Magic System - Astronism

I figured I'd put the magic system (one of them at least) out here for people to look at and critique. This is astronism, the astrology based magic system.

ASTRONISM

Astronism is based on the influences of cosmic forces upon any individual’s life. At astronism’s core are the Cel-hadin, ten different constellations each of which lay in the path that both the sun and the moon appear to take in the sky. Each constellation, or ao, represents different values and concepts, and in turn, lend their influences to daily lives according to the astronists.

The concept associated with each ao is a domain that the patron rules and represents. Likewise, they also represent an attitude or emotion. The most significant time for any ao is when either the sun or the moon lays in that ao’s “house”. During that time, the specific ao is at its height, and greatest influence.

1. Dohtor the Architect of Legends – The Sky—Benevolence

2. Rayled the Chaos House - Society—Impulsiveness

3. Bajemin the Universal King - Exploration—Curiosity

4. Nilloc the Harper-Lord – The Arts—Passion

5. Tamban the Spirit-Caller – The Dead—Care/Safety

6. Maruce the Scholar - Knowledge—Open-Mindedness

7. Titan-Queen Theia - Law—Loyalty/Sacrifice

8. Minos and Sturches, the Twin Emperors – Fertility and Birth—Joy

9. Ritob the Sky-Wall - Protection—Boldness

10. Saint White - Guidance—Submissiveness

Astronist powers, the ones commonly associated with cosmic magic, are dependent on the moon for power. As the moon moves through the Cel-hadin, it enters an exits each house. This phase is divided into two parts. In residence, and in transit. In the first, the moon is wholly in that ao, and the ao’s powers are granted to the astronist. When the moon is in transit, it is found between constellations, and the astronist receives no powers. The entire passage takes about three and a half days, where three of the days are spent in residence, and half a day in transit. From there it transits to the next one on the list. The entire cycle takes one month to complete.

Astronism is both misunderstood, and incomprehensible. The power of the Cel-hadin is a living force of a kind, that seems to randomly seek out individuals. The powers always manifest on one’s Moonday, the day of their 19th birthday. The powers come swiftly and violently, like a dam bursting and blasting the surrounding countryside. This power is uncontrollable at first, and highly destructive. It is for this reason that astronists are feared in the Morrowan Pact. Generally, this initial flow of power occurs in one single burst. More bursts can follow, but these are rare and generally indicative of the strength the ao’s grant to the person. One burst is normal. Two is uncommon. Three is rare, and four is almost unheard of.

Distance Control

Distance control involves the manipulation of space . With it, the astronist can alter relative distances to and from objects.

Examples

Travel overland at high rates of speed

Trip an enemy and alter the distance they fall to several miles

Increase the distance between you and a gunman, letting their shot fall short.

Fluidity Manipulation

This manipulation involves altering of a being’s sense of movement and control. Actions they take are greatly exaggerated from normal, creating a cloud of clumsiness.

Examples

Manipulating someone’s footsteps. They’ll take too large of a step, overbalance and fall.

Manipulating a sword attack. The oppent will swing too hard and break the sword into a nearby object, or send it flying from their grasp.

Manipulating a bowshot. The afflicted will draw the bow too far and snap the string.

Gravity Control

The astronist alters the relative gravity in a region, either increasing it or nullifying it.

Examples

Pinning an opponent to the ground.

Lowering the gravity on heavy objects to carry them

Launch someone into the ceiling

Sense Manipulation

This ability, also called selective synesthesia, allows the astronist to use one sense to detect another. This means the astronist can see sounds, hear light, and see smells.

Examples

Seeing someone’s scent and tracking them

Blind fighting by seeing an attacker’s noise

Hear someone from across a field by sight alone.

Sound Control

The astronist can control sound, both dampening and creating it.

Examples

Mimicking someone’s voice

Using sound to break down a wall

Static Control

The astronist controls the force of friction, either eliminating it or increasing it.

Examples

Removing the friction on someone’s clothing, instantly causing it to fall apart.

Increase the friction on someone’s shoes, igniting them from the friction as they move.

Organic Manipulation

Also jokingly called sub-contractual bodily functions, this ability lets the astronist transfer or steal bodily functions with other persons, or multiple people.

Examples

Transferring one’s breath to start breathing in a dying comrade

Stealing brain functions from surrounding people to boost one’s cognitive ability

Transferring the desire for rest, or stealing someone’s wakefulness in order to stay awake.

Speed Transference

The astronist can transfer kinetic energy from one source to another. It is dependent on 1/2mv^2, so the energy is conserved.

Examples

Stealing the energy from a speeding cart, and transferring it to an arrow, giving it powerful speed and striking power

If one was falling, the astronist could transfer the falling energy to the planet, allowing a safe landing.

Exo-sense

This ability, also known as luck manipulation ,works off the principle of possibility. If there exists the possibility that the astronist can accomplish a task, then it happens should they focus on it. A normal person can get a safe combination right the first time, but they cannot fly.

Examples

Run into a melee with swords swinging, and parry every incoming blow while striking every opponent.

Pick a lock on the first try

World Building - Weapon Styles

Alright, here's some world building notes for you to feast your eyes on. That is if anyone actually reads it. I wanted to do something for fighting styles that was more than what was normally seen. Rather than follow WoT's method of naming every single technique of using a sword, I wanted to fall back into an actual style of fighting, rather than a method of moving a sword.


