A Lesson Learned 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.

Oleg bellowed as bones cracked. Steel clattered as it fell to the paving stones, and the huge man’s roar was cut off suddenly as the butt end of the staff slammed into his jaw, and spun his head. Eyes rolling, he stayed on his feet a moment longer before dropping to the ground in a heap. For a moment the crowd all around was silent, then whistles erupted, followed by curses. Coins exchanged hands as bets were settled. The young man knelt, placing his fingers on Oleg’s neck, and then in front of his mouth.

“He’ll live,” the man with the staff said as he stood. “But I would get him to a healer, if you want him to be able to use that arm again.

Varian’s mouth was tight with anger, his eyes dark and narrow. Fear erupted in them when the man with the staff crossed the circle toward him. The crowd around them went quiet. The man had won the duel handily enough, his spinning staff more than a match for Oleg’s brute muscle. But he had the look of an outlander, and outlanders didn’t always understand the rules of the duel. If he broke the rules the red cloaks would find him eventually, and there would be a trial, but that was small comfort to Varian, whose protector lay insensate in a heap on the flagstones.

“See here, now,” Varian said, taking an involuntary step back. His voice had risen to a shrill pitch that he tried unsuccessfully to swallow. “You won. I commend you. Now if you’ll excuse me-”

The man put a hand on Varian’s shoulder, and Varian’s voice died. The young man leaned down, and held his gaze. He waited a beat, ensuring he had Varian’s undivided attention. The crowd around them was silent as a mural, except for Oleg’s grunt of pain as he attempted to swim back up into consciousness.

“All I wanted was directions,” the man said. “Where is the House of Black Banners?”

Murmurs rose at that, as excited onlookers began to speculate. The man paid them no mind, his gaze steady on Varian. For his part Varian might have looked less stunned if he had been struck. He gestured vaguely behind himself.

“Two blocks down, and turn toward the harbor,” he said, looking at the unkempt man with the staff. “The black flags… they hang from the balcony above the door.”

“Thank you,” the young man said, enunciating the words to drive them home. He let go of Varian’s shoulder, and smoothed the tunic he’d been gripping. “My uncle has been expecting me.”

“Y-your uncle?” Varian asked as the man brushed past him, walking toward the chapter house of one of the city’s more dangerous companies of freelances.

“Come by upon the morrow, if you wish,” the young man called over his shoulder, his voice as friendly as could be. “If you’re willing to step into the ring yourself, I’m sure he’d be happy to teach you to fight your own battles. I doubt you’ll be as pretty as Oleg is by the time the lessons are done, though!”

Teaching a Lesson 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.

The square was lively that night. Crowds of people moved over the pavers in small knots, gossiping and laughing. Peddlers with wine casks on their backs, or racks of grilled meats on sticks, moved among them, doing a brisk business as the city’s lights were lit. No one stepped over the line of the circle in the center of the square, though. Blood still glistened on those stones; a slick, dark testament to the differences that had already been settled that night.

Two figures stepped into the circle from the northern end. They were a study in contrasts. One was broad-shouldered and tall, his thick nose scarred from being broken many times, and his long hair unkempt and knotted. The other was shorter, and slender, with an amused sneer on his face. The brute was pale, the other was dusky. The warrior wore steel and boiled leather, his companion painted silk and lambskin. The crowd began to whisper, eyes turning toward the pair of them. Oleg the Grinder had never lost a challenge laid down in the square, and given how easily his master Varian Kadrick took offense it was rare that a week passed that the musclebound enforcer didn’t settle at least one affair in the dueling ring.

It was a moment later when another figure stepped into the ring. He was tall and slender, dressed in a sweat stained tunic and worn down boots. His skin was burned nut brown by the sun, and though he wasn’t large, he seemed strong enough. He carried a staff nearly as tall as he was, but other than that he bore no weapon or armor. He leaned on the staff with both hands, regarding the other two across the circle.

“I call a challenge,” Varian said, his pouty lips curling into a cruel smile.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” the young man in the handmade woolens asked. “I apologized for what happened.”

“Your apology is worth less than nothing,” Varian snarled, turning and spitting on the ground. “I call a challenge. Do you accept, or yield?”

