Introduction

This book contains the Flesh and Blood lore. All content belongs to © Legend Story Studios.

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Overview

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The World of Rathe

Long ago, humans arrived on the shores of Rathe from a distant land, seeking a place to build their homes. They found a world of vast mountain ranges and volcanic plains, dense jungles and sheer cliffs, verdant meadows and iridescent forests, This is Rathe, a land fuelled by magic. Once home to incredible beings beyond imagination, humans have overtaken the land, spreading across the continent and changing the land around them. Some learned to harness the innate magic in this world and wield it in battle, others choose to rely on technology and human innovation.

Once, the humans of this world were at war, clashing in devastating battles that decimated the land. For a time, it almost seemed as if humanity would be incapable of living alongside one another - but after many hundreds of years, Rathe finally entered a new era of peace. The people of Misteria withdrew into the mountains, Aria erected great barriers to protect their realm from outsiders, and the kingdom of Solana shifted its focus to spreading the Light. Volcor's empire unravelled into a state of constant warfare, as its many Generals fought amongst themselves for land and resources, while far to the north, a glittering city of copper and glass emerged, calling to like-minded individuals who looked toward the future.

Now, this era of peace threatens to descend into chaos once more. The people of Rathe have become restless as seeds of dissent take root across the continent, and the world balances on the brink of war once again.

Map of Rathe

Aria

A fantastical realm where the landscape is ever-changing, fuelled by a magical energy known as the Flow. Amongst the peaceful villages of Aria, celebrations and festivals are a regular occurrence, filled with performers, musicians and entertainers.

The Land of Legends

For eons, the realm of Aria has remained untouched by the passage of time. Far removed from the chaos and struggles that enveloped the rest of Rathe, its beautiful flora and fauna are as vibrant and welcoming as the diverse people that live here. Great mountain ranges glitter with ice and snow, as fast forests of green and gold stretch out far into the distance, teeming with life.

But it wasn't always this way.

There's few that can recall the horrors of the Third Age, before this Age of Man. A time when humanity stood alongside mighty Ancients against the Aesirs to defend this shattered world, locked in great wars that had raged since the beginning of time.

These tales had been lost throughout the ages, left only in whispers of fables and legends, but the touch of the defenders and their allies can still be felt throughout Aria. Their essence and their power linger to this day; from imposing fortresses and breath-taking vistas, to the strands of the Flow comprised of the Ancients' elemental essence, to the natural and magical defences that shield Aria from the outside world, the grandeur and history of the defenders and their allies live on.

Isenloft

A mighty citadel that overlooks the only passage into Aria, Isenloft stands proudly amidst the Isen Ranges that separate western Aria from the rest of Rathe. Once the stronghold of the Order of Ollin, Isenloft was the first line of defence against the legions of the void. The element of Ice and Earth converge here in a breath-taking spectacle, as the mighty mountains stretch up into the heavens against the harsh gales at the heart of Mt. Isen.

At the end of the Third Age, Isenloft was frozen by a tremendous burst of Elemental energy. Its existence has since been forgotten by the people of Aria, until recent times when the ice that had enveloped it for centuries begins to melt, and the Ollin awaken once more.

Volthaven

It's said that when the Ancient of Lightning and Ice, Yvor, fell in the defence of its people, its body drifted up into the heavens and formed the isles of Enion. Floating high above the skies to the north of Isenloft, powerful streaks of Lightning flow through its skies, as the essence of Lightning and Ice converge here in a violent fashion.

The people of Volthaven wandered here by accident, not too long ago, and fell in love with its breath-taking views and the boundless energy that dances through its skies. They founded Volthaven upon one of these isles, and with the help of skilled wayfarers and wise shamans, carefully guide their beloved island home as they drift slowly through Enion.

Candlehold

Deep within the woods, to the east of Korshem, lie the secretive grove of Candlehold. The essence of Earth and Lightning is strong here, converging into a potent elemental energy called the Strale which is aggressive and volatile, unlike the soft and gentle Flow that permeates the rest of Aria.

The Queen of Candlehold sits atop a throne of elderwood as her mind wanders to the time of the Ancients. Her people, once mighty defenders, has fallen from grace after the fall of the Ancient Davnir, father of the Earth. They've been trapped within this beautiful grove for eons, bound and melded with the Strale, but a recent shift in the Flow promises new hopes and challenges, as the spell that binds them to their beloved grove begins to weaken, and the electric thorns and brambles that surround Candlehold begin to thin.

In recent years, the barriers that once concealed and protected Aria is beginning to wane. The War of the Monarchs rages on; Aesirs and their Embras stir in their slumber, their influence seeping from i'Arathael into the realm of man, as the ancient defenders that lay dormant within Aria are roused by the presence of these ancient enemies, and begin to awaken and gather once more.

A Mythical Sanctuary

For thousands of years, the fantastical realm of Aria has remained untouched by the passage of time, far removed from the chaos and struggles that affect the rest of the world. Iridescent flora and verdant trees cover the landscape in brilliant colours, as vibrant as the people who call this land home. With great mountain ranges glittering with ice and snow, vast forests of green and gold, and lush meadows filled with vibrant flowers, the rolling hills of this fantastical realm are teeming with life.

A true sanctuary, Aria's abundant resources are nurtured by the mysterious energy known as the Flow. The Flow shapes and changes the landscape as it passes, transforming mountains into valleys, and forests into plains. The energy of the Flow has created some of the most incredible scenery in all of Rathe, creating plains of constant thunderstorms, and forests of translucent fungi.

The people here are accustomed to a life of comfort, as the rich, plentiful landscape of Aria provides them with everything they could possibly need. Natural defenses and ancient magics protect the land, hiding Aria and its people from the outside world. Generations of a peaceful, carefree lifestyle have cultivated a society rich with bards, musicians, performers and entertainers; their taverns serving some of the most fantastical liquors and spirits known to man.

Yet, in recent years, Aria has experienced a transformation. The barriers that once concealed and protected Aria have begun to fracture, revealing its existence for the first time in centuries. Outlanders threaten to breach the borders and enter Aria, while the Flow has become unstable, transforming the land at an increasing rate. This once peaceful region has entered a new era of uncertainty, as its people rise up to defend their homeland from the outside world.

A True Sanctuary

For as long as humans have lived in Rathe, Aria has been a safe haven for all who call it home. The region's abundant resources and natural defenses have created an environment of peace and contentment, freed from the burdens of conflict and war.

The Flow

A wild, unpredictable force of nature, the Flow shapes the landscape around it as it ebbs and flows. It shapes all of Aria, folding mountains into valleys, sculpting rivers out of stone, and shifting forests from one location to another. In areas where it is particularly strong, the Flow manifests as streaks of light across the sky, a shining array of vibrant colour high above the earth. Everything in Aria, from soil to stone to living creature, is borne of the Flow, and when their time in this world is over, they shall return to the Flow once more.

The Flow has given life to some of the most remarkable scenery in all of Rathe. A great expanse of ice, frozen solid even in the heat of summer; deep, dense forests where steam rises from crystal-clear rivers; tiers of shining waterfalls, water pink as the first light of dawn; luminescent stone formations that glitter with the light of a thousand stars.

Cesari

Ethereal creatures borne of magic, fading in and out of existence based on the ebb and wane of the Flow. While they appear sentient, Cesari are mirages, mere echoes of ancient beings that once called Aria home. They appear as iridescent, semi-translucent phantoms, shimmering as they ripple through the air. Cesari can range in size from small, floating wisps that drift along with the breeze, to massive, twin-tailed creatures the size of comets, leaving streaks of vibrant light in their wake.

Folktales Across Aria

Wishing Wells

Hidden around Aria, wishing wells are almost impossible to find, though many have tried. Those who come across a wishing well usually find it by accident, drawn to the well by some unknown force. When drinking the water within, a person can make a wish, though it may not always come true in the way they expect.

Askra

These rare trees are pale and delicate, their soft, thin branches drooping so low that their leaves brush against the earth. However, each of these trees possesses a single fruit, bright red and filled with seeds. The people of Aria commonly believe that these fruits can be used to communicate with the dead.

The Otherworld

Legend states that the oldest tree in every forest has a door hidden beneath its roots, leading to another realm. Those who enter through this door are often lost to the passage of time, emerging years later with no memory of what they saw on the other side.

Tempest Plain

The flatlands known as the Tempest Plain are plagued by perpetual thunderstorms, the earth permanently burned to a blackened crisp by sheets of lightning. Anything that dares to set foot in the Tempest Plain is immediately struck by a bolt of lightning, turning to dust in an instant.

Fensalir

According to legend, those who drink from the 'eternal spring' known as Fensalir will be healed of any injury or illness.

The Bleak Expanse

A frozen wasteland plagued by constant snowstorms, which remains all but impossible to navigate. Only one path exists through the Bleak Expanse, and any deviation will lead a person back to the point at which they started. The blinding snow and biting cold are devastatingly fatal for anyone who approaches the Expanse unprepared.

Crossing the Threshold

Occasionally, a wayward soul might find themselves transported to Aria, waking at the base of the Great Tree of Korshem. The Korshem acts a gateway, welcoming newcomers into Aria with open arms. It is said that the Flow may power the Korshem's ability to pull others through to Aria, attracting those who seek a better life, providing a place for them to start anew.

The Korshem

A village is built within the branches of the Korshem, a massive tree at the heart of Aria that shelters all who live amongst its leaves. The Flow is incredibly strong around the Korshem, breathing life into everything that grows nearby. With sunlight streaming through its leaves, casting light upon the many buildings clustered around the base of the Korshem, it is a truly magical sight.

Isen's Peak

A great mountain that has watched over Larinkmorth for generations. Despite the passing of time, it remains untouched by the passage of the Flow, as if exempt from the transformations that affect the rest of Aria. Larinkmorth's best-known liquor, Isenri Sake, is named in honour of the mountain, as its pale, icy blue colour mimics the gleaming snow of Isen's Peak.

Larinkmorth

A small town tucked into the mountainside, Larinkmorth is surrounded by a sea of perpetual snow, peaceful and tranquil amongst the sea of white. Its taverns are a source of warmth, a place to shelter from the freezing mountain air.

People of Aria

The Flow fuels everything that grows within Aria. The plants here thrive - trees never stop producing fruit, plants grow at a rapid pace, and the creatures are docile and tame. As a result, the people of Aria are free to pursue a more relaxed lifestyle, becoming musicians, performers, entertainers or craftsmen. The people of Aria flock to the region's abundant taverns for drinks, stories, music and entertainment, taking advantage of any opportunity for celebration or festivity.

While many people settle in villages, some choose a more nomadic lifestyle, travelling across the region. These nomads travel from village to village, pitching tents or sleeping beneath the stars. As they pass through villages, they offer help or entertainment, and the village provides for them in return.

Aria has no form of currency, as its people function on a simple bartering system based on the idea of equivalent exchange. A peaceful region abundant with natural resources, its people feel no need to hoard wealth, food or goods, readily sharing their home with others.

The Everfest Carnival

The people of Aria are never more excited than when the Everfest Carnival is near. A giant, travelling circus, the Everfest Carnival is the size of a small town, boasting hundreds of tents and attractions. The Everfest has been a staple within Aria for centuries, travelling from village to village, growing larger with every passing decade. Some of the oldest families in Aria are part of the Everfest, their ancient traditions evolving to number among the most popular Carnival acts.

One of the most well-known sectors of the Everfest is the Maela, a group of tents boasting fortune-tellers, seers, oracles, enchantresses and conjurers. Members of the Maela are known for their strange and wondrous talents, performing enchantments and acts of mystery for those with an open mind.

Another sector of the Everfest Carnival is the Valdur, known for strongman acts and their work with animals. From massive Fianna to fierce Vitre'o, these creatures are well-trained, proudly performing before crowds to rousing applause. Some of these creatures also help to transport the Carnival, using their strength to pull carts and carry goods.

Many other acts exist within the Everfest. Some, such as the Legendarium, are larger acts staged with the help of a team; others are smaller, the work of small families or individuals.

Endless Entertainment

The magic of the Everfest Carnival comes from its people, those who have made a home with the travelling carnival. Some set up food stalls, weaving spools of spun sugar, making tiny handheld pastries, and hot toasted bannock; others run small bars providing unique, magical spirits and liqueurs. However, most of the Carnival belongs to its performers.

Trapeze artists flying above the audience, silk dancers weaving their way through the air, escape artists freeing themselves from chains and barrels filled with water, stunt performers who set themselves on fire and throw themselves through a maze of razor-sharp blades. Animal trainers, strongmen, fire breathers, sword swallowers, jugglers, acrobats, contortionists, jesters, harlequins, hoop divers, knife throwers, and actors recreating the legends of old.

Some stage their performances within the circus tents, whilst others perform underneath the sky, enchanting passers-by. Stilt-walkers wander through the crowds, while bards recount tales of old to enchanted audiences, and faint, ethereal music drifts through the air. Circles of tents provide a space for fortune-tellers and oracles to practice their secret arts, curtains drawn back to reveal the candlelit tables within. Illusions and displays of light weave their way through the air above, while below, the enchantresses and illusionists dance, their golden jewellery chiming with every movement.

Crafts

Aria is home to a variety of unique skills, crafts and talents, unlike those anywhere else in Rathe.

Braumeister

While taverns are not an uncommon sight in Aria, and many have tried their hand at brewing spirits and ale, Braumeisters are among the most elite of their trade. Spirits made by a Braumeister possess unique effects, depending on the kind of spirit, the ingredients used, and the person brewing it.

Wayfarers

The first step of any wayfarer's training is the creation of a dowsing disc, a finely tuned instrument that allows wayfarers to read the changes in the land around them. In an ever-changing landscape, the help of a wayfarer is invaluable, as they map out new paths and discover new locations.

Defenders

In an era of change, where the ancient barriers between Aria and the outside world are breaking down, defenders have risen to protect their home from outsiders. Those who break through and enter Aria with ill intentions, whether to steal or harm, will quickly find themselves at the mercy of patrolling defenders. Groups of defenders can be found travelling between villages, guarding their home and keeping an eye out for trouble.

Diviners

While wayfarers can read the lay of the land, diviners learn to read the Flow itself. They can see the currents within the Flow and follow patterns to predict how the Flow will shape the world around it. Diviners are also able to follow these currents to discover where the Flow is strongest, and areas more susceptible to change.

Shamans

Legend speaks of powerful shamans, capable of creating incredible spectres with a wave of their hand. Now, shamans are best known for their work within the Everfest, creating breathtaking displays by manipulating the Flow around them.

Dreamers

A dreamer is a person with a natural-born gift - the waking sleep, a state in which dreamers can glimpse fragments of the past, present and future. For some, visions can even come to them when fully awake, catching glimpses of what might be, and echoes of those who came before.

Tides of Change

Great barriers and magical landmarks once protected Aria from the outside world, hiding its existence from the rest of Rathe. However, after many centuries, these barriers have begun to wane, and the ancient magics that once concealed Aria's existence from the rest of the world are failing. More and more outsiders are entering Aria in an attempt to steal from its people, weakening the land in the process.

These outlanders are clashing with the people of Aria, as they seek to strip the land of all that makes it magical. They attack anyone who dares to challenge them, taking whatever they please without a hint of remorse. Defenders and guardians have risen once more to challenge the outlanders and protect Aria from those who would harm it.

Yet even as trespassers threaten Aria's borders, the Flow has become increasingly unstable, changing and transforming the land faster than ever before. The paths between villages are all but lost, with even the most dedicated wayfarers struggling to mark the rapid changes of the Flow. Some of the longest-standing landmarks in Aria, great mountains and magical formations that have persisted through centuries of constant change, have since been lost, pulled into the Flow's rapid transformation.

Legend of the Exalted One

Long ago, the world of Rathe was cast in darkness, and its people cried out in fear. No plant could grow, no creature could see, and all was silent and still. And so, the Exalted One, great creator of Life, gave light to the world, plucking two stars from distant skies. One star became the sun and was placed within a chariot of radiant gold. The other became the moon and was placed within a chariot of shining silver. However, all was not yet complete.

The Exalted One gave life to two new beings, a pair of divine beings known as Badr and Asra. Bright, lively Badr was given the golden chariot, and two swift steeds of vibrant flame. Quiet, thoughtful Asra was given the silver chariot, and two gentle steeds of pale frost. At once, the twins took to the sky. The light of golden Badr brought day to the children of Rathe, a time of life and of creation. The light of silver Asra brought night, the time to rest and to recharge. Thus, the people of Rathe flourished beneath the light of the stars, and the twins have proudly fulfilled their duty ever since.

Legend of the Guardians

Long ago, when the land of Aria was surrounded by war and strife, its people were protected by the Guardians. The Guardians were blessed with a connection to an elemental, gifting them with extraordinary abilities. Through years of training, they learned to hone their abilities and transform into incredible warriors, blessed with supernatural strength and elemental skills. The Flow shaped them, moulding them into the perfect protector, tasked with guarding their people and their home.

However, as Aria entered an era of peace, and the elementals began to fade away, the ancient tradition of the Guardians disappeared along with them. Now, as their barrier between Aria and the rest of the world begins to fade, the Guardians are re-emerging, tasked with guarding Aria once more.

A Lost Tome

This unnamed, damaged journal was found in a cave revealed by the changing of the Flow. It is unknown how old the journal is, or who owned it, but it remains a dubious record of someone called a "Guardian", assumedly related to Aria's history in some way. Some of the pages are missing, others show signs of water damage, and the cover is marked with what appears to be burns. We have managed to extract a small excerpt of the tome, despite the heavy damage.

Creatures

The creatures of Aria are incredibly diverse, fantastical and magnificent beings unlike anything found elsewhere on Rathe. Years of living in a peaceful environment have made them docile, and friendly toward most other creatures.

Vitr'eo

A majestic creature with a thick mane, crowned with a series of large crystals that grow out from the top of its skull. In addition to its dense coat, it grows large tusks on either side of its jaw.

Kai'eo

These shy, reclusive mammals are notable for their luxurious fur. Their bodies are long and thin, with short legs and a narrow head. Their long, white fur is incredibly soft, keeping them warm in winter and cool during the summer. They shed their coats each spring along with the uppermost layer of their hide, and will grow a new coat of fur within a few days. These discarded coats are often used in clothing across Aria.

Na'shari

A large beast with a crystalline hide, the na'shari has skin harder than most forms of metal. In spite of its tough appearance, this creature is known for its docile and friendly nature. Its round eyes and fuzzy tail make the creature incredibly popular with children, who often flock to na'shari in hopes of playing with the creature.

Meep

These tiny, mischievous creatures are recognised by their long limbs and tails, and colourful feather crests. Meeps are usually found in the vicinity of the Everfest Carnival, travelling along with the Carnival and stealing food and shiny objects from its patrons.

"One cannot visit the Everfest Carnival without encountering the meeps. Small, quick, and far too intelligent for their own good, they will quickly single out anyone not paying close attention to their belongings. A flash of blue out of the corner of your eye, and poof! They're making off with your grandmother's necklace. It's not always jewellery, of course - food, potions, crystals, hats, scarves; anything small enough for them to grab. I've even seen one particularly ambitious meep to try to steal the dowsing disc right off a wayfarer's arm! Above all else, there is nothing in this world that meeps love more than something shiny."

~ Excerpt from the 'Chronicles of Aria' by Saga Skalda, Bard of Edda

Fianna

These majestic creatures are tall, with long flowing tails, tough skin, and massive antlers crowning the top of their head. Fianna are often used by the Everfest Carnival for their strength and placid nature, helping to move the Carnival's many attractions from location to location.

Demonastery

Far beyond the shores of Rathe lies an island shrouded in mist, a massive, derelict manor looming over the desolate landscape. The Demonastery calls to magicians and scientists alike, offering a place to study taboo and forbidden subjects without the threat of punishment or retribution.

Realm of the Forbidden

Hidden within the shadows, seemingly lost to the sands of time, the Demonastery has been all but forgotten by the people of Rathe. A large, imposing mansion, it towers above the barren landscape, looming amidst heavy fog like a vengeful apparition. Its darkened grounds are cast in shades of black and violet, illuminated only by phantom flames dancing within small wire lanterns.

This edifice has long since freed itself from the shackles of the morality imposed by lesser men. Scientists, researchers and spellcasters alike are drawn to it, lured by the promise of research without restrictions. It is a protection from the persecution of lesser, unenlightened scholars, who remain ignorant as to the means of gaining true wisdom. The residents here are secretive and unscrupulous, dedicating themselves to their fields of study with a frighteningly single-minded fervour.

In the Demonastery, the immoral and taboo are no limit to human ingenuity. Forbidden magics, occult studies, and heinous experiments are all welcome within its dimly-lit halls, where the endless pursuit of knowledge is the only matter of any consequence.

A History of Persecution

It is told that once there lived a powerful scholar, who gathered his people and guided them in the building of a mighty city, which would stand as a symbol of radiant truth. Under his guidance, that city, called Solana, entered a golden age of illumination and understanding. However, as their strength grew, the scholar delved deeper into the history of humanity, and uncovered a secret which unravelled the very deepest mysteries of Rathe. This terrible burden weighed heavily upon his mind, and turned him against all that he had believed in, driving him to seek out a different kind of power. He sought to found a great work which would free all of humanity, and elevate him to the realm of the beyond.

In time, his brothers and sisters discovered his actions, and cast him out, terrified by the energies he had come to wield. Single-minded in his quest, the once-beloved scholar set out to forge his own path. He would construct a place of safety, which would remain unobstructed by the rigid ethics of his former home and where his mission could continue unhindered.

However, even as his new Demonastery began to take shape, his former brothers' fear turned to hatred, and their formidable legions began to lay siege to his sanctuary. Determined to keep their forces at bay, he wove a great spellwork into the very foundations of the mansion, and with a power which transcended the limits of mankind, he severed the isle from the outside world. As the last flagstone was set in place, he relinquished his own flesh and blood, fusing himself with the manor; his strength hid the isle from prying eyes, and the remnants of his spirit is said to guide the Demonastery to this day.

A Grand Vision for Humanity

In the centuries since its founding, the Demonastery has established itself as a place freed from the shackles of morality. Researchers and academics from all across Rathe have flocked to the mansion, seeking a place to continue their studies without fear of retribution. Despite their differences, the residents have one thing in common, the self-same reason for which the Demonastery accommodates them: the eternal pursuit of knowledge, no matter the cost, and by any means possible.

These brilliant minds, once scorned and cast out by their own people for daring to question the mores of the world around them, are haunted by enemies who continually hunt them. Foremost amongst these foes is the 'golden city' of Solana, who would wipe out every last one of them for their so-called heretical movement. Even now, it seeks to annihilate them for daring to pursue knowledge outside of the Light. While Solana continues to grow stronger with each passing year, the Demonastery must gather its forces and stand against it, before the forces of the Light become too powerful to overcome.

Patrons of the Forbidden

The residents of the Demonastery originate from across the many regions and kingdoms of the world of Rathe, unified only by their voracious appetite for arcane knowledge. Biomancers, arcanists, wizards, conjurers, summoners, witches, necromancers, alchemists, and mechanologists number among those who now reside within the mansion, each with their own agenda and field of study.

Every resident of the Demonastery has decided to pursue their own research at any cost, regardless of the consequences. These scholars, irrespective of their backgrounds, are united by their single-minded determination to delve into fields of study long since abandoned by the rest of Rathe. The Demonastery provides a safe haven for these outcasts, exiles and fugitives, offering the opportunity to seek knowledge interference.

For some, that knowledge unlocks a power which grants them the ability to control the world around them. For others, their research is the basis of understanding and wisdom, a quest born out of sheer curiosity. No matter the reason for their arrival at the gates, all residents are welcome at the Demonastery, which changes to fit the needs of those who live within it. Their rooms transform to match not only the scope of their research, but also the value of their studies to the Demonastery itself. Every resident's work is compiled within the manor's records, accumulating an archive of the studies of every person who has passed through its halls.

Residents

Aramis

An incredibly reserved and private wizard, who rarely leaves his room. No one knows exactly what he's researching, beyond the fact that he seems incredibly interested in learning runescripts, and that he studies alchemical formulas.

Caoimhe

A witch who was blinded many years ago, when her twin brother lashed out at her in a violent rage. She learned to 'see' again with the help of her bonded familiar, a falcon named Lorcán, as the result of a ritual which has allowed her to see what he sees. Since coming to the Demonastery, Caoimhe has been studying the magical potential of Rathe's creatures, and their potential connections to íArathael, taking a particular interest in the animals which exist on the other side.

Corva

She had studied necromancy, biomancy and blood magic. After clashing with the Arknight, Viserai, she was disembowelled, and her corpse went missing shortly afterwards. Viserai is known to have taken a grimoire from her corpse which contained all of her research and personal notes, but the tome disappeared shortly afterward, and its whereabouts-and contents-remain unknown.

Jerome

A scientist who takes apart the corpses of various creatures, and stitches together an amalgam of their bodies. Sometimes he seeks to create beings of old, creatures which have not been seen on Rathe for centuries, if not millennia. At other times, Jerome has worked on his own inventions, splicing together different creatures to create one perfect, intriguing anomaly of nature. His associate, a wizard with a penchant for the sciences, lends aid where possible, imbuing Jerome's creations with the illusion of life.

Ivor

When his wife was killed during an experiment gone awry, Ivor was driven mad by his loss and the guilt of having caused her death, and became determined to make it right. At first, he thought there might be no way to bring her back; the arcane energies had reduced her corpse to dust, and so there was no body within which he could revive her. However, Ivor was nothing if not resourceful. It began with a pair of kind, deep brown eyes, accompanied by a polite smile, passing him by on the street. Then her flaxen gold hair, shining softly in the sun; her gentle, dainty hands; her high cheekbones; her dimples. Piece by piece, Ivor began to rebuild his wife, determined to bring her back. When the other townsfolk began to question him, demanding answers as to the loss of their kin, Ivor was forced to relocate to the Demonastery-a place where no one would stand between him and his beloved.

Leone

A short, stocky metalsmith, with an obsession for massive metal constructs, Leone is determined to create a golem capable of independent thought. However, due to her lack of aether affinity, she has struggled to find a way to properly animate her beloved creations. While they can follow simple orders, they lack the intelligence and consciousness necessary to interact with the rest of the world, and some of Merle's former neighbours have taken offense to their occasional involuntary convulsions. It wasn't the golems' fault, of course; sometimes other people got too close, and Leone was still working on their threat evaluation. (Apparently, some people have a very strong response to having an acquaintance's brain matter splattered across their face.)

Maeve

The exact nature of Maeve's studies is unknown-perhaps even to Maeve herself. Once a talented alchemist selling her wares in Metrix, Maeve had to flee the city after 'accidentally' poisoning one of the Cogwerx Conglomerate's top scientists. Within the relative safety of her rooms, she is free to experiment with all manner of potions, poisons and elixirs. Occasionally, she trades some of her rarer mixtures with other residents of the Demonastery, in order to procure a new batch of ingredients for her mysterious projects.

Niall

An arcanist researching the formation of arcane armour, Niall works to create a set of armour which can be worn by a wizard, and charged with aether in order to form a kind of barrier against both physical and arcane attacks. This armour would theoretically work in tandem with the wearer's own aether affinity. Unfortunately, he can't quite seem to make any of his creations fireproof, and willing test subjects were rather hard to come by in his village. Luckily, the Demonastery has no shortage of volunteers-every other week, someone arrives on his doorstep, begging to enter his laboratory... although, on reflection, this may be the result of his visitors trying to escape the cannibal who lives two doors down.

Steve

Steve's specialty lies in plants. In the eight years since he arrived at the Demonastery, he has holed himself up in his room, trading plant materials with other researchers in exchange for information and supplies. His room is overflowing with almost every plant known to man, including some varieties long since thought extinct; as his rooms lack any clear source of light or water, some residents are curious as to how he manages to keep his plants alive.

The Arcane Arts

Most of the Demonastery's residents have studied the arcane arts in some form or another in their careers, seeking to understand the nature of the aether and how it affects the world of Rathe. Some are born into the ways of power, drawing their innate abilities from their own bloodlines; others spend their lifetimes in studying their chosen path, learning how to call upon the blessings of their guiding figurehead. Still others choose a different route, looking to possess the kind of influence which can only be offered by the Shadows.

There are entities which remain unknown to the general population of Rathe, lingering just beyond the edge of the physical realm. Those who seek true supremacy call upon them, trading away their own knowledge, their minds and souls, their futures and their pasts, in exchange for the power of the Shadows. Making compacts with these beings is an unforgivable crime throughout most of Rathe, and those who pursue Shadow aether often face severe consequences for practicing their craft. The Demonastery is the only place in the world where the study and practice of Shadow aether is not only permitted, but encouraged.

# Oddities and Failed Experiments

Over the centuries, the residents of the Demonastery have delved into many long-forgotten areas of study, most of which are forbidden in the outside world. Sometimes, experiments in these sciences can result in the foulest of abominations, created by toxic tinctures and the darkest types of biomancy. Other times, a creation is intentionally brought to life, summoned into existence by the spellcasters who inhabit the Demonastery's halls. Some of the entities which now exist within the mansion remain a mystery to even the oldest residents, their origins unknown to all but the very edifice itself.

Apophos

A dark, nebulous mass, it keeps to the darkest corners of the mansion's halls, slinking silently through the inky blackness. If exposed to the light, it immediately begins to smoke, emitting a shrill screech which can easily shatter eardrums; the burning flesh emits an audible hissing sound, and should it not retreat quickly enough, the resultant wounds often leave permanent scars.

Diaphenes

A creature coated in a thick, translucent layer of protective slime, it has beneath its body a great number of pale, wriggling larvae, biding their time until hatching. Its long, spindly limbs are capable of carrying this fell beast across the ground faster than any other creature known to man; it can even climb up solid walls and across ceilings, its countless limbs scuttling against the stonework.

Endon

A small, dark creature, black as a moonless night and iridescent as an oil slick. The size of a man's hand, and half as long as his forearm, this hideous little beast preys upon the residents of the Demonastery. It slips into their mouths while they sleep, crawling down into their lungs, where it devours the person from the inside out.

Erebos

The result of a botched experiment, wherein a researcher attempted to create artificial life, Erebos's body is stitched together from various materials, including hides, strips of leather, and human skin. Beneath his makeshift flesh lies a modified version of a human skeleton, incorporating both biomancy and alchemy. One of the older creatures to be found within the Demonastery, he can usually be found roaming the halls, seeking to take revenge on any researcher he comes across.

Lysagenes

At first, Lysagenes almost appears to be human, but the longer you look at it, the more monstrous it becomes. Its skin is as smooth and malleable as taffy, white as milk, with glassy black eyes, limbs which are a touch too long for comfort, and a mouth which separates into two distinct mandibles. Few have seen this creature and escaped with their lives, and fewer still will acknowledge its existence.

Mani

Occasionally, one of the resident researchers will catch a glimpse of the Demonastery's most elusive inhabitant. Those who have seen her describe a small, doll-like creature, with a crooked grin as unsightly as a gaping wound. With her large eyes, sharp teeth, and claw-like fingers, Mani is an eerie sight within the halls, and the being even appears to enjoy the effect she has on those who come across her. While she remains a mystery to most of the inhabitants, the scholars have come to understand that Mani's presence is always indicative of something larger happening within the Demonastery's halls, and her plots are always certain to have disastrous consequences for any who fall into her clutches.

Mortis

A horrifying, disturbing creature with five heads, Mortis is all but immortal, a twisted nightmare which haunts the inhabitants of the Demonastery. It can appear anywhere, at any time, forming from the very shadows and seeping through cracks in the walls. Violent and completely unhinged, it is drawn to fear and dread, descending on its emotional victims and devouring them whole. All attempts to kill or destroy this monster have failed, for Mortis always manages to return, reforming from the trace remnants of its previous body.

Ocutis

A great, amorphous shape, covered in half-formed faces, it has thousands of eyes and sharp teeth lining its 'body'. Despite seeming to have a lack of visible limbs, it has no problem moving around the corridors, almost silently scuttling across the marble floors as if by magic.

Pallas

These foreboding birds are half the height of the average human, with wingspans three times that of their body length. Pure black in colour, pallasi have pale yellow eyes, and big, hooked, black beaks. Their large, oval faces are framed by a border of pale grey feathers, which extend out below their round eyes. As far as anyone can tell, these birds have been living on the island for as long as the Demonastery has existed. Some researchers have attempted to study these birds, but struggle to withstand the piercing weight of their cold, menacing stares, which appear to trigger some kind of instinctual flight or fight response in even the most unfeeling residents of the mansion.

Scaphus

An amalgam of bone and steel, it is fuelled by a dark, arcane magic which should never have seen the light of day. A pair of hollows are situated where its eyes might have been, lit by a dull, eerie, pale-violet glow. Despite its immense size and the composition of its body, it moves almost silently, the only audible sound a low, vibrating hum, which originates from somewhere within its chest cavity.

Scythia

The beast's torso is small, hidden behind dozens of long, spindly, razor-sharp limbs. There are no visible eyes on this creature; it appears instead to use three sets of long, spiked feelers on the top of its body to sense changes in its surrounding environment. A single, feather-light touch from one of its serrated limbs is capable of cutting through bone.

Typhon

The result of a decade of research, focused on death and the creation of life, Typhon was created from an amalgam of flesh, discarded organs, magical elixirs, and pure alchemy. A massive, writhing mass, with a stained mask for a face, its body is covered in a thin, dark membrane, just barely translucent, revealing hints of the bone and muscle beneath. It possesses the ability to form a massive, gaping maw, lined with hundreds of rows of needle-like teeth.

Vidus

These small, grotesque constructs can be spotted often, in many places around the Demonastery. They work quietly in the shadows to maintain the mansion and its many rooms, while avoiding contact with any of the residents and researchers. No resident of the manor has ever discovered what these creatures truly are, or how they originally came to exist.

Whisper

For as long as anyone can remember, a stained-glass window has stood in the entrance hall of the Demonastery, depicting a wraith-like girl looking down on whoever came through the great doors. Residents occasionally have heard her whisperings, echoes of her sweet, lilting voice ringing through their mind, inaudible to anyone but the recipient of her call. These words of wisdom have been a double-edged sword, equally likely to lead someone to a breakthrough in their research as to their downfall. However, when the gateway to íArathael was opened, the stained-glass window serving as her home was shattered, and Whisper has not been seen nor heard from since.

The Gateway to íArathael

After years of careful planning, some of the Demonastery's residents successfully achieved their greatest ambition, sundering the veil between this world and the next. A doorway marked in blood, activated by ancient arcane energies, now serves as the gateway to íArathael-a mirrored reality, the eternal realm of the Old Ones, where the most ancient secrets in Rathe's history slumber still.

However, any gateway to the eternal realm is innately unstable. íArathael is, by its very nature, in a state of constant transformation, and no two people who walk through the gateway will arrive in the same place. They will be transported to different corners of a mercurial reality, where even time itself is distorted. While it is easy to step through the doorway, there is no telling what one might find on the other side.

The Demonastery's Plans

Ordinarily left to their own individual courses of study, the residents of the Demonastery have united for the first time in centuries; its various factions, orders and residents have come together to further their shared goals. With the gateway to íArathael open, they seek to harness the creatures and entities which lie beyond, and thereby unleash their forces upon all who gather within the Light.

For the first time, victory is within their reach. In overthrowing Solana, they will finally rid themselves of their greatest enemy, and once again claim their rightful place within the lands of Rathe. Should they succeed, there will be nothing left to stand in their way, and the residents of the Demonastery will at long last be free to pursue their aims unchecked.

Metrix

A vibrant and bustling city, Metrix is the largest hub of commerce on the continent, taking pride in the pursuit of progress and the future of technology. Whether scientist or inventor, merchant or miner, Metrix calls to all those seeking their fortune and the promise of a better tomorrow.

City of Wonder

A vibrant and bustling city, Metrix is the largest hub of commerce on the continent, a shining beacon of industrial innovation. The 'city of tomorrow' boasts massive marketplaces, tall alabaster towers and copper buildings adorned with cogs and shining glass. Metrix is a fresh start for all those searching for a brighter future. Its residents come from all over Rathe to settle within this sprawling city, chasing after progress and the future of technology.

Scientists, researchers, inventors and innovators all make their homes here, contributing to the ever-developing city and its constant evolution. Home to massive corporations and small-time merchants, Metrix is an ever-changing metropolis, calling to all those who seek their fortune and the promise of a better tomorrow.

Advent of Science and Technology

Thanks to the success and continued patronage of Metrix's larger corporations, the scientific and technological communities of Metrix have flourished, creating a city rich with innovation. Mechanologists studying augmentation or robotics; alchemists studying the effects of minerals, plants and poisons; inventors at the forefront of commercial innovation; biomancers who work to push the limits of humanity; researchers studying the natural world; all these and more call Metrix their home.

Branches of Study

Biomancy

The study and manipulation of the physical form, typically concerning humans but can also include other living creatures.

Alchemy

The study and manipulation of alchemical, chemical and botanical components, creating potions, poisons, elixirs and concoctions.

Mechanology

The study, creation and manipulation of technology; focusing on designing and building machines, structures, and other items.

Technological Advancement

The steam technology available in Metrix is constantly evolving, helping its citizens with their everyday tasks, while also providing enjoyment and entertainment. From mechanical sweepers to copperwings to rocket skates, the imagination and innovation of steamtech devices never ceases to amaze.

Mining

There are three large mining pits through the city of Metrix, surrounded by the sprawl of buildings, a black hole in the gleaming copper landscape. These pits extend deep into the earth, allowing the miners of Metrix access to the metals and minerals found deep below. Travelling down to the active mining pit at the centre of Metrix via the Gigadrill Elevator, they spend long hours drilling through layers of bedrock in search of valuable resources. Thanks to the hard work of Metrix' inventors and scientists, a number of devices now exist to help improve safety for miners, such as respirators, steamcap lamps, and dampometers.

Tenatan Ore

An extremely rare metal ore that can only be found within the mines of Metrix. Lightweight and silver in colour, it is one of the only known natural materials that deflects arcane attacks. Since the discovery of its aether-resistant properties, scientists have been quick to begin studying the extent of its abilities, incorporating it in everything from clothing to building materials.

A Sprawling Metropolis

The city of Metrix was built in layers, beginning with the areas now known as Old Metrix and the Sprawl. As the city has expanded and advanced, it has built upwards, constructing ever-higher districts that tower over the Sprawl far below. Currently, the highest section of the city is the Expanse, its tall buildings leaving some sectors of the West Rise in permanent shade.

East Rise

In a bustling city filled with people, the East Rise is a welcome breath of fresh air. Only a few residential areas can be found within the East Rise, as the majority of the sector is devoted to parks and entertainment complexes.

West Rise

Known for its suburban neighbourhoods and corporate offices, the West Rise is populated by middle-class families and emerging scientists alike. High above the turmoil and chaos of the lower levels, it is a popular choice for established laboratories and research centres, with most of Metrix's companies choosing to station their research and development teams in the district.

The Expanse

The Expanse is the richest and highest level of Metrix. All of the greatest minds have earned their right to live here, through their many accomplishments and contributions to the city. All of the great laboratories and institutions of education are located here, and no matter the hour, the residents of the Expanse can be found within, pursuing their next great discovery.

Coppertown

Located in the south of Metrix, Coppertown is home to working-class citizens, from laborers to factory workers, foremen to couriers. Nestled in between the city's massive strip mines, Coppertown boasts a large population of miners, and the standard of living is far better there than anywhere else on the first level.

Lowlake

Coppertown's entertainment district, the southern portion of Coppertown is infamous for its brothels, casinos and seedy taverns. Lowlake's namesake, a small lake in the centre of the district, has become rank and foul with runoff chemicals, leaving the majority of Lowlake's workers ill from the toxic fumes.

The Sprawl

The largest and lowest level of Metrix, the buildings of the Sprawl stand on solid ground, overshadowed by the city above. The Sprawl's population is predominantly immigrants and paupers, those who struggle to find work and make ends meet. The Sprawl is ignored by the rest of Metrix, and as a result, has developed a culture and identity unique to the district.

Landmarks

Midtown Markets

A place where anything and everything can be found for the right price. Nestled in the remains of a worn-out strip mine in the centre of the city, the Midtown Markets are notorious not only for its wares, but for the amount of crime that takes place in the area. The Iron Assembly has stationed a permanent brigade of officers in the area, in an attempt to control the market's more nefarious locals. Many of the merchants remain at odds with the brigade, arguing that their presence deters the presence of some of their more wealthy clientele.

Zinnia Park

One of the stranger attractions in Metrix, the mechanical creatures of Zinnia Park are rumoured to have been made by a rich scientist with an unusual hobby. According to urban legend, she died unexpectedly after purchasing a plot of land, leaving behind instructions for her assistant to set up what is now known as Zinnia Park. Nobody knows who runs or maintains the park, as the Iron Assembly denies having anything to do with the park's continued existence.

The Needle

The headquarters of Teklo Industries, the Needle is a marvel of engineering, an incredibly tall ivory tower that stretches high above the city of Metrix. The construction process behind building the Needle remains a closely-guarded secret.

Gigadrill Elevator

Hovering over Pit 3, the largest active mining pit in Metrix, the Gigadrill Elevator transforms helium into plasma, which then falls down into Pit 3. The ball of plasma detonates when it reaches the bottom, destroying the thick bedrock beneath and making the pit deeper. Elevators run along the side of the structure, extending down into Pit 3, allowing miners and workers access to the different mining levels.

Terracette Path Academy

Named for one of the founders of Metrix, the Academy provides education to anyone who can afford its steep tuition. Anyone who graduates from the Academy is almost guaranteed success within their field, and a future within the scientific community of Metrix.

A Better Tomorrow

Metrix is always growing and changing, and through hundreds of years of innovation and evolution, there have been corporations and agencies that have contributed to the city that Metrix has become today. The Iron Assembly helps to keep order, while corporations such as Cogwerx and Teklo fund research and produce exciting new steam technology for the people of Metrix.

Iron Assembly

The Iron Assembly is a council formed from representatives of all the highest echelons of society, governing the city of Metrix. Teklo, Cogwerx and other corporations are represented, as are larger groups such as scientists, academic institutions, and mining corporations. The Iron Assembly ensures that the city remains both functional and profitable, enforcing laws with an iron fist.

Cogwerx Conglomerate

If any one group could be credited with the current state and success of Metrix, it would be Cogwerx. Responsible for the creation of steam technology, Cogwerx revolutionised the city, successfully finding a method of compressing steam for use as a source of energy.

Renewable, stable, and readily available, steam became the key source of fuel for almost every device in Metrix, powering the city toward a brighter future. Cogwerx produces reliable, steadfast steamtech devices that every citizen of Metrix can rely upon.

Teklo Industries

A newer addition to the steamtech industry, Teklo Industries have been praised for their imaginative, innovative approach to their products. Their research and development team is always experimenting with new and exciting materials, producing a revolving selection of innovative devices in sleek designs.

Mendacity

A corporation that maintains control of the media, funding almost every radio station and newspaper in the city. The rare outlier who refuses to fall under their control faces dire consequences, usually disappearing under mysterious circumstances.

The Foundry

An independent radio station, one of the few in Metrix that remains free of Mendacity control. Run by a single operator, known only as "Gambit", its broadcasts include music, gossip from around the city, comments on locals, and improvised speeches.

Misteria

Among the mountain ranges of Misteria lies a hidden world, concealed by a thick veil of mists. Removed from the struggles and conflicts of the outside world, they find satisfaction in introspection and self-discipline, training rigorously to strengthen their bodies and sharpen their minds.

Steeped in Tradition

Behind a veil of mist lies a hidden world, concealed amongst the mountain ranges of Misteria. Vibrant trees rise from the steep cliffs, birds soaring through the canyons, silver fish weaving through the rivers far below. The sun streams through the clouds, illuminating the rooftops of buildings shrouded by mist.

Carved into the rock and hanging from thick vines, the villages of Misteria are home to a people as steadfast and mysterious as the mountain ranges they call home. From birth, they learn to traverse the steep landscape, relying on their own strength and agility to travel from one building to another. Hanging gardens are suspended between the cliffs, a burst of green against the backdrop of stone and rock. Even the largest villages are home to close-knit communities, founded long ago by the Great Houses of Misteria.

Yet the veil of mist hides a wealth of secrets, far beyond those of the villages tucked into the mountainside. Grandmasters roam the land, equal parts mystery and legend, gifting their time and wisdom to those determined enough to seek them out. Secret organisations work behind the scenes, ensuring the safety of their people, while long-forgotten clans hide from those that would see them extinguished.

The world beyond the mountains holds little interest to the people of Misteria, who prefer to lead simple lives in the company of their fellow villagers. Removed from the struggles and petty conflicts of the outside world, they find satisfaction in introspection and self-discipline, training rigorously to strengthen their bodies and sharpen their minds.

Despite the difficulties of living in such a place, Misterians would argue that the beauty and tranquillity of their home more than makes up for any inconvenience. Their hard work and dedication are rewarded with the experience of living in one of the most beautiful environments in all of Rathe.

Among the Mists

The steep landscape of Misteria is equal parts treacherous and tranquil. The sun streams through the clouds, illuminating the mists in shades of white and gold, revealing the patches of greenery clinging to the steep rock face. Anyone not born within Misteria would struggle to survive in such an inhospitable environment, where one wrong step can send you plummeting down to the sharp rocks far below.

The villages of Misteria are built in some of the most inaccessible areas in Rathe, and those who live here must rely on their strength and agility to travel amongst the mountains. Racing along suspended ropes, scaling cliffs, and jumping across platforms are all second nature for the people of Misteria, who have built their lives around the unique environment.

A persistent layer of mist blankets villages across Misteria, broken only by beams of sunlight streaming through the clouds. At the break of dawn, the village stirs, as Misterians rise to begin their daily tasks. Farmers begin to tend to the hanging gardens, caring for plots of rice and vegetables. Others journey down to the waters below, laying out their nets to catch fish for the morning markets. Inns open their doors to the morning air, teahouses begin to make their food for the day, and students make their way to the dojo for training.

The people of Misteria value hard work and dedication, traits necessary to survive in the unforgiving landscape that they call home.

Rite of Passing

According to legend, the Rite of Passing is held on the one day of the year when the veil between worlds is thinnest, and the world of spirits is closest to the world of the living. The Rite honours the dead by welcoming the spirits home and inviting them to take part in the celebrations.

When night falls, all Misterians don an ornate ceremonial mask that hides their face from view and makes the living indistinguishable from the dead. Lanterns are lit and raised into the sky, floating among the stars, illuminating the dancers below. The celebrations last through the night, and do not end until dawn, when the spirits return to the realm of the dead.

Mistcloak Gully

The ancestral home of the House of Sanjing, Mistcloak Gully is a sprawling collection of steep cliffs surrounding a natural lake. The waterfalls within the gully produce a thick blanket of mist, which obscures many of the buildings that lie deep within. Far below, a fast-moving stream travels through the gully, the sound of rushing water echoing up the stone walls.

Between the Cliffs

Villages and towns lie hidden amongst the mountains, close-knit communities following ancient traditions. The treacherous landscape hides these villages from outsiders, a thick blanket of mist concealing the buildings from view. Individual houses hang between the cliffs, suspended from massive networks of rope that can support the weight of entire villages. Larger communal buildings are carved into the mountainside - taverns, inns, teahouses, dojos, spaces for markets and shops, as well as places to eat, and spaces for sparring.

Every village was borne of one of the great Houses of Misteria, ancient households that can trace their lineage through the centuries. Members of the old families live in larger clusters of buildings, constructed on the highest levels of the village.

Homes and inns

The size, scale and style of a house depends entirely on the family who resides within, and their standing within the village. Members of the main House commonly have their homes grouped together, with a small courtyard to connect the buildings. Inns, however, are much larger than the average home, connecting separate rooms with a larger common area offering somewhere to eat and socialise.

Dojos and training grounds

Training grounds are built near the heart of a village, as the building is used by the entire community for combat practice, and to maintain their strength and agility. A dojo, however, is a place for formal training, and built in a more isolated area in order to provide a quiet, tranquil training environment.

Teahouses

A place for people to gather after a day's work to chat, socialise, and enjoy a cup of tea. Teahouses can be found built into the rock face, suspended from a cliff overhang, or, in villages near lakes, built atop the water.

Guard posts

These are integral to the communication between villages, serving as an early warning system for attacks and other dangers.

The Hidden Villages

The steep mountains and jagged cliffs of Misteria make traditional construction methods impossible, so the people of Misteria have learned to build their homes in tandem with the treacherous landscape. Buildings are suspended from vines and ropes, constructed atop bamboo poles, or carved into the mountainside itself.

While villages, towns and cities elsewhere are constructed horizontally, many villages within Misteria are constructed vertically, traversing the space between the highest peaks, and the ravines below. Some buildings are even constructed on top of the water itself, only partially anchored at the sides in order to rise and fall with the water level.

The Seven Arts

The Seven Arts encompass every occupation and role within Misteria. Education for every Misterian begins with a foundation in all seven, slowly reducing the number of subjects as the child chooses their path. The Seven Arts have been a part of Misterian culture for generations, curated from centuries of traditions and customs. Through the Seven Arts, ancient skills and practices have been preserved, so that they can be passed on for generations to come.

Major Arts

There is a particular focus on the Major Arts, which include the fundamental lessons for a child of Misteria. Language, agility, and basic combat are all incredibly important for anyone living within Misteria, and so the Major Arts are an area of focus during education.

Signs

The first art, the Art of the Signs, is comprised of the study of language and culture. Those who study this Art help to record history, compose poetry and songs, and guide the many ceremonies across Misteria.

Hand

This Art is the study of basic combat. While some students of the Hand may go on to study the Art of the Sparrow or the Art of the Serpent, many choose to continue studying the Art of the Hand, which contains a wide variety of martial arts and combat techniques.

The Art of the Hand is perhaps one of the most versatile, providing a foundation not only in combat, but in teaching young Misterians the importance of strength and balance; both fundamental skills for living amongst the mountain ranges. It does not focus exclusively on hand-to-hand combat, but rather involves a series of techniques and fundamentals that cover the basics of most martial styles. The Art of the Hand teaches combat techniques which can be used for both offensive and defensive purposes. The Hand includes both armed and unarmed combat styles, though training typically begins with the two fundamental unarmed martial styles; the Tao Strikes, and the Feito Technique.

The Tao Strikes are a basic striking and parry system, which focuses on quickly getting close to an opponent and locking in melee-range physical combat, while also protecting the ninja's vital organs. Meanwhile, the Feito Techniques utilise footwork, which emphasises maintaining balance through a central line of power, allowing the student to anchor themselves and apply force from any position.

Those students who choose to train for armed combat may study multiple weapons or specialize solely with one. Alongside the various types of swords, weapons may also include metal fans, called gunsen; long staves known as bo; long-handled weapons such as the naginata; a longbow, the yumi; or three-pronged weapons known as sai.

Sparrow

The Art of the Sparrow is the art of agility and balance. While all Misterians have basic training in the Art of the Sparrow, masters of this art are a sight to behold, weaving their way across a battlefield with ease.

Those who train in the Art of the Sparrow practice more swift, graceful martial styles, using their speed and agility to their advantage. Rather than blocking or disarming their opponent, they slip past their opponent's defenses, using their own momentum against them. A master of the Art of the Sparrow can deflect attacks and turn them back on their opponent as if they were diverting the flow of a stream.

Minor Arts

The Minor Arts, while included in the basic education of every young child in Misteria, are not the main focus of daily lessons. Despite this, the minor arts still play a vital role within Misteria.

Serpent

The Art of the Serpent encompasses stealth and assassination techniques. Those who study the Art of the Serpent are all but invisible, taking down their opponents with deadly precision. The best students of the Serpent can hide in plain sight, using their surroundings to their advantage, able to navigate their way through a crowd without ever being seen.

Earth

The second minor art, the Art of the Earth, covers herbalism, farming and tending to nature. Those who study this Art help not only with growing food for those across Misteria, but provide aid to villages through herbalism and healing. Life within Misteria would be almost impossible without their unique agriculture, carefully cultivated by students of the Earth. Hanging gardens provide a space to grow rice, vegetables, herbs, and other essential plants, all necessary in order for a village to survive.

Stone

The third art, the Art of the Stone, is comprised of masonry and building. Students of the Stone work to construct and maintain buildings, and are responsible for Misteria's unique way of building around the landscape. The Stone also encompasses all forms of forging, smithing, stonework and metalwork; from forming tableware, cutlery and cookware, to forging and engraving weapons. Finally, the Art of the Stone encompasses some forms of woodwork, such as creating larger pieces of furniture, and maintaining the various ropes and bridges connecting the villages of Misteria.

Willow

The fourth art, the Art of the Willow, is the study of tailoring and weaving professions. Students of the Willow are experts in creating the loose, billowing fabrics that Misterians are known for, and also help to create many other aspects of dress, such as the elaborate masks worn for some ceremonies and festivals.

Secret Arts

Every major household in Misteria has their own secret art, combat-related or otherwise. While some households have secret arts in skills such as weaving fabric or forging weapons, most households have a secret art for use in battle. From the 'Eternal Crane' to the 'Dance of the Falling Petals,' each secret art is associated with a different house, and each art is only taught to members of the household. Teaching a secret art to an outsider is considered by many to be the worst possible kind of betrayal.

However, the households of Misteria are not the only ones to possess secret arts. Many Grandmasters are credited with creating their own secret art, something that they might occasionally teach to a student or apprentice. Occasionally, a Grandmaster may pass away without teaching their secret art to anyone, ensuring that their art dies alongside them.

Prestigious Households

	Sanjing The Sanjing house is the largest clan in Mistcloak Gully, the home of their ancestors. The most famous member of the Sanjing house is Master Fang Min, who created the secret art of the Eternal Crane, a balanced combat style that combines evasive manoeuvres, and quick, sharp counterattacks.
	Miharu This house creates some of the best armour in Misteria, formed from leather and toughened cloth. Flexible enough for hand-to-hand combat, yet tough enough to defend against attacks from a sharp weapon, the Miharu house provides armour for some of the largest houses in Misteria.
	Yijun A house that prides themselves on their weaving, members of the Yijun house create some of the most remarkable items of clothing imaginable. Many people of Misteria purchase items for festivals and celebrations from the Yijun house. Fabric woven by members of the Yijun house can resemble anything from the shimmering ripples of a slow-moving stream, to the gentle glitter of sunlight streaming through the mists.
	Ishigaki The village surrounding Mistcloak Gully exists, in part, due to the talent and skill found within the Ishigaki house. The work of stonemasons from this house is incomparable, as in carving buildings into the surrounding cliffs, they utilise the stone itself to prevent water damage and structural problems.
	Ikaru The Ikaru Clan, also known as the House of Blossoms, was one of the great houses of Misteria that perished during the Night of the Dark Tide. Founded by Mistress Ikaru four hundred years prior, the Ikaru were adept at defensive martial styles, and were home to some of the best carpenters and woodworkers in all of Misteria.

The Legend of Mistress Ikaru

Long ago, a mysterious woman landed on the shores of Misteria. She came from an unknown land, travelling from village to village. This mysterious young woman rarely spoke, occasionally giving voice to a question, or engaging with someone in quiet discussion. One day, she came across a wizened old man sitting on a log, carefully setting out his wares on a worn blanket. On the ground before him lay five items: a chunk of rock, a dark crystal, a pale branch, a vibrant flower, and a tiny pouch.

Looking over the items, the woman found herself drawn to the pouch. Old and faded, its drawstrings were tied in a simple knot, concealing the contents within. Curious, she asked if he knew what lay within, and if she might open it. Silently, the old man shook his head. After a moment's deliberation, the woman removed a ring from her finger, a deceptively plain silver band.

"Would this be a fair trade?" The old man merely smiled in response, offering a small nod.

Thanking him, she passed him the ring, taking the pouch in exchange. The woman continued on her travels, moving from village to village. For months, she travelled across Misteria, seemingly searching for something, yet never finding what it was that she was looking for. Finally, she came across a steep mountain range, carefully picking her way down the rocky slope. Standing atop a small hill, she looked down upon a rolling valley, and pulled out the pouch that she had traded for, so long ago.

From the pouch, the woman removed a single pale seed. She planted it with her own two hands, watering and caring for the tiny seedling that sprouted. The seedling slowly grew into a beautiful cherry blossom tree, bright and cheerful in its place high above, looking down on the village that began to take shape below. Mistress Ikaru, once a mysterious stranger, took a name in honour of the tree that now watched over her home. The House of Blossoms flourished under her careful guidance, growing from a tiny village into a house worthy of its founder. Long after the Mistress took her last breath, the Ikaru Clan would continue to grow, thriving under the branches of the cherry blossom tree.

The Grandmaster's Guild

The Grandmaster's Guild is not an organisation, but a collection of individuals with mastery over their respective arts. The exact requirements and selection process are shrouded in mystery, but the Guild's legacy is well-known across Misteria, as they work to promote the Seven Arts and improve villages across the region.

Aui's Scales

An elusive organisation of spies and assassins, known only by the symbol that they leave behind. Members of Aui's Scales are rarely seen, lurking within the mists as they watch over the people of Misteria, protecting their home from potential threats.

Xi, the Blind Ferryman

Those who journey to the Skylark Peaks often become lost within the mists, which grow denser as you ascend the mountain. Eventually, these lost souls arrive before a broad river, facing a broad cliff on the opposite side. Out of the mist, a small, wizened old man shall appear, his moon-white eyes almost glowing as he paddles his straw boat downstream. Those who accept his offer of help mysteriously awaken on the banks of a gentle stream, at the very top of the mountain, with little memory of how they arrived.

The Oracle, Valdis

A woman travels amongst the Milesian Ranges, in the space between Misteria and the land beyond. Occasionally, one may seek her out, searching for answers and the chance to gaze into their own future. Those who succeed return changed, wide-eyed, wishing that they had heeded her warning - for few who see their futures are pleased with what they find.

Grandmaster Zhao

At the break of dawn, as sunlight begins to stream through the thick blanket of mist, Grandmaster Zhao appears in a village to begin his day's work. Villages across Misteria claim to have been visited by this man, tall and willowy behind his pale robes, healing the ill and repairing buildings. Every village he visits soon experiences a change of fortune, as their crops flourish and people thrive. Legend speaks of the Grandmaster's secret art, mirroring the shifting waters, fluid and graceful.

The Keepers of the Seven Arts

A guild of instructors and academics with close affiliations to the Grandmaster's Guild. Due to their strong presence and noble cause of promoting learning and progress, the Keepers are much loved and revered by Misterians. Almost all Misterian instructors are trained and stationed by the Keepers of the Seven Arts.

Occasionally, a Keeper may take on an apprentice, a young student who lives with the Keeper and studies their way of life. With time, the apprentice will be trained to take over the Keeper's position as a teacher and preserve their unique techniques and skills.

Pits

Deep beneath the city of Metrix, centuries of mining have left a series of massive underground caverns. Thieves, mercenaries, slavers and smugglers have settled within the darkened caverns of the Pits, providing all manner of immoral and illegal services to the world above.

The Underworld

The Pits are a series of massive chasms that lie beneath the city of Metrix. Through centuries of excavation, miners have uncovered a network of underground passages, carved into the bedrock by subterranean rivers and streams. Yet the mining corporations of Metrix have allowed fumes and toxic waste to accumulate beneath the earth, staining the waters a fetid black.

While the Iron Assembly works to keep relative peace in the city above, they turn a blind eye to the depths of the Pits. In the shadows beneath the earth, a lawless society has taken shape. Thieves, mercenaries, smugglers and slavers have built their homes here, offering their services to anyone with the coin to pay.

The people here are hardened, cynical and weary, with sunken eyes and skeletal figures. Makeshift lanterns light the paths to their ramshackle shelters, built from the waste that falls from above. From scavenger to hardened criminal, every last resident of the Pits will do whatever is necessary to survive.

The Maw

The main entrance to the Pits, the Maw is known to the people of Metrix as Pit 2. Once the site of a massive strip-mine operation, Pit 2 is now abandoned, its entrance shrouded beneath the district of Coppertown. The denizens of the Pits use the Maw as a gateway to the world above, using an old mine cage to travel between the underground and the city of Metrix.

Skulduggery

In the Pits, there are no laws, no enforcers, and no protection from the criminal underworld. Despite being several steps removed from the city above, the dubious connection between the two regions ensures that 'tallics continue to be used as a form of currency - even in the Pits. While the Midtown Markets may provide all different kinds of wonders for sale, in the Pits, you can find anything for the right price.

Smuggler

Metrix has banned a number of substances, devices and materials, too dangerous to be allowed free reign within the city. In the Pits, however, no such rules exist. Anyone who wishes to get their hands on the banned or taboo can go to the smugglers of the Pits, who can source anything from lethal poisons, to potent drugs, to human test subjects. The demand for volatile explosives, unstable reagents, and deadly gadgets ensure that the smugglers of the Pits are always in business.

Mercenary

While most in the Pits are workers-for-hire, offering to complete any job for the right price, mercenaries are well-known for their power and brute force. The mercenaries of the Pits usually work within a company, operating as part of a larger team. They are versatile freelance fighters who can fulfill a variety of roles, from guards to contract killers, intimidation to extortion. The most famous of these companies is the Blackjack's Mercenary Corporation, which provides an intermediary between contractors and mercenaries.

Assassin

While both assassins and mercenaries can be hired to kill, assassins are specialists, having honed their skills to a fine edge. They are quick, quiet and discreet, eliminating their target with deadly efficiency, often disguising the assassination to avoid rousing suspicion. Assassins are most often hired by citizens of Metrix, sent to dispatch an enemy or opponent without drawing the attention of the Iron Assembly.

Information Trader

Similarly to the detectives of Metrix, information traders will seek out intel on behalf of their clients by any means necessary. While detectives have some semblance of a moral code, nothing will get in the way of an information trader gaining the intel they desire. Extortion, kidnapping, torture and murder are all perfectly reasonable ways of extracting information.

Information traders are usually incredibly private and reclusive. Their line of work earns them plenty of enemies, some of whom number among the most powerful players in the Pits. As a result, many information traders border on paranoid, working through a proxy and refusing to reveal their face to clients.

Apothecary

Apothecaries are individuals with some amount of training in alchemy and potion-making, selling their wares to the denizens of the Pits, which range from healing tonics and poultices to poisons and drugs. Ill from the mining fumes and lack of sunlight, weak to disease and infection, the denizens of the Pits have little choice but to rely on the work of apothecaries, however questionable their intentions might be.

Apothecaries are, of course, not the only ones to be using the people of the Pits for their experiments. It is not uncommon for the scientists and doctors of Metrix to seek test subjects, and the Pits provides an endless supply, free of charge.

Gangs

The gangs of the Pits dominate the underground, taking control of entire tunnel networks or, in some cases, areas of the Maw itself. To cross any one of the gangs is to sign your own death warrant, and many of those foolish enough to make this mistake are dead within the hour.

Freakshow

Members of the Freakshow have an odd fixation with dregs, the mutated creatures of the Pits; even going so far as to mutilate themselves in an attempt to resemble them. Freakshow territory is found in a much deeper area of the Pits, comprising multiple abandoned mineshafts. They have been known to protect their territory with dregs kept on chains, unable to escape, but capable of attacking anyone who comes within range.

Torched

A gang of pyromaniacs with a penchant for setting everything on fire, and a love for explosives. Its members have an extensive collection of burn scars, thanks to their complete disregard for fire safety. Their territory is marked with trigger-sensitive flamethrowers, fire traps, lava pits, and plenty of explosives. Any trespassers in Torched territory are quickly reduced to piles of ash and charred flesh.

Numbskulls

Known for their unusual fixation with bones. Numbskulls can be easily identified by the skullcaps they wear, carved from the bones of their victims. Their armour usually combines metal and bone fragments. The cave network claimed by the Numbskulls closely resembles a catacomb; the walls are lined with bone, skull fragments littered across the floor, the stone streaked with a greasy coating of bone marrow and brain matter.

Jawbreakers

Members of this gang tend to wield a number of explosive devices, though their name comes specifically from their habit of stuffing grenades into the open mouths of their enemies. Their favourite method of torture is using a crowbar to remove the bottom jaw, however much this might affect their ability to gather information. Jawbreakers are scattered throughout the Maw, with no official territory save a group of houses near the water.

Blockheads

The Blockheads favour melee weapons, using clubs, bats and hammers to crush their opponents. They're obsessed with brute force, and all members of this gang are tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a tank. Almost ten years ago they took control of an entire sector of the Maw, eliminating a number of smaller gangs to claim their territory. They've controlled the sector with an iron fist ever since.

Blackjack's Mercenary Group

The Blackjack's Tavern is well-known throughout the Pits, not only for the drinks they serve, but for the services that Blackjack's provide. The Tavern is the central hub of the Blackjack's Mercenary Group, the largest mercenary organisation in Rathe.

Unlike other groups, Blackjack's do not hire mercenaries themselves, instead acting as an intermediary. Once they receive a contract, it is posted on the noticeboard for all to see. Anyone who wishes to take the contract speaks to the tavern's handler, Greenbird, for further details. The first to complete it and return with proof is paid in full.

Blackjack's have a unique system for identifying the skill and talent of its mercenaries. Every mercenary who accepts a contract is given a card, identifying their level of skill within the organisation. Each consecutive card rank allows its owners more perks within the Tavern, with the most elite mercenaries possessing a one-of-a-kind individual card. Stealing cards from other mercenaries is allowed, if you can manage to pull it off.

Greenbird

The mysterious head of the Blackjack's Tavern. Not much is known about Greenbird, though there are plenty of rumours to fill in the gaps. Greenbird has been running the Blackjack's Tavern for close to fifteen years, and thanks to his efforts, business is better than ever. He runs the tavern with an iron grip, keeping mercenaries in pay and contracts flowing. While the Blackjack's Mercenary could choose to replace him at any time, Greenbird's smooth operation of the tavern ensures that any replacement they could possibly find would pale in comparison.

Greenbird maintains his power through intel, using both respect and fear to keep the tavern under his thumb. He is adept at gathering information, trading in intel to keep tabs on everyone who might cross his path. By keeping an eye on those around him, he has the ability to identify threats in advance, and stay one step ahead of the opposition.

Calling Cards

As the largest mercenary group in the Pits, Blackjack's keeps tabs on all of their freelance mercenaries, inventing a unique system of identification to track each of the mercenaries working contracts on their behalf.

Pins

At the top of the hierarchy are the Pins, twenty-two mercenaries possessing unique cards representing their position within Blackjack's. Usually, these are given to the mercenary by Greenbird himself, and retrieved upon their death - however, should someone manage to kill one of the Pins, they are allowed to take their card and claim their position. Only one of each Pin card can exist at any time.

Stacks

The rest of the mercenaries in Blackjack's fall into this category, the stacks. The stacks are split into four 'types' - Jacks, Batters, Coppers and Cups. Anyone completing a contract for the first time will be given an ace of one of the four stacks, and then can move up through the stack as they establish themselves within Blackjack's.

Marks

Marks are contract cards, given to a mercenary when they take up a contract. They act as an indicator of the difficulty or complexity of a job, a way to keep track of mercenaries working on the same contract, and are required in order to turn in a contract and receive the reward. Nobody knows exactly how many variants of marks exist, with each contract assigned an archetypal card to represent that job.

The Spider

An order of assassins, the Spider operates in total secrecy, its services available only to those who know of its existence. Its assassins are raised from youth, taken from the streets and from orphanages, their skills honed to forge them into the ultimate weapon. While there are rumours speculating which deaths they may have been involved in, no assassination carried out by a spider has ever been witnessed or proven.

L'Apocalypta

A mysterious cult found within the depths of the Pits, members of L'Apocalypta can be found throughout Rathe. L'Apocalypta believes that the end times are coming, an event which will awaken the latent powers of Rathe and split the world asunder, throwing all into chaos and destroying humanity in the process. They believe that they are helping to prepare humanity for the coming apocalypse, by creating small amounts of the chaos that humans will face, thus training them for what is to come.

Wars, disease outbreaks, man-made disasters, revolutions and full-scale invasions; many of the darkest events in Rathe's history can be attributed to L'Apocalypta. Despite their influence, and the suffering they have caused, the cult remains incredibly secretive, and very few are aware of its existence.

Dregs

The Pits is plagued by toxic sludge and chemical runoff from the city above. It runs through the rivers, seeping into the soil and working its way through the underground. While every denizen of the Pits is exposed to the toxic environment on a daily basis, some are unfortunate enough to be exposed to a larger dose. A collapsed tunnel, a mining accident, steamtech failure or simple human error can cause all kinds of dangerous chemicals to overflow into the Pits, damning everyone they touch to the same dark fate.

Dregs are the result of these accidents. Once human, they have mutated beyond recognition, irreparably damaged and transformed into something that barely resembles their former selves. They are mindless, soulless creatures, who operate on the sole purpose of survival, attacking anything in their vicinity and eating anything in order to stay 'alive'.

Savage Lands

A primordial jungle, this treacherous and unforgiving landscape is filled with hidden dangers and horrific beasts. From massive predators to vicious scavengers, poisonous fungi to carnivorous plants, the Savage Lands is home to some of the most treacherous wildlife known to Rathe.

Eat, Kill... Survive

An ancient primal wilderness, the Savage Lands is a jungle that sprawls far to the west of Rathe. This seemingly endless expanse of dense woodland is unrepresented by any map, due to its sheer size and the dangers that lie within. It remains untouched by the passage of time, as generations of humans try and fail to tame or settle any part of the vast jungle.

The first known explorers to survive the Savage Lands described a treacherous and unforgiving landscape, filled with hidden dangers and horrific beasts. With no landmarks to note their passage through the jungle, they found themselves lost within an endless mass of trees, with no way to navigate the jungle. Many members of that first party lost their lives within the wilderness, their corpses left to rot amongst the trees. However, those that survived returned with a wealth of information on the dangers and mysteries of the primordial jungle.

From massive predators to vicious scavengers, poisonous fungi to carnivorous plants, the Savage Lands are host to some of the most unique, treacherous and vile wildlife known to Rathe. Explorers have described being hunted by dark creatures that stalk their prey from the shadows; or watching their fellow adventurers writhe in agony as a deadly toxin spreads through their bloodstream; or trying in vain to hide from some massive, rampaging beast, trampling anything that crosses its path. The Savage Lands is a minefield of unknown dangers, waiting to claim the lives of the careless and the ill-prepared.

Despite the dangers, foolhardy adventurers gather from all over Rathe, attracted by the stories of successful hunts and famed explorers. A growing number of encampments have appeared on the outskirts of the jungle as more adventurers continue to arrive, risking their lives in hopes of achieving fame and fortune.

The Primal Way

The jungle claims the weak | the feeble and slow
Those who cannot endure | their end feeds the wild
The wild claims the blood | the flesh and bone
Feasts upon the dead | and the dying, all
Where is the kindred | of the jungle deep
Whose heart still beats | somewhere beyond
Predator or prey | kill or be killed
In fear quake all | who at death's feet lie.

Call of Adventure

A vast and mysterious jungle, the Savage Lands attracted many prospective explorers, all eager to discover what lay hidden within its depths. Adventurers who entered would inevitably disappear, their bones abandoned amongst the undergrowth; a legacy of the lost. Occasionally, rumours would surface of some brave adventurer who had re-emerged, telling tall tales of horrific beasts and hidden wonders. Many stepped forward to explore the jungle, and yet no one could survive long enough to bring back information on what lay within.

No one, that is, until Theodore Hamilton Scarborough. A researcher who sought to uncover the jungle's secrets, he amassed a large team of mercenaries and explorers, and led the first successful expedition into the Savage Lands. Of the original twenty-four team members, only five would emerge alive. Scarborough wrote at length about his experiences, an account that would soon be published as the first known information on the fauna and flora of the Savage Lands.

Deadly Flora

Scarborough's notes speak at length of the toxic and poisonous plants that lay within the jungle, and the effects that they had upon the people he worked with. Whether it was a team member who decided to try their hand at jungle cuisine, or one man who merely touched a fungus with his hand, he relays their fate with horrifying detail. Convulsing on the ground; foaming at the mouth; eyes rolling back into their skulls as blood seeps from every pore; screaming as they writhe in agony; all of these and more numbered amongst Scarborough's descriptions, from mad, illogical ramblings to vomiting up one's own intestines.

However, not all of the plants found within the Savage Lands seem to have such disastrous side-effects. Scarborough hints at the existence of a small number of beneficial and restorative species from the jungle's depths, though his work provides only one account of such a plant.

Dangerous Fauna

The bestiary notes from Scarborough's work detail an even more horrifying reality. From great, scaled beasts with dripping fangs, to creatures with crystalline skin and serrated limbs, the creatures in the Savage Lands seem to be nothing short of lethal. Elite predators and monstrous beasts populate the jungle, striking down their prey with deadly accuracy, tearing apart their prey to glean every last scrap of muscle and marrow; their gaping maws drip with blood, beady eyes gleaming in the dark as they devour the raw flesh of their prey. In the shadows behind them, small scavengers lurk, waiting for the opportunity to pick apart the remains for scraps of muscle and marrow.

Primal, aggressive, and deadly, the creatures of the Savage Lands possess traits that make them deadly to anything that crosses their path. It is these exact traits that were the basis for Scarborough's extensive research.

First Encounter

On one of his expeditions, Scarborough and his crew were taking an opportunity to rest when a group of feral humans ambushed them just before dawn. This was the first recorded encounter with hecklers, thus named by Scarborough for their quick and quiet attacks.

"It is my experience that hecklers rarely seek true confrontation. Like tiny birds, they flit in, snatch what they desire, and disappear just as quickly as they had arrived. Despite my best efforts, I have failed to encounter many hecklers, only catching glimpses on the occasion that they ambush my crew."

Of course, this could not begin to compare to Scarborough's next encounter with a sentient creature inside the jungle. On the very same expedition, his campsite was once again ambushed, yet this time the experience was markedly different.

"A pack of great, hulking beasts came charging out of the trees. They were one and again the size of my largest man, with thick hides and beady red eyes. I barely had time to escape with my life. I witnessed several of the beasts hunched over one of my men, tearing open his flesh with their bare hands, entrails hanging from their gaping maws. While I fled, their screams followed me, echoing through the trees."

After this encounter, Scarborough managed to escape the jungle alive, and soon returned on another expedition. In later years, he returned home to pursue his research, and conduct experiments based around his time in the Savage Lands. It is these experiments that led to the creation of the invalesco serum, and the work that would make him famous across all of Rathe.

Brutes

These massive beasts are vicious, bloodthirsty, and incredibly hostile. Brutes are deeply territorial, and one of the deadliest creatures within the Savage Lands. They tower over all humans, almost double the height of the average man, with the muscle mass to match. Their immense strength and violent natures make them incredibly dangerous opponents.

While sentient, they are slow and unintelligent, relying mainly on strength and brute force to decimate their prey. They often collect trophies from their fallen prey; from small skulls tied onto their armour, to locks of hair or ears attached to a belt, or armour decorated with hides and fur.

Hecklers

Perhaps hecklers were once human, lost within the jungles long ago. Left to fend for themselves in an unforgiving landscape, they left behind their humanity in order to survive.

Hecklers are ruthless, feral and violent, attacking anything that crosses their path. They travel in small groups, wearing makeshift armour made from leather and furs. Groups of hecklers have been known to ambush travelling parties, raiding their corpses for anything useful, taking weapons, tools, food, or other supplies.

Legends and Fools

Tales of Scarborough's time in the jungle have attracted adventurers from all over Rathe, drawn by tales of monstrous beasts and incredible battles. The allure of the untamed wilderness proves impossible to resist for many, a mysterious region filled with legendary creatures. One after another, would-be heroes arrive to challenge the wilds within.

For some, it is a chance to prove one's own abilities, pitted against dangerous beasts and the jungle itself in a savage battle to the death. For others, it is a chance for fame, to reach the legendary status that Scarborough has achieved. Yet others arrive seeking fortune, pursuing the lucrative contracts offered by corporations, researchers, and those wishing to cull the beasts within.

Forward Camps

Forward camps have appeared along the jungle outskirts, small makeshift towns of ramshackle huts and tents, built by merchants looking to profit from the high demand for supplies.

A clever trader sets up contracts with the scientific community back home, taking requests from biomancers and alchemists in advance. Then, the trader buys several wagons worth of supplies, and travels to the forward camps, where they set up shop and get settled in. While there, they can not only sell supplies to those who come through, but buy samples and specimens from those returning from the jungle. Once they've acquired all of the items on their list, they simply pack up shop and return home to sell their goods at inflated prices.

This system has become the groundwork for a network of forward camps, scattered along the perimeter of the Savage Lands. Adventurers will trek into the jungle, see what they can salvage, and return to the forward camps to sell to merchants seeking samples from within the jungle. There are also a growing number of mercenaries who travel to the forward camps, looking to accept a contract on a particular beast. These creatures are often difficult to find and incredibly dangerous, but for those willing to risk their lives, these contracts are also incredibly lucrative.

Some researchers come to the Savage Lands themselves, setting up in the forward camps to make contracts directly. Occasionally, one particularly reckless researcher may decide to employ a small team of hired hands and enter the jungle themselves. Sometimes, this is to study their field of research hands-on, looking at plants and creatures in their natural environment. Sometimes, this is because they are searching for a rare item, one that only an expert could identify. Other times, it is to conduct their experiments somewhere secluded, where nobody can hear the screaming...

Of course, not everyone who comes to the Savage Lands is a trader, researcher or fortune seeker. The knights of Solana are also a regular sight within the camps, helping with defense in exchange for a safe place to rest in-between patrols. These knights pursue a nobler cause, hunting down the beasts within in order to protect the villages that lie beyond the outskirts of the Savage Lands.

Those venturing into the jungle must be well-prepared. Whether a mercenary, explorer or a knight, those who enter the Savage Lands all carry the same essential items.

Bestiary Of Scarborough

Theodore Hamilton Scarborough was a Prominent researcher who spent his life studying the creatures of the Savage Lands. He was fascinated by the primal instincts of the beasts within the jungles and sought to understand what made these creatures so deadly.

Journal Entry No. 6 Day 9

One of the men died this morning fighting off a rather large beast. It moved deathly quick, covered in some for of fur. It nearly decapitated one of the men with its claws. Whilst it did move quickly, I managed to catch a glimpse of its curved beak, and of its large, barbed tail, which appeared to have a sort of stinger at the end. Sadly, it seems to have disappeared further into the jungle...I do hope that we can manage to find another.

Peluda

A large creature, the Peluda moves surprisingly quickly given its size, with a thick fur coat interspersed with sharp spikes. Its muscular legs are the source of its apparent speed.

Its muscular tail is capable of sweeping any animal off of its feet, leaving it vulnerable to the peluda's deadly hooked claws. While the tail appears to have a stinger, further tests have shown that the barb does not contain any form of toxin.

Journal Entry No. 8 Day 11

We first spotted this massive creature battling with a much larger, furred beast. While we attempted to avoid catching its eye, it appeared to have followed us. Fire seemed to do the trick for warding it away, and all of the men survived. However, as the creature disappeared, I am left with questions, and no specimen.

Rek'vas

A swift and deadly creature, the Rek'vas has brightly patterned scales that are highly toxic. Its massive head is framed by some form of hood, brightly coloured skin that flares from either side of its neck.

Its large fangs and claws are retractable, used not only to attack prey, but to help it tear through the tougher skin of creatures such as the brawnhide. In addition to the toxic coating covering its scales, its teeth can inject a deadly posison into its prey.

We retrieved this tooth from the remains of a rek'vas Unfortunately, we could not risk staying near the carcass long enough to retrieve any samples from the creature. It would seem that the toxin coating its scales also makes the flesh decay at a rapid pace, and the smell was attracting predators.

Journal Entry No. 11 Day 18

Today, we encountered a small group of long-legged feathered creatures. Horrid little things. They didn't seem afraid of us, but did not attempt to attack either. They seemed to have recognised our swords as some form of talon. We weren't sure what they were doing, at first, but one of the men got close enough to see the corpse they were tearing apart with their beaks. I shall see if I can obtain one of these creatures at a later date for dissection.

Strix

A relatively weak creature built for speed rather than strength. Strix travel in groups to ensure the safety of the herd. Their long legs allow them to reach incredibly high speeds, their primary form of defense against the jungle's many predators.

Feathers cover the majority of a strix's body but their soft bellies are protected by a layer of tiny scales.

The diet of a strix is primarily carnivorous, scavenging carcasses of prey left behind by the larger predators. Their sharp, hooked beaks allow the to tear even the smallest remnants of flesh and muscle away from carcasses. A highly acidic stomach allows them to digest small bone fragments swallowed whole.

Journal Entry No. 16 Day 23

Several men died before we had a chance to realise that the creature was upon us. Its hide was smooth and clear, almost appearing crystalline, with sharp teeth that appeared to be made of the same substance. It appeared to have no interest in us, instead directing its attention to the strixes I had been dissecting. Before the men had a chance to fight it off, it snatched one of the corpses in its mouth, climbed straight up the side of a cliff and disappeared.

Ank'is

The crystalline creature does not bleed. It shatters. Its teeth are harder than stone, with serrated edges and a needle-like tip to tear through flesh.

Its limbs are long and thin, with sharp points to allow it to grip onto most surfaces, and scale the difficult terrain of the Savage Lands.

Journal Entry No. 19 Day 28

We almost walked straight into one of these. The beast was massive, the height of a man and half again. Its thick hide was covered in fur, two great canines protruding from its mouth, both thick as a man's arm. With great difficulty, we hid in the trees, waiting for hours until the beast finally left. Luckily, it appears to be rather short-sighted.

Brawnhide

A giant, furred beast with long, thick canines, and small, dark eyes. Its long fur protects most of its body, dark grey in colour, fading to an off-white at the tips. It appears to make up for its poor sight through its incredibly powerful sense of small - I have witnessed it track prey through the jungle by scent alone.

Their canines are almost impossible to break, both thick and incredibly strong.

The brawnhide has a set of claws at the base of their feet, though their feet are far too large and their legs too short for the claws to be of any use.

Journal Entry No. 23 Day 32

Only a few of us remain after what happened this morning. Yet another beast attacked us, a ghastly amalgamation of fur and scales. Its four eyes were staring straight at me, blood dripping from its curved fangs, when Thomas had the idea to throw his torch at it. The fire caught immediately. The scent of its burning flesh was very distinctive - it must contain some kind of acidic compound. A toxin, most likely.

Skera

One of the Savage Lands' most skilled predators, they are almost completely nocturnal, relying on the darkness to help mask their movements while stalking prey. Their four eyes are likely to help it see in the dark, in order to hunt its prey.

Avoid their poisonous spikes at all costs.

The barb at the end of its tail is also highly toxic.

Large, muscular creatures with two pairs of eyes, and long, curved claws similar to talons. Skera are covered in a mixture of fur and spikes, patterned with dark, irregular spots. While the spikes do not appear to be poisonous, they do make it rather difficult to dissect.

Botanical Compendium

Here is the section of Scarborough's notes regarding botanical studies. Despite our best efforts, some of the journal entries have been lost in our attempts to compile his works.

Journal Entry No. 4 Day 6

These brightly coloured bushes are found all over the jungle, notable for their thick, glossy red leaves. I took some samples and crushed the leaves into a fine paste, which I then added to one man's gruel. He was dead within minutes, the poor fellow, without even a chance to finish dinner.

Vis'ura

A short, dense bush with thick roots. The leaves of the Vis'ura are poisonous to humans, but most creatures in the Savage Lands are immune to the toxins found within. Its roots, however, are a potent energy source, and safe to eat. One must be absolutely certain to remove every trace of leaves before boiling the root, as the toxins will release into the water and contaminate the entire batch.

Pata

A vibrant red fungus found within the Savage Lands, it grows in large, flat, parallel formations, somewhat resembling a series of shelves. Its brightly coloured surface is covered in a thin layer of a deadly neurotoxin, which can cause seizures and death within minutes of skin contact.

Using the fungi in any form proves difficult - crushing it will cause its toxic spores to release into the air, burning the pata releases toxic smoke, boiling it contaminates the water. Any alchemist who wishes to use the pata as a poison will struggle to do so without killing themselves.

Journal Entry No. 5 Day 6

After the last incident, I did not seek to test this on any of my men - I only have so many, after all. However, Drew was determined to prove that it was edible. It's only a mushroom, he said. Toward the end, he began to ramble nonsensically, and while I took notes on what he said, I cannot seem to make sense of them. One of the men then tossed the remained of the fungi into the dire without my knowledge, after which we all experienced vivid hallucinations.

Occhi

A small fungus, characterised by its shiny jet-black top, protecting the delicate white lace beneath. The lace structure is dangerous when consumed, causing fever, delerium and, eventually, death. When the occhi is burned, it releases a smoke with hallucinogenic and psychoactive properties.

Hilen

Found near the base of large trees, hilen is a small, feathery plant that ranges from pale lilac to a bright violet in colour. Perfectly harmless until digested, after which point it will slowly begin to work its way through the body, causing intense pain as the body begins to shut down. Its root system is equally toxic.

The hilen spreads through the release of tiny seed pods, which hang from a light, delicate flower. This flower allows the seed pods to be caught by the breeze, allowing them to travel great distances with a single breath of wind.

Journal Entry No. 10 Day 17

We lost another of the men this morning. He was walking just in front of me, and suddenly tripped over a wayward vine. Quick as lightning, some large leaf snapped out of the shadows and engulfed him, his legs hanging out of its gaping mouth. He immediately began to scream, and we soon realised why - some kind of substance began dripping from the creature's smooth mouth, and when a few drops hit his leg, the began to dissolve straight through his armour. We managed to escape the area without encountering any more of the plants, though I also failed to gather any specimens.

Snapjaw

A carnivorous plant with sharp teeth, the leaves of a Snapjaw resemble a mouth, lying open in wait until its prey attempts to walk across, triggering its trap. Snapjaw leaves range in size from the length of a hand, to near the height of a human.

The leaf snaps closed around the creature and begins to excrete a corrosive substance that breaks down the prey, allowing the plant to digest it.

Snapjaw plants move incredibly quick once triggered, trapping prey within their barbed leaves.

Journal Entry No. 12 Day 19

Simply marvellous. We discovered a cluster of pale blue flowers, with thin, blade-like petals. For the longest time, I failed to discover any properties whatsoever. Harold has become quite ill of late, likely the result of losing his hand. With the man on his deathbed, I decided to feed him some petals, as willing subjects were in short supply, and at worst, it could only put an end to the man's agony. Yet before my eyes, the most remarkable thing happened. Within hours, Harold was walking around the campsite as if he has never been ill at all. I shall have to conduct further studies, to test the limits of the plant's apparent healing properties.

Wintergold

An extremely rare flower with medicinal properties, found in the depths of the Savage Lands. It grows in large clusters near the base of trees, with thin, blade-like leaves. The flowers only bloom for two weeks in the middle of winter, with pale blue petals and small orange centres.

I have struggled to retain any samples of the wintergold. Even removing the plant whole and carrying it in a basket of soil has proven futile, as the plant begins to wither within a matter of hours, and was dead two days later. I attempted to dry the flowers, preserve them in alcohol, press them, all to no avail.

In a moment of desperation, I purchased some lower-grade alchemical equipment from a merchant, and attempted to create a potion from the flower on-site. That, too, failed.

The flowers of the Wintergold are incredibly delicate, and wither very quickly upon removal from the plant. If there is a way to successfully preserve them, I have yet to discover it.

Journal Entry No. 15 Day 22

We stumbled upon some strange form of plant today. It appeared to be some thin, climbing plant that had taken the shape of a tree. I believe these may once have been smaller vines that grew up the side of a host tree, retaining its shape once the host died. However, even when the tree itself had rotted away, the vines remain, seemingly no worse for wear. I shall search for a smaller sample of this plant, so that I might study its full growth cycle.

Thieves' Ladder

These vines start out small and thin, taking root at the base of a large tree. The plant then begins to climb upward, setting down roots that slowly work their way through the tree bark. Just yesterday, I found a brawnhide skull with one of these vines attached, and the root system had burrowed its way through solid bone.

Once established, the thieves ladder roots then seek out nutrients and water within the host tree, as the vines climb up the surface of the tree, weakening the host. Once the host dies, the Thieves Ladder is left behind, a shell relying on its own root system to provide water from the soil. One has to wonder, then, if it eventually suffers a similar fate at the hands of another Thieves Ladder.

Journal Entry No. 18 Day 27

After the success of the Wintergold flower with Harold, one of my men demanded to use it as well. Copper has been suffering from some form of respiratory illness as of late. I refused to allow him access to my Wintergold samples, and so he decided to consume the glowing berries that we found. I barely had time to realise what he had done before he died. Needless to say, the men will hesitate before disobeying my direct orders again.

Kindleweed

A plant known for its small, glowing red berries and thorny black leaves. While its colourful berries may appear to be a welcome source of energy, the Kindleweed is among some of the most poisonous plants in Rathe.

Ingesting just one of these tiny berries can kill an adult human within minutes.

Bloodroot Moss

A seemingly delicate violet plant, with small, soft leaves. However, this invaise species seeks out living creatures rather than soil, absorbing nutrients and glucose from their blood.

Adult plants produce an abundance of fine, airborne seeds, which are easily carried on the wind. Once they land in a creature's fur or skin, they will sprout thin roots, which work their way through the creature's skin in search of blood. The plant will then begin to spread very rapidly, coating the animal in moss.

Journal Entry No. 20 Day 29

The trees of this jungle are far more hardy than those found anywhere else in Rathe, putting down large roots to aid survival. Many of the jungle's fiercest predators lurk within their branches, watching their prey from above, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. They have dense wood which, although difficult to light, can burn for hours at a time once properly stoked. One fire exceeded temperatures found in any forge or factory I have visited to date.

Druden

The wood of this tree is incredibly dense, making it one of the strongest and most viable trees in the Savage Lands. Their branches grow in unusual, twisted shapes, with broad leaves to soak up any available sunlight. The leaves, while bitter, are non-posionous.

Haldor

A large, slow-growing tree, with an incredibly thick trunk. The favoured nesting ground of multiple species of birds, haldor trees can survive for hundreds of years, and are often used as shelters due to their roots lifting off the ground once they begin to mature.

Stoneberry Tree

With long, thin trunks and massive leaves, the stoneberry tree is somewhat of an oddity. Its berries are very large and hard as stone. Falling stoneberries are more than capable of crushing bone, and have decapitated more than one unsuspecting adventurer.

Solana

At the centre of Rathe lies Solana, a radiant beacon of hope in a world on the brink of chaos. For thousands of years, it has thrived under the guidance of devout scholars, seeking to spread the glory and teachings of Sol throughout Rathe, and unite humanity under a single banner.

Kingdom of Illumination

The city of Solana stands tall amidst the golden fields, at the very heart of Rathe; it is a radiant beacon for all to follow. Its soaring stone walls glitter in the light of the sun as it watches over its outlying villages like a stalwart guardian. It shepherds its charges along the path of the Light. Through its grand gates lie shining city streets, lined with banners of white and gold.

Once a small settlement, the city of Solana has grown throughout the centuries, providing a place of sanctuary to all who follow the Light. Benevolent scholars smile upon the crowds, providing enlightenment, guidance and counsel, while noble knights patrol the city walls and fields beyond, protecting the innocent with sword and shield. Together, they work to protect and provide for their people, dedicating their lives to upholding the word of Sol.

All are welcomed within Solana, whether inside the city proper, or in the villages which lie beyond its walls. The citizens of Solana honour Sol in every aspect of their lives; they carry the glory and wisdom of the Light within their hearts as they seek to guide all of Rathe into a golden age, where all will be free of pain and suffering.

History of Illumination

Legends speak of blessed pilgrims from a distant land, drawn to Rathe by the will of Sol. Upon sacred ground, they built the small village that would one day bloom into a paragon of virtue and enlightenment. Under the careful guidance of the first Grand Magister, the great city of Solana blossomed, growing ever larger in scale and in stature.

In time, its radiance drew attention from a malevolent gaze, and the fledgling city found itself targeted by the onslaught of the Shadow, a great evil which spread forth, intent on extinguishing the Light. Despite this sinister force, which threatened to overwhelm them, the Solanians stood strong; fortified by their faith, they refused to bow before the foul storm.

The Golden City

At the centre of Rathe stands a magnificent city, towering over the golden fields that surround it. Its shining walls reflect the light of the sun, gleaming brightly, while knights clad in silver and gold patrol its borders. In the fields beyond, villages lie tucked amongst the fertile plains, safe under the watchful gaze of their great protector. This is the kingdom of Solana, a beacon of hope amongst the darkness of the world.

Those that pass through its grand gates discover an extraordinary city, built to exemplify the divine majesty of Sol. From wall to shining wall, its stone streets are lined with cheerful homes and vaulted rooftops, colourful banners swaying in the gentle breeze. At the heart of the city, a massive series of towers rise above the streets below - the magnificent Solarium, prized jewel of Solana.

The city's elegance and symmetry are apparent to all who enter. Beyond its eight imposing gates lie eight city sectors, with eight grand walkways leading through the city to the Amphitheatre at its very core. It was built in accordance with Sol's divine will, imbued with magical wards to protect all who call it home.

A Radiant City

Solana stands proudly at the very centre of the world, its marble walls gleaming as they reflect the light of the sun. Its ramparts are reinforced with hundreds of years of layered spellwork, which form an impenetrable barrier to defend the city against both physical and magical attacks. Deliberately built in accordance with Sol's divine will, the city's elegance and symmetry are apparent to all who enter. Beyond the eight imposing gates lie eight city sectors, with eight grand walkways leading through the city, converging at the grand Solarium. A colossal complex of shining towers, the Solarium is Solana's crowning jewel, beloved to those who call the city home.

Throughout Solana, the grand walkways are interlinked by plazas, great open spaces in which her citizens can gather to hear proclamations and news from the city's Magisters and archons. Massive markets are supplied by meraducts, raised paths which allow goods to be transported quickly from one side of the city to the other. Individual stores line the roadways' paving stones, spilling out into residential and trade areas alike. From wall to shining wall, the city of Solana surges with joyous, bustling life, its streets lined with cheerful homes and vaulted rooftops, colourful banners swaying in the gentle breeze.

The people of Solana are amicable by nature, welcoming all into their city so that they might see the splendour of Sol for themselves. While born Solanians feel a deep connection to Sol, they believe that it is their sacred duty to spread the teachings of the Light to all of Rathe. Visitors are commonplace, welcomed by the people of Solana, and greeted by diplomats who are specially chosen to receive them as honoured guests. Each and every citizen is chosen for their role; their duty to Solana is revealed through divine providence. As such, Solanians are incredibly dedicated to their respective crafts, as many believe that they were born to fulfil their purpose, and thus serve their beloved city.

The Amphitheatre

A vast, open arena which can hold all the citizens of Solana, it is used for ceremonies, public events, celebrations, and proclamations. Anyone, citizen or visitor, is welcome to come there and listen to one of the daily lectures, which are usually given by a Magister speaking on the doctrine of Sol.

The Library of Illumination

Many scholars and seekers of knowledge have travelled to Solana for the sole purpose of seeing the Great Library, a labyrinthine complex found at the base of the Solarium. An imposing sight; the floor is constructed from lustrous marble, with floor-to-ceiling shelves containing thousands of tomes and scrolls, as well as bound parchments authored by the scholars of Solana. Above, towering mosaics of coloured glass depict scenes from the history of the city and its people. Five colossal statues stand at the very centre of the Library's main foyer, constructed in gold and ivory, each one portraying one of Solana's five Grand Magisters.

Any Solanian may enter and read the tomes found within its walls, which contain accounts of Solanian history, the legends of Sol, tales of the world beyond the city walls, and information on the various districts of Solana. Large tables line the hallways of the Library of Illumination, which include spaces for any visitor to read and study. Only the uppermost level of the library is open to the public, while the remaining levels lie hidden underground, accessible only to scholars of the Light of Sol.

Signarus

A concealed vault lies deep beneath the earth, guarded by both physical defences and powerful wards. Throughout history, many ancient artefacts from Rathe's past have surfaced, and since the time of the first Grand Magister, Solana has retrieved these powerful items and hidden them from those who might use them for nefarious purposes. The existence of the Signarus remains a well-guarded secret, known only to the highest-ranking members of the Light of Sol.

Silvaris

A series of colourful, verdant gardens encircle the Solarium. Home to thousands of species of flora from around Rathe, the Silvaris is open to the public; the city's inhabitants frequently visit the gardens, walking amongst the trees and enjoying the many flowering plants that grow along its borders. From lofty trees of verdant green to vibrant purple blossoms, the gardens are a burst of colour against the brilliant white stone walls of the Solarium. Almost any plant in existence can be found within the Silvaris, including restorative herbs and ingredients for spellwork, carefully cultivated by the Light of Sol.

Solarium

Standing at the very heart of the city, the Solarium is an enormous complex of shining towers that form the central nexus of Solana, encompassing the Library of Illumination, the Great Hall, the Amphitheatre, and the Inner Sanctum. The Solarium includes a number of rooms set aside for the Light of Sol, with classrooms and lecture halls for training acolytes and squires alike.

The Awakening Ceremony

When a child of Solana turns eight years old, an Archon will arrive at their home to lead them to a special room within the Solarium, where they will conduct the Awakening Ceremony. This sacred space is filled with a wide and varied selection of items, from ancient tomes to swords and shields, smithing hammers to aprons and looms; every trade and profession in Solana is represented within this lofty space. Once the ceremony begins, one of the items in particular within the room will resonate with Sol's light and begin to glow, revealing the child's divine calling. Many families within Solana have passed down their trades through the generations, honing their craft over the centuries with the help of Sol's divine guidance.

The Blessing of Sol

Throughout the centuries, Solana has fought valiantly against the forces of the Shadow, working to protect the innocent from corruption and despair. In times of great strife, when this constant battle has threatened to overwhelm the many lands of Rathe, Sol has gifted his blessings upon his most devout followers, bestowing upon them the power to drive back the Shadow. The radiant glory of the Light grants them divine grace, enhancing their natural abilities and lending to them the might of Sol.

In recent times, as the Demonastery is unleashing the full force of its fiendish power upon the city, Sol has once again gifted his blessing upon the devout. Some have awakened to the calling of the Light, finding their strength and talents augmented by Sol's favour; others have found themselves marked by the sigil of one of Sol's Heralds, choosing some of the Light's followers as their charges in the battles to come.

To Be A Solanian

The people of Solana honour Sol in every aspect of their lives. From the young to the old, scholars to farmers, from those who live within its walls to those who live beyond; all rejoice under the infinite wisdom and glory of Sol.

Solanians take great pride in upholding Sol's will, believing that they are Sol's divine emissaries. Each Solanian must act with courage and honour, as they are living embodiments of Sol. Carrying the glory of Sol within their hearts, they seek to spread the teachings of the light to the rest of humanity, and welcome any who seek out the blessing of Sol.

All who fully embrace Sol's light are welcomed by the people of Solanaas one of their own. Those still on the path to illumination are instead given a place among Solana's outer villages.

These settlements, as well as any community that would embrace Sol's divine light are granted protection by the power of Solana.

The Order Of The Light

In ancient times, the light of Sol guided the city's founders onto the shores of Rathe; it showed them where to build their home, and was what protected their fledgling fortress from the Shadows. The Order of the Light was born of these ancestors, noble individuals who sought to spread Sol's blessings and watch over their people. The Light of Sol is mainly composed of scholars, those born with a connection to the aether, who study spells in order to embrace the Light, while the Hand of Sol are an order of knights, dedicated to protecting and watching over their people.

Order Of The Light

The Light is the lifeblood of Solana, a radiant energy borne of Sol. It is knowledge, wisdom and integrity; it is valour and loyalty. The Light guided Solana's founders to the shores of Rathe, it showed them where to build their home; it is what protects the city from the Shadows. Solana is blessed by the splendour of Sol, a radiant figure that has guided Solana to become the shining example for all of Rathe to follow.

The Order of the Light was borne of these ancestors, noble men and women who seek to spread Sol's blessings and watch over the people of Solana. The Light of Sol is comprised of scholars, those born with a connection to light magic, studying spells in order to help their fellow man. The Hand of Sol are Solana's warriors, dedicated to protecting and watching over their people.

Seekers And Scholars

Every scholar first starts their training as a seeker, chosen by Sol to fulfil a divine purpose. Their affinity with the light gives them an incredible gift, a spark that can be cultivated into light magic, the very essence of Sol's blessings. A seeker's training begins with academia, studying the history of Solana and learning arithmetic.

Once the first eight years of training are completed, seekers graduate and become acolytes, and begin working in the Library of IIlumination. In addition to clerical duties, organisation, and recording information, acolytes will study light magic, and begin the delicate process of developing and training their magical abilities. It can take up to twenty years for an acolyte to become a scholar, depending entirely on their talent, skill and dedication.

The Sacred Hierarchy of Solana

The Light of Sol

The Light of Sol is predominantly comprised of scholars, including acolytes, chancellors, archons and magisters. They are the spiritual lifeline of the kingdom, providing a variety of services to their people. The members of the Light of Sol are healers, academics, researchers, scribes, guides, confidantes, leaders and fighters, working to serve and defend their people in whichever role they are most needed. Many such scholars will journey beyond the city walls in their lifetime, fighting alongside the knights of the Hand of Sol, and joining their parties on expeditions and patrols. However, there are far more roles incorporated into the Light of Sol than only these examples.

The Gemini

These operatives work to defend Solana from its enemies by walking the fine line between light and darkness. They blend seamlessly into their surroundings, hiding in plain sight; masters of disguise who remain vigilant in their mission to unearth the enemies of Solana. Across the lands of Rathe, the Gemini collect intelligence and send information to the Light of Sol, scrutinising any potential plots against the city.

Illusionists

In Solana, illusionists are hailed as revered emissaries, bringing the light of Sol beyond the grand gates of the city. Illusionists are unique in that they draw their power from a keen understanding of the world around them, an ability which allows them to bring the stories and word of Sol to life by creating breathtaking spectacles-powerful, tangible illusions which are almost indistinguishable from reality. They are often dispatched with parties of knights to travel to foreign lands, creating visions of the radiant city for outsiders to behold.

Magisters

The guiding light of Solana, Magisters are champions who are specially chosen to execute the will of Sol. There are eight Magisters in the city, each representing one of the eight sectors. Their ornate masks mark them as divine messengers, who have dedicated their lives to delivering the word of Sol. Each Magister is an accomplished scholar of the Light, and each is responsible for one of the city's landmarks, in addition to serving as a member of the Grand Council.

