisply cool evening in Norwick as Iathouz and I pass through the south gate. Several people are casually lounging about the campfire exchanging the idlest of conversation. Maria’s eyes lock on me the moment I get near. She calls to me, her voice edged with a sternness.

    “Yes Maria?”

    Her voice is marred by her speech impediment or weird accent, but I understand her well enough for my ears to filter it out.

    “You are aware apprentice that the one you travel with has been thrown out of the keep.”

    Iathouz next to me chuckles in an playful manner. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve been thrown out of a keep.” He tosses me a grin, as Maria ignores him, save for a dark look.

    “Oh, you mean Kyan.” I respond with casual innocence. “I was just greeting him as he was right outside the gate. I thought it to be polite. I greet everyone. Am I to blame if our paths happen to cross?”

    She responds but I’m lost in my thoughts as Iathouz and I sit down under the shelter of the watch platform. Of all the elven, I am amused to have him at my side as for many years the two of us have been like cats and dogs. He seems to be in a good mood tonight, and has that long lost mischievous air about him, much like he had in the days we first met. He gives me a sly grin before engaging Maria in conversation.

    “You’ve taken a new apprentice? I’m curious, what does a hermetic mage think they can teach to a blood mage?”

    Maria launches into a lengthy lecture on the nature of spells and the similarities of effects and uses. Iathouz works his way through the conversation with a few comments and minor questions, and then deftly shifts it to a discussion on the similarities between divine spells and necromancy. Maria derides the dark school, but Iathouz pressures her using her own argument for teaching blood mages. One of the clerics or maybe a knight sitting at the fire comes to Maria’s rescue pointing out that clerical casters answer to a higher power and therefore have a divine right to cast spells of life and death, whereas mages do not. Maria takes exception, and an argument ensues between the two as Iathouz drops out of the conversation unnoticed. He sits back and watches, an amused grin on his face as Maria defends Necromancy without even being aware that she’s doing it.

    Iathouz leans close to me and whispers softly in my ear. “Far too easy.”

    Not many know, but for years Iathouz was a forge apprentice to a notorious necromancer named Higgins. It’s easy to see the influence on him, if you know what to look for.

    I sit quietly thinking to myself how easy it is for an individual to be molded and forged into something by others just because they want it to be so. I can’t help but think about what they did to Kyan…

    Kyan is a necromancer! He killed Yng! He is thrown out of Spellweaver Keep!

    A year ago, and then some, I was riding my horse, coming from Norwick to the great wall that encircles Peltarch. A group of horses were halted a distance from the wall and I slowed as I approached. I could see Kyan standing up on the wall, below him was Yng, Meb, and Eli. Another person stumbled into the scene, and I would later come to know the young man as Trevor Lionsbane.

    The three Elven were calling out Kyan, saying he was a necromancer and needed to be brought down. They were provoking him in all manner of ways. He stood his ground on the wall, trying to respond to all their accusations, clearly not wanting to commence a fight, even though he most certainly knew it would end to his favor.

    I found the whole situation out of place. Kyan had been friends to many, and even close to some in the Legion, and now this drama was playing out in front of Trevor and myself. We would both be witnesses.

    I kicked my heels to the side of my horse, thinking that I would not take part in this, as it would not end well for anyone. I rode through the gate, but stopped as soon as I was inside the wall. I found my feet carrying me up the stairs…

    How can the elves continue like this I thought. If anything, Kyan needed a proper interrogation in regards to his intents and the powers he was using… if he was using them. It seemed like this gang of elven justices wanted to take matters into their own hands, render judgment, and carry out their own swift punishment.

    Much to my sadness, I could see Kyan had reached his limits. He walked resolutely down the stairs, casting wards and protections on himself as he went. He stood in front of them, tall, proud, determined. The first arrow struck with a whistle. Yng stood with an empty bow in his hand, the string still vibrating as he reached for his quiver… Other arrows came sailing in… Then it was over in a matter of seconds. The only one of the elves left standing was Meb, and she was grievously wounded, trying to drag the twisted bodies of Yng and Eli to the temple. Kyan had vanished almost before the fight had ended. Where he went, or what condition he was in, I could only guess.

    I could have helped, but all I could feel was disgust and sorrow. This did not need to happen. Over time, the man I know has performed his part well for “them,” satisfying the wishes of those who desperately need someone to hunt. In my eyes they created him. They forged him into the shape they wanted. They created the monster.