The young man looked around at the crowd for a moment. Dozens of eyes were turned his way. Some were curious. Others pitying. Several had the sharp, hungry look of those sure they were about to see real bloodshed. One man sat on a bench, his gnarled fingers wrapped around the head of his walking stick. He smiled, his white teeth a sharp contrast to his dark skin, and winked at the young man holding the staff.

“I accept,” he said, turning back to face Varian. Oleg smiled as well. It was just as unpleasant as his master’s smile, though for completely separate reasons.

“Teach him a lesson, Oleg,” Varian said, slapping his champion on the shoulder. Oleg drew the sword from his hip, turning it in his grip so the unsharpened edge was on the striking side. Those who’d seen the Grinder fight knew that the blunt edge was no less dangerous for lack of a whetstone. The young man sighed, rolled out his shoulders, and stepped forward.

Faith is a piece of fiction for Gods of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

The acolyte knelt on his simple rug, holding still in the silence. The echo of his question was ringing in his ears, and he was fighting a flush of embarrassment that he’d asked it at all. His teacher, an older, handsome woman with her lips stained as red as her robes, regarded him quietly. There was a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth, and lurking behind her eyes. The acolyte dropped his eyes, but kept his head held high.

“I was wondering when you would find the courage to finally let that one off your lips,” Amari said, her voice playful, but not mocking.

“You knew?” Vitar asked.

Amari’s smile finally broke the dam, and her laughter came with it. She shook her head, carefully dabbing the corner of her eye so as not to smudge her carefully-applied kohl. “Vitar, my dear pupil, every priest who has knelt on that rug has wondered that same thing in their hearts. And if I am to tell you the full truth, as I swore to do when I accepted my position, it would not surprise me to learn that most pupils of all the world’s faiths from the great to the small have asked it in one way or another.”

“So there is an answer?” Vitar asked, raising his eyes.

“There are many answers,” Amari replied, nodding to him. “I don’t know which of them is correct, but I can tell you the one I have come to believe over the years.”

Vitar swallowed hard. He’d been expecting to be chastised, or worse to be brushed off. He leaned forward, his hands on his thighs, his eyes bright with expectation. Amari smiled, and for just a moment wondered if she’d looked as young and innocent as her charge when she’d finally gotten up the courage to ask the question that came out of every acolyte’s mouth sooner or later.

“Are the gods real?” Amari asked, repeating Vitar’s question. “Yes. But they are real in the way the sky is real, or that time is real. Or the bottom of the sea. They are too large for us to see in their entirety, or to truly contemplate without feeling very small inside ourselves. For while we may understand them in part, it is often impossible for us to truly know them except in the way that a mouse might know a thunderstorm.”

Vitar swallowed, and nodded. He started rubbing a fraying patch on his robes with his thumb; a nervous habit Amari had yet to break him of. She waited, letting him work through his thoughts in his own time. Part of being a teacher was to know when to let the student do the work for themselves.

“If they are real, but we cannot know them, then why do we do this?” Vitar asked, swallowing.

“You know the answer already, don’t you?” Amari said. It wasn’t a question, though she asked it like one.

“Faith,” Vitar said.

“Faith,” Amari agreed, nodding her head approvingly.

Promises 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.

Kadar panted, sucking air into his burning lungs. The air was hot and thin, and it made his head spin. He closed his eyes, pressing his cheek to the stone floor. It was incongruously cool, and it helped stop the world from pitching and yawing behind his eyes.

“Again,” Soria said through the grate in the wall.

Kadar bristled, clenching his teeth. He had been in the black cell for weeks, now, and he had done everything asked of him. The walls had glowed, and he’d unleashed everything he had until the fires had burned down to embers. He slept, he ate and he trained, but it never seemed enough.

“Again,” Soria repeated, lowering the grate once more.

Letting out a wordless cry, Kadar exploded in flames. They rose higher and higher, slamming against the ceiling and licking down the walls. The veins within the cell burned bright, sucking in the fire, until there was nothing but a slightly charred smell on the air. Kadar collapsed bonelessly, shivering in every limb.