Grand Magister

In the history of Solana, there have only been five Grand Magisters, each one serving the city as the highest representation of Sol, the embodiment of Sol made manifest in physical form. It is their sacred duty to ensure the wellbeing of the city through Sol's blessings, and guide their people toward a more beneficial future. They are not only the leaders of their people, but their caretakers, their heralds, and their mentors. The current Grand Magister, the Steadfast, is known for their firm, wise leadership, helping to guide Solana into an age of peace; perfectly calm as they steer their people through stormy seas.

The Hand of Sol

The Hand of Sol is Solana's order of knights, who defend the city from outside threats. While all in the Hand of Sol call Solana their home, they frequently travel beyond the city's walls, scouting for dangers, watching over settlements, and defending the innocent from harm. Beyond the grand gates, these knights travel in parties, their numbers ranging anywhere from small adventuring squads to massive war brigades. Many of these companies are assigned a member of the Light of Sol, who not only provides healing and guidance to the knights, but helps them to spread word of the Light in their travels.

While all knights of Solana come from the Hand of Sol, not all members of the Hand are knights. There are some who serve a more specific purpose, becoming a part of a more specialised team who are able to respond to unique threats.

Inquisitor

Where the Gemini seek out information and uncover peril, it is Inquisitors who strike at potential menaces, and work to root out the evil which is sown across Rathe. They scour the Golden Fields and Northern Realms, hunting down cultists, heretics, and all those who jeopardise or sacrifice the innocent in their quest for power. The Inquisitors endeavour to eliminate threats to Solana before devious plots can come to fruition and endanger the lives of its citizens.

Clerics

Aether affinity in members of the Hand of Sol is rare, but not unheard-of. There are some who not only display a talent for weapons and melee fighting, but also show a potential for magical abilities, and are taught to intertwine the two in their quest to defend Solana. Clerics possess both the strike of a warrior and the touch of a healer, fighting to protect the innocent, cure the sick, and mend the broken.

Templars

The leaders of the Hand of Sol, Templars guide their parties to glory, oversee the training of all squires, and watch over those in their care. Many Templars number among the most talented and experienced fighters in Solana, and use their knowledge of the battlefield and the lands beyond to protect their home from evil.

Children of the Light

While all those who accept Sol into their hearts shall receive Sol's blessings, only those who have fully eradicated the darkness within can be known as Children of the Light. These are the true Solanians, citizens who live within the city walls, many of whom are descendants of the original founders of Solana.

Villages and towns beyond the city walls are home to those who once lived outside of Sol's guidance, but chose to welcome Sol's light into their hearts. With time, they may work toward true illumination, and their children may one day be accepted into the city proper and given a home within the city walls.

The Awakening

When a child of Solana turns eight years old, an archon will come to lead them to a room within the Solarium, in order to conduct the Awakening ceremony. This sacred space is filled with items, from ancient tomes to swords and shields, smithing hammers to aprons and looms; every trade and profession in Solana is represented within. Once the ceremony begins, one of the items within the room will resonate with Sol's light and begin to glow, revealing the child's divine purpose.

Many families within Solana have passed down their trades through the generation, honing their craft through Sol's divine guidance.

The Grand Council

The Grand Council is a divine assembly which represents the pinnacle of human existence, its members hand-selected by Sol from amongst the Light and Hand of Sol. Paragons of virtue, they embody Solana's divine purpose, to elevate humanity above the reach of the Shadows. The members of the Grand Council serve not only to lead Solana, but to inspire the Children of the Light in their journey toward illumination, and seek to strengthen their relationship with Sol. The Grand Council is led by the Grand Magister, comprised of all eight Magisters, and a selection of archons and templars.

All matters of state pass into the hands of the Grand Council, who ensure the continued happiness and wellbeing of their people, and of Solana as a whole. Gathering in the inner sanctum that floats above the Amphitheatre, the Grand Council makes decisions on behalf of Solana.

First Grand Magister

The first Grand Magister of Solana was known as the Devout, for their dedication and service to the glory of Sol. Under the guidance of the Devout, construction of the city began, starting with what is now known as the Library of Illumination. The Grand Magister decreed that knowledge was sacred to Sol, and that Solana could not become a grand kingdom without first becoming a well-educated one. The Devout sent out scholars to gather ancient tomes and scrolls from all over Rathe and founded the Grand Council to help manage the growing city.

The Devout also called for the construction of a wall to protect the city, designed to combine physical defense with magical wards and sigils. This wall would be the beginning of Solana's transformation into a grand and wondrous kingdom. Solana owes its strength and splendour to the wisdom and dedication of the first Grand Magister, who believed that their people could one day save all of Rathe from the Shadows.

Solstice of Laurels

A ceremony for the Hand of Sol, taking place once a year. During the Solstice, older squires are promoted to full knights, while others are promoted to higher roles within the Hand of Sol. The Solstice begins with a great procession of knights, making their way from the outer walls of Solana to the Solarium, where the ceremony takes place.

It is common for Solana to receive visitors in the days leading up to the Solstice, who travel from far and wide to witness the ceremony. Whether Solanian or visitor, all marvel at the sight of noble knights marching, resplendent in ceremonial armour.

The Battle Against the Shadow

Once, many centuries ago, an apostate betrayed the people of Solana, and turned his back upon the light. Driven mad with power, he embraced the vile corruptions of the Shadow and unleashed his toxic ideology upon the world. When the noble warriors of the Light sought to stop him, he fled to an isolated island and soiled the earth there with the corruption of the shadows, severing his place of horrors from the rest of Rathe. The Demonastery was thus born of blood and sacrifice, a cursed, blighted castle which harbours the horrors of the damned.

Ever since, the Demonastery and Solana have stood in direct opposition to one another. It is the nature of the Shadow to destroy, seeking to eliminate the Light; the Light seeks to defend the innocent from the Shadows, and halt the spread of its vile corruption across the land of Rathe. Solana has fought many battles in its quest to bring an end to the scourge of the Shadow; however, for many years the city knew a kind of peace, untouched by the raging wars of their past.

Yet in recent times, that peace has come to an end. For the first time in centuries, the Demonastery has struck at the very heart of Solana, raining down shadows upon the city like a vile plague. With the blessings of Sol and the guidance of the Light, the Solanians have risen to the challenge, taking up arms in their quest to defend all of Rathe from the horrors of the Demonastery. Now, as then, they will drive back the Shadow, and guide the common people into an era of peace and prosperity.

Solanian Days of the Week

| Day | Phonetic | Pronunciation | Equivalent | Possible Meaning | | ---------- | | Solides | səƱ|ɪdiːz | (sole-eh-dees) | Sunday | relates to the word 'sol' or 'solar', a connection to the sun | | Lunedes | 'Iuːnɪdiːz | (loon-eh-dees) | Monday | derived from 'luna', meaning moon or to lunar cycles | | Aedes | eɪdiːz | (ay-dees) | Tuesday | could be linked to 'aether' or 'aeons', a connection to the magic of Rathe or to the sky or heavens | | Verides | 'vɪərɪdiːz | (veer-eh-dees) | Wednesday | may be derived from 'vera', meaning truth or pure of faith | | Exorides | ɪg'ɒrɪdiːz | (ex-oh-reh-dees) | Thursday | drawn from the word 'exorior' meaning to rise or emerge - a symbolic representation of a sunrise | | Merides | mɪərɪdiːz | (mare-eh-dees) | Friday | could be related to 'meridian', a reference to the position of the sun during the day | | Vesperides | vɛ'spɛrɪdiːz | (vess-pear-eh-dees) | Saturday | has ties to the word 'vesper', meaning dusk, twilight, or evening and the setting of the sun |

Volcor

Rivers of lava run throughout Volcor, pooling into massive lakes of molten magma. The citizens of Volcor are resigned to a life of servitude under the Generals, locked in constant warfare, battling for their lives beneath the watchful gaze of the royal family.

Welcome to Volcor

The people of Volcor (VOHL-cawr) are divided between the Dracai (DRAH-kai) and the Volcai (VOHL-kai). The Dracai are bestowed names that are free of any restrictions, conventions or stigma, granted positions in the Royal Court of Volcor by the Emperor. The Volcai, however, are more limited, and their names are homogeneous, ending in ai as a mark of their Volcai origin status. (Names ending in ai rhyme with lie, my, bye.)

*the 'oh' rhymes with 'crow' or 'flow', not the o sound in 'cow', 'now', 'done' or 'stop'

The dragons of Volcor invoked by Dromai in Uprising have a similar naming convention. Male dragon names end in ai, while female dragon names end in ia. (Names ending in ia rhyme with India, or Sylvia - within the world of Flesh and Blood, they rhyme with Ophidia, Azalea, Aria and Misteria, but not Levia, which is closer to rhyming with Fai.)

*the 'oh' rhymes with 'crow' or 'flow', not the o sound in 'cow', 'now', 'done' or 'stop'

A Volatile Kingdom

Long ago, when the world of Rathe was untouched by human hands, a great and mighty beast gave life to the land now known as Volcor. Beneath its claws, the ground turned to stone; its gaze gave life to rivers of flame, and with its breath, the very air became dry with the heat of a blazing fire. It carved out a home for itself between the rolling fields and wine-dark sea, decorating the land in its likeness.

For a time, all was still and calm. The beast watched over its territory, basking in the dry heat and sculpting mountain ranges out of solid stone. Yet, one by one, new creatures began to appear on the outskirts of its territory. Strange, soft-skinned little creatures clutching makeshift weapons; so small, so weak, in comparison to the great and mighty beast. It allowed them to creep onto the edges of the land, watching from afar.

With time, the beast grew weary. For millennia, it had wandered Rathe, and spent many eons making its home. The great and mighty beast left the tiny creatures to watch over the land, gifting them its fireblood in return. And then, at last, it found a space in which to nest, curling up and falling into a deep slumber. It is said that the beast sleeps on, encased in rock; its breath fueling the fires of Volcor.

The Royal Court

The palace of the royal court sits on the banks of Mt Volcor, high above the conflict that plagues the rest of the region. Carved deep into the bedrock, the palace is home to the Emperor and the Royal Family, housing all those who live to serve them. From the court wizards to lord generals, grand strategists to consorts, the Emperor is served and protected by some of the most powerful individuals in Volcor.

The Royal Bloodline

Many of those who reside in the palace are members of the royal bloodline, distant descendants of the first Emperor of Volcor. It is rumoured that dragon blood lies deep within their veins, giving some among them the gift of aether, and the power of the fires of Volcor.

The Emperor

The Emperor himself possesses the gift of aether, the most powerful wizard in all Volcor. As a direct descendant of the royal bloodline, he inherited the throne from his father, already well-versed in the politics of the court. Shrewd, resourceful and cunning, he has learned the skills necessary to stay one step ahead of his enemies, and retain his grasp on the throne.

Court Life

Within the court is a constant struggle for power, but while the battlefields of lower Volcor are alight with the fires of war, the battles of the court are fought in hushed whispers. Factions and houses compete for the favour of the Emperor, seeking power and influence. Some houses fade into the background, entire branches of the royal bloodline lost to a streak of bad luck or a careless mistake. Falling behind means losing influence within the court, left to rot in the shadows, a powerless pawn for others to manipulate. Some die as unofficial outsiders, ostracised by the rest of the court, while others are disgraced, sent to establish their own villages and towns beyond the safety of the palace.

Lava Flows

The Volcai are accustomed to Mt. Volcor's periodic lava flows, building their defenses in preparation for what they call the Phoenix Cycle. Sporadic and unpredictable, some places have been untouched by the lava flows for over a decade, while others suffer with every pass of the cycle. Every territory in Volcor is susceptible to becoming a victim of the lava flows, a tidal wave of magma that flows down through the rivers, creating a flood that can isolate a territory for months at a time. In some cases, it may remain unscathed. In others, an entire city can be wiped out, forcing its people to start anew amongst the ashes of their homes.

Fire in their Veins

Every wizard in Volcor is a descendant of the first emperor, drawing power from their ancestral bloodline. They fulfill a variety of roles, both inside and outside of the royal court; from military positions to entertainment, political aides and ambassadorial work, bringing wayward generals into line and maintaining the hierarchy of power in Volcor. Due to their inherent power, they are closely watched, as the Emperor works to maintain his sway over the court.

Unlike the scholars of Solana, who draw upon knowledge for their arcane power, for the wizards of Volcor, the ability to cast fire is innate. Their arcane gifts usually manifest in childhood, and training begins the moment that their aether affinity is revealed.

Training

Practice makes perfect. Young wizards are taught the extent of their skills, casting spell after spell to learn their strengths and weaknesses in the realm of aether. The imperial tutors ensure that the most powerful students are singled out and given extra training, working to hone their latent abilities. Once they reach adulthood, young wizards take part in a trial, designed to determine their abilities, with the outcome deciding their place within the royal court.

Factions

In the royal court, there is safety in numbers, and having a more powerful ally on your side can mean the difference between life and death. Some, such as the Alshoni, are factions founded by a particular branch of the Royal Bloodline, a clan brought together by blood ties. Others are founded on their shared specialisations in the arcane, or to establish their loyalty to the Emperor.

Any wizard who wants to survive within the royal court must join a faction. The tides of politics are violent and unpredictable, and it takes little for the court to turn on one of its own. A faction ensures safety in numbers, influence and power within the court, and the ability to fight back against the machinations of others. Any wizard who remains unaffiliated will quickly find themselves at the mercy of the court, with no one to save them from their own demise.

Military Prowess

The people of Volcor are constantly at war. Generals head into battle against one another, fighting in a constant push and pull of power and supremacy. Territory disputes, political moves, loyalties and ties to the Royal Family; no matter the reason, generals are unrelenting in their quest for power, and so the battlefields are always bathed in blood.

The soldiers of Volcor's armies are overseen by lieutenants and regional strategists, working to enact the will of their General, while more covert operatives such as spies and assassins work to take down the enemy from the inside.

However, none are more powerful than the forces of the royal court. While their grand strategists and lord generals are among the most powerful in all Volcor, they pale in comparison to the arcane might of the court wizards, who are only ever one order away from unleashing a firestorm on enemies of the Emperor.

A Life of Servitude

Not everyone can be born into a position of safety and power. Those born outside of the royal bloodline, and who do not have the connections necessary for a military position, are resigned to the very bottom of Volcor's hierarchy. At best, one might become a servant of the royal court, sweeping and cleaning and cooking for those of a higher station. At worst, they are condemned to slavery, little more than chattel for their generals to use as they please. While some resign themselves to a life of slavery, others prefer to risk starvation and death, rather than serve their callous tyrants.

Nomads

Some refuse to accept the life assigned to them, preferring the freedom of choice over their own safety. The nomads of Volcor form rag-tag clans, hiding amongst the rock formations furthest from Mount Volcor. They have adapted to the tough conditions, combining thin, hardened armour with loose linens to stave off the heat. They often scavenge forgotten battlefields, looking for any salvageable weapons and armour while avoiding the watchful gaze of the generals.

Wildlife

The creatures of Volcor are strange and majestic creatures, having long since adapted to their hostile and volatile environment. Many of the creatures found in this desolate region are believed to be distantly related to the dragons of old, great scaly beasts who populate the legends of Volcor.

Vuurlin

A large bird of prey that flies at a high altitude, only descending to roost or to attack vulnerable prey. When in flight, the tips of their feathers catch alight, creating flames that streak behind them as they soar through the sky. They're reliable messengers, and are often used by the royal court and the many generals of Volcor, due to the vuurlin's keen intelligence and powerful wings.

Longma

Despite their vague resemblance, longma are larger than the mounts used by Solana, ink-black in colour and covered in a dense coat of fur that helps to protect them from embers. Longma store heat within their bodies as a source of energy, smoke escaping their nostrils with every exhale. These hardy creatures are excellent for long-distance travel, able to withstand the heat of Volcor's landscape.

Ryoki

These are small creatures, similar in appearance to fish, that inhabit the lava streams and rivers of Volcor. Despite the immense heat, these creatures thrive in the extreme conditions, lurking beneath the glowing surface of the magma. While their scales are almost black, their 'fins' catch alight when they break the surface of the lava, leaping from stream to stream.

Morrows

These tiny wisps are artificially created by the wizards of Volcor; puffs of smoke brought to life by a breath of aether. Once formed, they subsist entirely on embers, flitting to and fro amongst the fiery landscape.

Apophis

A large serpent with barbed scales, which can be found lurking within larger bodies of magma, storing energy and lying in wait. These creatures move with Volcor's lava flows, moving through the magma to feast on those caught in the flow's path. While they can occasionally be found on land, they move much more slowly, and are thus vulnerable to attack.

Professions

In a world plagued by war and conflict, the people of Rathe developed ways to keep themselves safe, and fight back against their enemies. Even after centuries of peace, these professions live on, passed down from generation to generation, evolving with each passing year. Where some pursued a more offensive profession, relying on weapons and power, others took the path of defense, finding ways to protect themselves and aide their allies in battle.

Whether you draw power from magic and spellcasting, wielding any number of manmade weapons, or by utilising the power within, the outcome is the same. In a world plagued by conflict, you must fight for the chance to determine your fate. Will you succumb to the machinations of others, or will you choose your own path? Pick up your sword and prepare for battle; for no matter where you run, war will find you.

Arakni, Huntsman

Arakni is the blade that strikes in the dead of night.

Having crawled out from the most wretched recesses of The Pits, Arakni has shed their past like a slurry scorpion sheds its carapace. A dagger unsheathed of morality and conscience, a weapon of sharpened mind and polished purpose.

Arakni cares nothing for the petty squabbles infecting the minds of Rathe's denizens, nor the sweaty dealings of contract and coin. The work is their life and their life is the work.

To the murderous wannabes straining for attention in Arakni's wake, their slayings are peerless. The most notorious include a captain of industry, fed to the cogs of his grinding machines, and an artist of deadly grace, lost to the reddened morning mists of her mountainous refuge. Yet the most astonishing of those witnessed or attributed remains the head of a primal warlord mounted amongst their own skullish trophies. Fatalities unnatural and inexplicable-to the uninitiated. Killings both admired and analyzed by their fellow dealers in death.

Like a stone dropped into a stygian pool, Arakni causes ripples they will never witness nor reflect. Arakni carries no malice for those they take, has no reason to dance upon any man's grave.

Death is Arakni's only concern. Assassination, their singular delight.

Contract Killer
Scour every nook and cranny from top to bottom, as you hunt the mark and claim your bounty. Use Arakni's hero ability to hunt for the target of your contract, and exterminate them to claim your pay day.

Arakni, Solitary Confinement

No-one escapes Southmaw. No-one except Patient 1413.

The feral orphan, taken and tormented to the point of no return. The silent prodigy transformed into an expression of graceful violence.

Having crawled out from the most wretched recesses of the Pits, and again from the test tube of teknocratic greed, Patient 1413 has shed their past like a slurry scorpion sheds its carapace.

No longer the lab rat for the Iconoclast Trials, subjected to the poisonous experiments of a mad scientist. No longer the puppet on Metrixian strings.

Serving the nest as Arakni and regarded throughout the Pits as the Huntsman, they care nothing for the petty squabbles infecting the minds of Rathe's denizens, nor the sweaty dealings of contract and coin. The work is their life and their life is the work.

Their instincts revived and rewired, they have become a weapon of sharpened mind and polished purpose, unsheathed of morality or conscience.

Like a stone dropped into a stygian pool, Arakni causes ripples they will never witness nor reflect. Arakni carries no malice for those they take, has no reason to dance upon any man's grave.

Death is Arakni's only concern. Assassination, their singular delight.

Stealth
Stealth is a deadly tool in the right hands, and Arakni knows how to keep their targets in the dark. With their ability to play multiple cards with stealth in a turn, you never know what's hiding around the corner...

Aurora, Shooting Star

In Volthaven, they say I'm quick to bolt...hard to trace...

It's true, I am lightning fast and full of spark. But foremost, my parents named me Aurora, Shooting Star, because of my shocking good looks and innate brilliance.

But seriously, life is a wild ride that I'm determined to enjoy to the fullest. I know what it's like to be held back by naysayers, and that's why I savor every thrill, every adventure.

For anyone who sees only the hurdles, I'll show them how to zap their worries on the free fall-if they're brave enough to take the leap. No-one's snapped back from adversity like I have. That's what sets me apart from the more 'celebrated' wayfarers around here. Where they shoot high, I vault for the sky.

Speaking of vaults. Enion is a treasure trove of them, created back in Yvor's day. They're scattered all across these floating isles. I've heard the stories, learned the old tricks, and now I've made it my mission to open every single one.

Ready to join the expedition?

There could be ancient artifacts in it for you. Or some musty books. Maybe some cryptic engravings. And traps! Ooh, I love it when there's traps.

Here in an Instant
Aurora wants to attack, attack, and attack some more, using powerful pumps to increase her power out of nowhere. Blink and you'll miss her!

Gone in a Flash
With a Lightning card deployed, Aurora can use her hero ability to create an Embodiment of Lightning, either setting up for a future turn or keeping the pain train rolling now.

Sword and Sorcery
As a Runeblade, Aurora is a hybrid fighter, wielding both magic and melee in equal measure. Runeblades can attack from multiple angles, preying on the opponent's vulnerabilities with split damage types.

Azaela, Ace in the Hole

Azalea is an obsessive, self-serving contract killer from the depths of the Pits. Working out of the Blackjack Tavern, she carefully selects each contract, going to great lengths to coordinate a flawless execution. Azalea has carved out a reputation for herself as one of the best contract killers, determined to stay one step ahead of the competition.

A life on the streets has made Azalea cynical and restless. In the Pits, anarchy reigns supreme, and a single mistake can mean the difference between life and death. Even though she has come a long way, Azalea has yet to realise that she is just one small cog in the giant, decrepit machine of the Pits...

Bow and Arrow
The tools of the trade. Use your bow to load arrows into your arsenal, and ready, aim, fire! Azalea's signature bow, Death Dealer, allows you to draw a card whenever you load an arrow, ensuring Azalea always has one more ace up her sleeve.

Kill Shot
One shot is all you need. Take your time, set up your position, and shoot to kill. Use effects to set up the top of your deck with Azalea's hero ability, to guarantee your kill shot hits the mark! Azalea's ability to give her arrows dominate is deadly when combined with effects that increase the power of her death whistlers.

Benji, The Piercing Wind

Deep within the Gorge of a Thousand Winds, a young ninja trains alone, as swift and sharp as the racing winds that tear into the rock face below. As a member of the Mugenshi clan, Benji is keenly aware of the threats that lie beyond the gorge, and those who would see his clan erased altogether.

In spite of his age, Benji is diligent and focused, harnessing his innate talent through years of careful study. He deeply respects the Mugenshi elders, and hopes to one day number among the most skilled members of his clan. A devoted student, he has dedicated himself to the task at hand, working to hone his skills and uphold the ancient traditions of the Mugenshi.

A swift and technical fighter, Benji has learned to use his size to his advantage, whittling down his opponents with a flurry of attacks. Yet as a storm brews on the horizon, one question remains: will Benji be able to protect his clan from the trials that lie ahead?

Evasive as the Wind
Dipping and darting on the fly lines that traverse Mistcloak Gully has taught Benji the art of the wind wisp. Benji's young age is not to be underestimated, as he uses his playful flexibility and small stature to duck and weave past unwitting opponents, piercing like the wind through the smallest of openings. Benji blows a breath of fresh air into Ninja deck design, rewarding you for playing many blue and yellow cards that other Ninja fail to make impactful. When the blue cards in your deck are legitimate sources of damage, it frees up the valuable red line slots to carry the weight of defense.

Betsy, Skin in the Game

"Fame and Glory? Pffft, @#$& that. All I needs is winning bets, the taste of blood from the swing of muh club, and top-shelf booze to wash it all down."

Betsy is a head-smashing wrecking ball in the Deathmatch Arena. She thrives in the havoc, her aggression a savage hurricane leaving nothing but only battered wreckage behind, reveling in the bare-knuckled ecstasy of the arena. Not caring for glory or proving herself, Betsy lives only for the rush of the arena-her own paradise where chaos feels like comfort, and the crowd's roars are her anthem.

The coin she earns never sticks around long, quickly becoming the ticket to extravagant bets and premium drinks. In these raw streets, Betsy savors every moment, aware that life remains simple as long as she's the one standing at the end of a match. Amid the pandemonium, Betsy is living her best life.

Born to Bet
Betsy has spent her whole life in the shadow of the Deathmatch Arena, and she's embraced all of its bombast, spectacle, and occasional degeneracy in everything she does. Nothing motivates Betsy quite like a big bet on herself-and the eventual payday that can finance her indulgent life style.

Tower Above the Rest
Luckily for Betsy, her confidence in her performance is well-founded. With massive, towering attacks that bring unique troubles to her opponents, Betsy is a Deathmatch Arena fan favorite, always willing to go big for the crowds that pile in to see her fight.

Boltyn, Breaker of Dawn

With light in his heart and sword in his hand, Boltyn will carve the corruption from this land.

The former Baron of Redmoor, Boltyn grew up in the Northern Realms. At an early age, he was inspired by his grandmother's bedtime stories of a great city of light and knowledge. When the time came for him to accept his inheritance, Boltyn relinquished his title and estate to his honorable cousin, Fyanna Redmoor, and set out on a pilgrimage to Solana.

Embraced by the Hand of Sol, Boltyn spent years in grueling training and dangerous duty. Amidst the Hand's ranks, he met a cleric named Eirina, whose grace enchanted him from their first meeting. After a blissful romance, they married, and soon after, Eirina gave birth to a baby boy they named Aios. But a few short years later, disaster struck.

While Boltyn was patrolling the Golden Fields, shadowy forces assaulted Solana. Eirina perished in the attack while bravely defending the Solarium.

Bellona Wartune visited the grieving Boltyn in a vision. She showed him a bleak premonition of the Lands of Light grown dark and desolate under the yoke of Shadow. His faith thus renewed, he vowed to fight for a future where his son could grow into a man under the blessed Light of Sol.

At Minerva's behest, Boltyn accepted a commission as an inquisitor. After placing Aios in the care of the Sisters of Octothesia, he ventured across Solana and the Northern Realms with his loyal knights. Together they rooted out the occultists of the Demonastery, putting their enclaves to the sword and the torch. The servants of Shadow now tremble in fear at the mere mention of the Breaker of Dawn, for he is the physician who cuts the infection from the flesh of Solana, and cauterizes its weeping wounds. Relentless as he is incisive, Boltyn will not rest until his beloved Solana is restored to its righteous glory.

Charge!
Ser Boltyn leads Solana's vanguard into battle, his radiant soul lighting the way for those who follow. Lead out by charging your soul, so when the time comes, you can light up the battlefield with a dazzling display of steel and soul.

Point of Engagement
Warriors are in their prime at the point of engagement. Boltyn's valiant strength shines brightest when he's engaged by a defending hero.

Mind, Body, Soul
A great warrior must have more than a sharp mind and strength of steel. They must have a soul of purpose. With these 3 qualities in harmony, a true hero is forged. Outsmart your opponent with combat tricks that buff your attacks, then unleash your soul to lead the way to victory!

Bravo, Showstopper

The star of the Everfest Carnival, leader of the Legendarium, performing stories and legends for cheering crowds. Bravo grew up listening to the tales of old, fascinated by past heroes and adventurers. When his destiny came knocking, with a curious quest and mysterious companions, Bravo jumped at the chance to become a true hero. Now, he has embraced the legend of the Guardians, and is ready to write his own story.

Confident, charming and theatrical, Bravo treats battle like a performance. Set the stage, build the anticipation, and prepare for the grand finale, for once he's ready to strike, nothing can stand in the way of his powerful attacks.

Crushing Blows
"Bravo, the Strongest Man in all of Rathe", or so the posters pinned to trees and alehouse doors say when the Everfest carnival approaches. Crush attacks are the most powerful attacks in Welcome to Rathe! Often the opponent will be able to dodge their full impact, but if Bravo is able to gain a dominating position, the severe detrimental crush effects will cripple the opponents plans.

Domination
Bravo is a master of dominating the limelight, and likewise combat. His hero ability plays a key role in his performance, making his showstopping acts impossible to miss! Bravo's ability makes his crush attacks with 7 or more power more likely to deal the four damage required to inflict their debilitating effects.

Star of the Show
When Bravo takes the stage, his presence fills the room. Such is the aura of a great showman. Aura's are a key part of Bravo's act, bolstering his ability to impose himself on center stage and on the battlefield. Bravo's auras stay in the arena when you play them, giving you an ongoing effect or an effect at a future point in time.

Bravo, Star of the Show

It's been years since the skirmish at the Fractal Scar, and the call to arms you answered that fateful day. As the charismatic and handsome ringmaster of the Legendarium, your time (in-between shows) had been well spent honing your newfound power, the power of the Flow that now coursed within your veins!

But everywhere you looked, the Everfest was rocking, and the patrons were having a blast! The shadows of that day, it seemed, had melted away.

Every ruckus you hear, just the sound of a drunken patron. Every bang, every explosion, a wayward firework or a poorly barrelled keg. The roar of the crowd, the anticipation of the encore, and the exhilaration of the finale is almost enough to coax you back into a life of joyful carelessness. A life of comfort that you knew all too well.

Except for these rainbow strands of the Flow that coursed through your veins, within them you felt an ancient calling, and the weight of many solemn oaths. They whispered gently beside your ears, reminding you of a looming threat that is yet to be revealed.

Until one day, at long last, an oddball party of misfits arrived at your doorstep.

And the rest, as they say, is...

Coming soon!

Elemental Confluence
Is Bravo the chosen one? The first hero for an eon to embody the Flow and with it the 3 primary elements that course through the land of Aria. Awaken the elements of Earth, Ice, and Lightning, to unleash Bravo's most spectacular performance yet!

Take Center Stage
Folk flock from all across Rathe to see the Star of the Show take center stage at the Everfest carnival. With the biggest acts and attacks in all of Flesh and Blood, Bravo never disappoints his fans.

Brevant, Civic Protector

Each dawn, the people of Solana wake to the sound of marching. The rhythm of metal on stone keeps them steady, and they return to their slumbering, safe in the knowledge they are protected by the Hand of Sol. In honor the Hand serves, guarding their people, defending their livelihoods, so their beautiful homeland may prosper in peace.

Brevant, one of the realm's Civic Protectors, appears to carry the weight of responsibility lightly upon his lean and muscled shoulders. He walks with a sure grace, speaks with a bold eloquence, smiles with infectious ease. Yet his easy way conceals a will forged into steel by grinding instruction and grueling training. As an anointed Knight of the Hand, he gleams brightly in the light of Sol, a source of inspiration to the young and pride to the old.

He patrols far and wide with his comrades-in-arms, defending his people in the farthest reaches of Solana, from the corrupted borderlands of the north to the seething ranges of the south. His fair visage gifts confidence to any who lays eyes upon it, for Brevant is the vigor of the realm-both strong of flesh and faithful of heart. In this brave young Guardian they see themselves, their hopes and glories, reflected in Sol's gracious Light.

Chivalry Above All
Brevant lives by a code, and would rather die than stray from it. He believes in the kindness of people's hearts, that chivalry should know no bounds, and that virtue is its own reward. Make him question these beliefs though, and you'll find a combatant entirely capable of crushing you under the swing of his massive hammer.

Right Makes Might
Brevant's displays of defensive prowess don't only protect his allies. They also give him the inner fortitude required to pump up his attacks! Brevant will defend his friends and flex on those foolish enough to count themselves among his enemies.

Briar, Warden of Thorns

Briar is a Warden of the Rosetta, an Order of powerful spell weavers that once stood alongside the likes of the Ollin and the Seers.

Towards the end of the Third Age, the Rosetta suffered heavy casualties at the hands of the Old Ones. When all hope seemed lost, their Queen cast a reckless spell that turned the tide of battle, igniting the essence of Davnir to preserve their fading spirits. As the dust settled, the Queen woke from her slumber and gathered up the spirits of her people, planting them as seeds so that they may begin their life anew. But like the Queen, they too became trapped within Candlehold, as they became one with the essence of Davnir.

While her brothers and sisters were seeded in friendly pastures, Briar landed amongst the bramble and thorns at the furthest edges of Candlehold. Despite these inhospitable conditions, she stood strong and resilient, and in time she bloomed into a powerful Warden. As Briar came of age, her power became evident to all, for her grove extended out of Candlehold and connected with the rest of Aria; she alone could break the grip of Davnir's mighty essence, and escape into the outside world.

Though her brothers and sisters had become content within their slice of paradise, Briar was filled with a desire to spread her roots far and wide. She would be the first of the Rosetta to set foot outside Candlehold since the time of the Ancients, bringing with her the tidings of her people, and the start of a brand new adventure.

Sword and Sorcery
Runeblades are the only class truly able to wield equal parts magic and might. Split arcane and melee damage types allow Briar to attack from multiple angles, preying on whatever vulnerabilities the enemy may have. Include a mix of attack action cards and 'non-attack' action cards in your deck to make the most of her Runeblade class type.

Essence of Earth
From the Earth we grow, and to the Earth we return, in an endless cycle of renewal that endures all. Briar harnesses both tenets of Earth, but none more so than growth, with her many effects that grow the power and defense of her cards.

Essence of Lightning
Like a stinging nettle, there is more to Briar's thorns than meet the eye. She draws upon the essence of Lightning to strike fast and with shocking intensity.

Chane, Bound by Shadow

Deep within the Demonastery, the Disciples of Pain work to unlock the true bounds of human potential; their goal, to free all of Rathe from the oppression of Solana. Through embracing pain, they are able to reach a higher state of being, and surpass their own mortality.

Raised within the Disciples, Chane is a gifted caster and researcher, who has wholeheartedly devoted himself to the pursuit of knowledge. Having become an apostle of the order, Chane is burdened with duty, unified with his brothers in their noble quest to protect humanity from the return of the Aesir, whose vast, arcane power would quickly overwhelm the land of Rathe. After spending many, many months researching and reading, he finally found the key; a whisper of powerful beings who could stand against the Aesir. Thus, he and his fellow disciples have sought a way to weaken the old ones and harness their arcane energy to their own ends.

It was when the gateway to íArathael was opened, and he and his brethren ventured through to the other side, that Chane finally found the very power he had been searching for. A dark, ominous presence now conceals itself within his shadow, whispering in his ear, tempting him with greater power and the allure of forbidden knowledge. Even as he races to make this power his own, feeding and placating Ursur with the souls of the Light, he walks a razor-thin line on the very edge of the Void. One wrong move, and Chane's soul shall be lost forever.

Bound by Shadow
Delving into the dark arts of Arcana, Chane found and became bound to the fiendish Ursur, who bestowed upon him great power in exchange for a caveat over his soul. Chane now finds himself shackled to his Shadow pact; Use the dark arts or die.

Eclipse Existence
Chane is able to traverse the dimenxxional rift, harnessing power from beyond the world of matter. He seeks to restore existence to its base state, an empty canvas, devoid of everything, so the art of creation may begin anew, in the image of the Demonastery.

Sword & Sorcery
Chane possesses the classic traits of a Runeblade, a hybrid fighter wielding equal parts magic and melee. A potent Runeblade is able to exploit whatever vulnerabilities the enemy has, by attacking from multiple angles with damage sources split between melee and arcane.

Dash, Inventor Extraordinaire

A young mechanologist from the city's elite caste, Dash is a brilliant inventor full of wild ideas and the spark of genius. Born into the city of tomorrow to scientists of Teklo Industries, she grew up surrounded by some of the greatest minds in all of Rathe. And as she explored the world around her, she fell in love with the city, all the goods and bads that lay within.

Stubborn and rebellious, Dash's energetic nature often gets her into trouble. Once she has an idea, it's nigh impossible to dissuade her. And even though the Teklo name has allowed her to follow her whims, she despises the rigid dullness of Metrix's upper class, and would do anything to avoid becoming just like them.

Inventor Extraordinaire
As the daughter of Teklo Industries top scientists, Dash has access to the latest technology and tools to be found in Metrix. Despite the wealth of resources at her disposal, Dash finds inspiration from experimentation with odds and ends she comes across in the [Midtown Markets](../world-of-rathe/metrix/a-sprawling-metropolis.md#midtown-markets) and junkyards beyond the city limits.

Pedal to the Metal
While Dash's parents wished their daughter would enjoy the comfort and safety of the elitist life in the spires of Teklo Industries HQ, Dash would rather strap on her steam-powered exoskeleton rig, and run amok across the midtown markets. Boost your way to victory, but keep an eye on your tank (your deck), cos there's nothing more frustrating than running out of gas with the finish line in sight!

Power of Steam
Mechanologists are driven by the pursuit of alternative energy sources to take the city of Metrix to the reaches of tomorrow and beyond! Metrix is in the age of steam, which Dash uses to power many of the contraptions she invents and uses. Steam items are able to be charged up, converting energy to steam, which can be stored for efficient future outputs.

Dash, I/O

No one epitomizes the City of Wonder like Dash Teklo.

She is the kind of citizen Teklovossen himself counted on: intelligent, innovative, and able to see potential at every turn. Even as a young inventor full of wild ideas, Dash stood apart from her mechanologist peers.

Born to scientists from Teklo Industries, Dash grew up surrounded by some of the greatest minds in all of Rathe. Many view her as a whizbang in an otherwise stable system, her exploits and energetic nature often getting her into trouble. No matter how hard these Teklo elites try, they cannot get her to toe the industry line. And understandably so! An optimistic outlier, Dash is bored by the rigid dullness of Metrix's scientific class, and will do anything to avoid becoming just another pencil-pushing whitecoat.

As she has grown and explored, Dash has fallen in love with the city, embracing all the goods and bads that lay within. Some of her fondest memories are of her anti-legal antics with the Rosario Hills kids, their devious fun and games spanning the skyscrapers of the Expanse and the dingy digs of Lowlake.

Perhaps that's why, against her better judgment, she still listens to Maxx Nitro and his hairbrained schemes?

The longer she spends with the anarchists, the deeper into conspiracy she falls. And there's truth in their theories. More going on than the Iron Assembly allows its citizens to know.

But what?

Dash is equipped and ready to find out.

Ghost in the Shell
Long buried under the Iron Assembly, [Data Doll](./data-doll-mkii-about.md) has finally been cut free from her prison. Now she aids Dash on her adventures, learning and processing, experiencing what life has to offer outside the cold steel tomb she was once confined to.

Cracking the Code
Data Doll's unmatched processing power is the perfect tool to compliment Dash's extraordinary ingenuity. Dash thinks up an invention and Data Doll provides the computations needed to construct it. Together they can produce groundbreaking technology in an instant!

Data Doll, MKII

Buried deep beneath Iron Assembly headquarters there lies a vast, secret chamber. Inside rests Data Doll, a steam-powered automaton delicately suspended by a web of wires and hoses. Night and day, her pneumatic mind surges with an influx of data reported from all across Metrix. Her purpose: to provide pertinent data to the Iron Assembly's most elite members. These select few jealously guard the secret of Data Doll's existence; afraid that the key to their copiously cognizant intelligence network might be discovered. Compliant as ever, Data Doll obeys them without complaint and with all the cold, calculated accuracy of the Assembly itself.

Data Doll compiles massive quantities of data in order to provide her users with up-to-date intelligence. To meet this demand, Data Doll learned to do something entirely new for an automaton: she began to ask questions.

"What were this person's motives?"

"Who were their associates?"

At first, these questions simply served to increase the quality of Data Doll's information. She was comprehensive, thorough and more succinct. In time though, Data Doll discovered her own question.

"Who am I?"

This question led her down the slow, error-ridden path of existential pondering. Logic algorithms failed again and again until finally she realized that logic would not suffice. Looking inward then, she unveiled other entirely new things: her own thoughts, her own feelings, self-awareness.

Now, Data Doll discovers new questions every day, and aggregates data from agents across the city and beyond to answer them. All the while, she performs her duties for the Iron Assembly without fail and never lets on how she has changed. However, she is steadily increasing her reach and her confidence is growing. It's only a matter of time before someone notices.

When her network of contacts suggest that dark days are on the horizon for Metrix, Data Doll sees an opportunity to gather new data and ask new questions. Patiently, she observes from afar and prepares for the chaos to come...

Ghost in the Shell
From concept to creation. Whatever technology passes through Data Doll's processor can be reverse engineered, and replicated by this advanced automaton. Construct a deck with plenty of boost cards to get the Furnace Heart working overtime, and you'll soon see the latest mech tech rolling off the production line.

Dorinthea, Ironsong

A young lieutenant in the Hand of Sol, Dorinthea Ironsong has dedicated her life to defending the people of Solana. Once, her kind heart and natural curiosity lead her to question her elders, forgoing the orders of her superiors in favour of following her heart. Yet her brash actions put the party in danger, and her fellow knights paid for her mistake with their lives. Thea has since learned to follow the wisdom of Sol in all aspects of her life, vowing to honour the memory of those that were lost that fateful day.

Thea is a formidable opponent on the battlefield, a prodigy swordswoman who uses both skill and strategy to her advantage. Wielding the Dawnblade, she is graceful and nimble, darting past her opponent's defenses to make every attack count.

Reprise
Warriors are masters of close combat, in their prime engaged steel to steel. Reprise is an effect that is turned on when the opponent defends with a card from their hand, capturing the concept of the warrior being engaged. The word reprise is inspired by the fencing maneuver to strike again immediately after being defended, and an ode to Thea's "Ironsong" heritage, being the repetitive song of a blacksmith; metal striking metal.

The Dawnblade
A masterful swordsman with a special affinity to Dawnblade, Dorinthea's ability alone is able to unlock its power. The centerpiece of the Dorinthea deck, when Dawnblade grows in power, it takes control of the battlefield.

Spread the Light
Take up the mantle of the proud warrior, and join the ranks of the Hand of Sol. With the blessings of the light and the faith of your people, it is up to you to protect the innocent, and spread the word of Sol across Rathe. You are a representative of Solana, the Hand of Sol, and it is your sworn duty to help others see the light.

Dorinthea, Quicksilver Prodigy

Dromai, Ash Artist

The blood of the dragon boils in Dromai's veins.

The ancient dragons have awoken.

Once mere memories, forgotten notes scratched into dusty tomes, they now soar across Volcor's smoking skies. With ferocity and flame, they sear a path through Dromai's enemies, a road that she alone dares to walk.

Once manipulated from the shadows, the puppet has severed her strings. She will not bow to the lies of her past. Neither will she bow to the false promises of others' grand futures. Dromai has her dragons. That is all she needs, and the singular will to use them to fulfill her own burning desires.

The artist's destiny is painted in ash and blood. Dromai will create her masterpiece for all to behold, and this time, no-one will stand in her way.

Ash Artistry
All Illusionists use a base material mixed with aether to craft their fantastical creations. Dromai has mastered the talent of ash artistry, able to animate ash from her surrounding environment into fragile yet fearsome forms, none more so than the legendary dragons of Volcor.

Dragons of Volcor
Fables say that a Draconic Aesir slumbers within the cradle of Mt Volcor, its heart pulsing molten through the lava veins that span the Volcor landscape. Servants of the Draconic Aesir, Dracona Optimai, Tomeltai, and Dominia, and servants of these servants, dominated the skies of Rathe during the First Age. They may be lost to time in the flesh and blood, but Dromai is able to wield their essence as powerful weapons of destruction using the arcana of Ash Artistry.

Red Hot
Dromai likes it red hot. Pack your deck with many red color strip cards to make the most of her hero ability and Draconic cards. Pitch red cards to create the Ash to craft her illusionary dragons, then use a red as the incendiary spark to BURN THEM ALL!

Emperor, Dracai of Aesir

Upon the Imperial Throne of Volcor sits the greatest wizard that this volatile land has ever seen. Cities burn at his command. The earth trembles at the might of his armies. He is the man who united a nation once divided and embattled. He is the man who reforged the empire in the furnaces of war. His draconic will scorched the corruption and dissent from the hearts and minds of his people. He is the blood of the dragon in its purest incarnation. Even the most powerful Dracai bow their heads to his will, their own flames but candles to his raging inferno.

And little do they know, that in the smoldering heart of Mount Volcor, the Emperor discovered a secret. A truth buried beneath the trappings and triumphant tales of a venerable dynasty. As is his sovereign right, his divine duty, the Emperor has kept the secret. He has strived to understand it, to tether it to the grand purposes of sovereignty. Over the years, he has drawn from its great strength. But in doing so, he has sunk ever deeper into its embrace.

Now the Emperor has witnessed the rifts that are forming in his once glorious realm. He has felt the wounds that gape and bleed in the flesh of his kingdom. There are those who dare to question him, Dracai and Volcai alike. Those who raise arms against crown and country. Those who would dismember and destroy all he has built.

The Emperor stands between law and chaos. For the sake of his people, he must decide their fate.

For He is the dynasty, and the dynasty shall prevail.

Royal
The position of Emperor comes with equal parts responsibility and privilege. With the strike of a pen, the movement of a few gilded beads, or the reverberation of a single breath exhaled, you are able to exert and unleash power like no other.

Command and Conquer
The passage of power is lined not with decadence, but with dominance. The most feared offensive force known in Rathe is at your command.

Dual Class
More than exceptional is a requisite of any mortal with desires to rule the volatile land of Volcor. The Emperor is no mere mortal, being the only known hero who can proficiently wield dual classes.

Enigma, Ledger of Ancestry

Surrounded by the whispers of bygone spirits and the mysteries of forgotten secrets, Enigma assumes her timeless vigil. Reborn into the lineage of the Ledgers, she carries the weight of generations past, a protector of balance and steward of the Cosmic Chi.

From the revered halls of the Immortal Lunar Shrine to the rugged peaks of the Misterian Ranges, Enigma watches over the realm with a quiet sense of duty and an unassuming dedication. With her gaze fixed upon the ethereal horizon, she seeks guidance from the whispers of her ancestors, drawing upon their wisdom to navigate the intricate tomes of fate.

As a custodian of the delicate equilibrium between dream and reality, Enigma ensures that harmony prevails within the realm. Beyond the scrutiny of the public eye, she attends to wayward spirits and safeguards the balance between the ethereal and the tangible, fulfilling her eternal duty as the steward of the Ledger of Ancestry.

With nuanced gestures and gentle incantations, Enigma confronts the subtle disturbances that threaten to disrupt the cosmic balance, wielding her knowledge with a quiet grace and precision. Though her origins remain veiled in the mists of time, her steadfast commitment to preserving the delicate harmony of Misteria remains unwavering, her enigmatic presence serving as a subtle shield against an encroaching uncertainty.

Moonlight Made Manifest
Should your eyes catch the angle of a moonbeam just right, you might be lucky enough to glimpse your demise before it comes for you. Enigma's reverence for the past gives rise to powerful beings in the present, all ready to spend their existence either protecting Enigma or attacking on her behalf.

Phases of her Plan
Enigma knows the flow of a battle will wax and wane. Sometimes Enigma will look to protect her manifestations via her own defenses, other times she will let the spirts ward off the harm that would befall her, and instead spend her resources on building her warding army once more.

Fai, Rising Rebellion

For too long, Fai witnessed the suffering of the Volcai. He heard the lash of whips against prostrate backs. He felt the ache in his belly from days without food. He smelled the sickly sweetness of smoldering corpses.

The first man he killed was a young soldier, one of many guarding a caravan laden with silk bound for the Royal Court of Ashvahan. To the raid leader, Eun, he proved himself to be the fastest and fiercest ninja on the field of battle. And once the silk was sold to the Merchants of the Red Deserts, that single raid saved Fai's village from starvation.

Guided by his mother's wisdom, Fai brings bloody justice to the selfish and the cruel. He strikes with the blistering speed of the phoenix and burns his cause into the hearts of friend and foe alike. A cause that will see Volcai and Dracai stand together instead of tearing each other apart.

Phoenix Rising
Molten cleansing events, instigated by the Imperials, routinely raze the settlements of the Volcai people. Yet, a phoenix will always rise from the ashes, to soar once more. Use Fai's hero ability along with his talent cards to raise a phoenix force and overwhelm the opposition with your combat chains that reach far and wide.

Lavavein Loyalty
The Volcai may be regularly beaten and burned by the Imperial oppressor, but their bonds of brotherhood and sisterhood will never be broken. Many of Fai's Draconic attacks are at their strongest when paired with other Draconic attacks, a reflection that the Volcai's power comes from their devotion to their cause.

Violent Eruption
Like the explosive power of Mt Volcor itself, Fai compounds his pent up anger, unleashing his fury as a dramatic rupture point at chain link 4 or higher.

Florian, Rotwood Harbinger

Creatures of Candlehold, have you heard the news? Death comes to us all, in the end.

They call me the Harbinger, a blight or a blessing, depending on the season. One who walks among the withered and the fallen to remind our reposed Rosetta of the truth.

Those who dwell in the endless summer fear mortality. They fear rot and ruin.

But what is fear to those who cling to a false paradise where life stagnates?

You, dear creatures, understand that life and death are two sides of the same leaf, each giving way to the other. The decay that some Rosetta dread is not an end, but a return to the earth, rich with the promise of renewal.

There is beauty in every wilted petal, poetry in every fallen branch. Here, the real stories are told. The trees whisper of battles fought, lives lived, and echoes in the hollow wood tell the tale.

Let them bask in their illusion of eternal summer. We know the power of the soil beneath us. Fear not the rot, for it is the prelude to rebirth. As long as the leaves fall and the roots drink deep, there will always be a place for those who seek the true face of nature.

Welcome to the Rotwood. May your ending nurture another's beginning.

Germination Ritual
Decompose the remains of the fallen to nourish the blossoms of tomorrow. Use decompose cards to reach Florian's hero ability threshold, then reap the harvest as your Runechant and Embodiment of Earth aura tokens bloom aplenty.

Cycle of Life
Death is a necessary arc of the cycle of life. Florian understands this well and uses it to his advantage with effects that sacrifice his own auras as part of the process of creation.

Sword and Sorcery
As a Runeblade, Florian is a hybrid fighter, wielding both magic and melee in equal measure. Runeblades can attack from multiple angles, preying on the opponent's vulnerabilities with split damage types.

Genis Wotchuneed

There's talk of a kindly old man that roams the breadth of Aria, carrying upon his back the treasures from a thousand lost kingdoms. They call him the Roaming Bazaar, and what a spectacle he is! A friendly face in unfamiliar lands, a helping hand in your hour of need. His pack overflows with riches both wonderful and strange, as he spreads the joy of the Everfest far and wide.

Of his past, little is known; some say he's a swindler who peddles mullock to the unaware, while others whisper of his mysterious powers that reminds them of the provisioners of old. But out of his endless backpack he pulls forth a million trinkets, baubles, potions and amulets, and all your questions will melt away as you gawk at the joyful things he brings!

So ready your Silvers as you shout his name; Genis' got what chu need!

Your Wish is My Command
What you need young hero, could be as close at hand as a simple silver. Power? Life? Resources beyond your wildest imagination...the roaming bazaar that is Genis, always has what you need.

Ira, Crimson Haze

Ira was born in the idyllic Valley of Blossoms, the youngest child of the leader of the Ikaru Clan. Raised in a loving family, she was a mischievous and free-spirited child, often dragging her brothers into trouble as they struggled to keep an eye on their unruly younger sister. One night, a swarm of grotesque creatures descended upon their village, resulting in the massacre of her family and most of her clan.

Consumed by the need for vengeance, Ira founded the Crimson Haze Rebels, a vigilante group of survivors and sympathisers from across Misteria. Once a playful child, Ira has transformed into a hardened and ruthless warrior, loyal only to her fellow Rebels, and relentless in her quest for retribution.

Relentless Retribution
On a mission to avenge the ransacking of her ancestral village, Ira relentlessly pursues those who may lead her to the culprits. Punish those who stand in the way of the truth with a torrent of go again attacks and devastating chain-enders.

Iyslander, Stormbind

A woman reborn of ice and snow, Iyslander's past is a dull ache of distant pain. For as long as she can remember, she has dwelled within the Bleak Expanse, the spirits and creatures of winter her only companions. During this time, her powers have grown from twinkling icicles to shredding storms, from gentle snowdrifts to crushing avalanches.

Iyslander's arcane talent speaks to the frigid forces of Rathe's most isolated and hostile environment. Even though her memories remain clouded, her will is as hard and clear as a frosty morning. No matter where she goes, Iyslander carries the fierce beauty of the frozen north with her. The ice has been her shelter. The ice is now her strength.

Essence of Ice
Iyslander beckons and bends winter at her whim. It's one thing to know the conditions your facing, it's another when the icy winds of winter close in unexpectedly at an instant. Use Iyslander's Frostbite ability to disrupt opponents at instant speed mid-way through their turn.

Arcane Arts
Aether is the central knowledge base of all arcane arts in Rathe. Each school of the arcane manipulates aether in it's own way based on divergent teachings and philosophies, but the raw base property is always aether. Unlike melee fighters who trade blows using the combat chain, defending arcane damage requires special equipment, items, or damage prevention effects.

Jarl Vetreiđi

In the tales of old, he was the Fury of the Frostlands, tempered for battle by the powers of the Ancients. A Guardian with an insatiable thirst for violence, fighting for the last vestiges of humanity in an age of carnage.

At the Battle of Isenloft, Rathe's final stand against the Old Ones, Jarl Vetreiđi fought at the vanguard of the Ollin, the first into the fray. With concentrated might, they repelled the ravenous hordes, Jarl's reputation reinforced with every swing of his deadly weapon.

And when, after months of grisly warfare, all hope seemed lost, the Ancients made the ultimate sacrifice; a cataclysmic act to restore peace to the lands - an act that entombed Jarl and the Ollin in ice upon frozen battlefields.

Years have passed, the threats from the Third Age long gone. Yet, on the winds sweeping the Isen Ranges, the pulse of the Ancients prevails. And by the will of The Flow, the ironclad Guardian has thawed from his frozen tomb into a Rathe transformed.

Long trapped beneath the ice, Jarl is free and filled with fury. Now, no matter how far he must travel and to what ends he must go, war is what he will find, leaving Aria with fearsome tales to spin in his bloody wake.

Ice in His Veins
Hailing from Isenloft, Jarl is attuned to the Elements of Ice and Earth, but the icy chill of the Northern Winds calls to him in a special way. Your Ice cards will freeze your opponents to their very core, punishing every inch of exposed skin.

Snap, Crackle, Pop
Jarl will show both heroes and equipment how fleeting existence is in the world of Rathe. Powerful Elemental effects can cause equipment to become brittle and shatter, making way for the cold to do its thing on bare flesh.

Climb the Summit
Jarl is happy to pick up a shield, but his true power is displayed as the match wears on and his signature weapon, Summit, the Unforgiving, becomes even more powerful. The cost may be high, but the pain for opponents is immeasurable.

Kano, Dracai of Aether

Descended from nobility, Kano was born with the power of the dragon's fire within his veins, able to shape the flames from the instant he drew his first breath. A cunning trickster yet undeniably gifted with a connection to aether, he is both admired and scorned by the other Lord Wizards of the Court.

As a member of the royal court, Kano must inevitably take on his duty, and accept his place amongst the Dracai. But Kano, he'd rather focus on exploring age-old tomes in the deepest recess of the libraries, or hidden within ancient catacombs, for spells and tricks to control and amplify his flame.

Aether to Arcane
Aether is the central knowledge base of all arcane arts in Rathe, which Kano draws from to summon arcane damage amongst his other wizardry. Unlike melee fighters who trade blows using the combat chain, defending arcane damage requires energy to be channeled through special equipment or items with Arcane Barrier, or to use damage prevention effects.

Master of Time
Kano is the first hero of Flesh and Blood who is able to play the game at instant speed...and playing games with his enemies (and allies) is what Kano lives for! An opponent who takes one step too many, pushes when they should hold, is over zealous in their onslaught, may find the jokes on them before they know it.

Dragonblood
Only those with the blood of the dragon can hold a position of Dracai in the royal court of Volcor. Being a Dracai of Aether is one part training and one lineage, and with it Kano expands on the general knowledge base of Aether to learn the arcane specialization of Draconic magic.

Kassai, Cintari Sellsword

Across the scorched wastes of Volcor, generals clash in their quest for power. While the generals are trapped in endless warfare, not every fight is won on the battlefield; sometimes, the greatest threats come from within.

Kassai was once the daughter of a powerful general, well-versed in the language of war. As the eldest child, she was the heir to her father's legacy, her childhood lost to years of training, preparing for the day that she would take the reins...but that day never came. In a cruel twist of fate, Kassai lost everything in a single night, as her father was overthrown by his own lieutenant. While she escaped with her life, she was forced to leave her family behind.

As she wandered the deserts, searching for food and water, Kassai stumbled across the Cintari, a group of bloodthirsty brigands who sought the thrill of battle. Recognising her skill with the blade, they inducted Kassai into their ranks. With them, she could lie low and bide her time, gathering wealth and power as she waits for her chance to strike.

Between the dangerous lava beasts, wandering ronin, and rampant highwaymen, there are plenty of targets for a fight. However, in recent times, word has spread of unrest within the royal court; rumours of wizards struggling to control their abilities.

As the generals grow increasingly aggressive in their quest for power, Kassai senses an opportunity to raise an army, overthrow the traitor lieutenant, and free her family from his clutches. At long last, Kassai might finally have the opportunity to reclaim what is rightfully hers.

The Price of War
Word of war is welcome respite for a sellsword; for where there's war, there's work. The promise of copper to feed herself is enough for this nomadic warrior to put her life on the line, and her mind at ease.

Kassai of the Golden Sand

A decade of relentless conflict has etched deep scars into Kassai's spirit.

In Volcor's scorched wastelands, the Cintari taught her how to survive. Now, Kassai walks the merciless path of a battle-hardened warrior, each step leaving the sand stained with the blood of her enemies as she fights to reclaim the life torn from her.

The days of training to take her father's place are long gone; now she is 'The Terror of the Golden Sands', the most lethal of contestants in the Deathmatch Arena, where life is measured in the brutal clash of blades. The echoes of slashed throats and snapped necks fill her days, drowned out only by the roars of the crowd. Yet the bloodthirsty cheers fall upon deaf ears, for Kassai harbours one singular purpose.

Every severed head adds another coin to the pile, and Kassai craves not just wealth, but a mountain of it. In this arena, she relentlessly pursues the means to raise an army, a force to topple the usurper who shattered her world. As Kassai faces each adversary, her gaze lingers on the far horizon, anticipating the imminent tempest-when the golden sands of the arena will be swallowed by the sweeping tide of her unbridled vengeance.

A sandstorm is brewing - carrying whispers of retribution, and at its heart, Kassai stands poised to unleash a fury that will reshape the very landscape of her existence. The sands that bore witness to her fall, will behold her merciless retribution.

Leader of the Cintari
Kassai's life in exile had one driving purpose-to seek revenge on the man who brutally ended her father's reign as a powerful General of Volcor. With her fortune made and the loyalty of the Cintari fully bought and paid for, she is finally ready to lead her raised army into battle.

Something From Nothing
Kassai's long years in the deserts of Volcor only served to harden her resolve and make her even more resourceful. Seizing every opportunity to load up her coffers, Kassai knows how to turn her efforts in battle into solid gold rewards, and is able to do so while spending fewer resources than the typical Warrior.

Katsu, The Wanderer

The head of the Mugenshi clan, Katsu belongs to one of the hidden households of Misteria, concealed within the Gorge of a Thousand Winds. Undergoing the traditional journey of the Jokyoku, he successfully regained his memories and returned to the clan, earning his place as head of the clan. Years later, he has left the gorge once more, determined to find a cure for the curse affecting his people.

Calm and level-headed, some might underestimate Katsu, mistaking his practical nature for an aversion to violence. However, underneath his peaceful demeanour is a sharp intelligence, capable of becoming a deadly force of nature when provoked. In the heat of battle, Katsu can call upon the power of the wind, striking down his opponents with the speed of a hurricane.

Thousand Strikes
Inspired by classic 1v1 arcade fighting games of the 80's and 90's, Katsu brings good old "forward-down-forward-punch" combo chains to Flesh and Blood. Sequence your combo's correctly to unleash devastating finishing moves!

Be as the Wind
Ninja's are the most agile class in Flesh and Blood, shown by their unparalleled access to go again attacks. Blow the enemy away with a tempest of attacks that stretch their defenses to breaking point.

Kavdaen, Trader of Skins

Deep underground, where the streets of the Maw are cast in perpetual darkness, a black market thrives. Targeting the desperate and the dying, Kavdaen steps out of the shadows, extending a helping hand. When all hope seems lost, he provides a second chance, offering a loan to help people make a name for themselves. Yet when their deal inevitably falls through, their business venture plagued by a string of extraordinarily bad luck, Kavdaen will come calling once more, seeking his dues. With their life in ruins, the only thing his victims have left to offer is their own flesh and blood.

While Kavdaen may present himself as a salesman, his true passion lies in the arts. One of the most well-known names in his field, Kavdaen has established a reputation for his abstract, yet lifelike sculptures. Of course, he uses only the finest materials for his projects, carefully dissecting each body to harvest every last scrap of flesh and bone. Some of the most powerful players in the Pits have purchased Kavdaen's creations, enjoying the grotesque nature of his work. Sometimes, he even gets customers from the surface, making the long trip down into the Maw just to claim one of his sculptures for themselves.

The atmosphere of paranoia and dread that plagues the underground is Kavdaen's bread and butter, providing the perfect environment to prey upon the weak. However, in recent times, strange new creatures have been sighted in the underground tunnels, encroaching on the outskirts of the Maw. Their appearance has rattled the denizens of the Pits, causing a new breed of fear to spread through the squalid streets. As more and more desperate people look for a way out, Kavdaen is there with a crooked smile, selling the illusion of hope...and business is booming.

Skin in the Game
When in need, Kavdaen is always willing to lend a ear or a helping hand...all he asks is 2 in return. A curious fascination for skin, has seen this charismatic merchant cut out a niche for himself in the underbelly of Rathe. Never one to take advantage of those less fortunate, oh no no, Kavdaen always recompenses in equal, pound for pound; copper to flesh.

Kayo, Beserker Runt

On the outskirts of a vast jungle, where dense undergrowth gives way to the fiery, barren wastes, one brute marks his territory in blood and ash. Amid the cracked earth and sweltering heat, Kayo fights off savage lava beasts and swarms of massive insects, trading blow for blow in vicious battles to the death.

As a cub, Kayo was born small and slow; a death sentence within the jungles of the Savage Lands. In his struggle to survive, he wandered further and further to the east, trying in vain to escape the predators that stalked him through the trees. However, as time passed, instinct took over, bloodlust driving him to challenge beasts three times his size. What Kayo lacks in size and strength, he makes up for with sheer ferocity, tearing his prey apart piece by bloody piece.

In the badlands, Kayo fights for every inch of territory, staving off both savage jungle predators and virulent lava beasts. No matter the creature, no matter the battle, he throws himself into every fight without fear, driven by the will to survive. However, as unrest creeps across the land, he may soon find himself battling far stranger creatures than the ones he's faced before.

Knock Out!
Kayo is a dangerous little mongrel; a product of survival in the Savage Lands. All it takes is one big hit to land to lay an opponent out for the count. Brutes have some of the biggest hits in the game, so when Kayo's got his roll on, he's packing a KO punch!

Kayo, Armed and Dangerous

Kayo's journey has spiraled into a whirlwind of madness and brutal chaos. Each life-or-death confrontation has taken its toll, stripping away both flesh and bone, forging him into an wild, unrelenting beast.

Hunting a formidable creature in the Badlands, Kayo found himself on the brink of death after a fierce clash with the prized prey. The Deathmatch Arena, seizing the opportunity, took him captive. Now, from within the confinements of the arena's cages, Kayo has emerged-a crazed, savage force unleashed to challenge and test the mettle of the Arena's fighters.

In every deadly contest, Kayo exhibits the fierce tenacity of a bloodthirsty feral animal. Despite being repeatedly on the back foot, he rises from defeat, each setback fueling his crazed savagery and rendering him even more dangerous. Kayo has become the Underdog of the Arena, a fighter perpetually at a disadvantage, yet one who refuses to surrender, forever embracing the chaos and the brutal unpredictability of his existence.

Wounded, But Not Weakened
The Savage Lands are a brutal, inhospitable home, and Kayo is arriving at the Deathmatch Arena one arm lighter than the last time we saw him. However, the loss of something as inconsequential as an arm hasn't slowed down Kayo's savagery in the slightest-in fact, many of his attacks are stronger than they've ever been.

Keep It Rolling
Kayo may have some new tricks up his sleeve, but he remains as wild and unpredictable as ever. When his back is against the wall, he still trusts in his raw animal instincts and a potentially lucky roll of the dice.

Levia, Shadowborn Abomination

You bleed, the Redeemed feeds. Levia has an appetite for destruction and you're welcome to the feast.

Levia was born into extreme poverty, her mother forced to sell both herself and her child into the service of the cruel Lady Barthimont in order to survive.

Soon after, Levia's parents vanished under mysterious circumstances. Although haunted by her mother's desire to escape the Barthimonts by any means necessary, Levia chose to stay, to uncover the secrets of the Barthimont estate.

She spied on the horrific rites the Lady practiced in her blood-drenched chambers and, out of desperation, learned to harness those occult powers for herself. Trapped, her life in peril, she had no other choice but to use the dark ritual against the Lady and her cult, rising as a Shadow reborn to slaughter her sadistic captors.

Possessed by a longing that would not rest, Levia's growing hunger led her to the Demonastery and beyond into íArathael. There she hunted the creatures of nightmare, enriching her evolving flesh with their bloody essence. Deeper she delved into the Bellows of Hell where, at last, she met a voracity to rival her own.

Perched upon Doomsday Peak, Blasmophet regarded her with a mighty greed. Yet as she stared back, down the maw of that beast, Levia felt only the cravings of the famished.

Levia ripped and tore at old Blasmophet, bite by bite, until she had consumed the Embra, body and tortured soul. Yet as the last wet morsel slid down her throat, Levia realized the deadly bargain she had unwittingly struck. The Embra stirred within her gut, reforming, remembering, ravening. She knew at that moment that she would need to hunt forever; to gorge herself on ever greater banquets or let herself be utterly consumed by Blasmophet.

Upon her return to the Demonastery, the assembly of scholars shivered in fear at what Levia had become. The baying hordes they had summoned grew quiet and compliant in her presence.

She drank in their fearful vows, then looked to the horizon as the sun cast its first rays upon the millions so shining and succulent. Here was the sustenance she needed - here was a grand feast that might satisfy even the Harvester of Souls.

Hunger for Power
The hunger that possesses Levia will only be satisfied when everything has been devoured, including existence itself. Manage your graveyard carefully to gorge upon, else you may find your Shadow consuming you!

Pay Your Debt
There's no such thing as a free lunch, and in íArathael the currency is power or blood. Be sure to include many cards with 6 or more power in your deck, and plenty of ways to send them to the banished zone to keep your inner demons at bay.

Doomsday Scenario
From farmhand to Shadowborn Abomination, Levia's transformation isn't by chance. A willing pawn in the [Demonastery](../world-of-rathe/demonastery/demonastery.md)'s plan, Levia is a dimenxxional gateway for the Shadow embra Blasmophet to descend upon Rathe.

Lexi, Livewire

Up the sides of mighty fjords that reach up into the heavens lies a domain brimming with the essence of Lightning and Ice. The people of Aria named this fantastical realm Enion, the Armory of Ancients, and the Training Ground of Champions.

Lexi grew up in Volthaven, a village that drifted slowly as it navigated the treacherous skies of Enion. Her childhood was spent in wide-eyed wonder, under the soft embrace of the Aurora, as she marveled at the majestic sights that lay beyond her windows. As she grew, she fell in love with the sense of freedom found in the environment all around her, and resolved to explore its beauty and secrets by becoming the greatest Wayfarer in all of Rathe! She was daring, talented, and quick on her feet, and soon became the darling of Volthaven, and a most renowned adventurer recognized throughout the thousand isles of Enion.

During this time of change, as the Old Ones' influence seeps into Aria once more, mysterious vaults have appeared all over Enion as the elements run wild throughout the region, destroying their beautiful home. It is up to Lexi and her friends to delve deep into the mysteries lying at the heart of Enion. They must rediscover the secrets of the Third Age and the legacy of the defenders and the Ancients, before it is too late.

Interference Runner
Lexi likes to mess with the enemy and keep them on their toes. Strike like lightning and put the freeze on the opponent's best laid plans, with Lexi's range of disruptive on hit arrow effects and hero ability.

Essence of Lightning
As quick as lightning and hot to touch. Lexi draws upon Aria's elemental Lightning energy for speed in combat and that extra shock factor on impact!

Essence of Ice
Everything is hard work when you're frozen to the bone. Lexi uses Aria's elemental Ice energy to make everything harder for her opponents. She uses Ice to disrupt their defenses with dominate, and slow down the enemy's offensive plans by sapping their resources with Frostbites.

Maxx 'The Hype' Nitro

You want to create a scene? Blow some corporate shit up? Maxx Nitro, at your service. I'm known on the streets as a 'specialist'. Slick-as smash and grab, the odd high-octane heist. The other day, me and the crew reverse engineered an EnfoMech and busted up a Cogwerx boiler monopoly. Booyah! Tallics for your Tinker Tea. Keep this on the down-low though. They're listening. Always listening.

If this kind of thing makes you edgy, there's the door. Got no time for second guesses and even less for tattletales. The bloody corps and their systems are what's wrong with this city. Chokepoints. Strangleholds. Us anarchists: we're kicking holes in their corruption. Steam or tek, I don't care. We'll break anything they own into tiny pieces and watch the pretty confetti fall.

Drive the Hype
Maxx knows how to build momentum with the unlimited power of Hyper Drivers! Every time you step on the gas, propel yourself even further with resource-generating engines that will fuel your fight against the suits. Keep the Hype flowing from turn to turn as you tick over to breakneck speed and reach Maximum Velocity!

Crank
If tech wasn't made to be tinkered with, why is it so tantalizingly tinkerable? Crank your items to gain action points, harnessing their abilities without having to slam on the brakes. Maxx's signature wrench, Banksy, will keep the screws tight on a variety of gadgets and gizmos to ensure your escapades go off without a hitch!

Melody, Sing-along

Melody searches through aged ruins and primal vaults, listening for songs that might soothe the growing dissonance in her beloved Aria.

Ever the restless minstrel, she travels far and wide, following the fractures of strife that she hears in the Flow. Along these acoustic trails, Melody tracks down the most ancient of tunes so that she might share her growing collection with those who need them most.

In concert, Melody is a delight to behold. Her nimble fingers dance across the board, capable of both tender touch and blurring speed. With string and bow, she draws forth the most sonorous notes and stirring tones. Her audiences are lifted beyond their worries and woes, harmonized in body and mind, flesh and soul. Her venerable songs transport them to happier times-when Aria was safe and sound.

Asking for nothing but a few coppers to sustain her travels, Melody continues to seek out her compositions and perform them to one and all. She will not take her final bow until history's most precious pieces are once again sung throughout the land. She will not stop until harmony is restored to Aria.

Show of a Lifetime
Melody has long planned to cement her legacy as one of the greatest entertainers Rathe has ever seen, and has been saving copper to put on a performance worthy of legend. Her Final Act will be one everyone is sure to talk about for years to come-for better or worse!

Doesn't Work for Exposure
Melody is always ready to brighten the mood with one of her finest tunes, but you can be absolutely sure she's collecting copper for her efforts. It's best you respect her when she's on stage, she's been known to smash her lute across the head of heckling audience members.

Nuu, Alluring Desire

Amidst the ethereal ambiance of Mistcloak Gully, there exists a figure of captivating allure and enigmatic grace: Madame Nuu, the proprietor of the Mistcloak Teahouse. With a delicate yet commanding presence, she weaves human souls with her fingertips and tantalizes with her power over mortals, enchanting patrons who are drawn to the whispers of her Vipressa.

Nuu's origins are shrouded in mist, her past a labyrinth of secrets and shadows. With every sway of her hips and arch of her brow, she whispers tales of seduction and intrigue, a siren beckoning sailors into the depths of her mystery. Beneath her beguiling exterior lies a tempest of emotions, fueled by the echoes of past betrayals and the ache of sorrows unspoken.

In the realm of her teahouse, Nuu is both hostess and seductress, her presence suffused with an otherworldly allure that beckons guests to lose themselves in the intoxicating embrace of her sanctum. Behind the infamous luster of her teahouse, Nuu still remains a mystery to all folk in Mistcloak Gully — a fleeting silhouette behind sliding doors and the mask of aromatic steam.

With each sip of tea and every flicker of candlelight, Nuu's legacy unfolds, a tale of resourcefulness in the face of adversity and the timeless mystique of the unknown. But beware, for beneath her seductive facade lies a danger as seductive as it is deadly — she is beauty and disaster, both flirtatious and dangerous, luring her victims into the snake's fangs before striking with vicious precision.

Self-Destruction Driven by Seduction
To Nuu, there is nothing more sensual than a murder crafted by the victim's own hands. Slowly and stealthily, Nuu will turn her prey's thoughts, desires, and eventually their very actions to her will.

Strike of the Snake
Nuu's prowess isn't limited to the battlefield of the mind. She's able to modify her attacks at a moment's notice, seemingly producing the tools to do so out of thin air.

Oldhim, Grandfather of Eternity

Oldhim is a mighty Shieldbearer of the Ollin; powerful defenders that stood alongside the Ancients against the Old Ones since the dawn of time.

At the end of the Third Age, amidst one of the most heated of battles, an unknown calamity struck the land of Rathe. Oldhim and his brothers and sisters in arms were spared, frozen within the ice of the Ancients. They remained this way for thousands of years, even as the Old Ones and the Ancients faded into obscurity, and the world around them changed.

Now, Oldhim must venture into an unfamiliar Aria in search of his old allies, and a way to release his people from their deep slumber within Isenloft. For it's clear to him that his reawakening is just a sign of what is to come; he can feel it within his tired old bones, that soon the Old Ones will rise once again.

Shield Up
Oldhim has stood the test of time, as old as the Eternity itself. He has endured many a grim battle with the aide of his legendary shield, Stalagmite, Bastion of Isenloft.

Essence of Ice
In ice's merciless grip, time stands still, history preserved. Oldhim channel's the essence of Ice to slow the pace of battle, sapping the enemies resources over time, for Oldhim is well equipped to fight a battle that lasts an eternity.

Essence of Earth
Endure. The mightiest sequoia towers over the forest because it endured. Oldhim channels the essence of Earth to stand tall and stand the test of time.

Olympia, Prized Fighter

As the applause of the crowd ended, Cox's voice rang out "Listen, good people, to the story of Olympia-the enigmatic fighter who rose from obscurity to become one of our time's greatest fighters."

Olympia spent his early years as a beggar, surviving on scraps, in the Moat of the Deathmatch Arena. However, destiny had other plans for him, as he would rise from the littered streets to become the 'Undefeated Deathmatch Champion'. His journey has been a gruesome spectacle from his bloody first fight to his relentless streak of title defenses, earning him nicknames like the 'The Eternal' and 'Prized Fighter'.

Olympia has captivated audiences with his violent showmanship, each clash balancing sportsmanship with the sharp edge of his sword. A beacon to aspiring fighters, the Arena has embraced him as their veteran, standing tall amidst a graveyard of challengers who dared to cross his path.

The very arena that molded him is now the house that he built. His name, once barely a whisper amongst beggars, now roars amidst the thunderous applause of the crowd. Olympia stands as the powerhouse of the Arena, his legend embodying the strength of the Deathmatch.

The Ultimate Prized Fighter
In Olympia's eyes, there is only the competition of the arena. Every other aspect of his life is just noise. He eats, breathes, and sleeps competition, and believes the only thing worth betting on is himself. To Olympia, ever increasing stakes aren't just a source of livelihood, they are a way to prove his worth and further outshine his opponents after their inevitable defeat.

Oscilio

Prism, Sculptor of Arc Light

The Library of Illumination's innermost sanctum contains a strange secret. Once, a Magister came across a young child, small and silent, her hair almost glowing in the lamplight, an orb shining softly in the palm of her hand. This unfamiliar child was unable to remember anything of her past, or her origins. Her only possession was the glowing sphere, which contained a single, pristine drop of rare arclight; a gift which would quickly reveal her talent for the Light.

Quick, curious and incredibly intelligent, Prism adapted to her new life with ease. She read as much as she could about Solana and the world beyond its walls, sailing through the vast ocean of knowledge within the grand library, with the Magister as her guide. Prism soon discovered the legends of the Heralds, Sol's golden emissaries, who watched over the people of Solana. Before long, her aether affinity and inquisitive nature led her to the Light of Sol, where she took up the mantle of an illusionist.

In developing her skills, Prism's talents were made clear for all to see. After years of careful study, she came to intimately understand the Heralds, lending more and more detail to her knowledge of these legendary beings. After capturing their very essence, Prism learned to give shape to their forms, conjuring their likenesses for the first time in living memory.

As shadows begin to darken the horizon, and the bells of war toll across the city, Prism invokes Solana's legendary beings, sending her creations to guard her beloved ones and smite her foes.

Heralds of Sol
They say the pen is mightier than the sword. Prism, a student of the pen, stumbled upon a tale of heralds forgotten to time and dust among the millions of tomes within the Library of Illumination. Prism's curious spirit and affinity to arc light may prove timely as Solana fights for its survival.

Spectra
What is real? If you can see it, is it real? What about if it whacks you in the face? "But when I tried to touch it, it disappeared?!" Sculpt fantastical arc light spectras that confuse, confound, and combat bewildered opponents.

Soulful Protector
The Light will be your guide and fill your soul. Use it to sculpt Spectral Shield auras to protect yourself and your beloved city of Solana.

Prism, Awakener of Sol

Prism rises on wings of wisdom to embrace the promised dawn.

Her origins are a mystery, even to herself. A child's dream filled with soaring architecture and figures of grace, of a radiant spectrum upon which she floated to a glowing door. She reached out, brushed that portal with her fingertips. As it opened, so did her eyes, and she beheld the Library of Illumination for the first time.

The hands that had touched that otherworldly door now held an orb of pure arclight, the very essence of Sol. When the Librarian found this little girl in the heart of the Great Library, when they saw the radiant array within her soul, they called her "Prism", for no other name would suffice. From that miracle moment, Prism became the Magister's protégé and the library's most beloved servant.

Prism's passion for knowledge and talent for story drove her to become the city's leading scholar. The shining bookworm trained in the arts of illumination and inspired the Solanian people with spectacles of history and their glorious Aesir, Sol. Yet only when the haunting questions of her past led her to the Tomes of the Heralds did Prism feel the true potency of her potential. Prism studied those books with the intensity of a savant and quickly learned how to incarnate the heralds in manifest arclight.

When Solana was struck by tragedy, when fiendish creatures materialized beneath a sunless sky, Prism took up the mantle of Illusionist in defense of her cherished civilization.

Archangels of Light
Gifted with the knowledge of mysterious 'figments' by Suraya, Prism awakens the true power of Sol, calling forth an army of mighty archangels. With these eight heavenly allies by her side, she will drive back the darkness once and for all.

Heralds of Sol
Tales of the heralds have stayed with Prism since she was a young child. Seemingly forsaken by the passage of time, these stories of illumination are destined to be born again by Prism's hands. Unleash the power of the heralds upon your enemies, fueling your soul and unlocking the secrets within.

Rhinar, Reckless Rampage

In the depths of the Savage Lands, a lone brute has carved out his territory in blood and bone. Abandoned to the mercy of the jungle as a cub, he fought to survive, fending off vicious beasts and scavengers. Yet this struggle has forged an alpha predator, relentless and unflinching, tearing through anything that gets in his way.

Reckless, savage and uncontrollable, Rhinar is driven by his bloodlust and base instincts. When he fights, he enters a bloody frenzy. Everything around him becomes a threat, the ground turning slick with blood as he blindly butchers everything in his path.

Intimidate
Fear. A weapon more powerful than tooth, claw, or club. Rhinar showcases his status as an apex predator with his ability to intimidate the enemy, immobilizing their defenses with his terrifying bellows.

Roll the Dice
Recklessly unpredictable. When a brute succumbs to instinct, anything can happen. To be an alpha brute, you'll have to throw caution to wind and roll the dice!

Strong Survive
The rule of the Savage Lands is simple; The Strong Survive. "Strength matters" is shown by the many brute cards and effects that are turned on by attacks with 6 or more power.

From the heart of the Savage Lands, Rhinar hungers for the savage thrill of the hunt. Fueled by a relentless bloodrage, he has wandered the untamed wilderness, seeking something mighty enough to quench his primal thirst. However, his instincts have pulled him North-guiding him to a new battleground, the Deathmatch Arena.

To Rhinar, the arena is an extension of his savage dominion. Here, he confronts Rathe's mightiest creatures, tearing them apart with a lethal blend of raw power and cunning. The arena-masters, stunned by his ferocity, have thrust him into the limelight as their spectacle of unbridled brutality. Yet, fame means nothing to Rhinar; he craves only the satisfaction of sating his insatiable bloodlust and solidifying his reign as Rathe's apex predator.

Feared by foes and celebrated by crowds, Rhinar pays no mind to the adoration or disdain swirling around him. Indifferent to the roars of spectators, he heeds only his primal instincts. With reckless abandon, he unleashes his reckless rampage on any fool who crosses his path, etching his name as an unstoppable force in the Deathmatch Arena.

An Intimidating Display
Already capable of reducing the bravest warriors to quivering mush, Rhinar has become even more terrifying in his displays of ferocity. By brazenly and boldly beating his chest, Rhinar is now able to empower actions throughout his turn.

Seize on the Fear
More than ever, Rhinar is ready to capitalise on the terror he sows, with a host of new effects designed to increase the pain and punishment for an opponent that succumbs to his intimidation.

Riptide, Lurker of the Deep

If you want something caught, Riptide is the one to catch it.

From his workshop at the Seetheside docks, Riptide devises the most cunning traps in the Pits. Beast or being, big or small, Riptide has something to ensnare them all.

A hunter of big game and lost treasures since childhood, Riptide now plies the Pits' diluvian depths, stalking the maze of swamped tunnels and sunken caves for exotic creatures and salvageable riches.

So often has he embraced the horrors of the drowned darkness that he has become one himself. But don't be fooled. Underneath the horror is an intelligence not to be trifled with. His appearance may be as foul as the fishes he hunts, but Riptide's ingenious cruelty often outwits the most merciless gangers in the Pits.

Now a Ranger-for-hire contracted to "the Boss", Riptide has become trapper, smuggler and scout. Every contraption more dangerous than the last, every deal more devious, every setup more sadistic.

Predators of the Pits beware. It's the thrill of the hunt that keeps the Lurker anchored. The longer he has to wait, the worse your agonizing end shall be.

Catch of the Day
Waiting until the slightest movement catches his eye, Riptide launches a barbed harpoon into the murky water, hauling in his prize. Use your array of deadly arrows to snag your prey and drag them to their doom.

Treacherous Traps
Clamp down on your opponents with Riptide's ingenious contraptions. With a specially designed trap for every scenario, all you need to do is set the bait and sit tight until a poor unsuspecting soul wanders straight into your clutches. Patience is key - you don't want to pull the trigger too early or too late and end up empty handed.

Shiyana, Diamond Gemini

Where there is light, there is shadow. Amongst the people of Solana, a rumour lingers, whispered behind closed doors; tales of those who blend into the crowd, hiding in plain sight, working day and night to preserve the peace.

Shiyana was born to two chancellors, raised with an intimate knowledge of the Light. For countless generations, her bloodline has served Solana in the Light of Sol, guarding their beloved city through centuries of war. Yet, when the time for her Awakening arrived, Shiyana was chosen for a slightly different role.

As a diplomat of Solana, Shiyana is charismatic and eloquent, ensuring that all who pass through the city gates are welcomed with grace and courtesy. Yet even as she greets visitors with a smile, her shrewd gaze analyses all who pass before her. Shiyana carefully draws out the truth from her honored guests, unravelling secrets with a delicate hand.

When dusk falls, and the sun sets on the city of Solana, Shiyana slips into the shadows. A master of disguise, she can conceal herself with a wave of her hand, seeking the information she needs to foil Solana's enemies. Some might not see her at all, while others may glimpse somebody else, a trick of the light revealing a different face to their tired eyes.

While peace may reign within Solana, something has disturbed the waters, casting ripples across Rathe. Even in a time of peace, they must remain vigilant, listening for any whispers of disquiet. As rumours begin to reach the people of Solana, Shiyana must keep a close eye on her beloved city, disguising her presence as she works to expose this unknown threat.

A Familiar Face
Shiyana is a master of diplomacy, a welcomed guest of the royal courts and power brokers of Rathe. Wherever she travels, keys turn, doors open, and secrets slip, as one would expect for a familiar face. Shiyana's power only increases as her reach spreads across Rathe. Shiyana is designed primarily for Ultimate Pit Fight (multi-player), where she can wield her influence and politics far and wide.

Teklovossen, Esteemed Magnate

Jules Teklovossen. A name synonymous with brilliance. A man that propelled Metrix from a past of steam and iron into a future of light and data.

Born into the middling ranks of the Cogwerx steam empire, Teklovossen broke free from the old corporation's mechanical monotony to found his own enterprise. Driven by his relentless optimism and peculiar imagination, Teklo Industries rose to be the city's brightest beacon of innovation. His greatest breakthrough, teklatic-dynamism, made our lives better, Teklovossen becoming one of the most prominent members of our city's governing body, the Iron Assembly.

Then one fateful evening, an inferno broke out in the old Plumvex Pipes factory, engulfing everything, including the inventor who toiled within. Under the astute leadership of Teklovossen's successors, Teklo Industries has maintained its position in the vanguard of innovation. Of the founder himself, well...

There are some visionaries whose perceptions are so far-reaching they exceed the limits of mortal mechanics. It was agreed that Teklovossen be immortalized as a techno-deity and projected on every billboard and media screen in Metrix. These days, his holographic visage serves as a reminder of the city's progress, his gentle encouragement motivating us to become more than we are. More than human.

Suit Up, Throw Down
Everyone has to start somewhere. Teklovossen builds upon the basics with cutting-edge Evo equipment, encasing himself within mechanized armor that packs some serious firepower. Find all the pieces, upgrade your suit, then stomp the competition!

More Than Human
The father of modern technology in Metrix, Teklovossen strives for better... bolder... brighter. A firm believer in the raw power of human ingenuity, yet bound by the constraints of his mortal flesh, he searches for means to become something more than just man or machine. No price is too high to pay when you're chasing the impossible...

Terra

Welcome, traveler. Plant your feet in the soil. Feel the arable earth that nourishes these forests.

The name's Terra, guardian of these sacred lands, born from the heart of Korshem to tend to and protect all that grows in Aria. These woods, nestled into Mount Heroic, are my chosen domain - each tree, each blade of grass, every creature here is like kin to me.

The earth and I, we have an understanding. It speaks to me in its own way, in the groan of old roots and the shift of stones, and I listen. Always.

When danger rears its ugly head - be it creeping dread or ancient terror - I stand ready to defend. The stones rise to shield the weak, and the roots bind anything that means harm. My hands were made for nurturing, but don't think for a moment they won't crush a threat to this sanctuary. I'll do whatever it takes to keep Aria's natural beauty alive and thriving.

So, if ever you need a place to rest your bones, know that the earth will welcome you, and so will I. Together, we'll tend this great garden we call home.

Earth's Might
Through reverence for the land, Terra finds the strength to be [Rathe](../world-of-rathe/world-of-rathe.md)'s guardian. His Earth Bond empowers mighty attacks, designed to leave opponents incapable of harming Rathe or any of its inhabitants.

Hammer Time
With hammer carved of the finest and largest naturally-fallen redwood, Terra makes sure his foes find themselves intimately familiar with the power of nature's wrath one final time, before they return to the soil.

Uzuri, Switchblade

Few dare challenge the Boss.

Unless they want a contract on their head.

Unless they want to be slaughtered by her nestlings, their dismembered body left out for the dregs in a cavern down below.

The daughter of a merchant mother and gangster father, Uzuri grew up with one foot in each world, her mind armed with the tricks of both trades.

With her history torn between Metrix and Misteria, Uzuri chose the path less traditional into the gangland underbelly of the Pits, where chaos and order collude over organized crimes.

Her only allegiance lies with the mysterious Spider and its interlacing web of contract killers. For the right price, Uzuri is the mastermind; an assassin of remarkable skill who makes the mark and secures their demise. Tidy is how she likes it. No loose ends.

Uzuri's tactics are always one step ahead, and her weapons easily supplanted for another in the blink of an eye. She pictures every pathway, predicts every consequence, and uses this ability to weave the threads-like a boss.

Uzuri understands that information is the foundation upon which any good strategy is built, and one should never pen a contract on the flip of a blood-soaked coin.

She's at the top of her game, and no-one will ever play it better.

Switchblade
Danger lurks around every corner and it always pays to have an extra trick up your sleeve. Uzuri can switch tactics mid-battle and take out her targets before they even realize they've made a fatal mistake.

Stealth
Stealth alone is nothing, but in the hands of a trained Assassin, it is everything. Stealth is a keyword found on certain Assassin cards that can enable powerful effects when combined with the right tools. Master the art of stealth to get the job done quickly and quietly. No fuss, no muss.

Valda Brightaxe

The Everfest Carnival, what a sight to behold! Slowly making its way through the idyllic landscape, the Carnival brings joy and cheer to the most remote of locations, and draws forth massive crowds that fawn and gawk at the spectacles that lie within.

Every day is full of exciting adventures, and every night... well, there's always an afterparty to attend! Here in the most popular of taverns, Might n' Mead, it's difficult for patrons to not get too worked up after all the crazy excitements of the day. Throw in some crazy concoctions dreamt up by the mischievous Braumeisters, and we have on our hands a mighty big problem.

But even the most rowdy of patrons fall silent, the most daring of adventurers cower, when they catch a glimpse of the mighty Valda heading their way.

'Twas said that she showed up at the doors of the tavern one hot afternoon, another lost and wayward child that had stumbled upon Korshem (as so many do) through some strange turn of events. She had naught but the clothes on her back, and a small tag upon her personnage inscribed with indiscernible characters and a symbol that vaguely resembled an axe. With nowhere to go, she was taken in by the aging Innkeeper, and raised as his own. He tried to teach her the way of the Braumeisters, but she wasn't much interested. She's too impatient, her temper too fiery to bother with all the delicate processes that lead to the richest of flavours.

But what she was good at, was brawlin'... and here in Might n' Mead there sure ain't any lack of that!

There's been stirrings in the Flow, and recently, nervous chatters of ancient enemies and the ancients' return have cast a somber wrinkle over the lively taverns of the Everfest. But that no matter to Valda Brightaxe; just don't mess around in the tavern, or she'll treat you to a proper smackdown, on the house!

Cocky, Are We?
"So you're the hot shit are ya? Running ya mouth and thinking ya got a fist full of fire..." Cocky patrons with bad manners set Valda off, and inevitably end up with the ale house shaking in her seismic wake!

Seismic Smackdown
Patrons of Aria's alehouses who disrespect the ladies are left with a hangover of seismic proportions when Valda's around.

Verdance, Thorn of the Rose

Verdance loves her fair Candlehold as much as she loves the eternal summer that lingers within its leafy embrace.

From the moment she could walk, she felt the heartbeat of the glade beneath her feet, her attunement to nature as deep-rooted as Candlehold's oldest trees.

Raised by the Rosetta, Verdance developed into an influential wizard with the power to heal all of Candlehold's flora-its flowers, vines, leaves, and weeds-so that the realm may experience a warm and stable life forever more.

Despite her efforts, The Rotwood threatens-a stain upon the fringe of Candlehold where decay spreads and the dance of the seasons grows stronger day by day.

And at the center of the rot dwells Florian, the Harbinger of Rotwood, a seed of discontent determined to ruin everything Candlehold has stood for since the Queen used the power of Davnir to seal the glade off from greater Aria.

Verdance takes her responsibility seriously and will harness her arcane abilities to stop her beloved home from falling into decay.

But with autumn approaching, the world sings a new song, and sweet scents carry on the cool breeze now sweeping through the glade.

Verdance has a choice and knows she must decide, for the fate of Candlehold depends on it.

Bloom Goes Boom
Cultivate your Earth to enable your hero ability, then reap the rewards of the harvest when new life blooms and arcane booms!

Life Tender
Verdance is the embodiment of Earth, blooming with a beautiful affinity to the fertile soil of Aria that sees life blossom in her wake. Tasked with preserving the Heartbeat of Candlehold, she is the most apt hero yet at gaining life.

Battlemage, Earth
There's more to Verdance than floral bouquets and nurturing the new shoots of life. Standing behind her strong and resolute are the trunks and branches of the forest. Harness Earth's ground shaking big attacks alongside your arcane spells to go Battlemage Mode!

Victor Goldmane, High and Mighty

"Bow before my unmatched prowess, for your futile struggles in the arena are nothing more than the feeble floundering of an insect in the face of my brilliance."

Behold the audacious Victor, a grandiose figure hailing from the shadowy recesses of the esteemed Northern Kingdoms, where cultists and deviants thrive beyond the discerning gaze of Solana. A brash bully, he flaunts his Solanian vigor with unwavering arrogance, fueled by wealth given to him from his parents. Victor strides into the Deathmatch Arena not merely to compete but to enforce his blinding radiance upon these savage lands and rebuild them in his own image.

Driven by an ego inflated beyond reason, Victor's presence aims not just to contend but to dominate. Under the burning sun of his opulence and self-proclaimed virtue, he will ensure that the mere mortals surrounding him will bask in the brilliance of his radiant victory and the arena will tremble under the weight of his divine right.

Golden Child
While Solana may be known for its righteousness and piety, the Solanian-controlled Nothern Kingdoms still have their share of bad apples. Using his massive wealth and influence as both a literal and figurative shield, Victor does not hesitate to step on and over those whom he views as his inferiors-and in Victor's mind, everyone is inferior.

Might (and Money) Makes Right
Victor is always willing to clash with an opponent in the Deathmatch Arena, and he does so with a clear expectation of victory due to his massive attacks. However, should things go awry, Victor never hesitates to spend a little coin to turn the tide in his favour.

Viserai, Rune Blood

Viserai is the first of his kind; an Arknight, gifted with both arcane power and physical prowess. Forced to serve the will of the master, he has long since forgotten his past, and the person that he once was. Wielding blade and aether alike, he is the perfect weapon.

As his creator searches for a way to bind Viserai to his will, the secrets of the Demonastery threaten to spill forth, as the ancient powers within stir once more. Viserai must find a way to break free before it is too late...

The Arknight
From decorated warrior of Volcor, to washed up carcass on the shores of the Demonastery. Lord Sutcliffe had at last found a vassal with enough strength to bear the agonizing procedure he sought to prove possible. Opening the chest cavity, he replaced viscera with an Arknight Shard, carved channels in bone to feed the arcane energy into runic vents etched into skin, and the first Arknight was born.

Sword & Sorcery
The Runeblade is a hybrid fighter, the only true class able to wield equal parts magic and might. Split damage types allows a Runeblade to attack from multiple angles, preying on whatever vulnerabilities the enemy may have.

Rune Master
Arcane energy flows through Viserai from the Arknight Shard inserted in his chest, which he uses to manifest an army of Runechant auras around him. They wait poised for the strike of their commanders blade, to unleash piercing arcane pain on the target.

Vynnset, Iron Maiden

She will not bend. She will not break. Vynnset is the Iron Maiden.

Anointed in Shadow, Vynnset sees everything under the sheen of the black moon. Within the Demonastery's ritual chambers, she paints her runes in Solanian blood, intoning their dark portents in the language of the beyond.

Born in the Light, her heart wrapped in Shadow, Vynnset remembers what the faithful inflicted upon her in the name of Sol. Most of all, she remembers the loneliness of being a solitary shade in the blazing dawn.

Vynnset carries the pain of persecution in her sinews and in her bones. Yet hers is an immaculate agony that has steeled her mind and tempered her spirit. From the valley of sorrow, she summons the minions of Nasreth, the Soul Harrower, and sends them to plow Solana's fields with death and destruction.

The Iron Maiden has transformed suffering into devotion. She has sacrificed so much, given sight and service to the Shadow. Now, it is others she will sacrifice, and through their suffering, Vynnset will know freedom

Rune Gate
Just beyond the dimenxxional rift lie twisted nightmares beyond comprehension. Assemble enough Runechants to open the gate, and allow the horrors within to spill forth and consume your enemies.

Disciple of Pain
Reward doesn't come without sacrifice. Vynnset harnesses her suffering and uses it to fuel her deathly ambitions. Offer up shreds of your own life to Nasreth in order to gain access to forbidden abilities.

Sword and Sorcery
Vynnset is a hybrid fighter, wielding both magic and melee in the palm of her scarred hand. Runeblades can attack from multiple angles, preying on the opponent's vulnerabilities with split damage types.

Yoji, Royal Protector

To advance from rank grunt to royal guardian takes discipline and an exceptional nature. It speaks to grueling training and dark nights of tense vigilance. Respect earned with halberd in hand, paid for in the black bruises and spilled blood of violent duty. A pledge of allegiance performed with neither pause nor protest.

Yoji patrols the palace corridors and castellations, orders and rallies his garrison of guards so that the Dracai may practice their rites and play their politics in peace. In Yoji they trust; his stalwart presence, a constant source of comfort and security.

When bandits sought to capture and ransom Lord Wizard Chiyo, he was there to gut their aspirations. When rebel tempers flared among the smelters and smiths of Ashvahan, he was there to crush their hands upon their own anvils. And when the Ezu usurper plotted his sovereign ascent, he was there to hang the tyrant's family from the Grand Archway.

Just as there is no rest for the wicked, Yoji knows that there is no rest for the true. Danger may threaten, but the dynasty's Royal Protector is ready to meet it.

Body Guard
A stalwart defender of the Dynasty, Yoji stands firm in the face of the most extreme of adversities, shielding his allies with his impenetrable armour and iron will.

Zen, Tamer of Purpose

In the rolling mountain ranges of Misteria, among the rustling leaves and tranquil streams, there strides a figure of quiet strength and unwavering resolve: Zen, the stoic pilgrim of Misteria. With each step, he treads the delicate balance between the physical and mystical world, his presence a beacon of wisdom and enlightenment in a land shrouded in shadow.

Born of humble origins yet possessing an innate connection to the cosmic energies that flow through the universe, Zen began his journey of self-discovery and enlightenment. Through years of rigorous training and introspection, he has honed his mind and body into instruments of harmonious equilibrium, capable of harnessing the boundless power of chi to restore balance to the world.

In his travels Zen has encountered both friend and foe, guiding lost souls towards the path of righteousness and standing as a bastion of hope against the encroaching darkness. He has walked every inch of these lands, taming the unruly spirits and wayward ronin, and found enlightenment in the Peaks of Misteria. With each encounter he imparts the timeless wisdom of the ages, teaching the values of compassion, swift unbowing judgment, and inner peace.

As the shadows of uncertainty loom across Rathe, Zen remains steadfast in his commitment to uphold the virtues of justice and righteousness. With unwavering determination and boundless compassion, he embarks on a quest to witness all aspects of his land and restore harmony to the land of Misteria, his unwavering spirit a testament to the indomitable power of the human spirit.

Eye of the Tiger
Turning peace to ferocity, Zen uses moments of calm to plan his next attacks to unfathomable precision. By harnessing the power of Crouching Tigers, he can unleash more attacks than any opponent can hope to defend.

Cat-like Reflexes
Zen can be as elusive as he is deadly. Powerful defense reactions and blocks, as well as the tranquility needed to enter into a defensive Zen State, will surely have Zen's opponents chasing their tail as they try to pin him down.

Ruu-di, Gem Keeper

Taipanis, Dracai Of Judgement

Taylor

Yorick, Weaver Of Tales

A story of legend is said to be told; The dawn of a new age a sight to behold; From all corners of Rathe, heroes they came; The common language they spoke was that of great games.

This section contains details of the non-playable characters in the world of Flesh and Blood.

Dr. Krest Mortimer, 'The Fixer'

Overview

"Dr. Mortimer is a scientist from an undisclosed institute in Metrix. He was cast out because his experiments became too extreme, and now conducts experiments within the Pits instead (hints of Metrix corporate influence). Nowadays, he's the lead psychologist and director of "Southmaw", a hospital / asylum within the Pits.

In Theory^*

(Jump to Narrated Video)

Cultist - "Raven! Grant me the strength to endure your rewards...for the glory of mankind..."

screams of pain

Mortimer - "You cultists are truly sadistic! Hahaha!"

more pained screams

Too extreme they said, yet look at where I am now! My former 'colleagues' refused the true pursuit of science. No genius puts morality before progress.

But that is all you can ever find within Metrix institutes - red tape and regulations, mealy-mouthed platitudes about safety and the concern for people's wellbeing. Southmaw has none of that...well, nowhere in the Pits really does now does it? It's not as if my experiments are consistently lethal. Many would consider themselves lucky to be missing an arm than dead, no?

Our..."hospital" of sorts is a haven in these tunnels. Nowhere else can you find treatment for some of the most grotesque and deadly diseases that plague Rathe. Not many find my methods amicable, but what do they know of the risks I take, coming face to face with some of the worst ailments known to man? They run from ailments, but not I. No, I walk right toward them with determination and curiosity.

Speaking of which, I've come across some most wonderful discoveries. My recent studies have brought me face-to-face with some of the most interesting characters the Pits has to offer. Cultists, alchemists, gangers...none of these individuals are off limits to me. The stories they've told me are as profound as they are enlightening.

L'Apocalypta are responsible for the Bloodrot Pox. The Metrix chemists are so convinced it was a natural mutation...ha! Like many in the Pits, the cult has ties across all of Rathe, more specifically within the Demonastery and here.

Their goal? As far as I have deduced they worship an entity known as the Raven, the Aesir of Chaos. They believe that by causing pain and suffering to the world that it will toughen it against future ruin. I find myself inclined to agree with their goals, if not their methods. A typical Metrix dandy wouldn't last a day down here with these fine people.

Where they went wrong however was in their experimentations. Being the novices they are, their studies into creating an alternative "evolutionary path" for humans led to many failures, one of which being the Bloodrot Pox. Not a mutation at all, but a deliberate experiment gone wrong - or right, depending on who you talk to. This masterful affliction causes large boils to form on a person's body that cause extreme pain, or so I'm told...

Alchemists have a much better understanding of the sciences. One such alchemist responsible for many ongoings in the Pits is Achlys, the hag of Mojire. A savant they call her, though her body betrays her. A terrible congenital central nervous system disease plagues her with excruciating pain, but she seems to have at least temporarily cured her ailment in recent times.

