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.

Send in The Dogs is a piece of fiction from Guilds of Sundara, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

Selene Troyas sat at her elegant desk, the sun splashing across her study and the sound of birdsong coming in through the open window. Her short bob of dark hair gleamed in the soft light, and the white jerkin she wore practically shone, contrasting with the dark, whipcord breeches and riding boots that hugged her legs. Her quill scratched over a letter, her neat, particular handwriting looping across the page in perfect lines as she made a final offer on a parcel of ground east of the town of Kask. There were holdouts who were waiting to see just how badly the Landers Guild wanted their patch, and Selene was making it very clear that if this price did not satisfy, then she would move onto other methods.

A knock at the door drew Selene’s gaze. Iris withered under the house mistress’s look, and Selene took a moment to compose her face. She offered a smile, and carefully set her quill aside. It was a mark of how frustrating the acquisition near the small town had proven that she was letting her emotions show on her face.

“What is it, Iris?” Selene asked.

“The… representative you sent for has arrived,” Iris said hesitantly.

“Send him in,” the mistress of the estate said.

“Do you wish to meet with him alone, miss?” Iris asked. Selene pursed her lips. Iris wasn’t usually so skittish.

“Yes,” Selene said, sprinkling a handful of writing sand over the ink to ensure it dried quickly. She held the letter out to Iris. “Now take this to Duncan. Tell him to send the redtail to deliver it.”

“Yes ma’am,” Iris said, taking the paper and departing the room. Selene crossed her legs, took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders. Heavy footsteps entered her outer chamber, and a moment later a figure stepped through her study door.

He was rangy and rugged, dressed in an oilskin duster with a ragged rain cape that bore the scars of fire and blade alike. Crossed weapon belts hung from his hips; a brace of daggers on one side, and sloshing, alchemical concoctions on the other. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, but it did nothing to hide the three days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks, nor the brand on the side of his neck. What most struck her, though, was the smell of the man; a mix of horse sweat, rich forests and earth. When he met her gaze, she saw that one of his eyes was a deep, dark brown. The other was a golden yellow that caught the light, and glimmered.

Now she understood why Iris had been so nervous about their visitor.

“You sent for me,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

“If you are the representative of the Manhunters Guild, then yes, I did,” Selene said, her voice cool, and steady.

The figure tucked his fingers behind the edge of his coat, and pulled it back. Resting on his hip was a gleaming guild seal; a pair of manacles beneath a headsman’s sword. He pulled his coat back over the badge, and folded his hands in front of him.

“Very well,” Selene said. “Do you have a name?”

“Trask,” he said.

“The job I have is a sensitive matter that needs to be handled with the utmost discretion,” Selene said, pursing her lips slightly. “Some people are making… trouble near one of my guild’s holdings.”

“What kind of trouble?” Trask asked.

Selene opened the shallow, central drawer of her desk, and took out a series of letters. She offered them to the bounty hunter, who read through them carefully. Selene withdrew a smoking taper from a box on the corner of her desk. She placed one end in her mouth, leaned over to the oil lamp where it hung on a chain, and lit the other end. Fragrant herb smoke filled the air as she watched the manhunter. After several silent moments he unceremoniously dropped the letters on her desk.

“Guild will expect double the normal fee for this,” he said.

“Oh?” Selene said, her voice as cool as winter dew. “And why is that?”

“You want us to hunt down a runaway, maybe deal with bandits, that’s one thing,” Trask said. He tapped the letters with his index finger. “That ain’t what this is, and we both know it.”

“And what is this, exactly?” Selene asked.

“Landers Guild doesn’t appoint people who spook easy,” Trask said. “And they don’t send their governors out without competent guards. You lost three governors in as many months over this little patch of ground. Every one of them sent you back a report saying something different was wrong with the land. Every one of them resigned. The ink is crooked, and smeared, which tells me their hands were shaking. There’s drops of blood staining the bottom of the third letter.”

The manhunter folded his arms over his thick chest, and focused his mismatched eyes on Selene. There was something unnerving in that gaze. It was as if he could see straight through to the core of her thoughts, and read the secrets written on her soul. She took another drag on her taper, and let the smoke trickle out from her nose.

“Your point?” Selene asked. Trask stepped closer, and planted his scarred knuckles on her desk, lowering his face until he was eye-level with her.

“Somebody walked right under your people’s noses, and scared your lackeys so bad they didn’t believe you could protect them,” Trask said. “And whoever they are, they did it three times. You want us chasing ghosts in the dark, that’s the price.”

Selene leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowing. She blew out one more breath of smoke as she re-evaluated the hunting hound of a man across the desk from her. Then she stubbed out the remnants of her taper in a shallow, glass tray.

