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.”

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!”