A Tall Glass of Winter Wine is a piece of fiction from 100 Whispers & Rumors To Hear in Hoardreach, The City of Wyrms!, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara.

The wind that swirled through the North District had claws, and it raked them over any patch of exposed skin it could find, digging at padded coats and fur cloaks as it tried to get at the warmth underneath. It wasn’t just the cold of a mountaintop, either… the chill in this part of the city was unnatural, and it went bone-deep. Frost spread over the windows and doors like creeping rot, and most people on the street were bundled to their eyes, with thick hoods pulled over their heads, and heavy boots wrapping their feet. Some, though, were dressed in light jackets, dresses or even shirt sleeves, as if they couldn’t feel the cold. One woman with her hair blowing in the wind had the blue-stained lips that testified to a regular use of potions, while a kobold in a leather jerkin had the sere, white scales of those born to the mountain peaks.

Most who seemed comfortable in the cold, though, bore the black-edged wyrm mark of Frost Fang, the dragon who claimed at least half of the district’s territory on any given day.

A man in layered leather and woolens, with a headscarf tied around his face, walked through the chill streets. He carried a hard-used quarterstaff, using it as a walking stick on the icy paving stones. Outlanders were fairly common in the City of Wyrms, even in the North District, and there was nothing truly curious about him at a glance. Those who met his eyes looked away quickly, though. They burned with purpose, determination and focus. They were the eyes of a man who would brook no obstacle to his course of action.

The outlander came to the doors of a huge longhouse that stood outside the walls of the city proper. Built of massive timbers, and a roof shingled in dark slate that captured the warmth of the sun, one of the narrow sides was a set of doors that were over twenty feet high, reinforced with steel bands the width of a man’s arm. A smaller, wicket door set inside one of the larger doors allowed more average-sized customers to make their way inside. The man knocked the head of his staff against the door, and a moment later he heard the sound of a heavy bar being drawn back. The door opened, and he stepped inside before the wind could beat him over the threshold.

The longhouse was dim inside, lit only by storm lanterns and candles that seemed to wilt like burning flowers in the chill. Wooden tables were scattered around, and those that had customers seated at them had fire-heated bricks placed beneath them to warm the area. A heavy bar with thick curtains that kept in the heat ran along one of the long walls, but the back of the place was a massive, stone fireplace so large half a dozen men could stand shoulder-to-shoulder inside it. Carved into the shape of a gigantic mouth, the flames that blazed inside of it were enough to banish the cold, and turn the frost on one’s clothes into a gentle trickle of tears.

A woman sat a dozen feet from that fire, one leg crossed over the other in a heavy, straight-backed chair. She was dressed in thick, whipcord trousers, with boots made from bearskin. Her tunic was made of the same material, edged in white fur. Her arms and face were bare, and she held a goblet in one hand as she gazed into the fire. Her skin was the pale blue of ice, and her hair was a soft white that held the fire’s glow until it drowned between the pale waves. Perhaps the most striking thing about her, though, was that if she’d stood her head would have brushed the rafters.

Even in a place like Hoardreach, Ravina Hundar stood out.

The outlander crossed the wide floor, skirting around the tables, and bypassing the bar entirely. He tapped his staff on the flagstones as he approached, the sound clearly marking him out. Despite that, the frost giantess didn’t turn her gaze from the flames. The outlander rested his hands on his staff, and looked up at her.

“It’s a bit early in the day, isn’t it Ravina?” he asked.

The blue-skinned giant blinked, and turned her head to look at the man. She pursed her lips, and a frown line creased her forehead as she regarded him with eyes that had all the color and warmth of an iceberg. After a long moment a smile crooked one corner of her mouth.

“I know your voice,” Ravina said after a long moment. “Jace?”

The outlander pulled at the headscarf, letting it slide down around his neck. He offered the giant a smile and a bow, spreading his arms wide without taking his eyes off of her. Ravina slowly recrossed her legs, and took a long sip from her goblet.

“It’s a pleasure to lay my eyes on you once again, captain,” Jace said.

“If my memory serves, when last we met I threatened to throw you over the side of my ship,” Ravina said, idly swirling the dark wine in her glass.

“Your memory is as perfect as the rest of you,” Jace said, holding up a small, leather bag. He opened it, and spilled the contents into one hand. A collection of flawless rubies caught the light, winking in his palm. “However, if you’d allow, I’d like to buy you another drink and apologize to you properly.”

