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!”