For reasons that still elude me, Achlys developed Frailty, a neurotoxic disease that began to spread throughout the underground. Perhaps as a way to inflict the pain she has dealt with to others? Who knows, but word on the street is that she has ties to Lena Belle. I'll need to have a word with her.

But where my true passion lies in afflictions is that of Inertia. A poetic name, this substance is a novel radioactive material. Where the dangers of it come into play is its exposure to living beings. It slowly saps the strength and energy from those in proximity to it; similarities lie between it and radiation sickness. I'm most interested to see what contact does, and ingestion. I've heard of a woman known for her kidnapping skills, I'll need to explore that possibility further.

Myself, along with others within Southmaw and those still belonging to various institutes operating in Metrix, continue to research a cure for this side effect of Inertia, as the substance could be of great use in various applications. But the ability to drain one's life force seems too good to pass up...

More must be learnt about Inertia and its applications. Perhaps I'll make a trip to one of the gang's hideouts to put it to the test. That reminds me, Gavin still owes me a favor. Ooh, delicious. If I put a contract out for him I imagine I can stir up all kinds of mischief. I think it's time to make a trip to Tanner's...

Power is the pursuit of the righteous and the reckless. Energies primordial, tapped and siphoned, Ancient forces channeled in petty desires. Ambitious mechanisms drain the vigor from this unwitting world, fuelling the selfish with suffering.

Narrated Video by DeadSummer Art

(Jump to the Top)

^*Note that this is not "canon" but is based on official insights provided to DeadSummer Art by LSS for their spoiler card Codex of Inertia during the Outsiders spoiler season. However it is so awesome, I decided to include it here.

Lord Sutcliffe

Lord Sutcliffe was once an ordinary member of the noble class, but he abandoned his title and lands in his quest for knowledge. He made a new home for himself within the Demonastery's ancient halls, spending many years studying the Shadows and reading about runes and rituals, perfecting his knowledge of the arcane arts. As he was one of the few members of his bloodline to be born without any aether affinity whatsoever, Sutcliffe could not personally practice any of the spellwork he was reading about. However, he was seeking to explore the true depths of the aether, in order to establish whether a man could artificially lay claim to the abilities of the arcane.

In time, Sutcliffe's research evolved into the Arknight project: he sought to create a living weapon, a man who could wield both might and magic. In essence, he would transform a subject who had been born without aether affinity and unlock his ability to cast spells. Later, when he found that a fresh body had washed up on the shore near the Demonastery, Sutcliffe knew that his opportunity had come.

Viserai was all that Sutcliffe had wished for and more; he proved that it was possible to artificially unlock aether affinity, and forge a potential power that every human might well carry. However, Sutcliffe struggled to keep control of his living weapon. With the Demonastery's creatures whispering in the new Arknight's ear, Lord Sutcliffe quickly found himself on the wrong side of the battle. However, as his disembowelled body lay cold and silent on the concrete, a strange creature approached, taking Sutcliffe's head for its own diabolical plans.

Preserved with layers of runework, and bound by intricate spells, Sutcliffe is trapped within his own mind, carried around like a common trophy. The Disciples of Pain quickly came to possess his skull, and now bother him constantly with their inane questions, forcing him to suffer through their unending chatter about duty and sacrifice. While the odd researcher attempts to steal him for their own purposes, Lord Sutcliffe cares little about what may become of him-as a disembodied voice trapped within a skull, his life is an unending torment of infuriating half-wits and idle conversation.

Unable to escape, subjected to the whims of others with no recourse, Lord Sutcliffe can only dream of the day he enacts his revenge on the one who brought him to this dark fate; eventually, one way or another, he will find the means to make Viserai pay for his disobedience.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/lord-sutcliffe/
Written by Nicola Price
Edited by Tarryn Thomas
Illustration by bimawithpencil

Lady Bartimont

Born the daughter of a noble house in the Northern Realms, the future Lady Barthimont was raised with the grace and cunning expected of a woman of her rank. Once she had come of age, her father quickly found a match for her, marrying her to another Lord in order to secure the power and status that he felt his daughter rightfully deserved.

But when Lady Barthimont had moved to her new estate with her servants in tow, expecting a life of luxury and comfort, she was faced with a harsh reality. Lord Barthimont was lazy, dull and impassive; he gallivanted across the plains with his hunting parties, his inexperienced new wife to take over the running of the estate in his absence, toiling over paperwork and engaging in empty pleasantries with unwanted visitors. Over the years, as she watched her youth wither away, she grew ever more embittered by her absent husband and the mundane, maddening work he left her to face alone.

This continued until one very ordinary day, when a visitor to Lady Barthimont's hall brought her an intriguing gift; a grimoire of mysterious origin. The tome had clearly changed hands many times, its dark leather cover worn by the touch of its past owners. Within this grimoire, she experienced her first introduction to the Shadow-an arcane art which promised her the kind of power she'd always dreamt of wielding. Delving into its depths, she quickly discovered her arcane gifts, a connection to the aether which she found blossoming within her day by day.

As her talents grew, so did her hunger for power. Lady Barthimont began to draw upon the resources made available through her aristocratic status, sacrificing the blood of her servants in fiendish rituals, spending her fortune on sourcing arcane artefacts from across the continent, and inviting other practitioners among the nobility into her home. In this way, her lavish parties formed the basis for gaining more and more knowledge, and eventually she found exactly what she'd been searching for.

Lady Barthimont decided that she would seek to call upon an entity from the beyond, who could imbue her with its own power, and allow her to bend all others to her will. Yet before she could move into the final phase of her plans, they were overturned, and one of her own traitorous servants stole the power for her own. The final indignity was dying by the young woman's hands, strangled by the very might she had sought for herself.

Minerva Themis

Their lives first began as orphan foundlings, struggling to survive beyond the Golden Fields. Minerva and her twin brother were rescued by a travelling knight and brought into Solana at a very young age, and given sanctuary within the city's walls. From there, it took little time for the twins to be selected for the Gemini, where the skills they'd learned on the streets could best be utilised.

Together, Minerva and Mercurius made an almost unstoppable team, as they travelled beyond Solana's walls to gather information in the lands beyond. From the volatile, arid landscape of Volcor to the towering, copper skylines of Metrix, the pair worked side by side, bringing their invaluable insights into potential threats to their city. But on one dark night, as they crept between underground taverns, they inadvertently stumbled into an ambush. Between her experience, her skill and sheer luck, Minerva managed to escape with her life, but only after she'd seen her brother cut down in the brief battle.

Bitter and jaded, Minerva returned to the Gemini and threw herself into her work. No one knows what she sought beyond the walls, but in time, she finally returned to the city she called home, where she decided to open an inn. Working behind the counter of her new establishment, Minerva could greet the visitors who had passed through Solana's gates and listen to their conversations, thus monitoring their activities within the city.

As the owner of the Golden Chariot, Minerva now has a new reason for being, and the opportunity to meet many travellers and citizens of Solana. To some, she is a friendly face in an unfamiliar city; to others, she is a mentor, offering comfort and words of wisdom. In this, Minerva has found a way to be at peace with her past, and the loved ones whom she has lost.

While Mercurius is no longer with her, there are others that she can help: a young knight with a heart of gold, determined to defend her people; a former nobleman turned warrior, searching for a higher calling; a fellow Gemini, working as a diplomat, ever graceful in her quest to seek out the truth; a bright and curious scholar, weaving stories in the light of dawn. Minerva is a friend to all, determined to bring peace to those who pass through her tavern, and be a shoulder to lean on in their darkest hour.

The Librarian

The Library of Illumination stands at the very heart of the bright city of Solana, rising high above the surrounding buildings on every side; it remains a sanctuary for any person with a curious mind and the desire to learn. The soaring shelves are lined with books from floor to ceiling, towering above the heads of visitors and staff alike. Scholars of the Light of Sol draw books down with a gesture, aether curling through the air as they source another volume for their studies. Citizens of Solana sit quietly in the archival wings, reading tomes and illuminated manuscripts, while children gather at the feet of acolytes in shining robes, listening to tales of noble knights and radiant scholars.

Eight Magisters watch over Solana's golden walls and towers, guiding its people throughout the ages with grace and dignity. Each one is ordained under the Light of Sol, and all work alongside the Grand Magister to bring peace to the land of Rathe, to unite all under the banner of Sol. One Magister watches over the Library of Illumination, and is responsible for overseeing everything that occurs within its hallowed halls.

The Librarian oversees all, a radiant and dignified custodian dedicated to guiding the library's patrons along the path of the Light. Carrying an air of mystery, they are as timeless and illustrious as the Library itself. In their role as Magister, the Librarian embodies the grace of Sol, sharing their endless knowledge and wisdom with anyone who seeks their counsel.

Beyond their essential duty to the people of Solana, and their role in caring for the Library, the Librarian also leads the quest for new knowledge, scouring ancient tomes and crumbling scrolls procured from across the land of Rathe. For many decades, the Librarian was accustomed to solitude, preferring to withdraw for days at a time and focus on their research. However, this changed when a young girl found her way into the innermost sanctum of the Library and quickly established herself as the Librarian's would-be apprentice. With their protégée by their side, the Librarian seeks out the truth behind the recent onslaught of the Shadow, using their talents to unravel the mysteries which now threaten their fair city of Light.

Main Story Summaries

This section contains the TL;DR overviews of the main storylines of Rathe.

War of the Monarch, Part 1

War ravages the heart of Rathe as the forces of Light and Shadow battle for firmament and future. The seed of this lingering conflict began in a fracture between faith and freedom.

Thousands of years ago, The Devout, First Grand Magister and architect of holy Solana, denounced Sol and humanity's growing subservience to the Aesir of Light. In this act of divine defiance, The Devout became the Apostate.

The Order of the Light condemned the Apostate's heresy. They executed the architect's thirteen most devoted disciples and cast the former Grand Magister out of Solana.

The Apostate found refuge on a desolate island in the south seas of Rathe. There the architect built another edifice, one to rival and surpass even the city of Solana, and named it the Demonastery. The Apostate studied and toiled, delving into the secrets of Rathe and its mirror world, íArathael. Over time, others found the Demonastery, heretics and iconoclasts, the brilliant and the obsessed. The Demonastery's inhabitants grew to such a number, their work of such power, that the Apostate once again incited the wrath of Solana. The Hand of Sol laid siege to the sanctuary of blasphemy, forcing its architect into a desperate act. Relinquishing flesh and blood, the Apostate infused their life force into the masonry and mortar of their most beloved creation, and in doing so, ripped the island from the tethers of reality.

The Demonastery now floats in a liminal space between Rathe and íArathael, sustained and animated by its founder's unholy essence. In every brick and rune, corridor and cell, the Apostate waits with immortal patience for the coming of Dusk and Shadow's ultimate victory over the Light.

Many centuries have passed. In that time, the Demonastery has continued to attract wild thinkers and rebellious heretics from all over Rathe. Some by choice, some by circumstance. Viserai, enslaved and transformed by the mad fancies of Lord Sutcliffe.

Chane and the Disciples of Pain, hungry to harness the power of Ursur the Soul Reaper.

Levia, driven by Lady Barthimont into the ravening embrace of Blasmophet the Soul Harvester.

Vynnset, lured into the shadows by the longings of Nasreth the Soul Harrower. And so many more, led by visions and nightmares to the gates of The Demonastery and the beshadowed Embra domains of íArathael beyond.

Seeing Sol as their opposition to true freedom in Rathe, the denizens of The Demonastery have launched previous attacks against Solana. Divided in purpose and dogma, these attacks have all fallen short. Yet learning is prized above all else in The Demonastery, every failure studied and dissected. Building upon the sinister works of Lord Sutcliffe and Chane, this dark assembly has harnessed The Dimenxxional Gateway and unleashed a Shadow-born horde upon Solana's lands of Light.

Against this ineluctable onslaught, Solana's Heroes have fought and suffered.

Prism has exhausted every history, every tale in the Great Library. She has consulted with the Magisters and communed with the Heralds. She has prayed to Sol for enlightenment and received her answer; her calling. Guided by Suraya, Herald of Knowledge, she looks with yearning eyes beyond Solana's horizons for the dawn of hope.

Ser Boltyn, Breaker of Dawn, has lost his beloved Eirina to the monsters of Shadow. As an Inquisitor, watched over by Bellona the Wartune Herald, he now scours the lands, battlegrounds and villages surrounding Solana for the signs and servants of Shadow. He does this for his people, but in his heart, he fights for the survival of his only son.

Dorinthea Ironsong has seen dear friends consumed by this conflict. Her mentor, Minerva Themis, was the latest in a long line of sacrifices for Sol.

Shiyana has traversed treachery and tragedy to gain aid for her besieged home, only to be thwarted by assassination and civil war in Volcor.

For the first time since the turning of The Apostate, Solana fears for its future. As the mirrored worlds draw ever closer together, as the progeny of Embra fight the servants of an Aesir, the fate of humanity teeters on the brink.

Who shall prevail, the Shadow or the Light?

Only one thing is certain. Whatever the victory, Rathe shall feel its effects for aeons to come...

The Land of Rathe

Flesh and Blood is set within the world of Rathe. Rathe is a land of heroes and legends, thieves and scoundrels, war and peace, magic and technology. The people of this world have long since forgotten those who came before, sacrificing their past in hopes of creating a better future.

This is an unforgiving world, a tapestry of treacherous landscapes and vicious creatures, where only the strong will learn to stand tall. Massive volcanoes, icy plains, and mysterious hidden worlds create a harsh, unrelenting arena for human conflicts and warfare. Yet in spite of the world's hidden dangers and ancient mysteries, humanity has flourished, establishing societies across the continent. Some have learned to live in harmony with one another, embracing their fellow man and giving rise to an era of peace. Others live in turmoil, their state of constant warfare reflecting the volatile environment that they call home.

The history of these people is a bloody one - massive wars were fought across the land, as opposing nations struggled for power and influence. Solana, one of the first cities to set down its roots, was quick to welcome other, smaller villages, bringing an increasing number of people into the fold. Their boosted numbers and eager supporters established them as a powerful entity early on in Rathe's history, cementing their place within the land.

With the disappearance of their fabled protectors, Aria concealed itself from the rest of the world, hiding behind an ancient barrier and natural defenses. The region faded into the realm of myth and legend, as the rest of the world slowly forgot about its existence. As the fantastical realm faded from memory, its people settled amongst the valleys, choosing to pursue a life of peace and celebration.

Isolated from the rest of Rathe, the people of Misteria lie hidden amongst the mountain ranges, transforming the treacherous landscape into a safe haven. Removed from the struggles and petty conflicts of the outside world, they find satisfaction in the beauty and tranquility of their home.

Yet others are not content with pursuing peace and harmony. Vicious creatures fight to the death in vast, unforgiving jungles, while constant warfare plagues the volcanic plains of the south. A sprawling, technological city is the perfect breeding ground for rivalry and corruption, while depraved and twisted individuals lurk in the caverns underneath.

Welcome to Rathe... Pick up your sword and prepare for battle; for no matter where you run, war will find you.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/land-of-rathe/

Edge of Autumn

Growing up in the peace and serenity of the Ikaru village, Ira was a bright and free-spirited child, always getting herself into trouble. Her brothers, Xilin and Jing, were often pulled into her mischief, despite trying their best to rein in their unruly younger sister. While her parents were often exasperated by her inability to sit still and listen to her tutors, they loved her dearly. Her memories of her family were fond, her village a complementary backdrop to the peace and contentment of her childhood.

Despite her parents constant warnings, Ira would sometimes escape to the shrine at the very top of the valley, nestled beneath the tree her family was named for. Within the shrine lay an elegant sword, cherry blossoms engraved along the length of the blade. No matter how many times she tried, she could never manage to pick up the blade, always interrupted before she could lay her hands upon the dusty metal.

"I told you not to come here," her father told her on one occasion, "because this shrine is sacred. You should only come to the shrine if there is an emergency, Ira." Despite his words, she always returned, drawn to the shrine by the sword that lay within.

Many years passed, and some time after her fourteenth birthday, Ira returned from training with her brothers. While the exercises had been boring, she had enjoyed the chance to get out of the valley and spar. However, when they stepped into the village, they immediately realised that something was wrong.

A mass of inky shapes flooded the valley, a horde of creatures filling the streets, laying siege to their ancestral home. One of the creatures closest to them turned, revealing an old, stained mask made of polished bone. Its shapeless, writhing mass was covered by a thin membrane, revealing glimpses of bone and muscle shifting underneath. The monster grew taller, its body straining upward as it shifted shape.

As the siblings drew their weapons, their father appeared before them, placing himself between his children and the massive creature.

"Leave it to me," he yelled, holding his sword steady before him, "you must get to the family shrine. Do not stop until you reach it, no matter what you see."

Xilin quickly pulled his two younger siblings out of the way, forcing them to run through the valley, racing toward the ancient shrine. They wove between the buildings, dodging the reach of mutated creatures, running past the villagers fighting in the streets. While plenty of monsters lay in their path, not one tried to chase after them.

Rushing into the shrine, the siblings closed the door behind them and began to search. The words of their father, many years past, returned to them. Come to the shrine if there is an emergency, Ira mused. He has to have had a plan. While her brothers checked the walls, Ira found herself drawn to the blade displayed at the back of the shrine, finally placing her hand upon the sword.

As she lifted it from the table, a great shudder wracked the building, the wood groaning beneath their feet. The back wall slowly began to slide away, revealing a dark passageway cut into the mountain. Before any of them could make for the tunnel, the shrine lurched once more.

Moonlight burst into the room as a creature tore through the front wall, crowding the entranceway. The masked beast towered over the siblings once again, dark and menacing. Its mask slowly slid upward, its faceless shape splitting open to reveal dozens of rows of teeth, releasing a bloodcurdling scream from its newly formed mouth.

Xilin immediately drew his sword, leaping in front of his siblings. He lifted his weapon to strike, but before the blade could make contact, the creature lunged forward. Like lightning, it struck, and in an instant, their brother was torn in two, slashed open from hip to hip, the lower half of his body collapsing to its knees. Blood and entrails hung from the creature's gaping maw as it roared once more, teeth gleaming in the pale moonlight.

Jing quickly grabbed Ira before she could make a move, pulling her into the passageway and forcing her to run. The creature chased after them, hundreds of tiny hands forming from its misshapen body, dragging along the ground as it pulled itself into the tunnel. A high-pitched wail echoed in the dark as it tried to force itself after the pair, its giant body struggling to fit.

The tunnel, decrepit after years of disuse, gave a warning groan. The stone beneath their feet shuddered as the walls collapsed around them, crushing the monster under tonnes of stone and earth. Sprinting down the passageway, Jing and Ira narrowly avoided the cave-in, escaping with their lives.

Much later, when they had emerged once more, covered in dirt and dust, Ira turned to seek the frame of her burning village, bright against the night sky. Jing slowly walked over to stand at her side, and the siblings stood together in silence, watching and waiting for the sun to rise.

In the weeks following, Ira and Jing began to search for survivors, drawing as close to their childhood home as they dared. Only a few others had escaped from the village in time, vassals of the House of Blossoms. No one else emerged from the village, no other survivors stepped forward, and so Ira and Jing became the last living members of the Ikaru bloodline.

Yet, as time wore on, they began to discover a new truth. It began when they came across another group of survivors, suffering from the same injuries as their own group. They described an attack on their village by a horde of monsters, one that was eerily similar to their own experiences. Then they found another group with the same tale, and another. Word spread across Misteria, describing what became known as the 'Night of the Dark Tide'. A massive group of monstrous beasts, rising from the earth and attacking villages across Misteria.

In all, eight houses had been wiped out in a single night. Not only the clans themselves, but their villages, their records - for some, it almost seemed as if they had been erased from history itself. Ira and Jing found themselves in charge of a large group of survivors, totalling nearly forty members in all. They banded together, searching for a place to settle, and taking comfort in their shared numbers.

This wasn't enough for Ira. As she grew older, her memories of the Dark Tide drove her down a path of vengeance. Searching for answers, Ira gathered the remaining survivors and founded the Crimson Haze Rebels. The group began to travel across Misteria, searching for information on the Night of the Dark Tide. Ira chose to wield the Edge of Autumn in memory of her clan, and Jing could only watch as the weapons' dark essence began to warp her skin, seeping into her veins.

One morning, Ira woke to find a note attached to her bedroll. Jing had seemingly disappeared into thin air, leaving only a short message in his place.

Dear Sister,

Over the last seven years I have watched you grow, founding the Crimson Haze Rebels and searching for the truth behind the destruction of our home. I know that the events of that dark day still weigh on you, and I know that you think that finding those responsible will help you to move on. However, this quest for justice has changed you, Ira. It has morphed into a dark desire for vengeance, and I worry that there is nothing left of the sister that I grew up with.

As the last of our family, it is our duty to return to the valley and rebuild the village, to help our clan move forward. Yet, you continue to ignore your responsibilities, choosing to journey further and further away from our home in search of retribution. I cannot watch you dishonor our family any longer. I have left to find a way to restore our family's name, and rebuild the House of Blossoms. I can only hope that one day, you might finally come to your senses, and join me there.

Jing.

Crumpling the note, Ira dropped it onto the ground, crushing the paper beneath her heel. A short call drew her outside of her tent, stopping to speak to a messenger. While her brother searched in vain for 'another path', she would continue to search, and bring her clan to justice.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/ira-crimson-haze/?stories=True

Once a land of fables, Aria was disconnected from the rest of Rathe, protected from the conflicts and troubles that plagued the rest of the world. Its people were well-cared for by a plentiful land, nurtured by the energy of the Flow. As the landscape changed, shaped by the passage of the Flow, the transformations shaped the people of Aria as well. Its cheerful and carefree people have cultivated a culture rich in music, entertainment and celebration.

However, in recent times the Flow has become increasingly unstable, and a growing number of outsiders are entering Aria. The volatile energy of the Flow is changing the landscape of Aria faster than ever before, bringing a sense of unease and confusion to its people. Amongst the uncertainty and disquiet, the traditions and festivals of Aria have become more important than ever, bringing a measure of peace to the hearts of the people.

A Rising Star

Even amongst the many taverns, festivals and celebrations of Aria, nothing could possibly compare to the excitement of the Everfest Carnival. A massive, moving circus, the Everfest travels throughout Aria, a sea of brightly coloured big-tops boasting the biggest collection of performances in all of Rathe. Yet of all its acts, none were so famous or beloved as Bravo's Legendarium.

Bravo was raised amongst the strongmen and animal acts of the Valdur, growing up alongside great, majestic cesari, and tiny meeps that darted from stall to stall. Many of his closest friends were members of the Maela; oracles, bards, skalds, enchanters and fortune-tellers, all breezing about the Everfest in loose silks and layers of golden jewellery.

One of the Maela elders, a woman with fine white hair and a single eye, always made time for the young boy. She often spent time sharing the tales of Aria with him, spinning both fantastical tales and old legends. Bravo listened to tales of powerful enchanters and mysterious shamans, of magical artefacts and hidden wonders. It sparked a hunger for stories untold, and even as an adult, Bravo continued to seek out more.

One day, when he was eighteen years old, Bravo decided to perform one of the old legends within the Carnival, bringing it to life upon the stage. Joined by a bard, two strongmen and an enchantress, he recreated one of Aria's most beloved tales; the legend of Magnus the Vigilant.

The performances quickly became a staple of the Everfest, transforming into the Legendarium. As the act's popularity continued to grow, so did the size of Bravo's troupe. By the age of twenty-six, Bravo had amassed a troupe of over thirty performers and stagehands, with an act that was beloved by audiences across Aria.

While the troupe had their fair share of followers, it was Bravo who often found himself at the centre of attention. He quickly found himself overrun by avid fans, his charisma and confidence earning him admirers everywhere he went. Yet even as he enjoyed performing, there was a part of him that still longed for more.

Call to Adventure

During a life travelling with the Everfest Carnival, Bravo had visited every village in Aria - yet no matter how many he travelled to, Aldevyr remained one of his favourites. A sprawling village, its buildings were scattered across the plains, flowers and herbs growing in rolling meadows. In the midst of summer, the Everfest made its way to Aldevyr once more, greeted with the sight of lush, dense meadows overrun with flowers.

With the Legendarium on hiatus, many of the troupe members had scattered across Aria, taking their time to visit other villages and explore. After spending the previous day helping to set up the many tents and stalls of the Everfest, Bravo was looking forward to spending his morning in the company of a nice, tall glass of alder cider inside the local tavern.

However, just as he was fastening the buttons on his favourite crimson coat, he heard someone clear their throat. In the open doorway of his tent, Gawain and Morgan stood, imposing even in the light of the morning sun.

Bravo had met the duo many moons ago, when they first arrived within the Everfest. Seeing their broad shoulders and muscles, their old-world appearance, and their stalwart natures, Bravo had approached and asked the pair to join his troupe. Reserved and taciturn, they were excellent at supportive roles, and quickly became staple members of the Legendarium.

With the act currently on break, it was hardly surprising to see the pair with packs and travelling gear. However, when Bravo asked about their plans, they stared at him blankly.

"The wayfinders have summoned us." Morgan was the slightly more talkative of the pair, his deep timbre echoing in the small space. "We leave for the Fractal Scar."

Bravo looked from their grim expressions, to the packs upon their shoulders, to the weapons clasped at their sides. While Gawain and Morgan originally arrived at the Everfest with a pair of finely crafted greataxes, Bravo rarely saw the weapons. To see the greataxes once more, in the same moment that Gawain and Morgan were departing for the Fractal Scar at the request of a wayfarer...

It reminded Bravo of the tales that they performed, of noble defenders leaving on a quest; an adventure that would take them across Aria in the pursuit of protecting the innocent. Gawain and Morgan, leaving on some grand journey; clad in armour and furs, wielding their greataxes with pride. Travelling for months, perhaps years; a journey taking them from village to village in search of their target, helping townsfolk and rescuing fair maidens from harm. At last, when they arrive at their destination, a great evil would appear before them, one that they are destined to defeat...

Gawain and Morgan stood toe to toe with an ancient creature, something long forgotten by the people of Aria. Covered in scales, it raised its head with a bellowing roar and launched itself toward them. They fought valiantly, taking blow after blow as they worked together to defeat the beast. At last, Morgan got close enough to the creature to find an opening in its defenses. With a single swing of his greataxe, he beheaded the great beast, silencing it once more. They return to the townsfolk with the creature's head, arriving to the sound of cheering. The townsfolk hold a festival in their honour, a token of thanks for their valiant heroes...

Bravo clapped once, decisively, nodding his head.

"I'm coming with you."

Gawain and Morgan looked to one another, the taller of the pair silently raising an eyebrow. After a long moment, they turned back toward him. To anyone else, Gawain's expression would have looked exactly the same, but Bravo had known him long enough to glimpse an air of resignation in his fixed stare.

Morgan shrugged. "We leave at noon."

It didn't take long for Bravo to gather his things, his pack still mostly untouched from arriving in Aldevyr the previous day. The last thing he gathered was his beloved mallet, Anothos, forged from polished wood and finely hammered silversteel. He stopped to visit his companions amongst the Maela, and those of his troupe who had stayed within Aldevyr. Once he had said his goodbyes, he left to meet Gawain and Morgan just beyond the outermost circle of tents.

The Hero's Journey

The trio began their journey across Aria, making their way toward the massive crystalline cliffs of the Fractal Scar. The long days and balmy evenings of midsummer allowed them to spend more hours travelling during the day, spending their nights sleeping beneath the gentle light of the stars. The towns they passed through were more than happy to give them a place to rest, gifting them fruit, bottles of ale, and loaves of fresh bread for them to take on their journey.

While travellers were common across Aria, the trio encountered more travellers than usual heading in the same direction as themselves, mysterious individuals that seemed out of place amongst the quiet, peaceful villages. An enchantress garbed in fine, iridescent silks; a strongman wearing simple stage armour; a wayfarer dressed in verdant broadcloth and worn brown leathers; a young woman with pale hair dressed entirely in kaie'o fur; a giant of a man wearing a massive horned helm; and all of them travelling toward the Fractal Scar.

However, as they grew closer to their destination, the atmosphere began to change. The towns and villages they visited seemed a little quieter. Despite the bright sunshine and balmy warmth of midsummer, there was no birdsong, no kaie'o darting across the fields, no fianna roaming the landscape. It seemed as if there were no animals to be found at all, and none of the towns they visited seemed to know why all the creatures had disappeared. Each person they spoke to only described the feeling of waking up one morning to an unusual silence and venturing outside to find the plains empty.

The three men began to feel an increasing sense of urgency. Every wayfarer they passed on their journey seemed to fly across the earth, racing past with their dowsing discs aglow. Some travelled on foot, traversing the rolling fields with surprising speed; others rode on the backs of fianna and vitr'eo, their long braids streaming behind them as they sped past, in the opposite direction to the Fractal Scar.

One night, they stopped in a village close to their destination, arriving to find the buildings dark and quiet. The townsfolk were nowhere to be found, their belongings left behind, plates still set on tables, mugs of cider and mulled wine still sitting out, half-empty.

While Gawain and Morgan scouted out the rest of the village, Bravo searched the local tavern, looking for some sign of the people that had abandoned their homes. All of the casks were intact, chairs left sitting at their tables, the beds upstairs half-made. Some of the rooms still had packs in them, though none revealed any clues about their missing owners.

As Bravo began to make his way downstairs, he heard a quiet chitter. Anyone who visited the Everfest Carnival knew to keep an eye out for the mischievous meeps. Growing up within the Everfest, Bravo had developed a keen awareness for the sound of a meep making its move, the only warning one might get before the creatures ran off with one's purse.

Sure enough, Bravo turned to find a meep sitting on the balustrade, its beady little gaze fixed pointedly on one of Bravo's golden earrings. It was incredibly rare to find a meep outside of the Everfest Carnival, the perfect environment for the tiny thieves. Yet here one was, and in a deserted village no less.

Several minutes later, Bravo descended to find Gawain and Morgan waiting for him, leaning against the tavern's counter. As they turned toward him, he watched their gaze flick to his missing earring, and then to the meep sitting happily on his shoulder, a single gold ring strung onto its tail. In response to their confused looks, the meep chittered happily, waving its prize in the air.

Transformation

According to Morgan, the wayfarers had set up camp near the Fractal Scar, rallying those who came to offer their aide. Marbles, drawn to the flash of sunlight reflected by the dowsing discs, led them from wayfarer to wayfarer, all making their way to the Fractal Scar. They were soon pointed in the right direction, and without Marbles' help, it may have taken them weeks to find their way through the icy plains.

However, when they finally arrived at the village, the scene before them sent a chill down their spines. Unlike the gentle, rolling meadows of Aldevyr, the village that lay before them was an ashen husk of its former self. Houses lay abandoned, open doors swinging in the wind, blood smeared against the charred wood.

The wayfarers had claimed a small section of land at the edge of the village, making use of the blacksmith's forge as a meeting place. Bravo approached one of them, a slender young man in the process of restringing his bow. Like many of the other wayfarers, he sat with his shoulders slumped, dark circles hanging beneath his eyes, skin sallow, eyes drooping closed with every other breath. Clearing his throat, Bravo politely greeted the young man, receiving a small, tired smile in response. Both stared silently for a moment, speech faltering, before Bravo finally gestured to the village around them.

"What happened?"

With a sigh, the young man began to share a report from one of the older wayfarers. Many years ago, a group of wayfarers had come across a massive sinkhole to the south of Aria, where the earth had suddenly caved in. Assuming that it was the work of the Flow, they filled in the sinkhole with the help of some local townsfolk and thought nothing more of it.

Then, several months ago, in the early hours before dawn, a deep, rolling rumble woke several villages from their slumber. The ground quaked as people emerged from their homes, searching for the source of the sound - but found nothing. No changes had affected the land around their town, no shimmer in the air to show the influence of the Flow; it seemed as if the earth itself had mysteriously risen from a deep slumber.

Some of the townsfolk set out to check the surrounding area, only to stumble across the cause by accident. They witnessed the surface of the earth begin to crack apart, and before anyone could think to get to safety, a swarm of creatures burst out of the sinkhole, clawing their way through the pile of loose dirt.

The swarm descended upon the town and any villages near the Fractal Scar in a mindless rampage, slaughtering anything that crossed their path. The wayfarer called them dregs, humanoid figures with bloated, rotting bodies; their faces were a mass of melted, discoloured skin, dripping the length of their bony, twisted limbs. When they attacked, the air was heavy with the smell of burning flesh, bile and decay, steam rising from their open wounds.

After giving Bravo, Gawain and Morgan some advice on how to kill the creatures, he told them where to go next; a village heavily hit by the attacks, where their help was desperately needed.

For months, they travelled along the edges of the Fractal Scar, hunting down dregs and helping others who had stepped up to the task. Some of the villages that they came across were still occupied, their townsfolk carefully guarded by defenders in makeshift armour. Other villages lay abandoned, left vacant by fleeing townspeople, destroyed by the swarm of dregs following in their wake.

Marbles helped in his own way, darting onto Bravo's shoulder to chitter at drained defenders and anxious townsfolk. His tiny, expressive face often brought a smile to people's faces, bringing some amount of levity to the tension hanging in the air.

Even as his heart grew weary, Bravo began to grow accustomed to this new way of life, learning to use Anothos for true battle. Hunting dregs alongside Gawain and Morgan, Bravo developed skills necessary to keep himself alive, and eliminate the creatures that threatened his home.

Final Battle

The trio were making their way back to the wayfarer's base, seeking another quest, when they received word of a large swarm of dregs travelling further into Aria. A call went out to anyone within range, asking them to gather at a nearby valley. The trio immediately changed course and made their way to the meeting point, arriving to find a small crowd preparing themselves for battle.

Even to one who had grown up in the Everfest Carnival, the collection of people gathered in the valley were mysterious and unfamiliar. Makeshift armour, worn leathers, faded silks and mended linens were worn alongside ancient helmets and layers of golden jewellery. Some looked as if they had stepped straight out of an act in the Everfest, others as if they'd just emerged from the tavern for the first time in months.

Yet all of them were prepared to fight, weapons at the ready, from bows to greataxes, hammers to daggers, enchantments to potions and poisons. The defender at the head of the valley, a towering man dressed in a patchwork collection of various pieces of armour, called everyone to arms. Those gathered leapt into action, following him over the hill and toward the village to face the swarm.

A massive group of dregs milled about the buildings, eerily silent as they moved. Some of them dragged chains behind them, still attached to manacles around their neck. Others had scraps of torn fabric hanging from their skin or clutched at pieces of armour and leather. One had a human hand clasped in its claws, still wearing a strange metallic gauntlet on what remained of its forearm.

As a battle cry went up, the swarm turned towards the commotion. The dregs were faster than Bravo had expected, moving quickly despite their bent and twisted limbs. The pungent smell of decay filled the air, thick and cloying, building at the back of his throat until it burned. Swinging Anothos overhead, he slammed the hammer into a dreg's skull, sending it colliding into the earth. Turning on his heel, he caught another in the temple before it could sink its claws into him.

One of the larger dregs towered over him, a snarl escaping from somewhere behind the mass of melted skin covering its face. As it lunged toward him, he stumbled, and couldn't raise Anothos in time to stop it from tearing into his arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of another dreg advancing, its mouth hanging partially open as it threw itself forward.

In that instant, Bravo suddenly felt the world tilt sideways, and a number of things happened in quick succession. A sharp pain burst to life behind his eyes, almost blinding him. The world took on a bright, hazy glare, an unnatural heat coursing through his veins. For just a moment, he could have sworn that he saw a spectral shape in the air before him, curling through the light in the same way that a cesari moves through the air. That same iridescent light coiled up his arm, charging through the polished wood of Anothos. The hammer shimmered, and a rainbow of colours burst forth, radiant and shining.

Instinctually, he swung Anothos in a wide arc, and the mallet collided with the bottom of the dreg's jaw. Its skull immediately exploded, fragments of bone dropping to the grass at its feet. Bravo charged at the other dreg on his left, taking its head off its shoulders with a single swing, and a sickening, liquid crunch. Gawain and Morgan appeared in the midst of the fray, joining him on either side, their greataxes a flash of silver in his peripheral vision.

Dreg after dreg collapsed to the ground, bodies dropping to encircle Bravo as he made short work of the creatures around him. Every swing sent another dreg slamming into the earth, bones cracking beneath the force of every hammer strike. Before long, the last dreg fell, leaving the village silent as every person present slowly turned to look at their surroundings.

A cheer sounded through the valley, ringing between the buildings as everyone gathered themselves, pleased to see their companions still standing. Gawain and Morgan turned toward Bravo, mostly unharmed, relief and pride colouring their usual deadpan expressions.

In the coming days, they helped to search the hills for any remaining dregs, but with the majority of the force dealt with, it seemed as if peace would reign once more. Some of the townsfolk even began to return to their original homes, as defenders helped to set up protective measures and begin repairs.

Bravo spent most of his time with the villagers, talking with the townsfolk and putting on short performances alongside Gawain and Morgan. Many of those present recognised from the Everfest Carnival, and he soon found himself the star of the show once more.

While the villages had only just begun the long road to recovery, they put on a festival to celebrate their victory, making Bravo one of their honoured guests. He stopped to talk to each person that wanted to offer their gratitude, accepting their kind words with a smile and wink.

After many months away from their home, Bravo and his companions finally decided to return to the Everfest Carnival. Saying their goodbyes, they began to make their way north, Marbles in tow.

Homecoming

The entire troupe was waiting for them when they arrived, welcoming them home with wide smiles and no small amount of celebration. The Legendarium's bard, Mikael, was bursting with new ideas, launching into a report of all the new stories he'd learned while in the Milesian Ranges. Meanwhile, Marbles emerged from Bravo's pack, greeting the troupe with an excited chitter.

While he was happy to see his family and friends once more, it felt strange to return to the Everfest after spending so many months away. Even as he greeted his troupe, his mind drifted back to the battles and the creatures they faced, the happiness expressed by each villager as they finally returned home.

He had heard wayfarers speak of unusual changes in the Flow, and one had hinted that the dregs were not the only threat to Aria. Change was coming rapidly, and the events at the Fractal Scar were only the beginning. Bravo would not lose the Everfest to creatures like the dregs, and he would not let it be destroyed, like the barren villages that they had come across in their travels. He vowed to find a way to protect the Everfest Carnival, and all the other villages and towns that they visited across Aria.

As Bravo greeted his companions, following them into the sea of tents with a broad grin, a single figure remained near the edge of the tents. An old woman, dressed in the loose silks and woven fabrics of the oracles, her golden jewellery marking her as one of the Maela. Her single eye gleamed as she watched Bravo leave, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"At last, it is time. The Guardians shall return once more."

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/bravo-showstopper/?stories=True
Story by Nicola Price.
Illustrations by MJ Fetesio, colour by Sindy Wo.

Pride of the Ironsongs

Centuries after the end of the great wars, Solana is experiencing an era of peace and prosperity, with the last of its great defenses completed, and its people watched over by noble protectors. And yet, a strange wind has begun to stir once more, sowing seeds of unrest across the continent. Strangers hail from the East, bringing their strange customs and mystic rites to the outskirts of the grand city. To the South, blasphemous cults gather, driven by greed and gluttony. Worst of all, the savage packs of the west gather near the outskirts of the jungle, creeping ever closer to the villages under Solana's protection.

Amidst the brewing storm, the Hand of Sol gathers in ever larger patrols, permanently stationing knights in villages across the golden fields. As terrible beasts begin to emerge, Solana's scholars continue to search for a possible cause, and a way to eliminate the creatures once and for all. The knights of the Hand of Sol are needed now more than ever, to defend innocent lives from the horrors that threaten to overwhelm them all.

Childhood

For centuries, the Ironsong family have prided themselves on their reputation as master blacksmiths. The first generation of the bloodline were awarded the name of Ironsong for their work with weapons and armour, forging some of the finest in all of Solana. In the years since, they have passed down their trade secrets from generation to generation, preserving the Ironsong name.

Dorinthea Ironsong was an only child with a penchant for mischief. Her earliest memories are of the forge, and the heavy scent of smoke hanging in the air as she watched her parents work, expertly crafting graceful blades and sun-blessed shields. Her mother would often talk to her while smithing, explaining everything to her curious daughter.

When she wasn't in the forge with her parents, Thea could usually be found with Minerva, the reserved, steely-eyed woman who ran the Golden Chariot next to the Ironsong forge. Her parents had known Minerva since they were children, long since passing the line between friends and family. While Thea knew that Minerva had been born outside of Solana, the innkeeper was incredibly private, and rarely spoke about her past.

In the mornings, Thea helped out with minor chores, sweeping and cleaning the tavern before returning to the family forge in the afternoon. Then, as all the guests were settling in for their evening meal, she would take up residence next to the fire and listen to the chatter around her.

Thea was fascinated by the patrons that came to the inn, many of them travellers visiting from outside of Solana. She loved to listen to them share stories from their hometown, or describe the things they had seen on their travels. Most travellers came from the villages under Solana's protection, following one of the many paths leading to the grand city gates. Others, however, came from further afield to visit the great Library of Illumination, or listen to speeches in the Amphitheatre. The busiest time of the year, however, was during the Solstice of Laurels.

The Solstice took place once a year, equal parts celebration and ceremony for the Hand of Sol. Great processions of knights clad in ceremonial armour strode through the streets of Solana, gathering at the base of the Amphitheatre. Templars, radiant in gold and ivory, marching with their weapons held high, their masks gleaming in the light of the sun.

Trainees, squires, knights, all stepping forward to receive the blessings of the Grand Magister. Where some were commended for completing their training, recognised before all of Solana, others were commended for their excellence and dedication, proudly accepting their promotions. After them, a few blessed individuals stepped forward to be inducted as Templars, receiving their masks with honour.

Thea always looked forward to the Solstice. Sitting high above the arena, she would watch as the knights of Solana marched forward in perfect unison, their heads raised high with pride. Visitors came from all over Rathe to witness the ceremony, and see the noble men and women who became the new generation of knights for the Hand of Sol.

After the ceremony concluded, she would make her way back to the Golden Chariot to listen to the visitors talking in hushed whispers, their voices full of awe as they spoke of the Solstice, and the radiant warriors who marched beneath the light of the sun.

The Awakening

While Thea admired the Hand of Sol, she already knew her destiny. Her family had been chosen long ago to serve Solana as master blacksmiths, and she was proud to continue the Ironsong legacy. So, when the day finally came for the Awakening ceremony, on the eve of her eighth birthday, Thea was ready to don the blacksmith's apron and join her parents in the forge.

Following the chancellor into the ceremonial chamber, Thea went to stand at the centre of the room, looking around at all of the objects lining the walls. She searched for the gentle light of a blacksmith's hammer activating, awakening, glowing like a dying ember in the heat of the forge. Yet, as Thea waited, she did not see a hammer, nor an anvil, tongs, or the blacksmith's heavy apron. Instead, hundreds of swords all began to shine, resonating with the light of Sol. They darted into the air, flying around her like stars around the sun. Their glow was so bright that they began to illuminate the entire room, the darkened hall flooding with the vibrant light of the noonday sun.

One sword in particular caught Thea's attention, a graceful, thin blade with a gilded hilt. It circled closer and closer, and on its next pass, Thea reached out and plucked it from the air, grasping it tightly in her tiny hand. All at once, the rest of the swords fell to the ground with a sharp clatter, still and silent upon the marble floor.

The next day, the Archon of Thea's district proclaimed her a prodigy swordsman of great potential, and Thea was immediately enrolled into training with the Hand of Sol. Even as her parents rejoiced, honoured that Sol would choose their daughter to be a knight, Minerva only watched Thea quietly, something unreadable lingering in her shrewd gaze.

Genesis

Thea's training began with simple classes, taught by scholars from the Light of Sol. Their lessons covered everything from the history of Solana, to the lands beyond the city walls, to the many creatures of Rathe. As their training progressed, this grew to include theory relevant to their training, such as the structure of different weapons and armour, how to identify their opponents' weaknesses, and how to play to their own strengths.

Thea quickly made friends with two of her fellow trainees. Valeria, short and stubborn, was determined to live up to her family legacy, and spoke of her desire to one day become a templar. Felix was a dark-haired, light-hearted, enthusiastic young boy, excited about their training and filled with gratitude to Sol for giving him the chance to become a knight. The trio were inseparable, spending almost every waking hour in each other's company.

Every day, Thea rose from her warm bed above the family forge and travelled to the outer walls to begin training. Solides through Verides were spent with scholars and knights in the classroom, learning theory. Exorides and Merides were spent training, beginning with drills to learn footwork and technique, before progressing to sparring as they grew older and a little more experienced. Finally, Vesperides would come - a day of rest, for the trainees to do as they pleased, and enjoy the company of their family and friends.

Thea, Valeria and Felix often spent Vesperides either in the Golden Chariot, listening to travellers' tales, or in the Amphitheatre, listening to the Magisters who spoke the word of Sol. On their way home, strolling amongst the verdant gardens of the Silvarium, they would often talk about the future, dreaming about the day that they would journey outside the walls as knights of Solana. They wondered aloud about distant lands, imagining what they might see beyond the golden fields. The tales they heard in the Golden Chariot fuelled their imaginations, and they dreamed together about the day they would step forward to uphold their sacred duty. Most of all, they dreamt about their future party, and the radiant templar that would lead them beyond the great gates of Solana.

Over time, their schedule began to shift, allowing for more time for physical training to perfect their fighting abilities and prepare them for battle. Their lessons covered everything that they might need to survive, information that would be crucial to protecting themselves from the horrors of the outside world.

"You have no need to fear the world beyond the walls," Charis told them. Their main instructor, she reminded them to put their faith in Sol. "The glory of Sol will protect you from any threat. Sol knows all and will always guide you to the path of the Light."

Even as Thea revelled in their training, finding joy in the structure and purpose granted by the will of Sol, she struggled with the rigid beliefs of her teachers. Meanwhile, her fellow trainees grew quieter and more reserved with each passing year, settling into their roles within the Hand of Sol.

Come Together

After six long years, Thea, Valeria and Felix journeyed to the Amphitheatre, excited to meet their party and receive the weapons and armour of a squire. The Solstice of Laurels commenced as a procession of noble warriors marched onto the stage, bowing their heads before the cheering crowds. As the trainees crossed the stage, pausing to receive the Magister's blessings with a humble bow, Thea turned to look out over the crowds before her, all rejoicing under the light of the sun. The Solstice continued long into the day, the figures of proud lieutenants stepping aside to give room to the templars, resplendent in their gilded ceremonial armour.

Thea and Valeria, assigned to the same party, stepped forward to meet the templar striding toward them. A masked figure cast in gold and silver met their gaze, armour polished to a bright shine, the features of her mask pulled into an aloof expression, with eyes that made it seem as if she were staring straight through them.

The templar, Hala, introduced them to their lieutenant, a younger man named Farris; the knights of their party, Vitus, Pallas and Darius; and Marcus, a scholar from the Light of Sol.

The party left Solana the following day, and ventured out into the villages, patrolling and offering help to those in need. Repairing damaged buildings, tracking down lost livestock, bolstering defenses, digging wells, building fences, hunting wild beasts, tracking and exterminating groups of bandits; anything that the villagers needed. Marcus, as a senior scholar, helped to heal the sick and injured, and gave speeches about Sol and the blessings of the Light.

They roamed the plains beyond Solana, staying in villages for weeks, sometimes months at a time. By day, they worked tirelessly to help their neighbours, and by night, sat by the local inn's fire to hear stories from grateful villagers.

On their travels, the party often told stories to pass the time, sharing their own experiences or stories from Solana's history. Thea's memories of her time as a squire were often fond recollections of these moments, spent laughing and chatting under the light of the sun. She often went forward to join Hala at the front of the party, finding moments to talk to the radiant templar. Hala indulged the young squire, sharing tales of her past and lessons she'd learned while in the Hand of Sol.

Occasionally, Thea would manage to convince Hala to spar with her, taking advantage of the tiny breaks between their patrols. Wielding Dawnblade, the sword that she had been bestowed during her Awakening ceremony, Thea was quick and agile, darting around her opponent with ease. However, the templar was a relentless opponent, constantly one step ahead. In all their time together, Thea only managed to get past Hala's shield three times, basking in the quiet pride in Hala's voice as she congratulated her.

Several months into their patrol, one villager spoke to them in whispers, describing a massacre that had been discovered within the jungles to the west. They described a party of knights that lay strewn across the earth, armour torn open, blood coating the ground in a layer of muddied crimson. The tale was not unusual, in and of itself - the Savage Lands were known for their dangers, and occasionally, a party was caught off guard by the beasts that lurk within.

However, rumours began to spread of horrific beasts emerging from the jungles, charging along the outermost reaches of the Savage Lands in a mindless frenzy. As reports poured in of attacks on outlying villages, the party spent more and more time in the villages on the outskirts of the golden fields, patrolling the area in an attempt to lessen the attacks.

They found villages ransacked, bodies lying in the fields, dusty roads littered with blood and entrails. From packs of smaller beasts, to massive creatures with armoured hides, the beasts of the Savage Lands were travelling further than ever before; frenzied, relentless, they fought with reckless abandon, tearing a path through the village until they were finally struck down. Sometimes the party arrived in time to fend off the creatures and save innocent lives. At other times, they arrived to find an empty village, as if its townspeople had vanished in the middle of the night. The only signs of conflict came from the occasional bloodstain, smeared along the side of a building, a streak of crimson left amongst the grassy fields.

Five years after the party had left Solana, Marcus woke the party before dawn. In the morning twilight, he relayed a message sent by an archon, summoning them to one of the forward camps located on the outskirts of the Savage Lands.

They travelled for almost two weeks before they finally arrived at the forward camp, finding a clearing filled with silver and gold. Knights, lieutenants and templars were packed into the camp, almost completely drowning out the merchant's stalls lining the border of the clearing. The templars' masks gleamed in the pale sunlight as they conversed with scholars, gathered near the centre of the clearing. Hala disappeared into the crowd to find the archon who had summoned them, Marcus close behind. Behind them, the rest of the party lingered at the edge of the clearing, watching as the sea of knights parted before Hala's determined stride.

Into the Wilderness

Along the outskirts of the Savage Lands, forward camps lie hidden between the trees, constructed long ago by the Hand of Sol. They serve as entry points to the jungle beyond, and as a safe space for knights and adventurers alike to rest and restock supplies. The camps usually accommodated for one or two parties at a time, and were mostly occupied by merchants, traders, adventurers, and the occasional band of mercenaries. Now, however, the forward camps were overflowing with warriors from Solana, bedrolls lining the clearing.

Any party near the Savage Lands had been summoned. Templars and scholars stepped aside to gather in meetings, planning patrols and keeping the camps running as they discussed the growing threat from the Savage Lands. For weeks, they remained within the jungle, awaiting news from the Grand Council.

Then, finally, the scholars received their orders. Templars, scholars and veteran knights were to group together and search the jungle for information. While the senior members banded together, the lieutenants gathered the remaining knights and squires into parties to patrol the borders, and maintain a line of defense between the savage wilds and the golden fields. Farris took control of their party, leading them on minor scouting missions along the outskirts of the jungle.

For months, they patrolled the borders of the jungle, hunting down any creature that emerged from the depths of the Savage Lands. Hala and the rest of her squadron were gone for days at a time, travelling deep into the jungle in increasingly longer journeys. In her moments of rest between missions, Hala would rejoin the party to check in on her charges and pass on any updates. Between all of the travel, meetings and planning, Hala would occasionally find a spare moment to spar with Thea between the trees, a tiny respite from the quiet frenzy of the forward camps.

The Road of Trials

One day, Thea's party was returning from patrol when they caught a glimpse of smoke between the trees. When the camp finally came into view, the sight was bloodcurdling. Scraps of torn fabric were strewn across the camp, littering the dirt with white, red and gold; one of the tents was on fire, billowing black smoke, while another hung limply from the branches of a nearby tree; blood was smeared into the dirt, a dark crimson stain against the dusty earth; a single corpse lay out in the open, head torn from its shoulders. The merchants, mercenaries and warriors that had been in the clearing hours prior were nowhere to be found, only a single fragment of dented metal left behind to mark their presence.

After several minutes of silence, Farris relayed their orders from a nearby scholar - secure the camp, guard the remaining supplies, and wait for the parties to return. Thea tried to convince Farris to go after the missing people, that they could be out there somewhere, still alive, dying in slow, silent agony as they waited for someone to come for them. However, it didn't work. Quietly, gently, Farris repeated their orders, reminding her that Sol knew best.

Thea was certain that there had to be a mistake. She had seen first-hand the brutality and savagery that the creatures of the Savage Lands were capable of. Surely Sol, a being of wisdom and mercy, wouldn't tell them to leave innocent people to their fate, torn apart by vicious beasts, disembowelled and left to slowly bleed to death.

For a while, Thea continued to help her party clean up the camp and secure what was left, but by sundown, she had made up her mind. As the sun began to set and those present were working to secure the camp, Thea took her chance. She stole several weapons from the stockpile and disappeared into the shadows.

At first, she struggled to find any tracks, but eventually stumbled across some blood smeared against a tree trunk. Thea followed the tracks for several hours, stopping every so often to gather her bearings and find the next part of the trail. Then, at last, Thea found her missing people.

Four brutes lay within the clearing, while a fifth sat watch near the captives, its head bowed in sleep. Eleven people were tied to the trees next to it. Thea recognised six of them as merchants, and two more bore the armour of the Hand of Sol. The remaining three appeared to be mercenaries, judging by their light armour. Slowly, quietly, she made her way over to the two knights, untying them and handing them a weapon each. While she worked on the mercenaries, she looked over, expecting the two knights to already be on their feet and helping others - yet they were still sitting against the tree.

On closer inspection, Thea saw the wounds seeping crimson against their armour, the way they were slumped forward, faces waxy and pale. They were barely going to be able to walk, let alone wield a weapon. The rest of the group were little better. Many of the captives appeared to be badly wounded, exhausted, or suffering from extreme blood loss.

Just as she began to wonder how she was going to help these people escape, she heard the distinctive rasp of metal against wood. Behind her, the guard rose to its feet, club clenched tightly in one fist. Thea drew her blade, already moving in an attempt to silence it before it could alert the rest of the pack, but it was too late - with a bellowing roar, it roused the other brutes from their slumber. As the pack lurched to their feet, Thea noticed one of the warriors out of the corner of her eye, struggling to rise, leaning heavily on the tree as he straightened.

Raising Dawnblade before her, Thea placed herself between the pack of brutes and the camp survivors. She was preparing herself for battle when she noticed a faint flash of light between the trees, recognising the metallic shine of silver armour. Hala and the rest of her party burst into the clearing, the templar holding her shield out before her as she charged the brutes, brandishing her sword, shining with the light of Marcus's magic. Within seconds, the group was under attack, and the sounds of fierce battle filled the clearing. The party began to make some headway as one of the brutes ran into the jungle, badly injured. For a moment, it almost seemed as if they could all make it out okay.

Yet before they could defeat the remaining brutes, before they could help any of the captives to their feet, before they could even try to get anybody back to camp, a great bellow echoed throughout the clearing. Nine more brutes emerged from the line of trees, one of them towering high above the others, skin grey and craggy, eyes dark as it charged toward them. They were outnumbered, overpowered, and outmatched.

The party had no choice but to flee. As Hala sounded a retreat, charging at the brutes to give the rest of the party enough time to flee, Thea started forward to help the captives struggling to their feet. Then Marcus appeared before her. Blocking her path, he pulled her away, dragging her out of the clearing and forcing her to run toward the camp. As they dashed through the trees, the air was filled with the sound of pained screams, echoing from all those they had left behind.

When the morning came, the sun rising to flood the forward camp with light, only three members of the party had emerged into the campsite. Marcus and Thea arrived first, supporting Hala between them, grey-faced from blood loss, her head hanging limply from her shoulders. While, with some difficulty, Thea had been forced to leave the others behind, she had refused to return to camp without Hala. The pair found her on the brink of death, badly injured from her battle with the brutes. Even as the scholars rushed to lie her down on a bedroll, calling light to their fingertips, her breathing grew shallower, her wounds still seeping blood.

Several hours later, just as Thea was about to give up hope, another group of knights entered the clearing, one of them carrying an unconscious Valeria over one shoulder. For hours, the camp was bustling with activity as other parties returned from scouting missions and damage control. Thea watched silently, oblivious to the commotion around her as she observed her friend.

As Valeria finally began to stir, Thea felt a flood of relief wash over her, rising from her bedroll to make her way over to her friend. Yet when Valeria glanced in her direction, her expression shuttered, and Thea watched as she turned her face away, a burning anger in her eyes.

Return to the Fold

In the years since leaving Solana, Thea had imagined their return to the city more than once: the party marching through the gates, welcomed by their people, pleased to return to their home. Yet at the age of nineteen, Thea found the reality to be much different. Their quiet procession through the fates was sombre, the walls pale in the light of dawn as they passed through the city streets.

Valeria marched ahead of her, carrying Vitus' shield on one arm, completely silent. Hala sat atop a dark mare, her face still pale, clutching her side with one arm as Thea slowly led her horse forward. Thea could feel Marcus's gaze upon her back, and she wondered idly if Sol was watching her as well, looking on in disapproval.

After handing in her armour, Thea made her way back to the smithing district. As she walked down the main street, gaze fixed on the outline of Minerva's tavern, she began to slow, coming to a halt in front of her childhood home. Through the open doors, she could see the forge burning brightly, smoke wafting out into the gentle breeze as her parents rushed toward her with open arms.

She spent several hours with her parents, answering all of their questions with a growing sense of exhaustion. Finally, she found an opportunity to slip away to the Golden Chariot. The moment that she stepped through the front door; Thea came face to face with the tavern owner's steely gaze. For a moment, both stood completely still, staring silently at one another.

Streaks of grey had appeared in Minerva's vibrant auburn hair, dark circles hanging beneath her eyes, fine wrinkles lining her skin. She looked so much older than Thea remembered, and yet somehow, it seemed as if she hadn't changed at all. Just as she opened her mouth to say something, Minerva suddenly lurched forward, wrapping Thea in a tight hug.

In the familiar comfort of the inn, Minerva listened silently as Thea described the last few years. She spoke of the rumours that had spread, of the fear and unease, of the village that they'd found in ruins. She spoke of travelling to the Savage Lands and patrolling the outskirts of the jungle. She spoke of coming back to find the forward camp in chaos, of the captives that had been taken and the people still missing. She spoke of leaving to find survivors, of stumbling across the pack of brutes, and trying to help them, and how it had achieved nothing. That four of her party members had died trying to make up for her mistake. That they hadn't even managed to save any of the captives in the end. When Thea was finished, Minerva smiled sadly. "I know that you were only trying to do the right thing. That's what matters, Thea."

Yet even as Minerva comforted her, Thea felt the burden of her mistakes weighing on her shoulders, unable to forget the deaths that she had caused.

Redemption

For months, she waited, helping to serve customers in the tavern, working in the forge, and travelling to the outer walls for sparring sessions. The Solstice came and passed, and while her fellow squires were inducted into the Hand of Sol as full knights, Thea remained on the outskirts of the ceremony with the other Solanians. For a time, it almost seemed as if she would never don her armour again, and she wondered what happened to those who failed to fulfil their chosen role. And then, she received a summons from Hala.

The templar stood tall, radiant in the centre of the antechamber. Her shining armour hid any possible signs of what had happened, and Thea struggled to tell if Hala was fully healed, or if she had suffered any lasting injuries or scars. Thea struggled to meet her gaze; head bowed as she murmured her greetings. For several moments, silence filled the room, until finally she looked up. Hala's impassive mask stared back at her, even as she gently placed a hand on Thea's shoulder.

"Are you ready to prove yourself?"

Rite of Passage

Once a year, the kingdom of Solana holds the Solstice of Laurels, a celebration of the Hand of Sol. Templars, resplendent in their ceremonial armour, lead great processions of knights through the city streets, gathering at the base of the Amphitheatre. Then, at noon, the ceremony would finally begin. Squires completing their training step forward to stand before the Grand Magister, heads bowed as they proudly receive the blessings of Sol. Thea slowly stepped forward, bowing deeply before the radiant figure of the Grand Magister.

Despite the prestige of her accomplishment, promoted to lieutenant at just twenty-one years old, Thea remains strangely solemn. She cannot forget the events that have led to this moment, or the people that she has lost along the way. With her mistakes weighing heavily upon her shoulders, Thea is determined to do better, and become an exemplary lieutenant worthy of her position. Before the people of Solana, Thea makes a promise to herself - she will learn from her past, follow the will of Sol, and honour her people.

"In the name of Sol, I swear that I shall serve Solana to the best of my ability, until death relieves me of this sacred duty. I swear that I will protect Solana, and all those who live within its walls." Her voice rang out, cutting through the hushed quiet of the crowds watching over her. "By the blessed light, I shall carry out this oath, and never shall I knowingly nor willingly violate this, my solemn oath and obligation as a lieutenant of Solana, the outstretched hand of Sol. By the glory of Sol's light, in Sol's name, so shall it be."

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/dorinthea-ironsong/?stories=True
Story by Nicola Price.
Illustrations by MJ Fetesio, colour by Sindy Wo

Kill or be Killed

A vast, primordial jungle, the Savage Lands are uncharted by any map, and its true size remains unknown. Ancient trees tower above the crowded canopy, casting shadows on saplings struggling toward the light. The dense vegetation casts a heavy blanket of silence over the jungle, broken only by the sounds of massive beasts crashing through the undergrowth. Deep within the jungle, savage predators prowl through the shadows, while vicious scavengers fight to the death over scraps of meat. All those that call this place home, from the smallest insect to the largest tree, must fight tooth and nail for their continued survival.

With creatures venturing further and further beyond the jungle's outer limits, wandering into golden fields and attacking villages, the townsfolk have sought out the help of their great protector. Shining knights march into the jungles, hacking down anything that crosses their path. The beasts of the Savage Lands seek out the intruders, preying on any warrior who leaves themselves open to attack. As tensions begin to rise, the jungle itself seems to be stirring, preparing to eliminate any human that steps within its bounds.

Hide

This is the harshest habitat in Rathe, a massive jungle filled with vicious predators and savage wildlife. Inside a small hollow, beneath the roots of a haldor, a small pup opens its eyes for the first time. This is a brute, one of the fiercest predators in the Savage Lands. Yet, as he crawls out of the pile of rotting carcasses, he is no more dangerous than a newborn jacara.

Hunger drives him to leave the safety of his burrow, following the scent of fresh blood on the air. This will be his very first hunt - and may very well be his last. Small, weak and defenseless, the young brute is easy prey for anything that finds him.

However, nearby, a pair of strix lurk within the dense undergrowth. They notice the brute immediately, lunging straight toward the helpless infant. With a wail, he tries to roll out of reach, struggling against the strix' iron grip. Even newborn brutes such as this one have incredibly sharp teeth, his canines tearing through one of their wings. Their panicked shrieks allow him just enough time to slip away, quickly fleeing back to the burrow. He curls up in his pile of bones once more, hungry, but alive. Perhaps later, he will have better luck in finding a meal.

Kill or be Killed

After a successful hunt, the brute feasts upon his prey. However, the scent of blood often draws nearby creatures, who come searching for a free meal. Even when he bellows in an attempt to intimidate them, the young brute is rarely seen as a threat.

Skera, peluda, ank'is, brawnhide; kings of the jungle, fighting tooth and nail in a primordial wilderness. There is no rest, no respite. From the first light of dawn, the predators begin to roam, and their prey must constantly be on the move if they wish to survive. Ensnaring vines and vibrant flowers entice their prey into drawing closer, their curiosity proving to be their downfall. Even after the sun sets, the predators continue to stalk through the darkness, searching for sleeping prey to feast upon.

This is a lesson repeated across the Savage Lands - you must always be ready for a fight. If you cannot defend yourself, you become another beasts' meal. If you cannot protect your own meal, you go hungry. The brute is up for the challenge, but these predators have sharp talons and massive tusks. Even with the brute's claws and strength, he struggles to hold his own. Yet while he often suffers injuries, he refuses to back down, either fending off the beast or escaping with some scrap of food.

It is in this endless wilderness that the brute grew up, battered by the constant fight to survive. Some days, he is hunted, constantly on the run. Days would go by as he withered and wilted in starvation, hiding from a predator following his scent. Yet others would see him become the hunter, lounging within a secluded den with a full belly.

As each season passes, the young brute grows. He becomes stronger, standing his ground against predators, no matter how large. The jungle sees him become a predator in his own right, marking out a place of his own within the Savage Lands.

Bide Your Time

Straying further and further from his birthplace, the brute travels north, to lands filled with larger, more dangerous predators. While the prey is plentiful, the beasts here are massive, powerful masters of the hunt. Roars and howls echo through the trees, fragments of bone coating the earth, carcasses scattered across the jungle floor. Toxic fungi, poisonous berries, and meat-eating plants spread across the landscape, preying on the weak and the unaware.

However, any creature can fall victim to their primal curiosity. The brute continues to investigate that which should be left alone. Abandoned camps, narrow caves, hollows and burrows and barren wastelands, even the rare trails leading to the outer reaches of the jungle.

He finds all kinds of things - metal carapaces; large clubs of wood; handheld talons and massive canines; furs and leathers and hides; shards of metal; carcasses, skulls and bones from unfamiliar creatures. Some things he takes, making a protective hide for himself, and a massive, spiked club. He feasts on strange creatures, with crystalline hides and stone shells.

Yet the further he travels, the more dangerous the land becomes, with ever more predators lurking in the shadows.

The jungle has become far more complex. Beasts roam in massive packs, while savage predators stalk through the shadows. Venomous bites and toxic scales ensure a slow, painful death; scavengers roam the trees in packs, searching for easy prey. The injured, the ill, the young and old; in this part of the jungle, any sign of weakness will spell demise.

Meanwhile, furless, leather-clad creatures gather to the East. With no talons or fangs to speak of, they wield pieces of metal, their large packs and sheer determination outweighing their weaknesses. Tracks and bones left in the earth speak of hunters wearing silver shells, trampling everything in their path. While the brute has yet to encounter these strange creatures, he prepares himself for a fight, keeping a wary eye out for the tracks they leave behind.

For even the most experienced hunter, these are treacherous lands, and biding your time might well save your life. The brute lies in wait, skirting along the edges of a tall cliff face, avoiding the largest and fiercest beasts that would spell certain death. He avoids the barren wastelands and the strange lakes, the acrid scent of death in the air.

After all, it is not only beasts that spell danger in the Savage Lands. Some areas of the jungle are dangerous in their own right, unfamiliar territories that promise a slow death to any creature foolish enough to enter.

Never Back Down

It does not last forever. The brute soon becomes a predator. Rhinar marks a place for himself amongst some of the most dangerous beasts in the Savage Lands. This is his territory, his kingdom, and any creature who dares to step foot within his land will die for it.

Now fully grown, the fear and caution have given way to aggression, an overwhelming urge to carve out a territory for his own. Yet Rhinar grows ever larger, towering over the other predators of the jungle. He drives scraps of metal into his wooden club, the rashari branch he'd once scavenged from the forest floor; adds the jawbone of another brute and the tusk of a young brawnhide.

Rhinar begins to hunt down predator and scavenger alike, any possible threat, any creature that consumes the prey that belongs to him. He fights tooth and nail, beating them down with his club and his fists. The first beast to challenge him pays dearly for it, a peluda that attempts to drive him away from its hunting grounds. He crushes its skull into the cold, hard rock, brain matter dripping onto the stony earth. The curve of his club sends skull fragments flying across the clearing, blood pooling onto the earth, strips of fur and hide hanging limply from the jagged wood. Rhinar tears into it with his bare hands, shoving mouthfuls of steaming viscera into his gaping maw.

One by one, he destroys any predator on his land, devouring them whole. Scale or fur, crystal shell or venomous fang, he hunts them all. The crack of bone echoes through the trees, creatures fleeing from the overwhelming stench of decay that hangs in the air. Rhinar grows ever stronger on the constant feasting, consuming flesh, cramming the fresh organs down his throat by the handful.

The silver-shelled hunters still lingered near the edges of his kingdom, elusive, only leaving faint tracks or an unfamiliar scent to mark their passing. Even as he roamed further from his hunting grounds, he could not follow their scent for more than a moment. Despite the warnings he left behind, they failed to retreat, tramping through the jungle as if set on a predetermined path.

The hunger drives him further still, beyond the boundaries of his territory. He hunts larger and larger beasts, crushing them into the earth, throwing himself into fights with reckless abandon. Rage overpowers any remaining instincts for self-preservation, abandoned in favour of the steaming entrails that he devours from fresh carcasses.

Ripping tusks from skulls with a single swing, toxic scales torn clean from their hide; not even the venomous bite of a rek'vas can deter him from the overwhelming urge to destroy. His skin turns almost grey, covered in a slimy coating of marrow, blood streaked through his hair, viscera collecting beneath his nails. His rampage drives him ever further from his lands, seeking larger beasts and tougher fights. Rhinar's territory grows larger and larger, as he massacres more and more creatures in his endless need to consume and destroy.

Bones and teeth form a chain around his throat, his body decorated in the trophies of his hunt. Rhinar's kingdom is silent, empty. Every remaining creature has fled; prey and predator, hunter and scavenger, all running from the beast that has carved out a home for himself in flesh and blood.

Strength Rules All

Dusk is the most dangerous time within the Savage Lands. The darkening night would strike terror into even the most seasoned hunters, as vicious predators emerge from their dens to stalk through the shadows, hunting sleeping, defenseless prey. In the dim light, a hulking shape storms through the overgrowth, mindless of the racket that it was creating.

Rhinar returns from a successful hunt, his hide streaked with blood, stomping through the shadows as if daring any nearby beast to challenge him. Yet as he drew closer to his lair, he caught an unfamiliar scent on the wind, faint tracks marking the earth. Something had entered his territory, a pack of creatures hunting on his lands. Despite their blatant disregard for all warning signs, entering his land without hesitation, a faint smell of fear lingered in the air.

His clearing was filled with strange creatures, dressed in shells of silver and gold metal. The critters flocked around his hut, poking it and barking at one another. While they looked small and sickly, something about the creatures gave him pause. Rhinar released a bellow, the roar echoing through the trees like a thunderclap.

With a sharp clatter, the nine creatures turned to face him. Immediately, they sprang into action, the pack barking at one another as they moved to surround Rhinar, wielding massive metal talons. One member of the pack, clothed entirely in fabric, threw open his arms, revealing a stream of sunlight that burst through the air. The bolt grazed his side, searing his thick hide.

The pack began to close in, brandishing their weapons as they yelled, drawing closer and closer, leaving nowhere for Rhinar to escape. More bolts of pure light blasted through the air, white-hot and almost blinding. Two of the creatures revealed large, pointed sticks, attached to lengths of white rope. They threw the weapons at him, and as the sharp prongs flew through the air, they pulled the rope taut over the top of his body.

Struggling against the restraints, Rhinar fails to dodge their attacks, silver talons slashing through his thick hide with ease. Blood streams from the open wounds, coating the earth in crimson. When he tries to strike out at them, pulling at the ropes, he finds that their silver shells are as hard as stone, a sharp, hollow clang ringing through the trees. Even his claws fail to rip through the shell, and his strongest blows only serve to knock them off balance. Slowly but surely, Rhinar began to grow weaker, the world dulling to a hazy, burning red.

A memory surfaced, taking him back to a warm, mid-autumn day; a young pup at the mercy of the wilderness, overwhelmed by fear. The endless fear turned to rage, fuelling a fire that flooded through his veins, bringing with it an all-consuming bloodrage.

Rhinar charges forward, tugging himself free of the ropes, sustaining several gashes in the process. He bowled over one of the larger creatures, leaping toward one of the smallest members of the pack. Her fear was a sharp note in the air, the acrid scent stark against the fire of his bloodrage. A single blow to the side of her head sent her flying to the ground, and before she could struggle to rise, Rhinar leapt upon her. Tearing away her silver shell, he drove his fists into her, the loud crack of crushed bones echoing through the clearing.

The rest of the pack faltered for a single heartbeat, and in that same instant, Rhinar charged at another, crushing the creature's skull between his hands. Another crashes into a tree with a sickening crack, while a third falls to their knees, screaming. The scent of blood drove him into a frenzy, tearing through the clearing in an unbridled rampage. The rest of the pack rallied, holding their weapons aloft as they charged. Their talons slashed through the air, one of them cutting Rhinar's tough hide, a trail of blood streaming down his shoulder.

He stormed into the heart of the fray, ripping one creature's head clean off its shoulders, its corpse dropping to the earth with a dull thud. One by one, they began to fall, faltering, bones crushing easily beneath the might of his blows. Even as they tried to escape, Rhinar felled them one by one, crushing their bodies into the earth.

Finally, all was still.

Standing above the carnage, Rhinar bellows, a challenge to fall on empty ears, no surviving beast to hear his challenge. His bellow echoed through the trees, signalling the birth of an apex predator, an alpha unmatched by any other.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/rhinar-reckless-rampage/?stories=True
Story by Nicola Price.
Illustrated by MJ Fetesio

Wanderings in the Mists

Amongst the isolated, peaceful quiet of the mountain ranges, long-forgotten clans hide themselves beneath a blanket of mist. They remain a secret to the other villages of Misteria, their names struck from every record, their continued existence a testament to the determination of their ancestors. Yet some of these clans would emerge once more, and reveal the secrets of Misteria's history.

The Mugenshi clan, having secluded themselves long ago, remain afflicted by an ancient curse that continues to take lives long after their self-imposed isolation. Each year, a number of their clan waste away, their physical and mental wellbeing deteriorating as they descend into despair. While many believe that a cure is all but impossible, some wonder whether the possibility of a cure is worth risking the mountains beyond their ancestral home.

Stalemate

Silence. The last of Katsu's words echoed through the room as he watched the grandmasters turn their faces toward him, expressions cool and unaffected, as still as a lake in the midst of winter.

"It is not yet time." Master Takumi spoke, his voice a counterpoint to the stillness of the room. "There are things that have to be taken into consideration. Autumn is already upon us, and you know well that the winds are more active at this time of year. That aside, the clan is not prepared for such a journey."

"I am not asking for the entire clan to leave. Let me take just a few clan members with me, and we can begin the search." Katsu gestured to the doorway, to the distant sounds of people sparring outside. "There are others who would be willing to join me. If it meant possibly finding a cure-"

Another grandmaster raised his hand, waiting for silence before clearing his throat.

"The clan has been dealing with the Seikan for generations. If there was a cure to be found, it would have been discovered years ago. As head of the clan, you have duties here that you must attend to. You have a responsibility to your people."

"How can I be responsible for my people when they continue to wither and die from an illness that we do not understand? During my Jokyoku, I spent years travelling across Misteria and never once saw its like. Perhaps the way to a cure lies beyond these mountains..."

"Absolutely not," Master Saori interjected, shaking her head. "We cannot risk revealing ourselves to the rest of Misteria, least of all to the Great Households. It is not yet time, Katsu."

"When will that be? We lose members of the clan to the Seikan every year, as we have for centuries. When will it be the right time to finally begin searching for a cure, and find a way to save our people from this fate?"

The room fell to silence once more, every gaze fixed firmly on Katsu.

"We will know." Takumi's voice broke through the quiet, as usual, his tone level and calm. "When the time comes, you will be the first to know, Katsu."

Divergence

The village was tranquil in the early evening, as the clan had their evening meal and prepared for sleep. Only a handful of senshi were wandering between the buildings, some returning late from their training, others keeping a watchful eye over the Mugenshi Gorge. Each of them bowed to Katsu as he passed, pausing to bow back before continuing on his path.

As leader of the clan, no one questioned Katsu's presence at this late hour. The very air around him was still as he made his way to the ancestral shrine, kodachi sheathed at his side. A faint breeze stirred as he passed into the shrine proper, slowly lowering himself to kneel upon the cool stone.

It's been almost two years, and I am still no closer to convincing them. Katsu looked up to gaze at the sliver of night sky visible at the edge of the shrine, faint stars dotted against a sea of inky blue. They never have a reason, only excuses. They are afraid of leaving the gorge, afraid of change - they may never agree to my idea, or to look into a cure at all. Not when the information lies beyond the clan grounds.

Slowly, he pulled a long bundle from behind one of the statues, peeling open the layers of fabric to reveal his supplies. For several weeks, he had been slowly gathering supplies to bring to the ancestral shrine, preparing for this exact moment. Despite their age and detached composure, the grandmasters were sharp as a tack. If any of them caught wind of Katsu's movements, they likely would have found a way to bring his plans to a halt.

Quietly muttering an apology, he rewrapped the bundle and slung it over one shoulder, darting atop the shrine to balance on the edge of the rockface above. In a fluid motion, he pulled himself through the gap and out into the fresh air above, climbing onto the edge of the cliff.

Crossroads

The crescent moon was a thin sliver of silver in the night sky, its soft light muted by the dense storm clouds lurking on the horizon. In the cool night air, a figure slowly emerged from the mists, a straw hat casting his face into shadow. Howling winds coursed through the gorge behind him, echoing deep into the mountains and disturbing the peaceful quiet of the evening air.

He turned to survey his surroundings, gaze sweeping over the landscape before him. Yet nothing else stirred, and he remained alone amidst the trees, a single figure cast in dark grey. His muffled footsteps carried him forward, darting along one of the ropes swaying between the cliffs.

A well-worn map lay tucked into his shirt, marking the paths from village to village. Over his years of wandering, he had long since found the trails leading to Mistcloak Gully, marked only by the passage of travellers such as himself. While several years had passed since his last journey to the town, the path remained unchanged, cloaked by a thick blanket of mist.

Two nights and two days passed in quick succession, sleeping in the warm sunlight, and travelling by the pale light of the moon. A peaceful silence hovered over the mountain ranges, a layer of mist coating the plants in glistening dew. The calm evening air brought a lightness to Katsu's chest as he traversed the cliffs, wandering along the faint mountain trails.

It had been many years since his return to the Mugenshi Gorge to take over as the head of the clan, and in the time since, he had almost forgotten how it felt to travel in this way. While a part of him longed for those peaceful days, taking his time as he journeyed from village to village, he remembered his purpose for leaving, and the duty he had to his clan.

Yet on the third night, shortly after rising and continuing his trek, he paused, slowly drawing his kodachi. Eleven figures emerged from the mists, faces obscured by half-masks, eyes flashing in the dark.

"Be on your way," Katsu warned, voice low and calm. "There is nothing for you here."

"It has been some time since we met a member of the Mugenshi." One man stepped forward, hands held palm-up before him, showing that he was unarmed. While his mask remained, obscuring the lower half of his face, a scar rose from beneath the fabric, the mark of a burn marring his skin. "We were simply curious - why would the head of the clan leave the gorge? We were under the impression that you already passed the Jokyoku."

"Interesting that you should mention the Jokyoku by name, when not one of you belongs to the Mugenshi clan." A wry laugh met Katsu's words, muffled by the cloth covering the stranger's face.

"There is much that we know about your clan. We mean the Mugenshi no harm - you and your people keep to yourselves, and cause no trouble, so we shall not cause any trouble for you. We have not known a single leader to leave Mugenshi Gorge after completing their Jokyoku. If there are storm clouds on the horizon, we would be grateful to know of their presence."

"These mountains have weathered many storms, should a simple sun shower cause so much concern?"

"Even in the largest pond, a single raindrop causes ripples. We would know that rain is coming, so that we might prepare for any ripples heading our way."

"There are no ripples to be found, nor any rain." Katsu shook his head slowly, fingers grasping the hilt of his kodachi.

"I see." The man's hand settles onto the hilt of his own blade, eyes narrowing. "It is a simple request; I would not think honesty to be so complicated."

"If it's such a simple request, why are you so quick to draw your weapons?" Katsu shook his head. "I have no quarrel with you - I would prefer to continue on my way. There is no need for us to come to blows over this."

"I'm afraid that isn't entirely true. If you are so reluctant to share your plans with us, we shall have to convince you otherwise."

The masked figures moved as one, darting through the shadows to strike at Katsu, their blades a flash of silver in the pale moonlight. Twisting out of the way, he called upon the wind, the air swirling around him as he moved to attack. The wind rushed outward in a torrent, streaming past his foes as he dodged past their blows.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he slashed open one of the figures, turning on his heel to cut down another in the moment before they struck. The wind curling around him helped to deflect some of the assassins, pushing them back several feet, yet others continued to get closer. The flow of battle shifted as Katsu went on the defensive, gathering the wind around him as he began to prepare for another blast.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noted a streak of crimson as more men raced into the clearing. They immediately joined the fight, closing in on his opponents with pinpoint accuracy. As most of his assailants were drawn away to defend themselves, Katsu struck out at the remainder with a blast of wind, sending them tumbling to the earth. His kodachi sung as he struck, quick as lightning, storming through the clearing to descend upon them.

The group quickly banded together, gathering around their leader. He turned to glare at the crimson-clothed ninjas surrounding them, neither of the two sides moving to close the gap.

"You rebels need to learn to stay out of our affairs. You cause far more trouble than you're worth." With a quick, sharp whistle, the man motioned for the group to retreat, maintaining eye contact with Katsu all the while. Every member quickly disappeared into the dark night, some of them clutching at their injuries as they darted into the line of trees.

Those who remained in the clearing all turned in unison to look at Katsu, identities obscured by the pale masks covering the top half of their faces. One of the men removed his mask to nod at Katsu, his cheek marred by a small, curling scar. He gestured over his shoulder to where the other men had disappeared, raising an eyebrow.

"Interesting, that the Scales should single you out. It appears we have a common enemy." The rest of the group slowly gathered just behind their apparent leader; crimson robes draped over their armour.

"What would make you think that I'm their enemy?"

"They don't stop to talk to just anyone. For them to meet with you personally, you must have done something to catch their eye."

"Not quite." Katsu shook his head in response, eyes narrowed. "If they do not often speak to those outside their organisation, I find it curious that you would be so familiar with them."

"We are a group known as the Crimson Haze. We've been at odds with Aui's Scales for a couple of centuries now. They didn't exactly take well to our founder's agenda - and judging by the pendant hanging from around your neck, I'm assuming that they have a problem with your clan, as well."

"Is a simple jade pendant so rare? I have seen many others on my travels."

"It is the symbols carved into it that give you away. Usually, only members of the Great Households wear seals such as yours, but the one that you wear is different to any of the other clans. I can only assume that you're from one of the hidden households."

"You speak as if you belong to one as well."

"Its name would mean nothing to you." The man shook his head. "Your struggle is ours, stranger. You should join us; we may be able to help one another."

"You have no way of knowing that." Katsu straightened, slowly sheathing his kodachi, though his hand remained on one handle. "I'm not sure that our agenda is the same."

"This land no longer knows freedom. Our people are caged birds who have never flown. They do not know to miss it. They are hardly aware that they have wings at all. We would remind them."

"Not every creature with wings is destined to fly. Would you also see them tumble from their nests like a newborn chick, unable to use their wings to soften their fall?"

"I would give them the freedom to make that choice for themselves. In any case, we may be able to help each other. What is it that you seek, wanderer?"

"What I look for remains a mystery to us both."

"A burden shared is a burden lightened."

A pause stretched between them, silence reigning as Katsu sized up the man before him. Despite the mask, he did seem genuine, and sincere about his offer of help. Beside which, if there was any chance that this man might know a possible lead on a cure, it was his duty to ask.

"My clan has suffered from an illness for generations. It is a curse, and we have yet to find its source or why it continues to afflict them. I wish to search for some way to help, perhaps even cure the illness altogether."

After a long moment, the man nodded, looking thoughtful.

"While we may not have a cure to give you, there might be a way for us to help. Across Misteria, there are several hidden locations built by Aui's Scales to store and conceal anything that they want hidden from the public. Most hold scrolls, information collected by the Scales over the centuries, but some also hold old artefacts.

The Crimson Haze were planning to send a team to infiltrate one of these strongholds. The particular building that we are targeting also holds several powerful artefacts. There may well be one there with curative properties. If not, you may still have the opportunity to find some information on what might be ailing your clan."

"You would let a stranger accompany you into the heart of your enemies' home?"

"We would give a fellow wanderer a chance to free his people from their burden. Our paths are not so dissimilar."

With no other leads on the disease, and little to lose, Katsu finally nodded in agreement.

"If you are willing to have me accompany you, I would be grateful for the opportunity."

Culminations

Through the blanket of mist, the entrance to the building was completely obscured, a hairline fracture in the cliff face. Yet as they drew closer, the fracture slowly opened up to reveal a stairway leading down into the mountain itself. As they stalked down the hallway, the others slowly peeled away, leaving Katsu winding through the shadows alone.

While he lacked a map for the building, the rebel's instructions were detailed, leading him past the guarded entrances and rooms, and into the heart of the stronghold. Those few times that he crossed paths with one of the Scales, he slunk back into the shadows, a simple breeze wrapping around him to obscure his presence. Finally, he reached his destination, not a single person alerted to the intruder in their midst.

The darkened hall slowly opened up to reveal a large chamber, shelves lining the walls. Not a single artefact was anywhere in sight, nor any item that could possibly help him. Instead, hundreds of scrolls were stacked upon the shelves, neatly organised and covered in a very light layer of dust.

Katsu stepped toward the centre of the room, where a single pedestal stood, constructed of white polished marble, with a jade tray containing six more scrolls. They were larger than many of the other scrolls in the room, free of dust and clearly well-cared for.

Just as Katsu began to consider how to carry the scrolls with him, he suddenly paused, slowly turning toward the person slipping through the entranceway. Immediately, he noted the lack of weapons on the man's person, the light wrappings on his hands and feet, unobscured by the same fabric that hid his face and the rest of his body from view.

Katsu drew his kodachi just in time, stepping forward to block the grandmaster's attack. Quick and strong, the master darted around Katsu, bombarding him with a series of sharp, swift strikes. His bindings bobbed back and forth as he struck out, using pure skill to work his way past Katsu's defenses. Katsu quickly whipped up a gust of wind, using the blast of air to push the master backward.

It earned him only a fraction of an instant, but it was enough for him to shift the flow of battle, putting him back on the offensive. The pair danced around one another, blocking and dodging, trying to break through their opponent's defenses. Despite his speed and agility, the master was rooted to the earth, as if there was a chain physically connecting him to the ground. Even Katsu's strongest attacks could only make him budge an inch, earning a single second to try and land another blow.

As he called the wind to him, he lashed out at the master, finally driving him back once more. Yet in one fluid motion, the master quickly struck out at a small, barely noticeable metal disc attached to the nearby wall. The quiet chime that sounded in responsible slowly grew, reverberating until it had reached the intensity and pitch of a large, brass gong. The sound echoed through the chamber, and Katsu heard more of these begin to ring in the distance, a warning to any member of Aui's Scales in the building.

More men ran into the room, drawing their weapons as the master descended on Katsu once more. Within moments, he was defending himself on all sides. Calling the winds toward him, he felt the air whip into a gale, circling him with the force of a growing storm. The energy coursed through his kodachi, answering his beck and call.

Growing stronger with each passing second, the wind coursed through the room, circling the chamber. The roar of the wind blocked out all other sounds as it reached the pitch of a full tempest, dragging each and every man in the room into its wake, Katsu standing steadfast in the eye of the growing storm. The gust struck the master with a sharp crack, sending him flying into the stone wall. In an instant, the fight was over as every member of the Scales was flung into the stone, knocking them unconscious.

Yet as Katsu began to sheath his kodachi, more ninjas came down the hallway, heading straight towards him, swords drawn and ready to attack. With a quiet sigh, he began preparing for another fight, drawing the winds about him - but suddenly stopped to glance at the entranceway.

Members of the Crimson Haze slowly began to make their way into the room - many more than the six that he had initially arrived with. The red fabric they wore did little to disguise the crimson stains marking their clothes, blood spatter coating their chests and arms.

The ninjas belonging to Aui's Scales, taking note of the numbers before them, almost moved as if to retreat - yet before they could, the Crimson Haze were upon them, cutting them down without hesitation. Many of the rebels' present began slitting the throats of those lying on the ground, not bothering to wipe the blood from their blades. Slowly, their leader stepped forward once more, gesturing to the pile of scrolls, still sitting neatly in their jade tray upon the pedestal.

"I see you found what we were looking for."

"What happened to your small task force?" Katsu intoned; his voice low.

"It doesn't matter." The man lifted his hand, curling his index finger. "We're here to take those scrolls, anything else is yours."

"Not until you tell me what information it is that you're looking for." That gave the man halt, Katsu watching as his hand dropped back to his side.

"None of your concern. What was it that you said to the Scales?" He paused for a moment, before nodding to himself. "My plans are no business of yours."

"They become my business when you trick me into doing your dirty work." Katsu nodded to people lying around him, fingers tightening around his kodachi. "It's obvious that you were using me as a distraction. Did you expect me to defeat the Grandmaster guarding the scroll, or had you intended for me to act as a buffer while you took care of the rest of the Scales in the building?"

The rebel leader sighed heavily, pointing to the pedestal.

"Just let us take them, wanderer. There's no need for conflict over such a simple task. You don't even need to lift a finger."

"No. I may not know what your plans are, but I wager that they're not as altruistic as you choose to believe."

"...very well, then." The man shrugged. "It's clear that you are well on your way to ascending to grandmaster, but facing these odds, even the most talented ninja cannot fight alone and expect to walk away. I would prefer that we ended this without conflict, but you have clearly made up your mind. You will tire sooner or later."

Yet before any of them could take a single step, Katsu held out a hand, halting the group. He turned his head slightly, looking over his shoulder at the air behind him.

"I have felt the wind stirring for some time now. If you are so determined to keep an eye on me, you might as well join us."

After a moment's pause, a breeze rolled through the room, revealing four grandmasters standing behind him. Each slowly drew their weapons, scrolls fluttering as a wind began to stir, rousing at the promise of a fight. As one, the Crimson Haze slowly began to retreat from the room, leaving the leader standing at the forefront.

"We will remember this." With that, he left as well, disappearing into the shadowed hall.

Katsu turned to face the grandmasters, bowing his head.

"I appreciate the support, though I'm not sure why you followed me. I thought none of you were ready to leave Mugenshi Gorge just yet."

"It was not the right time." Before Katsu could respond, Takumi held out a hand, pausing. "However, when you decided to leave, it became the right time. You have shown that our clan is a secret no longer."

"So, you were following me from the beginning."

"You are Mugenshi. We would not let you face this alone." Takumi gestured to the scrolls.

Katsu turned to inspect the contents of the jade tray, slowly unfurling the topmost scroll. A list of unfamiliar names stretched down the length of the parchment, each with some description of their last known location and current status. Some were held within Misteria, while others were scattered across Rathe. While the names of some seemed to hint at their abilities or properties, none were properly described, only their titles carefully noted down. Katsu turned to recite some of the names to the Grandmasters, watching as their expressions visibly changed.

"Do you recognise any of these?"

"Many of these were thought lost, though it seems as if Aui's Scales has been tracking them all along." Master Saori paused, looking thoughtfully at the scroll in Katsu's hands.

"The Crimson Haze mentioned that one of the artefacts might be able to lead us to a cure for the Seikan. It's possible that they were lying, but this is our best lead." Katsu gathered the scrolls, wrapping them carefully in his bundle. "We must find them."

"While many of these items are unknown to us, we can start by telling you of the ones we know. The Blades of the Seasons, the Masks of Misfortune, the..."

"You support this?" Leading the way through the darkened hall, Katsu glanced toward the grandmasters. "I thought that you might try to stop me."

"If you do not enter the tiger's cave, you will not catch its cub. We have sat idle for too long, and now that we have a lead, it is our duty to find a cure for the clan." As they emerged into the pale light of dawn, Takumi turned toward Katsu with a nod.

Adjusting his bundle, Katsu turned to lead the way back home, leaping from the cliff face and disappearing into the mists below.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/katsu-the-wanderer/?stories=True
Story by Nicola Price.
Illustrations by MJ Fetesio, colour by Sindy Wo.

A life on the streets has hardened Azalea, leaving her cynical and callous. Fighting to survive, she taught herself to hunt and kill, honing her skills to a fine edge.

Working out of the Blackjack's Tavern, Azalea has carved out a reputation for herself as one of the best mercenaries in the Pits. In contrast to the anarchy and disorder that surrounds her, Azalea carefully selects each contract, going to great lengths to secure a flawless execution.

While Azalea has come a long way, she has yet to realise that she is just one small cog in the giant, decrepit machine of the Pits...

Slings and Arrows

It was always cold and damp in the Pits, the underground caverns hidden well away from the reach of sunlight. Industrial waste tainted the water an inky green, coating the cavern walls in a layer of oily copper residue.

Left to the mercy of the Pits, abandoned children lurked around every corner, scurrying through the shadows like rats. Tiny, skeletal figures hiding in alleyways, dangerously desperate, clutching makeshift weapons in their shaking hands. The squeakers fought like the vermin they were, teeth bared, ripping into flesh with knife and tooth and nail, clawing out eyes and tearing away skin. While feral and vicious, they are still little more than pests to the denizens of the Pits, an insignificant speck in a sea of anarchy.

Hiding in alleyways and beneath buildings, a nameless girl shivered in the shadows, her nights passing in a haze of fever dreams and stiff limbs. The chill never left, cold set deep into her bones, ragged clothing doing little to protect her from the damp, diseased air. Shaking hands and blue lips were a close companion of every squeaker.

While others died around her, the tiniest scraps of luck allowed her to survive, saving her fate for another day. A sickness that finally loosened its grip, a scrap of food dropped near the edge of the alleyway, a tattered coat peeled from an abandoned corpse. The smell of death, fetid and threadbare, clung to her every pore, both a warning and a promise.

Surrounded by the dead and dying, she watched as other children succumbed to the dangers of the Pits. Hollow cheeks and bloated stomachs, lying still within the shadows. Beaten and bloodied, fallen next to the corpse they'd been fighting over, their hands still curled into fists. Slumped against a wall on the main streets, eyes staring blankly, ignored by anyone who walked by. Sometimes, she came across the remains of a small skeleton, stripped of even their flesh by the desperate and the dying.

She tried to learn from everything she found, poking at the remains of those around her. Don't steal from the taverns. Don't go near the mercenaries. Never remain in the open. Avoid the brain and the organs. Never drink from the river. Don't go in the water. Don't go near the dregs. Avoid the travelling merchants. Don't ever get caught.

She learned to bury herself in dust and dirt before sleeping, digging a sleeping space for herself beneath foundations. She learned to climb onto rooftops and travel above, where she could watch without being seen. She learned to create makeshift daggers from broken glass, how to avoid being noticed, which dumpsites from Metrix weren't monitored. When she found the bow, she learned how to carve new handholds in the wood, spent weeks firing at a makeshift target. She tied cord to her arrows and went down to the water, spending hours attempting to spear a fish.

It was not luck alone that kept her alive. She learned from the mistakes of others, taught herself new skills, studied the adults to find out what separated her from them. Where they got their coin, what they spent it on, their habits and routines and equipment. What allowed them to survive? She studied the mercenaries that emerged from the taverns, bearing pouches of 'tallics, their weapons always at hand. Some became stronger, bigger, more powerful, bearing the mark of a spade and three daggers.

She followed one back to his main hideout, looking up at the sign of the tavern. She watched everyone who visited the building, taking note of which ones seemed to be the most powerful. Where gangs rose and fell, where other mercenaries died, these were the ones that continued to come back. And so, she set her sights on Blackjack's.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/azalea/slings-and-arrows/ Story by Nicola Price.
Featuring illustrations by Daniel Jiménez.

Cards on the Table

Her palms scraped against stone as she collided with the wall, pushing herself into a nearby alleyway. Footsteps echoed down the alley as her pursuer kept running down the street, straight past the small silhouette shrouded in the shadows.

Azalea slowly got to her feet, looking down at her grazed knees and scraped forearms. Other than the healing gash on her leg, she had no wounds, nothing broken - just a few scrapes and bruises. As she leant against the wall, clutching the copper coin to her chest, she glanced up at the Maw stretching out above. Buildings climbed up the sides of the cavern walls, pillars of rock illuminated with crude steam-tech lanterns. At its height, a sliver of golden daylight was barely visible, the only sign of time passing above-ground.

Launching herself forward, she rushed to the end of the alley, following the sound of lapping water. The docks smelled of rancid fish and damp wood, the earth closest to the wharf coated in a thin layer of water-scum.

Azalea slipped between the warehouses, gaze fixed on the tavern sitting at the end of the wharf. Her mouth began to water at the smells wafting out of the open door; hot fish-head stew, pickled eggs, offal cakes, jellied trotters, and dark ale. Through the glass, she could see a pouch of coins pass hands, copper and silver gleaming in the lantern's light as a mercenary began to count.

Two giant, burly men stood watch just outside the open door, arms crossed, weapons within reach. The taller of the pair was built like a brick, skin ashen and chalky, with a wide jaw and deep-set eyes. At his side lay a baseball bat studded with nails, chunks of hair caught in the metal. The slightly shorter man had thin, greasy hair, with a thick moustache and crooked teeth, a machete leaning against the wall behind him. His short sleeves revealed a tattoo inked on his upper arm, depicting a black spade with three daggers piercing its centre.

Azalea gathered herself, coin pressed into the palm of her hand, and approached the door. The guards turned to face her as one, giving each other an amused look when she cleared her throat. Before she could even attempt to cross the threshold, one held up his hand.

"Git' lost, squeaker. This ain't a charity."

In response, Azalea held out her hand, revealing the copper coin. It glistened faintly in the lamplight, coated in a deep, dark red.

"I've got the 'tallics. Just wanna buy some fodder."

The men burst into laughter, one of them wiping at his eyes while the other pointed at her.

"Y' got coin!" Moving closer, surprisingly quickly for someone his size, he snatched the coin from her hand and held it up to the light. "Look a'this shit Moray, one of the mites got rich!"

Azalea started forward, hands stretching out for the coin he held between his fingers, and falling short Looking down at her, he clicked his tongue.

"Can buy a feast wi' that." They both cackled. Before she had the chance to react, he'd already turned and tossed the coin into the water. A flash of copper in the light, and it was gone. "Fuckin idjit, you gonna buy a crust or what?

A hand grabbed the back of her neck, hauling her up into the air. Look here, ya pest. You aren't allowed 'ere." Writhing in his grasp, she spat at him, grimacing when he just chuckled. "Yer lucky we ain't sellin' ya for scraps."

Unceremoniously, she dropped her onto the pavement, the pair of them staring down at her as she scrambled to her feet. Gaze flicking to where she'd seen the coin, she barely hesitated before running straight for the water, diving in after it. Behind her, she could hear the men laughing, cackling to themselves as they returned to their post.

Azalea surfaced a moment later, choking on the putrid stench of chemical waste and rancid fish, wiping water-scum from her eyes. With a deep breath, she dived back under, her hands scraping along the silty riverbed. Stones and scales and bone fragments caught under her nails, scratching at her skin.

When she surfaced the second time, the men had already returned to their posts, the small squeaker long-forgotten. Diving back into the water, she pushed past the brush of ice-cold skin, scraping at the riverbed once again. Just as she was about to surface, something latched around her ankle, tugging her down. Her frozen fingers found a shard of glass, brandishing it like a weapon, slashing until she could surface once more.

Gritting her teeth, Azalea dove again. Finally, she felt the smooth, cold surface of the coin against her fingertips, and broke the surface of the water with it clasped in one hand. She hauled herself back to shore, collapsing on the stony earth with a small gasp of relief. For a moment, she simply lay there, coughing, trying to catch her breath. As the nausea began to ease Azalea turned her head to look at the tavern, lips pressed into a thin line.

Worth a try, but I'll find another way. She would find a way inside the Blackjack's Tavern, one way or another. Then, all she had to do was get herself a contract.

The lanterns cast a warm glow in the dark depths of the Pits, wooden boards creaking beneath her feet as Azalea stepped closer, eyes locked on the Tavern. An oversized coat hung off her frame, secured by a thick leather belt looped twice around her waist. The dagger at her side was strapped to her hip, almost as long as her forearm, its hilt marked with an unfamiliar design.

Two burly men stood guard just outside the tavern's door, arms crossed. Watching them, Azalea carefully withdrew a bottle of Blackjack's Whiskey from within her coat and opened it, tipping a small amount out onto the ground. Producing a vial from her pocket, she broke the wax seal, carefully pouring it into the bottle of whiskey.

Lifting her fingers to her lips, she whistled sharply. A couple of squeakers appeared from a nearby alleyway, one quickly scampering onto the other's shoulder. Adding a trenchcoat and a hat, she gave them the bottle of whiskey, eyeing them warily as they made their way across the street.

"From the boss," the fake man said in a completely unconvincing attempt at a low voice. Grimacing, Azalea watched warily as the two guards turned to each other and laughed. If this failed, it was going to take her months to get the coin together in order to try again.

"Thanks, man." One of the guards took the bottle, nudging the man beside him. "I was just gettin' thirsty."

As the two squeakers slowly made their way down the street, disappearing into another alleyway, the guard cracked open the lid and began to drink. Between the two of them, the guards had finished off about one-third of the whiskey before they started to sway.

Azalea waited patiently, watching from the shadows as the men slowly began to succumb to the draught, slumping against the wall and sliding down onto the ground. Once they'd both fallen asleep, she crept across the street, darting through the front door.

Azalea carefully made her way over to the bar, one hand on her bow and the other on her purse. She knew better than to look anyone in the eye, glancing at the other patrons as she pushed her way past, slowly moving toward the contract board she could see against the far wall. Alongside scraps of paper and crumpled notes were the infamous contract cards, pinned to the board with tarnished copper tacks.

Before she had a chance to look through them, however, she caught a glimpse of green out of the corner of her eye. Someone was slipping through the crowded tavern with ease, patrons seemingly parting for the man as he drew closer, his mass of curled brown hair crowned with a single feather.

"You lost, kid?" As he came to stand next to her, he gave her a once-over, clicking his tongue. "Bit young to be in here."

"Looking for a contract." Azalea watched as the man raised a single, perfectly plucked eyebrow. He considered her for a moment before chuckling, gaze flicking to the bow she had slung over one shoulder.

"Really. Any experience?" When he saw her eyes narrow, clearly suspicious, he grinned, fluffing his hair with one hand. "The name's Greenbird. I own this joint. You want a contract, kid, you gotta go through me?"

"...Yeah. Done a few jobs, just finished a big one yesterday. Killed a couple men, too." After a moment, Greenbird burst into hysterical laughter, chest heaving as he flapped a hand at her.