“Good,” Soria said, the single word of praise more than she usually offered. “You’re almost ready, now.”

Kadar wanted to believe her. He wanted to believe that soon Soria would open that door, and guide him out into the city where he could meet others like himself. Where he could finally breathe the cool, open air, and feel the sun on his face again. As the light faded from the walls, and he heard Soria’s steps whisper down the hall, Kadar closed his eyes.

He wanted to believe they’d let him out. He wanted to believe the promises were true. But deep down, he didn’t. Not anymore.

Applicant 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.

Kadar sat in the small, stone chamber, tapping his foot nervously. The young man’s face was drawn, and the dark circles around his eyes suggested he hadn’t been sleeping much of late. Fresh scorch marks ran along the walls, and the air smelled of char. He’d been waiting there for three days, eating meals slid through a hole in the wall, and drinking herb water that made him sluggish.

He couldn’t tell if the herbs made the fire in his veins better, or worse.

When the door opened, Kadar shot to his feet fast enough that he nearly knocked his chair over. A woman he’d never seen before stood in the doorway, her hair and eyes both the deep red of fresh blood. Power radiated from her skin like heat from a baking brick, and the silk of many colors she wore slid and shushed more like a fine oil than a fabric. A golden arch glimmered on her breast, but Kadar hardly needed to see it to know who she was.

His village’s summons had been answered.

“Kadar,” she said, nodding to him as if she’d known him for years.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, bobbing his head. He swallowed hard, and felt the skin on the back of his neck go taut. Clammy sweat beaded in the hollows of his temples, and then rapidly evaporated. His stomach went sick. Kadar felt it coming up again, and he knew he had to stop it.

The woman crossed the room on light steps, and cupped Kadar’s chin. She tilted his head up, looking down into his eyes. She held him with her gaze, pinning him to the stones. She spoke words he’d never heard before. Words that hung in the air like whispered thunder. He had no idea what they meant, but a part of him understood them all the same. He felt the sullen heat in his guts recede, and the burning in his head quiet. He let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding, and a heat haze curled from his lips. The sorcerer nodded, and smiled at him. It was the first smile anyone had given Kadar since reap night, when fire had starting bursting from his hands.

“Your gift burns hot,” she said, the words appreciative. She glanced around the stone chamber, taking in the scoring left over generations of those who’d had to stay within the stone walls while they waited for a teacher to come for them. Kadar saw her gaze linger on the number of fresh scorches, and he flushed. He couldn’t tell if he was proud, or embarrassed. “You will need to learn to control it, however, or it will burn you out.”

“Will… will you teach me how?” Kadar asked. He knew, almost instinctively, that she could. The only question is whether he would be allowed to learn.

She gave him another smile. This one was smaller, but just as warm. “We shall see what you are capable of, when the time comes, Kadar. I have no doubt that we will find a place for you, though.”

The Heart of Archbliss 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 Heart of Archbliss.” Teran said in response to the question. “At least, that’s what it’s called in rumour.

“The first sorcerers, those who raised the city into the heavens, were said to have placed an enormous piece of sorcerer’s quartz, the largest, most perfect specimen ever found, deep inside it. It was then protected by the most powerful spells they knew, to prevent anyone ever finding it again, because if it were ever removed, the city would lose its power.” Teran continued.

“Is it real?” asked Michah, Teran’s apprentice.

“I doubt it.” was the reply. “It’s only ever been heard of in rumour, not in fact, and the first mention of the Heart was not until after all the sorcerers who raised Archbliss were dead, and none of them left any reference to the Heart in any of their notes or journals. You’d think that, wielders of magic being what they are, one would have written down the truth somewhere, for their descendants to find and benefit from. None has been found, or said to have been found.

“If there was an element of truth in the rumour, the Great Houses would have searched for the quartz, though only for their own benefit, and none appear to have found it. And believe me, they would have looked. Power calls to power, and this would be great power. No, most likely it is a fiction, perhaps one created to make the founders even greater than what they were. A fiction that, over the years, has passed into legend and rumour, and perhaps into belief as well.”

“But what if the rumour was true?” Michah wondered.