“Double the fee, then,” she said. “Triple if you resolve this in the next fortnight.”

The manhunter gave her a wolfish grin, and without a word turned and left her study. After a moment Selene realized that for all the noise he’d made coming in, there hadn’t been so much as a whisper when he departed.

Welcome to Hoardreach is a piece of fiction for Hoardreach: The City of Wyrms, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

Hoardreach is an impressive sight when seen from a distance, whether approaching it by land or air, and air is a common method of reaching the city, given the number of flying creatures that live in it and the airships that Hoardreach is known for.

The city is built atop a table mesa and its lights are visible from a long way away at night, reflecting off cloud cover if there is any. Smaller lights can be seen floating in the skies above the city, which during the day as the traveller gets closer resolve into some of the airborne beings that live there and the mentioned airships. Not everything has, or needs, a light, but enough do, for whatever reason, that a dancing show of diving and glittering lights can be seen weaving amongst that are more constant in their path.

The mesa rises out of the forest surrounding the city, towering into the sky. Paths lead through the forest, passing the villages that nestle beneath the shadow of the dragons’ wings, farms growing crops and raising livestock.

Most of the population lives within the city’s walls, and Hoardreach itself is a study in contrasts. The influence of the five founding dragons can be felt throughout the city, as the land has adapted to them, from the bogs of Westgate to the kiln-like air of the Sunrise District to the frosts of North District. Contrasts that wouldn’t be seen elsewhere, as such different climates would not, under other circumstances, be found so close to each other. The influence of the founders alters the climate itself.

Within the city itself can be found a host of different species, as different peoples cluster in the areas with the conditions they most enjoy; those who like winter’s chill do not appreciate the heat of the Sunrise District. Other districts are less obviously dominated by a single dragon, and trade comes in by air from other cities. Huge airships slow above the city and descend to the ground, there to be unloaded of people and cargo.

Hoardreach is a city of contrasts, a cosmopolitan city and a place to rub shoulders with all manner of peoples. Hoardreach is my city, and I welcome you to it.

Danger from Above is a piece of fiction for Hoardreach: The City of Wyrms, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

“Look out!” came the cry from above.

Ghellin looked upwards, and then ducked. Though flying things were hardly unknown in Hoardreach, normally only visitors treated such with alarm. For residents of the city, and for those who had visited enough to become immune, flying creatures, whether natural, magically or mechanically assisted, were just part of the every day scenery. No more worthy of notice than the road underfoot.

This one was a bit different, though. For one thing, it looked to be out of control. No matter what, out of control flying items were definitely something worth avoiding.

For another thing, it was most peculiar. And that was for someone familiar with the airships and scale suits that Hoardreach produced. Though such devices might be rare elsewhere, unless Hoardreach traders had visited, they were just another thing in the air in the city itself.

This… contraption, for Ghellin could think of no better word, looked to be a jumble of sales and spars with no discernible purpose or logic behind them. Or perhaps there was logic, but as the pilot was not in control, that logic may have fallen by the wayside.

Ghellin was not the only person on the street to duck. Or, for that matter, move rapidly out of the way as the contraption came in for what only just escaped being called a crash. It was certainly damaged by its encounter with the ground, and the single occupant looked a bit shaken by the ordeal.

Ghellin, and others, went to see if the pilot, a Skycatcher halfling if he was not mistaken, was okay. And, in the cases of some of those on the street, to loudly complain about the Skycatcher from flying a clearly malfunctioning machine over an area where people were living.

“Well,” said the halfling. “I guess that didn’t go to plan.” She apologised to the people who had nearly got a much closer view of her contraption than they would have preferred.

Ghellin thought she wasn’t a native to Hoardreach, even though there was a substantial community of the gnomes living in the city. He inquired. “No, I’m from Silkgift originally,” was the halfling’s response.

Silkgift. That did explain a lot, Ghellin thought to himself.

A Treat is a piece of fiction for Ironfire: The City of Steel one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

“If you’re not careful, you’ll wear it out with your eyes.”

The comment drew Kalem’s attention away from the blade he was admiring. He looked over at the weaponsmith in the shop in the Stone Pole district of Ironfire.

“Just kidding,” said the heavily-tattooed Takitori dwarf proprietor of the shop. “Dragon steel doesn’t wear out that easily, of course. But you’ve been fixated on that sword for a good chunk of time.”

“It’s a beautiful weapon,” Kalem said.