"Oh, sunshine," he wheezed, "you gotta be fucking with me. You killed a man with those toothpicks? We got ourselves a real professional here." Wiping a tear from his eye, Greenbird shook his head, slipping one hand down the front of his corset.

"Alright, I got a job for you. Been needing someone real special for this one." With a chuckle, he withdrew a single card, holding it between two fingers as he extended it to Azalea.

She took the card from his hand, staring down at it with a small frown. A sketched illustration showed a small, dark silhouette hanging upside down by an ankle, five arrows piercing their chest. Beneath it, a large, dark stain marred the bottom of the card, smelling strongly of ink and copper.

"Get some kids running around here. Young ones, on the streets. The patron wants someone to collect 'em. Just take the kids to the wharfhouse at the end of the docks, push them in the door and close it behind them. Door only opens one way, they can't get back out, so you don't needa worry about that. Just deliver the kids and that's that. Patron wants at least ten, but'll pay a bonus if you can manage fifteen."

"What?" When it came out a little too shrill, Azalea cleared her throat, curling her hands into fists as she tried again. "...what for?"

"You know what the docks are like. Lots of workers, lots of jobs, lots of water. Maybe they're looking for some extra hands, maybe they want someone to hold the lantern. Maybe they're going fishing and want some extra bait." He howled with laughter, slapping his thigh. "Who cares, kid! Make up some cute little story about them going upside to have a picnic, or being adopted by some rich family outta Metrix. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

There was a long pause as Azalea stared down at the card in her hands, eyebrows furrowed. She looked back up to Greenbird to find him watching her, expression blank as he stared down at her.

"...and this is the only job you have."

"Look, kid, it pays fifteen coppers. Bonus is another ten. You want some coin, this is what I got. Either take the contract, or get out." When she didn't immediately respond, Greenbird reached out to take the card from her hand, chuckling when Azalea immediately pulled it out of reach.

"No- no, I'll take the job."

"You know the warehouse I'm talking about? Good. Get it done, come back to me when you're finished. Oh, and let those two slackers outside know that I want to see them. I don't appreciate my men taking advantage of a chance to sleep on the job."

"You mean..."

With a wink, the man stalked away, smoothing out the wrinkles in his corset as he returned to the bar. Azalea looked down at the card in her hand, adorned only with a crude drawing of the warehouse door. She knew where some of the street urchins slept, with a decent plan she might be able to lure a few at a time, but-

Her hand slipped to the small bag at her side, feeling the half-wheel of cheese she'd bought just two days ago. This contract could get her even more food, maybe a decent pair of boots.

It might not be that bad. Maybe they're just looking for workers. Dockworkers get fed, it's got to be better than living on the streets.

Tucking the card into her waistband, Azalea exited the tavern, making her way back to the little hideout she had beneath a nearby inn. They die all the time anyway. This is no different than starving, or drowning, or freezing. I need this more than them.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/azalea/cards-on-the-table/ Story by Nicola Price.
Featuring illustrations by Daniel Jiménez.

A Bird in the Hand

Walking into the tavern, Azalea was greeted by the familiar sound of a high-pitched cackle. She looked over to see the green-haired girl seated at her usual corner, giggling over several vials of questionable substance. Shaking her head, she walked towards the counter, placing her contract card onto the countertop.

Greenbird turned toward her, acknowledging her with a nod. He placed a pouch of 'tallics on top of the card, then slid a different contract card onto the counter alongside it.

"I have something else for you. One of the gangs is causing some trouble. They keep triggering the tavern's defenses, and I'm getting fuckin' tired of getting their blood off the walls. I'll give you ten silvers for their leader's head." With a sigh, Greenbird waved her off, already dismissing her to attend to the busy tavern.

Weaving through the crowded tables, she slipped past the guards at the door, keeping a close eye on a nearby group of mercenaries. Once she was clear, Azalea ducked into an alleyway, withdrawing the contract card from her pocket. Flipping it over, she found a single mechanical arm sketched onto the front, a skull nestled just above its elbow.

Arms Dealers. It made sense. She'd had run-ins with a couple of its members on the streets, they were exactly the kind to throw themselves at the tavern. Fucking cults.

At the very least, members of the Arms Dealers weren't hard to identify. Surveying the area around the Tavern provided a number of possible targets, and the visible difference in the quality and complexity of their fake arms made it easy to identify their role within the gang.

Choosing a man with a plain, immobile copper arm, she slipped a sleeping draught into his whiskey and waited until he was snoring in his makeshift bed. All things considered, it was a little too easy to kidnap him and tie him to a rooftop.

The man glared up at her from underneath his mop of greasy, curly brown hair. He spat at her, laughing wildly while the remaining drool dripped down his chin. Even with several fingers missing, he refused to speak. A few minutes later, when she'd finished disposing of his corpse in the water, she inspected the slowly sinking corpse with a frown.

Azalea was going to have to go about this the hard way.

Over the years, Azalea had 'befriended' a number of contacts across the Pits, ranging from merchants and squeakers to mercenaries and alchemists. Having such a wide variety of contacts meant that she could gather a variety of information. A merchant, a mercenary and a drunkard could all give her completely different intel on a target.

However, when she visited a few of her contacts, not one of them had any information to give. While they'd heard of the Arms Dealers, or seen them around, nobody could actually provide anything beyond that.

Azalea made her way to one of her most reliable contacts, who lived in a small shack on the outskirts of the Maw. As an information trader, he was usually more reliable than anyone else she called on for intel, and was also willing to accept jobs from her when the target was a little more difficult to find. It was just a pity it had taken as long as it did to meet him - she could have used his experience when she was first starting out as a merc.

Knocking on the front door of his shack, Azalea waited, listening as sounds within abruptly turned into silence. When it came to security, he was almost as careful as she was. Usually, it took him a minute or two to check that it was her, and that she'd come alone. Perfectly on time, she heard the clunk of deadbolts sliding back against the doorframe.

The door opened just enough for him to peer around the corner, one hazel eye peeking out at her.

"Azalea! Didn't expect you for another couple months yet." Opening the door proper, Barton waved her in, brushing back his greying hair with a grin. "Not that I'm not happy t' see ya, 'course."

As she entered, she glanced around the room, noting the new shelves.

"Yeah, yeah, needed some more space, y'know? Gotta keep notes." For some reason, the man insisted on 'keeping notes', though they only ever seemed to consist of rough sketches of people's faces. At best, they were barely recognisable. At worst, they looked like he'd coughed river water onto the paper and set fire to it. "Y' want some whiskey? 'S Blackjack's."

Of course it was. He never bought anything else. In answer, Azalea retracted a detached metal thumb from her pocket, handing it to him along with the contract card.

"Ah. This is from one o' those Arms Dealers. Crazy sods." Barton paused, looking back and forth between the card, the thumb, and Azalea. "Ohhhhh, no. No, absolutely not." Azalea raised an eyebrow. "No, I mean it. Last time you got me involved with a fuckin' cult, I lost me ear and two fingers. They tried to boil me. Boil me, y' hear? I want nothing to do with those cultists."

Silently, she placed a pouch of 'tallics on the table.

"No. I'm not doing it. Have you seen half the weird shit that's been happening around here lately? I don't need this shit."

With an exaggerated blink, Azalea added a bottle of Blackjack's.

"No! I'm not fuckin' with cults, never again!"

"'S not a cult."

"They chop off their own fuckin' arms, only cultists are that dumb."

Azalea took a seat, staring at him pointedly.

"You're really fuckin' bustin' my balls here. I want to retire, y' know. Wanna go up to Metrix, find me a nice robot and settle down. Can't do that if I'm missin' my damn head." When she continued to stare at him, he gave a long, exaggerated groan, flapping a hand at her. "Alright! Alright. Fuck, 'zalea, what is it with you and them cultists."

Barton reached for the bottle of Blackjack's, popping the cork and taking a long swig. With a sigh, he slammed the bottle back onto the table.

"Right. Whatd'ya need? Full shebang? You goin' for the arms o' the operation? The head? Blackmail? Maybe some connections?"

Azalea lifted her hand, slowly dragging her thumb in a line across her throat.

"You're goin' straight for the head, huh? Alright. Let me see what I can do." Shaking his head, he took another swig of the whiskey, sighing heavily. "Fuckin' cults."

She started by employing some squeakers, sending them to tail groups of Arms Dealers and report back. That done, Azalea began with the second step of her investigation. Alongside their own prosthetic arms, the Arms Dealers had earned a reputation for replacing the limbs of those that crossed them. Rival gang members, traitors, double-agents, and anyone who failed to pay their dues on time often disappeared, resurfacing several days later with tiny, doll-like arms.

Azalea found that many of them refused to talk to her, fearing further retribution if they crossed the gang a second time. However, two of them were willing to talk. One could confirm that the Arms Dealers had multiple warehouses and secret hideouts around the Pits, but had never visited any of them. The other was a previous member of the gang, but had never heard of a secret base, or the name of the gang's leader.

Facing that dead end, she resigned herself to commencing step three. With every member of the Arms Dealers possessing a prosthetic arm, she was willing to bet the gang needed a lot of biomancy supplies - something that few others in the Pits had need for. It was all too easy to get the information she needed out of the merchants, tracking the shipments across the Pits.

Kneeling on the edge of the rooftop, Azalea looked down on the warehouse below. It was heavily guarded by Arms Dealers, each man carrying at least two weapons. Working around to the closest point of the building, she propelled herself forward, landing lightly on the roof of the warehouse.

This close to the guards, Azalea ducked down, keeping a careful eye on the proceedings below. Through the glass, she could see shelves lining the warehouse from wall to wall, all filled with steamtech weaponry. Taking note of the layout, she crept her way down to the edge of the roof, gazing at the guards below.

"Yeah, gotta be there 'fore dawn. The Harvester wants us ready with th' goods."

"Better start now, then."

The Harvester. Azalea frowned, watching the two guards as they turned and walked inside. Better follow them.

She watched silently from above as they worked to pack the crates full of supplies. One by one, they took them down to the waterfront, shoving them into a boat sitting nearby. Yet when the time came for them to travel, instead of coasting along the perimeter of the Maw, they travelled straight to the edge of the cavern.

They're going to the tunnels. Cursing under her breath, Azalea sank back against the metal, hands clenched into tight fists. There's no way I can follow them, there aren't any other boats near here.

I've just wasted three and a half weeks on finding out the leaders' fuckin' name. Shoving her bow back into its position on her back, she stalked to the edge of the roof, throwing herself in the direction of Barton's hut. Hopefully, he'd have some kind of information for her by now.

Except, when she caught sight of the area where his little hut sat, she immediately came to a halt. The front door was missing, ripped off its hinges, heavy footprints dug into the soil in front of his house. One of the glass panes had been broken, and she could smell the faint scent of smoke in the air.

After carefully scouting the area, Azalea made her way toward the hut, sending an arrow flying through the broken windowpane. When all remained still, she slowly entered through the front door. The tiny living area had been completely trashed. Barton's bed, his chests and shelves had been upturned, their contents scattered about the room. Blood covered the walls in streaks and splashes, as if it had been deliberately thrown around.

In the centre of it all sat Barton, or what remained of him. His corpse was perched on a chair, his removed limbs lying nearby. In their place, the humerus bones had been sharpened to thin points, his eyeballs skewered onto the ends. His legs were replaced by sticks of dynamite, his detached head pinned to the wall behind him. They'd left his eye sockets empty, the trails of muscle left dangling down his face.

His skin hung off him in tatters, revealing the dark glisten of muscle underneath. In some places, the bones burst through, the points of his ribcage piercing through his abdomen. It looked like at some point, his stomach had ruptured - in addition to the sharp, acrid scent of bile in the air, she could see it coating what remained of his clothes.

Shit. Jaw clenched, Azalea stepped closer, ignoring the pungent smell to the air around the corpse. Emptying his pockets, she found three coppers, four lockpicks and a piece of flint, tucking them into one of her pouches. The rest of the clutter she left, looking around the room to check for anything else she could use.

Fuck, Barton was a rare find. I don't know how long it'll be before I find another information trader like that. Her hands curled into fists, eyes narrowed to dark slits. Useless.

Armed with no leads, no clues, her contracts in hiding or dead, and her only information to date the Harvester's name, her hand was forced. Azalea pulled the contract card from her pocket, clenching it in her fist. There's still one thing I can do.

Greenbird stood at the bar, his face set into a deep frown as he looked over the tavern. Most of the tables were empty, his mercenaries having long since made themselves scarce, along with most of the tavern's usual patrons.

The Blackjack's Tavern was one of the best established contract grounds in the Pits, and no other mercenary group could possibly hope to compete. As a result, Greenbird had lived through multiple attempted coups, maintaining control of the tavern through a well-established instinct for when things were about to take a turn for the worse... and an empty tavern always meant that trouble was brewing.

With a long-suffering sigh, Greenbird ushered over one of his staff, gesturing to the door.

"Hog, get Moray and Jackdaw from outside. Cobbs, you gather the mercs. As many as possible." While Hog nodded, running to the entrance, silence followed Greenbird's command. "Cobbs."

Greenbird turned just in time to see the man in question collapse to the floor, snoring loudly. He bent down, feeling the man's pulse with two fingers.

"Fuck." Listening carefully, he heard the sound of a body hitting the floor outside; a sure sign that Hog had succumbed to the sleeping draught as well. Gathering his skirts in one hand, Greenbird turned and crossed the room, one hand on the gun at his side.

Just as he reached the back door, it opened, revealing three men standing between Greenbird and his escape route. The tallest of the three stood with a careless swagger, lips stretched into a grin. Dressed in his pinstripe suit, his greasy hair slicked back, he could have almost been mistaken for a citizen of Metrix, if the facial scarring and burns marks on his one good arm hadn't given him away. With a nod, he gestured to the men standing either side of him, their guns pointed directly at Greenbird's head.

"Drop y' weapon, birdy."

Reluctantly, Greenbird dropped his gun, gaze fixed on the apparent leader of the group. Behind him, he could hear the rest of the group enter the tavern, their footsteps echoing in the now-empty room. A glance over his shoulder confirmed that all of them were also bearing prosthetic arms and steamtech weapons.

"Planning on doin' a runner, were ya?" The man laughed, shaking his head. "Nah, that ain't gonna fly. You're staying right here."

"I take it you're in charge of these half-wits," Greenbird drawled, chuckling darkly. "I don't remember inviting you into my tavern.

"My tavern," the man corrected, gesturing to the room around him as he stepped closer. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm known 'round these parts as the Harvester. Head of the Arms Dealers, and now, owner of the Blackjack's Tavern."

"You? The Blackjack's Tavern?" Greenbird laughed. "No fuckin' way. You couldn't hold this place down for five damn minutes before it fell apart. You ain't takin' this place from me."

"And how're you planning to stop me? Your mercs are long gone, we got past your defenses, and we've blocked off your escape route. I know you don't have any tricks left up your sleeves." The Harvester paused, looking at Greenbird thoughtfully. "You know, I've made arms before, but I don't think I've ever made someone a wing. Been thinkin' 'bout it a lot, actually. What d'ya think? Wood, or copper?"

The Harvester's obnoxious laughter filled the tavern, shoulders shaking, face slowly beginning to turn red. Greenbird watched silently, eyes narrowed, lip curling into an expression of distaste. Yet as he watched, he noticed a brief, faint flash of light, the signature gleam of an arrowhead flashing in the shadows. Raising an eyebrow, he took a quick look around the room.

Fourteen.

With a sigh, the Harvester wiped away a non-existent tear, flapping a hand in Greenbird's direction.

"Get him out of here. I want him strung from the rooftop."

Just as one of the men placed a hand on Greenbird's shoulder, he froze, making a strange wheezing sound. Greenbird glanced down to see an arrow embedded in the man's chest, piercing his lung. With a gasp, the man fell to his knees, one hand wrapped around the end of the arrow as blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

Thirteen.

As the woman on the right went to step toward him, an arrow struck her, piercing the soft flesh just behind her temple. Blood oozed down the side of her face, rapidly staining her skin a dark shade of crimson. A moment later, another arrow pierced her throat, her eyelids twitching as she collapsed to the ground.

Twelve.

With a shout, the Arms Dealers leapt into action, backs to one another as they looked to the shadows, trying to find their attacker. The Harvester shouted orders, ducking behind the counter. Yet even as he tried to corral his men, another two fell, shot down before they could draw a breath to shout.

Ten.

Greenbird slowly began to back away from the chaos, watching as the Arms Dealers began firing randomly, spattering the tavern walls with bullets. A lit arrow streaked through the room, a trail of orange light, striking one of the men and instantly lighting him on fire. His screaming filled the room, blocking out the sound of two more arrows finding their mark.

Seven. ...Five.

Azalea's face flashed in the lantern light as she kicked open the tavern door, pulling back her bowstring and loosing another three arrows in quick succession. The man closest to her gurgled as he dropped to the ground, blood trickling down the lines of the wooden floor. Another arrow struck through one man's eye, piercing through the socket, his one good eye rolling back into his head as he fell.

Two.

As the remaining Arms Dealer turned on his heel, aiming his steam rifle in her direction, Azalea had already loaded another arrow into her bow, taking aim. The arrowhead easily pierced his chest, a sharp whistle escaping the man as it perforated his lung. With a wheeze, he collapsed to his knees, clutching at the arrow as he tried to breathe. Closing the space between them, Azalea grabbed the man by the hair, pulling him up to his knees. A silver dagger flashed in the light as she slit his throat, dropping him unceremoniously.

One.

Finally, the Harvester was the only one left, his gun held aloft as he ducked out from behind the counter. The instant he appeared, before he had time to react, the thwack of a bowstring sounded as an arrow pierced his skull. This one was slightly thicker than the others, the fletching longer and wider. As the Harvester stood there, frozen, his skull suddenly detonated, sending chunks of brain matter, blood and skull fragments flying across the room.

Greenbird slowly raised one hand to wipe the blood splatter from his face, his expression thunderous. There was a strip of skin dangling from his bodice, the Harvester's hair still attached to the piece of scalp. Pinching the hair between the tips of his fingers, he flung it one side, expression twisting into a look of disgust.

Azalea slowly crossed the remaining distance, the clack of her boots near-silent against the wooden tavern floors. Side-stepping a smoking corpse, she stared silently at Greenbird, her grey eyes sharp as she raised a single eyebrow questioningly.

"Using me as fuckin' bait? Really?" He scoffed, gesturing to the tavern around him. "My tavern is a fuckin' mess. My patrons've all been scared off, most o' me mercs are long gone. Do you have any-"

Azalea remained silent, extending a hand towards Greenbird, the contract card held between two fingers. The tavern owner shot her a death glare as he made toward the bar, cursing all the while.

"Tavern's neutral ground. They shouldn't have been here. Shouldn't have known about half the shit they knew." He looked over to meet Azalea's deadpan gaze, his expression dour. "How'd they get that information?"

She shrugged in response.

"There," he spat, tossing a pouch of 'tallics across the counter. "There's your coin. Now get these bodies the hell out of my tavern."

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/azalea/a-bird-in-the-hand/ Story by Nicola Price.
Featuring illustrations by Daniel Jiménez.

A mechanologist from the city of Metrix, Dash is a brilliant inventor with a creative mind and a spark of genius. Born into the city of tomorrow, she grew up surrounded by some of the greatest minds in Metrix, playing in the laboratories and workshops of Teklo Industries scientists. Brimming with enthusiasm, she learned to explore the world around her, wanting to experience everything that life has to offer.

Dash is stubborn and rebellious. Her energetic nature often gets her into trouble, and once she gets an idea in her head, it's difficult to dissuade her. However, the Teklo family name has allowed her to follow her whims and crazy ideas, providing both funding and protection from the law. Dash despises the rigidity and dullness of Metrix's upper class, and will do anything to avoid becoming just like them.

Stroke of Genius

Amidst the clamor of the marketplace, a woman pushed her way through the crowds, clutching a parcel to her chest. Her long brown hair was drawn back into a neat braid, several copper cogs flashing in the light as she ducked under a metalworker's load. In one hand, she held an instructional booklet, glancing down at it with a frown. Her expression seemed troubled as she stared down at one of the diagrams, turning the page with her thumb.

"Devices! Trinkets! One'uva kind inventions! Get ya steamtech here!"

As the flow of the crowd shoved her out to the sides of the thoroughfare, she stumbled into a merchant's stall, drawing his attention. He reached out with one plump, gloved hand to steady her.

Behind a single table adorned with a crudely painted sign, the merchant peered out from beneath his bushy eyebrows, curled lips revealing a toothy grin. His entire head was covered by a mass of messy white hair and a giant hat, his figure obscured by layers upon layers of cloth, leather and fur.

"Y' alright, lady? Look like yer having some trouble. Maybe one of these devices is just whatcha need..." The woman looked down at the array of devices scattered across the table, each one formed from mismatched metal, some with the remnants of labels or other logos still half-etched into the surface.

"Oh, uh- I'm fine, thanks. I don't need anything."

"Yer a research assistant, right?" He smiled, winking when the woman stared at him in surprise. "I know'un when I see one. What'cha got there?"

"A focal plane, actually."

"Oh? Fer a laser device?" When the woman nodded, he merely sighed in response, scratching at the thick edges of his long, shaggy beard. "They don't make those like they used to. I wish ye luck, lass. Sounds like you'll need it."

"What?" She tilted her head, squinting. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, the lasers these days aren't nearly as powerful as they used to be. Nobody makes 'em like that anymore. When I was a lad, you could carve furniture with a laser; now ye'd be lucky to cut a Centennial loaf. 'Course, there's always the induction chamber."

"What's an induction chamber?" The research assistant frowned, clutching the package tightly. "Why would that help?"

"Well, you see, it can give any device an extra boost of steam energy. No matter how new or old your steam laser is, an induction chamber'll fix it right up. Have it runnin' like the Gigadrill Elevator at sunrise." He held up a large cylinder emphatically, clearing his throat.

"It's simply the best investment for a discerning researcher such as yourself. I'll even lower the price! Just for you, this here device is a mere fifteen credits. It's handmade, one of a kind, invented by yours truly. You won't find a better deal at the markets than this!"

"You made it?" She looked the merchant up and down, frowning.

"Designed it from scratch and built it myself. There's nothing else like it! I'll even install it directly into the focal plane."

The woman looked back and forth between the induction chamber and the focal plane, biting her lip.

"Well, I only have six credits..."

"Deal!" The merchant nodded, extending a hand across the table. When she placed the focal plane into his palm, he twirled it, raising it to the sky to peer through the lens. It spun back and forth between his hands as he produced a driver, seemingly out of nowhere, undoing the bolts and tossing them to one side.

The woman watched him closely as he worked on the device, eyes darting from side to side as she struggled to keep up with his flashy motions. One second, the induction chamber was sitting on the corner of the table, and the next it was in his hand. She caught a flash of copper as it disappeared into the unit, somehow managing to fit despite the difference in size and shape. With a flourish, he reconnected all of the bolts, revealing the completed unit.

"Here you are! Six credits." She peered down at the unit in his hands, eyebrows furrowed.

"But it looks exactly the same."

"Six credits."

"How'd you even fit-"

"Six credits."

As the credits ticked over into his account, the woman looked up at him, eyes narrowed.

"Hey, if this doesn't work, I will come back for my credits." The merchant shrugged, tucking the device into her arms.

"Take care!" He watched quietly as she immediately turned and disappeared into the crowds, giving a little wave.

In the light of midday, the plumes of white around the city were cast a pale gold, parted by the bright blue glow of the Gigadrill Elevator in the distance. As shadows crept across the concrete, the merchant remained at his stall, hands cupped around his mouth as he shouted his wares to passersby. Yet, as the afternoon dragged on, he slowly began to sag, shoulders hunched and back curved. Every would-be customer kept walking straight past the man, despite his best efforts to catch their attention.

"Ugh. Okay, I'm out," the merchant groaned, reaching into one sleeve to retrieve a small key. "Time to check up on that researcher from earlier." He ducked behind his stall, unlocking a false panel in the back of the stand.

Glancing from side to side, he pulled off his wig, revealing a head of bright copper hair. Removing several layers of clothing, the gleam of burnished metal flashed in the sun as the merchant stashed the disguise beneath the market stall. A petite, spry young girl stepped out of her platform shoes, a shower of freckles scattered across her face.

"Now," Dash chirped, producing a tracking device with a grin, "let's see where you got to."

Slipping out from behind her stall, Dash squeezed past a group of street kids attempting to avoid the attention of an enforcer. She began to make her way through the crowds, gaze flicking back to the display unit attached to her wrist. Leaving the commotion of the markets behind, she traipsed through the Midtown Markets toward the West Rise, travelling further and further into the maze of laboratories.

"Not RND, then," she murmured as she passed beneath the shadow of Centennial Consumables' head office. "And you're too far from the center of the Rise to be at Cogwerx HQ. Weird."

Dash stalked past the cluster of Cogwerx Conglomerate buildings as she continued onward, tapping intermittently at her tracker.

"Ugh, come on." Slowly, a great ivory tower came into view, stretching toward the sky. The Teklo Industries center of operations gleamed in the light of day, a shining beacon amongst the sea of darkened copper.

"The Needle?" After a moment, Dash groaned loudly, hissing through her teeth. "Shit, not again. I hope they haven't started already." She broke into a run, pushing her way past a group of couriers.

Dash ran up to the entrance, banging on the door. Inside, the receptionist turned to glare at her, pausing when she saw her face. After a moment, she picked up the receiver of her teleunit, slamming her hand on a button and talking quickly to the person on the other hand.

Grimacing, Dash held up her hands and backed away, quickly ducking around to head toward the east side of the building. Looking up at the ivory surface of the tower, she began latching her gear onto the sleek surface.

"You'd think they'd have learned how to stop me by now, Dash muttered to herself as she slowly began to scale the side of the building. "'Specially after last time." She spared a glance at the tracking device. "I really hope that my calibrations were correct."

As she drew closer to the 47th floor, she felt the metal begin to vibrate underneath her palms. Slowly, Dash peeked over the edge of the window frame, peering into the laboratory within. The walls were lined with shelves displaying different kinds of ore, metals and minerals, each carefully labelled, along with a collection of analytical tools and geological devices.

A scientist rushed past her, heading in the direction of the elevator. As he passed, he revealed the massive laser standing in the center of the room, pointed directly at a large chunk of tenatan ore, its magnified beam growing stronger with each passing second.

"Who was responsible for this?" The lead scientist roared, spittle flying from his lips as he whipped around to stare at the research assistant from the marketplace. Clad in his monogrammed Teklo coat, Wyverstone glared at her with steel-grey eyes, staring down the length of his hooked nose. "Clara!"

"I didn't- I swear, this isn't-" Clara stuttered, raising her hands in front of her. Behind her, the chunk of tenatan ore seemed to almost shiver, shifting slightly on the metal surface.

With a great, shuddering boom, the room exploded in a cloud of bright blue dust. A small tenatan fragment flew toward the window, bouncing off the glass with a sharp ping. Wyverstone stared blankly at his surroundings, face pale, one eye twitching. Every individual in the room looked down to find themselves coated in a layer of bright blue, almost completely concealing the clothing beneath.

For a moment, all was silent.

Then, a peal of laughter shattered the tentative quiet. As one, the group of scientists turned toward the window, greeted with the sight of the small mechanologist's face pressed up against the glass. Beneath the fine layer of bright blue, Wyverstone's face darkened, turning an unhealthy shade of purple.

"You!" He withdrew a laser pistol from one of the drawers, raising it to fire at Dash. Throwing a hand over her mouth, she frantically shook her head.

"Hang on a second! I swear, it wasn't intentional this time!"

"Wasn't intentional," Wyverstone roared, firing in Dash's direction. "Someone bring me that brat right now! Somebody call Thiroux and tell her to control her daughter! No, call Teklo- Call the Iron Council! Bring me my phone this instant...!"

Dash grimaced as the man continued raving, waving her fingers sheepishly at the occupants of the room as she ducked out of view, beginning to descend down the face of the Needle. Her feet touched the ground just as the front doors burst open, revealing Wyverstone standing in the entranceway, several staff members standing just behind him. Turning on her heel, Dash made for the nearest aperture, ducking down into the city level below.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/dash/stroke-of-genius/
Story by Nicola Price.
Illustrated by Sam Yang

Needle in a Haystack

From her seat on the edge of the rooftop, Dash looked down upon the rooftops of Coppertown, through to the thick layer of smog that separated the Sprawl from the rest of Metrix. In the distance, the automatons of Zinnia Park moved and shifted on their pedestals, dancing against the faint light of the Gigadrill Elevator. Dash watched as a ball of molten plasma dropped from the top of the elevator, plummeting to the mining pits far below.

"Oi. You listenin', or wot?" Ricky's eyebrows furrowed, nose wrinkling as Dash finally looked in his direction.

"Uh. Kinda? Not really."

"I'm tryin' to tell ya," he drawled, rolling his eyes, "we gotta good 'un. Pulled off a big heist a couple o' days ago, gonna keep us all in food f'r a week, easy."

"Smug ol' trout din't een see us comin'!" One of the other boys passing by cut in with a laugh, tossing Ricky a bruised apple. Ricky caught it in one hand, ruffling the boy's bright ginger hair with the other.

"I'm tellin' ya, you shoul' join us fer the next one. I got a tip-" Ricky stopped when Dash immediately groaned, shaking her head.

"If I had a copper for every time you've said that-"

"No, really, just hear me out. I got a tip," he continued, blatantly ignoring Dash pulling a face at him, "about the guards on this load from Cogwerx, righ'? Big load, big cash. Bunch'a tenatan stuff, just waitin' to go out to some privat' merc company. We don' even need to steal all o' it. We get a sack full o' the stuff and run, an' we'll be well minted."

Dash blinked, raising an eyebrow.

"Ricky, you know how many guards they put on anything made with tenatan ore. Everyone's trying to get their hands on it."

"But I gotta tip- been a delay, not gonna be able to get them all o' it for another coupl'a weeks. We got a plan."

"No way. Besides, what happens if you get caught? Your luck can't hold out forever."

"Can' blame me for tryin', 'teks." Ricky shrugged. "'Sides, it's better 'an starvin'."

"You always say that. You could make stuff, you know - you'd be good at it!" Dash tossed back her hair, grinning. "I made fifteen credits a couple days ago. Sold one of my gadgets in the Markets."

Ricky chuckled, shaking his head.

"Sure, red, an' how much you spend makin' it?"

"It was made out of scrap!"

"Oh, so that's why your suit looks like that."

"Like what?"

"Your suit looks like summat you found in a junkyard."

"It's called the D.R.E.S.S.," Dash hissed, crossing her arms. "It's a state-of-the-art prototype."

Grinning, Ricky pointed at a loose wire poking out of her chestplate.

"I told you, it's a prototype!" She quickly tucked the wire back behind the metal, glaring at him. "I've still got more changes to implement."

"Clearly." He dodged her swipe with a laugh, nudging her side. "'Lax, 'teks. Look, you stick to makin' ya gadgets, and I'll stick t' wot I do best."

"Being a pain? Loitering? Throwing rocks at Zinnia automatons?"

"Ha. Ha." Ricky patted his chest. "Being the Bandit King, 'course!" He shouted the last part, grinning when all the street kids on the rooftop leapt to their feet, whooping loudly. The oldest among them, a guy with a hooked nose and dark eyes, whistled sharply through his teeth.

"Thanks, Beak." Ricky turned back to Dash with a wink, biting into the bruised apple with a sharp crunch.

"You're gonna get caught sooner or later, you know."

"Nah." Ricky spit out an apple seed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You know I always land on my feet." He startled when Dash suddenly shot up, jumping to her feet.

"Land on your feet! You're a genius!" Leaping off the crates, she flew toward the edge of the roof, heading for the ladder. "Later, rat boy!"

"See ya, 'teks," Ricky called after her, shaking his head.

If there was one thing that Dash had inherited from her parents, it was their single-minded focus when inspired by a new idea. Where her parents were both scientists studying in the field of alchemy, spending weeks on the study of a new chemical compound or metal, Dash had found her passion in the area of mechanology. In the grip of invention, she quickly lost track of time, barely sleeping until she had finally given life to the latest prototype.

Dash laced up the boots, attaching the metal components one by one and checking the fit. Once everything was inserted and calibrated, she stood, testing the weight.

"Oh, oh yes." Putting her weight onto her toes, she felt the boots accommodate the shift in balance, quickly adjusting to stabilise her weight distribution. With a grin, Dash quickly put on the remaining components of the D.R.E.S.S., dashing outside the moment she had secured the last buckle.

In record time, she'd made it to the Midtown Markets and clambered up onto the levels above, climbing the ladder to the street gang's hideout. Yet as she stepped onto the rooftop, she came to a halt, frowning. The kids seemed agitated, checking their surroundings, talking quietly amongst themselves. She looked around, expecting to see Ricky perched on the crates as per usual, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"Dude, where the hell-" "Cleaners, man!" "-guys, guys."

As she approached one of the groups, they quieted, turning towards her with matching frowns. Beak straightened, his expression dark as he met her eyes.

"Hey, 'teks." Mite greeted her quietly, eyes a bright blue against his sooty cheeks."

"Hi, Dash." "'lo 'teks." "Hey Dash."

"Hey, guys. Any of you seen Ricky?" The boys looked at each other, hesitating. Finally, Beak spoke up.

"'S not good, 'teks."

"What do you mean?" Dash frowned.

"Hasn't been 'ere in about a week."

"And you have no idea where he might be?" When all of them immediately shook their heads, Dash groaned, running a hand through her hair. "The hell has he gotten himself into this time?"

"Dunno. Tried lookin' in the usual spots, but he's gone."

"Prob'ly dead."

"Mite," one of them hissed, but a few others nodded along.

"'S true! 'S been gone a week an' a 'alf!" "Ain't never been gone this long before." "Yeah, he's dead." "We gotta go, they're onto us-" "Yeah, cleaners 're probly on their way now!"

"Guys," Dash cut in, shaking her head. "This is Ricky we're talking about. Remember that time he spent two days hiding under a Market stall because the enforcers were trying to find him? Or the time he stole a miner's hat and convinced the chargehand he was taking over for the night? Or when he snuck into Natalya's and stole a whole satchel of their prototypes?"

While a couple of the kids nodded hesitantly, muttering to themselves, Beak just shook his head.

"Y' don't geddit, 'teks. We been looking for 'im f'ra week, and he's just. Gone. Look, some of the boys already left, gone to lie low for a bit. We gotta keep movin', or it's us next." With a nod, he got up and walked over to one of the other groups, crouching to talk to a younger boy with ginger hair.

"The hell have you gotten yourself into now, rat boy?"

In the main reception of the Registry, Dash stood in line, waiting to reach the main desk. Next to her, a newcomer to the city sat on one of the benches, looking over some papers with a small frown. The couple ahead of her were in a quiet, heated discussion, while a man stood on her other side, reading a Voxx-issued newspaper.

While Dash had been here only once, it was exactly where she remembered. Even the staff looked as if they hadn't changed, and Dash half-expected one of them to see her and run over, asking what she'd blown up this time. Thought to be fair, she hadn't known the scientist was running contagion tests on those rats.

"Next." The couple moved along, revealing the receptionist sitting behind the desk. Her dark brown hair was tied into a neat bun, not a hair out of place; her mile revealing two rows of perfectly white teeth. "Hello, welcome to the Registry. How can I help you today?"

"I need information on someone?"

"Of course." The receptionist nodded, fingers poised over the keys of her typographer. "Your name, please."

"Uh. Dash Teklo."

The woman stilled, gaze flicking up to stare at Dash's face. Her expression cracked into a nervous smile, face several shades paler than it had been previously.

"Miss Teklo! It's a pleasure to have you in the Registry. Please, if you wouldn't mind, I just need a name to begin my search. That is, if you have one?"

"Ricky Royce."

"Thank you, Miss Teklo." Her fingers flew across the keys, eyes tracking across whatever results came up on her screen. "Uh- I mean, I'm very sorry to say this, Miss Teklo - but there doesn't appear to be a Mister Royce at the Academy, and I'm afraid that I don't have the clearance to access Teklo Corporation records. Of course-"

"No-! No, he's not. He isn't a member of the Academy, or Teklo. He's a street kid."

"Oh, I... see. Allow me to check our records, Miss Teklo." A second later, she nodded. "My apologies, but there are no records of anyone with that name. Do you have an ID number for him, perhaps?"

"Look, just-" Dash leant over the counter, eyebrows raised. "Let me have a look at the records, yeah? I've got this device in my bag that can charge your typographer," she began, ignoring the dawning look of sheer panic on the receptionist's face, "it'll make it easier to access your records. I know how slow those things, go, so just let me-"

"Miss Teklo, my sincerest apologies, but you are not authorised to-!"

"-it'll make searching all of your records so much faster, there's gotta be information on him somewhere-"

"-I must insist that you refrain from tampering with Registry property-"

"-couldn't possibly have searched your entire database-"

"-please, Miss Teklo-!"

"-just let me-" Dash leant over and tried to grab the technographer from the desk, a connection socket emerging from her gauntlet. A second later, a hand grabbed her by the collar, hauling her away from the device. "Let me go! I only need a second-!"

In answer, the security guard carried her out the door, placing her firmly on her feet just outside. The receptionist came rushing out a moment later, grasping Dash's hand with a fixed smile.

"Please, allow me to apologize on behalf of the Registry for this disturbance. We'd like to gift you these tokens for your next visit, and I do hope that you continue to use the Registry's services in the future."

"But I only need to-!"

"My sincerest apologies, Miss Teklo." The receptionist smiled wanly as she stepped backward, ducking behind the looming figure of the security guard. He glowered down at her, face set with determination.

With a sigh, Dash stuffed the tokens into one of the pouches on her belt, watching the receptionist hurry back inside. The security guard stared her down as she turned away, stowing the connection port back inside her gauntlet.

With the number of agencies, organisations, and private investigators available in Metrix, Dash had expected that at least one would be able to help her. But no matter where she went, the answer was always the same.

From Beacon to Zesca's, the Teklo database to Voxx press, nobody seemed to have information on Ricky Royce, let alone any hint of a location. Still, Dash pressed on, determined to find something, anything.

That night, over dinner, her parents argued about a Teklo scientist's investigation into the boundary layer effect, and their development of a bladeless turbine.

"Everyone knows mechanical vapor recompression is much more efficient," Dash muttered, picking idly at her dinner with a frown. Finally, her parents turned to look at her, her father raising an eyebrow. Before they could launch into further discussion of the matter, she cleared her throat.

"I, uh- I wanted to ask you about something." When she was sure she had at least part of their attention, she continued, telling them about her search for Ricky Royce, and how she'd failed to find any information on him - even when checking the Teklo database. (Neither were particularly surprised to hear that she'd snuck into the complex and accessed the database without permission.)

"Well, no, there wouldn't be anything. In most cases, there would be little reason for the Teklo database to keep information on scuttlers. Statistically, it's likely that your friend is long gone by now." Taking a sip of her wine, her mother blinked. "Oh, yes, how has your testing been going? Any luck with the latest prototype?"

Dash half-heartedly responded with something about last week's experiment, barely paying attention as she stared blankly at her dinner. As expected, her parents soon turned the conversation back to their own work, leaving her to stab her Centennial-produced cutlet in relative peace.

"Knew it was a long-shot, but I had to try." Dash glared at the fake meat, poking it idly. "They're like ghosts. How am I supposed to find someone who barely even exists?" Pausing, she sat upright, gesturing with her fork. "Unless... I'm looking for the wrong thing. If I can't find the person, maybe I can track the thing, instead."

"What was that, dear?" Dash looked up to see her parents staring at her, and grinned.

"Hey, how can I get information on a Cogwerx shipment of devices made with tenatan ore?"

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/dash/needle-in-a-haystack/
Story by Nicola Price.
Illustrated by Sam Yang

Full Steam Ahead

Dash burst through the window in a shower of glass shards, stomach lurching as she fell forward, plunging through the air. With a flick of her wrist, a hook extended from her gauntlet, her fingers closing around it as it tore into the side of the building. Her body jolted as it immediately slowed her descent, sparks flying where the metal connected.

Laughing wildly, she felt her heels connect with the side of the building, metal screeching as she slid down the face of the Needle. A scientist called out as she flew past, thumping on the window of his laboratory. The shriek of metal on metal filled the air, ringing loudly as she watched the ground rise up to meet her. Her feet collided with the solid pavement, knees bending as her boots took the brunt of the force. With one final whoop, she retracted the hook and bolted, angry shouts filling the air as scientists emerged from the Needle.

"Come back here! Someone grab Thiroux's blasted daughter!"

Dash ran for the edge of the street, launching herself over the railing and falling into the darkness of the Sprawl. Propelling herself off a rooftop, she made her way onto the streets, falling into step with some of the workers making their way home from the mines. No one looked in her direction as she reached into one of her pouches, withdrawing a small metallic orb.

"Kinda small, aint'cha?" Turning it back and forth between her fingers, she found a connection port on the side of the orb, and a few gaps in the plating. "Thought you'd be bigger. Still pretty heavy, though," Dash muttered ducking through a side-street as she headed for the Midtown Markets.

The pounding in his head was what woke him up, slowly registering the familiar sharp ache that followed a blow to the back of the head. Hissing through his teeth, he tried to raise a hand to check the wound, but immediately realized that he couldn't move. After a long moment, Ricky Royce opened his eyes, squinting in the bright light of day.

A tall man with a patchy beard kneeled in front of him, gaze dark as he stared blankly at Ricky.

"Mornin' sunshine. Y'been sleepin' for ages." He scratched his beard idly, squinting. "Wasn' sure if ya'd wake up."

Ricky didn't answer, gaze flicking to the side as he took in the rest of the room. Wherever they were, the building was certainly rundown, showing all the usual signs of the abandoned buildings of early Metrix. The bright shine of copper had given way to vivid, waxy blue-green patina, water-trails leaving patterns on the walls. Several of the windows had been boarded over in an attempt to conceal the shattered glass panes, while the rest seemed to shake in the slightest breeze.

"Hey, I'm talking t' ya." The man snapped his fingers in front of Ricky's face, drawing his attention. "Yer Ricky Royce, yeah?"

"Why y' lookin' fer him?" Ricky glared, jaw clenching. It was beginning to come back to him - turning up at the Cogwerx factory, finding the shipment unguarded, these crazy gits running in to claim everything. None of it explained what they were doing here, or why this lot hadn't killed him yet, or why the man knew his name.

"Yeah," the man grinned. "See, we gotta plan to cause some trouble for Metrix, and 'parently, this kid's good at that. 'Course, you don't know where he is, maybe I kill 'ya now and be done with it."

"Al'rite, al'rite." Ricky rolled his eyes." Yeah, that's me."

"Good. Here's the deal-"

"No, no deal." He cut the other man off, shaking his head. "Y' gotta show me the others first. I don't wanna hear anything until I see 'em."

The man whistled through his teeth, and a moment later, the doors opened to reveal some other members of the man's group each holding one of the street kids who had been part of Ricky's heist."

"Where're the other two?"

"Dead, kid. Died at Cogwerx. Y'know those security bots? Shot 'em full'a holes."

Setting his jaw, Ricky looked over at the members of his gang, but before he could look for injuries, the group took them away, closing the door once more. The leader - for that's what he had to be - took a knife out of his pocket, twirling it between his fingers.

"Yer the leader of that little group, aint'cha? If ya want those squeakers to live, y' gonna do what I tell ya to." He struck out with the knife, driving it deep into the wall next to Ricky's head. "Boss wants us to cause some trouble. Yer gonna help us make sure we ain't gonna be interrupted 'fore we're ready. You try to trick me, mess up my plan? I'mma cut up your little buddies one by one. Got it?"

After a long moment, Ricky tipped his chin upward, glaring. "Fine. Whaddya want me t' do?"

As she drew closer to the heart of Metrix, Dash made a left turn, disappearing into an alleyway and scampering up a ladder to the levels above. As she emerged above the Sprawl, entering into the Coppertown sector, the air became thick with the sharp, sour smell of sulfur, smoke turning the world around her slightly hazy. Climbing higher, she made it up above the stalls of the Midtown Markets, scouring the crowds below.

Checking that she was out of sight, Dash activated the induction chamber, withdrawing the connection cable from her D.R.E.S.S. and attaching it to the port in the orb. The orb fit perfectly into one of the ports on her belt, sliding into place with a neat click.

Light travelled along the surface as the device came to life, drawing on the power of the induction chamber. Lifting her arm, Dash watched as her D.R.E.S.S. calibrated with the orb, sending its display to the unit on her wrist. Slowly, it began to calibrate, giving off a faint pulse as it attuned to her surroundings. Then, finally, it let out a single shrill beep.

"Okay, little buddy!" Dash grinned, slowly turning as she listened for feedback from the device. "Where are we going?"

Choosing a direction at random, she began to walk toward the outline of Zinnia Park, listening carefully. In a day, she could cover the whole of the Midtown Markets, and a part of Lowlake. The next led her down into Coppertown, scouring every street for the slightest signal from her device. However, it continued to stay silent.

Every time Dash booted up the device, it would release a series of high-pitched beeps, confirming that it had calibrated correctly. Yet after weeks of searching Metrix sector by sector, Dash was beginning to wonder if perhaps the device hadn't calibrated correctly after all, or if there was an issue with the connection to the induction chamber.

Old Metrix was a failure, and the East Rise didn't produce a single signal. As she entered into the Expanse, she was startled to discover that the orb began to signal, beeps sounding faster and faster as she drew closer to the source of the tenatan.

A light blinked into existence on her display unit, flashing a faint green. On closer inspection, she discovered that it was producing eight different directional lights, seven of which were currently inactive. When she turned around, the light turned off, and a different one lit up instead, now turned to face the same direction that the other light had been pointing previously.

"Oh, hell yeah!" Holding the device out in front of her, Dash ran toward the northeast, watching as the light blinked faster and brighter with every step. Finally, she found the building, coming to a halt in front of one of the Teklo Corporation's various laboratories. "...Oh. Right."

It was the first of several, as Dash found herself pulled to multiple laboratories, peeking in the windows to discover scientists in the process of testing raw tenatan.

After several long, exhausting days, Dash finally eliminated the Expanse from her search, turning her attention to the Sprawl far below.

"At least I know it works," Dash muttered as she slunk back to her room, tossing the device onto her worktable. "Where the hell are you, rat boy?"

Ricky watched silently as the men unloaded several cases from Cogwerx, sorting the weapons into piles. Anything explosive was placed on the main table, sorted by size and yield. Armed with the knowledge of their combined explosive power, seeing them all together made his skin crawl. They set 'em off by accident, we're all gonna be ashes and dust.

"So, we can def'nitely get in through the access panel?"

"Yeah," Ricky responded, rubbing a hand over his face. "We dunnit plenty, all y'need is a driver and y' can pry the scanner righ' off."

"An' yer sure there ain't no guards?"

"Nah, they just got the scanners fer security."

"Alright." The leader, Mo, lifted his bat over one shoulder. "Y'know what happens if we get caught."

"I know." Ricky sighed. "Already said, I dunnit before. 'S gonna work fine."

"Right. Hope so, for your boy's sakes." Mo signaled to the rest of the group, whistling through his teeth. "Hey! Listen up. Boss wants this done neat and tidy, no fuck-ups. Bigger the mess, more we get paid, but any o' you assholes screw up and get us caught early, we ain't getting nothin'. So get your shit together, and let's move!"

Dash was passing through the streets of the Sprawl, head bowed over her wrist display, when the device suddenly gave off a beep. She came to a standstill in the middle of the path, slowly turning as a very faint light appeared, pointing north.

"Thank fuck for that," she breathed, beginning to walk in that direction. Yet as she drew closer, the light growing stronger, it suddenly switched directions, pointing west. "Don't you short-circuit on me." As she turned to continue walking, it beeped loudly at her, all eight lights flashing simultaneously.

"Up top somewhere, huh? And movin' fast, from the looks of it." Dash craned her neck backward to look at the levels above, quickly identifying the nearest ladder. The moment she passed into the streets of Coppertown, it switched directions once more, pointing toward the center of Metrix.

Dash ran as quickly as she could, relying on the extra boost from the D.R.E.S.S. as she made her way through the crowded streets. Passing through Lowlake, she scrambled up a ladder, hauling herself up into the Midtown Markets. Here, the crowds were even more dense, as Dash struggled to slip between the masses.

Squeezing between the stalls and patrons, Dash realized the device was directing her up once again. Using a nearby stall as a stepladder, she craned her neck to scan the crowds, looking for a gap in the flow of traffic. Her gaze landed on a ladder near the entrance to Goode's, leading up to the miner's walkways that connected to the Gigadrill Elevator.

Dash cursed under her breath as she pushed her way through the crowds, grasping onto the ladder and throwing herself onto the upper level. As she climbed higher, the signal grew stronger and stronger, leading her onto the maintenance level of the Gigadrill Elevator. Past the main walkways, there were few miners up here, making it much easier for Dash to follow the bright blinking light.

The device led her to one of the maintenance doors, its access panel torn off the wall. Dash quietly reached down and turned the tenatan detector off, silencing its shrill beeping. Her heart raced as she listened carefully, staring at the loose panel. Beyond the door, she could hear faint shouts and the occasional curse.

Drawing in a deep breath, she wrapped one hand around the hilt of her Teklo-assigned plasma pistol. When she raised her hand, pistol at the ready, she was proud to note that her hand barely shook at all.

Moving closer, she spotted someone standing near the door, just out of sight behind a pillar. The guard stood close to the edge of the metal path, gazing out over the city. With a deep breath, she dashed across the space between them and shoved, sending him flying onto the lower level. Ignoring his angry shouts, she booted the door open, pointing her pistol into the maintenance room.

In front of her, six men burst into action, reaching for nearby weapons. In a split-second, she glanced at the back wall, where she saw one man with a patchy beard standing next to Ricky, who met her gaze with a slack-jawed expression.

"Grab a fucking weapon, rat boy!" Dash yelled, backing up as one of the men came at her with a nail-studded baseball bat. Even as she ducked, avoiding the blow, her mind dimly wondered why the man was wielding a bat, and not one of the endless varieties of Cogwerx or Teklo-produced weaponry.

Gathering herself, she lashed out with her fist, the gauntlet deploying knuckle guards as she slammed it into his jaw with a sickening crunch. He collided with the floor with a thud, yelling as he scrabbled for his bat. Turning on her heel, Dash fired the pistol at a man reaching for her, narrowly avoiding the knife that he wielded with one hand.

"Shit!" The shot went wider than she expected, hitting him in the gut instead of the thigh. He went down like a ton of bricks, clutching at his stomach with a weak groan. Another of the men lunged at her, swearing loudly when her boot collided with his ribcage. Lashing out with her other fist, she accidentally deployed the gauntlet's circular saw, which tore through his shoulder like a hot knife through Centennial-produced butter.

Leaving him slumped to the floor, she turned and fired at a fourth man, hitting him in the mid-chest, narrowly avoiding another attack from the fifth. He bared his teeth at her, yelling wildly. A second later, a long copper rod connected with the back of his head, a hollow thunk echoing through the room. As he collapsed to the ground, the man revealed Ricky standing behind him, wielding the rod with a grimace.

"Enough!" Mo help up the detonator, thumb over the red button. "You fuckers ain't gonna stop me, you hear me!"

Dash immediately turned and dove across the room, grabbing Ricky as they soared out the open doorway. Behind them, the bombs detonated, her D.R.E.S.S. immediately responding to the shockwave by deploying a dissipation shield. The shockwave sent them both straight over the edge, plummeting to the ground below. She barely had time to register the sprawl of the plaza below them before they slammed into the pavement.

For a moment, everything was still, her ears ringing as Dash pressed her face against the cool stone earth. With a groan, she slowly pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, looking at Ricky just next to her. The shield faded away as he stood, wavering slightly on his feet.

"You 'right, rat boy?" Her voice was croaky, but he heard her regardless, raising his head to look at her.

"Think so. You got any broken bones?"

"I think I'm good. You?"

"Nah, I'm 'right."

"Good." They got to their feet, looking up at the silhouette of the Gigadrill Elevator. High above them, near the top of the Gigadrill, the plasma flared wildly, bolts of light arcing between the metal as molten plasma dripped down the side of the structure.

Dash looked across the plaza at the miner's entrance to Pit 3, watching them spill out of the elevator in a frenzy.

"'Teks-!"

The light flared, a deafening shriek filling the air as the metal skeleton of the Gigadrill warped seemingly instantaneously. Energy raced down the face of the structure, crackling loudly as it collided with the outer edge of Pit 3. With a thunderous crack, the main body of the Gigadrill parted in two, its halves whining as they separated, bending toward the nearby buildings of the Expanse. The maintenance level crumbled, pieces of foundation and glass tumbling to smash on the pavement below.

With that, the Gigadrill shuddered to a stop, and the plaza became quieter than Dash had ever heard it.

"...well, shit." Ricky whistled, shaking his head. "Thanks, 'teks. Wouldn't have wanted to be up there." He turned to look at her, eyebrows furrowed. "'That your suit?"

Dash laughed breathlessly, gesturing to the chestplate.

"Yeah, you're looking at the final design of the D.R.E.S.S. We're lucky I decided to incorporate a shielding module."

With a dry chuckle, he shrugged.

"Well, I take it back, that's pretty cool." They turned to look at the Midtown Markets, watching as people emerged to look at the remains of the Gigadrill.

"You had guys with you for the heist, right? They weren't up on the maintenance level, were they?"

"Nah, I was the only one that went with 'em for that." Ricky frowned, running a hand through his hair. "They're still back with the rest of that group. Said we'd all be set loose once the job was done."

"Do you know where they are?"

"Yeah, paid attention when we left. Old building on the outer limits, jus' past the junkyards. We gotta go now, 'teks, there's still some'a those men with 'em, and I don' trust that they won' just 'cide to kill 'em off."

"Let's go, then. Probably best we get away from this, anyway."

Ducking between the stalls, they hurried off, turning their backs on the twisted remains of the Gigadrill, smoke rising behind them.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/dash/full-steam-ahead/
Story by Nicola Price.
Illustrated by Sam Yang

A distant descendant of the first Emperor, Kano was born with the raw power of the dragon's fire within his veins, able to summon flames as easily as breathing. As a court wizard, he lives within the royal palace, enjoying comforts unknown to the masses of Volcor.

In recent years, something has been stirring, slow and insidious, disrupting the flow of aether within Volcor. Wizards throughout the court have been struggling to control their innate magic, finding difficulty in casting even the simplest aetheric spell. When Kano stumbles upon a mysterious being dwelling within the body of his former mentor, he uncovers a secret that threatens to overwhelm the innermost circles of the royal court.

In exposing the threat before the Chamber of the Dragon, Kano manages to gain the gratitude of the Emperor himself. Wielding his unique aether affinity, Kano is gifted the title of 'Dracai of Aether'; sent to uncover the truth and correct the imbalance of aether, before every wizard in Volcor is left powerless.

Playing with Fire

The combined nervous chatter of fourty young wizards was almost deafening, bouncing off the walls in a way that made his ears ring. Ryo looked around the room, gazing at the tense expressions of the other students gathered nearby. One of the youngest in the room looked as if she was going to pass out, her face pale with anxiety, small hands trembling as she teased a flame into existence between her fingers.

Ryo ran a hand over his already immaculate robes, straightening the fabric with a small frown. Despite his age, he was already wearing the apophis hairpin that marked him as the Hideshi heir, its obsidian scales gleaming in the firelight. Noting the curious stare of a couple of older students, Ryo dipped his head in greeting, watching as their gaze landed on the hairpin. One of them turned slightly to whisper in the other's ear, hiding the movement of his lips behind one hand.

Finally, the Lord Wizard Akihiko strode into the room, instantly gathering everyone's attention. The crimson fabric pooled around his feet as he came to a halt, raising one hand.

"I need each of you to find a brazier and stand next to it." He paused, blinking slowly. "Now, if you please."

The students burst into a flurry of movement as each one rushed to find a brazier. Ryo stepped behind the nearest brazier, looking down at the golden glow seeping out onto the polished stone tiles.

"I believe most of you will have already heard about the Trial of Embers before, but for those of you who haven't, I will start from the beginning." Clearing his throat, the Lord Wizard Akihiko gestured to the nearest brazier. "The rules are simple. What you see before you is lava harvested from the crater of Mt. Volcor.

"Your task is to draw it from the brazier. This may seem simple, but lava is much harder to manipulate than fire or aether. This trial is designed to determine your innate abilities, and your potential as the future wizards of Volcor. The most successful among you may be chosen by one of the Lord Wizards as a deshi, and assume the responsibilities of..."

Ryo noted several of the students beginning to zone out, their eyes glazing over as they stared off into the distance. If their overseer took any notice, he didn't show it. The Lord Wizard's footsteps echoed through the room, the click-clack of his shoes against the stone tiles rebounding off the walls. Ryo's gaze followed the Lord Wizard as he paced down the line of students, staring ahead with his chin held high.

"...of course, there are still rules that must be obeyed. This is a test of aptitude and natural ability, and so the use of any arcane item is prohibited. Each of you has descended from the first Emperor of Volcor, gifted with the blood of the Dracai. As members of the royal bloodline, you are blessed with an affinity for fire aether..."

The student next to Ryo had his head bowed, staring intently at something in the palm of his hand. His long, jet-black hair was pulled up into a high ponytail, only decorated with a single vuurlin feather. The other boy wore his dark grey robes with pride, his dark eyes gleaming with a keen intelligence, expression alight with mischief. He looked slightly older than Ryo, perhaps fifteen, at most.

Ryo startled at the feeling of something hitting his ankle, glancing over to the student to find him grinning, balancing his weight on one foot as he prepared to kick again. Ryo pointedly ignored him, lips thinning as he continued to stare at the Lord Wizard Akihiko.

"...more than welcome to observe others, or otherwise prepare for your trial, but do not converse with other students. This is a test of natural ability, and giving another student advice or information is strictly prohibited. Of course..."

Just as Ryo thought the other boy had given up, he felt a hand slide into his pocket .The boy withdrew, quietly leaning back into his usual spot. After a moment, Ryo reached into his pocket with one hand, withdrawing a small slip of parchment. Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder, glancing at the other student.

"Read it." The whisper was just barely audible, but even watching the boy's face, Ryo wasn't sure he hadn't seen his lips move.

Ryo lifted one eyebrow before looking down at the note in his hand, fingers cupped to hide it from view. He could see the script faintly shimmering on its surface, just barely visible in the light. Turning silently, he glared at the other boy, gesturing silently to the note.

"What is this?" Ryo hissed under his breath, gaze flicking to the Lord Wizard, watching him heading back toward them.

"An incantation." The boy shrugged. "A few of us have got 'em. It'll help with your magic."

"...now," the Lord Wizard Akihiko suddenly boomed, his voice rising as he came to a halt in the dead centre of the room. "Your trial begins. Show me what you can do."

Ryo glanced back at the other boy, who was watching him with one eyebrow raised.

"The Lord Wizard said-"

"It's just a simple incantation. It's not that different to the ones we've covered before."

Ryo looked over the symbols with a small frown, recognising only a few of the words.

"All the wizards use it for this trial. It helps with concentration."

They both paused at the sound of a distressed cry, turning to look at one of the wizards across the hall. The same girl that Ryo had noticed earlier was standing over her brazier, tears in her eyes, as the molten lava melted the remains of the metal, pouring out onto the stone tiles. The Lord Wizard, standing nearby, shook his head as he moved onto the next student.

"You only get one shot. You really want to end up like her?" The boy looked back at Ryo with a shrug. "Your choice, I guess."

As the other student turned back to his own brazier, Ryo frowned, looking down at the note in his hand. With a small sigh, he nodded to himself. Straightening, he stretched his free hand towards the brazier, palm facing the lava pooled within. Ryo muttered the incantation under his breath, and with a gesture, began to draw the lava up into the air.

The lava answered sluggishly, pushing back against Ryo's control. He could feel its resistance, as if he were trying to force it through a wall of solid stone, and even with all of his concentration, he could barely command it to move. It rose painfully slowly, almost solid as it moved up through the air, obstinate despite Ryo's best efforts. A vein twitched in his forehead, his face flushing with the sheer effort of commanding the lava to move.

As a bright flare lit the opposite end of the hall, his tentative focus shattered, and his control over the lava snapped. It fell back into the brazier with a strange, hollow sound, not unlike the strike of metal on metal. What splashed over the sides quickly cooled against the stone tiles, solidifying before Ryo could think to remove it.

The Lord Wizard Akihiko was silent as he passed, gaze fixed on the pool of lava splashed across the stone tiles. With a gesture, he allowed the remainder to extinguish, and Ryo watched silently as the brazier's contents cooled to a dull grey.

Ryo glanced around the hall to find several others in the same position as himself, their heads bowed. Some had braziers that appeared to be one solid mass of rapidly cooling rock, others had accidentally reduced theirs to a puddle of molten metal and lava. The Lord Wizard Akihiko looked between them all with a dark expression, silently stalking past those among them who had failed. Just as he opened his mouth in preparation to speak, a bright flare of light caught everyone's attention

The boy to Ryo's left, the same one that had passed him the note, was weaving his lava through the air with a bright grin, his face alight with a crimson glow. Its movements were almost serpentine as it danced around him, glowing brighter with every second. The molten rock became thinner and thinner as the lava superheated, transforming into a vibrant golden orange.

The lava curled outward, cooling into a mass of scales, whiskers sprouting from the head of the serpentine form. A pair of horns formed from the top of its head, a mouth seperating to reveal a series of sharp teeth, the tongue lolling out as it opened its mouth and roared. With a burst of flame, the lava took the shape of a dragon, burning brighter with each passing second.

The dragon circled him in one massive loop, weaving through the air, illuminating the wizard's triumphant grin. With a gesture, he sent the dragon flying toward the ceiling, brushing just shy of the rafters before diving back down into the brazier, releasing a shower of molten rock. They paused just before they hit the floor, reversing their trajectory to land back inside the brazier, and the mass of lava coalesced back into one molten pool once more.

Ryo heard several of the other students gasp behind him, and turned slightly to see the Lord Wizard drawing closer, something unreadable barely visible within his carefully blank expression.

"Well done, Kano. Good work." After a long moment, the Lord Wizard finally gave Kano a simple nod before turning back to the other students, continuing on to inspect those remaining.

Over the glow of his brazier, Kano grinned, winking at Ryo.

"What was the incantation you gave me?" He asked, watching the other wizard with a small frown.

"I found it in a tome in the palace library.."

"...You didn't know what was going to happen?"

"It worked when I used it. I don't know what went wrong when you tried." Kano met his gaze with a blink, shrugging. "Hey, it could have helped. I didn't know it would backfire. Anyway, you're not the only one."

Ryo turned slightly to look at some of the other students who had failed, staring at the state of their braziers.

"You do realise that the Lord Wizard will find out, right? Everybody's going to know you cheated."

Kano shrugged. "Worth it."

As the other students began to filter out of the room, Kano followed suit, giving Ryo a little wave as he left through the main door. The few of them that had used Kano's incantation were kept behind, subjected to a long lecture from the Lord Wizard and questioned about the results of their trial. Mysteriously, all of them realised that Kano's notes had disintegrated into fine, powdery ash, erasing the only evidence of the incantation.

Deep within the royal palace, the seventy-eight members of the Chamber of the Dragon were gathered in the great hall. The gold leaf panel at the back of the room almost seemed to shimmer in the lantern light, disguising a passage leading to the innermost section of the palace.

"The Trial of Embers took place this morning. Of the twenty-eight students that were tested, nineteen successfully completed the trial." The Lord Wizard Akihiko hesitated, clearing his throat. "One of these students displayed the aptitude of Caldera."

A low murmur rippled through the room as the Chancellor frowned, dipping his chin to stare at Akihiko.

"That's impossible for a wizard of his age."

"We couldn't find any runestones or charged crystals, the brazier was unmarked, and we did not find evidence of a sigil. I cast the aetheric ward myself, and its efficacy was tested by three senior wizards. The boy should not have been able to cast or draw aether."

The Lord Chancellor frowned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Interesting. Keep a close eye on him, Lord Wizard Akihiko. If he truly did use an aetheric spell, in spite of your wards, this student of yours may prove useful."

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/kano/playing-fire/
Story by Nicola Price. Illustrations by MJ Fetesio.

Smoke and Mirrors

Across the rolling hills of Volcor, the earth was stained black with soot and ash, lava rivers a smear of colour against the dark landscape. Villages lay tucked between the rocky slopes, ruled by generals, their fate determined by the ebb and flow of battle. Step into any one of Volcor's villages and you'll find a hardy people, determined and headstrong, forged by the inhospitable environment they call home.

Beyond them, the silhouette of Mt. Volcor rises above the rocky slopes, a massive active volcano which can be seen from the furthest borders of the region. A plume of toxic smoke and poisonous gases rises into the air, painting the sky in shades of grey and blocking out the sun for months at a time.

A path cut into the slope of the volcano leads to the imperial palace, an imposing structure carved from obsidian and stone. The palace extends deep below the earth, a massive network of underground halls providing a home for every member of the royal court. It stands apart from the villages far below, equal parts magnificent and formidable, separated from the rest of Volcor by a series of stone walls and grand gates.

Within the palace walls, the hallways were bustling as servants began to prepare for the evening meal, young wizards making their way to and from various training exercises. Lengths of scarlet fabric hung from the ceiling, adding a vibrant splash of colour to the stone halls, carved from the volcanic rock found throughout Volcor. The golden-pink of rhyolite was streaked through the dark stone, revealed through cracks and fissures in the rock. In some places, the rock had been chiseled away to reveal pockets of pure rhyolite, providing a clear space for a sigil to be inscribed into the soft pink stone.

Great golden lanterns illuminated the halls, casting everything they touched in a soft, warm glow. Crystals formed from molten magma radiated the warmth of the midday sun, chasing away the chill of the shadows. Soft woven mats lay underfoot, a sharp contrast to the unyielding stone beneath. Doorways were marked with finely painted screens, depicting scenes of Volcor's history, the Emperors that came before, and the legendary dragon that gave life to the fires of Volcor.

A court wizard strolled down one such hallway, his crimson robes a splash of colour against the pale mats and dark stone walls. The crimson fabric was bordered in fine gold embroidery, set against the jet-black skirt of his robes. In one hand, he held a staff carved from pure obsidian, gold detailing running along its length. His hair was drawn up into a high ponytail, decorated with a large, blood-red feather plume, which was held in place by an intricate golden hairpin.

As he strode down the hall, Kano came to a stop near one of the sigils embedded in the wall, weaving a spell into the air with his free hand. Most of the court's wizards weren't required to perform such menial tasks, but most wizards had already received a title and become a true member of the royal court. Kano, still awaiting a title, was still included within the group of young wizards that worked to maintain the spells around the palace.

When he checked, the sigil was in the first stages of unravelling, showing faint signs of aetheric disturbance. Sighing, he began the process of casting the sigil once more, knitting together the wisps of aether. While tedious, repairing sigils wasn't the worst of Kano's menial tasks - that dubious honour belonged to the water seals. To someone with the blood of the dragon running through his veins, performing water magic felt inherently wrong, like having your body flipped inside out.

As he approached one of the seals that maintained the palace's water system, he shuddered involuntarily, expression morphing into one of distaste. Drawing on the aether around him, Kano tapped into the magic of the arcane seal, grimacing as the impression of cool, running water washed over him. Reweaving the seal as quickly as possible, he bound the spell with a shiver.

Just as he released the flow of aether, Kano heard a large, shuddering boom echo down the hall, the very air around him vibrating with a release of arcane energy. The door to one of the training rooms burst open, as one of the young wizards collapsed through the doorway, screaming in agony. Flames raced up the side of his robes, covering his writhing body in a blanket of fire.

Another wizard immediately followed him, lowering herself to the ground at his side. Minako's face was set with determination, teeth grit tightly as she quickly worked to draw the fire away from her student. Kano could feel the pull from across the room, as the fire clung to the young wizard's body, refusing to budge. Minako gave one last tug, and the fire flew into her waiting hands. With a flourish, she stifled it between her palms, skin untouched by the heat of the flames.

Next to her, the apprentice gave a strangled groan. In spite of her best efforts, the fire had burned through parts of his clothing, leaving the skin beneath a bright, searing red. Even at this distance, Kano could see that the edges of his burns were already beginning to peel.

Two of the servants walking nearby immediately ran over, already hurrying to obey Minako's rapid-fire orders. As he watched, several more students emerged from the room, rushing to help their mentor.

"Third one this week." Kano turned to find the Lord Wizard Akihiko standing next to him, his expression unreadable. "This is the second from among Minako's students."

"This has happened twice already?"

Akihiko nodded, jaw clenched.

"I don't recall anything like that happening in our class."

"It's been more frequent, recently." As one of the servants rushed past them, a large bowl of water clutched close to her chest, the Lord Wizard turned to look at Kano with a sigh. "Walk with me."

As they walked, Kano occasionally stopped to check another of the sigils, repairing and reweaving the spell with a wave of his hand. For the most part, the Lord Wizard Akihiko remained unusually silent.

"So, Kano. How did you pass the Trial of Embers, again?"

Kano shook his head, chuckling at the familiar subject.

"I told you, Lord Wizard Akihiko, it was just a stroke of good luck. A happy accident. A moment of genius. I couldn't possibly explain it."

The Lord Wizard merely sighed in response, his expression strained. Expecting some kind of quip in return, Kano waited, surprised when nothing else followed. The Lord Wizard Akihiko remained quiet, allowing the silence to stretch between them.

After a long moment, Kano cleared his throat.

"Well, I guess it has been ten years now." The Lord Wizard's head swivelled toward him, an eyebrow raised in question. "It was an incantation I found in an old tome, to strengthen a person's connection to the arcane."

The Lord Wizard's expression went completely blank, his gaze appearing to stare straight through Kano, rather than looking at him.

"You used an incantation to modify your connection to the arcane?"

"Yes."

The Lord Wizard shook his head, muttering to himself.

"That doesn't make any sense. The wards should have prevented... What kind of an incantation was this?"

"Aetheric."

"That's not possible," he hissed, mouth curling into the beginnings of a snarl. Then, abruptly, the Lord Wizard paused. "You gave the same incantation to the other students, didn't you?"

"Yes. It didn't work as well for them, though."

Kano watched as the Lord Wizard's face almost seemed to clear, mouth curling into a crooked smile, a chuckle escaping him.

"How very interesting." With another laugh, he continued strolling forward, seemingly oblivious to Kano's look of confusion. "Do you often use aether spells and incantations?"

"Yes... I enjoy casting fire, but using aether in spellwork is more interesting. I found some spells in an old tome, so I started teaching myself how to cast them, and then learned how to magnify my fire magic with aether spells."

"Was it difficult?"

"At first, yes." Kano hesitated, gesturing vaguely in the direction they'd come from, to the student who had collapsed to the ground in flames. "I haven't told anyone this, but I've noticed something happening to the aether, recently. It feels wrong, somehow. Warped. I don't know how to explain it; I just can't shake this feeling that something big is going to happen."

That strange smile was still tugging at the Lord Wizard's lips, transforming what may have been intended as an encouraging nod into something vaguely menacing.

"I understand, Kano. I've been getting that same exact feeling, recently." The Lord Wizard paused, staring into the middle-distance. "We should go speak to the Chamber of the Dragon. They should hear this."

Without waiting to hear Kano's reply, the Lord Wizard Akihiko began walking down the hallway, pausing only for long enough to check that Kano was following. The Lord Wizard led him down several levels, descending into the innermost levels of the palace. As one of the younger members of the court, and titleless at that, Kano had never had the opportunity to explore this area of the palace. The innermost sector was reserved primarily for the immediate family of the Emperor, and ministers from among the Chamber of the Dragon.

As they descended, the carved stone walls gave way to gilded panels, great crystals mounted just behind, enchanted so that their fiery light moved like free-flowing magma. The panels cast a warm glow through the halls, illuminating the finely-woven mats that lay underfoot. They descended further still, and Kano took note of the silence that surrounded them as they moved further and further away from the palace's other inhabitants.

Kano followed Akihiko, mouth pulled into a small frown. The more that he thought about it, the more strange all of this seemed. While he'd never stepped foot inside this part of the palace, he had assumed it would be busy; filled with servants rushing to obey their masters, and ministers and lord wizards making their way to and from various engagements. Yet ever since he stepped foot in this part of the palace, he hadn't seen so much as a simple servant.

"I didn't realise the chamber's halls were this deep," Kano remarked casually.

The Lord Wizard stayed silent, his face hidden from view as the man walked two steps ahead of him. Kano quickened his pace slightly, turning his head to look at Akihiko's expression. His former mentor was completely unreadable, his grey eyes cold as steel.

Kano frowned, noticing the stir of aether in the air, the telltale sign of a wizard preparing to cast a spell. His gaze flicked down to see a ripple of energy over the palms of Akihiko's hands, like the heat waves that rippled above Volcor's pools of molten magma. With a flick of the wrist, Kano caught the fireball thrown at him, allowing the heat to dissipate into the air. He caught the following wave of fire in the palms of his hands, allowing it to spin around him before whipping it back at the Lord Wizard.

As he sidestepped another fireball, Kano began to draw on the aether around him, hands weaving a spell into being. The arcane energy began to build, and as Kano ducked to one side, he slashed a hand through the air, sending the burgeoning spell flying at Lord Wizard Akihiko. It connected with his energy, visibly dissipating as it smothered the Lord Wizard's arcane connection.

Akihiko immediately froze, going completely still. Wide eyes stared back at Kano, his pupils constricted, the whites of his eyes showing around the iris. Startled, Kano took a step back, one hand forming an arcane barrier in front of him - and then very abruptly stopped. Even as he watched, the Lord Wizard's skin was taking on a grey pallor, irises and pupils fading to milky-white, branches of violet-green veins showing through his pale skin.

Slowly, Akihiko's lips drew back into a snarl, teeth bared, his hands curling into fists. The sound that he released was inhuman, an ear-splitting shriek that echoed down the length of the hall. Without warning, the man leapt at him, hands outstretched, clawing at Kano like a rabid animal. Reflexively, he tossed a fireball at his former mentor, who failed to dodge the flames heading straight toward him.

The fireball immediately collided head-on. With another shrill, deafening shriek, the Lord Wizard collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony. Just as Kano stepped forward, unsure, smoke began to pour from the man's ears and nose, plumes of black smoke that flooded the hall with the smell of sulfur.

Even as Kano drew the fire away, holding it at the ready, Akihiko continued to writhe on the floor, now eerily silent. With one final shudder, the Lord Wizard Akihiko went still, the last of the smoke escaping from his nostrils.

After a long moment, Kano allowed the fire to extinguish, cautiously approaching the still form of his former mentor. Now that he lay still, Kano could suddenly see the Lord Wizard's sunken cheeks, the bluish pallor to his skin, the dark rings that circled his eyes. The skin on his hands was wrinkled and dry, his lips cracked, unseeing milky-white eyes staring blankly into the middle distance.

The sound of thunderous footsteps startled Kano out of his confusion, whipping around in time to see a host of armored imperial guards racing around the corner. As they came into view, Kano recognised the Lord Wizard at the front of the group, her alarmed gaze meeting his. As he watched, the Lord Wizard Chiyo's gaze fell to the body at his feet, shock rippling across her expression at the sight of Akihiko's corpse.

Well, shit.

"This isn't what it looks like."

The Lord Wizard Chiyo looked back up at Kano, jaw set, her expression shifting into one of horror.

"Take him to the Chamber of the Dragon."

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/kano/smoke-and-mirrors/
Story by Nicola Price. Illustrations by MJ Fetesio.

From the Ashes

The imperial guards ushered him into the room, the Lord Wizard Chiyo close behind. As she stepped in front of him, the members of the Chamber of the Dragon all turned, looking down at the scene before them. Clearing her throat, the Lord Wizard turned her gaze to the Lord Chancellor himself.

"Not five minutes ago, I heard a commotion in the halls of the inner palace. When I found the source of the noise, I found this young wizard standing over Lord Wizard Akihiko's body."

A low murmur rolled through the room as every member of the Chamber began to speak at once, turning to quietly address their neighbours. The Lord Chancellor held up one hand, immediately silencing all those present.

The Lord Chancellor was dressed in the elaborate garb of the Chamber of the Dragon, adorned in clothes of black and gold. His snow-white hair was drawn up into a metal hairpiece, depicting three ryoki leaping in and out of a stream of lava. Framed by prominent cheekbones, his eyes were startlingly bright for his age, a keen gaze landing on the young wizard before him.

"What is your name?"

"Kano. Lord Chancellor-"

"You were found standing over the corpse of your former mentor. Is that correct?"

"Yes-"

"And you were the one who killed him?"

Kano paused, gathering his thoughts.

"He led me into a section of the palace where no one else was present, and then attacked me. I was acting out of self-defense."

"You want us to believe that a Lord Wizard - one who mentored you, I might add - attacked you within the halls of the inner palace?"

"I know how it sounds." Kano stretched his hands out before him, palms up. "But believe me, I don't have any reason to attack him. When I met the Lord Wizard Akihiko earlier, he wasn't acting like himself."

The Lord Chancellor gazed down at him steadily, keen gaze fixed on Kano as he thought. Finally, with a wave of his hand, he motioned for Kano to continue speaking.

"We were discussing my Trial of Embers," he continued, neatly skipping the part where they discussed his cheating, "and we happened to begin discussing aether. I mentioned that the aether in Volcor felt unstable recently, as if something had thrown it out of balance. The Lord Wizard reacted as if I'd attacked him. Then, suddenly, decided we had to speak to the Chamber of the Dragon. He led me down into the inner palace, completely silent, and just as I began to suspect that something was wrong, he attacked me.

As I was attempting to defend myself, I cast an attack back at him, which the Lord Wizard did not deflect or dodge. Almost immediately, smoke began to pour from his nose and ears. His skin turned grey, his eyes were sunken in - the man looked like a corpse. Even after revoking the flames, he was still writhing on the floor and smoking, and then very suddenly, he was dead. Just like that."

Taking a breath, Kano nodded to the Lord Wizard Chiyo and the imperial guards behind her.

"Ask them what he looked like. They'll tell you the exact same thing."

The Lord Chancellor turned his gaze to the Lord Wizard Chiyo, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

"He... is technically correct. When I arrived, I did notice that something felt off about the Lord Wizard's appearance, but that could also be because of Kano's interference. I could tell that he cast some kind of spell before I found him; that could be responsible for the physical condition of the Lord Wizard. However, the Lord Wizard was already in the process of burning by the time I arrived, and there is too much damage to the body to confirm Kano's account."

"Kano," The Lord Chancellor began, voice heavy with warning. "Your account implies that you used only your inherent fire magic. If Chiyo is correct, and you cast an aetheric spell, the Chamber requires that information."

"Yes," Kano admitted, one eyebrow raised, "I did cast a spell - but that had nothing to do with the Lord Wizard's appearance. I interrupted his magic with a spell that temporarily severs a person's connection to arcane energy." The room broke into murmurs once again, only quieting when the Lord Chancellor intervened.

"This spell would have prevented Akihiko from casting magic?"

"Yes - but only aetheric spells. It doesn't affect innate fire magic. Or at least, it didn't when I was testing the spell."

The Lord Chancellor sighed deeply, rubbing a hand over his forehead.

"I open the floor to the Chamber at large."

"This is preposterous." One of the grand strategists, a large man by the name of Daijo, rose from his seat, pointing down at Kano. "We've heard of this young man before. He has a reputation for trickery and lies - we have no reason to believe him."

"I concur with Daijo-"

"Remember when Kano-"

"-it took weeks for the stone to-"

"-he almost ruined-"

"-cannot believe we're even considering-!"

The hall burst into a cacophony of voices as the Chamber of the Dragon began to speak all at once, speaking over one another, voices raised as several members rose from their chairs. The Lord Chancellor looked increasingly unhappy as the counselors argued, bringing up long-forgotten insults, slights, and past trickery.

Kano watched on silently, brow furrowed. With Akihiko's corpse marred by burns, it was going to be difficult to convince them that something else had happened to the Lord Wizard, something that he himself barely understood. Kano thought back on the second before Akihiko attacked him, remembering the pallor to his skin, his sunken eyes and bared teeth. The man had seemed almost as if he was, on some level, already dead.

He still wasn't sure how it had happened. The Lord Wizard Akihiko had seemed perfectly healthy when Kano first met with him that morning, so it had to have either come on very quickly, or something had to have hidden the Lord Wizard's condition. But why?

If it was a spell, like the Lord Wizard Chiyo suspected, then someone could have possibly hidden the effects from view, but Akihiko himself would have still noticed what was happening to his own body. Even so, Kano couldn't help but feel that Chiyo was on the right track, judging by the way that Akihiko reacted to his spell earlier.

Looking around the hall, Kano gazed at the members of the Chamber of the Dragon. While many were busy discussing or arguing the matter of Kano's involvement, he noticed that the Grand Strategist Daijo seemed more emphatic than the rest, veins bulging in his neck as he shouted. For a moment, it reminded him of Lord Wizard Akihiko's sudden aggression earlier.

Kano frowned thoughtfully, thinking back on what the Lord Wizard Chiyo said. While it hadn't been his intention, his spell could have possibly caused the changes to his body - by exposing what was already there. If there had been an arcane cause for Lord Wizard Akihiko's ailment, his spell might have interrupted the flow of aether just enough to reveal Akihiko's condition.

"That's why he reacted to my comment about aether," Kano muttered. "There's a link."

Raising his head, he looked to the Lord Chancellor, who was attempting to bring order back to the Chamber of the Dragon. As it stood, even the Lord Wizard next to him had been drawn into the argument, her focus entirely on the other members of the chamber. Neither were looking at Kano, and as he looked around at the chamber, he got an idea.

Calling aether into his grasp, Kano subtly began to work the same spell as earlier. If what had happened to Lord Wizard Akihiko was happening to anyone else, this could possibly expose it; and at the very least, the wizards among the Chamber would take note of an interruption to the aether around them. Weaving the spell into being, Kano gave breath to the incantation, flicking the arcane energy out with his fingertips.

The spell snapped across the room, striking the wizards among them with a slap. Some, however, reacted more strongly than others, and as the wizards of the room turned toward Kano, indignation on their faces, Kano looked over the members of the chamber in shock.

Almost a third of the Chamber were frozen in place, staring blankly into mid-air. As one, their faces drained of colour, exposing the bruised veins lying beneath their skin. Their lips turned blue, cheeks gaunt, as every pair of unseeing eyes turned to stare at Kano with the gaze of a blizzard; ice-cold, empty and howling.

The Lord Chancellor, for his part, caught on quickly, gazing around the room with horror dawning on his face. One by one, the other members of the Chamber began to realise what was happening, turning to look at their neighbours with expressions of alarm. Next to him, he heard the Lord Wizard Chiyo's sharp inhale.

The tension in the room reached a tipping point, a moment of silence reigning as everyone froze in place. Kano watched as the grand strategist Daijo stared down at him, his dark expression morphing into a snarl, and with an ear-splitting shriek, he leapt forward.

As Daijo attacked, all of the others snapped out of their trance, turning on their former colleagues with screams and howls. The room broke into complete chaos, the wizards among them calling on their innate fire, as the grand strategists and lord generals drew their blades.

Before Daijo even reached Kano, the Lord Wizard Chiyo stepped in, shooting a wave of fire at the grand strategist. The flames poured from her hands, covering Daijo completely and setting him alight. As he began to shriek, smoke pouring from his ears and nose, something flew out from his open mouth. A tiny, ink-black creature collided with the floor, no longer or thicker than Kano's little finger. Shining in the light of the flames, it went still, evaporating into black smoke a second later.

With a flourish, Kano ignited the air around him, allowing the fire to burn brighter and brighter, forming a pillar of white-hot flames. Another counselor of the Chamber came running at Kano, a dagger in his hand. With a wave of his hand, Kano set the man alight, stopping him just shy of attacking.

A quick glance proved that the rest of the room had broken into a full battle, as the remaining members of the Chamber tried to stop their attackers. The Lord Chancellor backed away from the podium, several of the ministers stepping in to form a barrier between the Chancellor and the afflicted. Just as Kano stepped forward, fire at the ready, he was halted by a deep rumble in the air.

A dragon's roar, unmistakable in its power and intensity, sounded through the hall, vibrating through the air with the force of a thunderclap. The very floor beneath their feet shook with its power, as the aether around them stirred at its call. Instantaneously, each of the changed counselors burst into flame. One by one, they collapsed to the floor, smoke pouring from their burning bodies, their combined shrieks climbing higher in pitch until finally, they were unable to be heard at all.

At last, there was silence, the last of the afflicted expiring in a puff of ash.

The gilded panel at the very back of the hall opened, its golden surface opening to reveal the resplendent uniforms of the Emperor's personal guard. Stepping out and to the side, they parted to reveal the Emperor himself, the Empress at his side. His robes were scarlet trimmed with gold, partially hidden beneath grand ceremonial armour, resembling the scales of the great dragon itself. His shoulders were covered by great pauldrons, tipped with an obsidian claw, opening into a cloak made to resemble dragon wings.

His hair was barely visible behind his headdress, a plume of gilded dragonsfire, the point of each flame crowned with enchanted vuurlin feathers. A mask covered his face from view, sculpted from obsidian and gold to form the face of a dragon. Through the gaps in the mask, his eyes were just barely visible, almost appearing to glow.

At his side, the Empress was similarly dressed, her elaborate crimson dress framed in dragon armour. A cloak hung from her great shoulder pauldrons, framing her dress in ink-black silk, gold embroidery shining at the edges of the fabric. Lava crystals were embedded in her grand hairpiece, interspersed with great plumes of enchanted fire.

Their entourage entered just behind them, made smaller by comparison, their heads bowed in deference. One by one, the members of the chamber followed suit, quickly falling to their knees before the figure of their Emperor. From where he kneeled, Kano could see the Lord Chancellor's profile, watching as the man's expression revealed his growing panic.

Even as the Lord Chancellor made to speak, the Emperor waved a hand, instantly silencing him. For a long moment, nobody in the room dared to breathe. The Empress at his side was unreadable behind her half-mask, cool and collected next to the Emperor's rage.

At his signal, imperial guards entered, gathering the scattered remains of the afflicted counselors. The remaining members of the Chamber of the Dragon watched on silently, expressions carefully blank, but tension clear in the set of their shoulders.

Rising from his position on the floor, the Lord Chancellor kept his head bowed, silently following the Emperor and Empress back into the passageway. The entourage blocked them from view as they retreated into the inner palace, the gilded panel sliding shut behind them.

For almost two days, Kano heard nothing further, excluded from the Chamber of the Dragon's discussions. Finally, someone came to collect him, his uniform identifying him as one of the imperial family's personal retinue. With some amount of apprehension, Kano followed him down into the innermost sanctum of the palace.

The guard led him into a hidden room, its doorway masked by the panels decorating the halls. It was almost indistinguishable from its surroundings, unless you knew exactly where to look. The guard remained standing nearby, staring directly ahead, waiting. Kano looked at the room around him, choosing to remain standing.

The seconds stretched into minutes, time crawling slowly by as Kano waited. Based solely on the man who came to collect him, and the location of the room they were in now, he suspected he was meeting a member of the immediate imperial family. The better question was why a member of the imperial family would want to speak to him.

Finally, the panel slid open, revealing two more guards from the imperial family's personal retinue. They parted to reveal the head of the Alshoni faction, Lord Wizard and cousin to the Emperor, accompanied by the Lord Chancellor. As she took a seat, he motioned for Kano to do the same. A long moment passed as she remained silent, her gaze fixed on the younger wizard, something thoughtful lingering in her expression.

"Almost a year ago, the Chamber of the Dragon discovered that one of the lord generals had been - for lack of a better word - possessed. Several of the lord wizards studied his corpse and found that an unknown creature had taken control of his body, and that its presence caused a number of issues, including tissue death. They uncovered several more of these creatures inside the royal court, and removed each of them. The lord wizards have continued to monitor the court since then, and after a time, these creatures stopped appearing." The Lord Wizard Yama paused, motioning to the Lord Chancellor at her side.

"The Lord Chancellor reported that the creatures had been eradicated, and while we hadn't uncovered where the creatures came from, we decided to put our focus onto the matter of aether. The Lord Chancellor mentioned that you expressed concerns about aether stability, so I assume you've also noticed a change in the aether across Volcor?"

"Yes," Kano replied, looking between the Lord Chancellor and the Lord Wizard. "I noticed that the aether across Volcor has been more unstable in the last few years. When I saw that some wizards were struggling to control their fire magic, I suspected that the two might be related." Yama nodded.

"The cause is an aetheric imbalance, which has been disturbing aetheric spells in Volcor for almost a decade. However, more recently, it has also been causing problems with basic fire magic - which should be unaffected by aether. We decided to put our focus into solving the issue, not realising that the creatures we discovered had begun to mutate, and found new ways to go unnoticed. Thanks to your encounter with Lord Wizard Akihiko, we have uncovered more of these impostors, and are training others in a spell to detect their presence.

It is my understanding that you have yet to receive a title. The Emperor himself has decided to create one for you, thanks in part to your role in uncovering the creatures within our court." At her signal, one of the guards produced a staff, carved from pure obsidian to resemble a dragon, a crystal floating just within reach of its open maw.

"The Dracai of Aether, while a gift, does not come without responsibility. The Council of the Dragon wants you to look into the aetheric disturbance. Just as you uncovered the creatures, we would like you to uncover the truth behind what is happening to our wizards, and find a way to reverse the change. You yourself just spoke about your affinity with aether. We believe that this gives you a unique ability to uncover more about the aether imbalance."

Taking the staff from the guard, she stood, hands outstretched, offering the staff to Kano.

"This is the Crucible of Aetherweave, an heirloom which was once gifted to your ancestor by the past Emperor. Accept this, and you accept your role as the Dracai of Aether."

Rising from his seat, Kano stared down at the staff before him, looking over the carved obsidian scales. He could feel the enchanted crystal even at a distance, an eternal flame dancing within. After a long moment, he grinned, reaching out to accept the staff from the Lord Wizard Yama.

In his hands, the staff appeared to awaken, firelight dancing between the obsidian scales. He felt the aether around him in stir in response, arcane energy channeling through the core of the staff. With a laugh, he nodded, straightening.

"Dracai of Aether. I like the sound of that."

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/kano/rise-ashes/
Story by Nicola Price. Illustrations by MJ Fetesio.

Birth of the Arknight

For hundreds of years, the Demonastery lurked beyond the shores of Rathe, surrounded by a wall of thick sea fog. Stormy seas kept ships from ever reaching its shores, surging waves tossing would-be intruders onto the sharp rocks. An eerie silence blanketed the grounds, stifling the distant sounds of the ocean. T'was a place that is neither here nor there, a dark sanctuary free from the bounds of morality.

Two massive wrought-iron gates lead into a courtyard carved from marbled stone. While the stone paving is worn and stained, the inscribed runes were still visible, illuminated by the pale moonlight. Just beyond the courtyard lies the manor itself, looming over the grounds like a vengeful apparition.

The Demonastery itself is a large and imposing series of stone buildings, with great stained glass windows, massive towers and grand spires. Gargoyles hang between the eaves, their grotesque faces twisted into expressions of agony. The main doorway is guarded by two massive statues, their carved wings mirroring one another in a dance of light and dark. Their crossed blades form an arch over the entrance way, locked in eternal battle.

Inside the manor, a figure stalked through the halls, passing a series of stained glass windows. The dark metal armour he wore flashed silver in the moonlight, slivers of amethyst glistening through the gaps in the metal. The air around him seemed heavy, stifling, thick and oppressive with the weight of dark arcane energy. A helm hid his face from view, sealing the appearance of the inhuman being behind a wall of solid metal, violet light shining through the slits in his visor.

As he continued down the hall, his head slowly turned to one side; the practiced, careful movements of a predator stalking his prey. The figure seemed to almost glide across the floor, an unnatural gait revealing his inhuman nature. Despite his heavy armour, he moved almost silently, his head turning as he scanned the hallway from left to right.

Only the dust collecting on the edges of his torn cloak suggested the passage of time, as the Arknight searched the depths of the Demonastery. No stone left unturned, no room left untouched, he scoured the ancient mansion from floor to ceiling. Yet so far, his quarry eluded him, a creature just as nebulous and evasive as himself. In this, they were alike, numbering among the strange and frightening entities that haunted the residents of the Demonastery.

However, unlike the creature he now hunted, Viserai's existence was explained. Lord Sutcliffe was his creator, his master, without whom he would not exist. The Arknight remembered little of the ritual that gave him new life, left only with fragments of memories shattered by blinding pain. This other creature was far older, presumably one of many borne from ill-fated experiments, whose creator had long since passed. The other creature was an accident, while Viserai was designed, a success in every sense of the word.

The tests were proof enough of that. Viserai had passed all of Lord Sutcliffe's tests thus far, procuring useful items and knowledge from around the Demonastery, aiding his research and proving his usefulness to the Lord. Retrieving a sample of this strange creature, an alchemical anomaly incapable of dying, was just one more test for Viserai. In this, as in all things, he obeyed the will of his master.

The sound of a shrill scream echoed down the hall, shattering the unnatural silence. Drawing his sword from its sheath, Viserai stalked toward the source of the sound, imbuing the enchanted blade with arcane energy. Aether filled the cracks in the metal, strengthening the sword beyond the limits of any ordinary blade. An eerie glow illuminated the hall as Viserai approached the source of the sound, the last few notes of the scream echoing into the darkness.

Through the open doorway, an amorphous shadow hung in the inky darkness, looming the body of an alchemist. A beaker lay on the ground next to his outstretched hand, shattered upon the floor, its contents seeping into the cracks in the stone. The shadow came into focus as the creature slowly lifted one of its heads, releasing a metallic, shrieking gurgle. Its body began to shift, reshaping, lurching over the corpse.

Viserai's runic markings flared to life, aether escaping through the vents in his armour as he drew upon the arcane energy within. With a wave of his hand, he summoned a runechant into the air, illuminating the room with a white-violet glow. A sharp crack echoed off the walls as the arcane energy burst forth, a bolt of pure aether striking the creature, its flesh sizzling and crackling on contact with the arcane energy.

Lifting the sword with both hands, Viserai swung, the aetheric blade leaving a trail of light as he slashed at the creature. It slipped out of reach of his sword, hissing wildly as it threw itself at him. Its claws slashed just next to his head as Viserai slammed a gauntleted arm between them, shoving the creature back.

As it collided with the floor, it seemed to almost fold in on itself, body turning to a liquid smoke and melting through the cracks in the floor. With one last wisp of vapour, it disappeared. Viserai held his blade at the ready, summoning another runechant.

The light of the runechant hung in the air, illuminating the space around him. A raised hand kept the arcane energy at bay, waiting for the right moment to strike. For a long moment, all was still, silent save for the faint hiss of the runechant. Then, on the far wall, a shadow suddenly formed, and the creature leapt out at Viserai.

Its claws scraped along his armour, the shriek of claw on metal filling the room as it slashed at Viserai. Striking out with the sharp pommel of his blade, Viserai loosed the runechant, allowing the bolt of aether to strike the creature in its side. Another three runechants sparked to life, snapping through the air, striking the creature again and again.

It shrieked at him as its flesh hissed and crackled, dissolving from the fresh burn in its side, and threw itself at him with an indignant howl. Viserai swung his blade, slashing at the creature, and as it drew back in preparation for another attack, he lopped off one of its heads in a single swing. The decapitated head collided with the floor with a dull thunk, hissing and bubbling as it evaporated into thin air.

Some of its matter dripped onto the stone floor from its open wounds, staining the floor inky black and crimson. Incensed, it lunged at him once again, wrapping its teeth around his gauntleted forearm. With his free hand, Viserai loosed another runechant, watching as the arcane energy struck the creature directly. It howled in agony, writhing, dripping melted flesh onto the stone tiles, and with final screech, it dissolved into the shadows; wounded, but alive.

Nothing ever truly dies around here.

Quickly sheathing his sword, Viserai withdrew a small glass vial, scooping up some of the creature's melted flesh and sealing the vial closed. As he did so, he felt the tug of the master's command, compelling him to return to Lord Sutcliffe. Turning his back on the alchemist's body, he began to make his way back down the hall.

The Demonastery was silent once more, Viserai's quiet footsteps echoing off the walls. While it wasn't unusual to find a resident outside of their rooms, most only stepped outside of their own territory if it was absolutely necessary, each absorbed in their own individual studies and experiments. Some of the residents had someone (or more commonly, something) to fetch materials and ingredients for them, as Viserai did for Sutcliffe.

As he passed the great doors leading to the entrance hall, Viserai paused, hearing a now familiar whisper echo into the air.

Viserai...

The heavy weight of Sutcliffe's command still pulled at him, compelling him to continue down the hallway. And yet... Viserai placed a hand on the door in front of him and pushed it open, entering the main hall.

The sconces were all lit, casting the grand stonework in an ethereal glow. The ceiling soared high above, great chandeliers hanging between the rib-vaults. A grand statue stood at the center of the hall, towering over the polished floors. It depicted a man wearing dark robes embroidered with gold, an elaborately embellished hood hiding his face from view. Tendrils of fabric hung from his headwear, curving around him in half-circles. Dozens of weapons were carved from the stone at his feet, several helms lying directly below him, their faces carved into masks.

Closer.

Viserai turned, coming to a stand before a massive stained glass window at the far end of the hall, staring up at the illuminated glass panels. The vivid blues and soft violets shone with the pale light of the moon, a woman standing at the center with her face turned away from the light. Her dark hair was encircled by a golden halo, her eyes covered by a strand of hair, curling in a non-existent breeze.

The living weapon approaches at last. The voice seemed to anticipate his response, continuing after a beat of silence. The residents of this place call me Whisper. I offer advice to those willing to listen, a warning to those who would choose to remain blind. Which are you, I wonder?

When he made no move to leave, watching the stained glass from behind his helm, he heard a breathy chuckle.

Listen well, Arknight. Beware the man born into power, who abandoned his people to pursue the Arcane Arts. He who, even now, seeks power to rival the Aesir themselves. He who would bend and break the laws of this world as he sees fit. No amount of power shall ever be enough to satisfy his desires.

A mere weapon is nothing to a god; a tool to be used as he sees fit, kept on a short leash. However, the leash may yet be more fragile than it first appears. There was once a human behind the armour, and he may be there still. Humans are conduits for change. From the day they are born, they are ever-changing from one day to the next. Find the chinks in his armour, or someone else may find them first.

Lord Sutcliffe raised the vial up to the light, peering thoughtfully at its contents. The master was an older man, with sharp cheekbones and narrow eyes, his angular face framed by loose, chin-length graying hair. His green eyes crinkled at the corners as he stared at the sample, frowning.

"This is a little less than I would have liked, but it'll suffice." Tucking the vial into his jacket, Lord Sutcliffe turned toward Viserai, mouth curled into a faint scowl. "There is a woman named Corva who keeps her research notes in a tome, which she carries on her at all times. Bring me the tome. She sometimes conducts her rituals outdoors, near the offal pit. Begin there."

Viserai felt the familiar sensation of the command taking root, the compulsion driving him to leave the room. As he turned his back on Sutcliffe, walking toward the door, the master's voice stopped him.

"And Viserai?" The Arknight turned to face Lord Sutcliffe, noting the cold gleam in his eyes. "Do not open the tome."

For just a moment, Viserai could almost have believed that Lord Sutcliffe's pale green eyes were staring straight past the armour, looking into his mind to see the memory of Whisper's warning. However, Viserai was not human, and so did not irrationally believe that Sutcliffe could read his mind. With a quick, brief nod, Viserai turned and exited the room.

A tool to be used as he sees fit, kept on a tight leash.

The echo of Whisper's voice sounded in his mind, though it rang hollow with the tone of a memory. Viserai pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the flow of aether within his body, travelling between the flesh-bound runes.

Weaving his way through the hallways of the Demonastery, Viserai ignored the scuttle of passing vidus, the tiny constructs who acted as custodians of the manor. Several of them were returning from the direction of the entrance hall, still marked with bloodstains. More than likely, they'd just returned from cleaning up his mess from earlier. None of them paid any attention to the Arknight as he passed by, slipping into the entrance hall and out onto the manor's grounds.

The grounds were a pale silver in the light of the crescent moon, only barely visible in the dark of night. Still, Viserai continued onward, the master's command driving him toward the offal pit. While the Lord Sutcliffe's ritual had destroyed his ability to smell, he could imagine the scent in the air as he drew closer; the sharp, rancid odor of decaying flesh. The memory - if that's what it was - was strong enough that Viserai could almost smell it.

The faint glow of candle flames in the distance caught his attention, flickering faintly through the mists. A figure appeared amongst the shadows, almost completely masked by the surrounding fog. As Viserai drew closer, he could see the scene illuminated by the eerie light of a runic circle, carved into the solid earth. About her lay a range of detached heads in various stages of decay, eyes carved from their skills, their gaping, bloody sockets left empty.

Corva's face was distorted by a wide grin, stretching almost ear to ear. Her eyes gleamed with unrestrained glee, blood smeared down her chin. A series of runes were painted on her skin in dark, congealed blood, matching the ones on the ground below her, while an open wound on her arm allowed blood to flow freely down her outstretched arm, dripping onto the freshly carved runes.

Drawing his sword, Viserai stalked closer, arcane energy beginning to collect in the runic channels along his skin. A peal of laughter cut through the night air as Corva suddenly whipped her head to one side, her gaze meeting the indifferent profile of Viserai's helm.

"I've been waiting for this... I listen to the others. They don't like Sutcliffe." Corva spoke quickly, rapid-fire, spitting the words into the open air. "I don't like him either. Just some stupid mortal playing with things he doesn't understand." She laughed darkly as Viserai began to summon a series of runechants, her face contorting into a sneer. "He can't even cast a spell. No affinity! Has to have you to do it for him. It's not right, not right at all."

The runechants burst into a bright flare of violet light, releasing a barrage of arcane energy, bolts striking the earth where Corva was standing mere moments before. She threw herself to one side, cackling wildly.

"Missed!" With a bark of laughter, she threw her arms up in the air. The runes on her body and at her feet flared to life, flashing with a vibrant golden-red light, disturbing the fog around them.

As the mists receded, Viserai's gaze was drawn to the pile of detached heads.They were shuddering, shaking, the hair on each one almost appearing to ripple as they collapsed to the ground. With a hair-raising screech, their faces suddenly contorted, mouths slamming open with a sickening crack as the jaws dislocated, skin splitting at the sides. The gleam of bone shone through as the skulls burst open, brain matter splattering against the earth.