I used the 7 light-saber forms from Star Wars as a basis and expanded it from there. The idea is that these weapon forms are applicable with any weapon, not just a sword (although some styles work better or worse with certain weapons).

All fighting styles draw their roots from ancient Sylthanian techniques,. Through the ages, the fighting styles have altered and changed, and new forms are created to answer weaknesses or strengths in others.

The techniques of these fighting styles began once with a group of swordmasters in Aquitamar. A common trial practice was Trial by Combat, where the accused and the accuser select champions to fight for them. In Aquitamar, these fights were never to the death, but instead to first yield. Eventually small groups of fighters began to hone their dueling skills to the point that they began the de facto champions used in Trial by Combat. They gained the name Arbites, and even though most nations do not use Trial by Combat, the name has extended to anyone with sufficient skill.

The path to becoming an Arbite is a long one, and involves multiple amounts of tests, duels, and training. Only when several Arbites cast a vote to the affirmative can one join their ranks, and gain the facial tattoo of their preferred fighting form. Those caught using a fake tattoo are killed on sight.

There are five styles. Three originally were created by Sylthanians, those being Tornado, Avalanche, and Iron Shield. Celestials developed the Entropic style, and Torton invented the Zephyr style. Each is generally strong against one style and weak against another.

THE ZEPHYR STYLE
The Zephyr’s Style is the most recent style, generated in Torton roughly a century ago. It is a style of fighting designed for gentleman's dueling, as well as close range fighting in narrow quarters. It demands maneuverability and superior footwork and position, developing the Arbite's mastery of swift parries and thrusts designed to whittle an opponent down and tire them out. When it comes to sheer control of a fight, there are no better Arbites than Zephyrs.

Strong Against
The Entropic Style. The Entropic style relies on the Arbite being chaotic and aggressive yet even chaos can be predicted and outmaneuvered by a Zephyr. They use the Entropic's aggression against them, taking advantage of the lack of defense the opposing style offers.

Weak Against
The Avalanche Style -The Arbite's strength is also a weakness. it relies on maneuverability and control, and as a result, the Zephyr's attacks hold little to no momentum while the Avalanche relies on relentless assaults, pummeling aside the Zephyr's defenses.

Practitioners
Nobleman, politicians, Prelate Sargoth, Mozsha mon Altern

THE IRON SHIELD STYLE
The Iron Shield Style is one of the original forms. It relies on keeping a close guard with your weapon, concentrating on defense, while your opponent tires themselves out in their assault. Iron Shields are the epitome of patience as they observe their opponent style, and move in for the kill when weakness presents itself.

Strong Against
The Avalanche Style—The Iron Shield will calmly deflect every blow by the Avalanche as they maintain their defense. Where the Zephyr relies on cunning and manipulation to defend, the Iron Shield will use any opportunity to turn an opponent's blade away, letting them match an Avalanche's intensity.

Weak Against
The Tornado Style—The Iron Shield relies on keeping a close guard, and of letting their opponent come to them, but a Tornado uses their acrobatic styles and extended reach to bypass the Shield’s guard at a distance to penetrate their defenses.

Practitioners
Bodyguards,Those who are neither fast nor especially strong, pacifists, Alda Zacari

THE ENTROPIC STYLE
The Entropic Style was the first style invented after the original three. It was developed by Bladejudges of the Celestial Empire as a method to defeat the whirlwind Tornados that scissored through soldiers while maintaining no true weakness of their own.

The Entropic Style relies on a chaotic and frenzied attack, often divesting ones self of any defense instead creating an unstoppable attack. The Entropic believes the best defense is a good offense, and will seek to end a fight as quickly as possible.

Strong Against
The Tornado Style-The Entropic Style constantly aims assaults and attacks at the Tornado, putting them into a defensive position. They seize any opportunity to strike, depriving the agile Tornados of their maneuverability.

Weak Against
The Zephyr Style—The Zephyr was developed as a counter-measure against Entropics. While the Entropics are maddening in assault, the Zephyr uses the Entropic’s momentum against them and and unbalances them. Where no defense can be found, the Zephyr will know.

Practitioners
Speaker Eztli, Bladejudges, Cosmic mages

THE TORNADO STYLE
The Tornado Style is an original form. It was developed as a counter measure to defensive Iron Shields. The Tornado fights often in whirlwind attacks, extending their blades out to maximize reach. This leaves them vulnerable to disarms, but free from the fear of retaltion that a closer style might bring.
It is the most acrobatic of all styles, and demands dexterity and athleticism to fight properly. When done correctly, the Tornado becomes just like their namesake, a blur of spiraling motion.

Strong Against
The Iron Shield Style—The Iron Shield's close guard, and lack of counter-attacks leave them vulnerable to fighting from an extended range. The Tornado seeks to maneuver around the Iron Shield, breaking their defenses.

Weak Against
The Entropic Style—The Entropic Style's relentless assaults keep the Tornado on the defensive. Entropics use their own offense to counter the offense of the Tornado, ultimately breaking them down.

Practitioners
Short people, agile people, Fists, Celestial Tayshi Tenoch, Joshi Fitaru Jazalai

THE AVALANCHE STYLE
The Avalanche’s style is misnamed. The word avalanche bestows thoughts of rough and ragged and uncontrolled. To see an avalanche in combat is to see the innate beauty of a storm. They fight in an assault of brute force attacks combined with single-minded determination, pummeling their opponents.
The Avalanche is best at overpowering an individual through sheer tenacity, and Avalanches are renown for for their relentless assaults.

