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?”

Power and its Misuse 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.

“Legend says that the sorcerers who founded Archbliss were fleeing a cataclysm,” said Thannis Mantar. “At least that’s what the surviving books from the era say.”

“Legend says a lot of things,” retorted Brendor Calliorn. “Some may even be true. That doesn’t mean they all are, or that tales of a great cataclysm are true.”

“But what if the legend about the cataclysm was true?” asked Thannis. “That could mean that the legend about those who raised the city being empowered by the Prim are also true. And if that’s the case, then such power could be obtained by others. All we’d need to do is find out how it was accomplished.”

“Playing with the raw power of the Prim can cause serious problems.” stated Brendor in warning. “Just look at what happened to Moüd. The Silver Wraiths are still cleaning up the necromantic mess from that. If both legends are true, then mayhap the power the city’s founders had from the Prim caused the cataclysm. They could easily have been fleeing a mess they caused.”

“We’d just need to be more careful,” was Thannis’s reply. “Power in and of itself doesn’t cause a cataclysm, only its misuse. If it wasn’t misused, then there wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Misuse is something that it’s easier to state you’re going to avoid than to actually avoid,” said Brendor in turn. “I’ve seen enough spellusers injured by their own power when they intended anything but. By the time misuse becomes obvious, it may well be too late.”

“Say what you will. I am not going to be so overly cautious. I’m going to look into the legends for the truth of the matter, and see if there is a way of gaining the power of our forefathers.” Stated Thannis.

“Do as you will,” said Brendor as Thannis departed. “For your sake, I hope that the legend is just that. And for our sake, if you do uncover something, do not play with the Prim where it will affect the rest of us.”

On Little Cat Feet is a piece of fiction from Cults of Sundara, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

Raskin Bowers reclined on his couch, a glass of wine in one hand, and his smoldering pipe in the other. A tall man whose thick shoulders and powerful arms were sheathed in a thin layer of recently-acquired fat, the governor had worked hard to raise himself out of the dirt of the common soldier’s lot. Promoted in the field, and then promoted within command, he’d eventually been elected to take charge of a collection of towns that had come under the rule of the Lander’s Guild. An aristocracy in all but name, the guild had deep pockets, but when gold wouldn’t get their way, they weren’t shy about using steel to enforce their will.

Bowers dragged deeply on his pipe, and closed his eyes as the slow-burning leaf filled his lungs. The old ache in his back from his years on the march began to fade, as did the tension in his temples. He blew the smoke out through his nostrils, sipping at his wine.

Despite his admonitions to himself not to take his duties to bed with him, he couldn’t help but think about the reports he’d been getting for a fortnight or more. Strange figures had been seen stalking through the night, vanishing into the surrounding countryside when approached by guild guards. Guild representatives had awoken to find rats with their guts torn out, or birds with their heads twisted off, the bodies left on the representatives’ side tables like presents. Or warnings. Bowers laid his wine glass aside, and put his pipe back to his lips. He had sent orders that these events were not to be discussed. They were petty tricks, and as such they should be ignored. The Lander’s Guild had to be above such things; to act, as Bowers said, as the stewards of those who had proven unable to be their own caretakers.

A breeze ruffled the governor’s hair. He frowned, and glanced at the window. It was open, letting in the night air. He laid his pipe aside, careful to keep the bowl facing upward. He dusted his hands, and crossed the room to the casement. He was sure he’d closed it earlier, after he’d had one too many papers blow off his desk and onto the floor. His legs were a tad unsteady, and he paused for a moment with one hand on the wall, and the other on the window.

That was when the lights went out.

At first, Bowers was sure it was just an errant breeze that had snuffed his candles. That was when he realized the night wind had died. He raised his gaze to the glass, and he saw a figure behind him. Before he could turn, though, he was seized by strong hands. One clamped down hard on the back of his neck, and the other cupped his throat. He felt five, sharp points prick his skin, and a trickle of blood bead down his neck.

“Move, and I will tear out your throat,” a soft voice whispered in his ear. “Do you understand?”

“I don’t know who you think you are-” Bowers snarled, until he felt the points dig into his neck.

“I will not repeat myself,” the voice hissed in his ear.

“Yes,” Bowers said after a moment. “I understand.”

“You will write to your superiors, and tell them they were misinformed,” the voice continued, a single, sharp point running up and down Bowers’ throat, just over his trip-hammering pulse. “The land here is bad, and yields sick crops. There is a blight that will curdle their coffers. Tell them there are creatures in the forests. It doesn’t matter what you say, so long as they understand that holding this place will cost them more than it could ever yield.”