    Is this the same man that for hours upon hours watches, guards, and protects me as I wander the chambers and caverns underground? The same man who lifted my fallen body off the troll blood soaked ground and leaving the rest of our group behind, rushed off to find a way to bring me back? Why? He doesn’t have any obligation to me. Is this the act of evil? Even then he returned to rescue the body of another in our group that had fallen. Without him, the whole party would have been lost. He saved us all, and at great risk to himself in the doing.

    Of course I cannot deny anything of what they charge him, even if I do not agree with it all. I know only that which I see. I only know what I feel. I do not fear him. If he wanted me dead I would have been long ago. Instead we share many things together in silence. I have spent so much time with him now that words are not needed. There is a mutual understanding between us that I have come to appreciate.


  • The Key

    I sit quietly listening to the soft whisper of my breath echo in the cavernous chamber, meditating on the sounds around me. I’ve found that if I steel my concentration and narrow my focus it’s like I once again find my way back to the Isle.

    In my hand is a vial containing the blood of a cockatrice. The good mister Theron Goss had killed the beast, albeit I have to admit with great deal of luck, at the south gate. I had acted quickly and carefully to fill the vial, not spilling an ounce of it’s precious blood.

    …Drip

    …Drop

    …Drip

    The sounds of water on stone, running in tiny rivulets down the walls, falling into small pools about the floor, mixing with the echoes of the previous drops. My eyes are closed. I listen to the timing of the drops, steady, consistent. The world I know spins and turns in upon itself, drawing me with it to another place, one that only exists now in my distant memories. The sounds of water fade…

    In a sudden instant of clarity I see him standing before me, my dark mage Wrastlyn. Confidence radiates from him in waves. Grinning, he passes me a vial of cockatrice blood. He asks me to pour it into the water basin of Valor’s castle. The Order of Valor stands as the unbending true justice of the isle, stalwart guardians of the city of Morian. He’s asking me to poison the good of the land, turning them to stone, like the great statues of themselves that reside at the base of their keep, if even for a brief time. Time enough for the Black Knight’s tsunami of darkness to roll across the land and overrun the city, choking off every light upon the isle…

    The air gets sucked from my lungs and I struggle to breath. My concentration fails and I open my eyes, once again back to the dripping chamber. I look around and I can see the guards staring at me, impertinent leers on their faces as they look at me with a peculiar anticipation.

    I’m struck blind as the darkness suddenly fills the chamber. The cavern dissolves into nothingness. It is swift, and alarming as it is sudden. I call out, “Show yourself!”

    The darkness fades and uncloaks a woman standing before me. I glance at the guards and see them suddenly heave to attention, their casual attitude and disrespectful leers turn to a more rigid and disciplined stance. I am quick to follow, bowing my head in respect, almost as if asking for forgiveness…

    She slips a silver chain that bears a heavy key over my head and around my neck before turning away. Her voice is casual but commanding, “Follow me.”


  • The last rays of the setting sun slipped past Spellweaver Keep as I started my final preparations. I doused the lights in the chamber, leaving only the dimmest portions of lantern wicks smouldering by which to see.

    The small copper cauldron suited my needs. I filled it half way with oil pressed from fennel seeds, then placed a small pile of cedar shavings beneath it to start the fire that would keep it heated throughout the evening.

    As the flames sprang up, I added larger strips of cedar that I had carefully rubbed with fennel oil to bring to fire to a gentle heat. I let the oil above it warm while I meditated.

    I broke a small piece off of a cinnamon stick and added a sliver of fresh cut ginger to it before chewing it. The first bite brought the sharp flavours to my tongue in a rush that suddenly cleared all the other thoughts from my mind, bringing me into focus and letting me feel the ebb and flow of the magical weave that surrounded me. I soaked in the energies and the visions that came with them. The words came to my lips in draconic, tumbling out into chamber to mix with the crackle of the fire:

    A pledge my Mistress to point the way
    For magic to manifest this day.
    My intentions clear and thoughts refined
    my directions set by plan divine.
    From East, South, West, and North
    What I manifest now comes forth.