Ravina took a deeper drink from her goblet, and stood from her personal seat. She gestured toward a set of stairs that led up to the side table near her chair. Two strides took her to the bar, and she went down on one knee, setting her goblet on the ground. The barman swung over a barrel of winter wine using a chain hoist, emptying it into the cup. Once it was full, Ravina stood, hefted her glass, and returned to her seat.

“What is it you want this time, Jace?” she asked, taking a gulp that cost more than some men made in a year.

“Your forgiveness, of course,” Jace said.

“And?” Ravina asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, there is one other thing…” Jace said. “Would it be possible for you to find room on your next voyage for, say, four extra passengers?”

Bottom of The Bottle is a piece of fiction from 100 Whispers and Rumors For Silkgift, The City of Sails!, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara.

Despite the name, Nightmare Alley didn’t look like much at a glance. The cobbled street was narrow and winding, and the buildings to either side were built mostly of stone, with wooden upper stories, lots of windows and tiled roofs. Oddly-colored smoke plumed out of various chimneys, and there were some rather loud bangs from one third story window, but other than that the neighborhood seemed rather harmless.

Appearances could be deceiving, though… especially in a place like this.

The Outlander found the address he’d been given down a side street that was little more than a wide crack between two of the houses. The narrow walking path was close, and it stank of refuse and slop water. The door at number 16 and a half was made of heavy timbers held together with iron banding, and while it bore an intimidating a lock on the outside, the Outlander was sure there was also a bar on the inside. There was no pull rope for a bell, but there was an odd mesh of brass over a hole in the wall. He leaned down, and heard a strange sound coming out of the metal mesh. It was a thick, panting, animal sound. A sound full of growling aggression and barely controlled anger.

“Renard,” the Outlander said into the mesh.

As if the name was a trigger, the snarls grew into a low roar. The door shook in its frame as something started hammering on the other side. Wood cracked, and one of the hinges bent out of true. Thinking quickly, the Outlander stood clear of the door, speaking rapidly into the mesh next to the door.

“Sunset. Moonrise. Starshine. Lullaby,” he said, speaking the sequence of words quickly, and clearly.

As soon as he finished speaking, the hammering on the door stopped. The enraged roars ceased, replaced with a low, pained moaning sound. Several moments later the Outlander heard panting breath, and raspy words come back through the speaking tube.

“Jace?” the voice asked through the grille. “Is that you?”

“It’s me, Renard,” the Outlander said. “Is it safe?”

“Safe enough,” he said with a harsh chuckle. “Give me a moment.”

The Outlander waited, arms folded in the narrow alley. An argument broke out on the street where he’d come from, and all he could make out through the slurring were two men trying to quote mathematical formulae at once another. A cart filled with heavy barrels rolled by, pulled by an ogre with a harness across his chest and shoulders. The sun slid down a few more inches toward the horizon. Just as he was beginning to wonder if Renard was in danger, he heard grunting, and the sound of the bar being lifted out of its brackets. A moment later the door opened with a creak, and the Outlander was face to face with the man he’d come all the way to Silkgift to see.

There didn’t seem to be much to him, truth be told. Renard was a slight man with stooped shoulders, disheveled brown hair, and a rather average build. He was a head shorter than his visitor, and several days of salt and pepper stubble sat on his chin. He looked like any of a dozen other tinkerers and alchemists who made their home in this part of the city. Unlike those others, though, Renard was dressed in torn and tattered clothing that was much too big for him, and there was a sizable leg iron around his right ankle. The chain had been snapped with great force, and a short length of it dangled from the manacle like a dead snake. When Renard raised his gaze to his visitor’s face, his eyes were deep, dark and haunted.

“What happened?” The Outlander asked.

“I was trying a different treatment,” Renard said. “He was… I was growing resistant to the old formula. The alterations seemed to be working.”

The Outlander glanced past Renard’s shoulder. Deep gouges ran across the hardwood floor, and a steel cage had been rent asunder. The cage’s bars were all bent outward, as if whatever was being held inside had broken out. The Outlander turned his gaze to Renard, and he shrugged one shoulder, letting his gaze drop back to the floor.

“What brought you all this way?” Renard asked.

“I need your help,” The Outlander said.

Renard laughed. It was a bitter, angry sound. He flung a hand over his shoulder to indicate his broken laboratory. “I can’t even help myself, Jace. What is it you think I can do for you?”

“Gregor is here,” the Outlander said. Renard blinked.

“Did you… did you tell him your purpose in coming here?”