“I can’t do that,” Bowers hissed. “If the guild finds out I lied to them, they’ll kill me.”

The pinpricks at Bowers’ throat grew hot, and dug deeper. The beads of blood on his neck grew to a trickle, and he felt one of the blades press up behind his jaw. He felt hot breath on his ear, and cold sweat on his brow.

“They might kill you, if they find you,” the voice purred. “I will do it here, and now. And I will do it in such a way that no one who hears the tale would ever accept your posting for themselves.”

“All right, all right,” Bowers moaned. “I’ll send the missive.”

“Tonight,” the voice said.

The pressure at Bowers’ throat increased another hair, then something struck the back of his knee. The governor was thrown to the ground, barely getting his hands up in time to stop himself from slamming into the boards. Bowers pushed himself to one side, rolling, snatching his dagger from its sheath as he came up, one arm ready to block a descending blow. All he saw was moonlight streaming in through the open window, and all he heard were the sounds of the night outside. He was alone once more.

Once the governor got his breathing under control he fumbled his way to his desk, and re-lit the taper with a hand sparker. He lifted a small mirror, looking at his throat. Four small punctures stood out clearly on one side of his neck. He dabbed away the blood, and collapsed into his chair. A night breeze made the window creak, and he shuddered.

Bowers drew a fresh sheet of paper from a sheaf. He took up his pen, and stared at his hand until the adrenaline shakes stopped. Once they had, he started writing. Blight had been discovered among the crops, he said, and entire fields had been lost. Worse, the soil had been tainted by something he could not identify. It was for this reason he recommended the Landers’ Guild withdraw their interest. Then, as a postscript, he resigned his commission with the organization. Bowers sealed the missive, stamping the wax before slipping it into an envelope.

Long Roads and Short Tempers Part II 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.

Valo stalked closer to the dark-haired elf, who had his back against the bar, his elbows resting on the dark wood. The elf took a last sip from his glass before he spoke.

“I will give you a single strike,” he said. “Make the most of it.”

Valo hesitated for just a moment. The elf’s steady gaze was placid as he waited. Then Valo shifted, and lunged forward. The knife was a blur as it streaked forward, but the elf tilted his head to one side. Rather than the butcher’s strike taking the elf through the eye, the blade barely grazed his cheek as it went past, leaving the butcher off-balance.

If Valo’s strike had been fast, what the elf did next happened quickly enough that none could say they saw it happen. The elf’s arm shot out, and his glass exploded against the side of Valo’s face. Before the butcher could pull away, the elf snaked his arm around Valo’s, and twisted. A loud snap could be heard. Valo opened his mouth to scream, but the elf struck him in the throat. Gagging, blinded by broken glass and wine, and barely able to breathe, Valo stumbled, and fell to the floor of the tavern.

The men who had come into the room with Valo stepped forward, but when the elf raised his head they stopped as one. A trickle of black blood had oozed down his cheek from the wound Valo had dealt, but it had already stopped. They had assumed Arumil’s companion was another of the Rhodann; a traveler and a wanderer. They had learned too late that was not the case. The elf with the gray eyes picked up Valo’s knife, and idly flipped it in the air, catching it by the blade.

“Arumil is a creature made of honor, and mercy,” the dark-haired elf said, and though he was looking down at Valo, he was clearly speaking to the room. With a flick of his wrist he flung the knife into the floor hard enough that it quivered. “I am not. It is only because my love has interceded on your behalf that you still draw breath.”

“Shan, please, no more,” Arumil said, stepping between the dark-haired elf and Valo. He put a hand to Shan’s wounded cheek, and turned his face to him. Shan pressed his forehead to Arumil’s for a moment, before raising his head to look at the room.

“Either take your friend away, or take up the knife,” Shan said.

The men around the room exchanged glances. They’d all seen the same thing. One by one they eased their hands away from their weapons, and approached the two elves the way they might approach a bear’s den. Two of them lifted Valo, careful of his dislocated arm, and stumbled with him out the door. The others followed one after another, walking backwards out of the tavern so they never took their eyes off of Shan. When they were all gone, the knife remained.

Shan patted Arumil on the shoulder, and then resumed his place at the bar. The room let out the breath it had been collectively holding. Shan smiled, and gestured with two fingers at Arumil.

“Go on,” he said. “You were just getting to the good part of the story.”