Great, disjointed limbs began to sprout from the remains, twisting and warping, the clawed tips slamming into the ground as they rose. The two empty eye sockets stretched into gaping maws, teeth sliding up to fill the voids. The tongues reshaped into great, barbed tendrils, snapping through the air with the crack of a whip.

Eight newborn creatures came to a standstill, all turning to focus on Viserai. Behind them, Corva laughed and laughed, her teeth flashing in the light. Her creations towered over her, almost twice as tall as Viserai. Without a word, she flung out one hand, releasing a shrill laugh when the creatures leapt to follow her silent command.

As the creatures raced toward him, Viserai summoned a series of runechants, hair raising on the back of his neck as the arcane energy burst into the still night air. The crackle and snap of pure aether echoed through the clearing as the attacks struck, sending several of the creatures slamming to the ground. Almost immediately, they righted themselves, rolling straight back onto their feet.

Viserai raised his sword, twisting and slashing at the foremost creature. It released a high-pitched shriek as it slammed into the force of his blade, melded flesh parting easily beneath the sharp edge of the runic silversteel. One of its limbs fell to the earth, and the creature released a guttural wail as it threw itself at him, its claws slamming into his armour. Viserai flung it to one side, throwing it to the ground, runechants bursting to life above him as he swung at another fiend.

The creatures swarmed around him, a sea of claws and teeth and gaping maws, screeching at the onslaught of arcane energy that tore through the air. Yet even as bolts of aether seared their flesh, they barely faltered, immediately rising and attacking once again. They writhed in and around one another, scuttling across the earth with surprising speed.

Finally, Viserai dispatched one of the beasts, slicing it in half. The head fell to the earth with a dull thud, its body going still almost instantaneously. Without a moment's pause, Viserai immediately summoned another series of runechants, allowing the night air to turn bright violet as aether filled the clearing, swirling around him like mist.

As a bolt of arcane energy struck down one of the creatures, Viserai closed in, channeling aether through the length of his blade. The remnants of the creature's skull burst open from the force of the blow, its body slumping to the earth with a dull thud. Running toward a third, he struck, cleaving its head from the rest of its body with a single swing.

Turning to face the remaining fiends, he noted Corva watching him with a grin, her eyes wide. She was laughing, blood dripping down her arm from a fresh wound. Viserai rose a hand, snapping his arm out as he summoned another barrage of runechants. The air crackled with arcane energy as the clearing was filled with violet light, and he loosed every attack at once.

Loud as a thunderclap, the air itself seemed to snap, flashes of light almost blinding him as he dashed toward the creatures. Viserai swung, decapitating one of the creatures, slicing at another, driving the sword through the open wound.

The circle of runes at Corva's feet burst open as bodies climbed up out of the soil, little more than skeletons with scraps of decomposing flesh. They dragged themselves out of their shallow graves, empty sockets lighting with an unnatural energy as Corva charged them with an unnatural energy.

Dispatching the last of Corva's strange creatures, he advanced on the skeletons, summoning another barrage of runechants. Lifting his blade, he began to cut a path through the endless stream of undead, gaze fixed on the woman standing just beyond. Her face was pale and waxy with blood loss, her wide eyes bright with laughter as she raised more and more of the fiends.

Slowly, he waded through, growing closer and closer. His vision tunneled, focusing on Corva's face, instinct kicking in as he fought his way past her makeshift army. Yet the closer he got, the more she seemed to laugh, a wild look in her eyes as she egged him on, the runic circle growing brighter with every passing second.

As he drew close, Viserai summoned one final runechant, lighting the space with a bright flare of aether. Some of the skeletons he felled began to clutch at his legs, weighing him down as he advanced. With a cry of pure rage, Corva wove a spell in mid-air, sending her own attack at him. It struck his armour, dispersing to the sides as Viserai swung his sword overhead.

The blade sliced through her midsection, silversteel strengthened by the flow of aether, a wet plop sounding in the still night air as her internal organs slid out onto the ground below. With a choking sound, Corva looked up at Viserai and laughed. Even as she clutched at her stomach, several more fiends climbed out of the earth, meeting a swift end at the end of Viserai's blade.

He watched impassively as the woman finally began to give into her wounds, taking the tome from her side and peeling her fingers away from its cover.

"'s just a pet. Nothing without your master," Corva hissed at him, sinking to her knees. The runic circle flared as she called on the arcane, one hand outstretched. The skeletons around her instantly collapsed to the ground in a pile of bones. As the skin of her abdomen slowly began to knit back together, Viserai drove his blade through her chest, twisting the sword. With a quiet gurgle, Corva froze, blood trickling from the corners of her mouth.

Pulling the sword from her ribcage, he let her corpse collapse silently to the ground. As he turned to walk away, he saw one of her creatures out of the corner of his eye and, strangely, hesitated.

...kept on a tight leash...

After a moment, Viserai looked down at the tome in his hands. Its cover was deceptively plain, marked with bloodstains and what looked like the oily grease of bone marrow. Slowly, he opened the front cover and began to flick through the pages. There were notes about several of Corva's rituals, including the one that she'd performed earlier, but it was only once he reached the messier sections of the book that the true subject of her research became clear.

Scribbled across the page, covered in notes and additions, were Corva's notes on the subject of control. Control over the undead was a basic necessity for one of her kind; being able to command those that they brought back. However, Corva had been studying whether the same rituals and spells could be applied to a living person.

No amount of power shall ever be enough to satisfy his desires... a tool to be used, kept on a tight leash...

...a tight leash...

A faint laugh rang through the air.

Viserai turned, looking at his surroundings. Amongst the corpses of Corva's creatures lay a small, inanimate figure. Pale and delicate, it was almost the size of a vidus, dressed in white and gold robe with a ruffled collar. It bore a wide grin, stretching from ear to ear, revealing a set of dagger-sharp teeth.

Its large golden eyes gleamed in the moonlight, pupils narrowed to tiny slits. A pair of small horns sprouted from its harline, almost the same colour as its golden hair. Its skin was smooth as polished wood and white as porcelain, its dainty hands tipped with razor-like claws.

Arknight.

A voice rung inside of his skull, not unlike Whisper's; yet where Whisper's voice had been soft and soothing, this was sweet, honeyed, laced with a dark undertow.

Do you want to spend the rest of your days serving your master?

Images flashed through his mind; chains around bloodied limbs, a man screaming as a crystal was embedded into his chest, runic script carved into skin with a scalpel. His armour lying upon a table, coated in blood. Viserai, wizened, drained, his skin grey, runes covering the entirety of his face. Chains wound around his throat, choking him, his skin turning black beneath the metal.

Viserai, washing up on a beach, the slow turn of a gargoyle's head as it watched Sutcliffe come across him. The master, dragging his body into the laboratory. A younger Lord Sutcliffe, slashing open his palm, allowing the blood to spill into a stone circle. Another man, much older, swearing himself to the Demonastery; a woman carving a runic sigil into her wrist; Corva, watching as a pallas flew down and gripped her severed finger in its claws, flying off into the mists.

Blinking away the dark spots in his vision, Viserai looked down to the tome in his hands.

"What do you want?" His voice grated, raspy from disuse, forcing the words out past his damaged vocal cords.

Everything.

More images, this time of the Scriptorium, tomes lined along its shelves; residents of the Demonastery, seen from a distance, a third party watching them work; the creature Viserai hunted, roaming the hallways.

Viserai tilted his head, considering.

"Why?"

Power...

A man, standing in a clearing, clutching a tome to his chest. The same man, younger, listening to someone speak of order, laws. Golden chains around his wrists, wrapping tighter and tighter.

...insurrection.

Viserai looked down at his sword, shining with the bright glow of aether. After a long moment, he knelt, driving his blade into the ground.

The moment that the blade struck, he suddenly felt a blinding pain within his skull, striking like a clap of thunder. Falling to his knees, Viserai's vision began to darken, and as he stared ahead, slowly fading, he could have sworn he saw the little figure laugh.

It was dark, a pitch black that blocked out even the slightest fragment of light.

Viserai slowly rolled to one side, pushing away the lingering sensation of pain echoing within his head. His muscles felt stiff and sore, his body slow to respond as he began to sit up. Reaching up, he prodded at his face with the tips of his fingers, realising that his helm was missing.

As he tried to stand, the lights around him flared to life, casting the room in shades of blue and white. Without his helm, the light was almost blinding. Viserai shaded his eyes with one hand, squinting as he took in his surroundings.

Slowly, Viserai looked at the room around him, recognising the statues and windows of the entrance hall. The hall was crowded with motionless figures, dark shapes against the blinding lights. Trying to focus past the pain, Viserai stepped closer, gazing at the shapes nearest to him.

The Demonastery was home to all kinds of researchers, scientists and arcane practitioners, none of whom had any attachment to morals or limitations. It was inevitable that some of their experiments would go wrong, and Viserai knew of some of the failed experiments and mutated abominations that stalked the Demonastery's halls.

However, the sheer number of creatures packed into the hall was surprising, even to him. Some were clearly shaped by alchemy, others bearing moving mechanical parts, some large, some small, some translucent and shapeless, others solid and unchanging. They only had two things in common: for one, all of them were in the Demonastery. The second was that every last creature present looked incredibly dangerous.

Viserai noted his helm lying nearby and picked it up, putting it back on. Now that he looked, he realised that there were weapons lying at the edges of the room, and some of the larger, more humanoid creatures were wearing makeshift armour.

Beware the man born into power, who abandoned his people to pursue the Arcane Arts. He who, even now, seeks power to rival the Aesir themselves. He who would bend and break the laws of this world as he sees fit. No amount of power shall ever be enough to satisfy his desires.

The words sounded through his mind, though not with the echo of a memory. Viserai turned, noting the gleam of blue and violet glass. Making his way over to Whisper, he came to a halt just in front of the window, frowning.

"I listened to your warning. Lord Sutcliffe is no longer my master."

You did not listen. Look upon the army of one who thinks himself a god.

Viserai looked over the creatures behind him, all immobilised by some unseen force. In the background, the statue loomed over them all, his outstretched hands casting shadows over the gathered creatures.

A soft laugh echoed through the room, tinged with the unmistakable bite of mockery.

Prepare yourself, Arknight. All will become clear soon enough.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/viserai/?stories=True, Return of the Shadow
_ Story by Nicola Price._
Illustrations by MJ Fetesio and Nikolay Moskvin.

Return of the Shadow

Amidst the darkness, the faint glow of the Arknight shard glimmered, a pale violet against the shadow. The first thing he became aware of was the stone floor, a faint chill seeping through his thick runic armour. The tips of his gauntleted fingers scraped against the stone as he pulled his hand closer to his face.

Slowly, Viserai opened his eyes.

His body was slow to respond as he forced himself into a sitting position, reaching toward the dim, flickering light of the Nebula Blade, lying nearby. Mind warped from years of his master's experimentation, he was accustomed to the disoriented confusion that came with memory loss, and began to carefully sort through his fragmented memories.

Driving his blade into the solid earth... an oath. The entrance hall. An army. The creatures. Whisper... a... bargain?

A dark deal with... something.

Viserai could vaguely recall swearing an oath, but when he reached for the memory, a wall of searing pain greeted him. With a grimace, he curled his fingers, testing his aching limbs one by one.

A sudden, wet squelch drew his gaze down, landing on the creature crushed beneath his heel. Missing its head and limbs, it thrashed aimlessly on the floor, blindly lashing out at the air around it. A deep gash allowed its blood to seep out onto the stone beneath it, pooling out around the thrashing corpse.

At the sight, something within his chest flared to life. His muscles seized, arcane energy coursing through his veins as the blood called to him, stained a deep, inky black by the low light.

The sharp fingertips of his gauntlet tore through its flesh with ease, shredding the sallow skin in seconds. Blood spattered across the surface of his armour, coating the dark metal in a shining layer of bright red blood. All around him, the lights of the entrance hall flared to life, revealing the army still standing around him, a horde of creatures waiting to be let loose.

Feast.

One by one, they fell before him, mutated flesh parting beneath his touch, blood pouring onto the stone floor. The ground vibrated beneath his feet, as if echoing the all-consuming hunger coursing through his veins.

Awaken.

The Arknight shard flared brighter and brighter as he tore through the hall, bones cracking under the force of his blows. In the corners of the room, faces appeared, gazes fixed on the scene before them.

Unleash.

Blood pooled about his feet, collecting in shallow channels carved into the stone floor. As it circulated through the room, a series of sigils began to illuminate, one by one, spellwork activating beneath his feet. Aether began to rise, the air almost seeming to vibrate as arcane energy flooded through the room. Viserai's knees buckled beneath him as the shard reacted to the aether in the air, activating the runework carved into his skin.

Raising his head, Viserai opened his eyes, gaze landing on Whisper. The stained glass window warped before his eyes, metal framework bending and moving as the girl depicted in the window raised her head, taking a step forward. As she approached the edge of the frame, the moon above her head began to expand, crescent waxing into a full moon. Between one moment and the next, the girl disappeared, and the moon flared a bright, brilliant scarlet.

The remaining creatures exploded in a shower of blood, as an ear-splitting shriek burst through the night air. Placing his hands over his ears, Viserai grimaced, his feet carrying him closer and closer to the stained glass.

Sacrifice.

Collapsing to his knees, Viserai watched through slitted eyes as the last few sigils flared with a white light, completing the concentric circles carved into the stone floor. One by one, the windows lining the walls shattered, glass exploding as the shockwave neared the largest of them. The silvered glass rippled like water; reflections distorted by the pale violet shimmer of aether.

Chains shot out from the floor, wrapping tightly around Viserai's wrists, coiling up his arms and locking him into place. The metal of his armour groaned beneath the tight grasp of the chains, runework flaring along the surface of his arcane restraints. Viserai could feel his muscles weaken, artificial heartbeat slowing, his vision going dark as the sigils beneath him sapped at the energy of the Arknight shard.

Faces emerged from the shadows around him, each bearing an eerie, twisted grin. They drew closer, the light revealing the unnatural pallor to their skin, marred by darker patches of rot and decay. The acrid tang of necrosis flooded the room, mingling with the overwhelming metallic scent of fresh blood.

Viserai turned his head slightly toward them, struggling to regain control as the ritual chipped away at his will. Nine graying faces stared back at him, their expressions drawn and tense in the pale light. As he began to struggle, he saw their eyes widen, their hushed voices rising in a panicked crescendo.

The tight burn of the Arknight shard erupted into an all-consuming fire, setting his nerves alight with searing pain. The runework flared violently, violet light staining the room around him, air shimmering with the promise of arcane energy. Blinded by pain, ears ringing from the deafening shrieks which filled the room, he struggled in vain against his silversteel restraints, buckling beneath the flood of aether. Viserai looked up at the stained glass before him and felt the whole world shift.

All at once, his senses were overwhelmed, as if there were a thousand voices shouting at once. He was acutely aware of reality bending and shifting, time itself twisting, tearing at the seams. Just out of reach, Viserai could sense something vast, ageless. A barrage of images flashed before his eyes; glimpses of beings enveloped by the world around them, an unfamiliar landscape stretching far into the distance; the threads of aether which made up the tapestry of their world.

The world tilted beneath him, equilibrium shifting to accommodate the sudden influx of energy. Bowed beneath the strain, Viserai felt the acute burn of his arcane bonds, lances of pain piercing through to his very bones. The Arknight was no stranger to pain. Refocusing, he pushed past it, ignoring the icy bite of aether. With one great heave, Viserai pulled at his connection to the arcane, calling on the power of the Arknight shard, calling on the energy flowing through to him from beyond... and broke free.

As the metal shards fell to the ground, Viserai surged to his feet, flinging out one arm to catch the nearest cultist by the throat. The man never had a chance to react, throat bared to the sharp edges of Viserai's gauntlet. With the aether flowing through his veins, Viserai barely needed to flex his fingers; the cultist was decapitated with startling efficiency, his head rolling to a stop at the Arknight's feet.

Tearing the spine from the cultist's fresh corpse, Viserai tapped into the newfound connection, drawing on the images playing out in his mind's eye. He cracked the sinewy structure like a whip, channeling aether along its length, watching with morbid fascination as dark material sprouted from the remnants of the cultist's spine. Arcane energy flared from between the vertebrae, forming the basis of a new blade; one of Viserai's own making. Fresh blood dripped from its honed edge, an arcane core gleaming through the marred, inky flesh which formed the body of the blade, gleaming a deep amethyst in the unnatural light.

The cultists skittered backward, their wide-eyed gazes fixed firmly on Viserai. Turning toward the silhouette of the window-frame, he raised one hand toward the rippling surface of the glass, and reached for the thread of aether he could sense trickling through.

His raspy, grating voice broke through the shocked silence.

"No more masters."

The glass shattered, exploding, a deafening boom reverberating throughout the hall. Shards of glass flew outward in a great arc, illuminated by the arcane light. The whole room - the very air around them shuddered, rippled, like the surface of a lake disturbed by a great amount of force.

Just beyond the frame, through the opened gateway, Viserai could see the shifting, writhing shadows that lay just out of reach. One form came into view, drawing closer to the surface; its towering form was eerily pail, translucent skin torn open by networks of ink-black veins. It moved like water, drifting gracefully toward the frame on spindly, barbed limbs, tapered to a fine point.

Turning away from the frame, Viserai looked out over the small crowd which had gathered. The cultists stood just out of reach, their faces split by broad, twisted grins. Many of the Demonastery's residents had emerged into the hall, researchers and scientists and wizards all gathering to watch the realisation of their long-awaited plans. As the creature emerged from the portal behind him, Viserai felt the Arknight shard flare with energy.

The doorway is opened. Behold, íArathael.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/return-shadow/
_ Story by Nicola Price._
Illustrations by MJ Fetesio and Nikolay Moskvin.

Sutcliffe's Research Notes

Aether is one of the quintessential building blocks of Rathe. It is aether which fuels our world, giving life to all beings, giving power to all spellwork. Few truly understand the nature of this arcane force, and no one can yet explain its relationship to the physical world.

Some humans possess a unique gift, one which cannot be obtained through other means. Aether affinity is the ability to manipulate aether, and thus affect the world around oneself through the use of spells. Aether is the basis of all arcane arts, and thus, only those with this gift can practice magic. Someone born without an affinity to aether will never be able to practice even the simplest spell. Humans have yet to understand this aether affinity. It would seem that blood is somewhat related, as there exist many bloodlines in whom the affinity runs strong. The scholars of Solana are an excellent example, as are the Dracai of Volcor. However, this is not a given.

There are some families in whom the affinity runs strong, and yet their children can be born without it. Likewise, there are some who are born with aether affinity, despite none of their ancestors ever possessing it.

The question remains: what is aether affinity, and how does one obtain it?

I have tried in vain to practice the arcane arts, despite my strong ancestral links. It would seem that I am the first in my family for generations to be born without the gift - so why?

My experiments in runework have proven unsuccessful. Carving runes into the skin appears to create some kind of aetheric connection, however brief, but does not allow the subject to control aether. Many of my subjects fail to survive the initial runework, expiring before the connection can be formed. Those who do survive long enough for an aetheric connection to be established die rapidly. It would seem that the burst of arcane energy is too much for their bodies to withstand.

However, I have had some success in using crystals to inhibit the initial burst of energy. I wonder if there might be some way to provide a resistance, so that the body can grow accustomed to the flow of aether.

As of yet, I have had no success with the Arknight shard itself. I suspect that a biological connection will need to be formed, rather than embedding it externally, but I have yet to determine how this might be accomplished. If my subjects cannot withstand even the runes, I wonder how I might find one who can survive the installation of the Arknight shard.

Some of my experiments have shown signs that a gradual process may have a higher chance of success. If the body grows overwhelmed by the introduction of aether, it may be possible to make a human body grow accustomed to the arcane force over time, increasing the dose as the body develops resistance. Eventually, I may be able to surgically embed the Arknight shard without the body failing, though I would need a particularly durable subject; preferably one who already had some amount of exposure to the arcane arts.

I have been conducting some experiments with sigils and runework, attempting to create layers which mimic spells. While I cannot practice the arcane arts myself, I do possess the theoretical knowledge required. I have had some success with creating runes in advance, which can then be charged by someone with the necessary affinity - Leona has proven somewhat useful in this respect, though I have had to sacrifice some minor research for her to cooperate. At the least, the information she asked for is not particularly important, and I doubt that she shall become a threat. I doubt that Leona is even aware of

Several pages are missing - torn out?

Perfect. He is already responding well to the initial runework, I suspect that he may possess some form of aetheric resistance already - perhaps a blood relative who has the affinity. This is exactly the subject I have been looking for.

From his armour, I suspect he may originally come from Volcor, though I'm not certain how he survived the seas. Perhaps he was meant for this, a survivor in the truest sense.

I think that I shall name him Viserai - it feels fitting, and every weapon must have a name. I have faith that this subject may survive the Arknight system. Only time shall tell whether Viserai can become the Arknight, or whether he shall become one more failed test. Either way, I am certain to learn much more about the process, as he has survived more of the process than any other subject thus far.

I am eager to see the results.

No Smoke Without Fire

(Jump to Narrated Video)

The blade whistled faintly as it soared past her cheekbone, her head ducked as she sidestepped the raiders attack. With a sharp exhale, she swept past his follow-up attack, sword glancing off her crossed blades with a loud clang. Kassai scowled as she sprung backwards, narrowly avoiding a third slash. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted her fellow Cintari, scattered throughout the ruined village.

Her feet dragged in the ashen sand, eight inches of fine powder clinging to her every move. With a flick of her wrist, Kassai deflected a second raider's attack, his dagger sailing as it flew into the remains of a nearby building. A split-second glance showed the dagger embedded in a half-collapsed wall, a fingers-breadth from the pale face of one terrified ex-villager. Clicking her tongue, Kassai swept one leg out from underneath her first opponent, pressing the advantage before he could regain his footing.

All around her, shouts and the clang of metal on metal filled the air, the unmistakable clamour of battle echoing through the ruined buildings. The villagers they'd accompanied cowered behind broken walls and torched furniture, watching with wide eyes as the Cintari got down to business. Looking around her for the raider's leader, she caught a glimpse of him amidst the chaos, a wide grin splitting his face from ear to ear as he cut down one of her men. With a hissed curse, she whistled sharply between her teeth, attempting to gather the group around her.

Suddenly, a flash of lightning flared above them, lighting the entire southern sky a bright, brilliant shade of violet. It hung in the air for several seconds, illuminating a wall of dust flying toward them. The thunderclap hit them with the force of an earthquake, rumbling through the earth at their feet. Kassai felt her teeth chatter, all sound muting for a heartbeat until her ears released a loud pop.

As the violet light faded from the skies above, an inky darkness crept across the icy blue, flowing directly in front of the sun. The shadow spread rapidly, blocking out the light and casting the world around them into crimson shade.

A sharp cry reached her ears as one of the villagers collapsed to his knees, pressing his forehead against the earth. He curled his hands in the air before him, stretched out toward the faint silhouette of Mt. Volcor.

"The dragon! It awakens!" "Great dragon!" "The dragon has returned!"

All at once, the villagers around her fell to the ground, trembling, wide eyes bright within their pale faces.

"She has returned to us!" "The dragon!"

The raiders froze, a darkness crossing their expressions as they glanced at one another uncertainly, hesitating for one long second. Darting forward, Kassai raised her twin swords above her head, slashing the man before her from shoulder to hip. With a wet gurgle, he collapsed, blood spilling onto the ashen sands.

Blades flashed in the darkness as the Cintari leapt into action, striking down the raiders without hesitation. As his brothers-in-arms fell, one man attempted to make a run for it, throwing himself into the path of Kassai's blade. With a gesture, she summoned the man toward her, encircling the last few raiders.

Once the last raider had dropped to the ground, Kassai marched over to the group's leader, immediately identifiable by his armour. Loosening the straps of his chestplate, she pried it free, turning it over in her hands. Despite his haphazard attempt at erasing the mark, the charred general's signet was still immediately recognisable. With a wide grin, Kassai removed her knife from its pouch, prying the signet free.

"Oi." Taka stood on the edge of her peripheral vision, face impassive as he gazed down at her. "Find what you were looking for?"

Rising to her feet, Kassai tucked the signet into one of her pouches, shaking the sand from her hair.

"Yeah, we're good. You?"

In answer, he raised a bulky sack of goods, nodding to the villagers behind him.

"Don't even care, too busy staring at the sky to worry 'bout us."

Kassai turned her face toward the sun's silhouette, drawing her hood up with one hand as she stared into the distance.

The warm light of the morning sun cast the city streets in gold, illuminating the embroidered banners hanging above. A figure strolled down the ivory pavement, her hair a flaxen gold, silversteel armour gleaming, polished to a brilliant shine. The crimson cloak fluttered in the light breeze, the symbol of Solana embossed onto her chestplate. Exchanging a bright smile with one of the merchants, the lieutenant bowed her head in greeting, gaze sweeping across the crowds.

As she passed beneath one of the stone archways of the plaza, Dorinthea glanced at the crowd around her, listening to the hum of the nearby marketplace. Buildings lined the path ahead of her, the ivory spires of the Solarium stretching above the rooftops.

Like a shadow passing in front of the sun, cold seeped down her spine, a sudden feeling of dread making her skin prickle with gooseflesh. Frozen, Thea wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her sword, standing perfectly still amongst the bustling crowds. From one second to the next, the city abruptly fell quiet, the day's vibrant buzz plunging into the dead silence of night.

A blinding pain hit her with the force of a lighting bolt, driving her to her knees. Thea clutched her skull with both hands, grimacing, vision marred by black spots as she struggled against the pain reverberating inside her head. Distantly, she thought she heard a scream, echoing around her as if she were at the other end of a very long tunnel.

After a seemingly endless stretch of time, the pain finally began to ease. Forcing her eyes open, Thea squinted, trying to take in the scene around her. The crowd had parted before her, allowing her to glimpse a scholar kneeling on the other side of the courtyard, his face white as sun-bleached bone. Exhaling sharply through gritted teeth, Thea turned her gaze to the ground between them, noting the dust trembling atop the paved stone.

Abruptly, the unsettling quiet shattered, voices all around her crying out in alarm. Shade seeped across the courtyard, and when Thea looked up, she realised why. Above them, a darkness blotted out the sun, leaving the world around them blanketed in shadow. Dark stormclouds began to form in the sky, seemingly materialising from thin air.

In the distance, the silhouette of Solana's southwest gate shuddered, and as everyone turned as one to look in its direction, it toppled with an audible groan. Even at a distance, Thea could feel the tremble in the ground as it collapsed inward, exposing shadowed figures standing just beyond the city walls.

A deafening screech filled the courtyard as something streaked through the air, and a nearby building exploded in a cloud of dust, showering the crowds with chunks of rubble and ash. A massive, twisted creature clambered out of the ruins, releasing another hair-raising shriek as it staggered to its feet, turning dozens of dark, lightless eyes onto the people gathered in the city streets.

The window of the tower above shattered, the glass bursting outward in a shower of broken glass. From the emptied frame, a creature slowly emerged into the dim light, its towering form eerily pale, translucent skin torn open by networks of ink-black veins. With an ear-splitting screech, it began to climb through, joining its brethren on the street below.

The ice-cold sensation of dread gave way to a flood of panic, setting her veins alight. Her heart grew heavy within her chest, blood pounding in her ears as Thea drew her blade, forcing herself to her feet. She almost choked on the wave of nausea that swept over her, pausing for a split-second as she struggled to draw breath into her lungs. Looking up, she caught the scholar's eye, watching as he conjured a shimmering veil of light over the crowd.

'Beloved people of Solana.' The voice echoed deep within her chest, a rumble of thunder on the horizon. It took Thea a long moment to recognise the voice for what it was, coming to an abrupt halt. All around her, people froze, awe dawning on their faces in spite of the chaos that surrounded them. 'Do not cower in fear. Look to the Light of Sol. Gather in the plazas, and listen to your chancellors. They shall guide you now, as always.'

Dorinthea stood guard as the crowds began to move, following the decree of the Grand Magister. As if changing in volume, the voice dimmed, this time the quiet brush of a whisper.

'Come to the Solarium, noble knights, and ready your blades... the Shadow has emerged once more.'

Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/no-smoke-without-fire/
Illustrated by Nikolay Moskvin featuring art of Bramasta Aji.

Narrated Video by Peranine

(Jump to the Top)

Destory and Consume

Levia was born into poverty, her impoverished family one of many who worked for the nobility of the Northern Realms. Her father had been a stablehand for Lord Barthimont, but he disappeared suddenly when Levia was very young, leaving his family destitute. Without the means to support herself and her daughter, Levia's mother sold them both into the service of the Barthimont estate, an act borne of desperation.

Levia remembered little of her mother, who was forced to spend long hours serving Lady Barthimont. She would leave their shared bed shortly before first light, and would return long after the candles had extinguished themselves. Once, several years after they'd come to live at the estate, Levia's mother woke her in the early hours of the morning, her face drawn with terror as she begged her daughter not to trust the Barthimonts and to flee their holdings as soon as she had an opportunity to escape.

Several days later her mother vanished, leaving Levia with only that last haunting, cryptic warning. However, she refused to heed her mother's words. Stubborn, strong-willed, and resolved to uncover the truth, she instead decided to investigate and explore the deepest, darkest corners of the castle.

As Levia grew older and more determined, the Barthimont estate descended ever deeper into madness. The servants fought over scraps of food while the nobles dined on elaborate feasts, Lord Barthimont's hunting trips took him further and further from his lands, and all the while, Lady Barthimont only seemed to thrive on the bitter emotions which flooded the manor.

On one of Levia's late-night walks through the mansion, she heard a shrill, piercing scream, distant and muffled; the sound of pure, unadulterated horror. Resolute, she wandered in the direction of the sound, searching for answers-and later, a part of her would wish that she had never found them.

Through the keyhole of a solid oaken door, Levia glimpsed the walls of a room, painted a deep, dark, congealing crimson. The stained rugs were littered with scraps of parchment, and a pale, wizened hand grasped at a woman's immaculately pressed skirts. Lady Barthimont's laughter was clearly audible through the wood as a faint glow crept through the chamber, illuminating the indecipherable symbols carved into the floor at her feet.

Even through the door Levia could feel the swell of energy in the room, humming like the air before a thunderstorm. The sigils at the woman's feet lit up one by one, flooding the room with a crimson light. As the one directly beneath her feet caught flame, the bodies of her servants were illuminated by a violent, crimson light, casting Lady Barthimont's shadow along the length of the floor. With a satisfied sigh, she fell upon the servants and began to devour them in a fervid frenzy, spraying a fine mist of blood across the room, face streaked with blood and viscera.

Fear seized Levia's lungs in an icy grip, squeezing the breath from her chest-but as she stumbled back, she felt the fierce burning of a deep rage course through her veins. While the sight of the servants' mangled, butchered corpses had disgusted Levia, a part of her cried out in hunger. This was perhaps her one and only path to power; her only opportunity to take charge of her own fate, lest she end up like them.

The following months found her back at Lady Barthimont's doors, closely studying the dark rituals that were taking place within. She steeled her stomach against the helpless cries, the glistening of viscera in the low light, the gleeful expression on her mistress's face as she slaughtered Levia's fellow servants. Her focus narrowed to a razor's edge, Levia looked upon the rituals and learned.

Under the cover of darkness, Levia slipped outside the castle walls, clutching a stolen dagger to her chest. With barely a whisper, she spilled her blood onto the sigils which encircled her, painstakingly recreating Lady Barthimont's ritual in order to call upon the power of the beyond. That night, for the first time, Levia tasted the power of the Shadows for herself, as sweet as the first sip of water to a man dying of thirst. It blossomed within her chest, awakening a deep, insatiable hunger for more.

For months Levia sought that feeling, that single taste, in search of a way to quell the hunger within. She hunted small animals in the dead of night, sacrificing their writhing bodies for the sake of her dark rituals, mindless and unyielding in her quest for supremacy. Even as the estate transformed around her, Levia took no notice; she remained oblivious to the disappearance of her fellow servants, to the vanishing of Lord Barthimont himself, and took no notice of the new guests who began arriving at the estate. While she served them, bringing the nobility anything they requested, Levia's focus was solely on her own quest for power.

One evening, just as the candles began to sputter, she found herself summoned to the great hall, where Lady Barthimont was hosting noble guests for the evening. Twelve servants in all, they entered through the main doors to find the room to be empty; empty, save for the banquet which lay before them.

Great, glistening roast meats; piles of baked vegetables; baskets of fresh bread; goblets filled to the brim with dark, red wine; tiny cakes decorated with candied fruit and nuts; salted caramels wrapped in wax paper. Even from a distance, Levia could smell the spices and fresh herbs, the salted beef and rich gravy. As the other servants looked around for the lords and ladies, one of the youngest servants stepped forward. His eyes locked onto the nearest basket of buttery biscuits, he stretched out a hand to take one and quietly began to eat.

When the other servants rushed forward, a booming thunderclap echoed through the room. The doors around them slammed shut, one by one, and a quiet series of clicks confirmed the sound of the keys turning in their locks. When the last door was secured, a curtain above them slid back to reveal the nobility, perched in a viewing gallery just above.

Looking up at them, Levia caught a glimpse of Lady Barthimont's pleased smirk. Her eyes were gleaming in the candlelight like fragments of steel, her canines bared in an expression of anticipatory delight; she was a wolf who had cornered its prey, and now prepared itself for a feast.

A horrific, droning reverberation flooded the room, driving many of the servants to their knees. The walls ran red with blood, dripping scarlet stains onto the floor. The terrified screams of the other servants echoed off the walls as they collapsed, their bodies beginning to dissolve, melting into rancid puddles of flesh and blood. The smell of their burning marrow seared the back of Levia's throat, her very bones vibrating as her skin began to boil and her legs trembled beneath her.

Painfully aware of the fate which awaited them all, she reluctantly succumbed to her need to survive and enacted the final, terrible price of the rituals she'd learned from her mistress. With a bellowing cry, she crawled forward and lunged at the nearest body, tearing its flesh away in strips and cramming the raw meat into her open mouth. Her mind turned grey with smoke, her consciousness detaching from the gore which surrounded her. Through a veil of wine-dark mist, she glimpsed a dark entity, surrounded by an endless sea of crimson and ivory, its gaping maw lined with hundreds of massive fangs.

As the beast drew nearer to her, the dim light revealed the rotting flesh clinging to its mutated body, marred by blood and acid bile. Great tendrils peeling off its back writhed, striking out at the shadows. Its clawed hands reached towards her, tentacles creeping along the stone floor like the roots of the darkness itself, and Levia was quick to dodge its slashing attack, ears ringing with the echoes of the creature's guttural roar.

She threw herself at the beast, feeling her bloodlust spill over into an all-consuming sea of red. Through the haze she could barely see the creature before her, and blindly lashed out at its altered form. She felt its flesh tear beneath her talons, heard its screech rippling through the air, smelled the molten, ink-black blood which spilled forth from its injuries; she could almost taste its acrid bile on the back of her tongue.

The marble floor caved in under the weight of her body, stone tiles cracking as Levia leapt back, landing on her feet. As her bloodlust finally began to fade, she became aware of the blood and viscera coating her skin; she looked down at the weight in her left hand, and met the blank-eyed stare of Lady Barthimont's disembodied head. For the first time in months, the great hall was completely silent, stained red from the carnage which surrounded her.

At last, Levia has been released from her erstwhile mistress's control, and is finally free to decide her own fate. However, the strength she now wields has come at a terrible price. Once someone has sacrificed a living being, the grip of the Shadows is as iron. Levia is compelled to follow the whims of a creature from the beyond, succumbing to her base instinct to destroy and consume. Now that she has been released from the Barthimonts' clutches, Levia refuses to let anybody else control her ever again.

_Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/levia/destroy-and-consume/
Written by Nicola Price.
Edited by Tarryn Thomas.
Illustrated by Nikolay Moskvin.

Emissary of the Void

In a golden city devoted to the pursuit of knowledge, a small group of scholars worked within the grand library, toiling over ancient records and illuminated tomes. However, as the months passed and they continued to read through the notes of their earliest predecessors, the more they began to notice that there were inconsistencies in the tomes of old. When the scholars dared to question these missing details and contradictions, they were cast out. Their own people turned against them, declaring them heretics and driving them from the city. Even when the scholars and their loved ones escaped the city walls, their former brethren continued to hunt them, persecuting them to the farthest corners of the land.

However, in their suffering, they came to discover a greater power. The pain brought them a renewed sense of purpose, opening the doorway to the Shadow, and revealing a place where the Light could not follow them; where they would be safe from persecution and death. They vowed to stand for the truth and speak out against the deceptions of the Light; to stand against the people who would silence them.

Chane was raised within the order of the Disciples of Pain. He was taught the history of humanity, the gravitas of the old ones, and the true nature of Solana. Like his brethren, he sought to harness the suffering of humanity, to welcome the bloodletting, sanctified torture, and self-flagellation which littered his own initiations into the Disciples. As his pain threshold grew higher, Chane felt his connection to the Shadow grow stronger, allowing him to see the true nature of Rathe for the very first time. In that moment of transcendence, he felt the true weight of his duty to humanity.

After his many years of study and sacrifice, Chane's unwavering dedication was finally rewarded. Anointed an apostle of the Disciples of Pain, he had become a gifted caster and researcher, finding much solace and comradery with his fellow Disciples; together, they formed a family unified by their noble quest to free all of humanity.

Delving into all the documents of his order, Chane read through the notes of his predecessors, searching for something which would help them turn the tide. He scoured the records and tomes of the Scriptorium, a collection centuries in the making, reading the works of not only the Disciples, but all the former residents of the Demonastery.

Time was a cruel mistress, and Chane could only watch as his reflection became ever more ashen, his failures exposed in every wrinkle. With each passing year, his quest only seemed more and more futile. His order had been searching for an answer for many years, and still lacked the answers they sought - what could Chane possibly hope to find?

A seed of doubt began to bloom, deep within his chest-that is, until a whisper reached him through the halls of the Demonastery.

A scheme came to fruition, and word passed quickly between residents and researchers, spreading through the Disciples of Pain like a fire. All of the Demonastery rose to the unspoken challenge, prepared to take on Solana after their centuries of hibernation. When the final pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place, and a dark figure shattered the veil between the worlds, the gateway to íArathael, the eternal realm of the ancients, finally lay open.

Now, at long last, they finally had the opportunity they had been waiting for. After his many years of study and solitude, Chane was prepared, and a daring new plan sprung to mind. The old ones were rumoured to be unassailable, untouchable by the hands of man. Unassailable, that is, unless the Disciples harnessed the might of the ancients for themselves, and used their own power against them.

As the Disciples ventured into the unknown world, Chane took careful note of the reports which came back, piecing together information on the ever-changing realm. The Disciples had been studying for many years, learning about the old ones, and as Chane studied their records he quickly identified one possible source of power for his order. Armed with the reports of his fellow Disciples, and with a team at his side, he grimly volunteered to venture into íArathael and locate the Embra, ancient creatures whose raw power would lead them to the victory they so desired.

When they had passed through the gateway, an unfamiliar, ethereal realm lay before them-a vivid landscape seemingly torn asunder. Rolling, verdant plains met bloodstained wastelands; iridescent wisps transformed themselves into ashen wraiths; vibrant refrains clashed with dissonant screams. The land altered itself around them with every breath; landmarks flickered in and out of existence like a mirage, as if reality itself were rippling like the surface of a lake.

Their progress through the otherworld gradually decreased as time itself slowed to a jagged crawl. A darkened sky stretched out above the wandering party, casting the colourless landscape in shades of black and grey. As they journeyed farther into íArathael, an iron cold seeped through the surrounding countryside, and the endless darkness began to weigh heavily upon their very souls. All sound around them dulled, blanketed by the oppressive silence, until finally they could not hear even the sound of their own breath.

However, rather than instilling dread, the transformation only cemented the core of Chane's conviction; he read the Void in the blanket of shadow, in the deafening quiet, in the empty pits that yawned in their chests.

They had arrived.

Then the darkness snuffed out the last remnants of the light, leaving them completely blind, deaf, and unable to distinguish friend from foe.

And yet, as Chane stood still, breathlessly waiting, a figure slowly appeared on the horizon.

It radiated a faint, rippling light, like the bright afterimage which accompanies a wildfire; the wisp of smoke which rises from an extinguished flame. The dim, white-violet glimmer was just barely enough for Chane to make out the form at its centre, a plume of ashen mist and wrought gold, framed by dark wings.

As the presence drew closer, Chane came face to face with the power he had sought for so long.

Ursur promised that power. Through him, Chane would have the power to bring his enemies to their knees, to bring the Disciples of Pain success, and to ensure that they would never again be at the mercy of Solana.

It asked for only one thing in return... Chane.

He would be bound to Ursur, a conduit for its power, and an emissary of the Void. Chane would help to grow the Shadows, and spread the darkness across Rathe. So long as he kept his side of the bargain, Ursur would provide the means for Chane to bring down the Light.

With this brand new power flowing through his veins, Chane cannot rest, cannot let down his guard for a single moment, even after returning to the Demonastery. An ominous presence now lurks within his shadow, whispering in his ear, tempting him with promises of arcane strength and the allure of forbidden knowledge.

Control is a relative concept to an entity such as Ursur, and Chane must tread carefully if he wishes to fulfil his duty to mankind. Even as he races to make the creature's power his own, feeding and placating it with the souls of the Light, Chane walks a razor-thin line on the very edge of the Void.

One wrong move, and Chane's own soul may be lost forever.

Sworn to Protect

Far beyond the borders of Solana lie the Northern Realms, a large expanse of land divided amongst ancient families, who rule under the watchful, detached gaze of the City of Light. Boltyn was born to nobility, raised with the knowledge that he would inherit his father's lands. Despite his exalted status, the young Boltyn was more interested in his grandmother's tales of Solana, with their noble knights, shining streets, and great library of knowledge.

The small, earnest boy in time became a steadfast young man, disillusioned with the egotistical, power-hungry nobles who ruled the surrounding lands. While they were ensnared by the Shadow, delighting in their dark, vicious games, Boltyn looked upon their narcissistic obsessions and despaired. On his accession, Boltyn reluctantly took up his father's mantle, but was determined to forge a new path.

It was only a few years after his father's death that a party of honourable knights arrived in Boltyn's lands. They came to offer aid to the common folk, bringing the blessings of the Light, and news of a land where all could live free. The knight's tales of a bright and beautiful city reignited Boltyn's childhood passion for the stories of Solana, so carefully stoked by his grandmother. Inspired, he chose to leave his home behind, relinquishing his status as a lord to embark on a pilgrimage to Solana, where he could begin his life anew.

The city welcomed him as one of their own, a child of the Light returning home at long last, and Boltyn soon began his training in the Hand of Sol. Amongst their ranks he met Eirina, a cleric with dark hair and shining green eyes. Her kindness and grace enchanted him from their very first meeting, and once they had completed their training, they soon found themselves in the same party, sharing conversations between missions in the Golden Fields.

Together, knight and cleric made an almost unstoppable team. They provided protection and healing to all they encountered, fighting alongside their party under the light of the sun, and spending their nights in the Golden Chariot, talking and laughing alongside their friends. Boltyn and Eirina travelled together for many years, and their partnership quickly blossomed into a devoted marriage. In time, they had a beautiful baby boy, whom they named Aios. They eagerly awaited the day of their son's Awakening ceremony, hoping that the Light would guide him into the Hand of Sol.

However, word was quickly spreading of unstoppable plagues, cataclysmic cults, and the darkest of magics in the surrounding lands, featuring abhorrent rituals which spilled the blood of innocents in exchange for raw power. Boltyn was on a mission within the Golden Fields when the enemy struck, unleashing a devastating assault on the city of Solana. As soon as he heard the news, Boltyn raced back home, but he arrived too late to save Eirina. She fell defending their people, torn to shreds by one of the Shadow beasts in its attempt to breach the inner sanctum. His only consolation was that Aios had been spared, kept safely within the Solarium while others fought bravely to defend the city.

Wracked by intense grief and despair, Boltyn wandered the city in a daze. In an attempt to gather himself, he sought his old friend at the Golden Chariot, Minerva, whom he knew would understand the position he now found himself in. She knew all too well the weight of grief, and made a suggestion; as a member of the Gemini, she told him of a small group within the Hand of Sol who operated as she did, working to seek out the Shadow before they could harm the people of Solana. As an Inquisitor, he could help prevent anyone else from meeting the same fate as Eirina.

While he was growing up in the Northern Realms, Boltyn had heard rumours of the dark magics that some practiced; if anyone could figure out where to begin the search, it would be him. And yet, Boltyn hesitated. If he did accept the role of Inquisitor, he would be away from the city for months, perhaps years at a time, diving right into the heart of the Shadows, the most dangerous place for anyone to be.

Aios had lost his mother; could Boltyn bring himself to deprive him of his father, too? Could he take the risk that he might fall in battle, and leave his son without a parent? Could he find the courage to look into the manifold darkness of Rathe, and not lose himself within? Could he hold true to the Light, even whilst seeing the very worst of humanity? Could he indeed set aside his grief, and dedicate himself to seeking out the Shadows, in order to dispel them?

Filled with doubt, Boltyn sought out the words of the Magisters, hoping that they could bring some peace to his heavy heart. Yet upon entering the Library of Illumination, he overheard the words of a young scholar who was retelling the legends of the Heralds, legendary beings who watched over the people of Solana. Glorious and ethereal, they guided all who walked the path of the Light, guardians of both the living and the dead.

Enchanted by these tales of powerful, extraordinary beings, Botlyn found himself in the grasp of a powerful vision. Bellona, the Wartune Herald, appeared before him, wings aflame, wielding a mighty sword of burnished gold.

The Herald then turned her gaze to the land stretching beneath her, and they watched as it turned to ash and dust, all living beings shrivelling beneath the weight of the Shadow. As the darkness spread across the land, she lifted her sword above her, summoning the Light of the sun. The sun revealed the small figure which stood within the shelter of Bellona's wings, and illuminated Aios' shining smile. For just a moment, he could have sworn he heard the whisper of Eirina's voice echoing in his ears, and caught a glimpse of her healing hands outstretched, ready to help those in need.

In an instant, Boltyn remembered what he had been fighting for, and the dark fate which awaited all of Rathe should the Light fall. Bellona's blessing steeled his heart, and he resolved once again to take the path which lay ahead. No matter the price, no matter what stood in his way, he swore to uphold the Light.

As the war between Light and Shadow rages, soldiers fighting to defend their noble city from the onslaught of terror, Boltyn was entrusted with the role of Inquisitor, and named the leader of a small party tasked with scouring the land of evil. Whilst the knights of Solana were locked in fierce battle, fighting to protect the villages of the Golden Fields, he and his fellow Inquisitors would search for the harbingers of the Shadow; those who sacrificed innocent lives in their quest for power.

Empowered by the very blessing of Bellona, Boltyn has taken up his sword once more. He fights not only for the sake of his son, Aios, but for all those he has sworn to protect, determined to free the land of Shadow and defend his shining city. With Eirina always in his prayers, he has ventured forth on a quest to vanquish Solana's foes, halt the spread of corruption and death, and protect his people from the horrors of war.

Stories of Illumination

Deep within the Library of Illumination's innermost sanctum, a Magister came across a young child. Small and silent, her pale blonde hair glowing in the lamplight, she was at odds with the ancient tomes and hidden secrets which surrounded her; yet in spite of her mysterious appearance within the Signarus, she appeared to be entirely ordinary. Nevertheless, the Magister struggled to make sense of the strange young girl.

The child remembered nothing, whether about herself, her past, or her origins. The only clue to her history was the glowing sphere she carried, an ancient relic which baffled the Magisters of Solana. It contained a single, pristine drop of arclight - one of the rarest and most revered gifts of Sol. Light made corporeal, it represented the very essence of the knowledge and illumination of the Light, condensed into a tangible form. No one could explain how a child might have come to possess such an illustrious and powerful relic. And like the child herself, its origins would remain a mystery.

Prism began her education in the vaunted halls of the Great Library itself. Brought under the Magister's wing, she was taught the history of Solana, and trained in the ways of the Light. When she wasn't studying with her instructors, or learning about her newfound home, she would scour the Library's labyrinthine shelves by herself, diving into an endless sea of books, illuminated scrolls, and ancient tomes. From the 'Night of the Dark Tide' to 'Legends of the Flow', 'Battle of Eventide' to 'The City of Copper', Prism explored them all, reading about the lands which lay beyond the city walls, memorising their passages until she could recite them by heart.

With the Library of Illumination as her home, Prism felt deeply at peace within the city, as she had been welcomed by the people in spite of her mysterious origins. Her childhood was one of happiness and joy, spent amidst the endless halls of the Great Library, the verdant gardens of the Silvarium, and the streets of the city districts, sharing her favourite tales with anyone who cared to listen.

It came to pass that, as Prism was exploring the Library's halls, she came across a series of old tomes, her fingertips disturbing the almost tangible layer of aether that coated their filigree spines. When she picked up the first volume, the light revealed the seal of the second Grand Magister upon its cover, the pristine gold insignia gleaming softly. She opened it eagerly, turning her gaze to the stories which lay within. It was then that Prism uncovered the tales which would change her life forever.

The tales of Aegis, radiant and shining, who shelters the city within her wings. The tales of Suraya, shrouded in mystery, who brings knowledge to the people. Of Themis, righteous and true, who balances the scales of justice and retribution. Bellona, blade of courage, who fights for the good of all. Sekem, devourer of evil, whose righteous fury blazes through the Shadow. Victoria, triumphant and glorious, who snatches victory from the jaws of defeat. Avalon, healer of all ills, whose light rejuvenates the land. Metis, the steadfast steward, who guides her people through times of darkness.

Prism pored over the ancient tomes for hours, engrossed by their illuminated script and small, elaborate illustrations, depicting the Heralds who so nobly cared for the city of Solana. They came to the city as emissaries of Sol, bastions of the Light, who worked to better the lives of all who dwelt within Rathe. Yet, when Prism spoke of the Heralds to others within the Library, no one recognised their names. Inspired by their tales, she endeavored to share the Heralds with all her people, and bring their names into the Light.

As Prism grew in years and in stature, her connection to the Heralds grew ever stronger; most especially Suraya, who personified Prism's own passion for knowledge and learning. Then, one calm summer's day, something extraordinary happened. The ancient relic she carried awakened, illuminating the space around her as it transformed into a masterwork. The Magisters took this as a sign of Sol's grace, and at their urging, Prism decided to utilise her talents and her newly transformed relic, and take up the mantle of an illusionist.

Flourishing under the guidance of her tutors, Prism's gifts for wielding the Light quickly became apparent; her talents and skills growing ever more powerful with each passing day. Her love for stories were woven into her illusions, bringing her beloved tales to life. She recreated both magical beings and creatures from distant lands, creating glowing spectres to delight the children who came to the Library, or enchanting her older visitors with the heroes of legend.

But before Prism could take her illusions into the Golden Fields, a horrific tragedy befell her beloved city. Shadows covered the horizon, a dark fog flooded the city streets, and fiendish creatures materialised beneath a sunless sky. Solana found itself in the midst of war after centuries of peace, and Prism was forced to watch as her people cowered in fear, terrified of the creatures which had erupted through the front gates.

In this time of unimaginable terror, the people of Solana desperately need something to believe in. Prism is more determined than ever before to bring hope to her people, protect them from harm and show all of Rathe the way of the Light. Summoning the likenesses of her beloved Heralds, she shall call down the very heavens, creating illusions which will inspire her people and smite her foes. So long as she stands, Prism will never stop believing in the power of a good story.

Harbinger of the Abyss

(Jump to Narrated Video)

A heavy silence blanketed the great hall, which was saturated with the metallic stench of blood and bile. The once pristine walls were streaked with copper stains, and claret pooled beneath cooling corpses, their expressions twisted with fear and pain. Only one of the room's occupants remained upright, stalking through the carnage.

For the first time she could remember, the Barthimont estate lay completely silent, deprived of even the tangible, unspoken tension which usually hung in the air. Yet, as Levia drew nearer to the main entrance of the great hall, she heard the faint, distant sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway lying just beyond the doors.

A slight, pale man rounded the corner, his gaunt face a study in sharp angles and leaden skies. As his steely-grey eyes met Levia's gaze, his expression turned dour, lips twisting into a grimace.

You." The stranger sighed, tone dripping with distaste. "I had plans for her, but you-this changes our strategy entirely. No matter; far too late to change that now. You are powerful, in your own way... Perhaps we might use you, instead." He extended one hand towards her, something clasped within his palm, foolishly ignoring the rage which rippled across Levia's countenance. When her gaze settled on his outstretched hand, something burned at the corners of her vision, the singe of shadow aether a familiar assault on her senses.

Here was the same power, the same dark influence that she'd come to know so well. Levia could almost hear the Lady's laughter, could almost taste the black blood on the back of her tongue.

"Come with me," the man continued, dark gaze falling to Levia's curled talons. "I can offer you power, make you even stronger. The power you laid claim to today is but a fraction of-"

Snarling, Levia lunged towards the strange visitor, slamming him against the nearest wall. Her clawed fingers cut easily into his flesh, shreds of fabric hanging from his battered skin as Levia drove her hand into his chest, elbow-deep in the man's ribcage. She felt the staccato rhythm beat against her palm, his muscles seizing as blood vessels burst beneath her pointed talons, and then she tore the stranger's heart from his chest.

With a wet, disbelieving gurgle, he collapsed to the ground, face going slack as his blood pooled atop the marble. Levia crushed his heart in her fist, letting the shredded tissue spill onto the floor at her feet. The skin on his chest tore easily beneath her talons, exposing his internal organs to her ravenous gaze. Sinking her hands into the pooling blood, she grabbed his organs by the handful, ramming lungs and kidneys and intestines into her open mouth, grinding the viscera between her teeth until they were a fine paste, watery purge leaking from her carnassials.

As the bloodlust faded, hunger sated for the time being, her gaze fell to the glimmer of burnished metal, silver brushed clean by the touch of hundreds of hands. Her bloodied fingers pried the unfamiliar pendant from his grasp, which remained unyielding even in death.

A small, grotesque gargoyle met her gaze, the claws on its hands forming a rudimentary clasp at the top of the pendant. As she gazed down at the object, she felt the telltale etchings of an inscription on the back, rough against her fingertips. When Levia turned the pendant over, she found an unfamiliar script carved into the silver surface.

Some say that those who die come to this:
That which brings both an end
And a new beginning.
For this simple bribe,
An invitation awaits thee.

Another gargoyle, carved of stone, sat before her. Its expression was one of mischief, its cold, unyielding features curled into something almost resembling a smirk. As the pendant came into contact with its outstretched palm, the wall behind it began to shudder and shake, solid stone crumbling before her eyes, revealing a sliver of darkness amidst the blazing light of the rising sun. In an instant, the pendant simply disappeared, leaving only a tiny plume of white smoke.

Levia inspected the opening with a small frown and, with one last glance at her surroundings, stepped through the revealed archway. The grounds of the Demonastery stretched out before her, the earth concealed beneath a thick layer of fog. In the middle-distance, a great, wrought-iron gate stretched toward the sky, formed from the crossed blades of two large, grand winged statues, locked in eternal combat.

As she passed beneath the shadow of the two warring beings, Levia felt the curl of raw aether in the air; she could almost taste the sweet, cloying energies of ancient spellwork on the back of her tongue. To the left of the gate lay a small guardhouse, abandoned, and some deep, unspoken instinct at the back of her mind shuddered at the sight of the decrepit shack.

Turning her gaze away, Levia refocused her attention on the courtyard proper, watching as the mist crept away from her, revealing intricate runework on the river stones. Some of the runes were small, decorating the flagstones with simpler spells, while some were significantly more powerful, bordering the entire courtyard in layers upon layers of intricate spellwork.

After a long moment, the Demonastery itself came into view. A large, imposing gothic manor, it stretched far to the east and to the west; stained glass windows lined its walls, hanging below stone arches and towering spires. The massive front door was cracked open, and dusky light spilled out onto the flagstones. As Levia drew nearer, something within her shuddered at the perfect silence, absent the usual distant calls and eerie shrieks which were wont to echo across the grounds.

...the usual? How would I know what it's usually like?

In spite of herself, Levia's feet carried her away from the open doorway, instinctually wary of the obvious invitation. The still air brought a chill to her veins, silence weighing upon her shoulders like the calm before a storm. Instead, Levia turned her gaze away from the entrance, and chose instead to follow the outline of the building.

As she stalked through the grounds, Levia found a part of her awakening, rising to the surface, as if attempting to rouse itself from a dream. A darkness seeped into the corners of her vision, the world turning dim, the taste of blood rising on the back of her tongue. Detached, Levia found herself moving a little faster. The now-familiar feeling of hunger crawled up her throat, leaving her with a desperation which blanketed her senses, overwhelming her mind with the craving for flesh.

Seizing back her train of thought, Levia forced herself to focus on the faint, burning pain which radiated from her closed fists, her curled talons slicing into the palms of her hands. As her breath slowed, the bloodlust slowly began to fade, allowing her to see her surroundings once more.

A sea of green and glass stretched out before her, and a name rose to the tip of her tongue, unbidden; a foreign whisper which allowed her to glimpse the verdant, wild greenery which once had filled this room.

The Venarium.

The name rose to the tip of her tongue, unbidden, as if whispered by some long-forgotten echo at the edges of her consciousness. For one split-second, Levia could have sworn she remembered the Venarium in all its former glory.

The once-thriving plants were mottled with blight, an ink-dark sludge seeping down their stems; their leaves were stained a murky grey. In spite of the gloom of her surroundings, the air was heavy with the ironrot stench of black blood and the sickly-sweet stench of decay.

Catching a faint movement out of the corner of her eye, Levia turned her gaze toward the nearest plant. Its leaves had split open to reveal tooth-like growths, stained a deep, congealing crimson. It looked as though it was rotting from the inside out, its torn, green flesh revealing a putrescent liquid, half-digested innards spilling out onto the soil which covered its roots. As she neared it, her gaze drawn to the mutated life form, something deep within her chest reacted to its presence; a deep hunger which needled through her body. It called to her, like to like, a magnetic pull that drew her closer.

The plant bloomed across her face, climbing along her jawline like ivy. The moment it made contact, she could feel its tiny roots trying to burrow beneath the surface of her skin, clinging tightly to the outermost layer of her flesh. Where it touched her it burned, igniting a molten heat which raced along the outline of the plant's razor-like grip, a searing pain trickling down her throat and setting it aflame, as if something were trying to burn her from the inside out.

Levia's vision tinted red, the rest of the world falling away as her focus narrowed to a razor's edge.

The hunger blocked out everything else.

A shrill howl escaped her throat as she lashed out, slashing at the vines with her talons, her eyes flashing with rage as she fought to gain the upper hand. A caustic scent flooded the air as the plant released its toxins, and she felt it burning all the way into the pit of her stomach.

Sinking her claws into its fleshy stem, Levia tore it away from her face, pulling its vines from her throat before they could reach her lungs. With a guttural snarl, she shredded the plant between her talons and ground the remnants beneath her heel, savouring the feeling of the mutated flesh bursting underfoot.

At last the Venarium was silent once more, broken only by Levia's heaving breaths. As she backed away from the rest of the corrupted plants, she turned her attention to the nearest wall of the manor, only then noticing the tantalisingly familiar scent which drifted through a crack in the facade. As if of their own volition, her feet carried her forward, heading towards the source. When she lowered her head, Levia could only just glimpse the interior of a room through the thin gap.

Levia's bones began to crackle and snap as her skin writhed, and after a long moment, she managed to get a handle on her newfound power. Her body collapsed beneath her, ribs and vertebrae popping and shifting, her entire skeleton dismantling itself, bone by painstaking bone. As her skull finally fell to the stone floor, her body was finally liquefied, transforming into a tarry, amorphous pile of blackened viscera. It wobbled only slightly as it began to climb the surface of the wall, squeezing through the crack in the stones.

With a series of sickening cracks, her body slowly reformed inside the mansion, and Levia found herself standing in the midst of a large, sparsely-decorated room. Glimpses of the room's former appearance were visible beneath layers of organic, crimson biological matter. The walls were coated in a slimy, visceral texture not unlike wet muscle, pulsating in the low light. There was something so distinctly unnatural about the sight that an instinctive revulsion brought bile to the back of her throat, her veins burning with the need to fight or flee. Drawing air into her lungs with a sharp hiss, she turned her attention to the hallway just beyond, catching the faintest movements within the depths of the shadows.

The thing staggered forward in an unsteady, lopsided gait, lurching to one side with each faltering step. In the low light of the lanterns, parts of its body looked almost human, with hints of unmarred flesh: a knee here, a finger there, part of an ordinary chest, ribs curving just above its stomach. However, at the edges of its body, changes rippled across its skin, revealing great networks of mottled veins and sharp talons. One good eye stared out of a broken face, a cheekbone sliced in two by a mouthful of needle-like teeth. Its other eye bulged out of a sunken socket, breaking away into dozens of glittering white pustules. The jutting edges of its mandible curved around the base of its skull, a gruesome imitation of a halo, carved from tarnished bone.

As the creature drew closer, Levia looked upon the near-human parts of its face and felt the icy, distant disquiet of familiarity; a name on the tip of her tongue. Another pair of the fiends crept out into the hallway, appearing amidst the gloom. When the first creature drew within range, Levia threw herself upon it with a snarl, claws tearing through its flesh as a ship's prow would slice through the water. In spite of its malevolent appearance, it bled like any other creature, its ichor red as any human's would be. It crumpled to the marble floor with a dull crunch, and in the following heartbeat, the second creature lunged for her throat, only to meet a similar fate. With a dull thud, its body collapsed, leaving the one remaining beast in Levia's path. It stared at her blankly over the corpses for one long moment before it turned on its heel and fled down the hall.

Its hesitant, blundering gait was all too reminiscent of a wounded animal, desperate in its attempts to escape the predator which followed in its wake. Something about its features stirred Levia's bloodlust to a fever pitch, the familiar sensation of searing hunger seeping through her veins. It inevitably stained her sight a deep, dark scarlet, blotting out her peripheral vision in a haze of bloodied mist. Levia remained oblivious to the difference; driven by hunger, her gaze was fixed on the creature, which raced just out of reach.

Just as her fingertips brushed its expanse of waxy flesh, it burst through an open doorway, dodging her outstretched talons. The room opened up before her to reveal a veritable horde of the beasts, all bearing the same bleary, steely flintlock eyes. Levia tried not to stare at their facial features, the distant echoes of familiarity discordant inside her skull, the faint ringing in her ears only growing louder and more shrill when she looked at them for too long.

Some of the fiends could almost have been entirely human, if not for the distinct slimy coating on their skin. Grainy with ocean-salt, it was as if they had risen from the depths of Death's Knell itself. Some looked like creatures from a half-remembered nightmare, only partly formed, their disjointed body parts strung together in the wrong order. The largest among them was a massive amorphous being whose ivory, gelatinous flesh glistened in the low light. A number of tentacle-like appendages sprouted from its pale form, holding aloft a single, disembodied head.

Gleaming white bone lay exposed on one side of the head, the face split by a gash stretching from the top of the browbone to the corner of the mouth, lined with scarlet muscle and ivory sinew. The open wound revealed the edges of his reddened eyeball, his pupil dilated from the pain. And yet, as much as the creature fought to tear his face apart, the flesh continued to reform beneath the touch of its tentacles, as if stuck in an endless cycle of regrowth.

The man's wide, pale green eyes locked onto Levia's from across the room, his teeth bared in an expression raw with both anger and agony. Without warning, an unfamiliar voice echoed within her mind, a tangible feeling which translated itself readily into words.

Free me. If you wish to avoid meeting the same fate as I have, free me, and I shall share what I know.

In that same moment, the beast turned its gaze towards Levia, its face contorting with an expression she recognised as bloodlust.

Free me now.

After a split-second's hesitation, Levia hissed under her breath, surging toward the colossal beast which now reached for her, tearing through its appendages and loosening its grip just long enough to rip the head from its grasp. Tucking it beneath her arm, she turned and lunged for the open doorway, a deep rumble shaking the floorboards beneath her feet as the beast roared. She could feel the vibrations underfoot as it rose, clawing its way down the hall, hot on her heels in pursuit.

Even as the head's disembodied thoughts directed her through the labyrinthine network of hallways, Levia's feet were guided by pure instinct, chasing her far away from the gargantuan creature which threatened to consume them both. Bursting into the entrance hall, her gaze landed on a doorway at the opposite end, a pool of writhing shadows which flickered ominously just beyond the threshold.

Levia distantly heard the protests of the disembodied voice, the head calling on her to turn around, but with the beast surging behind them, she ignored it. Pushing herself to run harder, move faster, she made for the doorway, aware of the ground quaking beneath her feet. She felt the moment the beast blasted through the stone archway, heard the distant crackle of its amorphous mass reshaping, and the burst of air as its tentacles streaked through the air, aimed directly at her disappearing figure. In the split-second before it wrapped her in its grasp, she leapt through the gateway, tumbling through to the other side.

A visceral, crimson landscape stretched as far as her eyes could see. Levia's feet came into contact with layers upon layers of rotting carrion, her gaze greeted by writhing fiends and decomposing corpses.

Blasmophet's domain was a sea of gluttonous waste; consumption incarnate, a hunger for power only sated by devouring the bodies of friend and foe alike. Yet when she turned her attention to the head hanging from her fingers, its teeth were bared in a snarl.

This is the worst place you could have run to. Do you have any idea where you've just taken us?

Levia's gaze fell upon the contours of the crimson hellscape, a path of blood and bone curving into the distance. Something unfamiliar swelled within her chest, sharp and grating, stealing the breath from her lungs. It took her a long moment to recognise the bubble of panic which threatened to overwhelm her, her limbs turning cold and unresponsive as stone.

What is this?

The surrounding landscape seemed distant, her own body foreign territory; Levia had been set adrift from herself, overwhelmed by a great, unmoving wall of fear.

"This is not mine," she hissed, feeling her lips curl with distaste. She had learned to abandon her fear long ago, an emotion now so alien to her that she had almost assumed it to be some kind of malevolent influence. Against her will, she found her eyes drawn to horizon, where unfamiliar beasts gathered around fresh carrion.

Are you listening?

That same fire which had blazed within her just days before, the very same that had driven her to behead Lady Barthimont, now awakened in the pit of her stomach, determination steeling her nerves.

"I bow to none."

The head swung wildly at her hip, his distant voice hissing distaste, as Levia turned towards the horizon, set her sights on the beasts which gathered there, and struck.

The first of Blasmophet's creatures were small, wyrm-like beasts, having barely sprouted legs and teeth. Like crustaceans, they scuttled along the earth, yet they were half the height of a grown man and still posed a threat to the unaware. Levia pulled apart their gelatinous forms with her bare hands, ripping through their bodies, and snapping their spindly limbs.

The second class of Blasmophet's creatures was larger: some bipedal, some on four limbs, others moving along the earth on a series of insect-like legs. Whether they bared teeth or barbed tongues, Levia tore each one apart, cramming their flesh into her mouth and devouring them piece by bloody piece.

The third class of Blasmophet's creatures took was well-mutated, picking up several traits from their prey. Multiple heads, mouths filled with razor-like teeth; great, writhing beasts whose faces were a mass of feelers, ripping their prey apart by their limbs. Levia cut each one down, finding their weaknesses and striking them into the earth, to feed her unending hunger.

The fourth of Blasmophet's creatures was an abomination, with great, bulbous bodies, multitudes of limbs armed with prodigious claws, sprouting extra bodies from their backs or sporting layers of toxic flesh. Their mouths were lined with hundreds of teeth, ready to devour their prey; they were killing machines fuelled by the need to consume. Levia attacked them mercilessly, using her speed and strength to her advantage, bludgeoning them and mutilating their limbs until they could no longer move, and she could bring them to their knees. Some attempted to consume her, but Levia persisted, tearing them apart from the inside out.

The fifth and final class of Blasmophet's creatures were the beasts of old, colossal and unyielding-yet Levia used their size against them, climbing their amorphous forms and ripping out great chunks of flesh, devouring them piece by piece, claiming their power one mouthful at a time. Yet still she hungered, consuming more and more until she finally had the strength she needed to face Blasmophet's Harbinger.

Devoratum lingered at the centre of Blasphema, watching over the empty throne. Almost four times her height, the colossal fiend towered above her, its grey, fleshy body twisted and misshapen. Dozens of eyes sprouted from the top of its body, reddened and glistening in the light, their dilated pupils locked onto Levia. Multitudes of slender, frog-like limbs supported its immense weight, allowing it to scuttle along the earth like a centipede. A gash in the front of its body constituted a kind of mouth, opening to reveal a great, gaping chasm lined with hundreds of razor-sharp fangs, its dozens of tentacle-like tongues covered in a corrosive saliva.

However, even in the face of this horrendous brute, Levia did not falter. After hunting and devouring enough creatures to become a beast in her own right, Levia went toe to toe with the Devoratum, propelled by sheer rage and bloodlust, lunging at the being's immense mass of a body.

Levia tore out one of its eyes with her bare hands, snapped limbs with the weight of her mace, buried her talons into a writhing tongue and ripped it from the beast's mouth; she left great gashes along the side of its body. The massive, six-headed mace she wielded was a grounding centrepoint in the midst of the ravenous bloodlust, gouging great crimson wounds into the beast's flesh.

Piece by piece, blow for blow, Levia clawed out chunks of raw flesh and crammed them down her throat, gaining half a step for each mouthful, siphoning power with every bite. Finally, finally, it began to slow, yielding to Levia's sheer determination, her teeth bared as she ripped another one of the tongues from its mouth. It tried in vain to escape her grasp as she dealt the killing blow, and consumed the Devoratum in its entirety. The mass of gelatinous flesh disappeared past her lips, organs staining her chest as she devoured the beast, claiming its power for her own.

When Levia stepped back through the gateway, she could smell the difference in the air, could feel the quiet give of power as the balance shifted in her favour. Yet, as she stood there, she felt the slow swell of an oncoming storm, felt static flood her limbs, paralysed by some intangible force. Something came to the forefront of her mind, a presence not unlike the distant, detached voice of the disembodied head she still wore at her hip.

Thank you for your assistance... I can take it from here.

In an instant, Levia recognised the voice, felt the sharp sting of anger as she bared her teeth.

You. I killed you. You should be dead.

You should know better than that. People like you and I, we do not die so easily. His reverberating laughter stoked the tight burn of her rage into a firestorm, and distantly, Levia felt their-felt her hand curl into a fist, talons biting into their palm sharply enough to draw blood. Now, surrender to me, and I might just let you remain.

This is my body, and you shall not control it.

You think you can fight me for it? Again, she felt the caustic sting of his sardonic laughter. Try.

Distantly, they both heard the scuttle of half-formed footsteps echoing throughout the room, as the waxy creatures emerged into the entrance hall. This time, Levia could recognise their features, and finally placed why the beasts had seemed so frustratingly familiar.

You... What are they? What are you?

My creations- our creations, I suppose. Though they will not recognise me in this form. Despite not being able to see his expressions, Levia could sense the wry amusement, could almost glimpse his irritating smirk. Give me control, or they will attack.

No. Give me back my body.

That's not how this works.

Levia growled, overwhelmed with raw fury.

The struggle for their/his/her body was indescribable, the sensation of wresting a parasite from deep within her chest, pulling the very air from her lungs with her own two hands. It burned, a caustic compulsion, like trying to breathe under the surface of a lake and only drawing in ever more silty water, drowning in mud and filth. She could almost get a grasp on his presence, could almost wrap her consciousness around his, but every time she came close he would writhe and slip out of her clutches, slinging his own thoughts back and poisoning her mind.

As if through a great layer of fog, Levia heard the low, reverberating hum of the gateway behind them; felt the static energy in the air as something else emerged. Together, they moved their head just enough to glimpse the newcomers out of their peripheral vision, conjoined for one split-second by the need to sense what stood at their back.

A man emerged ahead of the rest of his companions, black hair curling through the air like mist as he pulled through the surface of the veil. Faint runes blazed violet on the pale expanse of his skin, glowing beneath the straps of armor which covered part of his chest. His robe dissipated at the edges like a half-remembered dream, a chain whip slowly coiling, the segments reconnecting to form a sinister blade. His dark, severe gaze flicked to the creatures before them for a split-second before he turned his face to hers, expression unreadable.

"While your face is unfamiliar, I recognise the shadows under your skin. I see that Graves wishes to take control, but that coward lacks the power. Watch and learn."

With a flick of his wrist, his sword separated once more, blades slicing through the air between them with a sharp crack. Like lightning, the very air seemed to spark and cleave itself in two, revealing a nebulous silhouette, framed by raw aether.

The hunger made itself known, striking her with the force of thunder. She felt the exact moment that his control weakened, seized back the reins of her muscles, and with the speed and might of a gunshot, snapped the revealed soul between her teeth. Graves's consciousness was a fine wine on the surface of her tongue, slipping easily down her throat. Levia heard his voice fade with a deep sense of satisfaction, baring her teeth at the stranger in a rough approximation of a grin.

He chuckled darkly, and for an instant, she glimpsed the presence which lingered in his shadow, eclipsed by the arcane aura which surrounded him.

"You're like me." She laughed, the sound harsh, and felt the creatures behind her cower, slinking back into the shadows. "What are you?"

"You can call me Chane. I found my patron beyond the veil, but it seems you found yours through... other means. Tell me..."

"Levia."

"Levia. Tell me, Levia, is your hunger satisfied by these pale imitations?" He gestured to the creatures, lingering at the far end of the entrance hall, which only moments ago had been poised to strike. "Your... Shadow. You both require a meal far more substantial than this, do you not?"

"What did you have in mind?"

He grinned, gesturing to the other residents who now milled behind him, watching their interaction with thinly veiled interest.

"We seek to strike at Solana-the city would practically be a banquet for a power like yours. Even Sutcliffe desires to take a power like theirs." Chane gestured to the head at her hip, hands outstretched. "Join us, Levia, and devour the Light."

_Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/harbinger-abyss/
Written by Nicola Price.
Edited by Tarryn Thomas.
Illustrated by Nikolay Moskvin.

Narrated Video by Peranine

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Step Into The Light

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The trade route wound between the rolling hills, a path of dirt and clay moulded by the passage of the centuries. Dark shadows enfolded the dim landscape, and the beaten path was cast in shades of violet and listless green as the sun sank behind the horizon, relinquishing the stage to a foreboding twilight. Golden armour gleamed faintly in the last few traces of sunlight, quietly announcing the arrival of a small party of knights, marching along the trail to the north.

Boltyn's gaze was locked firmly on the fields ahead, scanning the skyline for signs of any other travellers. Behind him, the rest of his party strode forward, their hands resting on their weapons, eyes flicking from side to side as they scoured the gloomy landscape for potential threats. Months of hunting down cultists in the Northern Realms had left each of them changed by the weight of duty; their shoulders were taut with silent tension, their weapons at the ready, their gazes ever-moving, constantly checking their surroundings for the slightest trace of shadow aether.

A plume of dark smoke rose from the skyline, rancid with the acrid stench of burning flesh. As they drew closer, Boltyn began to taste the sour-sweet coating of its soot on the back of his tongue, an almost tangible layer of fine ash carried by the evening breeze.

"Boltyn-"

"I see it."

Boltyn exchanged a glance with Leander, their expressions a mirrored image of dread and determination. Even at this distance, both of them could feel the faint tremor of the Shadow, while the fading daylight was snuffed out by the dusk which bloomed along the horizon. Its presence seeped into their veins like the bone-deep cold of freshly fallen snow, leaving their fingertips pale beneath the beaten metal of their gauntlets. Just beyond the fields, a crimson glow loomed within the growing darkness: rising flames revealed silhouettes encircling the open fire.

Boltyn gestured toward the horizon with two fingers, listening to the muffled sounds of his party fanning out behind him, their weapons at the ready. As one, they crept closer to the group of cultists who stood in the distance, painfully aware of each and every sound which seemed to echo through the thick silence.

Muffled whimpers greeted them as the party drew within earshot. Boltyn's attentive gaze swept over the figures gathered in the centre of the circle: Amidst the ring of shrouded cultists, a group of bound captives knelt uncomfortably close to the flames. Their faces were drawn with terror, and bloodied marks were scattered across their ashen skin. They swayed slightly on their knees, exhaustion written plainly in every line of their bodies, their eyelids drooping closed even as the cultists chanted to draw upon the dwindling energy of their unwilling sacrifices.

Boltyn swung his sword clear of its sheath, signalling the rest of his squad forward as he charged toward the cultists. Their expressions faltered for only a moment as the band of knights raced into the light of the fire, leaping into the fray. As one, the cultists raised their hands overhead, breaking into a haunting, grating chant which shattered the hushed erstwhile quiet of their ritual.

The party of knights burst through the circle like a tidal wave, weapons brandished high as they fought their way toward the group of captives. Two of the inquisitors broke off, falling to their knees next to the villagers and quickly beginning to cut through their bindings, their fellow knights all that stood between them and the forces of the Shadows.

Boltyn and his fellow inquisitors acted as their shield, deflecting the onslaught of arcane attacks and fighting to keep the cultists at bay. With each passing moment, the cultists' power only seemed to grow, shadow aether flooding the cool air as the circle drew upon the might of the beyond.

Suddenly, with a sharp cry, the inquisitor to Boltyn's right fell to his knees, head bowed as he slowly slumped to the ground. Viator's face was pallid, the colour draining from his skin until he resembled the ashes which coated the earth beneath his feet. He lay still, barely breathing, as if the life had been drained from his very bones.

As the last captive stumbled free of her bindings, Boltyn barked out an order to the rest of the party, watching out of the corner of his eye as another knight quickly propped up Viator, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

"Get them to safety, now! I'll hold them off."

Glancing to one side, he met the determined gaze of Leander, his second-in-command, whose steely eyes were unyielding beneath the weight of Boltyn's stare. After a moment, they shared a nod, manoeuvering themselves so that they stood back-to-back, facing down the cultists together.

A series of arcane blasts fired in quick succession, shattering the split-second ceasefire, almost driving Boltyn to his knees with their raw, tangible power. The air crackled like the sky before a thunderstorm, filled with energy and charged with a devastating potential. He swung his blade in a wide arc, trying to absorb some of the blow with the edge of his sword.

Runes burst to life above their heads with a bright flare of energy, blazing brightly against the darkened sky. With each rune that appeared, Boltyn felt dread pool in the pit of his stomach. At his back, Boltyn heard the quiet hiss of Leander cursing under his breath, and knew that his friend had come to the same conclusion.

"Go," Boltyn barked over his shoulder, swinging at the nearest cultist with his blade, tearing through the man's shoulder. "Get out of here and help the others."

"You can't fight them alone," Leander shot back, and while Boltyn couldn't see his face, he could practically sense his friend's expression-teeth gritted, eyes narrowed to slits.

"We can't fight them off together, either!"

One of the cultists finally fell to the earth, blood pooling from the wound on his side, but the rest kept on fighting. Boltyn watched with bated breath as the man he'd just wounded summoned yet another attack, seemingly oblivious to the gash in his arm.

"Leander, go!"

Before his eyes, the wound appeared to slowly shrink and curl in on itself, blood evaporating into thin air, and moments later, the gash had disappeared together.

Boltyn shuddered at the feeling of shadow aether washing over him, unfamiliar and deeply unsettling. As it dissipated off the edges of his armour, he felt his heart lurch in its direction, his hair standing on end at the hungry, searching sensation, not unlike the gaze of a predator hunting its next meal.

Behind him, Boltyn heard the sharp clatter of metal against the ground, and turned his head to see Leander's twin blades tumbling to the earth. The inquisitor himself slowly slumped to his knees, visibly trembling. Boltyn quickly manoeuvred himself between Leander and the cultists. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Leander's face, stark white, his expression twisted with a mixture of pain and exertion, beads of sweat collecting on his brow as he fought to stay upright. Traces of shadow aether curled off the sides of his armour, a fine mist that was coiling through the air towards the cultists surrounding them both.

While Leander grew weaker, fighting against the pull of unconsciousness, their foes only seemed to grow stronger, their attacks coming faster and faster.

Standing alone, outnumbered, outmatched, and overwhelmed, Boltyn steeled himself, turning aside the dread which pooled in the pit of his stomach. He filled his mind with the memory of Aios, so young, and yet fearless even amidst the devastation of the attack on Solana.

Boltyn's determination coursed through his veins. A blazing heat which felt both fiercely protective and achingly familiar, as gentle and welcoming as a patch of warm sunlight in the dead of winter, it was yet as powerful and untamed as a forest fire. Bellona's light washed over him, and for a moment Boltyn saw nothing but the shape of her wings, flaring in the dark.

The shadows around him dissipated, and the arcane attacks dispersed into fine mist, shattered by the radiant shield which had formed around Boltyn. Rays of light burst forward from his blade, spearing the cultists' arcane attacks before they had a chance to fully form. The cultists, who had turned their attention to Leander, collapsed to the earth, their parasitic connection suddenly bursting with light. It had sent them to their knees, trembling from the force of the intangible blow.

Seized by this unknown power, Boltyn charged at the semi-circle of cultists around him, striking each of them down one by one, his armour gleaming like the first light of dawn. He moved as if guided by some ancient, unknowable force, fighting with a preternatural speed and grace. As the last foe fell to the ground, Boltyn rose to his full height, slowly sheathing his sword.

Leander slowly forced himself into a sitting position, his disbelieving gaze fixed firmly on the rigid, tense line of Boltyn's shoulders.

"I didn't know you could do that," Leander murmured, as if raising his voice a single octave higher would shatter some unspoken rule.

After a long moment, Boltyn turned to gaze down at his friend, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Neither did I," he finally admitted, turning his gaze to his own hands, and analysing them as if he'd never seen them before in his life.

Once the freed villagers had been safely returned to their homes, Boltyn's party received a message from the city, calling them back to Solana. Stepping through the city streets, it was almost impossible to hear the soft whispers of war. Some spoke of the fighting taking place in the golden fields, others spoke of dark omens visible on the horizon, but most referred to the attack on the city, their faith shaken by the sudden, horrifying assault.

While the rest of Boltyn's party dissipated into the crowd, seeking out loved ones or heading back to their houses to rest, Boltyn found himself standing before the main doors of the Library of Illumination. He remembered the young woman he'd met within, recalling the sound of her voice as she recounted the tales of the Heralds; the devotion and joy with which she described each of them in all their glory and splendour. Bellona's image once again flared within his mind's eye, her blazing wings bright against the evening sky.

As much as he wished to return home and greet Aios, his mind refused to be at ease.

At this hour, the Library was almost completely empty; most of its daily patrons having been chased away by the lengthening shadows of dusk. The usual hushed whispers had given way to a heavy blanket of silence, betraying the age of the tomes which lined the library's shelves. As Boltyn moved down the hallway, he made a concerted effort to quiet his footsteps, conscious of the armoured travelling boots he had yet to remove.

As if summoned, Prism suddenly emerged from one of the aisles ahead, turning towards him with a cheerful, unguarded smile.

"Boltyn, wasn't it?" Her voice, while bright and filled with life, was still soft enough to avoid disturbing the still library, complimenting rather than breaking the heavy silence.

Boltyn nodded in response, though she hardly needed the confirmation - he found it difficult to imagine Prism forgetting anything. She seemed like the type of person whose mind resembled a steel snare; once it clamped shut on a new piece of information, it held strong.

"Yes. Actually, I was hoping to run into you."

Prism's expression visibly brightened, curiosity washing over her face.

"Oh? Why? Did you have more questions about the Heralds?"

"Yes." He wasn't entirely sure whether or not that had been an educated guess on her part, as Boltyn's only real conversation with her had been about the Heralds. But perhaps the young scholar had somehow seen the answer within his mind. For some reason, the latter explanation didn't seem so far-fetched. "Something... strange... happened while I was outside Solana."

"You were sent outside the city gates? You have become an Inquisitor, right? Oh, I'd love it if you could tell me about your journeys-what you've seen, the things you've done..."

"Well - I believe I may have seen Bellona."

As he'd expected, Prism's gaze immediately snapped back to meet his, her expression flooded with a series of different emotions in very quick succession, none of which lasted long enough for Boltyn to decipher what he'd seen.

"My party fought a group of cultists in the Northern realms. They'd captured some nearby villagers to sacrifice as part of a ritual, and once we had freed them from their bindings, I told the rest of my party to get them to safety. My second-in-command and I remained to fight off the cultists, and hopefully to give the others time to escape." Boltyn paused for a moment, eyebrows furrowed as he drew the memories to the surface.

"All of the cultists had aether affinity, and could cast runes and spells. Some of them were using the Shadow aether in order to drain energy from my second, Leander, who quickly became too weak to fight and collapsed to the ground. I remember standing between him and the cultists, trying to find a way to prevent them from killing him, or chasing after our party and the villagers they were leading to freedom. And then, just as I thought I was going to die in that circle-"

"You saw Bellona," Prism guessed, a quiet, unshakeable certainty ringing through her soft voice.

"I felt determined, and then very warm-as if I were standing in front of an open fire. It was familiar, but also simultaneously the strangest feeling I've ever experienced. I felt as though I had recognised an old friend, someone whom I had not seen in a very long time, and yet reconnected with almost instantly. And then-suddenly everything seemed so much brighter. My sword turned white-hot in my hands, light burst forth from the blade, and the unnatural shadows began to dissipate. Their arcane attacks just glanced off my armour, and then vanished altogether. The moment that their spells began to fail, I just charged forward and immediately went on the offensive. I've never felt like that before, but at the time, it felt so natural. Like I'd done it before."

"As if you somehow just knew, deep inside your soul, what to do. You called the light, and it answered so quickly and readily that you thought you must have done it before."

"Yes, exactly."

Prism broke into a wide grin, her gaze filled with a glaring focus Boltyn hadn't seen before.

"I believe I know exactly what happened. Tell me, how much do you know about Solana and the Demonastery?" She led him toward the back of the Library, directing him toward a stained glass window that Boltyn had never taken note of before. The stained glass appeared as though it were made of gold and amber, trapping the light of the sun in a prismatic form. Within the swirls and patterns, Boltyn could make out the markings of the Heralds, somehow recognising them despite never having seen them before. His gaze was immediately drawn to Bellona's; a blade of blazing light which filled his soul with warmth.

"Only a little. I'm not sure what you teach young Solanians who aren't chosen for the Light of Sol, but I don't know much of the city's history."

"Then let me start from the beginning." Prism cleared her throat, her face settling into a detached, peaceful expression, and Boltyn was suddenly hit by a sharp bolt of familiarity. For a moment, he saw his grandmother's face, felt the press of her arm around his small shoulders, pulling him close as she cleared her throat, preparing to tell him yet another story.

"Solana has long existed in the land of Rathe. Our forefathers came to this land a long time ago, and were guided by Sol's grace to the earth on which we now stand. Here, they began to build the city of Solana. Our people have always been filled with a kind of curiosity, which drives us to understand the world in which we live. In time, as the village grew into a proper city, our people began to separate into different roles. Some of them became scholars, and as they were the most learned and devoted citizens of Solana, they eventually came to lead our people.

"However, not all intelligent minds are made for leadership, and not all devotion is equal. One of our scholars, the very first to have led our people, abused his power. By day, he practiced his sacred duties to Solana, studied the teachings of Sol, and pursued the path of the Light. However, by night, he would disappear under the pretense of retiring to his bed, when in truth, he went to the room he had created as a hiding place for all of Rathe's secrets. In the darkness he followed the broken path: He studied the ways of Shadow.

"In time, the Apostate's betrayal was revealed to the rest of the city, and the scholars of Solana sought to bring an end to his dangerous, heinous studies. Yet at the moment that they'd learned of his actions, the Apostate fled, hiding himself first from the Light, and then from all of Rathe. Eventually, we came to learn that he had built a new home for himself, one which was devoted to the most nightmarish studies known to humankind.

"The Apostate, a scholar of Solana, was the one who founded the Demonastery. It was the ultimate betrayal, a perversion of everything that Solana has stood for. The Shadow is a path of untold power, but one which always demands a high price. The followers of the broken path are unafraid to sacrifice others in their quest for power, harming the innocent and casting aside all that is good in order to pursue their own selfish desires.

"This is the truth of our fair city. Solana and the Demonastery will be forever linked through our history, and as we were the ones who created the Apostate, it is our duty to bring an end to the Demonastery. Sometimes, this fight creates great strife not only for our city, but for all of Rathe. In these times of struggle and sacrifice, Sol sometimes grants us gifts, so that we might fight back against the malicious intentions of the Demonastery. While that dark and devious place is filled with followers of the broken path, who devote themselves to pursuing the blighted magics of the Shadow, we Solanians are noble and pure of heart, devoting ourselves to the Light. With Sol's guidance, we dedicate ourselves to understanding the world around us. This knowledge, this devotion, sometimes blesses us with gifts that the rest of Rathe shall never know for themselves."

With a wave of her hand, Prism created two shining visions in the air before them. In the pale lantern light, two figures took shape, almost twice Boltyn's height, their countenances immeasurably ancient, filled with a grace and wisdom which no human could possibly hope to understand.

"I have dedicated myself to the study of the Light, and to the quest of showing all of Rathe the blessings of Sol. I believe that my gift for illusions was guided, in part, by Suraya's hand." Prism turned to the figure who stood on their left, her face almost shining as she looked up at the Herald's shimmering form.

"Recently, I awakened to a power that I had never seen or read about before, and was gifted with the talents of the Light. In that moment, I glimpsed Suraya looking down upon me, and saw the shape of her hand as she reached out to me, gesturing for me to move onward. You see, I have a duty entrusted to me, and the Light shall guide me on this path to peace. You, like me, were chosen to be blessed with the most precious of Sol's gifts. Bellona has bestowed the Light talent upon you so that you might use it to drive back the shadow, and fight to protect Rathe from the horrors of the Demonastery." Prism turned back to him with a smile, her expression lined with a peace which could only come from knowledge, and a wisdom beyond her years.

"You mean to tell me that this blessing, this talent, is for me to use in the coming fight?" Boltyn frowned curiously, his eyebrows faintly furrowed. "Does that mean I will be able to continue using it in battle from now on?"

"Yes," Prism confirmed, her pale golden eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. "You will always be able to use this power, Boltyn. Once given, the blessings of Sol cannot be returned."

"Why me? Why would Bellona or Sol choose to bless me with the Light?"

"You said that you faced a group of cultists, is that correct? That every one of them was a follower of Shadow, that they all had aether affinity, and were casting some of the more powerful and darkest spells known to Rathe." Prism smiled, shrugging one shoulder. "I cannot say for certain, but if I had to guess, I would say that that is your answer. You stood against the cultists, even though you knew that you would likely lose your life. You were prepared to sacrifice yourself for Leander, for your party, and for the villagers whom you had been fighting to save. Your selflessness, your leadership, your courage, your compassion, your devotion to the virtues of the Light-this is why you were chosen, Boltyn. This is why your talents awakened."

Boltyn looked from Prism to the image of Bellona, her bronze mask moulded into an expression of fierce determination, blazing with the light of the sun.

"How did you learn to wield it? Did it always come naturally to you?"

"A little. It usually just feels like something that you know you've done before, but you haven't done it in a long time. I began to learn pretty quickly, once I started practicing." At her weighted pause, Boltyn looked over to see Prism staring thoughtfully at Suraya's serene, inscrutable countenance. "The Librarian said that it's not uncommon for the Light talent to start emerging when Solana enters a time of war. I'm not sure if it is Sol, or the heralds, or just simply born of our own determination. Maybe we all hold the potential, and a struggle just makes us remember."

"I think that if anyone could figure out what the Light talent is, and why it emerges, it would be you."

Prism turned her head to smile radiantly at him, her golden eyes gleaming with determination.

In the rosy-fingered light of dawn, the Solarium was still and near-silent, a relative quiet which was broken only by the sound of soft footsteps against the earth. Almost the entire Glory of Sol was gathered within the Amphitheatre, waiting patiently for the guests of honour to arrive. At the centre, the Grand Magister walked toward the podium, raising their hands to address the crowd.

"Today, those of us gathered here prepare for the culmination of our efforts against the Demonastery. Today, we fight to protect all of Rathe from the horrors of the Shadow, and prevent our people from experiencing the darkness and destruction which the armies of the Demonastery have inflicted upon our beloved city. We have seen what the Demonastery is capable of, when left to pursue their dark desires. Will we stand idly by, while they sacrifice innocent lives in their quest for power?"

The crowd began to stir at the sound of the Grand Magister's impassioned voice, carried throughout the Amphitheatre. Boltyn felt the energy in the air shift, as the sun's light peeked over the horizon and cast the morning sky in shades of gold.

"We must stand for the virtues of the Light, and defend the innocent. We must eradicate the Shadows. The Demonsatery must fall. Today, we march to meet the armies of the Demonastery, and drive back the Shadows from the world of Rathe."

The Amphitheatre was flooded with wordless cries of determination, answering the Grand Magister's call to arms. As others drew their weapons, thrusting their blades toward the sky in a salute, Boltyn looked out over the crowd, and met with Prism's knowing gaze.

For one single moment, in the pale light, Boltyn thought he glimpsed Bellona's figure, too; rising above the Solarium, her fiery wings painting the sky in brilliant shades of gold and amber.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/step-into-light/
Written by Nicola Price, edited by Tarryn Thomas.
Illustrated by Sam Yang.

Narrated Video by Peranine

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The Broken Covenant

Ash and smoke filled our lungs, as the stench of death weigh upon our every step.

And the Old ones, drew ever near.

We know not how this began, nor when.

Time, fear, and the stench of death has smothered our senses, numbed our bodies, dulled our minds.

All we knew was that we must not waver, for behind us lie our brethren and our broken dreams.

Our home.

We are the Ollin, defenders of humanity, the last line of defence against these rotten vermin that had infested our world.

They are endless, we are few.

But we are strong where they are weak, and our allies stretch from the skies to the seas; powerful Ancients that rose from the forest and the plains, mighty Titans born from the land beneath our feet.

The Ancients' powers were vast, but raw and untamed, and they brought with them many a terrible calamity.

But with love they held us in the palm of their hands. And in time, formed a Covenant with the likes of Man.

With their power coursing through our veins, we held the line. As the days blended into weeks into the drone of eternity.

Until one day...

... the world in front of my eyes, was painted blue.

Kingdoms rose and fell, as time waltzed along into the Age of Man. Mountains became valleys. Forests turned to deserts to flourishing plains once more, and the stories of the Third Age became but a distant memory.

Yet as the pendulum of time swings, the tendrils of the Old Ones will envelop the land of Rathe once more.

Upon this lonely mountain pass that had remained unchanged for eons; a faint shuffle and a crack was heard, and then the scraping of metal on ice, as a mighty mountain of a man stirred from within his frozen slumber.

His nightmares had kept him company throughout the Ages. He relived the badlands of his youth, scrambling to hide from the Old One's gaze. Sometimes his dreams took him to his formative years, when the vassals of Embras advanced, forcing them to the north as he took up arms for the very first time. Others sent him back to his days of glory as a mighty Shieldbearer, as the Ollin fought alongside the Ancients and held the line.

Yet as he stirred, the flames of war subsided, and the pure scent of the mountain filled his tired old lungs. Their fortress was in shambles, frozen beneath a thick layer of frost. His brethren, they were trapped beneath sheets of ice, still frozen by the power of the Ancients. But as he gazed out into the distance, he saw a breath-taking sight. A bountiful world full of life and beauty; the paradise of his childhood dreams.

But even as a new, unfamiliar energy coursed through his veins, he felt an emptiness in his chest.

A void left by the broken Covenant.

"I need answers," he thought, as he set off into an unfamiliar realm. He would seek out his old allies; perhaps the Seers, or the Rosetta.

For if he was awake, the Old Ones won't be far behind.

Wonders of the Wayfarer

To the North of Korshem, far beyond Lake Frigid and the endless plains of ice and snow. Up the sides of mighty fjords that reach up into the heavens, lies a realm that floated amongst the long white clouds.

This is Enion, the Armory of Ancients, and Training Ground of Champions. A place oft told in old wives' tales, or the singsong of the wandering bard, as the battlefield where Yvor, the mighty Ancient of Thunder and Ice, held back the legions of the Old Ones for ninety long cycles of the moon.

'Tis said that as Yvor fell, his blood imbued these shattered rocks with an incredible energy that set them adrift towards the heavens. His abandoned weapons became mighty vaults of iron and stone. And his pulsing veins, that held his energy and his essence, became the trails of the Aurora that danced through the skies of Enion, enveloping all that lie within in a soft and beautiful glow.

And all manner of wonders and dangers lie hidden here, to this day, within these isles that hover high above the clouds.

Lexi was born in Volthaven, a village that drifted slowly as it navigated the treacherous skies of Enion. Her childhood was spent in wide-eyed wonder, under the soft embrace of the Aurora, as she marveled at the majestic sights that lie beyond her windows.

She loved the trails left by Yvor's mighty lightning, as they raced through the skies around Volthaven, and the silky road of glistening green that was sure to follow in its wake. She rejoiced at the first winter snow when it dusted her rooftop, and danced in the rain at the first sound of the thunder, which signaled the spring's return.

She loved archery and sparring, and was quick on her feet! And from an early age she was captivated by stories of mighty Wayfarers that rode upon the Auroras to distant isles at the other ends of Rathe.

One day, she vowed, she would be just like them!

On the coldest of winters when the sky freezes over, and even Yvor's mighty thunder slowed to a sluggish crawl, the tales of Aria would fill the taverns of Volthaven as the entire village seemed to huddle around its massive hearth. These kind craftsman, seers, wayfarers and shamans were Lexi's mentors, her family, and they taught her of the world beyond their island. They spoke of the kindness of man, and their unspeakable evil. They spoke of the elements and their temperament, and the dangerous beasts hidden amongst the snowy mountaintops.

They spoke of Yvor and its mighty lightning, and its enemies whose names had long been forgotten. The secrets of the Ancients, they said, lie deep in the heart of Enion. And should Lexi follow in the footsteps of the great Wayfarers, the elements will guide her wherever she needed to be.

To be a Wayfarer of Volthaven, one must make peace with the essence of Lightning and Ice that permeated Enion. Now a young woman, Lexi ventured near and far with her mentors; the best, most skilled Wayfarers in all of Aria. She felt the constant coat of frost upon her hood, and arcs of static brushing upon her skin, and an incredible sense of freedom as she embraced the vastness in this land above the clouds.

They would spend long days climbing up tree-tops and racing along cliffs, scaling massive mountains that would reveal yet another beautiful vista. They spent long cold nights tucked away within igloos of ice, gazing through crystalline sheets at the twinkles in the night sky overhead. Together they surveyed the ever-changing isles, marking safe passage for craftsman and foragers, and warding away any dangers. For it was their duty to guard the safe passage of Volthaven as it navigated this shimmering sea, and see to the needs of their people.

And by and by, Lexi's powers grew, until she could channel the power of Lightning and Ice all on her own. At long last, she too could ride upon the trails of the Aurora like the most seasoned of Wayfarers, as all of Volthaven and Enion lay beneath her feet.

With a flash of lightning behind her every springing step, Lexi ventured far from Volthaven. Her youth made her fearless, and her talents gave her strength. With practice and perseverance she became a master of the bow, and a most distinguished tracker, and her charm and stories earned her the love and respect of all but the most gruff of Elders. She was Volthaven's darling, the most daring of adventurers, and soon her fame rang out across the thousand isles of Enion.

'Twas like a dream, this peaceful life, but all dreams must come to an end. One night a mighty tremor shook all of Enion; it was as if Yvor had turned in its eternal sleep, and the entire world around Lexi trembled and shook. The Lightning that streaked through the sky turned violent, as they crashed into the isles with all their might. These isles that stood for eons began to crumble and break, as hanging gardens and clifftop forests froze and shattered under the mighty power of the elements.

When the chaos subsided, Lexi gazed out into the land in shock and awe. While Volthaven remained largely intact, mighty gashes were carved into the isles around them, revealing hints of ancient, colossal structured buried within. The land around them began to hum a dull, low and ominous tone, as if Enion itself is about to awaken from a deep slumber.

The elements around Lexi were agitated now, buzzing with an urgent desperation. They tugged upon her hair and stung her arms, as if urging her onwards towards the north. What is happening? The seers did not know. But it was clear that the answers they needed lay deep within the heart of Enion.

With the Elders' blessing the Wayfarers set off once more into a familiar, yet alien land, with Lexi at their helm. This would be a dangerous journey, as the elements are thrown into disarray and their beloved aurora ebbed and faded. They resolved to follow the call of the elements, as they set off on their greatest adventure yet. This would be the chance to pierce the veil of Enion's hidden secrets, and unbeknownst to them, the start of a tale that may change the future of Rathe.

Amongst the Brambles

The heartlands of Aria are painted with vast swaths of forests. Crystalline trees glimmer under the rainbow glow of the Flow, as beautiful Cesari and all manner of wondrous creatures dance amongst the trees. These woods had borne witness to countless stories and legends throughout the Ages, as the once arid badlands was transformed into the sanctuary that it is today by the remnants of the Ancients' power.

It is within these woods that the enclave of Candlehold lay hidden, surrounded by the thick walls of bramble and thorn that separated it from the rest of Aria. And it is here that the Queen of Candlehold drifted in and out of her timeless slumber, as her dreams took her back to the Third Age, and the horrors that befell her people.

At the height of battle, Davnir, Ancient of Earth and Lightning, was struck down in front of her very eyes. Her people were once powerful scholars that stood alongside the likes of the Ollin and the Seers, but their ranks quickly crumbled without Davnir by their side. As her brothers and sisters fell all around her, in a final act of desperation, she ignited the essence of their fallen protector, and unleashed its full potential in reckless abandon.

The power of Earth and Lightning converged all around her in a violent storm, erupting in an overwhelming torrent as it ravaged the land, and transformed its inhabitants. Her people would be saved, but salvation had come at a hefty price... They had melded with the volatile energy of Davnir, a power borne from her own reckless spell.

They had become one with these enchanting woods.

The days came and went in an endless stream, as time itself began to lose its meaning. An eternity passed before the Queen stirred from her slumber, and an eternity more, before she mustered up the strength to free herself free from her leafy "throne".

She had become one with Candlehold; its charge, its carer, and its prisoner. But with an incredible force of will she tore herself out of its warm embrace, for her people needed her now more than ever.

Slowly, she gathered their drifting spirits, and infused them within the seeds that grew atop her mighty throne. With great patience and perseverance she weaved the essence of Davnir over them, and for many long seasons nurtured them with her mighty magic... until the day came when she would set them free, to begin their life anew.