The Outlander smiled. “I daresay he knows.”

Renard swallowed hard, and looked back toward the wreck of his laboratory. He chewed on his lip for a moment; a nervous habit that even after all these years he hadn’t broken. The alchemist rubbed the back of his neck, and tilted his head. It was as if he was listening to a conversation only he could hear.

“Where are we going?” Renard asked.

“Hoardreach,” the Outlander responded.

Renard’s eyes widened. For a long moment he didn’t say anything. Neither did his guest.

“Is that where she went?” Renard asked.

“It is,” the Outlander replied.

“Ah,” was all Renard said. He swallowed, and nodded his head once. “Where are you staying? I need to… clean up. And prepare enough doses for the road.”

“You can find us in Great Ferry,” the Outlander said. “The Inn of The Red Ox.”

“I’ll be there by sunset,” Renard said.

“Good.” The Outlander favored the alchemist with a smile. “I’ve booked us passage for the morrow. The journey should be uneventful, if luck is with us.”

“I hope it is,” Renard said as he closed the door. “For once, I hope it is.”

The Outlander turned, and retraced his steps. He had assembled nearly all of his allies. The last, though, he felt would be the most difficult to persuade to his cause. But that would be a challenge he would face when they reached the City of Wyrms.

Dead Man’s Promise is a piece of fiction from 100 Whispers & Rumors For Moüd, City of Bones!, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara.

The streets of Elmbarrow were long and winding, the pavers worn by centuries of baking sun, desert winds and the passage of thousands upon thousands of feet. Mausoleums stood in rows like faded soldiers, their names worn away to whispers and their banners reduced to bleached and tattered ruins. Grave markers were scattered about like broken teeth, watched over by the hooded gaze of obsidian grotesques who looked down from their plinths with grim, unsmiling faces. As the sun set, chill fingers crept through the air, spreading with the shadows and reaching for those brave or foolish enough to walk these paths beneath the gaze of the gibbous moon. Two figures walked along those paths, their steps silent, and their direction deliberate.

“I don’t really see why you need me for this,” Meran said.

“Because if I let you out of my sight, you’ll be gone in a puff of smoke,” her companion replied.

“Would it help if I gave you my word I would wait?” Meran asked.

“The word of a thief?” the outlander said, glancing at her. There was amusement in his voice, but not in his eyes as he regarded her, and readjusted his grip on his walking staff. “I would have returned to the room with my halberd, armor, spare boots and traveling trunk gone, with a note saying what you owed me and promising you’d pay it back.”

“I think I’m deep enough in your debt as it is,” Meran said, her voice carefully neutral. Her companion sighed, and put a hand on her shoulder.

“I appreciate you’d rather be anywhere else than in this city, and in any part of this city except the place we’re going,” he said. “So when we conclude our business we’ll head to a tavern, and the first round’s on me.”

Meran eyed him suspiciously, pursing her lips. “And the second?”

“If you get through this without stabbing anyone, I’ll cover the second as well,” he agreed.

Before Meran could respond, they rounded a corner, and came face-to-face with their destination. A massive, obsidian structure that gleamed beneath the pale moon. The stone was old, but had resisted the test of time in ways few of its companions had. The lines of its corners were still sharp, and the characters carved all over it were still legible, though the language was old enough that few could understand it even in this city. Hanging on black iron chains from one end of the structure were lanterns that burned green in the darkness, lighting the top steps of a descending stairway. Maren glanced at the entrance, then back at her companion, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“After you,” she said.

“If you insist,” the outlander said, striding toward the entrance. Maren followed, her hands all but twitching toward her hidden blades, and her teeth clenched hard enough to make the muscles of her jaw stand out in stark relief. In that green light, it made her look something of a corpse herself.

A stone slab slid away silently at the bottom of the stairs, revealing a doorway. The companions entered, and stepped into a vision from a fever dream. Rows of skulls gleamed along the walls, their death’s head grins catching the light of torches and candles so it looked like they were laughing. Chandeliers of bone hung from heavy chains, and shadows swayed and slithered across the stones inside. Men and women in the garb of a dozen nations danced and chatted, drinking strange liquids from fluted glasses. Between them all clattered the shambling shapes of skeletons, wearing only the loosest funerary drapes as they served foods and drinks, collecting silver in the rattle cans hung inside their rib cages. A ghostly voice crooned from the stage as an ethereal woman sung a dirge that reached into the soul, and plucked right at the heart strings. The air was chill and clammy, and from down in the depths there was a barely audible groaning sound… as if the expansive crypt hungered to embrace the living who had ventured within.

