Killers, Thieves and Liars is a piece of fiction from 100 Whispers and Rumors For Ironfire, The City of Steel!, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara.

The Busted Cup was the sort of place that upright and upstanding citizens didn’t seek out. It was a low and crooked place that only those who wandered broken roads went to willingly, and even they usually left as soon as their shady affairs were in order. It was a place that stank of warm beer, burned grease and just a hint of blood.

It was not the sort of place that expected strangers. So when the outlander opened the door, all eyes were cast his way. Some peered at him from under their hoods, and others looked straight at him, but everyone watched him closely. As he closed the door and strode across the floor, a dozen hands slipped toward hidden hilts and holdout knives. No one bared so much as an inch of steel, though. The regulars at the cup were the best and brightest of the bottom of the barrel, and they hadn’t avoided exile or being clapped in irons by making rash decisions. Nevertheless, each of them let out a small sigh of relief when the young man walked past their table without so much as glancing their way. They didn’t take their hands off their weapons, though.

A pale man with a crescent moon scar around one eye sat with his back to the wall at a rear table. One hand, which was missing the last and ring fingers, rested on the scarred wooden tabletop. The other hand was below the table. As the outlander approached, the pale man favored him with a humorless smile, and raised his cloudy mug in a mocking salute.

“Does your uncle know you’re here?” Lemarden Three Fingers asked as he took a deep drink.

“He knows I’m in the city,” the young man said, pulling out a chair before spinning it around and straddling it. “He doesn’t know where I am at this particular moment. I told him I had business to attend, and that was enough for him.”

“Guess you really are grown up now, aren’t you?” Lemarden set his mug back down, and wiped his nose. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Are you just checking in with an old friend of the family?”

“If I recall right, one of those missing fingers is because of my uncle,” the young man said. Lemarden laughed, and waved his mangled hand.

“Water behind the stern,” Lemarden said, and though his mouth was smiling, his eyes were hard. “What is it, boy? You’ve been gone from this city for years, and now you come back just long enough to crack some skulls, and to wander over to the Red Orchid. Then you turn up here, with a look in your eye like you’ve got business on your mind.”

“Sharp as always,” the outlander said.

“Sharp enough to shave with,” Lemarden said. “Now answer my question.”

“I need a thief,” the young man said.

Lemarden’s grin was wide, and he gestured around the room with one hand as he laughed. “You have your pick right here. If their fingers were any lighter, they’d float right off their hands.”

“Light fingers isn’t all I need,” the young man said. Lemarden’s smile vanished as if it had never been, and he laid both his hands on the tabletop, fingers spread just wide enough to show they weren’t hiding anything.

“What else do you need?” he asked.

“Experienced,” the outlander said. “Particularly with booby traps. They shouldn’t be on any watch lists outside of Ironfire, and they should have good reason to want to leave this place.”

“And if they’re on watch lists within Ironfire?” Lemarden asked.

“I said experienced, and I meant it,” the young man said. “There’s only one way you get that in the thief’s trade.”

“Do you need them to be trustworthy?” Lemarden asked.

“I trust a thief to be who and what they are,” the outlander said. “I’m not looking for a virgin in a brothel.”

Lemarden leaned back in his seat, and weighed the young man with his gaze. He debated the proposition, and pursed his lips as he examined it from different angles. He took a long drink of his brew, and wiped foam off his lip. Two men got up from one of the other tables, and left the Busted Cup, both of them taking pains not to look toward what was happening at the rear of the tavern.

“I have someone who fits that description,” Lemarden said. “And I could provide you a letter of introduction. But what is it worth to you?”

The young outlander gave the old thief a smile Lemarden recognized. He’d first seen it on the man’s face when he’d still been a boy, and Lemarden had taught him how to cheat at cards. He reached into his jerkin, and took out a small, painted box with a shiny, brass lid. Lemarden’s eyes went wide.

“Do I want to know how you got that away from him?” the old thief asked.

“Just how you taught me to,” the outlander said, chuckling. “I walked right in and took it.”

Lemarden laughed at that, and shook his head. He reached for the box, but the young man held it out of his grasp. Instead, he offered his calloused right hand. “Do we have a bargain?”

“Yes,” Lemarden said, clasping the outlander’s wrist. The two men shook once, and then the outlander handed the thief the small box. He opened the latch with one grimy thumbnail, and peered inside. He nodded once, satisfied. “I’ll have the letter ready for you by this evening.”

“Within the hour,” the young man said. When Lemarden raised an eyebrow, the outlander shrugged.

“My uncle is going to notice that little box is gone sooner rather than later,” he said. “And I’d prefer to be beyond the city walls when he does.”

Lemarden laughed, and raised a hand toward the bar. Gloriana sauntered to their table, two fresh, frothy mugs on a wooden platter. The two men each took one of the drinks, and Lemarden favored the young man.

“Very well,” he said. “Have a drink with me, and then I’ll go introduce you to her personally.”

Archbliss is Magic is a piece of fiction for Archbliss: The City of the Sorcerers, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

The city can be seen from many miles away, for it hovers high above the Kerrin Plateau below. The city is Archbliss, the City of the Sorcerers, the city that roamed the skies after it was created by the most powerful sorcerers of its time. Now it no longer drifts above the lands, instead remaining fixed in the sky where all can find it, though finding does not mean being allowed to enter the city created by magic.

Archbliss is still reluctant to engage with others, though powerful organisations and cities maintain contact with it, and it with them, and the city, through the use of its magic, has gained powerful friends in high places. It is magic that made Archbliss and magic that runs through it today. Sorcery is the most potent force in Archbliss, though all kinds of magic are of interest to those who dwell within the city. It is magic they use and seek in trade, and the city is a place where almost anything magical can be sold. Though the price paid may vary.

