Long Roads and Short Tempers Part I is a piece of fiction for Species of Sundara: Elves, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

Arumil was holding court from atop his bar stool, gesturing languidly with one hand while he told the tales of his travels since he’d last been through the town of Barstock nestled in the foothills of the northern mountains. Though he’d slept beneath the stars and walked into the wind near every day since he’d last departed, the Rhodann had all the grace and poise of a king on his throne, rather than the look of a road weary traveler.

He was just getting to the climax of his tale about a mysterious door he’d found while taking shelter in a cave one night, when the door of the tavern opened. Half a dozen men stepped out of the night, entering one after another. They fanned out through the tavern, cutting off escape routes and positioning themselves near doors and windows. Every man wore a blade at his belt, and many carried heavy, iron-shod cudgels. Each wore a look of grim determination, and some emotion hotter than anger burned in their eyes.

The quiet buzz of conversation that had filled the tavern went still. Arumil kept talking, however, as if he were unaware of the tension pouring into the room. His bright green eyes noted the men and their arms, however. Once they were in place, a larger man strode toward where the elf had been telling his tale. This man was thick-shouldered and barrel chested, with the calloused hands of a butcher and the crooked nose of a brawler. His boots rang hard on the floorboards, and he had his hand wrapped around the hilt of the dagger at his side.

“Ah, Valo,” Arumil said, raising a hand in greeting as if he’d just noticed the hulking man. “It has been some time. My apologies, you’ve missed the best part of the tale. Pour yourself a glass and sit a spell, though, and I could spin another should you wish.”

“Where is she?” Valo said.

“She who?” Arumil asked. He took a sip of wine, and set his glass on the bar. “It’s been several years, Valo.”

“You know who I mean,” Valo snarled, taking a threatening step closer. His knuckles were white on his knife. “My Drucilla. You took her. Tell me where, and maybe I’ll let you walk out of here with both those pointy ears still attached to your head.”

Arumil had his mouth open to respond, one open hand held up as if to forestall violence. That was when his companion, who had not spoken a word since the two of them had entered the tavern hours ago, opened his mouth.

“Was that the name of the woman whose husband tried to kill her because he was sure she’d lain with you?” the dark-haired elf asked, his steel gray eyes on Valo. “The one you brought to a new home where she’d be safe, and could raise her daughter in peace?”

If the room had been quiet before, it was silent now. The townsfolk sat there, mugs and cups hovering in midair, as if they were afraid to move. The men standing around the walls all looked to Valo. The big man’s face was turning red, veins throbbing at his temples. The second elf merely sipped from his own glass, his unblinking gaze fixed on Valo. Valo took a step closer, drawing his knife from its sheath.

“Don’t,” Arumil whispered. But he said it to his companion, rather than to the man with steel in his hand, and murder in his heart.

Where The Roads Go is a piece of fiction from Towns of Sundara, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara..

“I don’t know much, my friend, but this I can say of a certain,” Jengwaith said, dropping a wink before returning his eyes to the road before him and giving the reins a small tug. “This world is full of great cities. I’ve seen the toiling dead of Moüd, breathed the thin air atop Hoardreach, walked the streets of Ironfire and even seen the wonders of Silkgift. But it’s the places in between, the places most folks tend to be too eager to forget, that always have the most to offer.”

Arand frowned at his traveling companion. The Rhodann elf had offered the young man the passenger seat on his wagon two days back, and he’d proven an interesting enough fellow to ride with. While it was impossible to tell how many years the soft, gray eyes looking out from his nut-brown face had seen, Jengwaith was engaging, curious and always seemed to have another story to tell about the sights they’d seen on the road. This piece of traveler’s wisdom, though, was too much for Arand to simply swallow without chewing at least a little.

“I may not know much either, but I grew up in one of those between places you’re talking about,” he said. “And I don’t recall much to recommend it.”

Jengwaith gave Arand a smile that he’d come to know well, even on relatively short acquaintance. It was a slightly mischievous expression that reminded him of his grandfather when he snuck an extra sweet to one of his grandbabes. Jengwaith drew out a pipe and a small sack of smokeweed, long fingers filling and packing the bowl with an ease borne of long practice.

“One’s home is a curious thing,” the Rhodann said, snapping their fingers and summoning a tiny flame to light the pipe. They puffed at it thoughtfully, the smile in their eyes more than on their mouth. “Because you know it so well, it loses some of its wonder for you. You find yourself looking past the small beauties, and taking for granted its little secrets. To you they are common, but to those who have never seen them before they can be wonderful things. The sorts of small joys that stick with them for years after, and that they’ll tell traveling companions on roads miles and miles from that little corner of the world.”