It was, in other words, a typical night in the Tomb.

The two companions slid through the crowd, avoiding the undead creatures whenever possible. They ducked into side galleries, wove through chapels that had been turned into lounges and descended even further into the earth, wandering through catacombs that had been converted into wine cellars where couples sat in niches behind gossamer curtains, their silhouettes close as they spoke of private matters. A man sat on a high stool in the corner of the room, his fingers plucking away at the strings of his instrument. He was long and lean, with hair the color of spilled ink, and dressed in clothes a generation or two out of fashion. Maren was glancing around the room, wondering where her companion was leading her, when the outlander slid something out of his pocket. Silver glinted in his palm for a moment, and he flipped the item end-over-end in an arc toward the wooden bowl at the musician’s feet. Before it could fall, the bard’s arm snapped out, and he snatched the glint from the air.

“Been a long time,” the musician said as the final notes of his song faded away.

“Not that long,” the outlander said with a smile. “Do you remember what you told me when you gave me that ring?”

“I remember,” the pale man said. He shook his head slowly, just once, and let out a breath. Then he slid the ring onto the middle finger of his left hand. The silver skull gleamed, the empty sockets filled with unnatural shadows. As he curled that hand into a fist, those shadows bled out of the ring, weeping down the silver and sliding over the man’s skin before vanishing up the sleeve of his coat. He rolled out his neck with a sharp crack, slid his instrument off his lap, and stood. He opened a case that had been leaning against the wall, placed the guitar inside, and then carefully closed it. Standing up, he turned to Meran, and the outlander. “All right, let’s go.”

“That’s it?” Meran said, the words bursting out of her. “You’re not going to ask what the job is, or what he expects you to do?”

“Nope,” the man said, giving Meran a flash of strong, white teeth. “I’m a man of my word, and I told him that when he needed me, this side of the grave or the other, I’d be there.”

Meran’s eyes filled up with questions that trembled on her lips. When she opened her mouth, though, all she said was, “Three rounds. I expect three rounds for putting up with all your cloak and dagger nonsense.”

“Where did you find her?” the man with the tarnished silver ring asked. “I like her.”

Killers, Thieves and Liars is a piece of fiction from 100 Whispers and Rumors For Ironfire, The City of Steel!, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara.

The Busted Cup was the sort of place that upright and upstanding citizens didn’t seek out. It was a low and crooked place that only those who wandered broken roads went to willingly, and even they usually left as soon as their shady affairs were in order. It was a place that stank of warm beer, burned grease and just a hint of blood.

It was not the sort of place that expected strangers. So when the outlander opened the door, all eyes were cast his way. Some peered at him from under their hoods, and others looked straight at him, but everyone watched him closely. As he closed the door and strode across the floor, a dozen hands slipped toward hidden hilts and holdout knives. No one bared so much as an inch of steel, though. The regulars at the cup were the best and brightest of the bottom of the barrel, and they hadn’t avoided exile or being clapped in irons by making rash decisions. Nevertheless, each of them let out a small sigh of relief when the young man walked past their table without so much as glancing their way. They didn’t take their hands off their weapons, though.

A pale man with a crescent moon scar around one eye sat with his back to the wall at a rear table. One hand, which was missing the last and ring fingers, rested on the scarred wooden tabletop. The other hand was below the table. As the outlander approached, the pale man favored him with a humorless smile, and raised his cloudy mug in a mocking salute.

“Does your uncle know you’re here?” Lemarden Three Fingers asked as he took a deep drink.

“He knows I’m in the city,” the young man said, pulling out a chair before spinning it around and straddling it. “He doesn’t know where I am at this particular moment. I told him I had business to attend, and that was enough for him.”

“Guess you really are grown up now, aren’t you?” Lemarden set his mug back down, and wiped his nose. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Are you just checking in with an old friend of the family?”

“If I recall right, one of those missing fingers is because of my uncle,” the young man said. Lemarden laughed, and waved his mangled hand.

“Water behind the stern,” Lemarden said, and though his mouth was smiling, his eyes were hard. “What is it, boy? You’ve been gone from this city for years, and now you come back just long enough to crack some skulls, and to wander over to the Red Orchid. Then you turn up here, with a look in your eye like you’ve got business on your mind.”

“Sharp as always,” the outlander said.