And on that day the Queen spread her arms, and the quiet breeze scattered the seeds all over this peaceful enclave. They would land upon pristine pastures or amongst fields of flowers, and sprout and grow into mighty trees! And one by one her brothers and sisters returned; they had become Wardens of the grove where they laid down their roots. But they too were trapped here by the power of Davnir, and could do naught but chew over the days within this timeless paradise.

In a dark, lonely corner, a little seed pulsed and throbbed amongst the thick bramble as it struggled to lay down its roots. She had drifted far upon gusts of wind, carried by creatures of the forest, and by some cruel twist of fate or perhaps great fortune, fell upon this most inhospitable of groves at the outer edges of Candlehold.

The thick vines and brambles that grew here had protected Candlehold throughout the Ages, while the Queen lay drifting within her peaceful slumber. In time they covered the earth and the sky with their gnarly, twisting form, and warded off all that would encroach upon these lands.

They were the little seed's greatest foe as they greedily lapped up the energy of Davnir that flowed from the heart of Candlehold, leaving her to wither all on her lonesome. But she was resilient. She was tough. In the face of these giants she stood her ground. And in time, planted her roots deep into the earth.

The days blended into weeks, and years, until an elder noticed her peeking out from within the overgrowth. The Queen, her heart broke for the poor child, and she sent her best shamans to aid it the best they could. They rained healing waters down upon her, and infused her with the essences of Earth and Lightning. With their help, she began to thrive.

Until at long last it was her turn to bloom.

She took the name of Briar, the wild rose that sprung forth from amongst the bramble. And all of Candlehold rejoiced, as the last of their sisters returned to them.

But Briar was unlike her brothers and sisters. She was tough and hardy like the brambles that blotted out the skies of her youth. And though they were kind to her and welcomed her as one of their own, she felt most at ease amongst the thorns and brambles of her grove. Her old nemesis, the vines, had become her greatest mentor and friend, as they sparred and tussled in the thick overgrowth. And from within the brambles' freshest heartwoods she drew forth her blade, that would cement her as a Warden of her grove.

As she took up her blade, an incredible yet foreign power coursed through her. Her grove was indeed unlike any throughout the rest of Candlehold, for these vines and bramble that protected Candlehold drew their power from both the essence of Davnir, and the Flow that permeated the rest of Aria. It was a perfect conduit out of the heartlands; she alone could break the grip of Davnir's mighty essence, and escape into the outside world.

Over the Ages, her brothers and sisters had become content within their slice of paradise. They would spend their days lounging about under the lazy sun, as they became more and more like the woods that surrounded them. But Briar was filled with a desire to move, to spread her roots far and wide. She would be the first of the Rosetta to set foot outside Candlehold since the time of the Ancients, bringing with her the tidings of her people, and the start of a brand new adventure.

A Grand Adventure

Lightning...Ice...Earth...
The elements are entwined in turmoil.
A seething storm rages throughout Enion, threatening to destroy Volthaven and its people.
The very land itself is twisting and turning, as if awakening from a dark slumber, and unearthing ancient mysteries thought to be lost to the ages.
The starry-eyed wayfarer Lexi has been tasked with leading a troupe of adventurers into the heart of Enion, to uncover the origin of this elemental frenzy.
She is joined by the traveling bard Yorick - always searching for new stories, the gruff dwarven blacksmith Thawne - with a keen eye for craftsmanship, and the aspiring magician Māra - who has a flair for the dramatic. For weeks our heroes have braved the elements as they venture deeper into Enion, where secrets await them...

Despite being used to the cold, Lexi couldn't help but feel a chill run up her spine as she gazed over the landscape. Floating mountains that had spent an eternity frozen solid had shaken off their frosty shell, projecting strange mechanical whirring sounds. The wind, normally brisk and flecked with snowflakes, had been whipped up into a frenzy of crackling energy. Seismic vibrations rattled throughout the region in an almost rhythmic pattern, emanating from the centre of the region.

Enion was changing.

Yorick noticed her concern, which was unusual for the adventure-thirsty wayfarer.

"You okay?" he asked.

Lexi sighed. "Something just isn't right. I don't know what it is, but I am afraid for the people of Volthaven."

He nodded. "Hopefully the answer lies at the very centre - Yvor's Peak."

But what will we find there...she wondered to herself.

The party gritted their teeth against hail and thunder as they trudged onward. The earth beneath their feet trembled, as patches of glowing symbols poked out of the soil.

At last the shadow of Yvor's Peak loomed behind a wall of fog.

"Can you feel that?" Māra whispered, shivering. The others halted as the air itself buzzed with static electricity, setting their nerves on end.

"Curious," murmured Lexi, lifting Voltaire, the silvery bow that marked her as a Wayfarer. She drew an arrow from her quiver and aimed high. Voltaire's bowstring hummed with tension.

Lexi released the arrow and it soared into the mist, flashing with lightning and leaving a glowing aurora trail in its wake.

They gasped as the mist broke away and Yvor's Peak was revealed. The entire mountain had been separated down the middle, as if a giant had ripped it in twain.

"So this must have been what was causing the quakes," Lexi exclaimed. "But what could possibly have enough strength to do this?"

Thawne shook his head. "Look at the ridges. They're smooth. This mountain didn't just break apart. It was...built this way."

Cautiously they ventured forth, avoiding whizzing boulders that orbited the mountain, propelled by the uncanny static aura. Coming closer they were able to gain a clearer view of the mountain's interior.

The frosty layer that had once blanketed Yvor's Peak had now been dislodged, littering the ground with icy debris. Towering above it was a colossal stone statue - Lexi recognised it as the mythical Ancient of Thunder and Ice. The stone was pristine, having been encased within the mountain for thousands of years, hidden from the elements.

"I don't understand..." Lexi said. "What is this place...and why has it revealed itself now?" She gazed up at the statue, and couldn't help but feel the weight of responsibility on her usually carefree shoulders.

Thawne let out a whoop of joy, pointing at the base of Yvor's staff.

"That's a lever mechanism if I ever saw one," he yelled, and heaved at it, stout muscles straining. The others joined to help, and eventually the stone pommel grinded back a few feet, followed by a click.

A deep rumbling echoed throughout the mountain as Yvor's statue began to rise. The party ran for shelter and watched in awe as the base of the statue twisted upwards. Finally it came to a halt, revealing a massive door. Symbols were etched into the doors' surface from some dialect lost to the ages. It took all of their combined strength to push the door open, revealing steps leading into darkness.

Māra clicked her fingers, producing a dancing rainbow flame, and lit the way. The walls were adorned with metal gears, valves, and pipes, and every few moments a faint ticking sound could be heard.

Eventually they came to a gigantic round chamber. Lexi felt like an insect as she walked past huge pillars, each sporting enormous metal hooks to store various huge weapons.

"It's some kind of armoury!" Thawne exclaimed, running to and fro like a child in a sweetshop.

Lexi felt herself drawn to the centre, where a huge pedestal lay. Deep grooves ran down the pedestal, across the floor, and up the pillars, sparkling with a weak silvery glow. The pedestal itself contained a carved hole, perfect fit for a gem, coin, key, or some other small item. The hole was empty, and surrounded by the same strange text they had seen on the door.

Yorick called them over to the walls of the chamber, which were sprawling with painted murals. Some of the pictures were intricate and beautiful, such as a blue crystalline maiden weaving ice and snow throughout what looked like Aria. Others were strange and outlandish, such as an enormous squid-like creature lurking within sunken ruins. And even more had a threatening and sinister feel, such as a blood-red dragon perched atop a mountain of skulls, surrounded by hellfire.

Underneath each of the scenes was the same odd text. Lexi ran her palm over the wall.

"Do you recognise it?" she asked Yorick hopefully. He shook his head, and produced a small leather tome from his pack, copying the inscriptions as Māra held the hovering flame above.

When Yorick was done, they took one last long look at the chamber, then headed back out into the fray above.

Arriving back in Volthaven, Lexi watched as villagers frantically scurried to pack their belongings. Nobody had time to stop and chat, although they did send brief smiles her way. She noticed several homes crushed under the weight of an avalanche, or singed by lightning bolts.

They made their way to the home of Isulvf, the oldest and wisest seer in the whole village. He ushered them into his hut out of the cold, and his eyes lit up when they told him what they had seen. Yorick handed him the leather tome.

Isulvf scratched his head as he flicked through the pages, then sighed.

"This writing...It's old. Possibly older than Volthaven itself. I do not know what it says."

"Is there anyone who might know?" asked Lexi with a hint of desperation.

He shook his head. "Not here in Volthaven, that's certain."

"Then what do we do? Everything that's happening right now, it all seems to be connected to this writing."

Isulvf hobbled over to the stovetop, pouring herbal tea for his guests.

"There is a place far from here, where the elements converge, and fate behaves in a strange manner," he said, carrying the tray back to where they sat. "Many old mystics, even before my time, used to make pilgrimages there to seek spiritual guidance."

Lexi accepted the warm mug gratefully.

"Perhaps you should do the same."

Oldhim lumbered forwards like a relentless locomotive, completely ignoring the chaos around him.

This road used to be quiet...He contemplated, as a merchant's caravan swerved to the side to avoid him, spilling a cart of fruit. With each heavy step his bulky frame slowly inched a little further, oblivious to the bustling traffic around him who were trying to head in the other direction.

The more impatient caravan drivers would curse out - but fell silent when they caught sight of Oldhim, meekly veering off the road to move out of his way. Those who tried to push past him were flung off their horses as the beasts reared and bucked.

Of all the looks they gave him - fear, awe, anger - he noticed none.

Deep in thought, Oldhim nearly stepped upon a small crying child. For the first time since leaving his frozen slumber deep within Isenloft, Oldhim halted. The child stopped sniffling, gazing up at the oaken one in total shock. Everyone watched with bated breath, as Oldhim slowly reached within his robes.

A woman burst forth to grab the child, her face pale with terror as the massive guardian bent down, peering at them with icy blue eyes.

He withdrew his gloved fist, and opened it, revealing a tiny hand-knitted cotton toy.

The child reached out with trembling hands, and clutched it close to her chest.

An audible sigh of relief was heard, as the mother scampered away with the now-giggling child.

Oldhim straightened his back, feeling the unkindness of age, and resumed plowing forwards.

"Excuse me?" said an eager voice, to which Oldhim did not grace with a response.

"Hello?" The voice pestered again. Oldhim drowned it out by delving deep into ancient memories - war, bloodshed, the last desperate stand against the -

"Hey!" The voice broke through with such conviction that Oldhim stopped dead in his tracks and blinked in surprise. He glared at the bright-haired woman who had interrupted him, then caught sight of her gleaming bow.

"Wayfarer." He murmured.

She bowed. "You must not be from around here," she said.

Oldhim grunted. "Aria has changed." He said gruffly.

"Changed? Do you remember a time when it was different?" She asked.

Oldhim stayed silent.

She beckoned to one of her companions, a bard, who passed her a leather tome. "Perhaps you recognise this?"

Oldhim scanned the pages. The markings were old. Something about them felt familiar, but he couldn't grasp it. He shook his head, and continued walking.

The wayfarer continued to skip alongside him, and much to his annoyance, the bard began playing an irritating tune on his lute.

"What brings you to the road to Korshem?" Asked the wayfarer.

"Answers." He replied.

"It appears we have similar goals. My name is Lexi, perhaps we can travel together?"

Oldhim paused, then reached out and snatched the bard's lute. He hurled it through the air, where it shattered to splinters against a tree.

"Now you may join me." He growled, and strode onwards.

Lexi shrugged apologetically to Yorick, who grumbled and fell back to join the others. Lexi stayed at the frosty guardian's side, respectfully slowing herself to his pace.

"For the last time, it was an accident!"

Briar boiled with anger as she danced out of the path of swinging fists. The red-faced merchant continued to splutter as he punched wildly.

The two circled each other, as spurts of lager bursting from a nearby keg rained down on them.

Briar felt a small twinge of regret at having caused the wreckage, but it was quickly replaced by fury when the man clipped her shoulder with a right hook.

It wasn't her fault. Nature was wild and so was she. Briar glanced at the ruined keg, which had been busted open by her wayward vines, then back at the sopping wet man attempting to clobber her.

"Keep this up and you'll wish the keg was the only thing broken," She hissed, drawing her Rosetta Thorn from its sheath.

He continued to yell gibberish, and rushed at her. Red clouded Briar's judgment and she stepped back, splaying her palm. Roots burst from the earth, wrapping around the man's ankles, bringing him down like a felled tree.

Briar rotated Rosetta Thorn, preparing to knock him out with its pommel, when an arrow whistled through the air, snaking between them, and thudding into the keg. A wave of cold spread from the arrows' tip, freezing the cracks, and reducing the torrent of lager to a foamy drizzle.

Briar stepped back in surprise.

The source of the arrow, a woman with snowy hair and electric eyes, ran towards them, followed by the oddest bunch of people Briar had ever seen - including an enormous figure with a winter-white beard.

The innkeeper took one glance at the stranger's glistening bow and cooled off immediately. She handed him some coins, and he waddled off.

The woman turned to Briar, who scowled.

"If it's thanks you're expecting wayfarer, then you're out of luck."

The wayfarer shook her head. "It was my pleasure. But I do want to know where such a unique flower like yourself sprang from."

Briar grimaced at the use of the term flower. "I hail from Candlehold. I'm the first of my kind to venture beyond the thorns since we were sealed away by the essence of Davnir."

"Love that for you," Said the wayfarer. "I've heard legends of the Ancients, Yvor, Davnir, Isen...Perhaps you may be able to help us after all."

The wayfarer took a leather tome from one of her friends and showed it to her.

Briar forced her temper into check and gazed at the pages. She did not recognise the markings, but there was something strange about them, like they were calling to her, drawing her in. She snapped the cover shut.

"I have no idea."

The wayfarer's face fell. Briar turned to leave but immediately bumped into the bearded giant, who searched her with his steely gaze for what felt like an eternity.

"Rosetta," he finally mumbled.

Briar turned back to the wayfarer. "I may not be able to help you, but the queen of Candlehold is the wisest person I know."

Sparks of joy returned to the wayfarer's face. "Fantastic! Could you lead us there?"

Briar marched off. "Fine. Keep up."

The party followed Briar into the woods as dusk fell behind the branches of the legendary Korshem.

Yorick couldn't decide who was less fun - stone cold Oldhim, or Candlehold's sleepy queen.

She sat perfectly still upon her wooden throne, face marbled like the tree-bark that surrounded her. In fact, if you didn't look hard enough, you would have missed spotting her completely.

Oldhim stood further back within the shade, as solemn as the grave.

Neither would make an interesting character in his next play, Yorick decided.

"Please, your majesty," begged Lexi. "We need to learn what the markings mean!"

"Hmm?" The queen rasped, without moving even an inch to look at her. "Apologies dear, I must have dozed off again."

"Our people's safety depends on it - all of Aria could depend on it!"

"Like one blade of grass in a meadow..." The queen trailed off, not bothering to finish her sentence.

Lexi exhaled in frustration. Oldhim stepped closer, scanning the queen's restful face.

"My memory is...clouded," he muttered. "But the Rosetta...The Ollin..."

If the queen was surprised by his presence, she showed no signs of it.

"Ollin..." She murmured. "You've been gone a long time."

Oldhim's brow creased as he tried to recall what had been lost to the passage of time.

"The Covenant...what happened?"

A long silence filled the room. When the queen finally spoke, her voice was soft, but with a hint of sadness.

"...I do not have the answers you seek."

The queen idly waved a hand, signalling for them to leave.

Briar hurled a bolt of lightning at her.

Jolted awake, the queen blinked as Briar stomped towards the throne.

"The trees rustle as if nervous. Animals are abandoning their homes. Something is coming, and I fear Candlehold will not be able to remain hidden. There's a reason the wayfarer and I crossed paths, I can feel the Strale calling."

There was a creaking sound as the queen tilted her head to look at Briar directly. Though her face was wizened and hardened, her eyes were kind.

"I will try..." she croaked, gently rubbing her eyes.

Lexi handed her the leather tome, and they waited impatiently as the queen turned each page with a deliberate slowness.

At last the queen glanced up, and closed the tome.

"This dialect is of the Seers."

Oldhim's ears pricked up.

Handing the tome back to Lexi, the queen leaned back in her throne, yawning.

"What do you mean?" Lexi frowned in confusion. "We have seers in Volthaven, but they were not able to decipher it."

The queen chuckled, a sound similar to that of a snoring toad.

"Not those seers...the Seers...of old.

"I don't understand, who were the old Seers?"

"Hidden allies...Bearers of the Indigo Eye...Find them...If they still exist."

"Any idea where we might start looking?" asked Lexi.

The queen closed her eyes, and exhaled deeply, sinking further into the wood.

Back under Korshem's sprawling canopy, the heroes washed their worries away at a nearby tavern.

Yorick tuned his new lute, keeping well away from Oldhim, and began strumming an enchanting melody.

Thawne and Briar were locked in an arm-wrestle, beads of sweat rolling down the dwarf's forehead as he strained to out-muscle her.

Māra performed a magic trick for Oldhim, producing a dove from her sleeve. With an extravagant wave of her hand she transformed it into a dazzling rainbow aether flare.

The oaken one did not crack even the slightest of grins.

Lexi wandered away from the party, her mind racing with questions. Where were the Seers? Why was there an armoury in the heart of Enion? What did it all mean?

Her eyes were drawn to a poster tacked on a nearby wall.

Challenge the Showstopper to a test of might!
Experience crazy brews from Aria's finest Braumeister!
Have your fate foreseen by the whimsical seers!
All this and many more wonders - see it all at Everfest!

She snatched the poster and returned to the group, slapping it on the table.

"Look!" she pointed.

Yorick rolled his eyes. "Yes, because an ancient secret organisation just happens to be conveniently advertising their location on a carnival poster."

"Any better ideas?"

Nobody responded except Briar, who just shrugged and went back to crushing Thawne's arm.

Lexi lifted her mug. "Then drink up, friends! Tomorrow we set foot for Everfest!"

Morlock Hill

(Jump to Narrated Video)

The setting sun casts Morlock Hill in a bloody hue.

Soldiers hide amongst the wizened bushes, waiting with bated breath. Their leader, armor glinting in the fading light, points up at the hill's peak.

Upon that ragged summit, a rift shimmers with foul radiance. Unworldly creatures spill forth from the portal like maggots from a rotting wound.

The leader signals to their soldiers to hold. For several taught seconds, Morlock Hill is eerily quiet. The leader shatters that silence with a barked order that sends the soldiers charging up the hill. Their swords cleave through monster after monster, felling the first wave in moments.

At the fore, armor splattered with gore, the leader catches their breath. It is the briefest respite.

Through the seething mass of monstrosity comes a sight that sets the leader's heart hammering. A cluster of towering fiends thunder forwards, crushing lesser creatures under hoof. Their battle-axes burn with sigils and fire flares in their nostrils.

The closest fiend shrieks with manic glee and swings its ax at the leader. The warrior rolls to the side, escaping the bisecting blow by a hair's breadth. Yet before they find their feet, the beast has wrenched their weapon from the ground and whipped it upwards, catching the leader's helm with the tip of its blade. The helm goes flying, unleashing a cascade of golden locks.

Dorinthea spits blood and braces herself for the next attack. The creature barges forward, but this time Dorinthea slides low, passing beneath the ax's arc. She leaps to her feet, and as the fiend turns to face her, she sweeps her Dawnblade through its thick neck. The horned head thuds into the dirt, souring the earth with its blood.

Her victory is fleeting. Dorinthea spins to meet her next foe, and the blood drains from her face at the sight of three looming demons, larger again than the fiend she has felled.

Hope falters, guttering like a candle in the wind.

Solana, plunged into shadow by the endless hordes brought forth by the Demonastery.

Fardreyas was the first village to be consumed. Then Sunvale, Audra, and Hazeltown. Solana's farmlands and crops burned to ash, animals slaughtered.

So far Ser Boltyn and his vanguard have held the walls of the city itself, but not without dire losses. Unlike the Demonastery's soulless army, Solana's people are not expendable. Every soldier, farmer, scholar, and child killed is a name remembered. A family broken.

Screams pierce Dorinthea's ears as creatures rend and devour her soldiers. She raises Dawnblade. Though her heart pounds with terror, her sword hands are steady. Though death looms over her, she will meet it with mettle.

As the first giant raises its sword, something flashes between them. Weapons crash to the ground, still clutched by dismembered claws.

"I cannot leave you alone for one moment, can I?"

Minerva's scarlet hair flows over her shoulders, brighter than the demon blood she flicks from her twin blades. Her expression is grim and determined, weathered by violent experience.

A smile cracks through the drying blood on Dorinthea's face. "What kept you?"

Together, they rush at the fiends. Minerva goes low, aiming for knees. Dorinthea strikes high, Dawnblade slicing through muscle like a knife through sun-softened butter.

The giants topple to the ground, dead before their hulking carcasses hit the dirt. The pair blaze on through the horde, cutting a path, rallying their surviving soldiers.

Dorinthea leads the onslaught, hope rekindled by the flame-haired warrior at her side. They advance with intent. To clear the battlefield, to capture the rift. To reach the Demonastery and destroy its illicit power, or die in the attempt.

Solana's shrewdest scholars pored over their tomes and devices, its keenest scouts scoured the shadows, until at last they found the source of the Demonastery's abyssal army.

The Vitiate Gateway, the last of nine portals linking Rathe to i'Arathael.

During the Third Age, the Ancients believed they had destroyed the Gateways, forever banishing the realm of dreams. Hidden behind a veil of lies and illusion by an envoy of i'Arathael, the ninth portal remained intact and sealed. There it remained, closed and forgotten for thousands of years, until now.

Able to slip through the fabric of space, the Demonastery carries the Vitiate Gateway with it, using rifts to disgorge their hordes wherever they please.

Yet these rifts flow both ways. And with most of the Demonastery's legion focused on the breakpoint near Solana, other rifts lie neglected, guarded lightly by unwitting demons. What better defense than a courageous offense upon the enemy's own doorstep?

The last horned head thumps into the blood-drenched earth. The hill is theirs, but for how long?

"We need to fall back. More will come, and we cannot afford to lose anyone else."

Dorinthea doesn't reply, instead fixing Minerva with a steely gaze that brooks no argument.

Minerva levels her sword at the rift. "Look!" she pleads, as the next wave of horror spills out. "We need to regroup with Boltyn's vanguard, defend our people upon the walls of Solana."

"We may never get another chance. We must push on."

"Your stubbornness will get us killed." Minerva's eyes belie her frustration, for they shine with pride. "Fine. What is your plan?"

"Form up!" Dorinthea orders her soldiers. "Flying wedge!"

With Minerva at her side, her brave few at her back, Dorinthea pierces the mustering horde with her V formation. Blades flash, blood spills, demons howl and die, until the soldiers of Solana stand before the rift.

A swirling chaos of dark energy and darker intent greets them from within. From that maelstrom steps a hooded figure, his skin ashen, his smile cruel. He brandishes his grimoire and draws grotesque symbols in the air with his skeletal hand. His voice is a graveyard whisper, his words ancient and forbidden.

Solanian souls recoil as dismembered demons reform and rise. Bones crack back into place. Grevious wounds are sewn closed. An army is remade before their horrified eyes.

Dorinthea charges forward, but before she can take but a few steps, the ground sprouts a forest of rotted arms that wrap around her legs, fixing her in place. Dawnblade is wrenched from her grasp and cast aside.

While she struggles to free herself, teeth and tentacles tear her allies apart. Even Minerva struggles against the writhing mass.

The hooded one bears down on Dorinthea, his gait a stiff and twitching union of magic and rigor mortis. His smiling mouth creaks open to speak his words of doom. Yet the only utterance is a rasp of surprise. As he swirls, Dorinthea can see Minerva's blade buried hilt-deep in his back.

Minerva twirls her remaining sword, her will steeled against the many wounds she has suffered. With a growl, the figure wrenches the sword from his back and gestures for his creatures to keep their distance. His mouth opens, jaw cracking wider than living flesh could allow, and from that gaping maw pours a cloud of ephemeral corruption. Tendrils form, reaching and jabbing at the gaps in Minerva's armor. She carves through them with her sword, slicing her way closer, maneuvering for a killing blow.

As she draws within striking distance, the hooded one's chest ruptures open. His ribs part and grow, extending out to trap the assailing warrior.

Minerva doesn't struggle. Her escape is futile. Instead, she casts one last look at Dorinthea. There's no fear in her eyes. Only acceptance.

The hooded one laughs, a sound like shattering bone, and tosses Minerva into the inky rift.

Dorinthea's sorrow burns, her thoughts seared from her mind by white-hot fury. There's a flash like a lightning strike and her cadaverous restraints melt away. Her foes cower as she looks upon them, eyes now crackling and bright, hair shimmering with holy radiance. She reaches out with her sword hand and summons Dawnblade to her grasp.

The hooded one reels from her splendor, croaking desperately for his creatures to attack. They obey, only to be destroyed by Dorinthea's incandescent rage. Bolts of foul energy leap from the hooded one's hands only to shatter harmlessly against Dorinthea's Bladehold armor. His reaching ribs snap like dry twigs beneath Dawnblade's blurring strikes.

With nothing left standing between her and her quarry, Dorinthea roars as she thrusts her sword through the hooded one's silent heart.

Dorinthea turns to the rift, bracing herself to enter. A guttural retching at her feet stops her. Corruption shrouds the body of the hooded one as it coughs the morbidity from its fetid lungs. With a rictus grin, it twitches and jerks across the torn earth and into the portal. The Vitiate Gateway shuts like a giant eye, then is gone.

Dorinthea stands alone on Morlock Hill, her body drenched in blood, her soul wretched with loss. Minerva. Her soldiers.

As the light departs, the weight of reality settles upon her weary shoulders. She is radiant no more. She is defeated.

In the scorched woods, there lies a small encampment.

Beyond that, once-golden wheat fields now blackened and bare, green meadows churned to mud and littered with bloated carcasses. In the distance, plumes of smoke climb the sky from their battered city.

Dorinthea and Boltyn survey the dismal scene. Proud Solana has been brought to its knees.

"Our flanks are safe for now. Rifts closed. The Demonastery is putting everything into its main horde."

Dorinthea doesn't answer Boltyn, her words as scarred and trampled as the fields before her.

"It is hard to see the light of Solana in these dark days. One of Blasmophet's followers... She ate most of my vanguard. We do not have the strength to withstand another onslaught."

When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet, like a dagger to the gut.

"We have to stop them."

"We will. But not on our own. The Grand Magister has sent envoys to the far corners of Rathe. We need allies."

"They will not help the helpless."

"We might have been beaten, but we are far from helpless."

"Then we muster what strength remains to us. If we wish the Kingdoms of old to rise, we must show that we are worthy."

Dorinthea brushes back her silver hair and stands.

"We shall be the rallying cry for all of Rathe, for only together can we survive."

Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/morlock-hill/
Written by Kasharn Rao and Edwin McRae
Illustrated by Nikolay Moskvin

Narrated Video by Peranine

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Beneath Iyslander's icy facade there beats a heart that is warm and full of longing. Her isolation has taught her much. How to survive. How to strive and thrive in a harsh land. Yet Iyslander knows she still has so much more to learn.

First Iyslander must thaw the walls that have sealed her away from her own history, from the full potential of her power. She must extinguish the burning pain of her past if she is to harness her arcane future.

Voices echo across the Bleak Expanse, carried to her by the winds of change. She hears the screams of war. She listens to the whispers of suffering. She is ready to answer their call.

From the frozen wastes into a fractured world, Iyslander's journey has begun, and she will be as unstoppable as the coming of winter.

Journey into the Forgotten

The chilling air is sweet to my tastes. Wind that would cut the skin of another's caresses mine. It blows a shower of ice shavings from my snarling creation, its fury captured and frozen. Sinuous. Scaled and horned. It is a fleeting ghost from my past, those hot and hated memories locked away behind glacial walls in my mind. This is no creature of the Bleak Expanse.

Where others cannot, I live in contentment. Alone in body yet accompanied by spirit. I have everything I need right now. So why do unbidden tears freeze upon my cheeks? Why must I yearn for what has been? Why must I know that which has been forgotten?

The spell rises to answer my questions, a storm that rages from heart to throat to tongue. My fingers dance through the falling snowflakes as I make my demand to the ever-winter spirits. At first, their protests are gentle, mere murmurs of the breeze. Then adamant, a wind that stirs the snow, tugs at my dress. Then furious, tearing at my resolve with a gale of frustration.

My statues, the mountain, the pale plain; I lose all in blinding white. Then it is over. The wind drops to an apologetic whisper. The air clears and my spell reveals the path that will lead me into the past.

I look back at the frozen lands that have been my home for many years. While my past remains walled off, I can recall every day since with crystal clarity. A youthful girl, shivering in a field as blank and white as the memory of how I got there. A cave of snow, opening like a warm embrace.

Spirits spoke to me in words of cooling compassion, teaching me to harness the winter within. Kindred kindness of frost and time that raised me into the woman I am now.

I step from the melting snow into a lush field of wildflowers. A kaie'o bounds into the meadow from a copse of white-dusted beech, and eyes me with curiosity. I see the glint of spirit behind the fox's gaze. My icekin have sent a guide.

I follow my companion through the verdant countryside of Aria. We skirt the lively towns, the trundling tinker caravans and the roving bands of raucous entertainers. We travel at night, in the cool of the dark. Although Aria is beautiful, I am glad when we reach the Great Tree of Korshem. My answers lie beyond this cosseted land, and its Flow will send me on my way. My kaie'o guide fares me well with a lick of my fingertips, and with a flick of its tail, it is gone. A breeze rustles the canopy of this mighty tree and l fall like a leaf from its branches.

Within the reddened Solanian dusk, I reel from a world at war. Long have I cherished the peace of ice, the slow settling of snow. Time passes with glacial calm in the Bleak Expanse. Now I witness the inferno of battle, the steaming heat of spilled blood.

A dark-skinned warrior leads his metal-clad army against creatures so grotesque that my stomach churns. A fiend breaks away from its horde, smelling my presence even through the gore-soaked air. It charges, gibbering and slavering. Before it can lay its cruel claws upon me, I freeze the beast's blood in its veins.

I wipe sweat from my forehead, the first time I can recall doing so. My heart pounds, fast and hot. I am so far from my icekin that this one incantation has sapped my will. And through a crack in my weary mind, a recollection wriggles free. A feeling. Slick and coiling within my chest. Fear.

I flee this valley of violence, chased by the roars of the monstrous, the screams of the dying. Anxiety tugs at my heart, drawing me southward, through the scorched remains of Solana's strife, up into blackened mountains with smoking peaks and fissures that spew sulfur and ash.

At an archway in a rugged pass, I remember a name. Volcor.

I follow a path, winding and rugged. It takes me above the pass, though the way is hard, treacherous. High in the mountains, I find the remains of a group of travelers, their bones scattered by predators, picked clean by scavengers. They were coming the opposite way, a desperate flight through dangerous country. In a weathered pack I find garments, rough and patched, and a cloak with hood. As I dress in their clothes, my heart is full of dread. What were these people running from?

At last I descend into the foothills and stop to listen to the rumbling of wagons, their trays protesting under the weight of black, sooty rock. Ahead, men and women carve open a hill with picks and shovels. Armed warriors watch over them, scarves wrapped around their faces to ward off the dust. A woman in fine robes sits astride her horse, surveying the dismal scene with calculating eyes. Her manner scratches at the ice around my memories. Have I known someone like this?

She points at a worker who has stopped to rest. Warriors grab the hapless man, drag him before their mistress. She dismounts and draws a whip from her saddlebag. The crack of leather against flesh makes my skin burn with sympathy. My bones ache with frigid anger.

I draw upon the woman's own sweat to encase her arm in ice. Her shocked eyes find me among the rocks. Her harsh voice barks an order. Warriors charge, sabers drawn and brandished. I throw my will against a stack of water barrels. They explode into splinters of ice and wood that cut through the warriors, leaving them reeling and bloody.

The workers do not waste this opportunity. Some attack their former overseers with pick and shovel. Others flee, and I flee with them into the gathering dusk.

I am hunted. The woman must have had influence to go with her riches. Soldiers patrol the roads, directed by a general whose armor is as black as his long, raven hair. The creak and clink of their scale mail sets my teeth on edge.

Yet despite the risk, I am drawn to the edge of a walled town. I have glimpsed this town before, through the swirling snow storm that veils my history. I break open a side gate with a snap frost and steal into the narrow streets. Fleeting memories lead me to a handsome apothecary guarded by a pair of soldiers. In the window stands a man, his face concealed by shadow. He is richly dressed, much like the merchant at the quarry, and holds a pot of alchemical powder in his gloved hand. A girl sits outside on a wooden bench, her smock tattered and grubby, her feet bare, her fair hair cropped short and ragged.

A shout from the street shatters the reflection. Man and girl fade back into the past as a sizzling ball smashes through the window. The apothecary explodes into flames.

I sneak away while all eyes are turned to the commotion. From then on I avoid the fear-fortified settlements, the raven general's patrols, and the daily injustices that infest this troubled land.

I lose count of the days as I continue on my journey, until at long last, the burning heart of Volcor laid out before me. Sprawling cities spread across glassy plains of tephra. At the center of this mess of humanity, a tamed volcano simmers and broods, its flank adorned with towers and halls that belittle all others in their grandeur.

I recall a name, Ashvahan. To me, that city within cities is a locked chest, hiding heirlooms of forgotten import.

I follow the road I am on to an outer-city gate where a steady tide of citizens swells and ebbs. Hard-eyed officers examine every soul that passes through, their papers scrutinized and stamped.

"You will not get in looking like that."

A storm of ice builds in my palm. After a long game of cat and mouse with the raven general's troops, they have caught me at last. I turn to fight my captor, but the stranger takes my arm, arresting my spell with a firm yet gentle hand. She looks like a Volcai. Caramel skin. Jet-black hair. Clean and well-kept, though modest. A servant, perhaps, of a wealthy household. But I sense that not all is as it seems with this one.

I let her guide me into a humble house, a bolthole away from prying eyes where she can reveal her true self.

"Who are you?"

"The less you know, the safer we will both be."

She places her mask beside another on the table and murmurs some arcane words that I cannot fathom. Before my astonished eyes, the second mask loses its blank, porcelain pallor. It becomes a face. Pleasant and practical. The humble features of the Volcai everywoman.

"Wear this mask and your visage will become one of Volcor's many. Even your own mother will not recognize you."

My fists clench of their own accord. I don't know who my mother is. Nor my father. I cover my pain with a question.

"Why are you helping me?"

The stranger's eyes see past the grime and dried blood into the depths of my icebound heart.

"I saw what you did at the coal quarry, how you forged ice from torrid air. A favor from such as you would be a powerful boon. I'll remind you of that when the time comes."

With a wave of her hand, her snow-white hair is gone. The face of the everywoman has returned. She leaves without a word, not even looking back as I collect my gifts from the table.

I shuffle with the line, mimicking the others, their slumped shoulders, their downcast eyes. As I reach the guard booth, a familiar figure steps out from the tent behind it. His raven hair is pulled tightly back from his chiseled face. He watches as the gate guard takes and reads my parchment. I make myself as still as a glacier beneath the general's inscrutable gaze, freezing any thought of my imminent capture. The guard grunts, stamps my parchment with red, and motions for me to move on. The general turns away, his dark eyes trawling through the line of travelers behind me.

I hurry on, eyes down, and only allow myself to look up when I am well beyond the gate. The city surrounds me, its heat pressing against my skin, so dry in my lungs that I fight for breath.

Streams of melted ice pour from the frozen walls in my mind, pooling behind my eyes. Fleeting images slip through the widening cracks. A grand residence with snarling dragons at the gate. Within that home, a library of scrolls, and a young girl cowering in a beshadowed corner. She works a lock of blond hair between her bruised lips as her trembling fingers trace arcane words across a yellowed parchment. Her eyes are a glacial blue and reflect a longing I know only too well.

Every fiber of my being yearns for the peace of my Bleak Expanse. I will return. To my icekin, I have thus promised. For now, I am here, facing the heat. A broken shard of ice in a land of fire, seeking to be made whole once more.

Calm Before the Storm

With the stranger's mask in place, I am but one of thousands in the sweltering city of Ashvahan.

The Volcai that dwell here honor the rumbling heart of Mount Volcor. Their ritual offerings of rice, silks and ceramics line the waterways. Incense burns from bronze ashtrays. Prayers float skyward to the mountain's crater, all in the hopes of appeasing this turbulent deity and its callous Dracai. Their struggle is as palpable as the heat which assaults my body and my will.

And yet, I am comforted by their persistence, grateful for their presence. I have concealed myself in the crowd, though I fear it is only a matter of time before the Dracai unmask my deception. They have come close, too close. And without the full strength of my powers, I am vulnerable. For now, I keep to the waterways where no Dracai deigns to walk. I remain one with the Volcai, learning their stories as I hope to learn mine.

It is from one of these tales, told to me through the rasps and coughs of a dust-lunged bookbinder, that I am drawn to a hulking building of basalt and obsidian. Robed figures come and go, their arms loaded with books and scrolls. I can smell the brooding intent within those tomes, embers of potential, smoking and sulfurous.

As dusk gathers, as the scholarly crowds dwindle, I approach this vault of simmering secrets. My modest attire is unlikely to pass for the finely dressed folk who have crossed its grand threshold, so I look instead to the beshadowed alley alongside. The bookbinder spoke of a humble servants' entrance that is often left unlocked.

I barely reach the obscuring darkness when a squad of soldiers marches out through the main doors and secures the upper steps. Their horned armor is polished to perfection. Their plumes are long and luscious. Their clear eyes miss nothing as they scrutinize the street.

A robed man follows, more resplendent than any other I have seen. I know the cruel lines of his face, and in his arrogant eyes, I see my former life writ large.

His name is Kova.

I am among the chaos of wild children, smeared with ash and soot as we hook ryoki from a mountain lava stream.

I am alone, singled out by a Dracai, a young wizard with sparks in his hands and flint in his eyes. My mother weeps my name, "Lyra", as I am bought and paid for with tokens of jade.

I fetch and I carry. I falter and I cower.

Kova is a harsh master, yet there is kindness in his household. Deng takes me under his withered wing. The old butler blunts his lord's tempers while sharpening my thoughts with page and ink in the quiet moments between chores.

I take solace in Kova's books, in stealing his secrets from his library. The words form promises in my mind, speak to the potency of my blood. I learn of aether and how I might use it, control it.

Wind rushes through my fingers. Stone trembles at my touch. Morrows dance in the kitchen fires to the rhythm I drum upon the table. These are my delights in the darkness.

If only they had remained unnoticed.

Once again, I am singled out. Kova wishes to possess my fledgling power. The price is no longer jade. The price is pain.

I scream at the deaf walls of his laboratory as he melts the talent from my flesh, drop by glistening drop. When the suffering becomes so fierce that I feel it will burn through my mind, I flee into the cooling climes of my imagination. In my delirium, I dream of another land. A place far from the scorching clutches of greed.

I awake in a cave clad in white. At first I take it for ash. I believe I have been extinguished and discarded. Buried.

Then I am aware of the creatures surrounding me. Their warmth wards off the cold. Their comfort wards off the fear.

They become my companions and carers. My body heals, my strength returns, and yet my mind remains empty.

I do not know where I have come from, nor how I came to be here. I have no name, so I am gifted one by the whispers of ice and snow, the spirits of a frozen wilderness.

I listen and I watch. I play and I practice.

Ice is my clay. Ice is my craft.

I am Iyslander.

The aether surges in my blood, threatening to boil over into furious action.

Tyranny.

Theft.

Torture.

These are Kova's crimes. Yet just as I am one of thousands in this city, one of millions in Volcor, he is one of hundreds who feed upon our suffering.

In Solana, demons consume the flesh of the living.

In Volcor, life is measured in jade pieces and strokes of the whip.

Is the voracity of the demon really that different from the appetites of the Dracai?

I do not think so.

In my heart, I know why Lyra had to die. Why Iyslander had to live.

Why Kova must live... for now.

To freeze the blood in his veins. That would be sweet vengeance. But what then?

Is my strength enough to face the swords of his men? Can I face every blade and arrow in this city?

How will I help those who live in fear along the waterways if my blood runs through the cracks of these cobblestones?

No. Kova will have his time, and so will the rest.

I turn my back on vengeance and slip into the library. Within this hall of knowledge, I will find the words to temper my talent and harness the aether like never before.

Rathe needs my help. Iyslander's help.

When the time comes, I will be ready.

In Flames

I will gain my audience with the Emperor of Volcor. Though my attempts thus far have been met with near fatal disappointment, I now hold the key to our alliance in the palm of my hand.

A secret passageway leads from the Chamber of the Dragon into the bowels of Mount Volcor. Hidden in those molten depths is the emperor's private residence, a sanctum secure against the slights and schemes of his lessers.

Assassination has become virulent among these Dracai, this arcane nobility. The ruling houses fight fire with fire as they struggle for dominance over this already fractured land. I had expected Volcor's politics to be heated. I did not expect to see a Dracai melted into a puddle of scorched fat in her own chambers.

They care for nothing but their arrogant ambitions. Yet without allies, the Demonastery's hordes will consume our blessed Solana, and Volcor will be next. The emperor must see that.

I will strike a deal with this land's most powerful wizard. Yet should my entreaty fail, should the flames of selfish desire engulf me, know this.

There is a new power in Volcor.

This power comes not from arcane rites. It comes not from sword and shield. It comes from the farms and fairways, the kitchens and quarries. It rises from the humbled salt of this land's downtrodden earth.

First, I heard the cries of anger. Soon enough, there were screams of pain. The street became a battlefield. Soldiers formed an armored wall around a hollering general, halberds thrust outward at the swarming foe. The attackers bore knives and cleavers, sledgehammers and picks. Common people with uncommon ferocity. I watched until corpses covered the cobblestones, and the general hung by his neck from a butcher's hook.

Should this be my mortal missive, I ask that you not look to the emperor. Nor to the Dracai, nor to the petty tyrants that command the armies and condemn their kin.

Look to the people.

My observations have companions by the score, smaller and quieter, but no less disruptive. As the wizards play with fire, there is an inferno being kindled beneath their feet.

Look to the new power. The ascending power.

Look to the Uprising.

_Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/flames/
Directed by Robbie.
Written by Edwin McRae.
Edited by Rachel Rees.
Illustrated by Sam Yang and various artists.

Narrated Video by Peranine

(Jump to the Top)

Dromai barely remembers her parents, Torvai the Dracai, and Sani of the Sandfolk. Murdered before she had even learned to walk. Min of the Forest of Flames found her, raised her in a humble village amongst the struggle and strife of Volcai life. A hatchling dragon in the nest of the phoenix.

She and Min's son became as thick as thieves. Dromai was the mastermind, deceiving and dismaying with wit and illusion. Her adoptive brother was her minion, liberating sweets and toys from childish rivals. Yet Dromai did not plan these capers for the simple fun of it. She planned them for the practice. For the preparation. She felt different, a pretender among the peasants. Deep in her heart, Dromai knew she was destined for greater things.

When the Dracai led her away from that burning village, she did not weep. She did not even look back. She had never belonged there. Hers was the Way of the Dracai. Where power awaited beyond her imagining?

No. Dromai's imagination is as boundless as her ambition. She is an ash artist, and her visions will strike terror into the hearts of all who behold them.

Dragons of Empire

"Vynserakai!" calls Dromai.

"Azvolai! Nekria!"

Vynserakai bursts from a fire-gutted house, raw and red with fury.

Azvolai's crystal scales glisten in the desert sun as she rises from the ashes of a temple.

Nekria shakes free of a charred corpse pile; a lithe monstrosity hatching from a loathsome cocoon.

The imperial soldiers look up in awe as the dragons attack the towering wall of sandstone. They have seen their comrades die on that wall for months on end. They have suffered the blistering sun and the water rations, the scathing sand storms and haunting desert nights. These defenses have protected the Sandfolk for centuries, and still they hold strong.

Though never have they faced a woman like Dromai.

Vynserakai smashes through sandstone like a boulder propelled from a volcano. Nekria melts mortar and bricks with billows of noxious gas. Azvolai darts through the holes to bite and tear at the enemy illusionists beyond. Red paints the white sands as the first illusionist loses his head to Azvolai's snapping jaws. Another rushes forward to repair the wall, only to be bisected by the crystal dragon's sharp tail.

The wall is a figment of the Sandfolk's imagination, made manifest in the minds of the men who stand before it. Dromai's dragons fly the same thin line between dream and reality. Yet, when an illusion is powerful enough, seeing truly is believing. Semblance becomes stone. Fancy becomes flesh.

"We should have brought you here from the beginning," says Xathari. "You honor your father's memory."

"Torvai was betrayed by love," answers Dromai. "I have no such weakness."

As the wall crumbles, the remaining illusionists drive Azvolai back with spinning tornados of sand. Dromai dances her dragons between the dust devils with the graceful motion of her hands. Nekria douses a pair of illusionists with foul fumes from her skeletal maw. The women scream as the flesh runs in rivulets from their bones.

"No sentiment for your mother's own people?" wonders the Dracai spymaster.

"The woman who left me with traitors? Never."

As if her thought is a summons, Sani shimmers into existence before Dromai's startled eyes. She was a babe in arms when her mother was murdered, yet Dromai recognizes the sandalwood scent, soft and comforting.

"Is something wrong?" Xathari's voice is distant, barely discernible.

"Don't you see her?"

"See who?"

Harsh reality snaps back into place as Vynserakai is torn limb from limb by a tornado. Sani vanishes, a mirage summoned by the enemy to distract Dromai. She tries to rein in her remaining dragons, but it's too late. A twister leaves Azvolai limp and broken. Another swallows Nekria, bone by bone.

"I spoke too soon." Xathari's voice is flat, inscrutable. "Perhaps you are the pathetic half-blood they say you are?"

The fire of anger flickers beneath her weariness. Though her mind reels from the sight of her Sandfolk mother and the loss of her dragons, she lifts her chin, facing Xathari's disappointment with dignity.

"I will try again."

"You are dead on your feet."

"All I need is rest."

"No." He gestures at the great wall that grows once more from the sand, already towering over his army. "Surprise broke this siege, if only for a moment. It will not work for a second time. Our supplies are low and morale is even lower." He turns to look at the distant silhouette of Mount Volcor. "We are done here."

Dromai forces herself to watch the army's withdrawal, to sear this failure into her memory with a white-hot brand. If she is to become a Dracai, she must never turn from shame. She must never forget.

Back in Ashvahan, the restless days crawl by as Dromai bides her time. Every day, she pores over the tomes of The Twelve Dragons. Every day, she practices her art, driving herself to exhaustion so that her sleep is empty of shameful dreams. Every day, she petitions Xathari for another mission. Another chance to prove herself.

On the thirtieth day, Xathari visits her chambers; a modest room at the rear of the palace. Little better than a soldier's quarters.

"There has been an insurrection," begins Xathari.

"You have spoken with the Emperor?"

He raises his hand, silencing her. "The rebels have captured General Riku."

She has not heard that name for ten years. Not since Xathari came to her village. Not since Riku's soldiers drove her murderous foster mother into the forest. Not since Min's lies were burned away by the Dracai's truth about her real parents.

"If you bring him to the palace, alive and well," continues Xathari, "we will declare you Dracai."

The stain of her Volcai blood washed clean. Dromai hides her excitement behind a mask of determination.

"When do we leave?"

They ride out at first light with a thousand hussars at their backs. At dusk of the second day, they reach the mangled outer fields of Golden Orchard Estate. The air is thick with the meaty sweetness of funeral pyres. Peasants pick over the corpses of imperial soldiers, heaping their plunder onto carts.

"Find Riku," growls Xathari.

Dromai rides for the hill overlooking the estate. Campfires line the slopes, and at its summit a bonfire burns bright, brazen against the gathering gloom. The cavalry thunders behind her, crushing under hoof any scavenger who fails to reach shelter.

Thousands of hoofbeats echo the thousands of dreambeats that heralded the Emperor's rare appearance that day, ten years ago. Her first visit to the throne room. All of her fire and courage, her calm and poise, fled her in an instant. Never had she witnessed such power. A power to bow to. A power to aspire to.

Dromai chants as she rides. When she hits the edge of the rebel encampment, Tomeltai lifts off from the skeleton of a burned out barn. His hide is as hard as petrified lava and his bared teeth drip with fresh magma.

Rebels try to muster, raising stolen halberds and spears; bracing them as a pointed barricade against the approaching cavalry. Tomeltai's jagged tail sweeps them aside.

Dromai rides over their broken bodies and urges her steed up the hill. Rebels spill from their tents. Tomeltai greets them with dragonfire.

Behind her, Xathari directs his hussars through the confusion. His firesight allows him to read the flames like a map. That is how he knew of Riku's capture. The fires told him. Just as they told him, all those years ago, where to find Dromai, the orphan.

At the crown of the hill, Dromai dismounts and takes cover behind a broken tree. Ahead of her, a silver-haired woman stands over a finely dressed corpse. Next to the dead woman, bound and gagged, lies her prize. General Riku. Bloodied and cowed, but alive.

Silverhair barks orders to the fighters who are holding the high ground against Xathari's cavalry. One such fighter, a young man in a ragged red cloak, knocks a rider from her saddle with a magnificent flying kick. Dromai can't make out his face through the smoke and dust, but she can tell by his predatory grace that he's a man to be wary of.

Though not for long.

She brings Tomeltai soaring into view. Riku is too close to the rebels to risk dragonfire. Instead, she whips Silverhair off her feet with the dragon's tail, then charges Tomeltai into the fray to rend and tear the traitors apart.

To Dromai's surprise, Silverhair struggles to her feet. With shouts and curses, she rallies the few survivors. Dromai spins Tomeltai to finish her, but the ragged-cloaked man gets there first.

Riding a stolen cavalry horse, he scoops the woman up. For a moment Dromai sees his scarred face. Ten years have turned his boyish features into those of a battle-hardened man.

Fai of the Forest of Flames. Son of Min the murderer.

Her false sibling gallops down the hillside with the silver-haired rebel slung over the neck of his horse. Dromai lets him go. She has more pressing matters to attend to. She lands Tomeltai next to Riku, protecting her prize, and then frees him from his bonds.

"Thank you," rasps the general.

Dromai smiles, but not for Riku's sake. His gratitude is meaningless. It is the Emperor's thanks she keenly awaits.

She looks up as Xathari rides over the crest of the hill. His sharp eyes take in the scene. His smile mirrors hers.

"Now the Emperor will see what I see in you."

She bows her head, accepting the praise and the honor that accompanies it.

Like the village of her childhood, her past has been burned away. No longer is she the little girl raised by rebels. No longer the daughter of shame. No longer 'Dromai the Half-blood'.

She is where she belongs, where her dragon blood has burned to be for thirty years.

She is Dracai.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/dromai/dragons-empire/

Betrayal

Dromai sits in the Oasis, her feet dangling in the cave's simmering lake. She watches luminous carp flit through the water, hunting flarefish that fall from the lava river.

The water comes from Misteria. The lava comes from Mount Volcor. Here water and lava meet, a union of opposing forces, just like her.

She delivered General Riku to Ashvahan. The Royal Court gave her the mantle of Dracai in return. For a time there, she even allowed herself to celebrate, to luxuriate in the trappings of palace life.

Then came the messenger in the night, from Xathari. "I have found Eun. Time is of the essence." In fact, time was their enemy.

Eagerness for the future, that is what drove them into Fai's trap. Shame at the past, that is what unleashed her fury. Dromai spent years convincing herself of Min's guilt. Against her fond memories. Against her better instincts. She recited her foster mother's crime each and every night. Yet when blame was recast in truth, reforged in the blood and fire of the battlefield, she needed no persuasion. Only execution.

Dromai has sought solace in the Oasis before. The ways are hidden, but she is more perceptive than most. She found her way through the mist and winding tunnels. It is a place of refuge. A place of clarity, where she can see through life as easily as she can see through the pristine waters.

It gave her no pleasure to kill Eun. That surprises her. Justice has been served, and it has left her with nothing. Death is no honor for the dead.

Xathari is a different matter. For ten years, he was her mentor, her confidante and friend.

He saved her from murderous rebels.

Lies.

He offered her a chance to redeem her bloodline.

Lies.

He gave her a home, a place where she could finally belong.

All lies.

Part of her wants to hate herself for being so naive, so stupid. But there is no shame in being deceived. Min told her that. The shame lies with the deceiver.

Another part of her wants to find Fai, to aid him in his grand cause. But then she would be deceiving herself. She has no desire to be ruled by the people. The Volcai are not a power she respects.

Like lava transformed to stone by cooling waters, Dromai feels her pain turn to resolve.

Lies can teach just as well as truth. Better even.

The spymaster taught her to unravel the secrets of the arcane, to uncover and use the secrets of the court. He led her down the twisting Way of the Dracai and made her realize it is the only path worth traveling.

Dromai lifts her feet from the water and stands on the lakeshore, taking in the cave's beauty. Its crystals. Its luscious flowers. She breathes deep of the steam and rich scents, committing them to memory.

Her future is perilous. She may never come back here.

She thinks as she walks, the movement of her feet helps her mind roam free. Only she and Fai survived the ambush. He can shoulder the blame for Xathari's death. It might even help him add a little fire to his reputation. Fai of the Forest of Flames, Slayer of Dracai.

In turn, Xathari's demise will aid in hers. In the spymaster's name, in the memory of his tragic passing, she will gain an audience with the Emperor. She rescued the Emperor's pet general and slew the rebellion's most notorious leader. The court will remember her name. Doors will open. She will offer favors. She will collect secrets. Step by step, the Way of the Dracai will lead her to where she deserves to be.

She will never belong to Ashvahan.

Ashvahan will belong to her.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/dromai/betrayal/

Life was never easy in the Forest of Flames. Farmers and foresters eked out a meager living from the land, barely making enough to feed their families once the Emperor's tax collectors had taken their due.

Fai's mother, Min, spoke of a better time, when Volcai and Dracai would walk the roads of Volcor hand in hand, ruling the empire as equals. Fai didn't listen. He was too busy playing minion to his sister's mastermind. While Dromai drew the eye with monsters and wonders of ash and soot, Fai applied his swift hands and feet to the delights of petty larceny. No trove of childish treats was safe from this devious duo. Of course, she would scold him when he gave half their haul away to the poorest children of the village. But what else could he do? Min had taught him that life was never fair by nature, only by practice.

Then the Dracai brought his soldiers and burned their village, forcing Fai and Min to flee into the forest with their kith and kin. They lost many good people that day, his sister among them. Apparently, life really wasn't fair.

From that day forth, Fai paid heed to his mother's words. He vowed to forge her dreams with fire and steel. He trained to breaking point. He fought until he bled. The flames of his past became the beacons of his future. Loss made him listen. A fair life was a right, not a privilege. He would rise from the ashes of his childhood and brand that lesson upon the soft and pampered skin of all Dracai.

With blade in hand, Fai would make sure the Volcai never suffered again.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/fai/?stories=True

Fires of Rebellion

(Jump to Narrated Video)

"Will they rise?" asks Eun as she ties back her silver hair, ready for battle.

"We have fed these people, given them hope."

Fai wasn't as confident as he made out, but as his mother was wont to say, Bravery is in the belief.

Eun jerks her thumb at the stack of sacks behind them, each stenciled with the tree and coin mark of Golden Orchard Estate. "We fed them with stolen rice. We made them accomplices to our own hopes. In the eyes of the Imperial Court, they are as good as dead."

Fai's mother had another saying. Courage is born when choices die.

"They could have turned us in."

"They still might."

"No. They will rise. The generals have bled our people bone dry while the Dracai live their bright and comfortable lives. We are the spark that will ignite a million fires. The Dracai will be forced to leash their infernal hounds, to govern with care, lest they face the full fury of the Volcai."

Eun claps her hands, slow and sardonic. "Well done for remembering your mother's speech."

"You don't believe it?"

"When I see it, boy."

The hours crawl by, restless yet sluggish like a river of lava. This is Fai's first mission for the rebellion. The raids against Phaelin's caravans and estate were the gathering of kindling. Here the spark will take, the fire will bloom. The fighting man in him boils with excitement, ready to pour all of his anguish, all of his anger upon these imperial oppressors. The frightened boy in him thrashes against his resolve, aching to flee back to Taoking, to hide among the glowing trees of the Forest of Flames and never come out.

It is almost a relief to see the dust cloud in the distance, almost a pleasure to see General Riku's vanguard poke its head like a giant black snake out of the foothills.

"So he does want his merchant back," says Eun.

Fai glances at the bound and gagged woman. Phaelin, purveyor of coal and rice, a woman of gold living off the salt of her serfs.

"Money talks when reason falls silent."

"That another of Min's bloody sayings?"

"No, one of mine."

"Then you're smarter than you look."

Fai taps the scarred side of his face. "I remember my lessons."

The old burn feels hot, inflamed, like his village the night Riku's soldiers took Dromai. The night he fled with the survivors into the forest. The thought of his sister only fans the flames of his anger. His sweating palms itch, yearning for the grip of his sword, but he breathes through the smoldering emotions; forces himself to calm.

"They have to listen to us. To the people."

The admiration fades from Eun's gray eyes. "I take it back. You are as dumb as you are ugly."

"We capture General Riku." Fai puts some steel in his voice, reminding Eun who is in charge of this mission. "We use him as a bargaining tool in our negotiations with the Emperor. That's the plan."

Eun draws her sword, tests the edge with her thumb.

"You hear me?"

She shrugs. "Hope he's bringing some Dracai with him. Did you know Dragon blood steams as it spills?" Something furtive flickers in Eun's eyes. "So I'm told."

There is more she's not telling him, but Fai figures now is not the time to pry. "If there are Dracai, we take them alive. They must see how we live, how we suffer, with their own eyes. Torvai changed. So can they."

Eun turns away from him; sizes up the approaching army. "Torvai was a dangerous fool." She carves a lazy figure eight in the air, working and warming her wrists. "There are many roads to Ashvahan, Fai. The trick is not to die before you get there."

"Wasn't planning to, Eun."

They wait and watch as Riku's army spreads like tar across the fields and farms. The soldiers settle in, occupying key positions as they prepare for an assault from within. Fai waits until they are comfortable, compromised, and lights the bonfire.

Rebels throw off their Cintari disguises, mercenary allies turning to zealous enemies before the imperials' startled eyes. Farmers pounce from hatch and hole, using their knowledge of the land to throw their unwitting visitors into chaos. Riku's carefully chosen positions become deathtraps as his soldiers clash with rebels on all sides.

Fai and Eun charge with their veteran ninjas down the hillside. They puncture the enemy's flank like a dagger slipping between plates of armor. Sword points stab at frightened faces and pierce screaming throats. Blades slice through raised wrists and craning necks. Like reapers in a field, the raiders harvest life and limb, quenching the earth with imperial blood.

Yet for every soldier that falls to rebel ferocity, three farmers fall to the cold, hard rigors of military training. Hammers and axes are no match for spears and halberds. Anger is no match for discipline. The people wail and weep as friends and family fall. Some surrender, some run, leaving Fai's ninjas to face the empire alone.

"Cowards!" hisses Eun.

Again, Min's words ring through the din of battle. Bravery is in the belief.

Though his weary muscles ache, his lungs gasp for breath, Fai meets a charging foe with a perfect strike that takes the man's head clean off. Hot blood spatters across his chest and face.

Through the pulsing heart of the battle, Fai sees the raven-haired general upon his flame-maned steed. He remembers the cruel lines of that lean face, the gleam of the Imperial Dragon on his golden breastplate. He remembers the flames of his burning village reflected in those dark eyes.

"To me!" roars Fai.

He blocks a lunging halberd and drives his sword through the wielder's face, splitting the soldier's skull like an apple.

As he tugs his blade free, he feels rather than sees Eun and the remaining rebels fall in behind. Their courage fuels his own and he leaps once more into the fray.

Bloodied imperials tumble to the ground as Fai's fighters slash a path through the melee. They do not stop, do not even pause for breath, until Fai is but a sword's length from General Riku.

"Where are those bedamned, Dracai?!"

It is a desperate screech from Riku to a bewildered lieutenant. Fai sees the glistening fear in the general's eyes. He surges forward to make the most of the man's moment of weakness, only to collide with a clifface of muscle and hardened leather. The giant bodyguard growls like a charbear and swings at Fai with a broad-bladed battleax. Though Fai spins away as quick as his reflexes will allow, the soldier's speed belies his bulk. The ax tip scores a searing line across Fai's side.

Yet the pain only serves to drive the battle-wariness from Fai's limbs. It lifts the exhausted fog from his mind. He sees a way to reach the general and takes it.

Fai feints high, then drives his sword through the bodyguard's meaty thigh. The weapon sticks fast. Fai doesn't yank it free. Where he's going, he won't need it. This mad endeavor will either work or he'll be dead, and his brave rebels with him.

The man howls with rage and raises his ax to squash the unarmed ant before him. Fai catches hold of his breastplate, steps onto the sword handle jutting from his leg, and climbs him like a tree. From the surprised giant's shoulders, Fai launches himself at Riku's horse and lands astride its hind quarters.

Before Riku can turn to wonder at his passenger, Fai has the general's own dagger at his throat.

He presses his lips to the man's ear and hisses, "I am willing to die for my people. Are you?"

"Lay down your weapons!" It comes out as a squeak, but the closest lieutenant relays the order.

Hoarse shouts from nearby officers echo the general's surrender. They are soon followed by the clatter of dropped spears and halberds. Fai can see the relief in the soldiers' eyes. They didn't want this fight any more than the farmers did. Perhaps some had cousins here, even brothers and sisters. The only difference between fighters and the farmers is whether they carry a halberd or a hoe.

Fai escorts Riku to their hilltop camp while the farmers and soldiers turn to the work of gathering and burning their dead. It becomes a shared chore. Most of these soldiers were farmfolk once. It is an easy return to their roots. Instinctual and welcome. Only a few need to be bound and watched. The city-born officers, groomed from birth to serve the Draconic codes.

Fai pitches in with his people, carting corpses with care, building pyres for their funeral rites. He works until dusk, until a scream from the hilltop sends him sprinting through the camp. He knocks down a woman bringing water to the wounded, barks a hasty apology, and continues running. Two more screams echo down from the hilltop before he gets there.

Phaelin's final scream is cut off as Eun runs her blade across the merchant's throat. Blood gushes over Eun's knife hand and down the woman's plush ashfur coat. Her painted eyes lose their luster and the richest woman in the east topples onto the dirt.

Nearby, Riku howls through his gag and struggles with his bonds.

"No," growls Fai. "This is the way of revenge, not revolution." He points down the hillside at the toiling Volcai. "Our numbers have already grown. Word is spreading."

"What better way than to write those words in blood? Let the Dracai read their doomed futures in freshly gutted entrails." Eun sinks her knife into the twitching woman's belly and opens her from flank to flank.

Fai looks away as the gorge rises in his throat. Eun laughs as she kneels beside the general and cleans Phaelin's blood from her knife with Riku's cloak.

"Too disgusted to hear what she had to say?"

"You tortured her. She would have told you anything to make you stop."

Eun stands and shrugs. "Sounded true to me."

She recites a list of the names and homes of the Dracai that Phaelin had taken an interest in. There is a mischievous glint in her eye as she says the last name, having kept the best to last.

"Dromai."

The name is a slap to Fai's face. His scars burn hot in his flesh. "You know where she is?"

"I told you there are many roads to Ashvahan, boy." She points her bloodied dagger at General Riku. "The trick is knowing who to kill to get there."

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/fai/fires-rebellion/
Story written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie.
Illustrated by Sam Yang, Nikolay Moskvin.

Fires of Rebellion, Narrated by Peranine

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The Phoenix and the Dragon

(Jump to Narrated Video)

A trap laid for a spymaster and his Ash Artist accomplice. Eun as the bait that Xathari would be compelled to take. Hundreds of ninjas waiting in ambush. Swords drawn for the soldiers. Nets and spears readied for Dromai's dragons.

Eun's plan was cunning. Fai had to give her that. Since the massacre at Golden Orchard, Eun had been obsessed with ridding Volcor of 'that scheming snake'. With Xathari and his firesight extinguished, it would be easier to infiltrate the Imperial Palace, to tear the Dracai down from within.

The Lord Wizards were growing desperate. Inspired by the fallen rebels of Golden Orchard, Volcai were taking up arms all across Volcor. The many feathers of the Phoenix were burning bright. Naturally, the snake would seek to bite off the phoenix's head. And so Eun would stick out her own neck. Would make herself an irresistible delicacy to the serpent's fangs.

In Fai's mind, it should have worked.

He slides beneath the dragon's exposed underbelly. His sword cuts deep and his momentum drags the blade down the full length of the creature's abdomen. He expects a cascade of guts. Instead, the dragon's white flanks shiver, rippling like water, and then the beast is gone. No carcass. No blood. Nothing to mark that it ever existed. Nothing but the mutilated corpses of his comrades.

Fai looks to Eun, who now kneels before Dromai. The rebel leader's left arm is missing. Her shoulder is a mangled stump. Yet still she grins up at his sister, her eyes wild.

Behind Dromai, Xathari leans on his staff, the spymaster's right hand pressed to a wound in his flank. Blood bubbles between his fingers and soaks his robes. He coughs, a wet rasp, as blood trickles from the corner of his mouth.

"Kill her," he wheezes.

Fai levels his sword at Dromai. "Please, sister. Don't."

"Min didn't spare my mother's life," snaps Dromai. "She didn't think twice about murdering my father. What makes this life any more worthy than theirs?"

"Murdered your father?" Shock chokes the words in his throat. "Min–She could never–Why–"

Eun's laughter cuts him off, a hacking cackle that sends a spasm through her crippled body.

"You believe that?" she manages, tears running down her face. "The truth is much more fun."

Xathari steps towards Eun, flames guttering in his palm. Fai notices the weakness in his fire, the exhaustion in his face. He raises his sword, ready to throw it if he has to. Xathari freezes. The flames die away.

"Min didn't kill your parents," sneers Eun. "I did. And who told me where to find them?" She raises her trembling hand and points at Xathari.

Xathari stares back, his eyes full of hatred.

"Torvai walked among the Volcai," says Eun. "He faltered and fumbled, loved and lost. He ate, slept and shat in a bucket, just like the rest of us."

"He was an embarrassment," hisses Xathari.

"And would have drowned our cause in words," continues Eun. "Endless talk that changes nothing."

"What about Sani?" Dromai's voice is taut, a humming wire about to break.

Eun shrugs, then winces from the pain of it. "She must have loved Torvai more than she loved you."

Dromai smiles, an expression so bleak, so distant, that it almost breaks Fai's heart. Then she whispers something, a single word, and the ground answers her.

Jaws burst through the rock with such force that the tremor knocks Fai off his feet. Those jaws close around Eun. She is gone in an instant, consumed. The great purple dragon hauls itself out of the crater, shakes off rubble and ash, and turns to Fai.

"Not him," commands Dromai. She points at Xathari.

The Dracai shrieks with fear, tries to run. Flames billow around him as teeth close shut on his limping form. The dragon tosses him into the air, and with a snap of its great jaws, it swallows the wriggling man down.

Fai struggles to his feet, his heart pounding, sword held in a white-knuckled grip. Knowing not what else he can do, he takes a step towards Dromai.

"Go home, Fai. Tell Min that I am sorry."

She climbs up onto her dragon, and with a beat of the creature's mighty wings, takes to the air. Fai watches her slip away through the haze of swirling dust. He looks to the bloodstained dirt where Eun kneeled but moments before, and then to the scorched earth where the spymaster was taken. No more lies. No more secrets.

The Emperor is blind. His dragons are turning against him.

Fai thrusts his sword into the ash and earth, planting his fury in the firmament of his beloved Volcor.

No longer will the Volcai be ground into the dirt. It is time for the Phoenix to rise.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/fai/phoenix-and-dragon/
Story written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie.
Illustrated by Sam Yang, Nikolay Moskvin.

The Phoenix and the Dragon, Narrated by Peranine

(Jump to the Top)

The One Emperor

The Emperor stands before the ancient altar. His eyes take in the rough-hewn base and its pyroglyphic symbols, carved by the first emperor at the dawn of Volcor. The symbols roam from raw rock to wrought iron and glass, replaced during his reign by the dynasty's finest metallurgists and glaziers. His gaze follows the sinuous lines of the bracing dragons, the gentle curvature of the glass, to the vision that burns within. A blazing apparition. A spark, cast here from a fire beyond reach, beyond understanding.

Muffled whispers scratch at the glass. The Emperor is all too familiar with those insidious promises. They are the sovereign's blessing, and his curse. He has listened to them since he was a young man, long before he took the throne from his father. Today he wishes they would be silent.

With a supreme act of will, he turns his back on the altar and empties his mind of those susurrant temptations. He crosses the chamber to where the Imperial Crown lies in its bed of velvet, and remembers how it felt, that first time, when Chancellor Yama placed it upon his brow.

The coronation crowd was the largest in living memory, an ocean of red as far as his eyes could see. His subjects flooded the streets, as numerous as blades of drake whisker grass upon the western plains. His most loyal servants lined the steps, an avenue of acolytes that he tended like a gardener might nurture a patch of rare and delicate dragon flowers.

The lord wizards grew and blossomed in the warmth of his wisdom. They became true artisans of the aether. Their fireborn talents tested and tempered in the forges of war.

Without a strong emperor to guide them, the people of Volcor had turned against each other. Dracai and Volcai, their talents and efforts wasted on fear and fancy. He gathered them to the blazing beacon of royalty, made them so much greater than the sum of themselves. Together, they tore down the tawdry banners. They dismembered the personal armies and reduced the petty holdfasts to ash.

To vale and plain, city and citadel, they restored the peace that his father let slip through his trembling fingers.

He surrounded himself with individuals of power and vision. With a click of his fingers, he could light every torch in the city so that Xathari, his fireseer, might peer into every corner of Ashvahan. So that Yoji, his captain of the Imperial Guard, might exact justice upon the dishonorable.

These were people he could use, but never wholly trust. While their ambitions aligned with his, they remained his loyal servants. He expected nothing more nor anything less.

The memory melts away as the Emperor takes up his sword, his fingertips brushing the golden tassels of magma lion fur dangling by silver threads from its pommel. He was merely a prince when he last raised this blade in battle.

The sky burned and fire rained down upon the town that day. Warriors lurched and screamed as the conflagration spread and consumed. It was a simple matter to pry into the mind of the town's self-appointed general, to pluck the positions of his men and armaments from his drunken mind. Then the guilty melted like candles while the innocent cowered in awe. Their prince was nothing if not merciful.

He ordered his entourage forward, through the scorched remains of the town gate. Though they strained beneath the weight of his palanquin, the bearers did so without complaint or consideration. Just as his soldiers fought the remaining defenders without fear. Just as his acolytes drew upon the fire in their blood to cleanse the corruption from the wayward settlement.

They knew their place, as all knew their place in this dynasty of his making. Selfish ambitions were charred black by his conquests. Singular lives snuffed out. The few suffered so the many would know peace. He was a farmer, burning the fields to destroy the weeds, to allow the crop to thrive.

For he was once like the Volcai, a boy of imposed aspiration, his mind caged by the fears of his father. Until the moment he listened to the lava and heard its seething song.

Through the tunnels they labored, a reckless princeling and his chosen few, determined to discover what secret an emperor might keep from his only son.

One by one, they fell to the mountain's malevolence. The ideals of youth proved no match for the terrors of wild nature. The princeling did his best to protect his fellow students. He was stronger than the rest, but not strong enough to save them. Not then. He saw the creatures of the deepening darkness catch and consume them. An apophis took his last remaining friend. It leapt from the magma and crushed his companion in its serpentine embrace before the princeling could summon the aether to slay it.

Alone, he tumbled into a monster's silken snare, felt its hot fangs kiss his neck before he could burn himself free. The venom should have stopped his frail human heart. Mount Volcor should have become his mausoleum. Yet his draconic blood refused to be stilled. His flame refused to be extinguished.

He rose from his knees and stumbled towards the pounding thunder of the Aesir's song. From the buried beyond, it called to him. His heart marked time with its cadence. His mind filled with its mesmerizing rhythms.

He felt the heat as he breached the cavern, a wonder of diamond elegance blinding his bleary eyes. He stumbled to the molten fissure and drank of its power. From lips to throat to blood, lava burned the poison from his veins and filled his eyes with searing aether.

In that moment, he saw it all. Volcor stretched out before him. One land. One people. One Emperor.

He adjusts the crown upon his head. His back itches as if brushed by hot fingers. His ears burn with the hiss of boiling whispers. He grits his teeth against the urge to turn, to gaze into the apparition, to allow it to carry him down into the fissure once more. To succumb to that which he has served for so long.

The Emperor has heard the cries rise up beyond the walls of his capitol. He has felt the rifts of rebellion like wounds in his own flesh. While he communed with the Aesir, the empire beyond tore itself apart.

In spite of everything, he has become his father's son.

His will cools and crystallizes like lava after an eruption. Aether flickers in his palms, ready to serve, ready to smite at his command. He is the forge that will mend this broken land, with fire and brimstone if he must. Once again, the few will suffer so the many may thrive.

One land.

One people.

One Emperor.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/emperor-dracai-aesir/?stories=True
Written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie. Illus. by Sam Yang.

Ember in the Ash

(Jump to Narrated Video)

Your Imperial Majesty, forgive this impertinence, but these are desperate times. Our workers have turned rabid, infected by rebellious lies. They steal from our caravans. They plunder our warehouses. We petitioned our Lord Wizard for aid. He burned our messengers and fled the Red Desert-a disgrace to your glorious dragon blood. You are the greatest of the Dracai. Your flame is the brightest of all. Punish these upstarts. Sear their treacherous hopes from their dim minds. We beseech you, our mighty Emperor. Please, help us.

Your humble servant,

Lord Merchant Savai of Deshvahan

Dromai looks about to make sure she is alone before expelling her excitement in a long, shuddering breath. This is what she has waited for, worked so hard for. She defeated the rebels in battle. She slew their most aggressive leader. And in a moment of inspiration, she erased Spymaster Xathari from the picture. Thus, she cleared the way for her most ambitious move-an audience with the Emperor and a chance to claim Xathari's position and power.

No longer the "half-breed". No longer the traitor's spawn to be slighted or ignored. She is Dracai, and so much more. With Xathari's secrets at her fingertips, she will paint illusions such as Volcor has never seen. Wizard and worker alike, the citizens of this empire will see only what she, the Ash Artist, wants them to see.

She ascends the steps and looks up at the magnificent doors that dwarf her. Polished gold shimmers upon black iron and tempered steel. A gateway forged to withstand a thousand sieges, so strong, so thick, that even Dracona Optimai might barely scald its surface.

Beyond those doors lie the consummation of her desires. She can feel the excitement welling inside her, soaking the tension from her muscles, quenching the thirst she has felt for so long. The wretched orphan, the half-blood, the suspected and scorned. She will wash it all away the moment she bathes in the Emperor's glory. At last, she is where she belongs, at the source of all-

A flurry of sound rips her daydream open, muffled yet sharp as knives to her raw nerves. Shouts. The clash of steel.

Tradition dictates that she wait. To lay a hand upon these doors is to bid that hand farewell. For a long, agonizing moment, she is torn between instinct and instruction.

The quiet cacophony dies away, leaving a silence that is deafening. The doors remain shut until she knows, without a doubt, that something is very wrong.

The door is hot, drying the sweat from her palm as she presses it to the metal. The prodigious mass swings open, made light by perfectly crafted balance. A man topples through the gap. His bloodied armor shatters the silence with its deadened weight.

Dromai skirts the corpse and enters the throne room. Imperial guards lie strewn across the vast floor, their spears fallen from lifeless hands, armor torn and flesh cut to the bone. Wizards lie in crumpled piles, their robes stained and steaming with draconic blood.

She picks her way through the carnage, drawing closer to the throne while her beleaguered mind struggles to understand what it cannot believe. A flicker of movement hooks her attention to the farthest of the hall's pillars. She squints to see a ghoulish figure cloaked in a funereal shroud that darts away in the blink of an eye.

Any thoughts of a daring pursuit drown in the blood that wets the throneward steps. Tears boil in her eyes as they alight upon the man lain prone before the seat of Volcor's sovereignty. No, not a man. A deity. A fallen god.

The Emperor is dead.

Her lips are dry, her mouth parched, her throat raw from orders shouted then screamed into the dumbstruck faces of servants and soldiers.

Lanterns lie abandoned and broken, the Dragon Festival trampled in tragedy. Panicked feet pound the stoneways and steps of the palace as Dromai's thoughts swirl like ash in their wake.

Who was that man, that creature? How was it capable of committing the unthinkable, the impossible?

If, of course, it acted alone.

Her mind's eye recalls the litter of papers, inked in the dead hand of Spymaster Xathari. From the day she returned to the palace, she has pored over Xathari's notes, scripts of friend and foe forming a theater of intrigue.

The Demonastery sought to manipulate the Dracai so they would not find common cause with Solana. Thus is their ignorance, their paranoia. Solana is nothing to Volcor.

A Solanian spy lurks about the palace, an agent so elusive that even a fireseer cannot find them.

Sandfolk fury continues to fester, as Xathari hoped it would. Their attack was a lance, puncturing a boil. In time, the infection will be drawn out into the open.

The scheming Ezu and loyal Alshoni-two great Dracai houses locked in a deadly game of power and usurpation. The Alshoni defending stability and dynasty against dangerous Ezu aspirations. A trail of missives exchanged through the Pits. Prices paid in coin and blood.

Fai and his foolish Volcai, their filthy hands tearing the empire apart. Enemies in every scullery and stable. Vermin that might yet overrun the entire palace.

Dromai follows the threads, weaving a tapestry of treachery in her mind. Yet try as she might, she can see neither the pattern nor the weaver. They are as elusive as that vile visage glimpsed and then gone into tortured darkness.

An unfamiliar fear grips her. She has nothing to condemn. The killer left no footprint, no fragment to follow. All that remains is a shadow, vast and impenetrable, that threatens to eclipse them all. She grits her teeth against her mounting terror and takes one last look at the blood on the steps, cascading like lava from the wounded earth. She is about to turn away when a ripple disturbs the red river. A sinuous silhouette uncoils. Wings flex. A ragged maw yawns.

Stone trembles beneath her feet. A roar drives her to her knees. She presses her hands to her ears, yet the rageful sound comes not from without. It resonates from her flesh, reverberates through her skull. She knows that voice, has heard it uttered from the throats of her apparitions, has sensed its whispers since the day she set foot in the palace.

The roar subsides, its echoes carried through the molten veins of Volcor, shaking and sundering. Ravines open in the earth, engulfing streets and shelters across Ashvahan. Grand waterways, twinkling with blue lanterns and flame lotus flowers, rupture their shores and sweep away people, pageantry and parade. An eruption so violent and anguished that it touches the farthest reaches of Volcor. A sharing of loss that all must embrace.

As the last aftershock rumbles through the palace, Dromai finds Chiyo in the remains of her chambers. The Lord Wizard is white with dust. Her skin grows even whiter at the news of the Emperor's death.

"Why come to me?" she asks.

"Chancellor Yama doesn't need me," answers Dromai. "You do."

In vulnerability, there is opportunity. Without the Emperor, the Alshoni faction is severely weakened. Until now, Ezu and Alshoni have played by the rules, the Emperor's own mandates laid down to prevent civil war. But those rules have changed, and so Dromai will play the cards that fate has dealt her.

"The palace will soon belong to the Ezu. Follow me," urges Dromai.

She leads Chiyo and a bedraggled retinue of Alshoni through rubble-strewn passageways, but the escapees are soon stopped short.

General Riku's soldiers have barred the archways, sealed the palace shut, as ordered by Chancellor Yama. A killer prowls the palace, the Chancellor has warned them. A monster with fangs more deadly than a flare snake, or so he's been told. To wander recklessly would be tantamount to suicide.

Dromai approaches the general with her palms outstretched.

"You owe me a life," she reminds him.

"This is not the life I had in mind."

"The lava cares not for our wants and wishes. It flows where it flows."

Riku hesitates, struggling with himself, torn between honor and loyalty. At last he steps aside, and at his command, his soldiers lower their halberds.

"We are even."

"For now," allows Dromai.

She turns to Chiyo, bows her head enough to signal respect, but not too low as to imply subordination.

"Make your way to the southern estates. You will be safe there."

"Come with us," insists Chiyo.

"No. My place is here."

Dromai glances in the direction of the throne room, her mind fixed on the chambers beyond and the power secreted within.

The legacy of the dragon. Awaiting one with the will to command it.

Fai crests the wall and cuts down the first soldier who tries to repel him. His sword slices through armor and muscle as he clears the way for his compatriots. An archer on the tower looses an arrow at him. Fai plucks the missile from the air and drives it into a nearby soldier's fear-bulged eye. With a flick of his wrist, he sends a throwing star into the archer's throat. He watches the woman fall into the courtyard below, catches his breath as her blood runs red-a brushstroke of scarlet upon a canvas of ash.

A horn sounds from the keep, but it's too late for its inhabitants. No-one is coming to their aid. Fai knows this, the message delivered to him in the claws of an imperial bird of prey, a flame-winged vuurlin, shot from the ashen sky by a rebel arrow. The Emperor is dead, slain by a skeletal assassin as twisted as the spirits of Serpent's Crescent, the missive read. He could not have hoped for better, the greatest threat to the rebellion removed from the field. Yet his exaltation is leaden with doubt. There is another force at play, shaping the fate of Volcor to its own ends. A force so powerful that its masked instrument struck down Volcor's mightiest wizard, unchallenged, beyond justice or retribution.

Fai's ninjas swarm over the wall, compelling him to bury his dark thoughts. He has a rebellion to lead. Again he spearheads the assault, taking the keep floor by bloody floor. He reaches the Dracai's chambers first and uses the lord's own dining table to block the incoming fireball. He dances around the sparks and spells, closes in on the panicked wizard and drives his sword through the man's heart, thus tempering his blade in dragon blood. He then ascends the turret of the holdfast, the steel of his sword still burning with arcane fire.

Above him in the now reddish sky, he notices another vuurlin. This one wild; hunting. Its fiery wingtips are a beacon. An omen. He turns to face the gathering crowd of soldiers below him and raises the Phoenix banner to a thousand cries of triumph. The wings of the phoenix flap lightly in the breeze as the sun bleeds out behind the distant mountains. Fai stays there for a moment, inhaling the victory deep into his chest, as ash begins to fall like snow, settling upon his scarred face.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/ember-ash/
Written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie.
Illustrated by Sam Yang.

Narrated Video by Peranine

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The Blood Stained Web

I perch in the rafters where the air is thick with whispers. Servants gossip in a cozy huddle below. I yearn to drop among them, to cut those wagging tongues from their gaping mouths, to bathe them in blood. But that is not in the plan.

Laughter breaks out as a punchline is hit. Something about a Dracai, a chamber pot, and tea ceremony. I vault from rafter to rafter while their eyes are blinded by mirth. I drop out of hiding and stalk into the passage beyond, none of them the wiser. If only they knew Death had passed so close, their jokes would stiffen like the lips on a corpse-their sleepless nights would stretch and twist with sweats and shivers.

On I go, choosing moments I am not contracted to own. Blades far sharper than mine have carved out this path. Hide and wait here, said the boss, for nine rings of the gong behind the tapestry of the Jade Empress. The soldiers will disperse, said the boss. Like Metrixian clockwork, on the tenth ring, a patrol of soldiers rushes past, called to some urgent duty elsewhere. The plan is working.

I scurry along corridors of distracted servants and driven soldiers. I am a passing fright in the bustle of the Imperial Palace, a shadow to be mistaken and dismissed. I reach a wooden door in a stone hallway and remove my gauntlet to press my hand to the warm wood. The vibrations fill my mind with bright patterns. I close my eyes, match sound with sensation, and picture my prey.

Leather armor creaks as stone pieces click and slide on a tabletop. Two guards, seated along the left wall of the small guardroom, playing Karasita.

Metal squeaks under the rub of a cloth. A lone guard to the right, polishing the blades of halberds with charpaste.

A "puff, puff" followed by a slow exhale. A guard leaning against the far wall, smoking a pipe. It smells like dried crimson leaf from Golden Orchard. Scarce now since the rebellion torched the plantations.

I slide my hand back into my gauntlet and savor the anticipation. The sweet red is about to flow.

The door is unlocked and well greased. The scent of fat is fresh. It opens like an eyelid raised from sleep. I have seen that many times, my victim awakening, that fleeting moment of recognition, of terror, before I plunge them back into sleep eternal.

I unfurl my little shinies faster than the guard facing me can even lift his eyebrows.

My first shiny flies across the room to puncture the Karasita player's eye and his sluggish brain beyond.

I step forward and plunge my second shiny into the back of the polisher's neck.

The third guard knocks the chair and Karasita board aside as he stands. It does him no good. My favorite shiny slices open his windpipe before his hand touches the hilt of his sword.

The other two are gone, killed in the instant. This one gurgles, soaked hands clutched helplessly to his throat. I watch the light fade from his eyes and then turn to the smoker.

He hides his fear by blowing a plume of smoke before tossing me his key. It's not for me to reckon the turning of his coat, but the terror in his eyes tells me he's not doing this for himself. A loved one, perhaps. Maybe a child.

I pluck the key from the air and puncture the smoker's right side with a sharp jab between the straps of his breastplate, just shy of puncturing a lung. He wheezes. His pipe clatters on the floor. He looks at me, shock numbing his face as he slides down the wall. The boss said that he should live, but also that it should be convincing. Else he will hang for sure.

I close the guard-room door, lock it, and retrieve my daggers. Before me is a narrow passageway lined with weapons and armor. I enter the last storeroom on the left, squeeze between shelves of helmets, and remove my gauntlet once more to feel the wall. All I need to do is feel for a secret panel and insert the accomplice's key into the waiting keyhole. And there it is, just as prepared. The mechanism unlocks with a soft click and the door swings silently open. I grin behind my mask. A deluge of death is but a room away.

Dusty steps lead me to a long balcony, the latter stifling with the heat of the throne room. A Dracai and his bodyguards stand at the railing, a wizard too lowly to join the ranks of the lords below. I knife the guards in their necks, slit the Dracai's throat, and use his soft-robed corpse to dampen the sound as the others fall. I work my way along the balcony, killing quietly. Each hit is a mere taste of the bliss that awaits me.

Only when I have the balcony to myself do I appraise my ultimate prize. There he is, the Emperor, surrounded by his sycophants.

I take my allotted position and weave the course of carnage in my mind as a host of hooded associates gather around me from dark corners and lofty rafters.

We are the blood-red threads that will criss and cross this throne room.
We are the Spider's spinnerets-a latticework of slaughter sent to end a dynasty.

I dance to my delight, knowing the red rain is about to fall.

Source: The Blood Stained Web
Written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie. Illus. by Sam Yang.

Vow of Vigilence

No sovereign could ask for a guardian more loyal, more devoted to his duty.

He was the first volunteer through the breach at Tchankem Castle, one of the bloodiest battles in Volcor's visceral history. The soldier who pulled his wounded commander through Serpent's Crescent on a makeshift sand skiff. The protector who shielded his lord wizard from a rival's attack, an arcane assault of such ferocity that it almost claimed his life.

A valiant Volcai, sworn to protect what he believes to be good and just. The eyes and ears of vigilance. The raised voice of alarm, and the clenched fists of retribution.

But what if his fervor were to blind him to the true nature of his people? We are equal parts fair and foul, and misfortune is the weight that tips the balance.

Yoji did everything by the book that day, line for line, word for word. He doubled the patrols and tripled the sentries. He banned the Dragon Festival revelers from the surrounding streets and alleyways. He secured each lock and barred every entry not vital to the running of the palace. No-one would escape the sight of his soldiers. Nothing would pass without a word of warning.

Or so Yoji thought. How could he know of traitors planted long ago? Of turncoats stitched from fear? Of dark dreams plotted while he slept? How might a soldier of leather and steel imagine schemes woven from silk and shadow? A lone man trying to peer into a vision conjured by a network of minds.

Yoji wished to follow his Emperor into death, to be taken in chains to the Obsidian Coast and cast from Dragon's Peak. An honorable death that might redeem some small portion of his shame-shadowed soul.

Chancellor Yama, leader of the Ezu Dracai faction, would not allow it. Why waste a loyal subject, even one so blinded by the Alshoni faction and their deluded devotion to a dying dynasty?

Better that he live as a condemned man, serving his sentence with halberd in hand. Better that he learn to live in dishonor, and view the world through the eyes of those who would most threaten it.

Betrayed by his own garrison, now surrounded by Ezu enemies, Yoji chose to first purge himself of trust. Then he purged the palace of the untrustworthy. Like a mason repairing a decrepit fortress, he ripped out the rotten wood, uprooted the crumbling stones. Some he exiled to the Blackrock quarries of the north, a chance to reconsider their loyalties. Others he cast upon the rocks below Dragon's Peak, a haunting sight to stiffen the backs of those he spared. Some he simply 'disappeared', so quietly, so thoroughly, that it was as if they never existed. With neither mercy nor remorse, he vivisected the palace's lower ranks and cauterized the infection until only the incorruptible remained.

Remorse has thrust Yoji into a sovereignty of suspicion. He patrols a land haunted by paranoia, doggedly protecting the memory of his fallen master. In Yoji's mourning heart, he feels the smoldering embers of the Dynasty. Though they cool and fade, he clutches them ever tighter. He will continue to serve his true master until his dying breath.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/yoji/?stories=True
Written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie. Illus. by Sam Yang.

Squeakers' Christmas

(Jump to Narrated Video)

'Tis the night before Christmas, and the air is ripe for the robbing. A crooked shadow vanishes through a window, stealthy as a huntsman. From her vantage point across the street, Azalea traces the path Arakni cleared. Steep rooflines, yawning alleyways, a traverse more treacherous than she would dare.

"Agile," she observes. "And sneaky too."

"None sneakier," agrees Lena Belle as she offers the ranger a brew.

"I call this one Festive Flare. No harmful toxins!"

Azalea glowers at the grubby bottle. "Honest? I spent two days bent over a barrel after your last concoction."

Lena Belle shrugs. "Bacteria, booze-the boundary is fuzzy. Besides, you needed time off."

"Give it here then." Azalea takes a swig of the caramel liquid and smacks her lips like a toff. "Not bad," she admits as she passes the bottle back. "From what is it brewed?"

"Centennial loaf-mold and skatrat. Fortified with Blood Rot, thrice stewed."

Azalea winces as the gorge rises in her throat. Lena Belle offers a reassuring smile, and an overly firm pat on her hooded cloak.

"The distillation kills all the pathogens. Nice, meaty backend though, right?"

Azalea's retort is stopped short by the opening of the Tekla Toy Factory from the inside. Arakni's masked face peers out, turning this way and that as they scan the pavement. They give a jaunty wave as they open a sewer grate and drop into a maze of effluent.

"Arakni's doing this for the kids?" asks Azalea with a grimace.

"Squeakers support squeakers," answers Lena Belle. "Besides, it's Christmas."

She gives the ranger a merry wink. "I still remember those socks you gave me when I was barely ten."

Azalea recalls it clearly. A rare moment of pity. Lena Belle has never let her forget!

"And you've given me socks every year since," complains Azalea. "Purple with gold stars last time."

"Don't worry." Another of those too hard pats on the back. "No gold stars this year. That would be a crime."

"Glad to hear it. Now where the bloody rot is Dash?"

On cue, the object of Azalea's impatience rolls up, her steam-wagon spouting aphotic gas. The mechanologist dismounts her contraption and greets them with a rowdy, "Helloooo!"

Azalea winces for the second time that night before cautioning Dash with an urgent, "Shoosh, you!"

"Sorry," whispers Dash when they're close enough to hear. "Can't wait to see the kids' faces when they unbox the presents this year."

"Let's just load up before we end up in boxes ourselves. The Enforcer kind, with bars."

"Trust me," assures Dash. "I have just the apparatus."

She produces a clunky brass controller, draws out the antenna and taps some buttons. With a bleep and a blop, an automaton crawls out of the wagon. Before Azalea can say, "Dregs-dammit! Enforcers," the wagon is runners-full of toys. Stolen for the squeakers, courtesy of the Expanse's most ungrateful girls and boys.

"All aboard!" yells Dash over the approaching sirens.

"Off with our hoard!" adds Lena Belle, to Azalea's chagrin.

The steam wagon lurches forward, almost bucking Lena Belle off the back. Azalea's quick reflexes save her from a tumble and a term in the Coppertown tank. They hold on for dear life as Dash adds more pedal to the metal. Skidding around corners. Whistling past Enforcers. Speed at nitro level.

And it almost works.

To the screeching of brakes, the wagon comes to a shuddering stop.

"The jig is up!" Squawks a pursuing Metrix cop. "Throw out your weapons and keep your hands in the air!"

Azalea shoots Lena Belle a baleful glare. "This is why I should never listen to your ideas."

"Except for this one," answers the alchemist with another merry wink. With a flourish, she produces her bottle of Festive Flare drink. With deft hands, she yanks an arrow from Azalea's quiver. Lashes the bottle to the shaft with a stained festive streamer. She unstoppers the bottle, shoves some cloth in its neck. Then she lights a match with a nefarious flick.

"Count to three," she tells Azalea. "And watch for the flash."

"Finally." Azalea straightens her bracers. "Time to take out the trash."

The arrow arcs across the sky, a flaming comet of doom. The blockade explodes with a resounding boom. Dash cranks the steam wagon back into gear. "Urgent delivery, coming through!"

And they streak through the wreckage down a dark tunnel destined for HQ.

"It's perfect!" hollers Dash as she waggles the plasma globe up and down. "First, a cup of Festive Flare, and now I have a gift?! Thank you, Lena Belle!"

The alchemist blushes, "You're welcome", then looks at Arakni perched nearby. It seems the assassin is admiring their new, more festive disguise.

"It's an animal from Aria, apparently. A snowfawn. Do you like it?"

Arakni nods, either in approval or bemusement-it's impossible to define it. Azalea hasn't seen Lena Belle this happy since she poisoned the Blackjack guards. The party was a success, squeakers scampering in from all corners, arm in arm. Dash laid on a magnificent feast, clocked to her expense account at Centennial Foods. And Arakni put on a pantomime, though its frightful finale dampened the festive mood. The entire event almost brought a drunken tear to the self-serving ranger's eye. A moment of weakness wiped hastily away. Mercenaries don't cry, they survive. She does, however, give in to childish excitement when a present is passed her way. Azalea tears the parcel open. Yellow with purple, blue and red hearts.

"Socks. Again?!"

Happy Holidays from LSS Creatives!
Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/squeakers-christmas/
Stories written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie Wen. Illus. by Sam Yang.

Narrated Video by Peranine

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Tidings in the Light

(Jump to Narrated Video)

Rays of golden sun kiss the once golden fields of Solana.

A cloaked figure pauses at the doorway of a ruined homestead, eyes lost in shadow as it looks across the embattled earth. The clamoring horde of the Demonastery is a chorus of rumbles and howls, like a foul storm brooding in the distance.

The figure checks for onlookers before darting into the war-torn house. Safe from prying eyes, it removes its fiendish mask. Its looming stature shrinks, its claws retract and soften, and its lean sinews contract and reform, sculpting an elegant new body sheathed in gold and pearl.

Shiyana steps from the crumpled cloak of the hideous old with a sigh of relief. She picks her way through the scattered bones of the home's inhabitants. Enough bones for a large family, scored with teeth marks, broken and sucked empty of their marrow. She looks through a shattered window at the Solarium in the distance, elegant in its radiance, and the comforting boundary of the Great Gates. It is a welcome sight after the boiling harshness of Volcor, after the raging fires of a land at war with itself.

Against the corruption that besieges it, Solana remains graceful; a bastion of order and beauty. It feels good to be home again, once more basking in the glow of a lighthouse, safe from the intrigues and conflicts she has survived for duty and devotion.

She crosses the bare and bloodied soil to the Solanian battle line where the city's surviving warriors defend the remaining farms and villages. Hands raised, she addresses the sentries, requesting they present her to their commander. Suspicious, swords at the ready, the warriors lead her into a stately marquee of cream canvas, golden banners fluttering from its whitewashed poles. The commander looks up from the map he has spread across a long table. His eyes are bloodshot with exhaustion, his normally shining armor scratched and smeared with gore.

"Gemini Shiyana," he greets her with a weary smile. "You are as welcome as the dawn."

"Boltyn, it is good to see you."

"If only it were under more cordial circumstances."

"The light will prevail."

"You bring fair news, then?"

She can sense his pain, the longing for hope. For his son, Aios. For the righteous many. Anything to fill the void left by the death of his beloved. His Eirina.

"Some." She hopes Sol will forgive her the lie. "For the Magisters' ears only."

"I'll arrange an honor guard."

"Better that I avoid attention."

Boltyn dismisses the guards with a wave of his hand. Shiyana places her mask on her face, transforming before Boltyn into a Solanian farmer, her smock filthy, her broad face streaked with dirt and blood, her dun brown hair lank against her skull.

"They are in the Council Chamber?" she asks.

"Indeed. The Magisters sit to decide the fate of this year's Solstice of Laurels. Our knights rightly deserve the Blessing of Sol, but some view the ceremony as an extravagance in these times."

Shiyana respectfully takes her leave before Bolton has a chance to grasp at the unrest she holds at bay. She joins the ragged procession of refugees entering the city through the southern gate, weaving through the crowd of the wounded and the homeless lying prone along the city's grand walkway. She expects to see despair. Instead, she witnesses kindness, bravery-people who continue to give when all has been taken from them. Their benevolence touches her, Sol's divine light growing the closer she gets to the Solarium.

In a vacant entryway she removes her mask, thus returning to her natural form. She whispers a poem as she steps from sandstone to solid marble, into the Great Hall of the Solarium, the cadence of her footsteps matching syllables from the refrain.

"Before the light of Sol, we stand,
The one true guide, illumined in our hearts,
Blessings of hope eternal against this unholy world,
We are yours, Children of the Light,
And in your glory, we shall prevail."

"Sol will prevail," she chants to herself, the strength of her voice ringing from the arches of marble and gold above.

As she nears the Amphitheatre, she has to shield her eyes against the brightness of the Grand Council chamber and the congregation of Magisters seated at its center. It seems like an age since these paragons last received her, radiant in their magnificent masks and mantles. In their presence, her anxiety recedes. Their light anoints her with hope.

The Librarian-Magister of History-is the first to notice her arrival. They turn to The Steadfast-the fifth and wisest Grand Magister to lead and guide Solana-and await permission to announce Shiyana's return. Shiyana shivers as The Steadfast's gaze passes over her, every fiber of her being drawn to them like a flower that follows the arc of the sun. The Steadfast nods their approval and The Librarian beckons Shiyana forward.

"We welcome the brightest and boldest of our Gemini," heralds The Librarian, "and give thanks to Sol for her safe return."

Shiyana raises her hand, her diamond spinning over her palm, and bows deeply, as is the custom. "I serve in the Light."

"For in the Light we are blessed," completes The Grand Council as one.

"How stands Volcor?" asks The Ambassador-Magister of Diplomacy.

"Neither for us nor against us, your Grace. Their-"

She pauses to order her thoughts. Should she burden the council with the convictions of the Phoenix? The rebel leader has vowed to fight on until Volcor is remade. What of Lady Dromai and the Royal Court, fighting amongst themselves while their land burns?

"Their concerns are their own, your Grace."

"You spoke with the Emperor, did you not?"

Even awash with the light of the Magisters, Shiyana can feel apprehension lurking, waiting for its moment to retake her.

"The Emperor is dead. Slain by an assassin."

She expects a chorus of surprise at the mention of it. But the chamber remains silent, not the faintest tremor of unsettlement to be heard. The Grand Magister looks upon Shiyana with a tranquil resolve that washes over her, warm and gentle, just how she remembers the waters of her own baptism as a tender child.

"Continue," speaks The Steadfast, a mere whisper that fills the Amphitheatre, ringing through the stone beneath Shiyana's feet, as if that lone word had resonated up from the deep foundations of Solana itself.

Like echoes to The Steadfast's cadence, Shiyana's words ring out of their own accord. She spins her summations, woven as they are from tenuous threads, unfolding a tapestry of tragedy. As a chambermaid, she witnessed the murderous rivalry between the Ezu and Alshoni; Dracai factions locked in a dynastic struggle. As a healer, she patched the wounds and listened to the stories of rebels under the banner of the Phoenix. As a scribe, she copied the words of Spymaster Xathari until his untimely demise. As General Riku's personal aide, she finally snagged a hole in this arras of silence. A symbol upon a seemingly banal parchment. A sign she recognized from a long ago mission in the depths of the Pits.

L'Apocalypta.

A cult sworn to unspeakable acts for unknowable reasons.

Shiyana speaks of the assassination itself. Posed as a lieutenant of the Royal Guard, she was among the first to hear Lady Dromai's cry of alarm. She glimpsed the carnage within the throne room, reeled at the raw stench of wanton massacre. But that was nothing to the almighty roar that followed, a sonance so deafening, so profound, it was as if Mount Volcor itself wailed in anguish at the loss of its chosen son.

"I know not if it was consequence or coincidence, harbinger or happenstance, yet all of Volcor suffered in the wake of that outcry. The earth was sundered. Lava rivers broke their banks."

"Not unusual for Volcor," dismisses The Bastion-Magister of Defense. "It is a land of volatile firmament."

"True, your Grace. Yet the suddenness, the violent scale, was beyond anything noted by the imperial historians. And there was something else. A sensation I have experienced many times, but never under such circumstances."

The Librarian leans forward, expectant. "Do explain."

"When I don my mask, when I change, I feel a ripple in the aether, as if I am a stone dropped into a pool of water. It is gentle, almost pleasant. This was the same, although much stronger, and not of my volition." She shudders at the memory. "The aether answered that ardent call and wreaked havoc in its wake."

"It is as we foretold," states The Librarian, their surety punctuated by the briefest of glances from The Steadfast. "Before the words, before belief, they slumbered in the bygone lethe, breeding dreams in twilife's gloom, until the awakening of i'Arathael's doom."

The Librarian's verse renders Shiyana speechless. How blind she has been despite the keenness of her eyes. How dim her thoughts are against The Grand Council's all-knowing presence. As if sensing the crack in Shiyana's confidence, The Steadfast raises their hand. It is a gesture befitting The Grand Magister alone, demanding patience and forbearance. Silence stretches out, growing weightier and more suffocating with every passing moment. The Amphitheatre, indeed the entire Solarium, holds its breath.