They rode on in silence for a time, nothing but the sound of the two horses’ hooves on the dirt highway and the chirps of the birds in the trees to disturb the calm of the day. Jengwaith’s pipe burned nearly as thick as incense, but they puffed contentedly on the stem. Arand rolled the elf’s words around in his head for a moment, mulling them over.

“You would truly rather head toward some tiny town than you would any of those cities you named?” Arand finally asked.

“I’ve been to enough places that I feel confident in saying this,” Jengwaith said, raising a finger like a professor making a point to a lecture hall. “Big cities have big sights, big personalities and big opportunities. They’ve got their own secret spots, sure enough, but not as many as most think. It’s the small places, the overlooked places, that often hold treasures unknown to those who don’t live there. What makes them best of all, though, is that you aren’t fighting with every other pilgrim flocking to their big city business. And for every one of those cities, there’s a dozen small towns that you can find, each with their own stories to tell.”

They rode on for a time, the wagon wheel bouncing over a small stone. Arand took a swallow of water from a jug, and then offered it to Jengwaith. The elf tapped their ashes out onto the road, and had a drink as well. When they re-corked the jug, they favored Arand with that knowing smile again.

“I can see you still don’t believe me,” Jengwaith said, giving the reins a small flick. “So let me prove it to you. Tell me about where you come from.”

Arand frowned, and folded his arms. He leaned back against the wagon, and glared out at the road beyond the horses. He was quiet for several moments, just letting the cart bounce and sway. Jengwaith was quiet as well, just listening to the birds and the breeze. Finally, Arand sighed. Why not? There were miles to get yet before they saw anything more than forest or dale.

“So, let me tell you about Kask…”

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

The sun was just beginning to set when Dagmar and his Dusk Raiders rode up on the little hamlet of Blackberry. A collection of small houses and dirt streets, with a single inn and two taverns, the place was far enough from anywhere important that it had been a low-hanging fruit for the bandits to pluck whenever they needed supplies… which was often. Standing across the road now, though, was a line of men. They wore black armor and ragged, black cloaks. Some carried spears, and others had shields strapped to their arms. One, who stood a head above the others, rested his gauntleted hands atop the hilt of a great sword. Standing off to one side, shaking like a leaf in a wind, was the town’s mayor Garl Hemley. Dagmar drew rein perhaps three dozen yards from the men, and leaned forward in his saddle.

“Well, well, what’s this?” The bandit chief asked, the knife scar that slashed his mouth drawing his lip up into a sneer. “I hope you hired this crew to make sure nobody stole our tribute while we were off on campaign, Garl. Because if you did, that’s right thoughtful of you.”

“There w-won’t be any more tribute!” Hemley managed, swallowing hard. He drew himself up, and managed to stop his teeth from chattering. “You and your men never harmed us, for all your threats. So we’re giving you this one chance, Dagmar. Turn around, and never come back.”

Silence settled over the Dusk Raiders. As the last lights of the day stained everything red, Dagmar favored Hemley with a wide, wicked smile. Steel whispered from sheaths, and leather creaked as men used to violence readied the tools of their trade.

“You’re a very kind man, Garl,” Dagmar said. He put his right hand in the air, and twirled his first two fingers. A bandit with a greasy leather eye patch nocked an arrow to his horse bow, and took aim at the line of black clad warriors. They didn’t so much as shift their stance. “So I’m gonna show you exactly what kind of mistake you’ve made here.”

The moment hung there, suspended by a single breath. The Dusk Raiders were a tableau of brute malice positioned on a razor’s edge. The hamlet’s guardians stood at rest, unmoving as they stared at the highwaymen. Hemley swallowed, and the bob of his Adam’s apple seemed to take a small eternity. Then the bow string twanged, and the arrow loosed. It flew straight and true, punching through the ring mail of one of the warriors, quivering from where it was buried in his chest.

Barks of laughter went up from the bandits, along with howls of blood lust. As the red light darkened to the purple of twilight, though, the warrior didn’t move. He didn’t stumble, nor did he fall. No blood ran down the shaft buried in his chest. The realization dawned on the Dusk Raiders slowly, and their cries of jubilation slowly died. Dagmar turned, and looked at Hemley with dawning comprehension, and horror, on his face.

“Cur!” Dagmar howled, snatching at the cutlass on his hip. Fear made his hand shaky, and his usually smooth draw was anything but. The rest of the Dusk Raiders milled, their chief’s hold over them starting to slip. Some were eager for the fight, glancing at him and waiting for the signal to advance. Others, the sharper ones, had realized what stood on that road in front of them. Dagmar wheeled his horse, planning on calling a retreat, but the words died on his lips. More figures in black armor had flanked them, walking through the deepening gloom and arraying themselves in a second line to cut off their retreat.