“Sharp enough to shave with,” Lemarden said. “Now answer my question.”

“I need a thief,” the young man said.

Lemarden’s grin was wide, and he gestured around the room with one hand as he laughed. “You have your pick right here. If their fingers were any lighter, they’d float right off their hands.”

“Light fingers isn’t all I need,” the young man said. Lemarden’s smile vanished as if it had never been, and he laid both his hands on the tabletop, fingers spread just wide enough to show they weren’t hiding anything.

“What else do you need?” he asked.

“Experienced,” the outlander said. “Particularly with booby traps. They shouldn’t be on any watch lists outside of Ironfire, and they should have good reason to want to leave this place.”

“And if they’re on watch lists within Ironfire?” Lemarden asked.

“I said experienced, and I meant it,” the young man said. “There’s only one way you get that in the thief’s trade.”

“Do you need them to be trustworthy?” Lemarden asked.

“I trust a thief to be who and what they are,” the outlander said. “I’m not looking for a virgin in a brothel.”

Lemarden leaned back in his seat, and weighed the young man with his gaze. He debated the proposition, and pursed his lips as he examined it from different angles. He took a long drink of his brew, and wiped foam off his lip. Two men got up from one of the other tables, and left the Busted Cup, both of them taking pains not to look toward what was happening at the rear of the tavern.

“I have someone who fits that description,” Lemarden said. “And I could provide you a letter of introduction. But what is it worth to you?”

The young outlander gave the old thief a smile Lemarden recognized. He’d first seen it on the man’s face when he’d still been a boy, and Lemarden had taught him how to cheat at cards. He reached into his jerkin, and took out a small, painted box with a shiny, brass lid. Lemarden’s eyes went wide.

“Do I want to know how you got that away from him?” the old thief asked.

“Just how you taught me to,” the outlander said, chuckling. “I walked right in and took it.”

Lemarden laughed at that, and shook his head. He reached for the box, but the young man held it out of his grasp. Instead, he offered his calloused right hand. “Do we have a bargain?”

“Yes,” Lemarden said, clasping the outlander’s wrist. The two men shook once, and then the outlander handed the thief the small box. He opened the latch with one grimy thumbnail, and peered inside. He nodded once, satisfied. “I’ll have the letter ready for you by this evening.”

“Within the hour,” the young man said. When Lemarden raised an eyebrow, the outlander shrugged.

“My uncle is going to notice that little box is gone sooner rather than later,” he said. “And I’d prefer to be beyond the city walls when he does.”

Lemarden laughed, and raised a hand toward the bar. Gloriana sauntered to their table, two fresh, frothy mugs on a wooden platter. The two men each took one of the drinks, and Lemarden favored the young man.

“Very well,” he said. “Have a drink with me, and then I’ll go introduce you to her personally.”

Archbliss is Magic 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 city can be seen from many miles away, for it hovers high above the Kerrin Plateau below. The city is Archbliss, the City of the Sorcerers, the city that roamed the skies after it was created by the most powerful sorcerers of its time. Now it no longer drifts above the lands, instead remaining fixed in the sky where all can find it, though finding does not mean being allowed to enter the city created by magic.

Archbliss is still reluctant to engage with others, though powerful organisations and cities maintain contact with it, and it with them, and the city, through the use of its magic, has gained powerful friends in high places. It is magic that made Archbliss and magic that runs through it today. Sorcery is the most potent force in Archbliss, though all kinds of magic are of interest to those who dwell within the city. It is magic they use and seek in trade, and the city is a place where almost anything magical can be sold. Though the price paid may vary.

On the land below the city are many means of travelling to it as it floats above. From the teleportation circles that allow visitors to travel instantly, to all manner of flying beasts, creatures and magic available to rent for those whose business is not important enough to be granted the use of the circles. Those who have their own means of flight may travel that way too.

Magic is what made Archbliss and magic is what maintains it. Magic is the city’s lifeblood; without it, the city would tumble to the ground below, as some thought it would in the past. Magic is all and those who lack magic are, perhaps, considered lesser. The City of the Sorcerers has an insatiable appetite for magic, and it is a place where, perhaps, you may find the magic you need. Though you may not find it at a price you can afford.

Swords and Sand is a piece of fiction for Sundara from Merchants of Sundara.