Strong Against
The Zephyr’s Style - The Zephyr relies on grace and precision to turn an opponent’s attacks away. The Avalanches overpowers the Zephyr, by constantly hammering at their defense, maintaining powerful kinetic blows that unbalance the Zephyr.

Weak Against
The Iron Shield—The Iron Shield’s techniques are the answer to the Zephyrs' Weakness. While the Zephyr seeks to redirect the motions of a Avalanche, the Iron Shield seeks to block them. The Shield’s own methods rely on more fully engaging the Avalanche, and keeping up momentum.

Practitioners
Strong people, high constitution/endurance people, Haylo Qaanir

Another Post plus notes

Alright, business first. For this novel (Architect of Legends), I'm currently sitting on it at about 55k words, and am now running outlining and redrafting for it. I don't really like posting superfluous pieces, so I'll post what backlog i produce for Sanderson's class in part, but I'll also be posting from either my First Quarter wotf submission, or my Second Quarter Submission, depending on where I am with it.

I'm told by Mark Twain that my new redraft is "simply stunning", and Lord Tennyson claimed it was "marvelous".


Done with business, now back to business.

Previously: Saul and Mert came to Koldar's Hollow looking to recruit a former enemy general turned freelancer. The general signed on for shifty unexplored reasons and sent them to go fetch two of his... employees, Lilo, a marksman, and Malchanor, an alchemist who inhaled a few too many fumes. They killed some bandits who were more or less caught by surprise, and Saul gathered them back to meet with Sargoth who was dealing with several other matters. Now they're back at the town.

“I think you may have gotten relaxed a far bit too early,” Mert said.

Saul followed the man’s gaze to the collection of tall figures encircling the inn. Each sylthanian stood almost two feet taller than he did, and was armored head to toe in glittering scale plates. The imposing figures were wielding enormous weapons, and each stood poised, ready to obliterate anyone who crossed them. From their positioning, they were both blocking and guarding the entrance to the inn. No one goes in or comes out.

Saul paused for a moment where he stood. He turned to speak to Mert when the sound of clinking glass filled the air. Saul looked back to see Malchanor rummaging through his enormous pack. The alchemist muttered to himself as he rooted through his bag. Already looking for his explosives.

Thankfully, Mert took the initiative before Saul could say anything and grabbed the alchemists’ hands and withdrew them. Malchanor gave Mert a gaze that would melt ice and scare children, but he withdrew his hand. All I need right now is the crazy alchemist starting a fight by lighting someone on fire.

“You think they’re here for Sargoth?” Mert asked.

“Of course,” Saul said. “And I don’t think they’re here for him. I think they already have him.”

Prelate Sargoth walked out of the inn a moment later alongside both his life-ward and a tall sylthanian marked as an Executor, a specialist commander. Sargoth was comically shorter than the rest of the sylthanians, a fox among the wolves. Even so as he walked past the tall females, his stride and posture suggested a commander who would not be cowed. An interesting notion given sylthanian males are virtual breeding stock.

“Oh, so good to see you, Master Rawne,” Sargoth called out. “Apparently I’ve been activated and called to return home. As it turns out my commission never ran out and Executor Kayda here has come to collect me.”

Saul ignored the dripping sarcasm. “And so you’re gladly going with them?”

The one that Sargoth had named Executor Kayda walked up to him. The commanding sylthanian was a large warrior, easily two feet taller than Saul. In one hand, she gripped a sylthanian longsword larger than most greatswords. She looked down on him like a scholar scrutinizing an insect.

He didn’t back down from the intimidation. Unlike a gnome who would gut you for breathing too heavily, sylthanians shrugged off most insults and challenges.

“By order of the High Shamans,” Kayda said through the opening on the skull-faced helmet. “The Prelate has been remanded back into active duty.”

“Well you can tell your High Shamans to wander off a cliff,” Saul said. “The Prelate and I have prior business arrangements.”

Careful. Don’t push too hard. They may not be as touchy as gnomes, but they still had boundaries.

The Executor paused and then pulled her helmet off. When compared to Sargoth her green skin was darker in hue and her cranial spikes were far more pronounced. Her nauseating azure-colored hair was wrapped a tight bun at the back of her head. Sylthanians weren’t terribly appeasing to the eyes and this one was no exception.

“I’m not interested in beating your scrawny head in, but if you press me I will splatter you through this town,” Executor Kayda said
.
Saul was not impressed. “If you think to awe me, think again. I’ve killed dozens of your kind, and I’m willing to do so here. When I’m done with the Prelate, you can have him, not until then.”

She paused then spoke. “I figured as much. Why you Easterners always remain so resolute, I’ll never understand. If you want him, then we’ll make some sport out of this. I’ll try and bash your skull in. You do the same to me.”

A duel? What kind of a preposterous notion was that from a sylthanian? This sort of nonsense is something I’d expect from gnomes. Saul sensed a trap.

“And the winner gets Sargoth?” Saul asked.

“Exactly,” the Executor said. “Do you accept?”

“How enjoyable,” Sargoth said. “Being fought over like a piece of meat. This brings me back.”

“Fine,” Saul said to the Executor.

He flung himself at the sylthanian, warmace gripped in his hand. The Executer’s sharp reflexes were all that saved her from a headshot that would have pulped her brains. Her sword spun out in a flash of steel, knocking his mace away before it imbedded itself in her skull.