“Ah, then wouldn’t that be something? Somewhere, hidden within the city, a treasure beyond compare to those who know how to use it, though using it might well bring ruin to all. Perhaps, should the rumour be true, it is better that the Heart of Archbliss remain hidden. For what can survive if you remove its heart?”

Watch the Sky 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.

Jelbut watched someone duck down and cower, practically clutching the stones of the road, as a glider buzzed the street in East Town, followed by a wyvern on its tail; the glider’s pilot and the wyvern seemingly involved in an aerial form of tag. No-one else on the street seemed bothered; most didn’t appear to be paying the aerial duo the slightest bit of attention.

“You can always tell out of towners who have never been here before.” Jelbut remarked to their companion Benior. “Always so nervous about the antics in the air above, expecting one of the gliders to crash into the street below and, especially, their own precious body.”

“That has happened in the past,” Benior reminded Jelbut. “Some of those pilots are not as good as they think they are, and some of the natural flyers are rather less bothered about hitting the ground than they should be. There have been a few incidents.”

“Sure, but it’s not like it’s an everyday occurrence.” Jelbut continued. “More the exception than the rule. Besides, what benefit will you get from cowering? That’s not going to help you if a wyvern lands on your head. Never mind something larger and heavier. Once people have visited a few times, I’ve noticed they become far less worried that something will happen. Worrying over something you can’t control that will probably not happen has never done anyone the slightest bit of good. That’s the path to an early grave.”

“There are some necromancers of the Silver Wraiths from Moüd in the city.” was Benior’s response. “I’m sure they could find a use for someone whose driven themselves into an early grave from worrying about crashing wyverns. Well, it probably wouldn’t involve a grave at that.”

Jelbut laughed as they continued, and the out of towner they were watching stood up, brushed themselves off and looked round them with a nervous grin at their panicked response.

Perhaps next time they saw a flyer coming in low, they would be less nervous about it, Jelbut thought to themself.

Profanity Heralds Discovery is an introductory 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.

The shout was a combination of frustration and surprise. It wasn’t followed by an explosion, or a cry of pain, though, so it clearly wasn’t an emergency. Taggart put his tools down, took off the protective lenses he wore and ambled across the hall with his bow-legged stride. The night was dragging on, and the other workshops had emptied out for the night. It seemed that only he and his neighbor were burning moonlight oil, as the saying went. The dwarf rapped his heavy knuckles on the door frame of the workshop, and peered in.

“Everything all right, Ella?” he asked.

“I’ve still got all my fingers and toes, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ella replied. The dark-haired halfling was sitting on the work bench, her head in her hands and her feet dangling.

Taggart stepped over the threshold, taking in the scene. Ella’s workspace had the messy look of a well-loved kitchen, where the clutter had a thread of rhyme and reason to it if one tilted their head and squinted. Her burner had been banked, and on top of it was an iron pot filled with some kind of thick, viscous goop. It smelled like bone meal and sawdust, with a hint of potpourri.

“Bad result?” Taggart asked.

“I bumped the dried spider silk threads with my elbow,” Ella said. “Caught the bottle, but not before half of it spilled in.”

Taggart wrinkled his nose as a bubble burst in the gloop, releasing a puff of strangely scented air. He rubbed his mustache, smoothing it down over his lip. Ella blew out a long breath, moving her hands to the sides of her head, rubbing at her temples.

“There’s something somebody once told me that might be good to keep in mind, Ella,” Taggart said.

“What’s that?” the halfling asked, her eyes closed as she tried to stave off a headache.

“Profanity heralds discovery,” Taggart said, chuckling.

Ella looked up at him. Her expression was less than pleased. “Chalk it out for me? I’m not in a mood for riddles.”

Taggart glanced at the experiment again. He pursed his lips, drawing his thumb over his mustache again. When he was sure Ella was listening, not just humoring him, he smiled at her.

“Just because something you made doesn’t do what you want doesn’t make it useless. So think about that before you toss it in the midden heap and start over.” Taggart yawned, covering his mouth with his fist. “I was at a good breaking point anyway. You want to split a pot of dark?”

“Pretty sure I’m going to need it,” Ella said.