The battle was as swift as it was bloody. The Dusk Raiders were hardened killers who’d spilled a river’s worth of blood between them, but they were ambush predators who’d grown fat, used to dealing with scared townsfolk and the occasional caravan guard. These figures in black armor advanced mercilessly. They showed no fear of flashing steel, and didn’t react to the bandit’s bellowed threats. They fought without tiring, their sword arms rising and falling even as their opponents cleaved at their helms and ran their blades into their torsos. All the blood spilled that day belonged to the Dusk Raiders, even if they managed to bring down a handful of their opponents as well.

Hemley stood there in the darkness, listening. When all had gone silent, a figure joined him. Dressed in a black officer’s tunic with a silver medallion shaped like a grinning skull around her neck, her head was shaved, and her boots polished to a mirror shine. Cayliss made a gesture with a hand, and touched the necklace. It shone like a torch, light spilling out from her in all directions.

“Come,” she said, turning and walking into the night. Swallowing hard, Hemley followed. The idea of declining her command never so much as crossed his mind.

The light fell upon her soldiers, who stood at attention around the bodies of the Dusk Raiders. Arrows protruded from several of the black-armored soldiers. One mercenary’s arm was snapped at an unnatural angle. Another leaned on its spear, its left leg smashed to the point where it wouldn’t support its weight. Cayliss walked the length of the line, examining those that had survived. Once she was satisfied, she turned to survey the carnage her warriors had left behind.

The bandits were splayed out, each dealt a quick, efficient killing blow. Throats were cut, hearts were stabbed, and guts were spilled, but all of them had their heads left intact. Scattered among them were several of Cayliss’s own warriors. They had been shattered by powerful blows, their armor dented, and several of their limbs torn off, but every one of them still clutched bloody weapons in their fists. Cayliss lifted a dented helm, and turned it over. A skull rolled out into her hand. The skull was old, and seamed with small scars. Several of the teeth had been splintered, and a hole had been smashed into the side just above the ear.

“Brekker. One of my most reliable,” Cayliss said, shaking her head slightly. “He will need to be replaced. As will these others.”

“As we agreed,” Hemley said, swallowing hard. “The Dusk Raiders, and whatever loot they have, are both yours. In addition to your fee.”

Cayliss nodded, and touched the amulet around her neck. She gestured at her warriors, and they snapped to follow her instructions. They began stripping the bodies, setting aside clothing, weapons, armor and packs in separate piles. The bodies were stretched out along the road, spaced equidistant from one another. The only sounds made were the clink of bone against armor, and the occasional whispered order spoken by Cayliss in a dead language that only her soldiers seemed to understand.

As Hemley withdrew, doing his best not to run while the mercenaries did their grisly work, he told himself it was worth the price they’d paid. By the time he was home, he almost believed it.

Audio Version

Crafter of the Unusual 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.

The workshop was at a temperature many would find uncomfortable at best. Kellen Smeltfire, being a Takatori dwarf, just found it pleasant.

The dwarf pondered the slightly unusual commission she’d just received from the sorcerers of Archbliss. Not so much for the subject of the commission, as where it came from. Those of the City of the Sorcerers were known for their elevation of magic above all other things, so for them to require purely mundane assistance was, though not unheard of, certainly not common.

It seems, though, that there are some things that magic does need help with, and that is why Silkgift’s Ingeneurium had been contacted. Kellen specialised in the construction of optical devices and the grinding of precision lenses, not an easy feat to do, and it seemed that Archbliss’s Stargazer’s Tower needed some new lenses to be ground to some very precise specifications for a new gazing device that was going to be installed in it.

The device would need a focusing ability, and this would require a mechanism to be constructed in order to achieve this. Magic is unable to create a mechanism out of thin air if the caster has no idea what the mechanism was supposed to be, only what it was supposed to do.

That is where the Ingeneurium and Kellen came in. They had access to the necessary skills and expertise to turn a detailed description into a functioning device that would do just what it was intended to do. Well, do what the specifications said it should do; no-one really understood just what the sorcerers were creating, beyond the physical and mechanical aspects. Magic would no doubt be involved in the finished device, after it was shipped to Archbliss.

Of course, just because you had the skills and experience didn’t mean that the construction would be easy. Besides, where would be the fun in it if it was easy? “Should be fun” mumbled the dwarf to herself as she grabbed pen and paper and started sketching some plans for the device, referring back to the details sent from Archbliss, and making notes of what materials and skills would be needed.

As to how Archbliss was paying for this… well, not really her problem. Certainly, the sorcerers could pay with gold, but given they would just conjure it up, the dwarf assumed that negotiations had been done for something of more value in payment. She’d make the device so that it worked. What happened next was up to everyone else.

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?”