    To the cauldron I added slices of ginger, and the spicy scent filling the room, flavouring the air with a warming fragrance that stimulates the mind and focus the senses. Myrrh gum added a liquorice edge, and finely chopped tobacco sweetened the air, leaving an aroma that was almost intoxicating when breathed deeply. Lastly, to the infusion, I added a lump of beeswax because bees are well known for protecting their community and home. As the wax melted, it added a warm and comforting odour, reminiscent of a sun drenched summer afternoon, when the bees are hard at work gathering nectar and building their hive.

    The ritual oil simmered gently as I added more wood to the fire to keep it going. The oil reached it’s potency, not only as a ward against magical and spiritual attack, but also as a tribute to honour all spirits that serve in the role of protector. I took a ladle and poured some on my arms, rubbing it into my skin, breathing heavily of its fragrance and soaking in it’s warmth. I filled several vials, leaving about half of the infusion in the cauldron.

    Increasing the size of the fire, I added water taken from a cold east running mountain stream and moved on to the rest of my preparations.

    Peppercorns, crushed; for building protection, confidence, and inventiveness. Pepper brought strength and alertness to a warrior as well as guarding against physical and magical attacks. I tossed a few peppercorns into the fire as well, producing smoke that made my eyes water.

    Fennel seeds, whole. Throughout the centuries soldiers chewed fennel seeds before battles, it was said to build confidence and strength. Farmers rubbed mixed it with soap and salt and applied it to their plow blades to strengthen the land to encourage better harvests. It was often hung over doorways to ward against evil, or packed into keyholes to keep out ghosts. It added to the earthiness of the gingers, and enhanced their effects.

    Dark blue juniper berries, lightly bruised. Another spicy warm scent, one that purified auras, clarified thought and protected from negativity. Often associated with the moon, it stained the mixture a beautifully dark colour in the dim light.

    I stirred the cauldron with my dagger Athame, still stained with the blood I had taken from the receiver Mr Goss the one night before. A warrior’s protection needed a warrior’s blood. It was an old magic…

    The mixture seemed to take on a life of its own as I added the meticulously crafted gloves, turning them over and over again as the potion soaked into them, clarifying the leather to take the enchantments to follow.

    At last, when the moment was right, I channelled the energies of my being into my magics and extended them into the gloves, feeling a little piece of me go with them, draining my body and soul through the effort.

    Resistance. The cauldron flashed green and spat smoke as the spell washed over it.

    Mage Armor. A vibration shook the cauldron, as a low, threatening humming sound hung in the air. The magic’s twisted among them, and I could see the lines of force tying and untying themselves about the gloves.

    One last spell, a lynchpin to hold them together, to bind them to the gauntlets… I reached into myself, pulling out the last of my energies, channelling them through Athame. The Bull Strength spell shot out like an arrow, piercing the gloves and pulling the other enchantments to it. I forced my will upon them all, sustaining them, cajoling them, welding them to the leather, watching as the spells and the potion were drawn into them until nothing remained but the slight wisp of smoke curling up from the gloves.

    I snuffed the fire and collapsed to the floor, spent and exhausted


  • ROOM # 5

    Our group made its way back from the crypts exhausted. It seemed like we had spent an eternity or more down there, so we decided a stop at the Inn would be in order. Much to my regret, Ael’Que, the smelly dwarf Mud, and a new face to me, Xilo, chose to leave us when we passed the gate. Since we had the good fortune of a successful venture without carrying back any casualties, we resolved to celebrate over dinner and a few drinks.

    At the Inn, my guard Somali joined us at the table. While it was regrettable that he wasn’t along with us, I was glad to see him none the less. I presented him with a gift I had acquired for him: a belt that I thought would suit his needs, nothing but the best for my guard. It brought me great joy to see the silly grin that crossed his face. Now, while there are many things that can be said about the half orc, his devotion and eagerness to please have exceeded my most fervent expectations. He will, in time, become the best shield a mage could ever hope for.

    The conversation at the party was lively and enjoyable. Good company is a boon even in the best of times, better still when the food is agreeable and the wine flows steadily. One of the guests for the evening piqued my interest. He is well behaved, and always generous.

    In the midst of my savouring a well prepared chicken and imbibing in the modest pleasure of cheap wine, the man gets up from the table and excuses himself. He has decided to retire for the evening. Much to my amusement, he quickly makes sure everyone knows that if he’s needed for any reason, he can be found in room number five.

    “Sleep well and sweet dreams,” I say.

    “I will dream of celestials tonight,” he returns with a flourish.