Taggart nodded, clumping back the way he’d come. Ella could hear him filling his kettle, and spooning out the strong tea he kept in a can. She glanced over at the thick glop her experiment had become, and frowned at it. She lifted the stirring stick, and watched as the liquid slowly dripped from the tip.

Was there something she could do with it after all?

Fixing the Problem 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.

Mormout Bronzeforger pondered the plans for the new water clock laid out on the table. He looked across at the workbench where several of the pieces of the clock were neatly laid out; carefully-wrought pieces of bronze in unusual shapes.

“Hmm.” ruminated the dwarf. Mormout knew what he was attempting to accomplish with the clock, which was planned for a new installation in Noonbrook, with a deadline that was rapidly getting closer, but something just wasn’t working quite right. There didn’t seem to be a fault in the plans, but the most recent test hadn’t worked correctly. Which is why the water clock was once again in pieces. Carefully arranged, well machined pieces, but pieces all the same.

“Hmm.” pondered Mormout again, repeating himself. “I wonder…”

The dwarf picked up one of the cogs that was used to drive the water clock. To the untrained eye, it looked perfectly fine. Beautifully machined, in fact. To Mormout’s eye, it looked good as well, but there was something about it…

Mormout retrieved one of his finer tools from the set of drawers positioned next to the table where the clock was laid out. He used it to examine the clock much more carefully. This time, he found it. An ever so tiny error in the machining, a slight burr to the cog that was stopping it working as smoothly as it should.

Mormout’s beard twitched in a slight smile. The equivalent of a broad grin on someone else. This was it; he was sure of it. He started making the cog as perfect as it looked.

The next test would be fine. No doubt about it.

What Can I Do With It? is an introductory 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.

Ella was working late in her lab when she heard a familiar sound from down the hall; a low hiss followed by a kind of strangled growl. She cocked her head, waiting to make sure there wasn’t an explosion, and then climbed her step stool to get down her can of tea. She put the kettle on over her corner burner, and waited for it to heat. She took it off just as the pacing started, pouring two cups and adding the diffusers, along with cream and a little bit thistle dust for sweetener. Then she took the cups and walked down the hall. She was slower these days, but Garrick’s workshop wasn’t far.

Ella didn’t bother knocking, she just edged the door open with the toe of her boot. The long-haired shipwright’s apprentice was standing in front of an assembly that Ella recognized. He rounded on the sound of the door opening, the shout swelling up in his chest transforming into a long sigh as he saw it was Ella.

“I thought you went home a few hours ago,” he said. For him, that was the same as an apology.

“I don’t sleep much these days,” Ella said, holding out the much larger mug toward him. “Is that lubricant formula still not cooperating?”

“No,” he said, taking the mug. Garrick held it close to his face, but didn’t drink. He ran his calloused fingers through his hair, and stared at the results of his latest attempt. “Something’s going wrong. I don’t know if it’s the heat, or the sand quality, or-”

“Have you asked the important question?” Ella cut him off, sipping at her own tea.

Garrick stopped, frozen still as a statue. After a second he blew a sharp breath out of his nose, and took a sip of the tea. “What can I do with what I have?”

Ella nodded, and stepped past him, getting up onto a step stool to look at what was in his pot. It was a thick, oily sludge with bits of grit in it. She took a stirring stick, and prodded it. It was thick and heavy, almost like tar as she lifted some up.

“Is it tacky when it dries?” she asked.

“No,” he said. Then he took another sip of his tea, his eyebrows meeting.

“And the grit?” Ella asked. “Does it make for a solid grip?”

“Fairly,” Garrick said, a frown on his mouth as well as his brow. Ella waited, but for all the sparks she could see going off in his brain, nothing was catching just yet.

“You spent two years tooling a shipyard, Garrick,” Ella said, sipping her tea. “What would you do with it?”

He opened his mouth, but whatever words he’d been about to speak in haste were belayed as his brain caught a grip. He glanced over at the resin, and his eyes narrowed. Finally he said, “If it seals better than tar, it would be a godsend for a deck in a squall.”

“Start with a gangway,” Ella said, climbing back down and smiling at him. “Then work your way up from there.”