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…”

An Unnatural Cold 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.

“Can you feel that?” asked Rengarth of Talhesen, with a shiver.

The pair were in Spirit Tower in Archbliss, standing near the Obelisk, a monument at the crossroads formed by a sorcerer called the Mummy Queen.

“It’s only a bit of cold,” replied Talhesen. “Just grit your teeth and bear it.”

“I’d call it more than a bit of cold,” retorted Rengarth. “It’s cutting right through me. It’s not natural.”

“You’re complaining that something in Archbliss is not natural?” asked Talhesen. “You may be in the wrong city if you’re looking for something natural.”

“You know what I mean, Talhesen. That’s something stronger than mere magical cold. Can’t you sense it?”

“I can,” replied Talhesen. “And I do know what you mean. But it’s important that we study the Obelisk carefully.”

Both were copying the strange symbols and pictograms that covered the faces of the monument. No-one seemed to be really certain as to their meanings, and not much was known about the Mummy Queen either. But there were many theories about both, and the two had one of their own.

Perhaps it was Spirit Tower’s connection to death, and the sheer number of undead and half-dead that could be found in that district of the City of the Sorcerers, more than anywhere outside of Moüd. Rengarth and Talhesen felt the connection to Moüd might be deeper than the mere surface impressions caused by the connection to necromancy.

Whilst the two travelling scholars were in Moüd they had seen more than a few sights of that ancient, and lost for generations, city. Like Archbliss, Moüd has a strong connection to magic, albeit with a different focus, and before the city was lost, the mages within had known some mighty magics. And both were sure there were similarities between some inscriptions they had seen in Moüd and those on the Obelisk.

Perhaps the Mummy Queen was somehow connected to Moüd. A descendant of those that used to live there. Or perhaps it was another academic dead end. Only time would tell.