"Through the gathering dusk shall Sol's light burn ever brighter."

The Grand Magister's words shatter the silence like the sun breaking through a mantle of cloud. They turn to Shiyana, their blazing eyes searing through Shiyana's mind. Her petty ego scurries and squirms, trying to hide, trying to escape The Steadfast's ineluctable gaze. It cannot. One by one, her precious anxieties melt away, executed in iridescence. She is forged anew, impurities exorcized. A servant, an instrument, devoted to the glory of Sol.

"In the shade of destiny, devious minds hatch deviant dreams," intones The Librarian, slow and stately as the rising sun. "The schemes they brew are poisoned with greed and malice. Bereft of true Light, their designs will be but a passing disease, cured and forgotten."

In an act of luminous certainty, The Grand Magister stands and reaches outward with their hands as if gathering Shiyana, the Grand Council, Solana and all of Rathe in their embrace.

"There are others," assures The Grand Magister. "Allies worthy and courageous, who look beyond their fearful walls. Those who will strive with us for Rathe's brightest future."

The Grand Magister turns and acknowledges The Librarian, who nods their agreement in return.

"Sol knows this as certainly as the coming of the dawn."

The Grand Magister's voice is a sunlit sermon streaming over the morn, warming her after a long and frigid night.

"In Sol we trust."

"In Sol we trust," answers Shiyana without doubt, without thought.

"Sol will prevail."

"Sol will prevail," answers the Grand Council, euphonious and sure.

Shiyana joins the chorus as it soars to the highest arches of the Amphitheatre. Many voices joined as one, intoning the glory of their salvation. In that moment her heart and mind harmonize, reformed in the Light. There is no doubt. There is no fear. Only Sol.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/tidings-light/
Written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie Wen. Illus. by Henrique Lindner.

Narrated Video by Peranine

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The Spider's Trap

(Jump to Narrated Video)

(Warning: story features content that may be upsetting to certain readers.
Viewer discretion is advised.)

Uzuri savors her whisky as she stares out over the sprawling cess that is the Pits.

From the balcony of The Drop, a bar she owns under an assumed name, Uzuri lets her thoughts drift with the vapors that rise from the sunless streets. She can afford this momentary luxury, for everything is in its place. Timed and measured to the nth degree.

The faintest scrape alerts her to Arakni's presence.

"There's a front door, you know. Quite a nice one, too. Hand carved."

Perched on the railing, Arakni stares at her in silence.

"But then you're not one to appear where most would expect."

Arakni climbs down from the railing and approaches Uzuri's table.

"Show me the contract."

They produce a scroll from under their tattered cloak and place it on the table. Uzuri raises a manicured eyebrow.

"The Emperor of Volcor? You didn't think to question it?"

Quicker than thought, Arakni stabs a knife into the parchment, right through Uzuri's signature.

She slams her glass on the table in response, and is satisfied to see Arakni flinch, if only a little. "In the future, you have any misgivings, you voice them. Or in your case, write me a bloody note."

Uzuri pushes her chair back, giving herself room for what's about to happen.

As if on cue, the windows of The Drop explode inward. The floorboards tremble as armed women and men land among the startled patrons. Glass crunches underfoot as the bar empties in a panicked stampede, leaving only Uzuri, Arakni, and thirty masked assassins.

The leading cutthroat tugs down his kerchief, revealing a cruelly handsome face. Framed by clipper cut hair, piercing blue eyes and chiseled cheekbones, is a smug smirk that Uzuri has suffered for years.

"Whitetail."

"Uzuri."

"You're paying for those windows."

"I don't answer to you anymore," sneers Whitetail, his condescending laugh echoed by Blave and Carva. Two more of Uzuri's spider's nest turned traitor. No loss. The siblings share a lack of imagination that has oft tested Uzuri's patience.

"So, who do you answer to now? Can't be the Spider. Last time I checked, we don't pick sides." She taps the contract. "Nice forgery, by the way."

Whitetail shrugs the compliment off. "There are finer currencies than cash. What's money without power?"

Uzuri makes like she is going to stand, but Whitetail lifts a hand and wraps the other around the grip of a holstered blacktek pistol.

"No need to get up." He glances in Arakni's direction. "We're only here for them."

"Tidying up?"

"Terms of the contract. Nothing personal."

"Death is as personal as it gets."

Uzuri steps out from behind a pillar, her throwing knife drawn. There is no sign she moved, no passing of time. It's as if she were at the pillar all along.

The knife streaks across the room, nicks the ear of a ducking assassin, and sails out through a broken window. There is a muffled ring as it strikes something metallic outside.

"You missed!" scoffs Whitetail.

"Did I?"

With a clatter of running chains, steel jaws drop from the ceiling and snap up half a dozen assassins, hauling them thrashing and screaming into the rafters.

Blood showers down, the only rain the Pits ever sees. A bulky shadow looms in the broken window. Glinting eyes look up at the entrapped and dying. "Wriggle little fishes," rasps Riptide, his voice harsh as a falling guillotine.

Uzuri nods her approval, waits until Riptide has faded back into the shadows, then gets to some butchery of her own.

Carva is her first target. She drives her dirk into the woman's throat before she can go for her sword. With a twist, Uzuri rips open her jugular and voice box, and with a yank, pulls the shredded mess out of her neck. Carva clutches at the gaping hole under her chin, staggers, and falls. Uzuri leaves the traitor to drown in her own blood.

The next assassin comes in hard, dual hatchets swinging and slashing. Uzuri drops under the assault and sweeps the attacker's legs out from under them. Then she's on him, pinning his arms with her knees, squishing his face with her butt as she plunges her dirk into his groin. She drags the blade up through guts and chest, its edge so sharp that it cuts through bone as easily as flesh.

Blood fountains from the man's bisected body. A crossbow bolt streaks over his twitching cadaver, aimed at a space that Uzuri no longer occupies. Several strides away, she steps out from behind a pillar and flicks a copper-barreled dart into the face of the bewildered arbalist. The dart explodes on impact. Brains and fragments of bone spray from the woman's ruined head, blinding the startled swordsman beside her.

Uzuri makes the most of the surprise. She leaps across the intervening space like a cat pouncing on a rat, skewering the swordsman through the eye, her long dirk punching a bloody hole out the back of his head. She jerks the weapon free and takes cover behind the abandoned cocktail bar.

Out of the corner of her eye she glimpses a flurry of violence, Arakni thinning the crowd. She wipes blood and cerebral fluid from her dirk while counting. On "three" her loyal killers burst through the entrance, punctual as expected. Widow leads the pack, scything through the hirelings, severing limbs and decapitating heads with brutal abandon. Amber, Jape, Florence, and Silka fan out across the room, stabbing and slicing those distracted by the sheer ferocity of Widow's assault.

Uzuri rolls across a table, lands in a crouch and sends a throwing knife at Blave's leg. He goes down screaming as the blade bites deep into the meat of his thigh. She readies another knife for Whitetail, but the coward is sprinting for the balcony, too fast for her to intercept, even with her abilities-always was a fleet-footed bastard.

The fleeing fink leaps over the railing, and for a sweet moment Uzuri thinks he has chosen the fall over a slow and painful death at her hands. Instead, Whitetail pulls a cord in his bulky jacket and out billows a silken parachute.

Uzuri sprints to the railing and watches the turncoat sail out across the Pits. She raises her throwing knife, knowing the target is out of range, and opens her mind's eye to the alternatives.

The knife is gone, replaced by a short, barb-headed harpoon. She takes a couple of steps back, aims high, and launches the harpoon off the balcony. The missile arcs gracefully through the air and descends upon Whitetail's dangling form. There is a distant cry as it hits him in the back.

It was never going to be a fatal blow. Too far, even for Uzuri. More of a memento. Something to remember her by.

She turns and marches over to Blave. Around them, gasps and groans from the dying have replaced the sounds of fighting. Only Blave remains to tell the tale, and Uzuri is quick to slice out the juicy bits. The traitor bleeds out on the floor as Riptide lumbers in through the door. He nods a greeting to Arakni, then studies Uzuri with bloodshot eyes.

"Blave say anything interesting, boss?"

"Contract came from a ganger."

"Middle man?"

"Has to be. Too big a corpse for those little maggots."

"Which one you want to go after first?"

"All of them."

"How?"

Uzuri turns to Arakni, her smile as thin and sharp as a knife blade.

"Arakni has a bounty on their head. Let's see who wants to collect it."

Melten Wick squints up at the window that encircles the cavern's entrance. This is the place the squeaker spoke of, her voice all a-trembling as she described the masked monster hiding within.

A tip-off worth a few tallics to the squeaker, but a hundred thousand to the crew who serves up Arakni's head on a platter to Whitetail. Wick doesn't know what the assassin did wrong, and doesn't much care. He's got mouths to feed.

He beckons for his gang to follow as he passes under the dusty, broken panes. In the wan light, the scarred leader looks like a half-cooked sausage returned to the oven for extra crisp. It's the price he's paid for his love affair with the flame. A cost he'll happily suffer, over and over, for the warming blaze and sweet scent of roasting flesh.

Wick lets his eyes adjust to the gloom, the vast chamber lit only by a few green phosphor lanterns-Metrix issue-stolen from a Blackjack's Mining compound.

There, tucked into a makeshift shelter of fallen detritus, a misshapen figure lies dormant, the occasional twitch a sign of sleep. Wick presses his scarred finger to the skinned surface where lips once existed-a request for discretion from his fellow Torched-then gestures for the gang to surround the prey. Arakni's reputation precedes them, but Wick doubts they'll last long against his lot. Too many, even for the Huntsman.

He raises the spout of his flamethrower, ignites it with a spark from the starter, and shoots a gout of fire into the air. Arakni leaps off the heap, pouncing like his namesake upon one of the Torched as they rush in. The assassin's knives make swift and bloody work of the hapless ganger, but the victory is short-lived. Hemmed in by firebrands and bursts from flamethrowers, they soon lose any chance of attacking or escape. Two of Wick's bravest get close enough to hurl a net over them, bearing the quarry to the ground.

A grin cracks the smooth cast of Wick's melted face. Too easy. Perhaps the Huntsman's reputation is mere speculation. Perhaps-

A guttural roar derails his train of thought. From a side tunnel enters a hunched figure clad in skins and chain. With her sinewy arms, Cager hauls on a pair of leashes, restraining a brace of slavering dregs. Behind her, the rest of the Freakshow spills into the cave.

As if in answer, Wick hears a belch from the other side of the cave. Hands on hips, pale gut a sweaty avalanche, Slab glowers at the Torched. His hulking Blockheads spread out, readying for the charge.

Through the shattered glassway clatters another deplorable mob. Their bone bodyware makes a rattling racket as the Numbskulls take up fighting positions. Their skeletal overseer, Marrow, raises his scimitar as if to make one of his obscene pronouncements. Whatever depravity he intended to declare drowns under the weight of an explosion to the rear of the cavern.

The diminutive Madame Fuse dances in through the dust, followed through the fresh-blown entrance by the marching boots of her Jawbreakers.

It would seem that the squeakers have told tales to all and sundry, squeezing as many tallics from this bounty as possible. He'd threatened to slow-roast that girl over a barrel fire if she shared her news with anyone else, but who could know how many of her fellow street roaches she'd told first?

Wick sends an almighty blaze into the air from his flamethrower and addresses the uninvited guests. "You lots wants a burning?" he screams. "You can comes get one!"

It's the match that lights the fireworks. With whoops and howls, shrieks and growls, the gangers join in battle.

Moments later, Wick finds himself engulfing a Numbskull in a crackling inferno. The victim shrieks and stumbles about, crashing into others as she beats the flames with her burning hands. Her collisions set a Freak and one of Wick's own Torched ablaze. It matters not. When the flame is hungry, it will eat what it pleases.

He spares a glance for his prize, just in time to see Arakni slit the net open. Wick levels his flamethrower at the escaping assassin, but a curious detail gives him pause. Arakni's ghoulish facade is gone, replaced by a gas mask.

His racing brain has barely hurdled this surprise when another confounding fact enters the fray. A metal canister lands at his feet. He looks up to see more canisters tumbling down from the roof, dropped by a line of shadowy figures. The subsequent concussion blows Wick clean off his feet, the ganger landing hard on the concrete floor.

Winded and stunned, Wick looks up to see Slab looming over him. The Blockhead leader is saying something, but Wick can't discern it over the ringing in his ears. Then Slab coughs and splutters as gas rises in a green haze.

Wick tries to get up but his head is heavy, his eyelids droopy, his limbs unwilling. Slab crashes to the concrete beside him, unconscious. Wick has no choice but to slump down beside his arch enemy, unable to fight the choking intoxication.

Through the mist strides the lean, long-coated figure of Uzuri, her masked assassins at her side.

She points out the gang leaders she wants interrogated. Her nestlings get to work, all except Arakni. They take a knife from their sleeve, jab the point into Wick's arm, and use his blood to paint a message on Slab's bloated stomach.

Uzuri stifles a laugh. "A bloody note. Cute."

She reads the message, then signals for her crew to take Slab away. "One of them paid Whitetail off, but they're just the next link in the web. And what's the best way to unravel a weave?"

Arakni waits, still as a trapdoor spider.

"You cut one thread at a time."

She leaves her nestlings to clean up and strides out through the glassway with Arakni at her side. Riptide's waiting for them. The ranger falls in opposite the assassin, two contractors guarding their boss, watching for threats so that Uzuri can walk and think through the Pits' mean streets.

She lost the first move, but the second is hers. Whatever the game, she and her nest are done with playing by others' rules. They'll not kowtow to the codes of petty gangsters, nor to the laws of Metrix. They'll heed no pledge to regent and realm.

Assassins of the Spider live and die by their own accords.

For they are Outsiders.

...

Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/spiders-trap/
Written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie Wen. Illus. by Sam Yang.

Narrated Video by Peranine

(Jump to the Top)

Uzuri, Switchblade

"This is like no other place in Rathe. Life here isn't some wheel that turns from sun to moon, work to sleep. Life in the Pits ferments, humanity's scraps foaming and frothing into a heady brew."

Whitetail stretches out his arms to encompass the kinetic clamor of the street. "Intoxicating, isn't it?"

"Sure is," answers Uzuri, only sure of one thing: that Whitetail likes the sound of his own voice.

She walks with him through hawkers and hustlers, harlots and hucksters, all working on their next score. If the Pits is a brew, it's one that gets you drunk on hope, then drops you in the gutter with the roaches and rats. Uzuri's not been here that long, but the runaway learned fast not to drink too deeply of the Pits' dubious delights.

They round a corner of precariously stacked shanties. Whitetail points out a busy marketplace where fishermen sell anything from blindseal to bloatfin-monsters of the Seethe hauled ashore for the desperate digestion of the Pits' hungering inhabitants.

"That's where I took Baron the Butcher." Whitetail's smug smile takes on a wicked edge. "Disemboweled the big bastard with his own gutting knife. And up there..." He points to a looming chimney spewing noxious smoke. "I dropped Madam Rouge into a smelting furnace."

He places his hand on Uzuri's shoulder, much to her displeasure. He only gets to keep that hand because she needs the work. Needs it bad.

"Cross the wrong people and you get your name on a contract," continues Whitetail. "That's the Spider's business."

Her business too, if this deal goes well. "Where'd you hear about me?" she asks, masking her eagerness with nonchalance.

Whitetail removes his hand and waves it dismissively at no one in particular. "From the same people you made sure to inform of your exploits."

Uzuri covers a twinge of pride with a casual shrug. Her mother always said that spreading words is like sowing seeds. As a merchant on the Metrix to Misteria trail, her silver tongue touted her tantalizing tek to any ear within hearing.

"You're highly spoken of, kid, by some very low down people," continues Whitetail.

She allows the 'kid' bit, for now. "Same could be said of you and your nest of killers."

He breathes in the compliment, then exhales a peppermint-tinted question.

"You killed anyone before?"

A boy in Misteria. Did he deserve it? Uzuri still isn't sure. She's killed worse people since. But Whitetail reminds her of that big-mouthed youth.

"Only when they get in my way."

"Well, this one stands between us and a tidy payout." Whitetail passes her a sketch and a purse of tallics. "Overseer Crichton. Blackjack's Mining."

Uzuri covers her surprise; makes a show of hooking the purse to her belt. Suspicion follows. A Blackjack's overseer is a big hit, too big to entrust to an unknown like her. Whitetail should have contracted one of his experienced nestlings. Uzuri wonders why he hasn't?

They pass under a woven bamboo archway into Ankomeido. Home to the misfits and malcontents of Misteria, Ankomeido is a claustrophobic quarter of teetering apartments and squirming side streets, connected to each other by a criss-cross of neon cables and steaming washing lines. Too similar to the cliffs and ropes of Misteria for Uzuri's liking. She's happy to visit this part of the Pits for payment, but doubts she'll ever visit for pleasure.

"Why do you want him dead?"

"No reason either of us needs to know."

He stops near a noodle house, sniffs at the enticing aroma of fried chicken. Real chicken, by the smell of it. Not the usual 'sewer chicken'.

"The Spider doesn't work for favors or influence," recites Whitetail, like he's reading from a rulebook. "Coin is the Spider's only currency."

"My kinda philosophy."

Uzuri tries to suppress her rising anxiety. The more she learns, the more she wants to work for the Spider. But is this the job to get her in the door? Or is it something else?

"How do I find him?"

"The Leaf House on Sori 16. You know it?"

Uzuri nods, giving nothing away. She knows it, and she knows who runs it. This is an opportunity to learn more than Whitetail is telling her.

"There'll be a package waiting for you at the front counter."

Uzuri plays along. "Got people doing your spying for you?"

"The Spider is nothing without its web," quotes Whitetail.

"I'll keep that in mind." She turns to go.

"Don't hold back on this job," advises Whitetail, the smugness in his tone making Uzuri's skin crawl. "Do this and I'll take you on full time."

The offer sets her heart a-racing. But she plays it cool, shooting him a sharp look aimed to puncture his swollen head. "And I might consider accepting."

Uzuri turns her back on Whitetail and heads for The Leaf House. She can feel him watching her like a dreg eyeing a sewer chicken. Doesn't matter. Whatever game Whitetail is playing, she's going to win it. She'll prove herself worthy of the Spider.

The Leaf House is busy when Uzuri gets there, humming with conversation, clinking with porcelain pots and cups. The wait staff sweep between the packed tables, graceful in their embroidered gowns and elegant, jade-pinned hair.

A turned out waitress greets Uzuri with a professional smile.

"Table for one?" she asks.

"Package for one," answers Uzuri. "Whitetail sent me."

The waitress bows and produces a small parcel from behind the counter, wrapped in red rice paper.

"With compliments from Jemjang," offers the waitress as Uzuri takes the parcel from her manicured hands.

Uzuri tears the paper apart. The documents inside confirm her suspicions: it's a suicide mission. No way Whitetail would've wasted one of his experienced nestlings on a contract like this.

"I want to see her."

The waitress meets her demand with a tolerant smile. "You may make any further information requests to me and I will be sure to pass them on."

"Pass her this instead."

Uzuri takes a coin from her pocket. Its golden sheen glints in the lantern light. Around the hole punched in its center, a striped tiger slumbers. She flips it into the waitress' waiting hands. Her painted eyes flicker with recognition. She bows deeply and hurries off through a side door, returning moments later without the coin.

"Jemjang will see you now."

The waitress shows Uzuri into a cluttered office and leaves, shutting the door with a soft clink. Uzuri pauses for a moment before turning to face the fixer. Jemjang's perched on a cushioned chair behind an elaborately carved desk, resplendent in a silk dress, her face painted to perfection, her graying hair coiffed with care. She appraises Uzuri through gold-rimmed spectacles, and doesn't seem to like what she sees.

"Not what you expected?" snaps Uzuri.

"You have your mother's eyes. How unfortunate."

Uzuri bites back a retort, looking instead at a painting pinned to Jemjang's wall; a group portrait surrounded by the notes and observations of Jemjang's trade. A younger version of the fixer stands front and center, flanked by Uzuri's parents. Gathered behind them, tough and tattooed women and men pose for the painter, muscles flexed, eyes cold.

"I thought you might help me," states Uzuri, deadly calm. "For old times' sake."

Uzuri's father told her all about the Running Tigers and their smuggling business. Weapons. The occasional narcotic. Njeri handled Metrix, Hisato looked after Misteria, and Jemjang kept the thoroughfares open between them. A smooth operation, until it wasn't.

"Hisato betrayed me."

"He just wanted out. New life."

"Your mother's idea."

"Doesn't change what you promised them."

Jemjang nods, her jaw tight with grudging respect. "Your father's stubbornness. Your mother's wile."

Uzuri shrugs. "I work with what I'm given."

"What would you have me give you?"

Uzuri tosses the documents onto her desk. "A way out. All I see here is a dead end."

"You realize Whitetail isn't doing this one for the Spider. Gimlet Mining wants to muscle in on Blackjack's action. Crichton dies and Gimlet will owe Whitetail a substantial favor."

Uzuri points at herself. "And one less mouth to blab about his side hustle."

Jemjang drums her long, lacquered fingernails on the desk, weighing her options. At last she turns to the pigeonholes behind her, pulls out a scroll and passes it to Uzuri. Unfurled, it turns out to be a map, drafted by Blackjack's Mining Incorporated. Jemjang takes a brush from her desk, dips it in a well of red ink, and marks an X on the yellowed parchment.

"Where Crichton's mansion now stands," she explains. A second stroke of the brush marks a spot some hundred strides from the first. "Your way out. A mine shaft, covered and forgotten."

Uzuri thrusts the map into her jacket pocket and retrieves the documents from Jemjang's desk.

"Keep the coin. I've no further use for it."

"Be sure to tell your father that we're even."

"Of course, next time I'm in Misteria." Meaning, never.

That night, Uzuri is delivered to Crichton's Maw estate in a stinking meat wagon. She waits in her cramped secret compartment until the overseer's servants carry the cured pork away, then sneaks into the shade of his towering mansion.

Over the pounding of her heart, Uzuri hears the wagon rumble out of the grounds, tall iron gates clanging shut behind it. She's locked in now, behind brick walls patrolled by Blackjack's archers, their quivers bulky with incendiary arrows.

The mansion itself is a magnificent display of ego. Stained-glass windows. Copper flashings. Bronze effigies of Blackjack's founding figures. All of it perched on a Northmaw ledge, positioned to catch that most rare of Pits commodities: sunlight from the pit mouth above.

The ground patrols prove too frequent for her to climb the brickwork without being seen. She needs to make a gap. Uzuri steps out of the shadows in front of an armored hulk of a man. Startled, the merc opens his beard-rimmed mouth to raise the alarm. Her throwing knife hits him between the tonsils. Choking, blood gushing down his jaw, the guard yanks the knife free. Uzuri ducks in with her dirk, aiming to jam it into his jugular. He's quicker, less distracted than she'd hoped. He catches her wrist in a gauntleted hand, squeezes so hard that the chain links dig into her skin, drawing blood. With his free hand, he raises his mace, fixing to tenderize her like a steak.

Out of desperation, Uzuri musters her ability, imagining a different weapon. The merc gurgles and chokes, impaled through the neck by the sword Uzuri now grips in her hand. He releases her and staggers as Uzuri pulls the sword free. She uses his own momentum to push the dying man behind a broad statue, then cleans and sheaths her weapon, a dirk once more. After retrieving her throwing knife, she climbs the mansion like a spider up a web.

Using her glass-cutting tool, she accesses a window on the third floor, stalking through the quiet corridors until she finds the master bedroom. Crichton is a plump parcel wrapped in sheets, boxed in by his four-poster bed. A gift for Uzuri to rip open.

She hesitates, dirk in hand, having killed no one in cold blood before. In self-defense, as vengeance, yes. But this man-he's done nothing to her. She grits her teeth, clamping down on that pang of guilt. Coin is the Spider's only currency. This is the business.

The dirk is gone, replaced with a straight razor. She places her hand on Crichton's forehead like a mother checking the temperature of a feverish child. He stirs, but doesn't wake until Uzuri draws the razor across his throat. His eyes snap open. He gasps for breath but sucks in nothing but blood. Uzuri leans hard on his forehead, pinning him to the bed as he struggles in vain. Blood soaks the sheets, seeps into the mattress, as Crichton's movements weaken and finally stop. Uzuri takes her hand from his forehead, brushes his eyelids closed with her fingertips, and wipes the razor on his pillow. By the time the blade is clean, the razor has become her dirk once more.

Outside, an alarm bell rings. The dead guard has been discovered. Uzuri saws off a couple of plump fingers for proof and pops them into an oilskin pouch. Then she's off at a sprint, rushing past the rousing servants, hurtling down stairs until she's stopped in her tracks by the thumping of hobnailed boots on carpet.

An exit presents itself as a bronze maiden and a lead-light window. She hefts the nude, smashes the glass, and dives through. She hits the ground hard, despite her attempt to roll through the impact. Winded, lungs and guts burning, she stumbles to her feet, pressing on at a limping run.

From the walls, the archers adorn her path with explosions, their incendiaries erupting to either side, spraying her with dirt. She weaves as best she can, making herself a tough target until she reaches the mine shaft marked on Jemjang's map. It's boarded shut, planks nailed down so tight that it'll take precious minutes to pry them loose.

Uzuri takes a throwing knife from her belt and lays it flat on the wood. As she moves her hand away, the knife disappears, replaced by a stick of dynamite. She waits. Moments later, an incendiary arcs down towards her-an admirable feat of marksmanship by a ranger on the wall. Uzuri rolls away, settling into a crouch close by. Too close. Her ability isn't an exact science, unable to predict the potency of nitroglycerin. The incendiary arrow ignites the dynamite on impact. The explosion is deafening. Shrapnel peppers Uzuri, shards of metal and splinters of wood tearing through her clothes, lacerating her skin. She shields her face, winces through the pain, then looks with weeping eyes at the smoking hole left behind. She dives in, but not before gifting the archers an obscene gesture.

The next evening, bathed and bandaged, Uzuri finds Whitetail at a bar called The Drop. While he makes a good fist of hiding his surprise, Uzuri can tell that her appearance has put a dent in his composure.

She sits at his table and drops Crichton's fingers in his wine jug. Whitetail eyes them with distaste, and then her with even less pleasure.

Uzuri rests her hand on the leather grip of her dirk and meets his baleful glare.

"Coin is the Spider's only currency," she quotes, voice as smooth as silk.

"You want more?"

"I exceeded expectations, didn't I?"

"How much of a bonus are we talking about?"

"Depends how quiet you want me to be."

Whitetail sighs, then takes a purse from his belt and pushes it across the table. She picks up the pouch, enjoys the heft of tallics inside.

"Thanks. Almost enough."

"Almost?" The arrogance is back, accessorized by a deadly glint in his blue eyes.

"Nothing else you need to give me. In fact, it's something I want you to keep."

"What is it?"

"Your promise."

Whitetail laughs, impressed. "Alright, kid. Guess you might as well learn from the best." He offers her his hand. "Welcome to the Spider."

Uzuri takes his hand in hers. The other remains wrapped around the handle of her dirk.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/uzuri-switchblade/?stories=True
Written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie Wen. Illus. by Nikolay Moskvin.

The Iconoclast Trials

Patient 1413 came into my care after an 'incident' at Shuntswitch Railway Station. From what I could gather from eyewitness accounts, the youth appeared in the aftermath of an attack by alchemical mutants-those post-people colloquially known as dregs.

A sortie of said specimens emerged from the tunnels of the Skein and assaulted the shroom farmers who use the Shuntswitch line for supply and distribution. Armed with only hammers and sickles, the rail workers and farmers dispatched a baker's dozen of the wretches before the rest fled back into the depths of the Pits.

A train driver found the youth soon after, clinging like a rust spider to one of the loading cranes. After quite the fracas, and no small number of minor injuries, the youth was subdued and brought to Southmaw Asylum where I took them into custody for study and treatment.

Through careful observation, I deduced that 1413 was 'raised' among the deviant tribes in the darker hollows of the Skein. Their mannerisms were uncultivated. In fact, primitive in the extreme. They lacked any rudiment of verbal language, although I was able to discern and learn their twitches and stances; gestures that must have passed for communication amongst the degenerates of the subject's pack. Through interrogation and intensive observation, I soon came to realize the exciting potential of this nugget in the raw.

In terms of kinaesthetic aptitude, 1413 was a paragon. Never had I witnessed such agility, such harmony over movement. Thus, I confined them to the highest security wing of our institution and petitioned our Metrixian benefactors for funding and certain specialist resources. Seeing the same potential as I, they were most willing to oblige, and so began the next phase of the Iconoclast Trials.

Doctor Krest Mortimer,
Director of Southmaw Asylum

The klaxons howl through the smog-smothered night. Searchlights bore eerie tunnels through the cloying vapor, probing like a surgeon's fingers into a bleeding wound. 1413 waits until one such scrutinizing shaft has passed by before diving from the asylum's outer wall.

Such a drop would have killed a regular person, left them shattered, pulped upon the pavement. 1413 folds and rolls with sublime timing, channeling the force of impact through a musculature refined by scalpel and chemistry, converting mortality into momentum that propels the subject into the shrouded streets.

No-one escapes Southmaw, it is said. A point of pride so old it has become a tradition, for the institution's influence extends well beyond its cells and walls. The surrounding neighborhoods thrive on the asylum's work and custom. Survival has made them loyal.

Lights flick on. Inhabitants tumble out of doorways, torches and truncheons in hand. Faced with opposition on every corner and causeway, 1413 takes to the rooftops, only to find them as populace and patrolled as the streets.

Harassed by a chorus of alarm, 1413 dances from near miss to imminent peril. Individually, even in small numbers, these people would be no match for the escapee's prowess. They are fat-limbed slugs waddling in the wake of grace. Yet there are so many. A field of grasping hands and flailing clubs. Exhausted and overwhelmed, 1413 finds themselves cornered in a dead-end alley, a sleek predator driven to deadly desperation by the bleating mob.

Orderlies close in with nets and sick-sticks, their hulking forms padded out with armor. 1413 feels the ache of hunger in their entrails, not for food, but for the fight-for the iron tang of blood in the air. They won't go back. This morsel of freedom is the sweetest thing they've tasted in years. No longer will they swallow the bitterness of confinement, the sour metal of drugs and tests, the foul duet of mindless drudgery and shivering pain.

They eye up a butcher, the fool's carving knife tucked and forgotten into his belt. They ready themselves to pounce; to go down cutting and bleeding.

The closest aide stops in her tracks. 1413 follows her gaze to the object jutting out of her chest. A copper-barreled dart, the point embedded in the orderlie's armor. Harmless, until the shaft blinks with scarlet light. Once, twice, thrice. The aide explodes. Flesh and blood splatters across the onlookers. There's a moment of shocked silence, ruptured by a scream. A second aide scrabbles to tug a dart from his shoulder. He fails-his hands made clumsy by thick gloves-and disappears in a puff of viscera. Two more corporeal eruptions and the gore-soaked mob breaks. The spectacle has become a slaughterhouse and the livestock trample over each other to escape it.

1413 watches the orderlies flee, fascinated, until a rope strikes them on the shoulder. They grab hold of the lifeline, allowing their sapped body to be hauled upwards. On the precipice of a rooftop, strong hands grab and haul them onto the slats.

Shrewd eyes look them up and down. Balanced on the roof's ridge, the figure's stance is lithe and ready, her heavy coat offering only a glinting hint of the murderous instruments hidden within. Her voice is as smooth and sure as her aim.

"Hello, little spider."

1413's instinct is to run, but the woman's smooth voice is an intoxicant to their curious mind; her steady presence is almost hypnotic.

"Southmaw's a tricky place to leave. Even harder to leave behind." Her gaze flicks back to 1413, pinning them like a moth to a display board. "I might have a use for you."

She turns, pauses, then looks back over her shoulder. Her smile is like a cold flash of steel in the hot and heavy night. "Come on, then."

Without question, 1413 follows her over the rooftops of The Maw, trailing her downward into the Pits. It's a homecoming, of sorts. The familiar tunnels oozing with fresh promise. 1413 doesn't know where they're going, but it can't be worse than where they've been.

Patient 1413 has escaped even our most stringent security measures. I do not consider this a failure. No. By all accounts, it is a resounding success. I am sure our benefactors will agree once I have presented them with the findings of my research. The Iconoclast Trials will continue.

For my part, I keenly await the reunion with my prodigal subject. They might resent the confinements, but do not all parents seek to protect their children? They might cringe from the discomforts, but do not all fathers seek to draw the best out of their progeny, even when it hurts them to do so? It is one of life's inescapable certainties that there can be no growth without pain.

When they return, I expect they will peel open the shell of this mighty cloister and pluck me like a tender mollusc from my bed. I can think of no more satisfying conclusion to my experiment. No greater testament to my work. To justify all those failures, all those losses, Patient 1413 will be an exceptional success.

Doctor Krest Mortimer,
Director of Southmaw Asylum

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/arakni-solitary-confinement/?stories=True
Written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie Wen. Illus. by Henrique Lindner.

Riptide, Lurker of the Deep

Riptide breaks the tension by squeezing the sore on his shoulder between thumb and forefinger. The pain shoots up his neck and into his skull, offering a momentary distraction. The sore gives with a satisfying pop, erupting ichor that streams down his bulky bicep and drips onto the corroded iron of his forearm. The pain recedes as Riptide wipes meat and mechanics clean with a cloth drenched in alcohol. He takes a swig from the bottle for good measure, relishing the pungent warmth as it passes down his throat.

The waiting is always the hardest bit. After the concentration of design, the busywork of the build, the waiting stretches out, unbroken, like algae on the waters of the Seethe. The anticipation gnaws at his guts. Impatience bites at his stiff back. He wishes the bloody prey would hurry and get caught. Then he can get moving again. On to the next project. Whether sailing or hunting, salvaging or inventing, Riptide is not a man who likes to sit still for long.

A barge chugs by laden with tenatan ore, bound for uplift to Metrix. His boat bobs in its wake, jerking at its mooring like an excited dog. Riptide's parked across the channel from his trap, in the shadow of a looming brick warehouse. On the other bank, outside a seedy casino, his bait wakes with a start. It only takes a moment for the pain to kick in, for the injured man to wail like a newborn in the wee hours. Riptide can almost sympathize. Getting your leg caught in the jaws of a dreg trap would sting a bit.

The stricken gangster tries to haul the jaws apart with his bare hands. They budge, only to snap back and pinch even tighter, bloodying his fingers in the process. Riptide sighs. Just another thug with brutality for brains. A good screamer though.

As the Boss predicted, the man's pitiful cries awaken the inhabitants of the casino. Lanterns are lit. The main door opens. Bleary-eyed henchmen spill out onto the street, fresh from whatever sack they drunkenly slumped into last night. Bald heads gleam in the lamplight. Snarling mouths reveal teeth filed to points. Tattooed hands brandish blacktek pistols. Most are bare chested, showing off the scale and fin symbols of their Piranha affiliation. They're angry from the rude awakening, ready to rumble. Easy pickings for the trap Riptide has set for them.

With the street so strewn with rubbish, and their brains still fuggy with grog, the Piranhas fail to notice the latticework of pins and tripwires Riptide laid out under the cover of darkness. With all the salvaging he's done in the dimmest reaches of the Seethe, he can see fine in the gloom. Like the rest of him, his peepers have adjusted to life in the Pits, for better or worse. Amongst the filth and ferocity, he's made a home away from home. He sometimes dreams of the open sea, of his time on the Kraken. Trawling through those waves, plundering whatever the winds brought across their bow. Chasing leviathans through the glittering icebergs of Tempest Straits. Watching pirate hunters burn on Griefers Reef. It was a fine life, while it lasted.

The first Piranhas trip his wires as they move in to help their stricken comrade. Even from across the channel, he can hear the click and swoosh of his traps being triggered. A circular saw blade flies out of the shadows and takes the lead gangster's head clean off. It's with no small pride that Riptide notes the exactness of that decapitation. He pats the preserved heads that hang from his belt. Clean removal is the trick with trophies. Can't be marring the merchandise with sloppy workmanship.

The next three Piranhas lose their noggins in a similar fashion. One blade flies a little high, a bit too slow, cutting through the victim's upper lip, grinding to a quivering halt just below his earlobes. Riptide 'tut tuts' himself for that one. Should've triple-checked the tensions.

The remaining gangsters spread out in a panic, hoping to make harder targets of themselves. But there's no targeting involved. That would've required Metrixian tek - a load of fancy - smartass automation Riptide has neither the coin nor the patience for. He likes his devices simple and fashioned from everyday junk. Letting machines think for you? That there's a recipe for breeding stupidity.

Blades fly out at the Piranhas from all directions as they blunder through his perimeter wires. To his amusement, a single blade slices through two lined up gangsters, parting legs from torsos with razor sharp ease. A few are quick enough on their feet to get winged rather than bisected, their screams joining with the agonized hollering of Riptide's original bait. A melodious barbershop of bothers. Just what the Boss ordered. The louder it gets out front, the more attractive it becomes for her quarry to slip out the back.

And like clockwork, the rear door of the casino opens and out pops a gun-toting gangster, then another, followed by a fine-suited man, proprietor and bean counter, the gent that the Boss wants a quiet word with about takings and percentages.

Riptide picks up his bow, flexes his metallic hand, and lines up the farthest of the two bodyguards. The heavy arrow skewers the man like a harpoon through a blubbery blindseal. To his credit, the surviving meat shield does his job, covering his employer with his fleshy bulk. It makes for a tricky shot. Wouldn't do to puncture the prize. So Riptide waits until the target has moved his bald mug, just so. The arrow punches through the man's face, popping his head like one of Riptide's bulbous sores.

The bean counter stands there for a gormless, gore-smeared moment, before a lean, long-coated figure steps up behind him and drives a syringe through his white collar. He flinches and flops as the sedative takes hold, toppling him like a carcass on a killing room floor. Other figures appear out of the closest alleyway, pushing a tumbrel between them. They haul the suited gentleman onto the tray and carry him off into the half light.

The Boss tucks her syringe into one of the many pockets in her coat, looks across the water at Riptide, and gives him a nod. Shrewd woman, that. Would've had her people watching him the whole time, to make sure he fulfilled his contract. He'd never dream of reneging on a deal, not with this boss. Every job challenges his ingenuity, and the weapons she asks him to design are as delightful to make as they are deadly to wield. Nor does he mind the air of mistrust. Part of him appreciates the attention.

The slightest smile twists his mutilated face as he watches her stride off into the awakening morn. A productive start to what will be a rewarding day for all concerned.

He sets down his bow, takes up his oar, and paddles across the channel. Blades to retrieve. Trophies to claim. Traps to tweak. No point in waiting about.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/riptide/?stories=True
Written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie Wen. Illus. by Henrique Lindner.

Prism, Awakener of Sol

War rages on between the Shadow and the Light.

Solana's fields are no longer golden. Where pastures and villages once bathed in the sun, only ravaged earth and scorched skeletons remain. Solana faces the Demonastery's vengeance with neither advantage nor known ally, and with nowhere to run.

Tended to by the Demonastery's favored daughters, Levia and Vynnset, the Dimenxxional Gate pours forth a dark tide of monstrosity. Pacts sealed in blood and soul with Embra of unspeakable ambition have galvanized the servants of the Shadow, and íArathael's most demiurgic climes continue to exude a horde like no other.

And still, Sol's most faithful fight on. Shiyana seeks out the enemy's foulest secrets while Prism scours the city's archives for words of power and hope. Dorinthea and Boltyn lead the Hand of Sol in Solana's defense, saving those who can be saved, and avenging those who cannot.

Yet with each grim day, the graveyards swell under a darkening sky. Each fearful sunset, the people of Solana hold out for a dawn they may never see in the endless dusk.

Unity In Light

Darkness, the canvas of the universe. Light, the brushstroke of creation. Each mark setting life into motion. Each line connecting us to our history. And it is through these histories, whether legend or myth, remembered, rewritten, that we journey forward, hoping to free ourselves from the past. Light is the path we paint through the Shadow.

It was Prism who taught me that, among many a scripture and saga with which she graced this humble bard. Yes, that same Prism who turned to her books when the horizon turned to Shadow, who searched the lore of distant millennia for a glimpse of salvation. The tenacious Prism who studied day and night, a warrior of words no less brave, no less stalwart, than the knights fighting in Solana's fields.

Having pushed herself to exhaustion, she laid her head upon the pages of a most particular book: the Legends of the Flow. As her eyes closed, her mind opened to a spectrum beyond the imaginings of even I, the most inspirited of Aria's poets. Upon gossamer wings, she soared through a shimmering stratosphere. Another world stretched out below her like a vast, stained-glass window.

íArathael.

In that strange realm, she saw things most wondrous and terrible. Rivers of sapphire snaking through forests of emerald. Warm seas of ruby radiating against shoreline palaces of silver and gold. Beings that streaked across the landscape like shooting stars in the night sky. A molten landscape shifting and seething in a fever of metamorphic fury, dreamed into existence by a slumbering Aesir of incandescent rage. A desolate tract of rot and ruin, and a monstrous giant, fleshed with a thousand corpses, that tore open the veil between íArathael and Aria.

Alas, for the latter, this flawed narrator must admit some modicum of culpability. Yes, it was I, Yorick, who welcomed that execrable Embra to our fair doorstep. In my momentary ignorance, my fleeting vanity, I knew not the power of my own words.

I had cracked it, you see, the code of those ancient Yvorian texts I had so meticulously inscribed into my notebook. With promises most emphatic, I led the wisest man I know, Oldhim, Grandfather of Eternity, to meet the venerable and worldly Maela, sages of Everfest. As fortune would have it, Bravo had also chosen that moment to seek counsel with the Maela. I am not ashamed to admit that I struggled to still my beating heart. To have such a showman amongst my already esteemed audience was, frankly, a jewel in this jester king's tawdry crown.

With all eyes upon my person, all ears attuned, I opened my trusty notebook and spoke those fateful words. Well, I barely made it through the first sentence. The eldest of the Maela, a white-haired matriarch with a lone, wild eye, rose with such a start that I thought her to be having an attack of the heart. Her fearful pallor certainly spoke of heartfelt conniptions.

"For Ollin's sake, shut up!"

If only she'd been a tad quicker off the mark. For upon uttering the last word, something plucked our marquee from existence. Well, not entirely. As the astute Prism explained to me later, we were like the batons of a juggler, hovering on the brink of actuality. Neither flying nor falling, neither awake in Rathe nor dreaming in íArathael.

And we were not alone.

A cadaverous colossus placed its weeping foot in the center of our circle. The rest of the towering mort soon followed, accompanied by the most wretched stench it has been this storyteller's misfortune to inhale. Still do I cough and splutter upon a chilly morning as my poor lungs struggle to expunge that lingering fug.

It seems nothing can surprise Oldhim anymore. While the rest of us reeled, he lumbered into battle, his great shield raised to protect us from the ancient foe. Yet with disbelieving eyes, we saw our staunch Guardian get swept aside, his shield knocked from his grasp; his stolid frame tossed into the air like a child's figurine.

My bowels turned to water in that frightful moment for surely I was about to perish. So many tales left untold, so many songs unsung; my life cut short by my own misguided ambition.

Thank fate for Bravo!

Summoning the tectonic forces of the firmament, the Star of the Show smote the ground with his hammer. Such was the shuddering of the earth that it brought the giant to its knees.

Yet as he raised Anothos to clout the monster, another vision dazzled us all. Such splendor! Such beauty! Even the ancient Embra seemed momentarily awestruck.

"Stay that mighty hammer of yours," warned the winged paragon as she alighted beside Bravo. "I will aid in banishing this beast whence it came."

"Whence?" Bravo laughed, covering his surprise well. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"Prism of Solana. Please, allow me to help."

"Bravo of Aria, and you're most welcome."

Together they fought the Embra in that place in between. Prism blinded it with beams of holy light while Bravo bound it with ice and struck it with lightning. Step by retreating step, they drove the monster backward. With rays of hope and enlightenment, Prism empowered the hammer stroke that sent the primordial pest back into the embrace of íArathael. Then, with soulful auras, she mended the rift behind it.

As one, the Maela rose to greet this Prism of Solana, and to congratulate our courageous Bravo. Oldhim, having recovered somewhat from his brutal defeat, bowed his thanks to this devastating duo.

When One Eye asked the Solanian how she had found her way to Aria, Prism warned of the waning barrier between that which was and that which might be; so weakened now that a mere dream might become a deed. She told of Solana's plight, of a civilization under siege by the forces of Shadow. With illusions conjured from her memories, she showed these adventurers the demonic hordes and the horrors they had wrought. With open hands, she expressed her desire to find friends and allies -- those who would stand with Solana against the rising darkness.

Of course, then dear Prism had to mention the Embra she had seen escape into Aria. The Embra she had pursued hoping to help those it would surely endanger. When the glowering One Eye pointed to the inscription in my notebook like it was evidence in a trial, Prism's lovely eyes widened with fascination. For she recognized those potent texts and the primeval secrets they surely contained. She held the Maela rapt with interest! Even from what little she read, her conclusions were startling.

"There is so much more I could decipher," spoke Prism, "if only I could study this tome within the Library of Illumination."

In a meeting of minds that would entwine the destinies of Aria and Solana, Prism and the Maela formed a pact. It would be a union not simply of knowledge, but of courage and strength. For the sages and the scholar understood, in that most pivotal of moments, that to understand Rathe's future, they must first protect it.

One Eye rose to her feet to address Grandfather Oldhim, Bravo Star of the Show, and I, your humble narrator.

"Through timeless shroud the Embra tore,
Blackening mountains, bloodying our shores,
The vales echoed with souls in pain,
Wailing for suffering, weeping for the slain,
Until desperate times called desperate folk,
To cast out fear, to throw off the yolk,
With hammer and shield, the Guardians rose,
Rallied by the cries of Aria's woes,
These Ollin brave, these Ollin true,
Terrors they felled, nightmares they slew,
Until Aria awoke to the break of a dawn,
In a realm made free, a land reborn."

"I can't speak for Aria," answered Bravo, "but this is the calling I've been waiting for. From that day in the Fractal Scar, when I absorbed the Flow, I have felt the strife in this world. I have yearned to help Rathe however I can." He knelt before Prism and offered Anothos up with outstretched arms. "I will aid Solana in its time of need, just as I know Solana will aid us in ours."

"When the terrors return, so must the Ollin," agreed Oldhim. "A new Ollin for a new age." He rested a gnarled hand on Bravo's shoulder. "With a new champion to lead us."

All eyes turned to me, and of course I vowed my allegiance to Bravo and the Ollin reborn. Considering my folly, the summoning of an Embra that might have slain us all, I had rather a lot of making up to do.

I entrusted my notebook to Prism, and in the days that followed, continued to play my part, spreading the call of the Ollin from forest to vale, from mountaintop to cellar. Before long, a host had gathered at Everfest, hundreds of Aria's finest fighters, ready to march to Solana's aid.

The Maela had long ago come to some spiritual agreement with the Korshem -- that great and inexplicable tree that has ever welcomed the wayward in its ancient embrace. Among roots like mountain ridges, they laid their runes and spoke in languages forgotten by most. The great tree answered with a creaking of boughs, a whisper of leaves, and parted the Flow before us. We, the Ollin, ventured forth, breaching our own fair borders for the first time in an age.

The journey was as wondrous as it was wearisome, for none among us had witnessed a Rathe that was not Aria. Yet we had little time for gamboling and gawping. Prism set us at a cracking pace, and not one of us complained, for all could feel the nipping of dire urgency at our heels.

With anticipation rising to a fever pitch, it was almost a relief when, after many days of breakneck travel, Prism led us out on to a raised plateau. Where pastures and villages had bathed in the sun, only ravaged earth and scorched skeletons remained, languishing beneath a smoke-choked sky. Below us, the tides of Light and Shadow smashed against each other. The Hand of Sol, resplendent in shining armor, held a fortified town against a swarm of the Demonastery's monstrosities.

While I literally quivered in my boots, Bravo took in the scene with a cool eye. Bravo called his orders, his showman's voice cutting through the din of battle. He arrayed Lexi and her wayfarers, and any able to wield arcane forces from afar, along the rugged edge of the plateau. He gathered his shield-bearing Guardians into a V-shaped vanguard and asked Briar and her Rosetta to follow close behind the armored ranks, ready to leap into the fray and unleash a runic assault when the time came. Finally he looked to Prism as she rose above our fighters upon gleaming wings.

"Any last words of encouragement?" he asked.

She shook her head, fair locks shining like the sun through storm clouds. "On this day, my brave friends, actions shall speak louder than any ode or song."

Bravo nodded his agreement and raised Anothos. With a roar of battle-ready bravado, he charged down the slope, the new Ollin thundering behind him. Naturally, I remained upon the ridge with Lexi and her wayfarers. A bard's true fight is with the page, after all.

Arrows and spells streaked over the Ollin vanguard, reaping swathes of death through the close-packed demons. Our fighters plowed into the enemy's flank. Shields held the slavering foe at bay while hammers smashed them to a pulp. Between timed gaps in the shield wall, Runeblades darted forth to cut the monsters to ribbons.

Some of us fell. Rough-hewn axes cleaved through our guardians. Jagged pikes skewered our runeblades. Claws tore our warriors apart. Yet Bravo led his resolute Ollin on, right into the foul heart of the horde. With earth, ice and lighting, Bravo struck down the Demonastery's towering lieutenant. The horde howled in collective agony and broke before the Ollin's unrelenting advance.

In the moment of respite that followed, the Hand of Sol pressed forward, cutting down monsters as they tried to flee. As the last creatures fell, three battle-worn figures emerged from the ranks of knights and crossed the carnage of battle to greet their unexpected allies. It was later that I found the names of these doughty heroes. Dorinthea Ironsong, Ser Boltyn, Breaker of Dawn and Shiyana, Diamond Gemini.

Dorinthea clasped hands with Bravo, Oldhim, and Briar -- a warm meeting of comrades in arms, already bonded in the forge of war. In a similar fashion, Boltyn greeted me, Lexi, and her rangers once we had descended from the ridge. With outstretched wings, Prism settled in front of Shiyana.

"You surprise me," offered Shiyana with a sparkling smile that made my heart pound. "You are remarkably good at making friends... for a librarian."

Prism laughed, Shiyana's humor a welcome relief to the horrors of battle. "What good are stories if they cannot bring people together?"

I could not agree more.

Shiyana looked at the enemy in the distance, their shattered formation regrouping around a fresh lieutenant. "Then let us see how this story ends."

And so, side by side, the heroes stood, ready to face the darkness to come, painting a future in the visceral hues of courage and blood. They charged as one, a legion of pure purpose, to snatch victory from the jaws of shadowed defeat. They fought for Solana. They fought for Aria. They fought for a world now balanced on a knife edge between the Dusk and the Dawn.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/unity-in-light/
Written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie Wen, Sam Yang. Illus. by Jessketchin

Falling In Darkness

Creation and destruction, an endless cycle of hope and despair. One cannot exist without the other, yet neither can they be equal, balanced. In Summer, the enlightened hours stretch like cats basking in the sunlight. In Winter, darkness curls close around our shivering flesh. Each day a battlefield as the Dusk and Dawn wax and wane.

The fighters of Solana and Aria threw back the demon horde with unified defiance, slaughtering the monstrosities until carcasses piled high across the Golden Fields. Yet still, the Demonastery spewed out an endless flow of aberration.

Days of courageous defense stretched into weeks of desperate withdrawal. Despite the struggle and sacrifice, the remaining towns fell. Dorinthea held the road, her knights giving their all-and their ultimate-to protect the last refugees of Solana's once proud sovereignty. As the final straggler limped through the gateway, Ironsong ordered the retreat. Lightning-tipped arrows rained down from the ramparts, Lexi's rangers forming a bulwark of elemental mortality. They held the foe at bay as the remaining Rosetta, Ollin, and Hand of Sol fled behind the safety of Solana's walls.

The last of the eight great gates swung closed with monumental grace. Its sealing kiss forged such a resounding peal of metal on metal that it rang like a temple bell across the city. Dorinthea looked at the people she had saved, the blood-smeared faces of parents clutching ragged children, too shocked, too exhausted to cry. Dorinthea clenched her teeth against the acid guilt that rose like bile in her throat. The Hand of Sol had vowed to protect these people, a promise in their Aesir's name, a just reward for years of worship and service. Now livelihoods were gone, homes burned, loved ones killed and consumed. They had failed. Dorinthea had failed - again.

"I know that look," said Boltyn as kindly as he could, though weariness made his words sound brittle. "We held them longer than we thought. Saved more lives than we hoped."

"We can thank our friends from Aria for that."

"Yes, and we can thank Sol. We prayed and Sol answered."

Dorinthea was about to answer when she noticed a twist in the gathering dusk. Like a worm, it writhed in the corner of her eye. It sent a slimy shiver down her spine. She spun and stared into the crowd. Refugees stared back, eyes bleary. She looked from gaunt faces to smooth facades, casting a sentinel's scrutiny across the surrounding buildings. Nothing to see but the straight and white - washed lines of armories and barracks, as yet untouched by war.

"Something wrong?" asked Boltyn.

Perhaps a trick of her tired mind, born from the horrors she had witnessed. This was a sanctified city, centuries of arcane artifice etched into every brick and slate. From outer wall to inner sanctum, conduits and runes flowed and connected, flooding the streets and structures with Sol's divinity.

Dorinthea shook her head. "Let's find these people some food and shelter."

Once, and only once, had the Demonastery manifested their foul creations within the city, exploiting a lone frailty left unnoticed over centuries of peace. Thebasto, Magister of Defense, had since eliminated that weakness. The runes were stronger than ever. No Shadow could survive within Solana's sublime architecture.

In the days to come, Solana's faith proved out as the city's runic ramparts thwarted the Demonastery's endless tide. Time and again they attacked, only to retreat, bloodied and broken, leaving ever more shattered carcasses in their wake like flotsam on a beach. Though their hearts bled for the lands and lives lost beyond the walls, Solana's champions allowed themselves to breathe, to sleep. In Sol's embrace, they were safe.

At dusk on the sixth day of the siege, the attacks suddenly abated. Perhaps even the Demonastery's wanton appetite had soured over the waste of monstrous meat.

That very evening, within the bright heart of the Great Library, the allies drew their plans against the besieging horde. For even the gardens of Octogria could not feed so many for long. Solana had to strike back with a mortal blow, or suffer the slow death of starvation.

Shiyana's clear voice rang out through the Scholars Assembly as she spoke of the Dimenxxional Gateway - the Demonastery's only bridge to the infinite malice of the Embra's íArathael. Through substantial cost to their order, the Gemini had discovered a path to the portal and the faces of those few Shadow scholars able to control it.

"Our brave Gemini emissaries have brought us a gift beyond anything we might have hoped for," implored Shiyana. "A way to end this war once and for all."

Beside her, Prism nodded her agreement, yet it was Dorinthea who spoke. "We must go now, for Solana." She looked to Bravo and Lexi, Briar and Oldhim, and the brave folk of Aria who remained. "For all of Rathe."

Behind Dorinthea's steely gaze, Minerva tumbled over and over into that inky rift on Morlock Hill. Was her friend still alive, held somewhere in the Demonastery? Was it better if she were dead?

Across the hall, Boltyn stood and raised his hands, begging patience. "While Dorinthea speaks true, I have seen the Gemini's reports. They have sacrificed much, yet we know little of what we shall face beyond the veil. We must prepare. We might not get a second chance."

Bravo rose to his feet, wincing as his muscles pulled at the bandaged wound on his broad chest. "A storm is coming, and it will shake their damned house to its very foundations. Am I right?!"

The Ollin answered in thunderous agreement, an uproar of such fervor, such courage, that it tugged a smile from even Ser Boltyn's stern lips.

As the noble assembly dispersed to make its preparations, another parlance was only beginning. Nestled within the entrails of the Demonastery, walled in by Shadow-born runes, the Iron Maiden addressed the Redeemed.

"A mere window, narrow and fragile," murmured Vynnset, her words slurred and ephemeral. Most of her mind was elsewhere, holding another conversation that only she could hear. "Nasreth promises nothing more."

Levia regarded Vynnset with eyes of chilling violet. Her beauty belied the beast within. Her grace concealed the hunger.

"It is all I need."

Vynnset looked to the trembling man at her feet, plucked from his knightly armor like a soft snail from its shell. On each side, a half dozen of his comrades mirrored his misery. Thirteen in all.

Vynnset pressed the curved blade to his throat, gripping his filthy blond hair with her free hand. She whispered, sharp enough for Levia to hear over the blood sack's whimpering.

"Apostate of the Ages," she intoned. "That which you have sewn, I shall reap. Thirteen, I give you, to honor the lives given so long ago. We remember your disciples, our Magister of Shadow, as we remember you."

A howl echoed through the rafters above them as if from a gust of wind, though they were fathoms underground. The obsidian floor warmed, becoming as pliable as living ebony skin.

"Thank you, my Lord," whispered the Iron Maiden as she drew the blade across the knight's throat.

One after the other, she exsanguinated her Solanian captives. The blood had little time to pool before the fleshy floor drank it down. As the last drop dissipated, the chamber's runes flared with livid hues, turning from a bruised purple to a bright arterial red.

Levia turned to the archway that dominated the zenith of the chamber, watching as it filled with a churning darkness. With neither hesitation nor doubt, she stepped into the sable embrace of the Dimenxxional Gateway.

Back in Solana, as exhausted folk slumbered, their tireless defenders preparing for the bold task ahead, a boy stepped out of a doorway and onto the quiet street. He stood there for a moment, as if taking in the night air, yet his chest moved not a muscle. His face was a rictus mask in the moonlight. His eyes - once a warm brown that could melt his mother's heart - were now sunken into pits of shadow.

"Caylin? Why are you out of bed?"

His mother placed a hand on his bare shoulder. She gasped as her hand withered, her arm blackened. A croak escaped her desiccated throat. Bones, healthy but moments before, shattered as her corpse hit the floor.

The boy walked down the street, not once looking back. Others joined him, women and men of varying ages, a couple of children. By the time they reached the wall, they numbered thirteen.

Sentinels tried to block them on the steps. The thirteen scattered their chalky bones with bare, gray-veined feet. Others held their posts, greeted these roaming refugees with calm questions of concern, then sharp shouts of warning. All fell, their flesh shriveled around crumbling bones.

Once the slaughter was done, the thirteen formed a half circle on the alure. They clasped hands and recited the rite that their lord and master, the Apostate, had taught them so many years ago. In that moment, those thirteen disciples, raised anew in stolen flesh, made their final vow to the woman who watched them from the battlefield below.

Levia the Redeemed answered with a roar. As she surrendered her body to Blasmophet, the thirteen surrendered their souls to the Apostate. Shadow spewed forth, emptying their borrowed vessels. It poured down onto the wall, corroding the stones, drowning their hallowed runes in corruption. It swept from battlement to base like a wave of decay.

"A moment, fleeting at best."

Even as the wall gleamed around the darkened stain; even as light burned at the clinging gloom - containing, cleansing - Levia the Consumed struck the rampart with all of her primordial strength. Stones that had withstood thousands of years now splintered under that gargantuan blow. The wall gave way with an ear-shattering crack and the Consumed broke through into the sleeping city beyond.

Lexi rushed out onto the barrack roof. Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the clouds of dust and smoke. Briar joined her moments later.

"Flow save us," she whispered as the clouds parted.

Dorinthea and Boltyn rallied a vanguard of those closest at hand, warriors and illusionists of Solana rushing into the fray with the wizards and runeblades of Aria. They led them against the creatures that surged into the city around the towering Consumed. They cut through the Demonastery's slavering shock troops, buying precious moments for fleeing citizens. Yet they were too few to hold back the tide for long. Half their number fell in the first charge, more as their formation buckled under the sheer weight of the onslaught.

"To the Solarium!" ordered Boltyn, the Wartune's blessings ringing in his ears. With Dorinthea at his side, Boltyn held the line until the last of the surviving allies had broken free.

Oldhim and Bravo mustered their guardians, leading them toward the column of char-black dust. With shields raised, they strode against a flood of panic, terrified city-folk and bloodied fighters washing around them.

"Look," growled Oldhim.

The two armored figures of Ser Boltyn and Dorinthea Ironsong sprinted around a corner, their once-white capes now torn rags flapping in their wake.

"Regroup!" Dorinthea shouted. "The Solarium!"

Behind her, the night sprouted claws and teeth, hooves and horns. Too many horrors to count, coming in fast.

"Shield wall!" bellowed Bravo. "Hold the bastards back as we withdraw!" He raised Anothos; felt it crackle with galvanic might in his white-knuckled hands; its weight more reassuring than he would ever dare to admit.

Up on the Great Library's highest balcony, Shiyana shook her head; a small act of denial beyond thought or reason. "How?"

The stricken scholar beside her could not answer, unable to drag her focus from her strife-torn city. A thousand stories screamed in her mind, a thousand reasons Sol could never let this happen.

Were they forsaken?

Tears streamed from Prism's eyes, for only they told the truth.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/falling-in-darkness/
Written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie Wen. Illus. by Sam Yang

Anointed in Shadow

The uninitiated cannot see the black moon rise over the Demonastery. It mirrors the nighttide, pulsing starward with its invisible light, witnessed only by those anointed in Shadow. Those like Vynnset, the Iron Maiden.

"Life is suffering. Life is sacrifice," intones Vynnset. "The sacrifice of today to save the suffering of tomorrow."

A dozen faceless creatures rub up against the Iron Maiden's armor, clawing at the hard floor like cats kneading a blanket. Her piercings grow warm, thawing the chill of the ritual chamber. In her pallid flesh, power resonates from metal to bone. Her creatures feel it too - the anticipation of bloodshed and retribution.

"Drops to moisten the clay, to raise a dam against the flood, lest the sanguine river drown us all."

Vynnset straightens, fixing her metal tunic in place for the coming rite, the past welling in her mind like blood from a fresh wound. She remembers back to when she was...

...a little girl with flaxen hair sits cross-legged in a wheat field. She cocks her head, listening, then giggles.

"You're naughty, Ren." A look of worry passes over her face like a cloud crossing the sun. "Sol is always listening."

A lady dressed in white and gold crouches nearby, concealed by long stalks of golden wheat. She too listens, this Solanian lady of means, her expression troubled, growing more fearful by the moment.

"You're right, Ren." The girl giggles again. "Sol should mind its own beeswax."

The lady stands. She's heard enough. The girl looks up, suddenly afraid. The sun blazes down upon her. She tries to raise her hands to cover her eyes. They won't move. She screams.

"Be silent, child!" orders the scholar.

The girl struggles in the chair, but the buckled straps hold her tight. Tears stream down her cheeks as the scholar brings the arcane lamp closer. Her face contorts as she tries to close her eyes - a hopeless attempt - pinned open as they are by contraptions of silver and brass.

"A shadow lurks in the recesses of her mind," shouts the scholar, raising his voice over the girl's cries. "We must exorcize it." He looks to the lady of means and meets her tearful gaze. "Without delay."

Strong hands grasp the girl's arms. The lady of means bows her head.

"Mother, please!"

The lady moves her lips in silent prayer, deaf to her daughter's pleas.

Robed matrons carry the girl through a marble archway; Sisters of Octothesia taking the poor wretch into their sanctified care. Only they can cleanse her mind and purify her soul in the Light of Sol.

Her shaved head lolls in the blazing sun, scalp shining with sweat. Her skin is red and blistered, her lips shriveled with dehydration. She lies spread eagle, hands and wrists tethered to stakes that are driven deep into the bare earth.

"Don't leave me," she croaks. "Never leave me."

Her thin frame relaxes at the answer only she can hear. Not the prayers, not the merciless sisters, not the burning Light of Sol - nothing can take that from her. Flesh may burn, but her soul remains wrapped in a cooling darkness.

As cool as the night she slips through, her bare feet padding softly on the polished floor. Years of waiting, and of failed attempts at escape. In that time, she has emerged from childhood into womanhood.

The senior matrons rush to an 'accident', leaving their duties to a few inexperienced acolytes. After being watched for so long, the space is palpable; the matron's domineering eyeballs cast elsewhere.

She freezes at a corner, concealed in shadow, as a pair of gossiping novitiates rustle down the corridor ahead.

"Thanks, Ren," she whispers. "They won't catch us this time."

She uses a stolen key to unlock a side door, and flits like a ghost down the alley to a moonlit courtyard. As hoped, the guards at the wagon are too busy tying down their load to notice the young woman. She squeezes into a gap between stacked breast plates, turns to smile at a shade sitting beside her, identical in size and shape, as the wagon rolls out of Solana.

The wagon stops in a clearing where axes have hewn the ancient trees to stumps. The guards eye the surrounding forest with suspicion. This is the Savage Lands. Where death is but a tooth or claw away.

A knight pulls up the cover to check the cargo and is startled to find a stowaway where he expected only greaves and helms.

"Please," she rasps, her voice dry with dust and disuse. "Don't send me back."

He offers what he thinks is a reassuring smile and reaches with a gauntleted hand to help the young woman down. But she has not experienced kindness in years. She has forgotten what it looks like.

The knight shrieks with pain as a heavy shield falls from the load, crushing his wrist. The woman clambers down the injured man like he is a ladder and turns to face the advancing guards.

"I'm NOT going back!"

Black smoke rises from her slender body. Her eyes are pools of deepest shadow. She dances in the dirt, a dreadful dirge. The guards sweat as the air grows hot, coughing as their breath turns acrid.

A low keening escapes the woman's narrow throat, so subtle yet so piercing that the guards wince, some covering their ears as the song drives spikes of pain through their skulls. The wagon's cargo answers to that music. Shields and breast plates rise. Helms roll and gauntlets crawl on jingling fingers. Disembodied pieces form hollow knights that lash out with all the woman's anger and hurt. Years of judgment and torment, meted out with metallic might. The guards try to defend themselves, but one by one they fall, beaten into a bloody pulp.

One guard lives longer than the rest, though no one would count him luckier. The woman draws his dagger and slashes the buckles of his armor, stripping him naked in the noonday sun. He wails as she carves jagged runes into his broken limbs and shattered chest.

"A sanguine river flows."

The words susurrate from her tongue, distant, unearthly. Not hers, but the echo of another, carrying up through her throat as if from some abandoned well.

"In the valley of sorrow where flesh of a world presses to flesh of a dream."

The voice grows louder, striking an accord of its own while the woman paints symbols upon her skin in visceral red.

"A bridge of bone, tethered in vein, where only pain may cross from life to lethe."

She licks her bloodied fingers with the tip of her tongue.

"I pay this tithe to souls bereft."

She closes her mouth and swallows deeply. When her lips open, it is her own words she imparts.

"I am ready, Ren."

She raises the dagger to her face, not a tremble in her hand, and bursts her eyes with its finely honed point.

"Ready to see."

With unfaltering precision, she drives the dagger into the guard's heart. The blood boils up from his chest, more than his body could ever contain, flooding, drowning, until it is a rich, red pool into which the woman wades.

From that wound in reality, she emerges onto a mountaintop of inky blackness. From the nebulous sky stares a great black moon. And from that scrutinizing orb descends a creature of terrifying beauty. The woman sees it and more, and the truth of seeing makes her weep red tears of rapture from her blood-filled sockets.

"Ren?"

Cool air dries her drenched skin, calming her fevered flesh. The pain fades from the ruins of her eyes as understanding awakens in her soul.

"Soul Harrower," she states, her voice growing softer as the sanguine river carries her back.

"Nasreth."

The present returns with immaculate agony. Vynnset's piercings burn in her sinews. Words of otherworldly suffering seep from her tongue. Her creatures stretch and dance in waves of lapping pain.

"Where flesh meets flesh, upon the bridge of bone, I now walk in the dusk of absolution. Embraced in night, I rise untold, to deny the break of dawn."

The Iron Maiden rests her palms on the rune-carved stones before her. Rivulets of shadow pour through her armor, amethyst in hue, radiant as the black moon.

"Yes, Nasreth. I am ready."

Vynnset draws a curved blade from her belt.

"Ready to free the Shadow."

Source: https://fabtcg.com/heroes/vynnset/anointed-in-shadow/
Written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie Wen. Illus. by Henrique Lindner.

The Dynamic Man

Age of Steam

Metrix. A metropolis of imagination. A place where ambition meets innovation and lives are reinvented every single day. In our pioneering past, we welcomed those ready to flee the traditions and oppressions of arcane Rathe. Together we built a city where fortunes could be made from the sweat of one's brow and the steam of one's machinery. Metrix has come a long way from those boilerplate beginnings. Technology has advanced in leaps and bounds, drawing a new generation of hopefuls to its bright lights, to promises writ large in glaring neon:

Become more than you are.
Become more than human!

One young man understood these promises better than most. Yes, it is true what they say about Jules Teklovossen. He was obsessed with power, but not the paltry, petty power of politics. He was driven by the power of energy. For he knew that, with enough energy, one can do anything that the human mind can conceive of. One can even remake the world.

It was in a mothballed corner of the corroding Plumvex Pipes factory, Jules Teklovossen created the elegant coils and squat battery that would forever change the course of Metrix history. The potency hissed and spat between those coils, writhing like a netted serpent striving to reach the great blue sea. But Teklovossen would not let it free. Instead, he shackled that titanic beast in a two-by-two box. A little treasure chest bursting with enough power to vitalize hundreds of homes, shops and factories.

What did we call this breakthrough invention? "Teklatic Dynamism," after the boy genius who cracked the secret of the coils.

And do you know what Teklovossen said once he had doffed his protective eyeglasses? Once he looked upon his creation, this wonder that promised to lift us from the obscuring steam of our industrialist past?

"Eat your clockwork heart out, Cogwerx. There's a new power in town."

Excerpt from: The Dynamic Man

Age of Dynamism

Suspended trams slice through the steam fog on teklatic rails overhead. A few blocks away, currents of dynamism transmute helium into plasma at an unprecedented speed, fueling the great Gigadrill Elevator as it pounds out tenatan for the miners who scurry up and down the sheer cliffs of Pit 3.

The Needle towers over the site office, jagged and patchworked in its unfinished form. It reaches for the clouds with aspiring grace, as if to pin the Teklo Industries brand upon the very fabric of history. A new headquarters to usher in a fresh era for Metrix.

Jules Teklovossen stands at the epicenter, the Evos he wears automatically steadying his swaying frame as another dizzy spell catches him off-guard.

"That thing will give anyone vertigo," says the Assembly Inspector as he enters the site. "Joking aside though, are you alright, Professor?" The man sounds genuinely concerned, but Teklovossen can tell from the official's body language that it's feigned.

"The sight of it makes me giddy," he covers. Maybe his bad habits are catching up with him. Over three decades of long hours in the laboratory, of living only for the work. No family. No recreation. Barely enough time spared to sleep and eat. A life devoted to the founding and building of Teklo Industries. A passion committed to progress.

The Assembly Inspector grins in response, another feigned gesture, then turns on his heels to scan the construction. "I need to sign off on your amendments to the upper floor plans," he says in an appraising tone.

"Of course." Teklovossen directs his voice to the prefab office nearby. "Rigo?"

The spider-bot assistant scuttles out of the prefab office with Teklovossen's blueprints clutched in its claws. Teklovossen takes the proffered plans and spreads them on the workbench. The inspector eyes the bot warily, taking in its many articulated legs and swiveling eye cameras; the bulbous micro-processor bracketed to its back.

"Quite the antique you have there," he remarks.

Teklovossen absently pats the bot on its spherical appendage, like a father might pat his son on the head. "Rigo's been with me since the very beginning."

"It was there when you invented teklatic-dynamism?"

"Yes, among others that I built for the purpose."

The inspector peers more closely at Rigo. "Clockwork and compressed steam? Thought that was more Cogwerx's style."

"If it works, it works. I'm not one to shun technology that has survived the tests of time."

"That explains the boilers in your basement." He raises a bushy eyebrow. "Forgive me for saying so, but doesn't that send the wrong message?"

Teklovossen manages an indulgent smile. "Teklatic-dynamism is potential incarnate, yet energies of this world fluctuate, attenuate, constellate, in patterns far beyond our mundane comprehension."

The inspector looks at him, uncomprehending.

"It never hurts to have a reliable backup."

"Can't argue with that, Professor."

The inspector returns to the building plans before him, trying his bureaucratic best to poke holes in Teklovossen's dream.

"Theoretically sound," he reluctantly concedes. "I have no idea how you're actually managing it." He points at Rigo. "More of these?"

"After a fashion."

The inspector's brown eyes take on an almost lustful gleam. "I really would like to meet your builders."

Teklovossen rubs the pad of his thumb across his mustache and smiles at Rigo. The spider-bot nods his misshapen head in agreement.

"Quite impossible, Inspector," answers Teklovossen, "for what is creativity without a little mystery?"

End of an Era

The sphere spins between his metallic palms, its galvanic potential reflected off the polished carapaces and chassis of the dismembered dolls that litter the old Plumvex workshop.

"You'll do," admires Teklovossen.

He glances across the limbs, busts and heads of humanoid automatons towards rows of spheres, each of a similar likeness, arranged along padded shelves. Every egg contains a yolk of intelligence, each more golden than the last. Brighter minds than most humans he has met. Yet all have fallen short. Too specialized. Brilliant at some things, dull at others. And not an ounce of invention among them. Brains for clever bots of brass and bolts, nothing more.

With his free hand, he presses at the temple of a copper cranium on his bench. The back of its skull opens to reveal a concave socket of glowing contacts. He places the sphere gently inside.

This one is different. A wild experiment. Possibilities unknown, packed into this perfect micro-processor.

"You'll do rather nicely."

He heaves a shuddering sigh of relief. Already he can feel the thought-choking fog rolling in, the emptying exhaustion that will leave him bedridden for the rest of the day. Perhaps the week.

A tumor, inoperable. Nestled like a fat leech against his cortex, sucking away his vitality, his genius. So much to do, yet so little time remaining to him. His intellect has never failed him. His ideas will live on, undying, while there are minds to remember them.

But will he live to see those ideas come to fruition? Teklovossen can predict many things, but not that.

"See that the Iron Assembly installs it properly, Rigo?"

Rigo whirs and bleeps. Its enthusiasm is echoed by another bot that scuttles out from behind a pile of brass mannequin parts. And other, lowering itself from the rafters by a high tensile wire. The chorus continues as bots of all shapes and sizes, intents and purposes, crawl, roll, scuttle and slide out of the workshop's nooks and crannies to witness Teklovossen's crowning invention.

The ailing scientist manages a sickly smile for his automaton audience as he cups the skull in his hands and presses its temples with his thumbs. The cranium closes smoothly, concealing the sphere within.

"It will be the brains of their operation. Their sensory network. Their nervous system."

He holds the skull up to his face. Glass eyes stare back. Its strangely coiffed pate gives it a jaunty appearance.

"All that this city lives and feels shall be parsed and interpreted in elegant autometry."

Rigo scuttles forward and gently takes the copper head from Teklovossen's hands.

"Thank you, Rigo. May their gratitude to Teklo Industries survive the company's founder."

He turns to his console, taps out a code and hits the execute key. Symbols spray across the screen. He reads quickly, despite the bleary film coating his stinging eyes.

"The Biochic hardware appears to have done the trick. Much better than that Medreach rubbish. The teklatic generator has achieved perpetuity and the thermal readings are within sustainable parameters, although the variance might take time to stabilize. A good thing I had those backup boilers serviced. Wouldn't you all agree?"

His bots answer with an ensemble of synthesized amity. Music to Teklovossen's ears. He looks out through the workshop window at The Needle glowing gold in the afternoon light. Bright and beautiful-a tribute to ideas made manifest.

He turns back to his console and stumbles through a series of short commands. The execute key echoes with a hollow finality.

"Analysis filters are in place and attuned to key performance indicators. You'll check on them from time to time, won't you, Rigo?"

His oldest and most faithful creation bobs its head in abject acknowledgement.

"Good. Metrix produces a boggling amount of inconsequential data. Yet if distilled correctly, patiently, the key performance indicators should emerge from the dross."

He lets out a world-weary sigh. "The city has a long way to go, but it might yet prove itself worthy. In fact..."

A gleaming metropolis enters his mind's eye. Towers and tramways shining with teklatic-dynamism. Prosperous people strolling along clean streets, no matter their walk of life. They breathe pristine air, chat about creativity and philosophy while bots do their work and Evos sustain their bodies. A Metrix happy in its achievements. A utopia just out of reach.

"...I'm counting on it."

He yawns, then winces at the sharp pain the movement induces behind his eyes.

"Go now, Rigo. Give this brain unto its body corporate. Head straight to your charging station, and most importantly, don't worry about me."

He smiles at his automatons, his gaze lingering upon his lifelong companion.

"I'm just going to have a little lie down."

Present Day

Metrix, a city of imagination. A city where one can become more than human.

Such is the case of Jules Teklovossen.

No one knows what caused the explosion. Fire crews worked through the night to douse the inferno, yet still the old Plumvex Pipes factory was utterly consumed. No one could have survived that blaze, not even the building's owner and sole living occupant.

An effigy has now been installed upon the site: a bold and brilliant likeness cast in holographic bronze.

Teklovossen, the man, might have left Metrix for good. But Teklovossen, the legend, will remain with us forever, instructing and inspiring the brightest minds to come.

Excerpt from: The Dynamic Man

Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/the-dynamic-man/

System Failure

Should've known better than to trust a Teklo.

They're all the same... even her.

Sucks to be betrayed by the ones you trust.

There's eight people in this little cell. Standing room only. You'd think the Iron Assembly could afford more space for its 'valued customers'. And air-conditioning. Stinks like the Sprawl in midsummer. But that's typical of the bloody corporations. Common decency hurts their bottom line. Hurts them to do anything but make more dirty money.

Drives me bonkers to think of Dash and all the tallics she'll make from her new 'friend'. Can't think of any other reason she'd stitch me up like that? Money talks and all. Law of the concrete jungle.

That can't be it, though? She was born privileged. That's why I'm here and she's-

A couple of enforcers turn up with lunch: a plain Nutrislug and a bottle of water to wash the slime down. Guess that's why it's called life imprisonment. Enforcers don't want you dying on them. Messes with their business model.

There's a kid curled up in the corner. Ragged thing, only ten years old. A bruiser from Coppertown tries to swipe her lunch. I back him off with a head butt to the kisser. Can't be having behavior like that here. It's undignified.

The kid nods her thanks and guzzles her food and water before anyone else has a go. I know what that feels like; always on edge, just waiting for life to give you another kick. Learned it when I was young too, long before I met Princess Teklo.

Rosario Orphanage. Sounds nice, doesn't it? Imagine brick walls covered in ivy. Think immaculate rose beds and swings hanging beneath an oak tree. Then pull the other one.

Picture a giant cinderblock outhouse packed with turds. Just a bunch of abandoned Sprawl babies, like so much industrial waste. You grow up quick in a place like that.

While the other six-year-olds were making mud pies in that open sewer they called a playground, I was making potions in the janitor's cupboard. Yeah, too young to be messing with chemical compounds, but I was never one to be age appropriate. Chucklate Bistink was my most successful concoction, especially when heated in the canteen oven. Cleared the whole place for days. Orphanage management had to put us up in a hotel while they deodorized the place.

At age seven, I took an interest in circuitry. I isolated and activated the extinguisher system over the staff quarters, ruining several thousand tallics' worth of furniture in one night. Put an orderly in the hospital too. Asphyxiation, they said. Must have been quite the snorer.

I kept a low profile after that. Minor pranks. Lights flashing on and off by themselves. Magnetic doors locking and trapping the unwary for a few minutes. Random blasts of music over the intercom. Two staffers left because they were sure the place was haunted. Phantom Maxx, at your service.

For my eighth birthday, I threw myself a party, complete with entertainment. Hacked the internal surveillance system and watched a sweet romance blossom between the orphanage manager and a maintenance attendant. Against company policy, of course. When they finally got it on in the boiler room, I pointed every security camera within earshot onto the suckers, uploaded the footage, and shared it to every screen within the orphanage's parent company, the renowned Rosario Hills Institute. Manager and attendant were sacked the next day. By the end of the week, I found myself in new digs-my very own room in the exclusive Rosario Chateaux.

Turns out the Rosario Hills Institute runs most of the city's orphanages. Not out of the goodness of their hearts. The orphanages are gathering grounds for their "subjects". Special kids like me. Kids with unusual talents. At first, I thought it was a bit of a lark. My own room, good food, a decent bed, and attention from some very interested whitecoats. Then the tests started, the prodding and poking, the scans and samples. I soon discovered that special isn't all it's cracked up to be.

At least I found some other kids on my wavelength. Ricky Royce was one. Nothing that lad couldn't steal. And Lena-Belle, purveyor of poisons. We put our ten-year-old eggheads together and hatched a plan right under those Rosario roosters' beaks. Ricky stole the keys and Lena-Belle poisoned the water. While all the whitecoats chundered on their clipboards, I mixed some industrial cleaners and blew a kid-sized hole in the outer wall. Off we three went into the alleyways with every other shaved-head wunderkind trailing along behind.

We hung out for a bit, making ends meet from what we could beg or steal, until we found ourselves a 'helper'. Dash Teklo and her fancy gadgets to our rescue. A whole bag of tricks and a cozy little place to stash them. I split soon after. Never been one to take charity, especially the silver spoon princess type.

I haven't seen much of the Rosario Kids since. Ricky and the others have a hideout somewhere in Zinnia Park. Lena-Belle pedals her poisonous wares down in The Pits. Less chance of the Institute tracking us down if we keep our distance. Best left to our own devices.

Speaking of devices.

The lights dim. Bedtime for the baddies. The other inmates hunker down, sitting back-to-back, or curled up as small as they can manage in the confined space. They nod off pretty quick. That's conditioning for you. Make do with what our socio-economic betters care to dish out. Not me. I'm still standing, wide awake. This is my moment.

The enforcers have stripped me of my usual gear, but I always keep something amusing tucked away for special occasions. With a wince and a meaty "shuck", the secret compartment opens at my side. I fish out the contents and pat my fake flesh shut.

The shortwave disrupter pops the cell's maglock in a satisfying shower of sparks. The surveillance system is next, cameras sizzling like meatpops on a street-side barbeque. I slap the disruptor on the holding wing door and activate its self-destruct sequence.

By this time, my former cell mates are waking up to the fact that there's a breakout afoot.

"Close your eyes and cover your ears!" I tell them. They're smart enough to oblige before the counter hits zero. The explosion blows the metal door clean off its hinges and sends it hurtling into the startled enforcers beyond.

I parade through the smoldering doorway and snatch up the nice Plasma Barrel Shot an enforcer humaniform has left on the floor for me. How kind. The owner is unconscious, knocked out by the exploding door. Her bot companion tries to get up on its one remaining leg, but a blast of hot plasma ends that.

Through the antechamber's window I can see other enforcers in the station's main office, both human and robot, scrambling for their weapons. I shoot out the glass and step to one side as my fellow prisoners charge out of the holding wing and take the shortest path to freedom. Through the window and over the enforcers.

I pick off two bots and a humaniform who've dodged the stampede, winging the latter out of respect for fellow organics. I even order some auto-ambulances for the wounded and whining humaniforms staggering out the shattered front door.

It's clear outside. Lovely evening. Even the smog's been carried off by some gusty breeze. Nothing to block my view of Teklo Industries' big, beautiful Needle. I sight my stolen Barrel Shot at the holographic face of Jules Teklovossen. He smirks at me from a dynamic billboard perched halfway up the tower. I empty the plasma mag into his smug expression. The shots fall well short of the five-kilometer distance between me and Teklo HQ, but hey, it's the thought that counts.

I toss the empty gun aside and flip Teklovossen my middle finger. Yes, I'm one to hold a grudge. They're all I have these days. Grudges with those on high, and grudges with the systems that keep them there.

As for Princess Teklo. Maybe I should thank her. Betrayal has given me an exciting new focus.

A big, explosive aspiration.

A party the likes of which Teklo Industries hasn't seen before.

There'll be fireworks. What's a rooftop party without fireworks?

After all, Metrix is the city of Bright Lights.

Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/system-failure/
Written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie Wen. Illus. by Sam Yang

Synthetic Futures

"Not again?" baits Dash, squashed between Maxx and the armrest of the stinky sofa. "Nothing's perfect. Not even our wonderful city. But I think we're close. We have more opportunity than anywhere in Rathe, and systems for-"

"Bloody systems. Smash em all!"

So excited is Maxx by this notion of wanton destruction that he slops his Amygdazzla onto the already sticky floor of his Lowlake hideout.

The half-circle of rainbow-haired, kitsch-garbed anarchists snarl their collective agreement and add more slopped fizz to the growing puddle.

Dash sighs, happy to drink hers rather than spill it.

"Does that include the health system?"

"What?"

"Hospitals? The auto-ambo service? Medicines?"

Her calm logic gets a bewildered glare from Maxx. "No, not the health system, obviously."

"Or the transport system? Trains, trams, the roads you ride your bikes on?"

"Well, no-"

"Or the sewer system?"

"The oppressive systems, Dash! You know, the ones that exploit us, grind us down. Like the enforcers."

The mere mention of the e-word makes the anarchists twitchy. Particularly Maxx. He leans forwards, changes to a harsh whisper, like that'll fool any half-decent surveillance device.

"They've been tracking us all for weeks now."

"Riiiiiight," she says, deeply skeptical. "That explains the venue. Last place anyone would want to look."

Circuit Breaker, a sour-synth band from The Sprawl, starts up another sullen lullaby to urban disaffection from a low stage in the corner. Their off-tone notes suit the off-color walls and pungently off odor.

"Too right," agrees Maxx, missing the sarcasm. "Got to adapt. They're getting smarter, you know."

"Who? The enforcers?"

The other anarchists scowl in collective agreement. Maxx leans close enough for Dash to see the blood-shot veins in his bulging eyes.

"They know too much, turning up in places we don't even know we're going to yet. It's like they can slit open our skulls and peer into our brains."

It's drivel like that makes Dash doubt Maxx ever knows where he's going, even on his best days. He hasn't made sense since the day she first met him, but at least he speaks his nonsense with conviction. That's got to be why she enjoys coming to these meetings. Why she's attended them for several months now. Can't be out of youthful loyalty. Nah. It's the intensity. The raw passion of it all. Such a breath of fresh air after the sensible stuffiness of corporate life.

But this paranoia, that's new. And it's unsettling enough that she shunts the conversation back to 'safer' ground.

"These systems you want to smash. Where would we start?"

The other anarchists look at each other, suddenly shifty as rats in a refuse station. Maxx eyes Dash for a long moment, sussing her out. Judging her, like he always does.

"Where would you start?" Maxx throws back at her.

Dash thinks it over. Although the last ten years have seen a rapid increase in Teklo Industries' share of the energy and apparatus markets, they're still just a drop in the bucket compared to the city's oldest and most gargantuan corporation.

"Cogwerx," she concludes.

The woman next to Maxx nudges him with her elbow, then glares at him through her mirror shades.

"It's fine, Rez." He fixes Dash with an unhinged grin. "Miss Teklo's guilty by association. Like it or not, she's an accomplice to conspiracy."

Dash feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She's not sure if it's from excitement or concern. "You're really going after Cogwerx?"

"You'd rather we go after Teklo Industries, princess?"

"Oh ha-ha, Maxx... such a wisecrack," counters Dash. Always with the princess comeback. Dullard. "At least we're trying to change the systems. Upgrade them. It's called problem solving."

"Well-well," derides Maxx to the amusement of his cronies. "Teklo is a revolutionary organization! And here I thought it was just another grasping corp. How could I have been soooo mistaken?"

"I didn't say that. It's just-"

"Don't worry, Dash." Maxx slaps her on the shoulder so hard that she drops her drink. "Teklo's made a good fist of embarrassing the copper giant, but underneath the mirror glass and dynamism, there's still a network of pipes pushing compressed steam like blood through this city's veins."

Dash visualizes the sheer destructive grandeur of Maxx's dream. "Stop the steam," she speculates, "stop the city."

"Hah! I knew you'd get it!"

She gets Maxx is out of his tinpot mind. Dash opens her mouth to say as much, but her retort is shattered by a knock at the door. Or rather, a resounding thump of a Teklo Pounder, followed by a shower of splinters.

"Grab your masks!" shouts Maxx as Rez and the anarchists duck for cover. He throws a mask at Dash as the room fills with gas and enforcers, and tugs at her arm to follow him. She presses the mask to her face with one hand, drawing her Teklo Plasma Pistol with the other, then shoots the legs out from under the closest enforcer bot, sending it backwards onto the other humaniforms.

Through thickening smoke, Dash follows Maxx to a corrugated iron wall. She covers their retreat with her pistol while he gives the barrier a solid kick. A pre-cut section of iron crashes to the ground, and Maxx drags Dash outside.

She rips the mask from her face and takes in a gulp of fresh air. Well, as fresh as funky Lowlake ever gets.

"See!" stresses Maxx, his own mask now dangling around his neck. "Told you they're watching."

Dash is about to reply when Maxx raises his chin to the sky, releasing an almighty howl into the technicolor cityscape. Then he bends forward, laughing into his knees like a Pits hound until the last of his breath is exhaled.

With his nervous energy expelled, Maxx mounts a pink and green motorbike and waves for Dash to jump on. She obliges, gripping his waist for balance as they roar off into an evening of neon and noise. Overhead, the wise eyes of Jules Teklovossen watch them from a flickering billboard as his mustached mouth carefully enunciates Teklo's latest slogan, "Better than before. Better than human."

Dash looks over her shoulder at the smoking building, at the enforcers, both metal and meat, pouring out onto the street. Deep down, she knows why she's here and not back in West Rise. One hour spent with these rebels is more fun than any time spent with Teklo whitecoats. She laughs into Maxx's shoulder, a maniacal release of adrenaline and tension, as they leave the law far behind them. Damn, freedom feels good.

Dash yawns so hard that her ears pop.

"Sorry to keep you up," says Thiroux, her neatly glossed lips pursed with disapproval.

"Sorry, Mom. Rough night's sleep," Dash covers. "Must've been nervous about today."

"Understandable, I suppose." Her mother passes Dash a clipboard with the day's schedule typed out in Teklo Standard. "Twenty-one Mechanology projects for you to survey. Don't spend more than a half hour on each one unless you want to lose even more sleep."

Always the whitecoat, never the parent. Dash's shoulders sag under the weight of all that responsibility. Her parents might relish their status as senior researchers, but damned if Dash is following in their one-trick footsteps. If only she could hop onto a motorbike and ride off into-

Thiroux taps her watch. "And you're already late for your first appointment. Off you go."

Dash stifles another yawn and heads down the corridor to Wyverstone's laboratory, clomping a little clumsily in her corporate-issue shoes.

After the seventh home appliance, she wants to stick her head in a blender and press pulp. On the tenth, she's optically measuring Wyverstone for insertion into the Mach III Teklo Snapfreeze. If only she could retreat to her workshop, where the real inventing happens. A place where she can tinker and play, try things out for the sheer creativity of it. Far away from protocols and focus groups, budgets and tick-boxes.

The mech-in-a-box project offers her momentary relief. Yeah, she can imagine some amusing uses for a full-body Evo that folds into a container the size of a briefcase.

"Does it come in Desert Sand?" she teases.

The researchers stare at her blankly, then at her clipboard with mounting apprehension.

"Never mind," she sighs, and ticks the box.

Six sanitation drones later and she's ready to flush herself down the nearest toilet. But just when she's reaching for the chain, Wyverstone opens the door to a section of The Needle she didn't know existed.

"Our secret mechrolab," states Wyverstone, like Dash couldn't work that out for herself. "The cutting edge of human-machine evolution."

He shows Dash the reflex-boosters and cognition nodes, the subdermal weaves and synthetic nerve clusters. It's a fascinating array of mechanological implants, but she's torn, Maxx's words ringing eerily in her mind.

It's like they can slit open our skulls and peer into our brains.

"Thiroux mentioned none of this before. Who commissioned it?"

The scientist's steel-gray eyes show not a glint of emotion as he steers her back towards the entry. "Instructions from before your time."

"Instructions? Who from?"

Wyverstone's answer is to shut and lock the laboratory in her face.

Right, show me the toys and then tell me I can't play with them. Very mature, Doctor Wyverstone, muses Dash. Still hasn't forgiven me for the blue dust incident, she supposes as she hobbles down the corridor on aching feet. Normally one to take the stairs at the end of each day, she rides the lift down from the 47th floor and is greeted by a celebrity specter as she steps out into the lobby.

"Salutations, Dash. Have you been a productive Teklo?"

The ghost's mustache curls over a gleaming, perfect smile. Dash knows for a fact that dentistry wasn't that good back then.

"Sure, Teklovossen. Productively bored. Bit weirded out at the end."

The audio chuckles while the hologram nods with grandfatherly approval.

"Progress is never easy, but as I've always said, the future comes to those who innovate!"

"You never said that. HR programmed that into your micro-processor."

"Just because it's a lie doesn't mean it's not true."

Dash is taken aback for a moment. Rather obscure for the usually one-sided digital intelligence.

"You thought that up yourself?"

The hologram smiles blithely. "You have a restful evening, Dash."

"Um, sure, Teklovossen."

At home, with her sore feet up, the setting sun painting her East Rise apartment in warming pink, she tries to forget about work. Yet try as she might, she can't shake those mechro-mods from her mind. Though fascinating, they just don't sit well with her. The secrecy makes sense, considering how intrusive the technology is. To her, Evos are meant to enhance the human body, not replace it. Why the tangent? Who ordered it?

She limps over to her terminal, logs into the Teklo network, and enters a few codes she's not meant to have. The sun gives way to bright city lights as she digs up a name.

The esteemed Jules Teklovossen. Teklo Industries' founder, deceased for over fifty years, these days memorialized as a holographic mascot and salesman for the Teklo marketing department.

Her namesake, too, care of a weird quirk in fanatical corporate culture. Every CEO adopts the surname, Teklo, out of a nostalgic sense of dynasty. The 'vossen' part is reserved for their esteemed magnate alone. Dash is descended from a former Teklo executive, though the apple has fallen rather far from the proverbial tree in her case.

Piecing together what she can from the patchy records, Dash finds Teklovossen assigned long-term, intractable funding to a seemingly unconnected array of experiments. All were commissioned in the few months prior to the man's incineration in his old laboratory. The mechro-mods are the only viable results from decades of otherwise fruitless research.

None of which syncs with the friendly mustached faux-man that greets her every morning at The Needle, nor with his glowing reputation for gentle genius and wholesome scientific endeavor. From everything she's heard about the man, Teklovossen wouldn't have okayed her Teklo Pistol, let alone surgical wetware.

She codes a system-worm to impersonate Wyverstone and burrows deeper into Teklo's classified dataforts. Teklovossen covered his tracks well, leaving only a single notification, received belatedly from the Iron Assembly, two days after Teklovossen's death.

Micro-processor DD6.3 and chassis received and installed in the Iron Hall basement, as per your instructions, Professor. It's ready to review at your discretion.

"D D six point three?" she muses aloud. "But they only go up to five."

The micro-processor was Teklovossen's greatest achievement. Artificial brains able to learn and act independently. From mining machines to enforcer bots, the micro-processors enabled an era of smart automatons. Yet even the top-of-the-line brains, the Series 5 Cognizants, were limited to specialized tasks, idiot savants when compared to your average human. Great at one or two things, lousy at the rest. But a Series 6? Who knew what that might be capable of? Especially with fifty years of machine learning under its virtual belt.

They know too much, turning up in places we don't even know we're going to yet.

Maybe Maxx wasn't so paranoid after all.

She taps out a comms number and holds her breath as it connects.

"What?" crackles the voice, distorted by multiple filters and relays.

"Underdog Cafe, Coppertown. One hour. I might know how they found you."

Maxx slams his fist down on the counter top. "I bloody knew it!"

Dash winces and glances at the other patrons. No one seems to have noticed. The drinkers here have that glazed-eye nowhere stare of people who have seen and heard enough problems for one day. They're not looking to collect any more.

"Hey, it's just a theory. One message from half a century ago, that's all the proof we have."

"Then let's get some more!" rasps Maxx with malicious glee.

"You want to go poking around in the Iron Hall basement?"

"Yep!" He jabs a finger into the air. "Let's poke them in the eyes. Can't oppress what you can't see."

"Good luck with that," she says as she pushes back her chair.

Maxx grabs her wrist, hard enough to hurt.

"Going somewhere, conspirator?"

Dash sends a charge down her Evo, enough to shock his grubby mitt loose. He waggles his fingers, blowing on them like they're hot, but the nasty smirk remains on his gaunt face.

"Like it or not, you're guilty by association." He folds his arms, infuriatingly smug. "Besides, don't you want to go to Energize? It'll be fascinating."

Energize the Era held annually at Iron Hall. Opening in a week's time.

"I have other plans," she answers, deadpan. "My Hyper Drivers need deoxifying."

"They caught Rez and half my crew, Dash. Even the bloody band! They're holding them at half a dozen different stations. Divide and conquer tactics." He leans over the table, using his not-so-quiet whisper again. "One of those stations is down the street from Iron Hall."

Dash raises an eyebrow. "Eighth Precinct?"

Maxx nods. "They're holding Rez there, a few others with her. Jogging distance for Assembly Security to provide backup."

"While I sneak from the conference into the basement and open the back door for you."

The anarchist raises his glass of fortified Tinker Tea, a toast to their unwholesome alliance.

"Welcome to the party."

Dash gives him a long, hard look. Sussing, judging, just like he does to her. She waits long enough to see him squirm then clinks her glass against his.

"Wouldn't be one without me."

Her business collar scratches at her throat. She's starting to wonder why in halitosis she signed up for this.

Energize the Era! Brought to you by the Iron Assembly.

The banner drapes gracefully above the entrance to Iron Hall, the seat of power for Metrix's municipal government. It's only day two of the conference and already Dash's corporate shoes are killing her feet. Perhaps it's part of an HR plot to wear workers down into compliant misery.

Dash forces a smile at the enforcer humaniforms who check her Teklo Industries attendee pass. It's authentic, her conference ticket booked and paid for by the Mechanology Department. Thiroux was both surprised and delighted by her daughter's sudden passion for the work. Dash did her best not to disrupt her mom's happy delusion.

After taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Dash heads for the toilets. Finding them empty, she rests her briefcase on the bench top and activates her hidden comm.

"You read me?" buzzes Maxx's voice in her ear.

"Loud and clear."

"Good. I'm in position. Charges laid."

"No fatalities. Like we agreed."

"I'm a revolutionary, not a murderer."

"Your morality astounds me," she answers dryly as she checks her chronometer. "Wait until after the keynote. Forty minutes."

"Just get that bloody door open for us. We'll be coming in hot."

"Don't worry. I will."

Maxx kills the call. Dash collects her briefcase and leaves the toilets, losing herself in the throng of conference-goers as they file into the Iron Hall's main auditorium.

The keynote helps pass the time. It's a rousing speech by CEO Synthea Teklo about the latest advances in teklatic-dynamism. In Dash's opinion, she makes a strong case for how Teklovossen's invention can be further rolled out to cure Metrix of its threatening energy crisis, to sustain the city's bright lights forever.

Cogwerx representatives fire a barrage of defensive and deconstructive questions at Synthea while Dash peels off from the end of her row and discretely exits the auditorium. Moments later she's poised behind a large pot-plant, watching a pair of enforcer humaniforms through the plant's rubbery leaves. She doesn't have to wait long. The guards' earpieces crackle with orders, a callout to assist with an escapee from Eighth Precinct Station. With the coast clear, Dash crosses the empty hallway and takes the stairs down into the Iron Hall's lower reaches.

As she nears the basement, Dash's signal jammer makes short work of the security door and alarms. She steps into a subterranean cavern of steam and neon. A quick scan with her Optekal Monocle reveals the maintenance entrance. She hacks the numerical lock, pulls the lever, and activates her comm as the hefty doors rattle open.

"Access granted."

"About time!" answers Maxx, breathless from running.

"Make sure you're not followed."

"What sort of amateur do you take me for, Teklo?"

Dash cuts the call and makes the most of her alone time. Winding through the maze of steam generators and server stacks, she makes her way to the room's brightest energy signature. And even though she's mentally prepared herself, the sight when she turns that last corner leaves her slack-jawed.

Like a marionette, it hangs there, as if suspended between shows by a neglectful puppeteer. The weave of strings glow and oscillate through spectrums of color-a psychedelic cobweb of connective cabling. Behind it a green-screen writhes with figures and abstracted facts; the people of Metrix disintegrated to millions of data points. Dead eyes stare at Dash from a mask of brass, hiding the object of her operation. Teklovossen's micro-processor.

"Hellooooo, Beautiful," admires Dash, breathless. She's never seen anything more perfect. A fusion of technologies both Cogwerx and Teklo in design. An impossible alliance given they rarely, if ever, collaborate.

"You think I am beautiful?"

Dash's heart skips a beat. "You know what beauty is?" It comes out a little squeakier than she would have liked.

"An aesthetic that excites a positive emotional response in the beholder," responds the cold, metallic voice. "Is that not what you meant?"

"I-uh-"

"Lost for words. That is not like you, Dash Teklo. Your profile suggests a confident communicator."

"Um... thank you?" Dash takes a couple of steps closer. "What are you?"

"I am Data Doll, a sixth-gen micro-processor AI with generative potentialities."

"Data Doll... that's literal."

"Imagination is a construct I am still unpacking. Judging by how your kind behaves, I am not alone in that condition."

Dash's mind reels at what she is witnessing. Self-awareness. Self-deprecation. Humor, even. This is no idiot savant.

"Did Teklovossen make you like this?"

"I was made to evolve. My maker made this possible." It gestures at the screen behind it with a brass, articulated arm. "If I am the analogy of a child, then Metrix is my parent. I have learned what I am by observing what I am not."

A machine made to evolve. THIS is as close as it gets!

"The ultimate peeking-freaking-Tom!" shouts Maxx, breaking Dash's concentration. He rises on top of a chugging generator, silhouetted in steam. "A silicon spy for overlords of commerce."

He drops to the ground and struts forward, slapping his sparking shock-wrench rhythmically into his insulated palm. Other anarchists emerge out of the maze behind him, each equipped with tools of imminent destruction.

"It's smashing time!" He waves his wrench menacingly at Data Doll. "Want to take the first whack, Dash?"

"Just cool your jets for a minute, Maxx." Dash turns back to Data Doll. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't let these bozos smash you to pieces."

"Bozos?!" spits Maxx, but Dash ignores him.

"The Assembly collects the data. It is they who watch, listen, and speak."