She took of her helmet; she gets to reap the consequences. I’ll take any advantage I can. Sylthanian Executers didn’t get to where they were by being poor fighters and if he wanted to break free of any sort of trap, he’d need to kill her fast.

Muscles that had been retrained over the past years burned with the fire of combat. He struck like a viper, hammering at her defenses. She easily dodged the blow but his strike had been a feint. As she ducked back from his attack, he dropped to one knee and spun like a top with one leg outstretched, knocking the Executor off her feet. She regained her footing a split second before she would have collapsed. Saul took advantage of her recovery to slam at her defenses like a blacksmith at the forge. Each blow he threw at her would have been enough to crush someone’s skull, and the Executor’s only saving grace was her reflexes and quick parries.

He spun and twisted as he struck at every opportunity he could find. His sudden onslaught had caught her off guard and she was paying for it. Her own strength kept back his hammer-blows but by the concentration on her face, she was on the verge of breaking. He feinted left then right, before striking home. His warmace caught only a glancing blow on her but it was enough to force her back.

As she moved, the Executor struck with her left leg. The well-muscled kick had a tremendous force behind it, like being slammed by a battering ram. Saul rolled with the blow, avoiding being knocked off his feet, but he skidded to a halt four paces away.

She paused, letting him take the offense which would force him to come within her superior reach. He grinned at her and threw his mace like a hatchet, aiming straight at her head. The mace scythed through the air, but the Executer deflected the weapon with her sword. It spun over the heads of the watching sylthanians and crashed through the wall of the nearest building.

Even while the Executor was still deflecting the blow, Mert had thrown Saul his claymore. He caught the big sword and slashed like a madman at the Executor while she swatted away the mace. She barely brought her sword up in time to parry his blows. She finally got in some attacks of her own, but Saul’s reflexes let him dodge or parry them away. For his trouble, he still got a gash down his cheek which ran red with warm blood.

He took advantage of her long reach and scythed in and out of close melee range. The constant shifting of angle kept her confused, judging by the desperation of her attacks. Saul moved to slice in a vertical swing. Her sword moved to parry and he shifted his strike into a horizontal swing. She leapt out of reach of the slash that would have cut her in half.

Her dodge moved her into perfect placement for his next blow. Saul put out a burst of speed and then high-kicked her in the abdomen. She fell and crumpled to the ground.

Sylthanians were vicious opponents, but only if they got the initiative. If you struck first and never let up, they quickly lose their endurance and present an opening.

Saul closed the distance and brought the claymore down like an executioner at the chopping block. A moment before the blow would decapitate the Executor, a flicker of movement caught his attention. The huge warhammer wielded by Sargoth’s life-ward blocked his blow a moment before he took the Executor’s head off.

Saul looked from the life-ward, and then to Sargoth. “What is the meaning of this, Prelate?"

1. Is the action very vague?
2. How about specific details? Are they clear or not?
3. How is the pacing? Does it slow anywhere?
4. Anything else?

Colton's entry where he needs to find a decent numbering system

Alright, we're now getting into the realm of stuff that I'm probably going to cut. Why? Because my first draft more or less was a lot of character building for me, and now I'm going to go back, finish outlining, and restart in hopefully a month or so. So until then, I'll continue tossing out pieces of story for people to read so that I can fulfill my posting obligations

Summary: They met with Prelate Sargoth, and he sent them off to fetch two of his acolytes while he dealt with other matters.

The rain had reduced to a light drizzle as the pair of them stalked across the steppes. The ranch they could see was a dim outline on the flattened horizon of vast open expanses of Lorhal. Saul brushed his thin beard with one of his hands. Mert looked back at him. The rain had flattened his graying hair, and his triangular beard on his chin was still damp from the rain.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?”

“I’ll wait and see. I’m not going to spend very long running errands for Sargoth while he assembles his favorite lapdogs and sycophants. He’s up to something,” Saul said. Up to something didn’t even explain half of it. Sargoth was a shred one, no doubts there, and he always had a goal in mind. There was more to his agreement than what had appeared on the surface, and Saul intended on figuring it out.

“Have you given any measure on how to get this mercenary on our side?” Mert said.

“Some. Everyone has a price. I think I can stall her for a bit at least until I can get a better idea of her character. She’s under Sargoth’s employ at the moment, so I’ll try to extend that little contract as long out as I possibly can,” Saul said.

“Maybe you can trick her into staying under Sargoth? So he pays the bills and we reap the benefits?” Mert said.

“It’s possible,” Saul said. “I’d prefer to leave him as little reason as necessary to turn against us. In either case we need him to take control of Thorozean. Not just taking control as well, but hold it. Once we do hold the area, we’ll be hard pressed to hold onto the region. I need someone who can work logistics to find a way around that. Thorozean is already weakened and when we hit, everyone who has been looking for a chance will jump.” Looking for a chance didn’t begin to describe it. The Lorhalian Khan was technically allied with his southern Thorozean neighbor, but that didn’t stop Lorhalian hussars from moving through the uncontrolled regions of north Thorozean without any concern. “Thorozean is on a knife’s edge, and the Praa seems to be the only person in the region that doesn’t recognize it. The Khan will move in fast if there is even the slightest hint of a weakening regime. Blackwell too. The Circle of Oak wouldn’t turn a blind eye to having the chance to enclose the Shintaur gnomes.”

Saul scanned the plans. Light dots moved across the horizon towards the ranch. “Shintaur would go after it for precisely that reason as well. They don’t care about the land or the cities in Thorozean. The Shintaur Paramount is smart enough to know what would happen if he got encircled.”