“Of course it is!” was the dwarf’s response. “I made it!” Though the dwarf still had a broad smile on his face, it was clear he did have pride in his craftsmanship. Justifiable pride, Kalem thought, looking around the, to him, uncomfortably warm, shop. The Takitori’s love of fire went well with the vulcanism of the Ironfire region, and the dwarf had the place at a temperature he probably considered ‘comfortable’ and most other beings ‘sweltering’ bordering on ‘cooked.’ The dwarf wasn’t the only one enjoying the heat; a cinderscale lizardfolk was also busily hammering away next to the forge. Far closer than Kalem could have stood without going up in flames.

“Are you interested in buying?” asked the dwarf.

Kalem nodded his assent and replied “I’ve just finished a very good job and I’ve always wanted a dragon steel sword. I’m going to treat myself.”

“Pick it up then and let’s see how it goes.”

Kalem did as told, performing several moves with the blade. “Hmm,” said the dwarf, peering at the grip. “That’s just a standard demonstration handle fitted to the blade. If you buy, we’ll add one that’s designed for you. A good sword needs a good handle. And this is a good sword. If I do say so myself. Don’t worry; it’s included in the price.” He mentioned a number.

Kalem gulped a bit, but they’d gone in knowing what the sword would cost. And the dwarf was right. It was a very good sword. And it had been a very good contract, so he could buy it.

Calculate Twice, Experiment Once is a piece of fiction for Silkgift: The City of Sails one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

“Careful now,” said Verin to Challis as the latter started gradually adding droplets of the solution to the bubbling beaker in their workshop in the Ingeneurium. “Are you sure you got the calculations right this time?”

“Of course I did!” responded Challis with what Verin considered an unwarranted degree of certitude, given that every previous experiment was a failure. “You worry too much!”

“Well, one of us have to and you don’t worry enough,” Verin mumbled under his breath. Louder, he reminded Challis “These are potentially volatile, so it’s important to be careful, take our time and make sure everything is correct. This time.”

“Don’t be a silly! We’re taking every precaution and it’s not like anything really bad has happened so far!”

“And I’d like it to still not happen, if it’s all the same with you,” retorted Verin. “Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it won’t happen. You know that.”

“The risk is worth the reward! Just think what we’ll be able to do if this works!”

“It’s the not working bit that concerns me,” stated Verin. “I’m all for experimenting, or I wouldn’t be here, but I do prefer to make sure the odds are in our favour.”

Verin stood next to Challis as she carefully added the last droplet of the solution into the beaker and turned up the heat slightly. The liquid started to bubble more fiercely.

The next thing Verin knew, they were both lying on the floor and his ears were ringing. Slowly, he picked himself up and held out a hand to Challis so that she could get up off the floor as well.

“Drat,” said Challis.

Looking at the smoking remains of their workshop, the fires slowly guttering out on the bench and the damage to the ceiling, and glancing down at what used to be the clothes he was wearing, Vern felt this was a significant underreaction.

“You may be a touch over socialised,” he commented.

The Ingeneurium was not going to be pleased.

Brains not Brawn is a piece of fiction for Ironfire: The City of Steel, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

Callen and Drexla made their way through Ironfire towards the centre of the city, stopping as they arrived at Stone Pole, both to take a look around, as this was the heart of mercenary activity in the city, and to grab a drink at the Ashes.

“Look!” said Callen, nudging Drexla, as they stood watching a duel on the square around the district’s titular Stone Pole. “Isn’t that one of the Crimson Sergeants watching?”

Drexla glanced over at the figure in red and gold and affirmed that indeed it was.

“I want to get into the Crimson Company,” proclaimed Callen. “Maybe if I challenge someone to a duel and fight it whilst the sergeant is watching, that will improve my chances.”

The rather more experienced Drexla looked at her younger friend, remembering some of her own youthful exuberance, and the mistakes it sometimes led to. She wondered what would be the best way of putting things, then decided that the truth was better than honey coating everything. Callen was a competent fighter, but needed to learn more.

“Look, lad,” she stated. “The Crimson Company gets a lot of applicants, as you well know, as we’ve seen the crowds outside the Scarlet Chevron. They, and any other mercenary company worth its iron, for that matter, are not just looking for people who can fight, and certainly not those who can just fight a duel. And that’s even assuming you’d win. Who would you challenge and why? Remember, you need a reason for a duel, and I’ve seen more than one fool pick a fight with what they think is an easy target only to find out they were sadly mistaken.

“Good mercenary commanders want, and need, more. They don’t want someone who will pick a fight just to show off. Because mark me, picking a fight in front of a Crimson Sergeant is showing off, and the sergeant will know that just as much as I do. A mercenary needs to be able to use their brain as well, for more fights are won with brains than unthinking brawn.”

Drexla looked at Callen’s now somewhat crestfallen face. “Cheer up lad,” she said. “You’re competent and competency does speak for itself; you just need a little more seasoning. Now, how about I buy you that ale we came here for?”