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.

Born in The Boneyard is a piece of fiction from 100 Effects of a Primquake, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara.

Elisa’s pregnancy had been exceptionally difficult. She’d lost three children before they could be born already, and Iosef had told her that as long as she wished him to, he would keep trying. He had died of a flux during the winter, though, and the last remnant of him was quickening even now in her belly.

She would not lose this child.

She had done all the things the mid wife had recommended. She’d eaten black root, drunk half moon tea and been careful with her movements, but she was taking no risks. Which was why she had taken her old staff, and begun walking toward the place called the Giant’s Hand when she felt her time drawing near.

It had been more than a week of hard traveling to reach the standing stones, surrounded by the cairns of heroes and commoners alike. Wind blew through that place, so hard that it was impossible to keep any kind of fire alight. She arrived to that place late, so Elisa had to navigate by the light of the moon, and its reflections off the pale rocks all around her. Wolves had bayed in the distance, and vultures watched her with their beady eyes from atop bare-branched trees, but nothing had stood in her way. Nothing except time, of course.

The Giant’s Hand was in sight, at the top of a long, spiraling staircase that led round the hill it crested, when Elisa felt her water break. She made herself move slowly, mounting the steps one at a time, rather than running for the top of the hill in a blind panic. It was hard, and it got even harder when the constant aches she’d felt for weeks grew teeth and blossomed into real pain. By the time she reached the crest of the stairs, every breath she took was a dull agony, and she was teetering on her feet. So she crawled into the center of the ring of stones, shrugging off her pack, her muscles straining as she pushed herself into the birthing position. She took a deep, ragged breath, and started to push.

Time lost all meaning as her breaths bled into one another, and waves of pain crashed over her, each one closer than the last. Elisa’s fingers dug into the hard, rocky soil; the tufts of rough grass coarse against her palms as she balled her hands into fists. The sky above roiled, and black clouds gathered like bad dreams, blotting out the stars, and casting the hill in darkness. Heat lightning shot between the clouds, sparking the heavens and giving brief glimpses of the world before once more leaving Elisa swathed in gloom. The pressure inside her hurt so badly, but she couldn’t stop. She’d come too far, and lost too much, merely to give up now. Even though she could taste blood in her mouth from how hard she was gritting her teeth, she pushed harder, her eyes screwed up tightly.

Elisa didn’t see the cracks opening up in the earth around the hill. She didn’t see the green light bleeding between the clouds. She couldn’t even hear the roiling voices that filled the air over how loudly her heart thundered in her ears. The stones around her groaned, as if they could feel her pain as her back arched, and the cords stood out in her neck. She felt her baby coming, pushing out from her, and into the world. She gave one last push, and felt the life she carried for so long leave her.

The world spun, and blackness encroached on the edges of Elisa’s vision, but she fought it back. She panted, struggling for her pack, pulling it open with shaking fingers. She withdrew the soft cloths she’d packed, and forced herself to sit up. She lifted her child, wiping away the blood and afterbirth that had splattered them. She smiled as she cleaned him… she had a son. Just like she and Iosef had said they would. Her smile broke, and crumbled when she realized he wasn’t crying. Not a single noise had passed his lips. She cupped her hand over his mouth, and felt no stirring of air.

Elisa screamed, and held her baby tight. She cried out to the gods whose name she didn’t know not to take him away from her… not now. Not after everything. A cold wind buffeted her, and she held her son tightly against her, instinctively shielding him with her body. The earth settled, the lights in the sky faded and the wind died down. When it did, she heard her son cry in her ear.

Yelping in surprise, Elisa held her baby up, and stared at him. He was fussing, kicking his small legs and voicing his displeasure. His cries faded, first to burbles, and then to silence. He regarded his mother curiously, his wide, blue eyes staring up at her. Then he smiled, and reached for her with his small, pudgy hands.

Even as she cut his cord and finished cleaning him, Elisa knew there was something different about her son. Beneath her exhaustion and relief, beneath her mingled joy and longing to share this moment with her departed husband, she suddenly felt a premonition. She knew that chill in her son’s skin would never truly leave him, and that whatever quirk of fate had allowed her to keep him would spread challenges in the road before him. The Wyrd had seen fit to let her keep him, though, and for that she would be eternally grateful, no matter what burden she would have to help him carry.

The two of them spent the night, sitting high above the gathered ranks of the dead, sitting quietly beneath their stone blankets. Her son called out to the wind, as if speaking to the ghosts of those passed in his babbling, nonsense words. He laughed in delight, as if unseen spirits had responded to him. Elisa did not sleep until the moon began to fade, her finger clutched in both of her son’s hands. When the sun was high in the sky, and both of them had fed, she took up her staff, and made the descent back down the hill. It was even harder coming down again, but this time, at least, she didn’t have to make the trip alone.

Audio Version

Searching the Desert is a piece of fiction for Moüd: The City of Bones, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

“I really don’t think this was such a good idea Dranolf,” yelled Feyla through the howling wind and blowing sand.

“You worry too much,” rumbled the Arasta dwarf in reply. “It’s just a mild blow, that’s all.” The wind howled again, sending particles of sand flying through the air with a force capable of scrubbing skin from bones.

“Not all of us grew in the desert!” shouted Feyla in return. “And I doubt anyone else would categorise this sandstorm as ‘mild’!”

The two had set out from Moüd earlier into the sands of the Trackless Quarter, not to cross it but to search the desert itself. They’d stumbled across something in the Dead Market in the city that looked as if it dated back to before the city now known as Moüd was overwhelmed by the necromantic energies drawn from the Prim.

It seemed clear that the vendor didn’t know what they had for sale. It wasn’t a trinket as would normally be found in the market, but it lacked any noticeable magical energy to it. The seller likely thought it was junk, a piece of stone with some curious markings.

The thing was definitely a piece of stone with curious markings, but neither Feyla nor Dranolf thought it was junk. They recognised some of the symbols and, from what they could tell, it looked like it might be a map from Moüd’s history.

That was why they were in the desert, following the map. It seemed they were right, and the stone was a map, perhaps to something of value from that age. They should have been more careful in checking the weather before setting out, though Dranolf was indeed raised in the desert and felt the storm was not natural.

“We’re going to have to seek shelter soon!” Feyla yelled at the dwarf.

“You’re likely right,” was the reply.

Hunching through the sandstorm, protected from its worst effects by plenty of wrappings, the pair suddenly stumbled across a hollow in the sand, a hollow with a black opening in one side. The opening was ringed with stone on which symbols had been carved.

“Could it be…” asked Feyla.

“Yes,” replied Dranolf, “I think it is. The storm has brought us to what we were looking for.” A slight shudder passed through his frame; it still felt unnatural. Heading for the opening, the two drew torches from their supplies and lit them, going in.

Behind them, something stirred in the sand.