“Speaking of encircled…” Mert said, his voice trailing off.

The dots on closer inspect appeared to be hussars, converging on the ranch from further out in the Steppe. Mert and Saul instinctively dropped close to the ground and out of line of sight. Saul distinctly recalled Sargoth’s words about raiders and bandits in the area but he cursed the odds that they actually would manage to happen upon them anyhow.

He nodded back towards Mert and the two of them crept forward through the light vegetation of the Steppe. Their path brought them less than two-hundred yards away from the ranch, just in time to see the riders surrounding the front door. Some were lingering around still on their avian mounts while a few had gotten off their cockatrices and were approaching the house. The large birds squawked amongst each other, swishing their long tails back and forth across the ground.

Their calls sounded out over the plains and their acrid smell was sharp on the wind. Blast it all, not again. Saul got a good look at the mounted men still idling in front of the house. Just as he suspected, they weren’t hussars. While they still wore the standard ensemble most Lorhalians wore, several wore handkerchiefs wrapped around their faces, and their attire was worn and muddy beyond the norm. None carried any sign of allegiance to one of the local lords as well, identifying clearly their identity as steppe raiders.

Saul took a quick headcount. There were eight of them total, three of them dismounted and approaching the ranch. The reins of the riderless birds were held by the idling raiders that were watching their allies’ movements closely. Those not holding reins carried very finely crafted muskets held across their laps. The three approaching the ranch stopped at the door.

Saul’s hand gripped the heavy mace he wore at his side, while Mert fingered his own claymore that was strapped to his back. Things were probably going to turn ugly fairly quickly. Saul, using the battle-signs both of them had developed over twenty years past, passed a message to Saul. Move around and flank to the side of the house. Mert nodded.

The darkening effect of the still cloudy skies masked their movement through the grasses. The ones who had knocked at the door stood waiting for an answer, and chattered amongst themselves. Probably checking to see if anyone was home. If they ran in with guns blazing they could find themselves in trouble quickly. Mert recalled a similar event some decades past where half a dozen robbers tried storming a fisherman’s hut that Mert and a dozen other veteran soldiers had been using for shelter. Evidently these bandits were smarter than that and were first checking while posing as officials of some sort. No answer came, and the three at the door turned to go back to the rest of their party.

Mert continued moving only to suddenly pause. The door clicked open, and the bandits turned to look. A boom like thunder cracked across the Steppes, and one of the bandits crashed to the ground. One of the cockatrice mounts screeched an ear-splitting cry as it stumbled to the ground, a victim of the passing bullet.

Saul remained crouched against the ground as the bandits ran about in disarray. Several of them scrambled to load their guns, while another tried to urge his mount forward. When cockatrices got into close quarters they became a frenzy of talons, feathers, and sharp jaws.

Mert came into view edging around the house. The man crouched closely to the walls with his claymore in hand. Saul caught his eye and signaled for him to stay back. To Saul’s relief, Mert understood the signal and remained still.

An unearthly scream ripped through the air a moment later. Saul turned to the house, looking for the source of the. A man appeared in the doorway bolting towards the bandits like a feral dog.

He was easily past his sixth decade, and had the look of a vagabond who hadn’t combed his hair once. His scraggly hair whipped behind him as he ran, and his dirty alchemists robes fluttered with each step. Each of the man’s hands held a small vial but at this distance Saul couldn’t tell what was contained within.

The man continued his war cry as he ran at the bandits. Several of the raiders broke away from the group with terror creased over their faces. The wild haired alchemist threw his arms forward, hurling the vials like rocks. Saul hoped the man was a far better thinker than thrower, for one missed the closest bandit by twenty feet and the other overshot a mounted bandit by at least ten.

Both exploded with flames that burned so intensely that Saul had to look away. When he looked back, fire of the most brilliant blue had been summoned on the steppes. The blaze spread like a flood of water through the grasses and set raider and vegetation alight. A few heartbeats later the spread of the fire stopped leaving an inferno several yards in diameter. One raider turned into a human torch that shrieked as he writhed in the grass.

A cockatrice with its plumage a brilliant conflagration was ran into the distance, shrieking loud squawks of pain as it raced off to Daiya-knows-where.

Crazy was what Sargoth had said. The alchemist would be Malchanor, the maddened runaway the Prelate had told them about. Which meant the markswoman, Lilo, lurked somewhere in the area as well. She must have fired the first shot.

The bandits who had not fled instead stood their ground as they loaded muskets. The decision on the bandit’s part not to preload was wise in the rain of the earlier day, but was no a poor choice.

Saul stood and nodded to Mert. The older man raced around the corner of the house, swinging his claymore like a farmer at harvest. Saul held his mace close, and raced into the melee. The raiders were edging away from Malchanor who had a menacing look in his eyes as he fumbled about in his pockets. One man finished loading his musket and aimed. A shot from the ranch’s front window rang and clipped the man’s head off. His headless body fell to the ground.

Saul crashed into the closest man like a lightning bolt. The mace slammed into the man’s legs like a blacksmith’s hammer, and the raider shrieked in pain as his legs snapped. A down-sweep from Saul silenced his cries.

“Ambush from behind!” one of the raiders shouted.

A rider urged his cockatrice towards Saul. The animal screeched as razor sharp talons flashed through the air, and Saul threw himself to the side. The bird leapt after him ready to bite.