Thick fog filled the streets of Ghostborough, turning the entire district into something out of a dark dream. It eddied and swirled around those who moved through it, reaching for them with phantom fingers, and leaving wet tracks along their cheeks like tears. The very air was heavy, as if a storm was coming, but it was just the remnants of the city’s bad air, blown down around the gutters. Most who had to be out on the streets wore cloths over their faces, ensuring they breathed as little of the steam as possible. They also kept one hand on their purses, and another near a weapon.

The young man strode through the streets with all the care and candor of a reveler who’d stumbled into a funeral. He was lanky and broad-shouldered, with skin that had been tanned dark by the sun, and a face that was passingly handsome, despite his stubble, and a scar that cut through one eyebrow. His boots rang on the cobbles, and he bore no weapon except for the staff he carried over one shoulder. His patched woolens didn’t speak of wealth, but that was not the only reason he was given space by those who saw him. Word had begun to circulate about him, and what he had done since arriving in Ironfire. The beating he had given Oleg the Grinder in the dueling circle was still fresh in the whisper stream, and none of the foot pads or cut purses who saw him wished to try their luck, lest they be given the same kind of treatment.

His steps brought him to a low, heavy-beamed building. No sign hung outside the door, but there was a garland of flowers painted along the frame, marking it out from its neighbors. Glancing around once, he lowered the staff from his shoulder, knocked three times, and stepped inside.

The place was not what one expected to find. Low tables sat around the walls, some with reed mats to kneel on, and some with pillows to offer a little more cushion. Several potted trees filled the air with their soft perfume, and a red silk curtain covered the doorway to the rear of the place. In the center of the room was a low pit filled with clean, white sand. It had been raked smooth in an artful way, but there was no disguising its true purpose.

Two people occupied one of the low tables to one side of the sands. On the far side sat a man of orcish heritage, his legs folded beneath him. His hair was shorn on the sides, and a single braid ran down the middle of his head. His shoulders were huge, and he lifted a tall mug with one hand. It was the only hand he had, as his other arm ended just above where the elbow should have been. Sitting across from him was a woman who appeared to be of elven heritage, judging from the vibrant green of her eyes, and the pointed tips of her ears. It was difficult to say whether her clothes or her hair was more disheveled, but despite her appearance, and the glass of potent spirits she held in one hand, her gaze was sharp, and measuring.

“What do you want?” the blooded woman called out.

“Here to see a smith,” the young man said, leaning on his staff.

The woman snorted, and shook her head before taking a long drink. Her companion set his mug down, and eyed the stranger. “Who are you, to make such a request?”

The young man didn’t answer. Instead, he fished a coin out of the inside pocket of his jerkin, and flicked it toward the one-armed man. The gray-skinned smith snatched it out of the air, and examined it. It was heavy, evenly-milled and made of a unique red gold that caught the light, and glimmered like fresh blood. Stamped on one side of it was an orchid in bloom. The rear side of the coin was smooth, and unblemished. He offered the coin to the woman, who eyed it, and then returned her gaze to the young man. Her gaze had sharpened with curiosity.

“You’re the outlander,” she said, taking another sip of her drink. “Tarak the Headsman’s own blood, finally come home to the House of Black Banners.”

“Which doesn’t explain how you got this,” her gray-skinned companion said.

“What I did is between me, and the master of this house,” the young man said. “Will either of you honor his mark?”

The two companions shared a long look. Though no words were exchanged, the woman raised one hand, as if relenting, and the one-armed man stood. He gave the young outlander a smile, and gestured toward the pit.

“I am Horsk Hammerhand,” he said, bending to take up a long-handled warhammer. “Come. Let me take your measure.”

The outlander stepped down onto the sand, and waited for Horsk to join him. Each of them watched the other for a long moment, weighing one another’s stance, movement, reach, and a dozen other details. Then without warning, they moved. Blows were struck and dodged, and their weapons whistled through the air with only inches to spare. Each advanced, then retreated, feinting and shifting, trying to catch the other off-guard. Horsk saw an advantage, and seized it, following a powerful blow with a butt from his bad shoulder. The outlander twisted, bringing his staff around as if the two of them were dancing, and swept Horsk’s legs right out from under him. Unable to stop his momentum, he fell hard, sand fountaining up from where he struck the ground. Horsk’s opponent held his staff in two hands, pointing the butt end of it at the smith’s chest. The young man was breathing hard, but there was fire in his eyes, and a smile on his lips.

“I yield,” Horsk said, releasing his grip on his hammer, and holding up his empty hand. The outlander planted his staff in the sand, and offered a hand. Horsk grasped his forearm, and was hauled to his feet. “I’ve never seen someone adapt the Viper’s Coils to a single weapon before, let alone one with such reach.”