On the land below the city are many means of travelling to it as it floats above. From the teleportation circles that allow visitors to travel instantly, to all manner of flying beasts, creatures and magic available to rent for those whose business is not important enough to be granted the use of the circles. Those who have their own means of flight may travel that way too.

Magic is what made Archbliss and magic is what maintains it. Magic is the city’s lifeblood; without it, the city would tumble to the ground below, as some thought it would in the past. Magic is all and those who lack magic are, perhaps, considered lesser. The City of the Sorcerers has an insatiable appetite for magic, and it is a place where, perhaps, you may find the magic you need. Though you may not find it at a price you can afford.

Swords and Sand is a piece of fiction for Sundara from Merchants of Sundara.

Thick fog filled the streets of Ghostborough, turning the entire district into something out of a dark dream. It eddied and swirled around those who moved through it, reaching for them with phantom fingers, and leaving wet tracks along their cheeks like tears. The very air was heavy, as if a storm was coming, but it was just the remnants of the city’s bad air, blown down around the gutters. Most who had to be out on the streets wore cloths over their faces, ensuring they breathed as little of the steam as possible. They also kept one hand on their purses, and another near a weapon.

The young man strode through the streets with all the care and candor of a reveler who’d stumbled into a funeral. He was lanky and broad-shouldered, with skin that had been tanned dark by the sun, and a face that was passingly handsome, despite his stubble, and a scar that cut through one eyebrow. His boots rang on the cobbles, and he bore no weapon except for the staff he carried over one shoulder. His patched woolens didn’t speak of wealth, but that was not the only reason he was given space by those who saw him. Word had begun to circulate about him, and what he had done since arriving in Ironfire. The beating he had given Oleg the Grinder in the dueling circle was still fresh in the whisper stream, and none of the foot pads or cut purses who saw him wished to try their luck, lest they be given the same kind of treatment.

His steps brought him to a low, heavy-beamed building. No sign hung outside the door, but there was a garland of flowers painted along the frame, marking it out from its neighbors. Glancing around once, he lowered the staff from his shoulder, knocked three times, and stepped inside.

The place was not what one expected to find. Low tables sat around the walls, some with reed mats to kneel on, and some with pillows to offer a little more cushion. Several potted trees filled the air with their soft perfume, and a red silk curtain covered the doorway to the rear of the place. In the center of the room was a low pit filled with clean, white sand. It had been raked smooth in an artful way, but there was no disguising its true purpose.

Two people occupied one of the low tables to one side of the sands. On the far side sat a man of orcish heritage, his legs folded beneath him. His hair was shorn on the sides, and a single braid ran down the middle of his head. His shoulders were huge, and he lifted a tall mug with one hand. It was the only hand he had, as his other arm ended just above where the elbow should have been. Sitting across from him was a woman who appeared to be of elven heritage, judging from the vibrant green of her eyes, and the pointed tips of her ears. It was difficult to say whether her clothes or her hair was more disheveled, but despite her appearance, and the glass of potent spirits she held in one hand, her gaze was sharp, and measuring.

“What do you want?” the blooded woman called out.

“Here to see a smith,” the young man said, leaning on his staff.

The woman snorted, and shook her head before taking a long drink. Her companion set his mug down, and eyed the stranger. “Who are you, to make such a request?”

The young man didn’t answer. Instead, he fished a coin out of the inside pocket of his jerkin, and flicked it toward the one-armed man. The gray-skinned smith snatched it out of the air, and examined it. It was heavy, evenly-milled and made of a unique red gold that caught the light, and glimmered like fresh blood. Stamped on one side of it was an orchid in bloom. The rear side of the coin was smooth, and unblemished. He offered the coin to the woman, who eyed it, and then returned her gaze to the young man. Her gaze had sharpened with curiosity.

“You’re the outlander,” she said, taking another sip of her drink. “Tarak the Headsman’s own blood, finally come home to the House of Black Banners.”

“Which doesn’t explain how you got this,” her gray-skinned companion said.

“What I did is between me, and the master of this house,” the young man said. “Will either of you honor his mark?”

The two companions shared a long look. Though no words were exchanged, the woman raised one hand, as if relenting, and the one-armed man stood. He gave the young outlander a smile, and gestured toward the pit.

“I am Horsk Hammerhand,” he said, bending to take up a long-handled warhammer. “Come. Let me take your measure.”

The outlander stepped down onto the sand, and waited for Horsk to join him. Each of them watched the other for a long moment, weighing one another’s stance, movement, reach, and a dozen other details. Then without warning, they moved. Blows were struck and dodged, and their weapons whistled through the air with only inches to spare. Each advanced, then retreated, feinting and shifting, trying to catch the other off-guard. Horsk saw an advantage, and seized it, following a powerful blow with a butt from his bad shoulder. The outlander twisted, bringing his staff around as if the two of them were dancing, and swept Horsk’s legs right out from under him. Unable to stop his momentum, he fell hard, sand fountaining up from where he struck the ground. Horsk’s opponent held his staff in two hands, pointing the butt end of it at the smith’s chest. The young man was breathing hard, but there was fire in his eyes, and a smile on his lips.

“I yield,” Horsk said, releasing his grip on his hammer, and holding up his empty hand. The outlander planted his staff in the sand, and offered a hand. Horsk grasped his forearm, and was hauled to his feet. “I’ve never seen someone adapt the Viper’s Coils to a single weapon before, let alone one with such reach.”

“Will that be a problem?” the outlander asked.

“No,” Horsk said. “A challenge, perhaps, but not a problem…”