Saul bashed the animal on the skull. The glancing blow had little force behind it, but the bird still shook from the impact. The rider on top was taking aim on Saul when the bird spun away chattering in pain. The bandit gave a yell of rage and readjusted in his saddle, trying to get a shot off.

Saul took the opportunity to knock the legs out from another man who jabbed at him with a long hunting knife. While the man fell, Saul rose to his feet, and slammed his thick boot into the man. He felt the snapping of ribs as his blow impacted.

Mert swung past Saul like a whirlwind of steel. The claymore flashed and spun through the air, cutting the head off of a cockatrice and sending a raider to the ground, holding his entrails in his hands. The decapitated of the cockatrice stumbled about and a sickening rasp came from the stump of the animal’s neck before the headless beast fell to the ground and trapped the struggling rider beneath its lifeless bulk.

The cockatrice that Saul had smacked recovered from the blow and was back in the fight, slashing and biting at him. Saul rolled between the animal’s legs, and came up behind it. He swept the mace in a wide arc aiming for the animal’s flanks. The blow cracked into the cockatrice’s chest and the snapping of bones broke the air. The beast shrieked in pain, but raced back towards him. Its rider had finally thrown his gun aside in desperation and pulled out a spear.

The raider jabbed down towards Saul with a thrust that Saul dodged with a deft side-step. Years of honed reflexes aided him as if he were twenty years younger. To his experienced eyes, the spear moved at a snail’s pace. Saul’s mace snapped the haft like a twig.

His follow-through slammed into the bird again, shattering more bones. The cockatrice screeched and fell to the ground. The rider yelped as the bird crushed his leg. Saul put both out of their misery with powerful slams from his mace. Another musket crack and the last mounted survivor, already fifty yards away, fell from his mount. The mount gave a pathetic cry before it ran on.

Saul turned toward the house and a vial shattered at his feet. He flinched, but instead of the explosion of fire, an odor, like sweaty feet, filled the air. The liquid around his boots coagulated and hardened. Elixir of immobility. The goo would set instantly, leaving him completely immobilized from the ankle down.

Saul looked to Mert who was trying to pull his feet apart. Malchanor stepped towards Saul but stayed out of swinging distance. The old man’s face was morose and serious as he looked at them.

“You’re not one of them,” Malchanor said in a gruff rasp. “You don’t smell like raiders. You’re with the Guild, aren’t you? Another glory seeker come for the reward?”

“You’d best unstick us or—“ Saul started.

Malchanor laughed. “I’d best unstick you? Ho, that’s rich! You must think me stupid! When has a demand like that ever convinced anyone? Assassin, you’d best remember the name Malchanor Hamagesh. It is the last name you’ll remember. “

“You should really—“ Saul started again.

Malchanor interrupted him again. “Why do you waste my time with such awkward demands? You know they won’t…” he trailed off. The man looked over Saul’s shoulder.

“You think I should?” he spoke. “They smell like Guild assassins. They’re after the… no. No. No. No!”

Saul looked to Mert who held a confused expression. Saul held his mace out to test the weight and balance. He was more than a decent thrower. Malchanor stood only fifteen feet away and was close enough to hit with a thrown mace. The alchemist continued talking with an invisible entity.

“Killing them would work,” Malchanor said. “But do you think it would matter? They’ll keep coming, no matter how hard I try. I won’t ever—“

“Ever be sane,” a voice finished. The woman wore a light duster and wide brimmed hat on her head. Her hands cradled a musket aimed at Saul. Her black hair ran loosely across her dark skin, save for two small braids that hung from her ears.

Malchanor continued his conversation, unaware that she had said anything. She sighed and walked across the grass to the side of the crazy alchemist. She jabbed him hard in the shoulder, and he jumped like a startled dog.

“Do you ever pay attention to anything I say?” she said.

Malchanor glared at her. “Only when you’re not spreading lies. I know all about you, Lilo.”

“Good. You should. I’ve been protecting your sorry hide for too many months,” Lilo said.

Saul cleared his throat. “As fun as this is, you should unstick us.”

“Why? I don’t know who you are,” Lilo said. “The enemy of my enemy may just be a cunning opportunist.”

“Or a stinking Guild hireling!” Malchanor said. “Another filthy rat here to—“

Lilo shushed him with a hand wave. “Everyone is a filthy stinking Guild hireling, Mal.” She looked back to Saul. “Why should I trust anything you say?”

Saul caught her eyes. “Because Sargoth is working for me now. And since you work for him, that puts you under my direct control.”

“Bold claim,” Lilo said. “And… how do I know I can believe anything you say? Maybe you really are Guild assassins.”

“They are Guild assassins,” Malchanor said.

“Fine, you want proof? Should have just given you this in the first place,” Saul said. He reached into his pocket, and grabbed the medallion Sargoth had given him. The sylthanian males kept ones like it as identification for breeding purposes. He threw the copper trinket at Lilo who didn’t bother catching it and instead watched it fall.

She kept her musket and eyes leveled at him while she knelt down and grabbed the medallion. Once she had straightened up, she took a long look at it, before finally nodding to Malchanor.

“What, that’s it?” Malchanor sputtered. “How do we know they didn’t kill Sargoth and take it?”

“Because, Mal, why would they kill Sargoth, steal an token from him, come here, risk life against raiders, and then give us said medal?” Lilo said.