“Will that be a problem?” the outlander asked.

“No,” Horsk said. “A challenge, perhaps, but not a problem…”

An Unnatural Cold is a piece of fiction for Archbliss: The City of the Sorcerers, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

“Can you feel that?” asked Rengarth of Talhesen, with a shiver.

The pair were in Spirit Tower in Archbliss, standing near the Obelisk, a monument at the crossroads formed by a sorcerer called the Mummy Queen.

“It’s only a bit of cold,” replied Talhesen. “Just grit your teeth and bear it.”

“I’d call it more than a bit of cold,” retorted Rengarth. “It’s cutting right through me. It’s not natural.”

“You’re complaining that something in Archbliss is not natural?” asked Talhesen. “You may be in the wrong city if you’re looking for something natural.”

“You know what I mean, Talhesen. That’s something stronger than mere magical cold. Can’t you sense it?”

“I can,” replied Talhesen. “And I do know what you mean. But it’s important that we study the Obelisk carefully.”

Both were copying the strange symbols and pictograms that covered the faces of the monument. No-one seemed to be really certain as to their meanings, and not much was known about the Mummy Queen either. But there were many theories about both, and the two had one of their own.

Perhaps it was Spirit Tower’s connection to death, and the sheer number of undead and half-dead that could be found in that district of the City of the Sorcerers, more than anywhere outside of Moüd. Rengarth and Talhesen felt the connection to Moüd might be deeper than the mere surface impressions caused by the connection to necromancy.

Whilst the two travelling scholars were in Moüd they had seen more than a few sights of that ancient, and lost for generations, city. Like Archbliss, Moüd has a strong connection to magic, albeit with a different focus, and before the city was lost, the mages within had known some mighty magics. And both were sure there were similarities between some inscriptions they had seen in Moüd and those on the Obelisk.

Perhaps the Mummy Queen was somehow connected to Moüd. A descendant of those that used to live there. Or perhaps it was another academic dead end. Only time would tell.

Born in The Boneyard is a piece of fiction from 100 Effects of a Primquake, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara.

Elisa’s pregnancy had been exceptionally difficult. She’d lost three children before they could be born already, and Iosef had told her that as long as she wished him to, he would keep trying. He had died of a flux during the winter, though, and the last remnant of him was quickening even now in her belly.

She would not lose this child.

She had done all the things the mid wife had recommended. She’d eaten black root, drunk half moon tea and been careful with her movements, but she was taking no risks. Which was why she had taken her old staff, and begun walking toward the place called the Giant’s Hand when she felt her time drawing near.

It had been more than a week of hard traveling to reach the standing stones, surrounded by the cairns of heroes and commoners alike. Wind blew through that place, so hard that it was impossible to keep any kind of fire alight. She arrived to that place late, so Elisa had to navigate by the light of the moon, and its reflections off the pale rocks all around her. Wolves had bayed in the distance, and vultures watched her with their beady eyes from atop bare-branched trees, but nothing had stood in her way. Nothing except time, of course.

The Giant’s Hand was in sight, at the top of a long, spiraling staircase that led round the hill it crested, when Elisa felt her water break. She made herself move slowly, mounting the steps one at a time, rather than running for the top of the hill in a blind panic. It was hard, and it got even harder when the constant aches she’d felt for weeks grew teeth and blossomed into real pain. By the time she reached the crest of the stairs, every breath she took was a dull agony, and she was teetering on her feet. So she crawled into the center of the ring of stones, shrugging off her pack, her muscles straining as she pushed herself into the birthing position. She took a deep, ragged breath, and started to push.

Time lost all meaning as her breaths bled into one another, and waves of pain crashed over her, each one closer than the last. Elisa’s fingers dug into the hard, rocky soil; the tufts of rough grass coarse against her palms as she balled her hands into fists. The sky above roiled, and black clouds gathered like bad dreams, blotting out the stars, and casting the hill in darkness. Heat lightning shot between the clouds, sparking the heavens and giving brief glimpses of the world before once more leaving Elisa swathed in gloom. The pressure inside her hurt so badly, but she couldn’t stop. She’d come too far, and lost too much, merely to give up now. Even though she could taste blood in her mouth from how hard she was gritting her teeth, she pushed harder, her eyes screwed up tightly.