    My thoughts were elsewhere for the rest of dinner. I carry my sister’s curse of being too curious, despite knowing full well how that can end. We’ve all felt the consequences, in one way or another.

    As I leave the table for the evening, I can’t help whispering to Buurbie, “ I wonder what’s behind door number five.”

    I slip the Athame into my hand, whispers softly a few words, and fall into the shadows, travelling with them up the stairs.

    "He can dream of celestials all he wants, I certainly don’t mind."


  • COLD STONE

    The massive iron bound door groans as it opens in front of me, the dust gathered on it falling away in hazy cloud as it tries to keep up with the motion. A few mildly interested guards look me over as I pass by them.

    Dimly glowing lights flicker lifelessly as I pass through the hallway, dust devils swirling at my feet as I walk. I pause briefly at the entrance, considering what awaits me in the chamber.

    I call out, but the only answer is my own echo, twisted into a voice that sounds unlike mine. Hollow, cold… hungry. Only four other people even hear it, some half sleeping guards and a woman being consumed by a bookshelf. No matter. They are not the reason I’m here.

    I turn to my right and head for the altar I see there. A brief tingle runs the length of my body as I approach, lingering slightly in a way that makes me gasp. The stone top is a bit cracked and gives the impression that it’s been a long time since used. I caress the surface, feeling the coolness that seems to intensify near it’s imperfections. I close my eyes and I can feel desire wash over me. I expect to feel a touch on my shoulders, a whisper in my ear, giving way to… In my anticipation, I’ve leaned forward, my cheek coming gently to rest on the altar. My arms have encircled it without my even being aware. I feel drawn in, and yet I wait in silence for something that doesn’t happen. The stone is cold, dead, and emotionless.

    I slowly raise myself to standing, withdrawing Athame from its sheath, my senses aquiver as it comes free. I grip the blade in my left hand, the flat edge against my fingers. I can feel the danger of the razor edge against my palm. A burning sharpness, unfulfilled. Would it feel much different against a throat? With a swift pull I slash my palm, blood flowing between my fingers even before the blade clears my flesh. Grimacing at the pain, I form my savaged hand into a fist, holding it over the surface of the altar, watching my blood drench its surface. To my amazement, it forms into rivulets and streams to the crack before being sucked down into the thirsty stone, leaving the exterior clean. I feel spent, and my body goes limp. For a moment I forget my bleeding hand and a small puddle of blood forms at my feet. I quickly sheath my dagger, and then pull a cloth from my pack, wrapping it around my injured palm.

    I back cautiously away from the altar and on the way out I turn to one of the wide eyed guard frozen along the wall, casually appraising him for a moment.

    “I’ll come back … ”

    I cast a few protective spells and head back out the corridor..


  • ENTERTAINMENT

    Judging by the steady stream of toughs walking through the door, the Pissing Goat ale hall was hosting a party for a local gang boss. Although it wasn’t my usual hang out, I had heard a few whispers about the soirée while passing through the docks earlier, and my boredom lead me to it.

    From my position at the bar, I could see who came in and out, and catch just enough of a glimpse of the back room to watch the festivities. Casual observation led me to believe most of the regular patrons had found someplace else to imbibe for the evening, which held the promise of the party being loud and raucous. Gods know, the service was awful, due to most of the bar maids tending to the debaucherous mob in the back room.

    I barely had time to cover my ears before a thunderstone exploded with a sharp crack. A group of serving wenches came running in, curious at the loud bang. Unable to find anything aside from a rising ring of smoke, they returned to their duties at the loud calls for more ale from the back room.

    Trays covered with crusty bread and large bowls of steamy stew headed into the back in perfect timing with the pitchers of beer. I found myself setting my own drink on the bar. The trouble started a few moments later.

    A loud voice bellowed from the back room. “What in the hells!” The unmistakable sound or retching swiftly followed. It started a wholesale round of more vomiting.

    There was a sizzle in the air, followed by a soft thump. The back hall was lost in a rolling ball of acrid black smoke… A rapid series of pops that sounded like tangle foot bags, followed by breaking glass and wheezing coughs and the jingling noise of caltrops hitting the floor… Screams of anger and pain… More so when the goblin grenades went off...

    I decided it was time for me to leave myself, before anyone came looking for witnesses. I made a hasty exit escaping the fire and mayhem