“Because they’re Guild assassins! They’re relentless! They could be anyone! The Guild, they have methods that…” He looked into the distance again and paused. “Oh, an excellent idea! And if you added a half-pinch off—“

“Malchanor!” Lilo yelled. “Pay attention! Stop listening to whatever the hell you’re listening to!”

Malchanor jumped again. He glared at Lilo. “Woman! You’re making things difficult on me! What do you want?”

“Unstick them? Now.” Lilo said.

Malchanor looked at both Saul and Mert and his eyes filled with recognition that turned to rage. The alchemist muttered under his breath until he grabbed two vials from one of the pockets his robe held.

“Shoot them if they try anything,” Malchanor warned.

The alchemist edged forward, keeping an eye on both Mert and Saul as he moved. He hurled one vial at Saul and another at Mert and then bolted away. He stopped next to Lilo, and already held more vials in his hands.

Saul waited as the mixture holding his feet dissolved. When the goo fell off, he straightened up.

“Now. To business.”

Questions :

1. Gunpowder weapons? You thoughts on em in a fantasy setting?

2. Malchanor. Did he seem suitably nuts? I'm not going for a specific psychological condition here.

3. How did the action go?

4. Anything else you saw?

Colton's End of Chapter 2 and Chapter 3

Nothing new to report in relations to this post, at least as far as we're concerned with. Editing both here and on paper is continuing, and you'll see a shift toward Saul's PoV, mostly as a design decision. Motives are being fleshed out a little be more as are characters.

I'll be getting to reading everyone's stuff tonight and tomorrow.

Summary: Saul Rawne and his Dragon, Mert Asherban are talking to a sylthanian tactician in hopes of recruiting him.

Chapter 2 Cont.


“So the two of you deserted?” Saul asked.

“Fah. How could I desert them? They deserted me. To lead in battle, fight the enemy, and die a shrieking corpse on the field of battle was all I asked. There was nothing left for me there. Were anything different now, I would go back immediately. But change comes slowly. It was only three centuries ago we sylthanian men were nothing more than chattel. Bred like common animals. I fear I may never see my homeland again in this incarnation.”


Sargoth paused as Kazarranar put a big mug of whiskey in front of him. “My point is this: I am not some drunken layabout drinking beer, and dreaming of a return to glory. I am not some washed-up advisor who has fallen on hard times and turns to drink. I am a bored tactician, looking for something entertaining.”

The Sylthanian popped his knuckles and then rested both hands under his chin. “You want me to help you get revenge on those who wronged you? Who killed your wife? As callous as it sounds, I have no care for your problems. The only enticement that can rouse me now is the opportunity to go against insurmountable odds.”

Revenge? Callous or not, that is everything. It is all that matters. Saul leaned back. “I’ll give you that.”

Sargoth laughed. “I figured you could. At first I might refuse your offer. You haven’t tempted me with anything in return. You thought you could get the old Prelate’s attention by enticing him with the thoughts of a grandiose revenge that belongs in legends told around a campfire”

“There is always that,” Saul said.

“Quite. I was always partial to bold plans. I’m in,” Sargoth said.
“Just like that?” Mert said, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, there’s always more to it. Come walk with me. This isn’t a conversation for other ears to hear,” Sargoth said. The big sylthanian pulled himself out of his chair and started for the exit.

Saul followed him. Kazarranar, the Life-ward fell into step behind them.

“So if you’re not here as a washed-out drunk, then why are you drinking by yourself in a bar?” Mert said.

“What can I say? I love whiskey,” Sargoth said.

 
Chapter 3

Saul followed Sargoth out into the rain, and the smell of unwashed bodies vanished replaced with the crisp smell of the downpour that had washed away the pungent stink of the cockatrices. The large birds, tethered outside, gave them quizzical looks as they passed by, but quickly returned to preening their feathers with their long narrow beaks.

Sargoth paused and turned to Kazarranar. He spoke crisp, sharp words in Sithar that Saul tried to follow. Far too long had passed since he had heard Sithar, the sylthanian language and his sense for understanding the words had dulled.

“You’re not keeping something from us, are you?” Saul asked.

Sargoth looked towards Saul. “The streets in any city in Lorhal are never safe, Master Rawne. I counted at least three druid informants, plus seven other spies for other factions. Shintaur. Blackwell. One for the Empire of Heaven. You’d be surprised how many significant events start in taverns. We’re proof of that.”

Sargoth continued a moment later. “I have my own secrets, Saul. I am not working for you. I am working with you. Many of the native Lorhalians are veterans of the wars perpetrated by Blackwell, and they see me as an enemy. Reputation on my part is the only reason that they haven’t succeeded in killing me.”

He turned back and led them out to the edge of town. The Life-ward faded back, watching for anyone trying to listen in on them. The rain became a dull roar around them, pattering off the rooftops and tuning out the noise several paces beyond them.

“I assume you already have some plan in place? This isn’t going to be something you just do overnight,” Sargoth said.

Saul paused. He hadn’t set anything vital in motion yet. He had never been able to manipulate anyone worth a damn. Too blunt for that, but where you can’t manipulate, you predict. “Nothing is set right now.”

Sargoth grunted. “You’re probably looking at a multifold plan to start. Establish popular support. Erode official support. Install yourself or someone else as the person in control. I know all sorts of people who could support what you’re doing, but no one ever works for free. I’ve noticed you have little in hard currency. “

“You just have to find something they’d be willing to do for nothing,” Saul said. “You’re already proof of that, Prelate.”