Elisa didn’t see the cracks opening up in the earth around the hill. She didn’t see the green light bleeding between the clouds. She couldn’t even hear the roiling voices that filled the air over how loudly her heart thundered in her ears. The stones around her groaned, as if they could feel her pain as her back arched, and the cords stood out in her neck. She felt her baby coming, pushing out from her, and into the world. She gave one last push, and felt the life she carried for so long leave her.

The world spun, and blackness encroached on the edges of Elisa’s vision, but she fought it back. She panted, struggling for her pack, pulling it open with shaking fingers. She withdrew the soft cloths she’d packed, and forced herself to sit up. She lifted her child, wiping away the blood and afterbirth that had splattered them. She smiled as she cleaned him… she had a son. Just like she and Iosef had said they would. Her smile broke, and crumbled when she realized he wasn’t crying. Not a single noise had passed his lips. She cupped her hand over his mouth, and felt no stirring of air.

Elisa screamed, and held her baby tight. She cried out to the gods whose name she didn’t know not to take him away from her… not now. Not after everything. A cold wind buffeted her, and she held her son tightly against her, instinctively shielding him with her body. The earth settled, the lights in the sky faded and the wind died down. When it did, she heard her son cry in her ear.

Yelping in surprise, Elisa held her baby up, and stared at him. He was fussing, kicking his small legs and voicing his displeasure. His cries faded, first to burbles, and then to silence. He regarded his mother curiously, his wide, blue eyes staring up at her. Then he smiled, and reached for her with his small, pudgy hands.

Even as she cut his cord and finished cleaning him, Elisa knew there was something different about her son. Beneath her exhaustion and relief, beneath her mingled joy and longing to share this moment with her departed husband, she suddenly felt a premonition. She knew that chill in her son’s skin would never truly leave him, and that whatever quirk of fate had allowed her to keep him would spread challenges in the road before him. The Wyrd had seen fit to let her keep him, though, and for that she would be eternally grateful, no matter what burden she would have to help him carry.

The two of them spent the night, sitting high above the gathered ranks of the dead, sitting quietly beneath their stone blankets. Her son called out to the wind, as if speaking to the ghosts of those passed in his babbling, nonsense words. He laughed in delight, as if unseen spirits had responded to him. Elisa did not sleep until the moon began to fade, her finger clutched in both of her son’s hands. When the sun was high in the sky, and both of them had fed, she took up her staff, and made the descent back down the hill. It was even harder coming down again, but this time, at least, she didn’t have to make the trip alone.

Audio Version

Searching the Desert is a piece of fiction for Moüd: The City of Bones, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

“I really don’t think this was such a good idea Dranolf,” yelled Feyla through the howling wind and blowing sand.

“You worry too much,” rumbled the Arasta dwarf in reply. “It’s just a mild blow, that’s all.” The wind howled again, sending particles of sand flying through the air with a force capable of scrubbing skin from bones.

“Not all of us grew in the desert!” shouted Feyla in return. “And I doubt anyone else would categorise this sandstorm as ‘mild’!”

The two had set out from Moüd earlier into the sands of the Trackless Quarter, not to cross it but to search the desert itself. They’d stumbled across something in the Dead Market in the city that looked as if it dated back to before the city now known as Moüd was overwhelmed by the necromantic energies drawn from the Prim.

It seemed clear that the vendor didn’t know what they had for sale. It wasn’t a trinket as would normally be found in the market, but it lacked any noticeable magical energy to it. The seller likely thought it was junk, a piece of stone with some curious markings.

The thing was definitely a piece of stone with curious markings, but neither Feyla nor Dranolf thought it was junk. They recognised some of the symbols and, from what they could tell, it looked like it might be a map from Moüd’s history.

That was why they were in the desert, following the map. It seemed they were right, and the stone was a map, perhaps to something of value from that age. They should have been more careful in checking the weather before setting out, though Dranolf was indeed raised in the desert and felt the storm was not natural.

“We’re going to have to seek shelter soon!” Feyla yelled at the dwarf.

“You’re likely right,” was the reply.

Hunching through the sandstorm, protected from its worst effects by plenty of wrappings, the pair suddenly stumbled across a hollow in the sand, a hollow with a black opening in one side. The opening was ringed with stone on which symbols had been carved.

“Could it be…” asked Feyla.

“Yes,” replied Dranolf, “I think it is. The storm has brought us to what we were looking for.” A slight shudder passed through his frame; it still felt unnatural. Heading for the opening, the two drew torches from their supplies and lit them, going in.

Behind them, something stirred in the sand.