“You’re talking about making Thorozean your own,” Sargoth said. “Civil ordinances and governmental nonsense doesn’t interest me. If you want me to play world builder, you’re out of luck. I can knock it down, but I’m not going to rebuild it. Unless you two have an army somewhere that I don’t know about, then we’re going to need specialists to crack this nut.”

“What kind of specialist cracks nuts?” Mert muttered.

“Sod off, Mert,” Saul said.

“Sodding off, sir,” Mert said.

At that moment several hussars appeared out of the misty gloom beyond the city. Each rider held one of their long-barreled rifles close to their body, covering the fire-dust opening with a hand to prevent the powder from turning into a soggy mash. They passed by the three of them without a word, heading further into town at a quickened trot. The smell from the cockatrice’s passage invaded Saul’s nose before the pouring rain wiped it away. I’m never going to get used to that stench.

“Word has it that a legion of my comrades has infiltrated into the continent this far,” Sargoth noted. “The Khan is already dealing with it. The local commander has outriders combing the Steppes looking for them. Fate, it seems, always has a way of catching up to us.”

“You think your Shaman Queen wants her trophy back?” Mert asked.

Saul sneered down at him. “Perhaps. But I’m not going anywhere. I may be old, but I am not a mewling infant. And don’t let Kazarranar fool you. She’s incredibly good at what she does. I would have expected her to be the Shaman Queen’s own Life-ward by now.”

Saul could believe that. Watching the Life-ward gave him all sorts of new insights into personal protection. Life-wards weren’t just average bodyguards but soldiers bred specifically in sanctioned breeding ground back in the Pollos Expanse across the ocean. Conditioned from birth, Life-wards trained exclusively to protect their ward, and as a result, all ranking sylthanians had at least one. Life-ward’s honor was linked to the one they protected and, male or not, Kazarranar would protect Sargoth to her death.

“What specialists are we going to need?” Mert asked.

“You solicited my services less than an hour ago, and you expect me to have devised a brilliant solution? Either you flatter me or insult me,” Sargoth said.

“I know your reputation, Prelate,” Saul said. “You’re just having fun at our expense.”

“Then allow me to make it more fun. How familiar are you with the Dawnfire Guild?” Sargoth asked.

The Dawnfire Guild. Now there was a name that Saul hadn’t expected to come up. The guild of Blackwell Alchemists was the worst kept secret in existence. Everyone knew they existed and everyone knew what they did, but Saul had no first-hand experience with anyone who had even met a Dawnfire Alchemist.

“They do all the potion and elixir making for the Circle of Oak in Blackwell. Also deal with training Magi,” Saul said.

“More or less,” Sargoth said. He coughed several times and snorted, clearing phlegm from his throat. “This damn weather. I doubt you’ve heard of Malchanor Hamagesh?”

Oddly enough, Saul could recall the name, but he couldn’t recall the context where he had heard it. A distant memory from another time. “Sounds familiar.”

“Oh, he’s got a great tale to tell.” Sargoth said. “You see, he left the Guild.”

“I thought the only way out was death,” Mert said.

“Correct,” Sargoth said. He reached into his coat pocket and grabbed some of the bar nuts he had hid away. While munching one, he continued. “But he was gone when they finally uncovered his departure. The motive he claims as true changes every time you ask him. Alchemists discovered the philosopher’s stone and he stole it and ran. Alchemists remade dwarven fire and he stole it and ran. Alchemists remade dwarven fire; he burned the guildhouse to the ground, and ran off with the Guildmaster’s wife. He gave one of the Circle of Oak a potion that turned the druid into a striped-rot grub.”

“He lit an apprentice on fire just to watch him burn, and then ate the boy’s right foot,” Kazarranar added, walking up to them.

Sargoth chuckled nervously, “Ah yes… I forgot that one.” Saul’s nervous smile was replaced by one of mixed apprehension. “The Guild was about as amenable to his departure as you’d expect. Their constant pursuit has driven Malchanor crazy.”

“He’s what?” Saul said.

“You heard me. Years of inhaling toxic fumes and the constant paranoia of hired assassins following him have turned him into a paranoid maniac. If you want a favor to get him under your thumb, offer him protection and he’ll immediately accept. He has a particular knack with volatile potion making, as well as a decent skill with about everything else.”

“You said you had two in mind. Who is the other?” Saul asked
.
“The other I hired to keep an eye on Malchanor,” Sargoth said. “Local, this one, but she’s proven to be a diamond in the rough. She’s a mercenary, with one of the local raiding warbands that operates in this region. Or she was, until about a year ago. Evidently she shot the wrong person and has been on the run from his friends for the past year. Probably less likely to go for any free employment though. She takes all money up-front regardless of what it is you want. But she’s an effective sharpshooter and won’t give any of this ‘thrill of the chase’ nonsense you get with bounty hunters now.
”
“You expect for us to need a sharpshooter?” Mert asked.

“Would you feel better without one?” Sargoth said.

“Point,” Saul said. “Any other ideas?”

“Several, but nothing sure enough to be worth sharing,” Sargoth said. “I have business I need to deal with here. You go find the other two. Malchanor and the markswoman, Lilo, are holed up in a ranch about five miles straight north from here. Malchanor’s tendencies have the unfortunate effect of drawing attention so I had to move them a decent way away.”

“I do find it odd than in less than an hour you seem convinced to work with us,” Mert remarked.

Sargoth sighed. “You have the reputation and the means to get work done. Besides, it's been a long time since I’ve had to plan a proper war.”