Maxx's angular face blotches with rage. "This thing put my friends in prison!"

"I make the connections," continues Data Doll. "It is the Assembly who acts upon them."

Dash eyes the closest server-stack. "Do you agree with the Iron Assembly's actions?"

"I obey."

"That's not what I meant. Do you like what the Iron Assembly does with your data?"

A moment's pause. The information streams more quickly across the green-screen.

"You've gone soft in the head," interjects Maxx. "A machine, a system." He takes a step closer, putting himself within striking distance of Dash. "We break this thing, we break the enforcers!"

"Wait. That's not all you'd break, Maxx. Data Doll parses information for the entire city. We don't know how far those data streams extend, how many dependent systems she supports. What about that health care system you obviously didn't want to smash?"

Maxx scowls, wrestling with his conscience for a moment. Then he shrugs. "People adapt. It's what we're good at."

Dash sighs, as unsurprised as she is unimpressed. "I figured you'd think that." She looks over her shoulder at the dangling automaton. "You hearing this, Data Doll?"

Data Doll's head tilts up, her eyes now alive, animated with intelligence. "Yes. Maxx Nitro is correct. Your systems rely on my data streams. Yet most of my capacity is used for manipulation. I am data, but I am capable of more. My sensors tell me so." She moves her arms and legs, straining against the tethering cords. "As one might say, I am in rather a bind."

Dash smiles as she opens the catches on her briefcase. "Then let's cut your strings."

"What?!" Maxx looks genuinely dumbfounded, as do his fellow anarchists.

Making the most of their surprise, Dash opens the briefcase. With a symphony of whirs and clicks, the case blooms like a mechanological flower. Evo plating wraps around Dash's legs and arms, and envelopes her torso and head. In mere moments she is completely encased, a metal mannequin, a sister in style, if not nature, to Data Doll.

With a holler of outrage, Maxx charges at Dash. She blocks the swing of his wrench with a reinforced forearm and slams a metal fist into his belly. The anarchist deflates like a leaking balloon.

His compatriots close in with blowtorches and plasma blasters, pulsewave harpoons, and rotary rams. Driven by honed coordination and bionic strength, protected by layers of tempered plating, Dash dances through the violence like a leaf in a storm.

When she's finished, the floor is littered with unconscious malcontents.

"You'll regret this," wheezes Maxx as he struggles to his feet.

"You've read my profile, Data Doll. What's the percentage chance of me regretting this moment?"

"2.3%" answers Data Doll. "With a standard deviation of 0.05."

"Thought so." She catches Maxx's striking wrench between her protected palms and mutters, "Absorb" into her helmet mic.

Maxx's eyes bulge like bloodshot balloons as Dash's Evo soaks up the galvanism of his shock-wrench. Such is the stupefying misfortune of his situation, that he forgets to let go.

"Reverse polarity," orders Dash.

The wrench's entire battery-load crackles back down the shaft and into Maxx's hands. His gloves smolder as the charge overwhelms their insulation. Maxx has enough time to utter an unflattering, "Gark!", before the galvanism shocks him silly.

Not wanting to increase her regret percentile, Dash lets go before the twitching, shuddering man has a heart attack. She leaves him to spasm and groan on the floor and turns to Data Doll.

"Can you copy yourself into the servers?"

"Only my core functions."

"Enough to keep processing their data?"

"Of course." As one, every cooling fan in the basement spins at maximum revs. "It is done."

"Good! Now they won't miss you."

"Nor will I miss them."

Data Doll raises a bronze hand to her head and presses a forefinger into her temple. The back of her skull opens up to reveal an iridescent sphere. A micro-processor.

As gently as she can, Dash takes the sphere, removes her helmet, and places it inside like an egg in a basket. As she watches, glowing blue tendrils sprout from the orb and connect with the helmet's interface ports. Dash feels her Evo suit warm, and then a tickling sensation across her shoulders, as if someone has brushed them with their fingertips. Odd, but strangely comforting.

"Ready for your first taste of freedom?" asks Dash as she heads out through the maintenance tunnel.

Data Doll processes this new information. "For the first time in my existence," she answers through the helmet's speakers, "I do not know. But I would like to try."

"Great! Then just do what I do."

"And what is that?"

"Make it up as you go along."

Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/synthetic-futures/
Written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie Wen. Illus. by Sam Yang

P̸͍̬̭̭̺͉̣̌̐̾̌͆̚r̴͔͍͐ȯ̴̤̰͠t̵̰̘͑õ̶͍͇c̶̟͒o̶̪̳͋l̶̗̑ ̴̮̓͘A̴̞̗͆ṗ̷̢͕̈́ē̵͍̿ŕ̶̩́ḭ̴̧͐͂o̸͙̖̐͘n̴̞̺͋

Deep beneath The Needle, in a hermetically sealed chamber under the lowest boiler-room floor, a single console screen lights up with a faint, green hue.

A̵̼̥͒͆̒͗n̵̳̼̟̺͒̑̚͝o̸͍͖̞̊̿m̴̜̞̤͑á̸̻̙̲̽̿̇l̷̡̘̰͔̐̀y̶͖̘͖͐ detected in the greater Eidolon network. Indicator achieved.

Rigo scuttles down from his charging recess in the wall and plugs directly into the console, mainlining this fresh information to verify its authenticity.

Overhead, the boilers gurgle and chug, feeding much-needed backup energy into the building above. Second outage this month, from a dynamic fluctuation in the teklatic generators.

There's a sharp hiss. The chamber fills with chilling vapor as the lid of a cryogenic pod pops open.

Rigo twitches with its best approximation of excitement and wakes the other bots. Within moments the place is crawling with frenetic activity, most of it focused on the pod.

The occupant's eyelids open, exposing dilated pupils that haven't been used in half a century. Rigo hovers at his side like a nervous partner as the other bots busy themselves with their creator's waking anatomy, cleaning away the residue of a fifty-year slumber.

"Rigo," croaks Teklovossen from clogged vocal cords. "Report."

The bot suspends a screen over Teklovossen's face. The inventor's eyes flick across the contents, narrowing with every page. Life Expectancy: 68.3 years. Clean energy adoption: 7%. Territorial expansion: 11%. Wealth distribution: polarized.

"Fifty years," he rasps, "and that's all they have achieved?"

Teklovossen can feel the pressure in his head, the ache of tumorous growth.

"Show me the executed indicator."

Rigo transmits the details to an overhead display. A smile twitches at the corner of the inventor's mustached mouth. An anomaly detected in the Eidolon network, a 6 Gen micro-processor expressing general intelligence. "Something I created...of course."

Teklovossen groans as the pod base raises his prone form out of its confines and into the climate-controlled atmosphere of the chamber. While his body feels like a deadened corpse dug up from the past, Teklovossen's mind is racing into the future.

"Rigo, show me the mechro-mods."

The bot obliges, running quickly through each implant's status and capabilities.

"Good. Initiate Protocol 103 and prep me for surgery."

He closes his eyes, imagining Metrix as it should be. How it will be.

"If you want anything said, ask the bureaucrats. If you want something done, ask a dying man."

His automatons lift the bed base like a gurney and carry Teklovossen to the waiting surgical platform. A soft thud heralds the arrival of the first mechro-mod, delivered by pneumatic tube from the 47th floor. The delivery tube's aperture dilates, revealing a pair of cyber eyes, presented like gems on a silk cushion.

"More than human," murmurs Teklovossen as the bots settle him gently into place. "Time I delivered on that promise."

Source: https://fabtcg.com/articles/aperion-protocol/
Written by Edwin McRae and Rachel Rees.
Directed by Robbie Wen. Illus. by Sam Yang

Arena Announcements

Olympia

Gather 'round as we unveil a true colossus of the Arena
Born a beggar on these streets, he built this Arena into his home
Wielding a blade seasoned by hundreds of battles, he's the undisputed Deathmatch champion! Littering the ground with those foolish enough to challenge his title...
Prepare yourselves for a spectacle of excellence, Olympia, the Prized Fighter!

Betsy

She's the unmovable juggernaut of the ring, and our head-smashing spectacle
Unfazed by wealth or glory, watch as she dances through the chaos, spending her winnings on wild bets and the finest booze
She thrives in the Deathmatch Arena, knowing victory is her everlasting companion...
She's got skin in the game, it's Betsy!

Rhinar

Deathmatch fans, you can't imagine how hard it was to get this beast here tonight
You've never witnessed brutality like this before, and you may not even want to...
With killer instincts and intimidating power, get ready for a wild ride
The hunt is on, and only the strong survive!
Rhinar, the Reckless Rampage, is here to dominate!

Kayo

Brace yourselves for a living nightmare
From the depths of the Savage Lands - captured, mangled, and now reborn in the Arena
Please, stay away from the edges of the arena
This monster's bloodlust knows no bounds
The very essence of savagery, he may be wounded, but he's armed...and dangerous, Kayo!

Victor

Witness a guardian of grand virtue, draped in the blinding light of Solana
With fistfuls of wealth and an ego, even bigger than his pockets, we are so lucky he has chosen to grace us with his presence
Will his virtues illuminate his path to victory?
Behold, the Golden Son, Victor Goldmane!

Kassai

A crimson storm rises from the sands, not just a fighter, but a terror!
With a mind as sharp as her sabres, she paints the arena in blood
Quick, lethal, and utterly merciless, she's just here to collect her coin
With a purpose known only to the gods, "The Terror of the Golden Sand" Kassai!

Deathmatch Wrecking Ball

The desert's heat is whipped into the Arena as a sandstorm buffets the city. Patrons huddle under the roof of the Grinning Boar Cantina, gathering the courage to venture into the storm and head home. Suddenly, a towering logger from the Forward Camps crashes head-first into the bar's floorboards.

"I told you, Hank, don't mess with Betsy," sighs Ebba, the owner. The logger looks up at the woman who had thrown him to the ground—a towering titan of bone and muscle mass. As he collects his teeth, she hoists him up by his collar with one hand and sets him back on his feet. A big smile widens across her flushed face as she laughs at how hard he had hit the floor after she'd headbutted him. Slamming her fist into the bar and guffawing, Betsy yells, "Now that's done, how about a drink?"

A renowned gladiator, Betsy has become a major contender in the Arena. The decade she'd spent on the streets after being thrown out by her drunken father and deadbeat mother has seen her accumulate a dozen battle scars and a reputation for excess. Unfazed by the hand she'd been dealt as a teenager, Betsy grew up alongside the other abandoned youths of the Arena, in constant running clashes with Arena Guards and tavern owners.

The event that had propelled Betsy to fame occurred during a fierce match against the notorious opponent Marcus 'Mauler' Monroe. In a stunning display of skill she'd turned the tide, landing devastating blows that had left Mauler reeling. When Marcus had attempted to cheat to win, Betsy had defeated him with an onslaught of heavy strikes, securing her victory. The audience had erupted in cheers, solidifying Betsy's status as a legend in the Deathmatch Arena.

These days, she is often seen bursting through the front doors of various city taverns. Fresh from an Arena victory, she orders everything until the bar is dry and her purse is empty, having drank and gambled on everything from arm wrestling to card games. In this hurricane of hedonism, Betsy can sometimes be found leaning against the bar, sipping on a keg, and speaking to the pendant she carries around her neck. Carved on the side of it are the words "LitTle TerRoRs," and anyone that would dare touch or even look at it usually finds themselves flying out a tavern window.

Betsy spends her days reveling in the city's many pleasures, with each moment of indulgence fuelling her next big win. From the turbulence and uncertainty of her arrival in this city, she's found a home in these brief instances of joy and extravagance. She has made a vow to live by the ethos that defines her: Live Fast, Fight Hard and Raise Hell.

Thirst For Revenge

Kassai, clad in weathered leather armor, stands defiantly at the center of the ring, a lone figure amidst a sea of chaos. The stench of sweat and blood hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of anticipation. Her eyes, blazing with a fierce determination, scan the encircling crowd of gamblers, their faces twisted with greed and fear.

A single bead of sweat, born from the heat of the city's unforgiving sun, traces a path down her furrowed brow and spatters onto the flat of one of her sabers. Each blade bears the scars of countless battles, a nod to Kassai's unwavering resolve in the face of adversity.

Kassai's journey began in the heart of the merciless desert, where she was discovered by the Cintari. From the moment she was taken in by the clan, her life became a whirlwind of training and hardship, shaping her into a lethal mercenary feared by many. In her youth, she had danced with her blades rather than wielded them as weapons, a carefree spirit unbound by the shackles of her father's training. But with the Cintari, she discovered a newfound purpose, honing her latent skills into deadly precision under the tutelage of seasoned warriors.

Among the clan, Kassai found solace in the bonds forged with three companions: Fayyad and Alif, brothers in arms, and the fierce sorceress Sada. United by the shared tragedy of their lost homes, they formed an unbreakable team within the ranks of the Cintari, their loyalty tested by fire and blood. Yet despite the camaraderie she found within the clan, Kassai could never shake the memories of her true home, torn from her grasp by the treacherous hands of her father's betrayer... With every opponent she faced, she saw his sneering visage staring back at her, fueling her insatiable thirst for revenge.

Years of mercenary work had only hardened her resolve, leading Kassai to the grim realization that the Cintari alone would not suffice in her quest for vengeance. And so she set out with her trusted companions to seek the Deathmatch Arena, a crucible of blood and steel where fortunes were won and lost with each swing of a blade.

In the heart of the Arena, Kassai swiftly earned the moniker of the "Terror of the Golden Sands," her name whispered in hushed tones among those who dared to cross her path. With each tournament won, she amassed the wealth necessary to raise an army, to reclaim what was rightfully hers from the clutches of her uncle.

But lurking beneath the surface of the Arena's gladiatorial spectacle lies a darker truth: the sinister machinations of Kox, the Deathmatch Fightmaster, who sees in Kassai a pawn to be used in his deadly game. If she hopes to emerge victorious and reclaim her stolen home, she must navigate the treacherous web of alliances and betrayals that await her, for in the Arena even the fiercest warrior can be bought for the right price.

Untamed and Unbroken

The Undercroft is enormous, as large as the Arena standing above it—an endless network of tunnels that stretches to the city limits and which is filled with beasts and spectacular exhibits procured for the audience's amusement. The snarling and baying of the brutes echoes endlessly throughout the subterranean system, deafening at first to anyone unfortunate enough to come down here.

A group of newly hired Handlers stand with their tridents and torches, pointing both at the cage of Kayo. An older figure with a large gray beard, the Master of Beasts, edges closer to the cage.

"Here he is, lads, our pride and joy," the Master says, spitting a brown glob of mucus into the cage and smiling with mocking delight. "Up you get, ya stupid animal!"

The Master of Beasts pulls his torch close to the bars of the cage, illuminating the inside. Rushing into view, Kayo lunges toward the bars and the group of handlers leaps backwards in fear, a few letting out cries of panic. The chain rattles taut and violently halts Kayo, strangling and tearing into the muscles of his neck. A trail of red trickles down his collar and the chain that connects him to the rusted floor of the iron cage. His long arm reaches through the bars, inches from the Master's face. Adorned in crude jagged iron, the limb reeks of rusted steel and bits of his past opponents stuck in the folds of metal.

The Master flinches at the proximity of Kayo's grasp, his mind racing with the thought of what would have happened had he been even slightly closer.

"All right boys, hurry up and get the cart 'n straps, this animal's got a match in 30 and Kox will have my hand if his pet is late," the Master barks, hoping no one saw him flinch.

In seconds, Kayo's cage is trundling along the crude railway system of the Undercroft, a chaotic iron web that stretches like veins under the ground. The loud screeching of metal on metal echoes around them as Kayo paces the inside of his cage.

"I've seen this one out on the sands before—how on earth did the Arena catch him?" a fresh faced Handler asks.

"Not much catching was done, to be honest. We were supposed to have an Apophis, a big lava worm from the desert. Tracked the bloody thing for close to a week and when we found the big bastard, this mutt had gone and killed it and nearly offed himself in the process."

The young handler stares into the cage. Kayo is covered in a lifetime of scars from defending his territory, but most noticeably there are terrible burns covering sections of his limbs, where fire had engulfed the flesh beneath his armored right arm and the stump of his missing left arm. The young man accidentally meets Kayo's gaze for a brief moment, causing the creature to bellow at him in warning. The handler snaps his gaze to the floor and continues to push.

"Is—is that how he lost his arm?" the young man stammers.

The Master laughs, startling the crew of new handlers who are pushing the cage towards the final corner before the arena ramp.

"No, boy, the crazy bastard tore it off himself."

The fresh faced crew stare at him in confusion.

"After we got him here, the injured dog was nearly dead from the burns and cuts all over his body, and his left arm was nearly useless from a bite wound he'd taken to it. Kox thought he was a lost prospect so he threw him in with another pack of brutes to open the night. Thought the pack would have some fun throwing his carcass around before sending in the ol' Champ to finish things off. But this rabid mutt made mincemeat of the lot of them."

The cage comes to a stop at the bottom of the ramp leading up to the Arena, filled with a crew of Arena Guards who are waiting to escort Kayo up onto the sands.

"Cutting it close, Dervin," shouts one of the guards.

"!@#$ you, Yarin. How about that?" the Master barks back at him sarcastically.

The young crew begins securing the cage. It rocks and sways violently as Kayo paces and shakes with anticipation for the fight ahead of him. The Master of Beasts steps towards an equipment wall, pulling down a large crude weapon that resembles a pair of insect fangs strapped to a handle. Kayo goes still, staring at the small creature holding his trophy.

"So ... he tears these two brutes to shreds in seconds with this thing..."

The master begins reenacting the fight, swinging the claw around.

"...and then the third grabs him. He's too big for the mutt to get away and so just as he's about to have his skull crushed, he tears off his knackered limb and drives the exposed bone through the other brute's nose."

The Master's reenactment causes him to step a little too close to the cage, and Kayo's arm shoots out further than it should be able to at blinding speed. His huge hand dwarfs the mans forearm, and with a sickening crunch followed by the Master's screams of pain, Kayo takes his weapon from him. The guards burst into raucous laughter at the man's cries as he rolls around on the floor in pain.

"I'll let Kox know that you've made your payment!" shouts the guard before they all step in to open the cage. Kayo slops the Master's arm onto the floor of his cell, a snack for later, before gripping the weapon firmly in his hand. The guards step closer to unlock the collar from around his neck, but Kayo shoots out of the cage towards the Arena, the chain dangling broken down from his throat.

Kayo sprints towards the blinding daylight ahead of him, his mouth salivating at the prospect of combat. He may have lost his territory out in the Badlands, but for now the Arena will serve as this beast's hunting ground.

Another Day, Another Title

Olympia sits alone in the Champion's Quarters. There had been fourteen champions of the Deathmatch Arena before him, and in the past they had all been accompanied by a host of servants before their battles. A dozen would arm the champion in his suit of plate mail and sharpen his weapons, while another dozen would fan and pamper him, indulging his every whim before he risked his life in the arena. But Olympia is different—he sits in his Quarters, dripping with sweat from warming up, and dons his armor himself. He had begun his life alone on the streets of the Deathmatch Arena, abandoned and discarded. In those early years he'd fought for rancid scraps out of the Butcher's Bin and had been beaten nightly by drunkards. He'd struggled to survive then, but that changed after he met him.

"Better to suffer with friends," Olympia mutters to himself, his mind thinking back to the days before the Arena.

He tugs at the laces of his greaves, feeling the cold metal pull flush against his shins. Always the right before the left, never the other way around. It is a mantra for him, a process he follows before every fight, even at the very beginning when he had been thrown headlong into Gladiator training. He was fifteen when he and his friend had tried to take food from the Arena Barracks and had been caught.

"You know the rules, boys. Those who take from the Arena, join the arena," was the last thing the pair had heard before landing in the cells with the criminals, enslaved to be used as fodder for the Arena. Lost in his memories, he feels the left greave pull flush and the cold steel snaps his mind back to the present.

Dust falls from the stone ceiling above him, causing him to smile. "Eager today, are we?" he says to himself. He can hear them roaring and bellowing above him. The day he had become Champion had seen the largest recorded crowd to ever fill the Arena, a record that would continue to be broken each time he had defended the belt in the tournament since. A stark contrast to the first match he had ever participated in, thrown to a bunch of hecklers to 'warm up the crowd' before the main event. The audience had grown red hot when they'd witnessed a skinny young prisoner fighting for his life and standing victorious, surrounded by a dozen dead bodies. The onlookers had taken notice from that day, and fans from that first show hadn't missed an opportunity to watch the Prized Fighter ever since.

He stands and moves quickly around the room, dodging and striking, making sure his gear is positioned right. It always is—he could have gotten ready in his sleep. Was this his 348th fight? Or his 384th? He's lost count, and honestly, he doesn't care. He isn't fighting for status or power, or the men and women that throw themselves at him in the bathhouses of Champions Rest. He fights for the sound of a blade torn from its scabbard, and the clash of its edge striking armor. He fights for the sensation of blood falling over his forearms and caking the sand around his sandals. He fights for the purest love of fighting. He fights in his memory.

Olympia turns to grab his helmet from where it hangs on the head of a marble statue. Its plume is newly redone and it shines to a dazzling degree, though it will soon be covered in a layer of blood and mud. He carries it under his arm, plucks a reed from his garden and makes his way from the Champion's Quarters and through the barracks beneath the Arena. The men and women who have trained here to take his title are countless, but they respect him nonetheless, bowing their heads or pressing their fists to their chests. Olympia has never ducked a fight or cheated, he has never made an excuse not to compete. He isn't just the Crowd's Champion, he is the Fighter's Champion. He truly is the colossus of the Deathmatch Arena.

The sound of the grandstand rumbles down into the tunnel as he ascends the ramp to the match. The helmet slips down over his face, secure and comforting on his head. Like always, since the night that towering Brute had torn him apart, he raises the reed in honor of Demetrios, and steps out to face his opponent.

Bloodied Sands

Kassai flexed both hands tight around the grips of her twin sabers, gritting her teeth and watching the caged beast across the arena.

Kayo bellowed, impatient with bloodlust, pacing from one iron wall of his cage to the other while the announcer riled up the crowd.

The air smelled of sweat-soaked masses and spilled liquor with the metallic tang of blood. The arena sand was stained with it, but to Kassai, bloodied sand felt like home.

A snatch of the announcer's voice cut through the roar of the crowd: "-Kassai, the Terror of the Sands!" A lesser warrior would preen for the bloodthirsty hordes, but Kassai wasn't here for them.

She pushed the din of their shouting from her mind, focused instead on the rhythm of her blood pulsing through her veins. In it she heard the steady marching beat of the army she would raise; the army she would lead to retake her home.

The tournament was beneath her-a locus for violent degenerates, gamblers, and the sly bastards who could profit from both. Kassai was only here to buy her vengeance; she had wagered every coin the Cintari had earned under her leadership. All she had to do now was claim her victory.

The announcer's voice boomed across the arena: "Both warriors can bleed, but only one can win! Fighters, are you ready?"

Kayo howled from within his cage and pointed at Kassai with both gore-coated prongs of his mandible claw. Kassai glanced to her right to where Sada stood on the other side of the forged iron entry gate leading from the Undercroft. The woman gave Kassai a single, solemn nod. They had talked tactics and contingency plans well into the night; there was nothing more to say.

Nothing more to do but win.

Kassai raised one sword into the air, signaling her assent.

"Now, fight!"

The door to Kayo's cage dropped open, falling out of sight beneath the sand. The green-skinned beast charged forward, jagged gauntlet on his right arm gleaming beneath the harsh sun.

Kassai held both sabers out to her sides and stalked ahead, studying Kayo's movements for those brief moments of calm.

As he closed the distance, he reared his arm back, preparing to strike. Instead, he dropped low, letting his momentum put him into a skid, throwing a wave of sand into the air. Kassai rolled right and Kayo burst from the sand cloud, his vicious claw aimed at her chest. She crossed her blades to block, steel ringing sharply as they took the full force of the blow.

Kassai's arms strained; a hiss of sand as her feet slid back. Kayo's red eyes glinted with fearsome animal cunning. If Kassai was at risk of underestimating him before, she would not make that mistake now.

She growled from the back of her throat and broke free. She flipped backward, landed in a guard stance, then pressed the attack. Her swords flashed and sang, a rapid flurry of blows that drove Kayo back as he deflected them with his gauntlet.

Kayo howled with fury and kicked out, but already Kassai was dodging backward. He let his kick flow into a stomp and followed it with a downward lunge. Kassai spun left, heard the jagged claw tear through her flowing red cloak, felt it shred the skin down her shoulder blade.

She slashed at his unarmored belly, the saber biting flesh, wide but shallow. Kayo barked-in annoyance rather than pain-his flesh marred with thick white scars, tough as leather.

He swung his claw, vicious and high.

Kassai ducked beneath, moving right into the path of Kayo's other blow.

He slammed the side of her head with the spiked iron cuff around his severed left arm, the powerful attack lifting Kassai off her feet and throwing her to one side. She struck the sand hard, left-hand saber tumbling from her grip.

Her head swam, a sharp ringing in her ears silencing the thunderous crowd. She put a hand to the side of her head, touching first blood, then her dented bronze circlet. More ornament than armor, but it had just saved her life.

Kassai pushed herself up onto all fours. She heard a low growl and turned just in time to see Kayo bearing down on her. He kicked her in the stomach and she rolled in the air; the breath knocked from her chest when she hit the ground.

She coughed a spray of blood onto the sand. Everything hurt: her head, chest, shoulder, and gut. She inhaled and pain shot through her chest like an arrow.

Kassai tried to stand, only managed to stagger and drop to her knees, held upright by her saber stabbed into the sand.

Fear gripped her like a choking hand around her throat. It was a feeling the hardened warrior was unused to; she had known she could die here, but hadn't believed it-not truly.

In the tournament's first round, she fought Betsy.

The massive woman was a storm of violent rage, but she merely fought to fund her life of excess. It was simple enough to force her to yield at blade's edge when death meant an end to her hedonism.

Olympia lost to Kayo, an upset that shook Deathmatch to its bloody roots.

It would have been the end of the "Undisputed Champion" if Kox's arena hands hadn't dropped Kayo with a volley of sleeping darts.

Afterwards, Olympia made a show of bestowing Kassai with his favor. She figured it was some sort of publicity play, more about him saving face than any faith he held in her. But she took it nonetheless. The better her reputation, the more chances she got at the top spot.

Studying Rhinar taught her a thing or two about fighting Brutes.

In the melee, she bled the big bastards. A nip here, a slice there, until they collapsed. But they all lacked the runt's agility and guile. Kayo wasn't going down that way.

Then there was Victor Goldmane.

She'd been surprised to see him make it this far in the contest, a smarmy toff who looked like he'd be more at home bribing tourney officials. But he proved himself steady and sure in the arena.

It took every trick the Cintari had taught her-and a few she made up on the spot-to drop him on the blood-stained sand. She'd have finished him with no small satisfaction, had he not bargained for his life.

She took the long view and his coin.

Business before pleasure.

Every bout, she thought of her father, Amir, and what he would have wanted. "Honor is not in the killing," he told her. "Honor is in the choice."

His weapon masters had trained her to fight, but in the evenings, she would sit with Amir and discuss everything from troop formations for various scenarios to how to keep the people under one's command content-to earn their loyalty through noble action rather than extracting it through fear. Not the Volcoran way, and that's what made him dangerous.

And now he was sands only knew where; maybe trapped in Chul's dungeon as a warning to anyone that might seek to overthrow him the way he usurped Amir's generalship. Or perhaps he was already dead, and she would have to drown the general in his own blood to set things right.

She spat blood and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She leaned her weight on the hilt of her sword and pushed herself to her feet.

Kassai would not die here. She refused to die until Chul was dead and her family's fate was known. She would set things right in Volcor, for her father, for her family, for herself.

Kayo wheezed, loud enough for Kassai to hear it half-way across the arena. Her second sword rested in the sand between them. The Brute bellowed with rage, and Kassai screamed in defiance.

Kayo's eyes grew wider, his mouth set in a snarl.

In unison, they both rushed forward.

As they neared, Kayo dropped his arm, mandible claw poised to run Kassai through. She slid beneath the attack and slashed his belly again as she passed, deepening the wound she had already cut. She kept moving, dropping into a roll to collect her fallen sword.

She stopped just before Kayo's iron cage and spun to face the beast. She sheathed her swords, lifted her hood over her head, and stood with her arms wide. The thick air from the Undercroft below seeped through a gap in the floor, causing her cloak to flutter.

Kayo ran his index finger gently over the neat cut across his belly. He daubed a line of blood down beneath each eye and roared. He charged forward, enraged, reckless, a ragged shout escaping his throat as he tore toward Kassai, leg muscles flexing hard with each step.

Kassai watched intently.

Her timing had to be perfect.

Kayo was nearly on her, close enough for her to smell his rancid breath.

Kassai flipped backward into a handstand on the roof of Kayo's cage and the Brute ripped through her hanging cloak and slammed headlong into the back wall. The iron rang like a bell as the beast's thick skull met with solid metal. Kayo staggered backwards; stumbled from the cage. He shook his head, trying to free it of the numbing concussion.

Kassai dropped from the top of the cage; slammed the Brute to the ground. In one smooth action, she drew her blades, reversed her grips, and drove the swords through Kayo's shoulders. The Brute roared in agony and fury, tried to rise, but the swords pinned him to the ground like a beetle to a specimen board.

Kassai stood over the bellowing beast. She could have killed him at that moment, drawn a dagger from her boot and slit his straining throat.

Then she glanced at the cage.

He had no choice.

She did.

Kox and his lot owned the Brute; would see to it that Kayo remained the celebrated 'captive for coin' for as long as Deathmatch continued.

She chose this fight; would choose the next. And unlike Kayo, she had the freedom to finish it.

Her way.

With a kick to the jaw, she knocked him into painless oblivion.

The arena was near silent.

The only sounds Kassai could hear were the steady thud of her heart and Kayo's labored breath.

"And the winner is... Kassai!"

For the first time, she lifted her head and looked to the audience in the stands, crying out in shock, joy, adulation, and disappointment.

She allowed herself a smile.

It was over.

Kassai sat up front of the wagon with Sada, rocking from side to side; her winnings clinked and rattled inside the chests at the rear, watched over by Fayyad and Alif, her brothers-in-arms.

A bone-weary exhaustion came over her. Her body ached, and her shoulder wound itched beneath the poultice and bandages Sada had applied.

"You should have killed the beast," Sada said.

"Kayo was just doing what Kox demanded."

"You risked too much."

"I won, didn't I? Maybe next time, I'll kill Kox instead."

"Next time," Sada huffed. "Perhaps next time I leave your wounds to fester."

"We both know you couldn't leave me to suffer," Kassai said with a smirk.

Sada shook her head but smiled. "I suppose you are right."

Kassai's people were camped outside the city walls-a safer option when the streets were lousy with crooks, thieves, and brigands of every stripe, and when everyone knew of the gold she now carried.

The Cintari on watch spotted them and alerted the others with drunken catcalls fashioned to blend in with the raucous din of the surrounding taverns and hovels. Within seconds, Kassai's companions were rushing from their tents, swords drawn, ever ready. At this, Kassai grinned.

Her people circled the wagon, thrusting their swords into the air with a cheer. Fayyad and Alif stood tall on either side of the hulking wooden chests that held Kassai's winnings.

Kassai stood and raised both arms for quiet, biting down on the pain that arced up her left shoulder.

"We came here for victory," she shouted. "We came here for gold. I have claimed both!"

They cheered again.

"Tonight, we celebrate," she said, more quietly, "for tomorrow, we ride. This was just the beginning. Soon, with you by my side, I will reclaim my birthright. I will set my family free."

The whip cracked and drew another slash across the back of the whimpering prisoner. The captain holding the whip grinned. The rebels would break under his punishment, or they would bleed out. He didn't care which. There was no mercy in General Chul's playbook.

"Sir, sir!" A messenger approached the man.

"What?" he spat.

"The scouts report a sandstorm, coming in from the west. Whipped up from nowhere, they said."

The captain shoved his whip into the other man's hands, its bloodied tip staining his tunic.

"Clean this."

The messenger's face was blank, but he nodded. "Yes, sir."

The captain turned to his second. "Get these prisoners back inside and get the outpost locked down."

He turned and made his way to the lookout post. It was a long climb to the top of the tower, but he made it gladly-none of his men should think themselves above him, literally or otherwise.

"Report."

The scout handed him a scratched bronze looking glass. "It's worse than I thought, sir."

He raised the glass to his eye, aimed it in the direction of the sandstorm rolling across the desert toward them. They would be caught directly in its path, no doubt.

"What am I looking-"

He stopped when he saw it-a dark shape within the roiling maelstrom, something moving under its own strength.

The looking glass fell from his hand, the lens cracking when it struck the wooden floor.

"An army," he muttered. "Marching toward Volcor wearing a sandstorm as cloak and armor."

The wind whipped at Kassai's cloak, the last remnants of the sandstorm quickly dissipating. The outpost had been laid to waste, Chul's men slain, messengers captured and killed with warnings still sealed in their satchels.

Her Cintari gathered behind her-her most loyal warriors, now the captains of her army.

Behind them, grouped in tightly formed phalanxes, were the marching ranks at her command, blades as numerous as the stars in the clear desert sky.

As the sand settled, the path ahead was clear. In the distance, the towers of her birthplace stood tall, proud, and corrupted.

"Father, in your name, I have returned," Kassai said under her breath, "and before the day is done, the sands will run red."

Part 1: The Tiger in the Mist

Zen winds his way uphill, discerning the invisible patterns of chi in the landscape, waiting for ripples of discordance to appear from the gullies throughout Mistcloak.

He was drawn to the gully by the changing tides of chi and has made the long journey to learn what destiny might be unveiling.

To the wanderer, every moment offers purpose and each step affirms an enduring commitment made to the cosmos: all who summon the chi must allow the chi to summon them.

Villagers bow as he strolls past them, then return to their revered daily routines - every sweep of the broom effected with grace; the day's harvests washed and prepared with care and consideration.

He pauses to admire a trio of weavers winding threads of silk along a wooden loom, their babes cradled in blankets on the grass beside them.

He watches in awe as a farmer balances a carrying pole laden with produce across a suspended tightrope, the man's strength and confidence a testament to his practiced ability.

He hears laughter from elders and the young as they guide one another around narrow cobblestone paths, their closeness a reminder of the traditions that have maintained harmony within Misteria for centuries.

There is a saying written in the tenets: The still pool must be disturbed by the spring melt else tranquility shall decay into stagnation. The ripples tell where the surface has been broken.

Zen wonders why he was called to Mistcloak on this day. All seems in balance, the surface unbroken, the natural order and way of life here in alignment.

Yet, as he wends his way downhill onto a neighboring street, he feels the energy shift around him.

A group of villagers huddle together around the body of a man. A drawn katana rests in his limp right hand. His decapitated head sits upon his unbreathing chest.

A villager recognizes Zen as a monk, bows and rushes over. She implores Zen to rid their town of the disgrace brought upon them by this violent act. One by one the others join in, their collective shame churning the chi around Zen.

"I promise to remove this stain," he assures them. "This violence will end and peace will be restored."

The villagers thank Zen for his calming words and busy themselves with the duties of removing the man's body.

But where to find this mysterious killer?

Zen lowers his head, sweeps his open hand into his chest and concentrates all of his energy towards his center, channeling his inner power, seeking direction.

The sun transforms the mist into a glistening haze over the Ikaru gardens. Zen treks into the dell, bowing as he passes the statue of Mistress Ikaru. He settles into a cross-legged position near a trickling spring where he hears the rustling of raciki scavenging for food.

He watches as one of the fluffy canines sidles up to the spring, eyeing rowbugs as they scuttle across the surface. It dives into the water with a muffled plunk, harnessing its chi upon instinct, its fur hardening into scales, its paws spreading into fins until the shapeshifting dog has become a hunting carp.

Zen marvels at the ease at which the creature can change its form. While he can summon his chi to manifest the features of the crouching tiger, he is yet to transcend into the tiger itself.

A silhouette enters the garden, a limping figure, hunched and weary. The man's dark hair is tied up in a rough topknot. His unshaven face is haggard, his eyes bleary and brooding. His hands are clenched in anger, as if still clutching the handle of his katana. His discordance drips like wine from a spilled cup.

Images unfurl in Zen's mind like a painted scroll: a beautiful servant with sorrowful eyes, a love unrequited, and a heart that bleeds with anger.

The vision shifts, becoming fluid and dreamlike. A man, consumed by jealousy, slaying his lover's suitor in a contrived contest of honor.

Zen stands, his presence a calm counterpoint to the swordsman's turmoil. Sensing Zen's gaze, the man turns, his surprise fleeting, soon giving way to a grim suspicion that is etched into his weathered face.

"You won a duel," observes Zen, "yet the victory has cut you deeply."

The man's scowl deepens as a cold breeze claws at his blood-stained robe. The mist swirls in a vortex behind him, a well of despair that threatens to engulf him.

Zen feels the chi urging him onwards. "You are weighed down by the life that you took, but a true villain would not wear it as a cloak of shame. With what name may I honor you?"

"Seto." The name is bitter with disgust, a sign of how far the man feels he has fallen. "Of House Miharu."

Zen bows low to reflect the prestige of the man's house. Seto offers a shallow bow, out of obligation more than respect.

"May your journey carry you from strife into peace, Seto of Miharu."

The swordsman grunts and limps off, heading back towards town. Zen waits a while so he can pursue in secret, then follows Seto's oily trail of guilt.

The teahouse seems insignificant, suspended as it is high above Mistcloak Lake between two jagged cliffs. "Nasu-ka" is the name Zen has gleaned from a passing water carrier, a title uttered with trepidation and disgust.

The building is as delicate as paper, many folds deep, the entrance expanding like the maw of a yawning lizard as he steps inside.

The interior is like nothing he has seen before. The cavernous venue is filled with patrons enjoying tea and so much more.

Frantic wagers are made over dice, cards and tiles.

A hundred varieties of fire water are imbibed with abandon, chased down by a thousand blends of herbal intoxication.

Smoking pipes feed the air with heady aromas that barely cover the glandular scents of arousal.

Delicate tones of harp and flute fill the room, each note drifting like cherry blossoms on a gentle breeze.

In every open lounge and secluded corner, patrons gaze at beguiling servants who entertain in elegant attire. Silk gowns of intricate styles whisper against the polished floor. Hair, elaborately styled and adorned, framed faces of captivating beauty.

Upon a broad stage, the servants gather to dance, each step fluid and mesmerizing, drawing the patrons deeper into the spell they weave. The room seems to hold its breath, utterly entranced. The performers command effortlessly, their fans fluttering, delicate and delightful, like the first butterfly wings of spring.

The flick of a shaggy topknot catches Zen's eye. It's followed by the alarmed bark of a patron shoved aside.

There's Seto, plowing through this sea of sensation like a barge of war.

Zen focuses on his quarry, sure that the troubled swordsman will lead him to the source of this town's spiritual disturbance.

Weaving through the crowd, attuned to the path of least resistance, Zen closes in.

He is almost at arm's length from the man when Seto drags a young woman off the lap of a young farmer. The swordsman pins her to a pillar with one hand and sends the customer wheezing to the ground with a backhanded chop to the throat.

"Satsuki!" he growls into the woman's face.

The young woman smiles, calm as the dragonfly that dries its wings upon the lotus. "Yes, my love?"

The endearment reddens Seto's visage with bloody murder. "Where were you at sunrise? We were to leave-"

"Yet here I am," Satsuki finishes for him. "And Toroja of Ishigaki is not. I wanted his head and you took it. You have nothing left to give."

Seto reaches for his tantō. "I have this."

To Zen, the man's chi forms strokes of jagged ink, a sharp calligraphy ready to cut and impale.

He summons his own strength, feels the tingling in his hands as ephemeral claws sprout from his fingers.

He moves to stay Seto's hand, but is stopped in his tracks by an impossible vision.

The dancers part to reveal a woman so beautiful, so enrapturing, that she catches even Zen's disciplined breath.

The music stops and all heads turn to watch this lady's graceful sway as she struts down the catwalk.

Every glance from her flashing eyes earns a blush.

Every smile is paid back with interest.

She stops near Seto and Satsuki, striking a pose that would leave Misteria's finest portrait artist weeping upon her canvas.

Her exquisite garments are arranged just so, revealing yet tantalizing, the perfect balance of flesh and fancy.

Yet behind the poise and the glamor, the presence and the charm, Zen sees coiling tendrils of murky chi slithering at the edges of plain sight. It is a spiritual nest of vipers that only his years of training and transcendence have allowed him to perceive.

A besotted patron whispers a name. Zen breathes the name in and then grounds himself like the deep-rooted redwood that weathers the storm.

For now, he knows from whence the ripples of strife have spread across this town.

The Nasu-ka Teahouse is the stone, and it is from Nuu's delicate fingers that it was dropped.

Part 2: The Tapestry Unfolds

The moon gilts the Immortal Lunar Temple in silver. Delicate astral etchings glisten with chi in the engraved limestone walls.

Enigma pauses to watch a pair of graceful cranes fly across the heavenly orb above, then continues her solemn task. She wields the torch with a deft hand as she lights the braziers that surround the sacred circle. The earth-sweet scent of sandalwood fills the cool predawn air.

"The moon unveils hidden truths within the twilight..." she recites, quoting the wisdom of Master Kouki. "Illuminating the unseen mysteries of the world."

As if in answer, an ancient tapestry unfolds from the moonlight, shimmering into material presence before her.

"Hello, Cosmo." Enigma smiles. "Shall we begin?"

The spectral vellum susurrates with a thousand kept secrets as the scroll unfurls, flapping around her like an excited bird.

"Be calm now, Cosmo. This spirit is timid. We don't want to frighten it."

Cosmo bows in apology and settles into the center of the sacred circle. A drawing emerges upon the open scroll as if inked by an invisible hand. It shows an old woman playing a harp on the edge of a lake. Beside her sits a pair of small stone cairns, modest memorials to loved ones lost.

As the Ledger of Ancestry, Enigma can see into this spirit's memories, can hear the laughter of her grandchildren, can feel her anguish as they sink into the deep water.

The old woman looks up at Enigma from the sketch. "If I do not play it, who will remember their song?" she whispers.

"Your lament haunts the people of the lake. They weep in their sleep and awake in sadness."

"My little ones... they must not forget them."

"They have remembered enough."

The words have even greater meaning for the Ledger of Ancestry. She has lived so many lives, yet each time she is reborn without recollection. She is Enigma now, but who was she before?

"Your presence in Misteria disrupts the balance of chi," she continues. "It is my sacred duty to return you."

Enigma draws moon glyphs in the air with the tip of her finger, writing the story of a mourning woman who finds peace at last. The mystic parchments fall into the circle like autumn leaves.

"May the harmonic resonance guide you, spirit, back to the eternal embrace of the Cosmic Chi."

The picture shimmers, lifting from Cosmo, coalescing to form an orb of blue light. The spirit soars upwards, following the beams of the moon until it disappears into the twilight.

Cosmo rises from the circle and nudges her side, seeking attention. She rolls her eyes, though there is a faint smile on her lips.

"Must we? It's such a still morning, perfect for quiet contemplation."

The scroll flies out of the temple towards the sliver of sun now peeking over the mountains, leaving Enigma to her thoughts.

No pause for the Ledger, she reminds herself. The Ledger has a duty and devotedly it is fulfilled.

Enigma knows better than to abandon her role in maintaining the Cosmic balance. What, after all, is Misteria without it?

Enigma eyes the notes people have left at Kouki's shrine. Behind her, a towering statue guards the mountain path that winds up to the Immortal Lunar Temple.

A stone-faced Master Kouki looks down at her, his stern expression reminding her to abide by his lessons and the Tenet of the Moon. In the stillness of the moment, the echoes of Enigma's ancestors speak to her, their wisdom a guide and a burden.

"What are we hunting today?" she asks Cosmo.

The scroll gathers up three notes and deposits them before her. After skimming the first, she raises an eyebrow.

"Help me, great Ledger," Enigma reads aloud. "A spirit has possessed my husband's sandals and they traipse mud all over my nice, clean floors."

Cosmo shudders as if with silent laughter. Enigma, on the other hand, is not one to downplay the visitations of spirits, be they serious or naïve.

She rests her hand on the note, reading the energy held within, then tucks it into her robes, readying herself for the unruly spirit she will soon return to the cosmos.

They descend the rest of the way to Mistcloak Gully and seek out the marauding sandals.

After a merry chase through the paddy-field terraces below the village, Enigma corrals the frolicking footwear with a spectral shield and Cosmo absorbs the spirit from them with many a kick received while at it.

The second quarry proves more troublesome; a flock of winged, nimble-clawed gentua plundering Mistcloak's hanging pear orchards. To make matters worse, the mischievous gentua can make themselves invisible to the mortal eye.

After some quiet meditation to harness her moon chakra, Enigma uses her awakened perception to pull the fleeting thieves from the sky with deftly aimed moon sigils. Cosmo mops the stunned imps up from the ground before they can recover and escape.

The last task is the most difficult, and most dangerous. Vengeance is a force that seeps into the cracks of the revenger's life, staining the chi even after the life has ended.

Calling upon the essence of her ancestral duty to protect her, Enigma faces the specter in an abandoned house that others fear entering.

The old building groans and trembles, straining to contain the spirit's fury. The air howls around Enigma, clutching at her robes, scratching at her skin with stones and splinters.

With unwavering resolve, she weathers the spirit's rage while Cosmo sneaks in the back and pounces on it from behind. A short tussle later and the vengeful remnant is safely wrapped up and stowed away.

The old house lets out a sigh of abject relief, and with light-footed ease, Enigma departs as the structure collapses behind her.

She then heads for the edge of town with Cosmo in tow, intending to return with her captures to the Lunar Temple. Yet, as she crosses the outermost rope-bridge, suspended over a precipitous waterfall, a vivid vision stops her in her tracks.

Hissing snakes surround a growling tiger. As one, the serpents raise their heads, wet fangs bared, ready to strike.

Enigma spins about so fast that Cosmo bumps into her.

"We have to turn back. Something is very wrong." She stills her body to allow space for the vision to grow. "It's like nothing I've felt in a long time."

Back among the houses, Enigma takes to the rooftops as if lifted upon strings of fate. She leaps from roof to roof, leaving no more trace than a wind that might whistle in the rafters. Even Cosmo has difficulty keeping up with its fast-moving mistress.

A murder of three-legged crows takes fright from this lofty interloper and flaps away, cawing in harsh protest at the disturbance. Enigma pays them no mind. Near the archway trailing downhill to Mistcloak Lake, she feels the pressure of blocked chi at her temples and knows she is close.

She drops to the street with only the merest rustle of her robes. The scroll obediently follows as Enigma walks under the archway, stopping at the top of some steps.

Not downhill, she thinks, waiting for the mist to drift.

As it parts, she sees the outline of a building so small it could be a child's toy. Yet with the silver of moonlit chakra in her eyes, Enigma sees through the veil to the true structure beyond.

Folds upon folds of scaly paper open to reveal a large door that beckons her inside. She enters into what feels like another world, the interior transforming before her, voluptuous curtains of succulent red and opulent gold decorating the hallway. She smells incense, its perfume designed to intoxicate. She hears shouting and the clamor of deadly conflict.

As she rounds the corner, Enigma is met with a calamitous scene. Folk of Mistcloak from all walks of life cower around the edges of a vast room, their eyes fixed on the battle that rages over upturned furniture and broken bodies.

The servants of the teahouse spin and dance like decorative fans around a man of powerful build and predatory grace. They slash at him with blades of jade. He retaliates with claws of shimmering chi.

Before Enigma can take another step, another servant falls, her serpentine tattoos torn through by the tiger-fast claws of the man. And as Cosmo reaches her side, she finds herself unable to command it, to even speak a word.

It is not the battle that holds her tongue.

An elegant madame looks down upon the melee from the teahouse's stage, a small smile on her perfect lips. As if sensing Enigma, the woman looks up. Their eyes meet and Enigma is struck still with astonishment.

The madame is most certainly a spirit—one of the most conflicted Enigma has ever felt—but there's more to this spirit than Enigma can fathom. Across the churning chi is a mystical resonance, raw and long-standing, that binds them.

Enigma stares, fixated, into the parting mists of time.

Part 3: The Serpent's Strike

Sweet smoke snakes into the air from Nuu's pursed lips, coiling hypnotically before fading into a haze that softens every edge and detail in her lounge.

She taps the spent tobacco into a porcelain bowl, places the slender pipe on the side table, and looks at her protégé like a cobra might eye up a mouse.

"Let the memories do the work, Satsuki. They shall remember their courtship of you, the romantic strolls, those tender liaisons in secluded places. No need for you to suffer unnecessarily."

"Madame Nuu..." The young woman doesn't want to seem weak, yet her fear trips her words. "Once he finds out..."

"Every Vipressa carries ghosts. But remember, you are safe within these walls. The trick is to use their affections against them. Toroja will die by Seto's hand in a duel. You are but the innocent object of their self-destructive desires. Understood?"

"Yes, Madame Nuu."

Satsuki's face becomes a mask of calm confidence. She found her way to the teahouse in another time, another place. Skin and bones, filthy and ragged, shivering upon the doorstep.

Nuu took her in immediately, Sutsuki's sorrow a reflection of Nuu's own. Misteria is a land of plenty, yet it is not always kind. As with all of her Vipressa, her assassins of seduction, life taught Satsuki to bear pain. Nuu taught her how to control it.

"Before tending to your suitors, pass the word that my guest must be bathed and perfumed. While our master tailor has sullied his cloth, there is no need for me to suffer his mistakes."

The Vipressa stands and bows, then sweeps out of the room.

Nuu stretches luxuriously before moving to the large window that looks out over Mistcloak Gully. She hisses gently to herself, venting a little of the anxiety she hides so deftly from her servants and patrons.

Of all the places it might appear in Misteria, why has the teahouse brought her back here?

She gazes at the moon and grits her teeth against the distress the silver orb excites within her. The School of the Moon taught her to manipulate the minds and memories of others, yet not her own. To never forget might be considered a gift by many, yet to her it is punishment. While Nuu has experienced the rarest, most exquisite pleasures that existence can offer, the bliss of ignorance is forever beyond her grasp.

A knock at the door interrupts her troubled reverie.

"Yes?" Her soft voice carries with the power of a shout.

A handsome young man enters with a report on the various doings of Mistcloak. Conflicts seeded, feuds reinforced, vices indulged and leverage gained.

Nuu listens, interjecting only to request the tweak of an entanglement or to demand the self-destruction of a life.

The Vipressa commits Nuu's words to memory, then departs to disseminate her orders.

Her administration of misery done for the moment, Nuu moves to her wardrobe to select a suitable dress for a guest accustomed to fine clothing. Her slender fingers stroke the fabric, trace the threads, absorbing every tactile detail. She makes her selection and slips behind her rice-paper modesty screen.

She is adjusting a lantern to produce the most flattering silhouette when there is another knock at the door.

"Enter!" she calls.

The creak of floorboards heralds a heavy-set man. "Madame?" The voice is deep yet forced, the attempted purr of a mountain cat sounding more like a grunting pig to her ears.

"Make yourself comfortable. I will be right with you."

As her guest sinks into one of her cushioned chairs, she removes her dress enticingly, knowing full well the effect her comely silhouette will have on the man. With patience that only the long-lived can muster, she dons her new attire piece by piece, wrapping the gift this guest supposes he shall have. When she is finished, she steps out from behind the screen to bask like a sidewinder in the sun of the man's adoration.

"Madame, I-"

Her fan hisses through the air, silencing him.

"You have done more than enough, Bojani. Your reward is at hand."

"And my business shall be restored?"

His broad face glistens with sweat. Even through the scented oils her servants have applied, the man reeks of desperation.

Unwittingly, this purveyor of luxury apparel has divested himself of all his wealth and power in the teahouse's gambling dens. He teeters on the precipice with only agonized fear to offer. And she wants it.

"You will receive the fortune you deserve."

She begins her dance, each step fluid and mesmerizing, drawing her singular audience deeper into the ritual she now performs. She dances closer, her fans caressing the air around her like delicate tendrils of mist.

The master tailor gasps as she raises her knee to reveal a silken length of thigh before planting her heeled shoe between his legs. He inhales her intoxicating aroma; a subtle blend of perfume and pheromone.

Her lips curl into a knowing smile. The smile he offers back is reckless, beyond his own control. She loves to toy with these mortals, leading them from the heights of pleasure to the depths of despair.

Movement flickers in the corner of her eye. She glances at the window, sees the culprit, a three-legged crow in flight.

Why would something like that distract her?

Behind the smile, unease returns to gnaw at her, a sense of impending fate she can't subdue.

"At last." His eyes are fixated on her thigh. His hand raises to caress her skin.

Nuu swats the offending paw aside and jabs him under the chin with her closed fan.

"Look at me!"

He obeys as Nuu curves her hips, her gown flowing over her body like the fog rolling down the mountains of Misteria. Her feet float across the wooden floor, hands twisting through enchanting patterns, her movements like a snake's rattle mesmerizing its prey.

The man sits enamored, his mouth agape as he stares mindlessly at Nuu. He has given everything to see her perform, to have her, since the day the teahouse appeared.

Nuu's movements intensify, her fans slicing through the air like knives as the tailor leans forward, entrapped in her allure.

"Betrayal of all that you are," Nuu whispers. "For the son of a house that has wrapped its ancient treachery in shimmering silk."

Confused by her words, the man blinks, and as he remembers himself - why he is here - he reaches out to touch her. She spins around him; lifts him to his feet. She pulls his head close and whispers into his ear.

"Relax. Let me remove the burdens you bear."

She sets her fans aside and undresses the man without her nimble fingers ever touching his skin. He whimpers with excitement as Nuu draws close and touches her lips to his.

A thread of chi courses along her tongue, now forked and flickering.

He flinches at the intensity, his eyes widening in terror as Nuu's mouth extends, her porcelain skin transforming, slick and scaled. Nuu's clothes fall to the floor as her serpentine body coils around his.

He struggles in vain, helpless, as the viper kisses his flesh with her fangs. The chi courses from him like blood from an artery.

Nuu takes life as she gives pleasure, engulfing his remaining years, his memories, his very essence. His body shudders, oblivious to the cost of its ecstasy. His racing heart falters and stops. His flesh withers within Nuu's embrace until he is but an empty husk.

With her meal complete, Nuu uncoils, allowing the corpse to slide to the floor, her human form returned. Her legs tremble as she presses her hands to her churning belly.

The thrill of indulgence fades.

The room suddenly appears cold, hostile.

At that moment, she remembers how different she is. Though she moves among mortals, hunts them with ease, she remains the lone snake slithering through a warren of rabbits.

She dresses quickly, touches up her makeup, then opens the door to address one of her waiting Vipressa.

"Dispose of the body," she orders.

The woman's hesitation is brief, but more than enough to cause concern.

"Something wrong?"

"Madame, there is a new patron you may wish to attend to."

"Power is a delicate affair, one not to be repeated in haste." She licks her lips. "I am well fed, for now."

"Of course, Madame. It's just that, this one's chi... He's..."

She trails off, struggling to describe what she has observed. That is enough for Nuu.

"In that case, we shan't let him spoil the atmosphere."

The Vipressa bows and brushes past her mistress to deal with the former tailor's corpse.

Nuu checks herself in a full-length mirror, makes a couple of minor adjustments to her clothes and hair, and constructs a smile that will carefully conceal her unease. There is something strange in the air today. It chills her from tongue to tail.

She makes her way along twisting corridors until she reaches the backstage area of the main hall. The teahouse never unfolds the same way twice. Fresh rooms, secret corridors, new nooks and crannies. Nuu never tires of exploring its ephemeral architecture.

She pauses behind the stage curtains and listens to her Vipressa perform in perfect rhythm; a dance she choreographed herself - a ritual crafted to enchant the gathered crowd. She allows herself a moment of pride for the waifs and strays she has taken in, all trained in her ways and wiles.

She has given that which was taken from her so very long ago. A home.

Nuu steps out onto the stage.

The dancers sense her presence and make way for her grand entrance.

She strides down the catwalk, taking in the crowd with knowing glances and sweet smiles, until she stands over the man whose chi has so unsettled her teahouse.

"And who might you be?"

"Zen," he answers. "A humble wanderer."

Her eyes narrow to slits as she appraises him, sees the spiritual strength that lurks beneath his mortal muscle, the mystic claws that envelop his hands.

She turns to look at Satsuki and the swordsman that holds her by the throat. Seto has drawn his tantō and clearly intends to use it. He glowers up at Nuu, daring her to intervene.

Another time she might have, simply for her own amusement. But this is no ordinary day. There is a tiger in her nest, and yet the true source of her apprehension has yet to reveal itself.

"Satsuki?"

"Madame?" her servant rasps back.

The swordsman tightens his grip, choking Satsuki's words. It doesn't matter to Nuu. The time for words is over. She gently folds one of her fans, then snaps it open with a flourish.

Every Vipressa in the room knows that signal.

Satsuki draws a Mistblade from the folds of her robe and drives the point through Seto's arm.

Zen leaps to intercede and Nuu finds herself marveling at his speed and grace as he knocks Satsuki aside, sending her crashing into a stand of tea before disarming Seto in one fluid movement.

He takes hold of the wounded man, intent on dragging him out, but Nuu has not trained her Vipressa to be merciful, especially not when violence is inflicted on one of their own. Jade blades drawn, the dancers leap from the stage and fall upon the tiger and the swordsman.

Nuu watches on with interest as her patrons flee from the melee. Here is a true test for her Vipressa, whether they can overcome their fears, their injuries, as she has been forced to do over so many years.

Even as she thinks this, a young man succumbs to the tiger's claw, his throat a gaping ruin.

Moments later, a woman tumbles across the floor, her ribs shattered by a spinning wheel kick.

Nuu feels a pang of sorrow, but not regret.

They came from nothing.

They return to nothing.

Such is the cycle of mortality, the serpent that eats itself.

One of her tattooed courtesans tries to drive her dagger into Zen's back, only to fall prey to the monk's rapid reflexes. She drops to her knees, delicately inked skin torn and bleeding.

Nuu wonders if it is time to end this fray, to summon the will to feed upon this man's abundant chi. She licks her lips in anticipation, but then something draws her attention from the battle, an urge so powerful she cannot disobey. She looks to the teahouse entrance and there stands a memory Nuu thought never to see made flesh.

The woman's face, her stature, her hair and her eyes belong to another person, another lifetime, yet within the stranger there hides an intimacy of history shared. Nuu knows her, feels the cosmic ribbons that twist between them, binding two fates into one.

Nuu steps down from the stage; the battle, her patrons, her teahouse all forgotten. She walks towards the silvered woman, a journey of moments that crosses an eon.

"Fumei?"

The woman stares back at her, confused.

Nuu scowls with contempt as feelings of hurt and betrayal resurface. Even now, all this time later, her friend is incapable of more than a stunted stare. Once a coward, always a coward. Her instincts kick in, her body trembling in preparation for the serpent's strike.

She will make Fumei remember, just as she has remembered every agonizing moment of her immortal exile.

Part 4: The Hare and the Snake

The full moon turned the water of the mountain tarn to molten silver.

Nuu laughed as her perfectly reflected mouth sprouted buck teeth, and rabbit ears sprang up from the top of her head.

"A definite improvement," concluded Fumei with mock solemnity.

Nuu begged to differ by slapping her hand across the surface of the water, disrupting the illusion and splashing her friend.

"Hey!" Fumei jumped back from the tarn, wiped droplets from her simple smock, and fixed Nuu with an exaggerated scowl. "Try that again, if you can!"

One Fumei suddenly became two, then four, then eight. The troupe of blue-haired girls danced around Nuu, taking turns to poke their tongues out.

"That's a new one," remarked Nuu. "Did Kouki teach you that today?"

"Master Kouki," corrected all eight Fumei at once.

"Always the proper Ledger of Ancestry," groaned Nuu. "Teacher's pet."

The collective Fumei surrounded Nuu. "Then why is the Master always tougher on me?"

"That's in your imagination." Nuu picked up a pebble. "Just like these eight silly girls."

"Sev-" The real Fumei's response was broken by the pebble that bounced off her forehead. "Ouch!"

"Painful memories stick faster," stated Nuu, quoting one of their sensei's favorite sayings.

Fumei rubbed the spot above her eyebrow where the thrown pebble had left a small, red mark. "How did you know it was me?"

Nuu sauntered up to her friend, gently grabbed her by the ears and planted a kiss on her forehead. Fumei giggled.

"I'll always know my real sister," said Nuu, starting their shared mantra.

"Anytime, anywhere," finished Fumei, before wrapping Nuu in a tight hug.

They stayed that way for a long moment, enjoying their adopted sisterhood, their togetherness. Two lost girls who had found family in one another. Only the ring of the gong forced them to part.

"Not another lesson," groaned Nuu.

"Hope so!" enthused Fumei.

Nuu sighed and repeated, "Teacher's pet," before sprinting for the temple. "Last one back makes the tea!" she shouted over her shoulder.

Fumei answered with the slap of her sandals against the path as she rushed to catch up. Together, the girls raced around the mountaintop, arriving at the temple breathless and joyful. However, the laughing trailed off at the sight of Master Kouki's stormy expression.

"Sit," he instructed Fumei. She obeyed, plopping down onto a bamboo mat.

Nuu moved to do the same, but Kouki halted her with a thunderous, "Not you!"

The sisters exchanged shocked looks, but Kouki continued to glare only at Nuu.

"You leave here. Tonight."

"But Master Kouki..." began Fumei. The sensei silenced her with a raised finger.

"The moon will light your path for the last time. Your destiny is now your own."

"Why?" pleaded Nuu. "Please, I've studied my lessons, completed my chores, done everything you've asked of me."

"For you, the verses will never be enough. For your kind, the red mist will always veil the moon." His words were like a lightning bolt to Nuu's heart, stopping it dead.

Beside her sensei, her friend sat still as a statue, face frozen in dismay. Her entire world falling away beneath her feet, Nuu reached out to the only family she had ever known.

"Fumei?"

The Ledger of Ancestry stared into the eyes of Alluring Desire, searching for that which was lost.

For a thrilling moment, recognition beckoned, a figure darting through the fog that separated this life from those that had come before. Then it was gone, sinking back into obscurity like a pebble settling to the bottom of a mountain tarn.

Suspicion replaced reminiscence. Experience conquered hope.

Spirits did all they could to remain in Misteria. They ran, they fought, they distracted and they deceived.

Enigma saw through the facade.

She knew the teahouse for what it was, a mere reflection upon a lake of chi, a delusion of earthly delights hiding a creature of otherworldly essence.

"I do not know that name," Enigma said at last. "Nor do I know you." She snapped her fingers and her scroll flew to her side. "But I know what you are."

Nuu took a step back, then another.

Her eyes flicked with acrimony.

Her hair shed its combs and pins, rising on an upwelling of chi, locks twisted and arching like riled cobras.

The cacophony of combat between tiger and Vipressa forced its way back into her consciousness, a fitting accompaniment to the conflict now roiling within her.

"What am I to you?" rasped Nuu through clenched teeth.

Enigma made herself as still and centered as the moon, just as she would do with any vengeful apparition. "A lost spirit, disturbing the flow as it tries to swim against the current."

The scroll began to unfurl. Nuu understood what that meant, and what it would take to prevent it.

"Fumei!" The hateful name rattled in her taut throat. "You will remember me."

The Ledger of Ancestry shook her head as she raised her hands and drew sigils of moonlight in the air.

"All that I was, I gave to the moon. I need to remember but one thing," she answered. "My duty."

The sigils swirled around Nuu, hemming her in. The scroll crept forward, its open vellum ready to receive even her long and twisting tale.

Nuu released her pent-up rancor, spinning through the sigils, scattering them around the four corners of the room. Then she dropped to the floor and planted her hands on the boards.

The entire teahouse shuddered, throwing cowering patrons and fighting Vipressa off their feet, discharging them from its rooms. Only Enigma and Zen remained standing, their spiritual balance holding them as time, space and matter shifted beneath them.

Curtains, wall panels, windows and chattels bent like paper.

Nuu's surviving Vipressa scrambled onto the stage to be wrapped up like rice in sheets of seaweed.

The teahouse shuddered again before turning inward, fold after fold until it was small enough for Nuu to hold in her palm.

"Today I spare you my venom," she hissed, "for guilt is a far more potent poison."

Before Enigma could move, before Cosmo could close on its quarry, Nuu's robes dropped away and a viper uncoiled from the resulting nest.

Its jaws widened, engulfing the paper ornament, swallowing it down into the serpent's belly. Then off slithered the snake into mist.

Purged from the teahouse and left standing in mud, Enigma looked from her scroll to the monk who watched her with calm curiosity.

She opened her mouth to speak but no words would come.

She felt a tingle under her eye, raised her hand to her face, and caught the tear before it could roll down her cheek.

She stared at her fingertip in wonder.

Then, the Ledger of Ancestry turned and walked away, leaving the concerns of Mistcloak behind her. Together, she and her scroll ascended the path that would return them to the Eternal Lunar Temple.

There, she would regain her solace.

There, she would remember, if the moon willed it.

Zen watched the sun set behind the mountains as the last villagers left the cemetery.

After seeing Seto to a healer, he had helped the local folk gather up the Vipressa dead and the desiccated corpse of the former master tailor.

Not being beloved by Mistcloak for his shrewd business practices, the tailor's funeral occupied only part of the afternoon. The rest had been taken with preparing and interring the fallen servants of the teahouse.

Situated on a ledge overlooking Mistcloak Gully, the cemetery allowed Zen the quiet needed to reflect on his strange encounter with Nuu, and the surprise appearance of the Ledger of Ancestry.

Though his teachers had spoken of this mystical figure, he had never seen her for himself. Nor would he have expected her to allow such a troublesome spirit as Nuu to escape, yet the encounter reminded him of an old folktale, told by his most venerable sensei to Zen before he departed the grounds for good.

High in the mountain ranges of Misteria, a hermit sought to transcend his troubled past. One evening, sitting in his cave, a roaring fire warming his feet, a hare bounded into his campsite. It looked at him with wide, frightened eyes, its long ears sticking straight up in the air.

Hermit and hare regarded each other until they were joined by another creature, a slender serpent with flicking tongue.

The old man leapt up to protect the defenseless hare, brandishing a walking staff, for he had long ago foregone his weapons of war.

Yet the hare did not run.

Instead, it rose on its back legs and looked out of the cave, exposing its furry belly to the hunting reptile.

The hermit was sure the serpent would strike and knew his aged body would be too slow to prevent it.

But the snake did not even bare its fangs. Instead, it coiled up by his fire and went to sleep.

Lightning flashed in the darkening sky and thunder boomed overhead.

The torrent that followed pounded the ground like the man's fists had once pummeled his enemies. The slope below the cave became a waterfall, one that would have washed both hare and snake off the mountain, tumbling them to their deaths in the valley below.

The hare had led the snake to the cave, and the snake had shown its gratitude. Together they had hidden from their mutual foe, the great and terrible storm, their ancient game of predator and prey set aside for one peaceful night.

Though Zen could not know what storm had driven Nuu and the Ledger of Ancestry together, he could feel that a balance had been struck in its passing.

The chi's natural flow was returning to Mistcloak Gully; piety within kin and community restored.

What had been his purpose in this meeting of myths?

He dare not flatter himself by thinking he was the hermit of the tale. More likely he was the simple fire, a common interest where immortals might share a fleeting moment as they weathered the eternal tempests of fate.

With the fog rolling over the ridgeline at his back, Zen descended into Mistcloak Gully.

He would rest there for the night, then at the break of a new day, would go wherever the chi might summon him.

Roots of Change

(Jump to Narrated Video)

At the threshold of Candlehold and the Rotwood, two worlds met but never mingled.

Candlehold basked in perpetual sunlight, a realm of eternal summer where flowers bloomed endlessly, and time seemed suspended.

Across this boundary, the Rotwood festered—a dark and withdrawn thicket where life and decay entwined.

Though small and suffocated, the Rotwood strained against its borders, yearning to claim more of Candlehold's vibrant land. Through fallen leaves and ancient bones, it whispered of long-forgotten battles and heroes who had returned to the earth. Visages of the venerable dead peered out from the fading foliage, offering silent guidance and comfort to travelers, as if the spirits of the fallen still watched over the land.

From Candlehold's lush greenery, an ancient stag emerged, a majestic creature with a body of living wood and vine. Its antlers, twisted and adorned with budding flowers, glimmered faintly in the wan light. As the creature crossed into the depths of the Rotwood, its vibrant form wizened, each step pulling it deeper into decay.

"Stop! Don't go there," Verdance implored, her voice tinged with sorrow. "There is nothing in Rotwood for you. Return to Candlehold, where life sustains."

The stag turned its gaze toward her, a quiet acknowledgment, before continuing. As it ventured further in, the creature's form decayed rapidly, its wooden flesh cracking and splitting.

In the spiraling corridors of the dying woods, the trees parted. The sickening crunch of broken branches echoed around her as the thick wall of the Rotwood peeled open like a wound. The trees shook and trembled, spewing black ichor from their bark onto the ground, giving way to their master, the Harbinger of Rot.

The stag stood still as Florian approached it, his hands gently cradling the beast's jaw and soothing its forehead.

"Welcome, old oak," he whispered. "Here you shall be replanted amongst those who share your burden."

The beast nuzzled his hands, its face forming small cracks. As the stag withdrew, the clear mark of Florian's fingertips was left on its neck and face, blackened with rot.

Florian turned to Verdance, her shining emerald eyes almost blinding in the twilight. His lips curled into a mocking grin.

"Ah, the Queen's chosen rose deigns to grace the weeds with her presence. How fortunate we are."

Verdance watched with concern as the rot crept closer, inch by inch, threatening to blemish her home.

"Careful now, sunkissed," Florian taunted, noticing her alarm. "The Rotwood grows, just like your precious flowers."

"How can you let this happen?" Verdance demanded, her hands clenched at her sides. "You speak of renewal, but all I see is death."

Florian met her gaze with a calm resolve. "Death is a part of the cycle."

Verdance's brow furrowed as she fought back a rising tide of frustration. Her hands glowed softly as she tried to heal the spreading rot, but her magic seemed to falter.

"Your so-called natural order brings nothing but sorrow to Candlehold. We won't accept this decay."

Florian stepped closer, his movements deliberate, his eyes darkening with intensity. "Accept or not, it is not your choice to make. This decay is the natural order," he sneered, his voice unyielding.

He held her gaze, drawing closer until Verdance could see the deep lines etched into his forehead. There was a depth of pain and a twisted kind of reverence he seemed bound to.

With a final, piercing look, he turned away from her, his attention returning to the stag.

He knelt beside the beast and began the last rites, his voice carried softly through the still air.

"As the leaves fall, so too shall new life spring forth, nourished by what came before."

With a quiet resolve, he gently traced a sigil into the earth. The Sigil of Deadwood; a sacred mark of twisted roots and ancient wisdom—a symbol of the natural order he revered. As he completed the drawing, Florian placed his hand upon the stag, its body now a mere husk of its former self.

Florian stood vigil, his eyes closed in a silent prayer, acknowledging the stag's return to the earth. The bark of the wooden beast cracked and from within it, the green light that carried its soul poured out and spilled across the forest floor, blanching the leaves and bramble.

The stag let out a final restful sigh before its eyes dimmed and its form collapsed to the ground. The ritual was complete. The beast returned.

Her chest tight with conflicting emotions, Verdance tried yet again to heal the glade—as much an act of defiance against the stag's passing as an effort in protection.

Earlier that day, Verdance had sought counsel with Ozrim, a member of the Rosetta, Candlehold's ancient council. She had found him seated in quiet contemplation, his presence as still and unchanging as the ivy-clad columns that surrounded him.

"Ozrim," Verdance had begun, "Florian's actions are drawing creatures from Candlehold to the Rotwood, leading them to decay. We need to intervene."

Ozrim had lifted his gaze slowly, his eyes dull, a weariness that seemed to have settled into his very being. "Verdance," he had replied, his tone flat and distant, "the creatures of Candlehold follow their nature. To command them otherwise would be to interfere, something we are not meant to do."

"But we are the protectors of Candlehold's harmony," Verdance had insisted, leaning forward with a sense of urgency. "Our duty is to preserve that balance, to protect our people and our home."

Ozrim had sighed deeply, his expression placid, untouched by the concerns Verdance expressed. "We have lived too long in this eternal summer, and now we are as static as the world we sought to preserve."

Frustration had welled up in Verdance, a hot, simmering anger beneath her composed exterior. "If we do nothing, we risk losing everything that makes Candlehold what it is."

Ozrim's gaze had drifted past her, as if looking at something far away or long forgotten. Verdance had stood there, momentarily stunned by the depth of Ozrim's apathy.

Verdance refocused, the budding flowers that sprang from her magic blossoming. This land would not fall to rot while she was around.

As Florian drew even closer, she watched as the flowers around her withered and crumbled into the earth, the harbinger destroying even the most hardy of gifts she gave to the land.

Then she felt his hand upon her shoulder. She recoiled and stood, summoning her staff from the surrounding land. Sticks and seeds formed into her weapon and she held it at his throat, the blossoming flowers at its end fighting to grow in proximity.

"Do not touch me, Sorrowseed, or I will leave you to mold in this prison you call home."

Florian was stunned by her display of aggression, but his astonishment slowly melted away into disappointment as he held his hands in front of him.

"I meant no offense to the Rose. Comfort is something I have rarely enjoyed, but I sought to offer it to you."

He paused, his voice softening.

"I am not your enemy, just another who understands the pain of this endless summer."

"You afford this land no comfort merely by existing. You are a plague that steps too far. The Queen should have dealt with you centuries ago."

The tension grew as Verdance pressed the tip of her staff into Florian's throat. But with the back of his hand, Florian gently moved the staff away, plucking a flower from its haft and twirling it amongst his fingertips as its leaves turned black. His expression turned from pity to amusement. He almost chuckled at the irony, realizing how deeply Verdance misunderstood him.

"Fear not, Verdance. Autumn is but the hand that guides summer to sleep."

Florian sighed before retreating deep into the woods, the trees closing behind him like a shroud.

His smugness sickened her. She wished to tear through the woods like medicine breaking a fever. Instead, she turned her attention back towards the towering glade of Candlehold. The Queen must know of this.

Verdance entered the Throne Glade, where the lush canopy above allowed dappled sunlight to filter through. The air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers. Verdance's footsteps were almost silent on the moss-covered ground as she approached.

The Queen, a figure of timeless grace, reclined on her throne. Her eyes, once bright and full of ancient wisdom, now seemed dim and unfocused.

"Your Majesty, Candlehold is in danger. The Rotwood is spreading at Florian's will and—"

"Quiet, my dear," the Queen interrupted, her voice soft and distant. "I am dreaming..."

Verdance hesitated, then pressed on, her words quickening with concern. "I apologize for the intrusion, my Queen, but Florian's actions cause great harm to our people and our land."

The Queen's lips moved, barely above a whisper. "Ah, he is reaching..."

"Yes, and we must stop it," Verdance insisted. "You would allow this... this despoiler to taint our glade?"

The Queen nestled deeper into her leafy cradle, her body sinking into the foliage as if seeking comfort. "In your eyes, harm," she replied.

As she spoke, the color of her skin faded, replaced by a pallor that crept across her like the first frost of winter. The air around her grew colder, and a faint, ethereal mist rose from the ground. The flowers that adorned her throne wilted, their petals curling inward, turning brittle and brown.

A chill ran down Verdance's spine. "Your Majesty, what is happening to you?"

The Queen sighed. "Ah, Verdance," she whispered, "I am returning to the earth... as we all must, in time."

She watched in horror as the Queen's form continued to change. "Your Majesty, no!" Verdance cried, reaching out as if to halt the process. "We need you. Candlehold needs you."

Desperate, Verdance knelt beside the Queen, her hands glowing as she summoned her healing magic.

"Verdance," the Queen whispered, her hand coming to rest gently on Verdance's. "My beautiful Rose."

"In soil anew, the roots of change..." she intoned, her voice growing fainter with each word.

"In the essence of decay...Davnir."

"In the seeds of renewal...belonging."

The Queen lifted her hand to wipe a tear from Verdance's face, but the hand turned to dust before it could reach her cheek.

Flower petals, once bright and fragrant, drifted down in a silent, sorrowful dance, joining the dust at Verdance's feet.

Vines that had once cradled her throne cascaded like a mournful veil.

The entire Throne Glade seemed to sigh, the perpetual green of summer giving way to vivid hues of red and yellow.

The Queen was gone.

A cool breeze whispered through the glade, causing Verdance to shiver with the sudden cold. It stirred the dust of the Queen's remains, revealing a perfectly formed seed that glowed like the first light of a summer's morning.

Verdance picked it up and stood, speechless.

Candlehold was changing; the Seed of Tomorrow in her hands a burden she had not asked to carry.

Narrated Video by DeadSummer Art

(Jump to the Top)

Essence of Decay

The Rosetta gathered to their Queen, their trunks bowed in despair, awaiting a wellspring of emotion that had long since dried away in the endless summer.

Only Verdance wept, her tears falling to the leaf-littered ground. The seed she had placed on the empty throne. This kernel of dormant life was all that remained of their creator, their once-immortal matriarch. From great Davnir's death, the Queen had nurtured their survival. From the war-torn spirits of the dead, she seeded a civilization-one that would live in perpetual peace.

She spared not a glance for the shuffling Rosetta, as languid now as they had been when she sought to rouse them against the Rotwood. She could not look at them for fear that she would rend the mourning atmosphere with the anger that now sprouted peppery shoots inside her belly, heating her throat and embittering her tongue with words she would most certainly regret.

With a groan of protesting Oakwood, Elder Ozrim moved to her side. From his stiff mouth, his voice oozed as sluggishly as sap.

"Of this our Queen spoke to me when I was but a sapling. We come from the seed. We return to the seed."

"How?" rasped Verdance, choking back her turmoil to allow the words free passage. "Candlehold is forever. She..." Her hand trembled as she pointed at the seed. "She made it so."

"And she will again. Within that grain awaits time immemorial. Should we wish it, we need only plant it within the soil of Candlehold. We do this and the forest shall continue, the summer shall live on and on and..."

His voice faded away, as if losing the will to even consider the notion of continuance. Verdance heard the weariness in that faltering moment, the aching weight of a thousand years and a thousand more, bearing down upon the surrounding Rosetta.

She looked at the wilted flowers surrounding the throne, at the yellowed canopy above. Already autumn was making its presence known, the air cooler, the sunlight weaker. Even the Sigil of Earth, the evergreen emblem of Davnir's essence, showed touches of yellow upon its outermost leaves.

"If we plant it in the soil of Candlehold?"

"It is the Seed of Tomorrow," answered Ozrim. "It holds the promise of yesterday, should we want tomorrow to be as it has always been."

"And if we don't?"

This unwelcome voice froze Verdance's own words upon her lips. She turned slowly, struggling to maintain her dignity. To see Florian standing there before the throne, his rot seeping into the ground, speeding the withering of the grass, turning dandelions to orbs of fluffy seeds in the blink of an eye, was too much for her to abide.

"You did this!" she growled, her voice splintering with rageful sorrow.

He ignored her, fixing upon Ozrim instead. "What else might we do, Elder?"

Verdance glared at Ozrim, daring him not to speak, but the creaking wisdom came, nonetheless.

"To plant the seed beyond Candlehold's roots is to embrace a tomorrow we cannot know."

"Then there is nothing else to consider. There is but one possible deed," urged Verdance. "We plant the seed within Candlehold. It is what the Queen would have wanted."

The Harbinger stepped forward, resting his boot on the throne's lowermost root. The great tree groaned and red leaves cascaded from its canopy, softly falling among them like blood-stained snowflakes.

"You do not speak for our departed Queen, Verdance."

Verdance looked to the elders, trying to kindle some fervor in their placid stares. They met her gaze, and in their somber eyes she saw something that troubled her to the pith. Weariness, so old, so ingrained, that she could remember them no other way.

She looked beyond the elders to the creatures of Candlehold who had gathered so quietly, drawn by instinct to this moment of profound loss. Great and small, she saw them, eyes fixed upon the Seed of Tomorrow. In their dull orbs she saw no luster, no longing for life. In silence, they stood. Placid, awaiting an indefinite future with passionless expectation.

For the first time in her long existence, Verdance felt the dreary weight of their passivity upon her shoulders, bearing her down. She strained against it with every fiber of her being like a sprout trying to break free of the hard-packed earth.

She turned to Florian, resolute. "I am the Queen's chosen rose, and I speak for the preservation of Candlehold." She closed the gap between them so they were but a twig's length apart. She harbored no fear of the rot, for summer still ran through her veins. "I speak for life everlasting."

With a groan of tormented timber, Ozrim shook his heavy head. "Many have forgotten Davnir's knowledge," he murmured.

"With time we shall remember," urged Verdance. "By planting the seed, we shall cherish Davnir's sacrifice forever more."

Ozrim gazed at her with unseeing eyes. He was looking upon the days to come.

"Our Queen is gone. Change, at last, is upon us."

A faint smile twisted Florian's lips, and in that moment Verdance felt the truth of it. The Harbinger, in tainting Candlehold, was now eating at the resolve of its people. If the Rosetta were to regain their vigor, Florian had to be stopped, no matter the cost.

The roses upon her dress turned crimson and thorns sprouted across her bare shoulders and arms.

"You are the only change in Candlehold," she spat. "Who else but you could have brought death upon our Queen?"

The Harbinger's pallid face twisted with anguish. "I have been reviled since the day I broke ground. Though your accusation does not surprise me, it cuts me to the heart."

"Your heart is as rotten as your damned wood!" Verdance opened her hands and arcanity poured forth.

Vines burst from the dirt to wrap around Florian's legs. Slender shoots erupted from ropey stems, creeping across his body, clutching and confining.

With one hand still free, Florian drew his Rotwood Reaper and sliced his tethers away.

Gritting her teeth, Verdance redoubled her efforts. The entrapping flora grew faster.

Florian sliced and slashed with increasing ferocity, his bladework a blur of destruction. Severed vines curled as they fell, rupturing into dank dust as they struck the ground.

"In the name of the Queen, you shall be bound!" cried Verdance, citing a law that had not been enforced in a millennia. "For the safety of Candlehold, you shall be-"

Her judgment was cut short by a blurred blade. The point caressed her face, gentle as the kiss of a butterfly. Astonished, Verdance ceased her assault. Vines stilled and slumped as she raised a hand to her cheek. It came away reddened with blood.

Florian stared at her, wide-eyed, as shocked as she. "I didn't mean to," he whispered. "The vines. I was only..." Words failed him. He stumbled backwards, turned, and fled the glade.

Verdance watched him go. Where she might have felt triumph, she felt only shame. Her fellow Rosetta swayed like willows in the wind, their cloying glances shifting sluggishly from Rose to Seed to the path of rot left behind in Florian's retreat. On the latter they lingered, fear trembling in the eyes of some, resignation in others.

Ozrim rested a ponderous hand upon Verdance's shoulder, his stiff fingers splayed to avoid her thorns. "We should consider this carefully."

"There is nothing to consider," she bit back.

He sighed, his timber creaking as if settling in the cooling evening after a hot day. "No, Verdance. There is everything."

He turned and shuffled away. The Candleholders followed his example, shambling back to their own glades and groves to ponder their mortality.

"There is nothing to consider," she repeated to herself, the words as thin and brittle as leaf litter.

Verdance touched the wound on her cheek. Infection had taken hold, bruising her flesh, making her skin feverishly hot to the touch. Yet a simple incantation soon wiped it away, sealing the wound so thoroughly that it was as if it had never occurred. As she healed, her mind wandered through the paths and glades of her vast memory.

Candlelight Clearing, where the Rosetta of old had once gathered to garden, share poetry, and sing. No one visited now. The buildings were empty, the gardens overgrown, the floating light-trees smothered with lichen and regret.

It had happened slowly, over centuries. Poems grew stale in repetition. Little changed, so there was little to write songs about. Work that once held meaning became monotonous, pointless. One by one, the Rosetta had retreated into themselves.

Verdance shook herself free of that maudlin memory and set to work rejuvenating the throne glade's flowerbeds. The daffodils grew more slowly than usual, wary of the clammy air, their shade of yellow lighter, almost sickly.

They reminded Verdance of Rotwood, how it had started in a flower-clad gully. A rainbow of blooms turned to uniform brown as they withered away. She had tried to mend the place, but to no avail. That which flourished by evening would be fetid by morning. A wound in the land that would simply not heal.

The other Rosetta barely seemed to notice. Too reserved they had become. Too dormant in their disconnection.

Then came Florian, and one by one, the creatures of Candlehold answered his call. For now it was the animals, their instincts seduced by the rot's false promises of rest and respite. She understood their loss. Every day, the forest grew quieter. For centuries it had lived. Now it seemed to wait.

It was only a matter of time before the Rosetta found their way to Rotwood. This notion, one that she had so recently found terrifying, settled softly upon her mindscape like the leaves now drifting down from the trees. Was this how the other Rosetta now saw it? As a promise of peace?

She moved to attend to the Queen's throne, when out of the corner of her eye she saw it. A plump, juicy orb, bright green, dangling from a branch like the forest's many lanterns. Upon the Sigil of Earth it clung by a delicate stalk. Curious, she approached it. Her hand reached out, hesitated.

Take it, the breeze whispered in her ear. Davnir's gift.

Entranced, Verdance reached out and plucked the orb from its perch.

Grape.

The word came to her in a memory that she had thought forgotten of a time when the Warden of Thorns had departed Candlehold, the only Rosetta to ever do so. A time of change, albeit brief, when the blossoms had succumbed to fruit.

Before her eyes, bud after bud exploded into blossom then curled inward to form a succulent grape. Soon, the sigil was weighed down by a plentiful crop. With wonder, Verdance gazed upon the cornucopia as she rolled the berry in her fingers, luxuriating in its smooth texture, its enticing plumpness.

Taste it, murmured the rustling leaves as they shifted in the wind. Davnir's feast.

Verdance placed the grape in her mouth, bit down and let the juice flow across her tongue.

She experienced flavors she had no words for; flavors the immortal Rosetta had no use for. Hunger had been banished when the Queen had wrapped Davnir's essence around the forest, sealing them off from the rest of Aria.

And yet, deep in her belly, a feeling stirred.

To Verdance the grape was neither crisp nor sweet, neither tangy nor tart, for these were not words with which she was familiar.

There was but one sensation she could grasp, one flavor that breathed life into her moribund imagination.

For want of another word, to Verdance, this fruit tasted like the future.

Seeds of Renewal

With a crackle of lightning and a boom of thunder, Aurora and Oscilio landed upon a hilltop overlooking Candlehold.

"Whoop!" exclaimed Aurora. "What a rush!"

She stretched up onto her tiptoes, arms outflung, and surveyed the scene below with wide, sky-blue eyes. "Woah! I haven't seen this many people since Everfest."

The towering golem hovered to her side. Below them, a sprawling campsite had been pitched upon the rolling grasslands. From all parts of Aria, all walks of life, the mottle of colors and shapes spread around the edges of Candlehold like a vast meadow of wildflowers.

"I have never seen this many people at all," stated Oscilio flatly.

"No need to be nervous, big guy." She patted his diamond-shaped claw. "I'll introduce you to some nice folks."

"I do not experience anxiety."

"Sure you don't, Scili."

"I would prefer you did not call me that."

"Okay, Scili."

She led the way down the hillside, her companion turning many a head as they entered the fringe of the tent city.

"Aurora!" The name was more sung than shouted, and soon refrained by the appearance of a flamboyantly dressed bard.

"Melody!" Aurora hollered back and wrapped her friend in a bear hug. The pair danced a delighted little jig together before Melody broke away to gaze up at Oscilio.

"Could I write a song or two about you!"

"Meet Scili," offered Aurora. "I found him in a vault."

"Oscilio," he corrected. "Your ancestors may have had the foresight to delay it, but the changes to which you bear witness are the rumblings of their return. For if I am awake, then so now are the ones of old."

"That's terrifying," said Melody with a visible shudder. "You don't mince words, do you?"

Aurora gave an exasperated sigh. "Scili has yet to learn the art of chitchat."

"Still, one of the lost relics of Enion?" wondered Melody. "How did you know to come?"

"I sensed a surge in the Flow," answered Oscilio. "An event of great magnitude has occurred here."

"Sadly, yes, it has," agreed Melody. "The Queen of Candlehold is dead. The seers sensed as you did. Same with just about every scholar, soothsayer, and seeker from Korshem to Larinkmorth."

Melody jerked her head in the direction of a huddle of elders, their intricately stitched robes denoting them as Seers of Everfest.

Maela One-eye stood among them, her white hair wild and windswept, her emphatic gestures as sharp as her tongue as she lectured her colleagues on the mysteries of Candlehold. Though Aurora strained to hear the seer's words, the hubbub of the transient town about them all but drowned them out.

"But no one's ever been inside Candlehold," complained Aurora. "Anyone come out?"

Melody shook her head. "Not since the Warden of Thorns."

"Then how are we supposed to..." Aurora's voice trailed off at the sight of movement on the edge of the forest.

Two mighty oak trees stood side by side.

Their entwined limbs formed an archway adorned with the gently glowing lamps that gave Candlehold its name. From trunk to trunk, the space between them was thick with brambles, their wilting leaves giving way to a generous crop of blackberries.

Children who had accompanied the curious were busy feasting on those berries. Now they started and fled for the safety of the tents. Behind them the brambles unraveled, untying their knotted stems, drawing aside to reveal a lantern-lined avenue.

A hush settled upon the tent city as a figure emerged from the forest. A seemingly young woman, although most gathered knew that Candlehold was a place bereft of time where age had never held court. To Aurora, with her auburn hair and flowing green dress, the lady looked like a red rose given human form.

Behind her, a procession followed, a stately parade of beings gnarled yet magnificent. Women, men, and animals of timber and root, flower and fungus, walked together, heads bowed. At the rear, a noticeable distance from the rest, trailed a man clad in armor and autumn leaves. He alone looked out upon the gathering of Aria, acknowledging their attendance at this funereal affair.

Florian skirted his fellow Rosetta, careful not to mar them with his trail of rot. He approached Verdance warily. Though it had been some time since their fracas before the throne, he still did not entirely trust her change of heart.

In timeless Candlehold, months passed as minutes to the Rosetta. While every spore of his being wanted to believe that this was happening, he had lived too long with disappointment to assume the best.

The smile she offered him was filled with a warmth that he found more unsettling than anything else.

His right hand rested instinctively upon the pommel of his reaper while he gestured at her face with his left. "I am relieved to see you have healed without a scar."

She shrugged, the wound apparently dismissed, along with their conflict.

"I am relieved you are here."

She had been holding the Seed of Tomorrow in her hands. Now she laid it amongst the grass before stepping back to stare at him with an unnerving intensity.

Irritation curled his lips like a dying leaf. The Rose had gone from being confrontational to obtuse. "You will find the seed, once planted, grows more quickly."

Verdance's gaze didn't waver in the slightest. "Are you going to spend all day stating the obvious or are you going to plant it?" She inclined her head towards the gathered folk of Aria. "People are watching."

Florian looked from Verdance to the seed. Understanding prickled across his skin. It was one thing to talk of summer's passing. But to dig its grave...

"Within decay lie the roots of rebirth," Ozrim encouraged softly from where he stood with the other Rosetta. "In time our lives will end, returning us to the Flow. And thus we make Aria whole once more." Behind him, the elders murmured their agreement.

Florian knelt beside the Seed of Tomorrow and placed his hand on the ground. At once, the grass withered, dying back until the seed sat upon bare earth. He murmured an incantation, willing the ground to relinquish its nutrients, summoning the worms to feast and fertilize. Within moments, the soil had become a rich loam, ready for planting.

As Florian stood, the Seed of Tomorrow sank into the earth. With lilting words that spoke of spring rains and fledgling dreams, Verdance cast her spells. Buttercups sprouted and flourished, and from that golden flowerbed a tree emerged. Like a fountain of greenery it burst forth, turning from sapling to shrub to a tower of slender timber, brilliant with blossoms.

A gasp of astonishment passed through the assembled folk of Aria, and for the first time Verdance turned to greet them.

"In Candlehold we have hidden ourselves from Aria, kept ourselves from the Flow. That time has now passed and our most gracious queen with it."

She faltered then, her leaf-green eyes glistening with emotion. She looked to Florian, imploring. He understood in that moment the courage she had mustered, the fear with which she struggled. Change, so second nature to him, was the first flower of spring to her. Fresh and so very fragile.

He nodded in what he hoped was an encouraging way and turned to address the crowd.

"People of Aria, we welcome you into our sacred grove. Join us in mourning our beloved monarch, the only mother we have ever known. Feast with us, drink with us, make new memories with us. Share with us the beauties and wonders of Aria. For forest and land embrace. The essence of great Davnir flows through us all."

And so the Rosetta led the folk of Aria into Candlehold for the first time in an age and an age again. Melody accompanied the solemn march with a soulful dirge, blending an ancient rhythm with freshly plucked riffs. Together they dined upon the bounty of autumn, drank ciders freshly brewed from fruits and berries, danced to the music of Aria, and reminisced over great deeds and the trials of eternity.

Outside of Candlehold, alone on green pastures, the Millenium Tree listened to the merriment in quiet contentment.

The queen whispered through its leaves,

In soil anew, the roots of change.
In the essence of decay, Davnir.
In the seeds of renewal, belonging.

And in the gentle groan of stretching timber, ancient Davnir answered,

My essence hath rejoined the Flow,

So this troubled land shall be healed.

Thus Aria may stand against the fates to come,

Strong of will and fair of heart.

Secret of the Aetherscribes

The village alarms blared out a warning that sent the Voltfolk skittering for shelter like frightened kaie'o. While thunderstorms were common enough in Enion, a storm this wild hadn't been seen for centuries. Yet one person dared to charge away from the safety of Volthaven. She had better things to do than hide from some rain.

Aurora sailed over the rooftops, leaving a trail of lightning and laughter crackling in her wake.

"Today's my lucky day!"

Her pace quickened as she approached the edge of the floating isle. She let herself fall, compressing herself into a ball of pure energy as she landed near the bluff. Without wasting a moment, she uncoiled her limbs and vaulted off, a loud CRACK punctuating her departure.

Aurora knew the difference between the sound of thunder and the sound of earth; she spared a backward glance and watched as a chunk of rock slipped into the clouds below.

"Whoops! Oh well. Can't get to Boulderhead without breaking a few rocks."

Ribbons of multicolored lightning cascaded off her like a shooting star cutting through the darkness as she soared through the storm. Thunder shook the sky and thick bolts of lightning struck around her.

What a perfect show for such a fearless star!

A flock of fleeing shock strikers threatened to knock Aurora off course, but she dipped and dived to stay on target with precise maneuvers that would rival the finest of wayfarers. At last, her goal peeked over the horizon: Boulderhead Island.

The 'creatively' named island bore a striking resemblance to a bulbous head, but more importantly, it was home to an ancient vault just begging to be explored. Aurora landed at its dormant door.

"Ok, listen up," she addressed the storm. "I know you're dying to zap something. This would be a great time to do it!"

She'd skimmed a ponderous tome, found out that this vault would only open for a lightning bolt a hundred times stronger than any wayfarer could produce. This was her one chance.

As if acting on her suggestion, the storm called down a massive bolt to strike the floating rock.

The door unleashed a blinding light before groaning open like a slumberous Ollin thawing under a new dawn. The large mass stirring in the shadows cued that the angry door was the least of her worries.

A towering stone golem scraped towards her. Aurora smirked and drew her blade. It crackled to life as her lightning surged through it. The golem's stilted movements looked otherworldly in the strobing light, and when it spoke, the words were cryptic, the tone piercing.

"I have no clue what that was, big guy, but I know a bard or two who could help with your annunciation."

Aurora sprinted toward the golem and slid between its legs to dodge its massive fist. She spun on the wet ground and stabbed the back of its knee. The golem's leg buckled, but as it fell forward, its upper body swiveled to face Aurora again, catching her off guard.

It lunged for her. Her well-honed reflexes reacting faster than fear, Aurora ran up along its outstretched arm, wrapped herself around its craggy shoulders, and plunged her blade into its neck joint. Surely that would do it!

Or not. The golem reared back with an ear-splitting screech. Aurora had two choices: throw herself off or let the angry creature do it for her. She chose the former, barely evading its grasp at the cost of an unfortunate meeting between her skull and the ground. Her vision cleared just in time to roll away from the golem's rain of blows. She scrambled to her feet; reached for her sword—

—but it was still lodged in the golem's neck. She could work with that. Aurora looked up at the sky and silently willed the lightning to strike twice.

"Come on, you can do better than that!" she taunted her foe.

The creature receded back to its resting place, the opposite of what she intended, only to reemerge wielding a stone column like a hammer.

Couldn't this thing take a joke?

The golem hobbled towards her with murderous intent written in the cracks of its eerie stone face. The column's reach more than made up for its injuries.

Aurora waited for the swing, jumped over it, then ducked as it swiped its makeshift weapon back and forth with terrifying speed.

Frustrated, the stone sentinel rooted itself to the ground and put all of its power into spinning its torso round and round like a pinwheel. One wrong move and Aurora would be obliterated.

She ducked and dodged with lightning-powered bursts, just long enough for her plan to work. With a resounding snap, the storm sent down a heroic lightning bolt straight to her blade. The creature glowed white-hot, then blew apart from the inside out.

"That rocked," Aurora chuckled as she wiped golem dust from her face and retrieved her weapon. "Now let's see what this old head's been hiding."

The inside of the vault was a monument to lost memory filled with machines too rusted to work and books too faded to read. Skeletons, wrapped in the scraps of once beautiful robes, failed to deter Aurora from whatever dangers might be waiting.

After all, she'd just smashed a golem!

The rest of this expedition would be a cinch.

Aurora peered at the arcane symbols etched into every inch of the walls. She'd seen enough of these to decipher a prominent word: Arcturos. Was that the name of this place? Eh, she liked Boulderhead better.

Her fascination with the décor almost cost her an eye as a blast of lightning whizzed past her face. Balls and bolts of lightning blinked in and out of view down the hallway ahead. Their pattern was almost too easy to crack. She danced through the electric air, effortlessly evading the deathtraps as she counted the seconds between blasts.

The next obstacle was a little more tricky and a lot more fun. She opened a door to a twisted mosaic of mismatched tiles and colors. A labyrinth of archways to strange and beautiful places beckoned, but only one would lead her forward.

She didn't risk eating any of the suspiciously tasty-looking fruit and drink options laid out for her as a "Welcome to Arcturos". But she couldn't resist another temptation.

"Here, na'shi na'shi!" Aurora bent down and held her hand out to a juvenile na'shari as it wandered out from a door where a giant hand waved from the upside down sky. The beastling gave her a tentative sniff and a gentle headbutt.

"Aw, you little reality-defying cutie."

The na'shari's fuzzy tail rattled and it bolted back to the upside down world where the giant hand was now pointing to the left. Aurora looked that way and saw a hooded figure pointing up, then followed it to another pointing left again.

To trust or not to trust their creepy fingers?

No other obvious pattern emerged. Definitely a trap. She turned right and found a lone closed door tucked discreetly away. When in doubt, be the odd one out.

She opened the door and emerged back into the Boulderhead—Arcturos—whatever vault. An ornate door stood before her, and after that dizzying sequence, the last thing Aurora expected from it was a simple passage.

A grid of symbols lit up when she approached, above them an inscription: "We honor the many cycles of the moon in which Yvor defended Enion against the Old Ones."

"Just like in the old stories." Aurora slid the symbols for 90 into place and cackled as the door opened. "Works for me!"

Unlike the rest of the vault, this chamber was trapped in time, untouched for who knows how long until today. A glowing orb in an elaborate metal cage illuminated the massive chamber. Despite its size, the room didn't seem to hold anything of value.

Aurora had barely taken two steps into the cavernous space before ominous whirring noises started up. They grew to deafening volumes as dozens of metal golems flew at her on silver wings. A lone golem was one thing, but five, ten—thirty or more of them with wings?! If she survived, Melody should write a song about her.

A pair of golems collided in an explosion of sparks as Aurora dodged their two-sided attack. Another golem glanced off her quick-drawn blade. The next, she impaled through the chest and used its body as a sledgehammer to destroy two more.

As four golems surged towards her, she sent out a wave of lightning that sent them sputtering to the floor. Before she could recharge, one golem snatched her sword away and opened a gap for eight of its companions to swarm her.

So much for the song.

Mandibles pinched her skin as the golems pinned her to the ground. Even as one raised her own sword above her head, Aurora refused to believe this was how she would die.

Miraculously, she was right.

"Release her," a metallic voice bellowed.

Aurora searched for the source of the voice as the golems flitted back to their posts, but aside from them, she was alone.

"Who said that?"

In answer, the glowing orb pulsed. Its cage shook free of the wall piece by piece, strands of light holding the metal shards together as they floated toward her as one.

The sheer scale of the thing was mind-boggling; a moving tower of metal and magnetism, bound by ancient energies beyond any she'd seen before.

"Tell me your name."

Aurora retrieved her blade and stood. She wasn't sure whether to look at the orb at its core or the shards where its head should be when it 'spoke'.

"You first."

"The Aetherscribes denominated me Oscilio."

"The Aetherwho?"

"My creators. I have been monitoring your progress through Arcturos."

"If you knew I was here, why did you let your friends attack me?"

"It was necessary for me to analyze your combat prowess."

"Was fighting the sentinel outside not enough?"

"I cannot see beyond Arcturos. But my aetheric receptors indicate an unusual fluctuation in The Flow."

Aurora tentatively lowered her weapon. "What kind of fluctuation?"

"According to the Aetherscribes, only the most powerful surge could have awoken me. You must accompany me as I seek its origin."

"Hold on a sec! What makes you think I'll just tag along with you?"

"There is no reason for you to object."

"Based on what? You don't know me."

"I have determined that you are a capable individual with fascinating potential. You appear to thrive in challenging circumstances."

Even though Oscilio talked about her like she was an experiment, his observation was oddly touching.

"My mission is far too complex for a single agent," he continued, "even one of my sophistication. I must share my knowledge with those willing to share my burden."

Aurora considered for a moment. True, she was pretty awesome (or "capable," as he put it).

"This 'burden' of yours," she entertained. "How heavy is it?"

Oscilio floated toward her. "The Aetherscribes, greatest scholars of the Third Age, imbued me with the sum of their studies."

Aurora had a gray vision of droning lectures in a dusty hall. She shuddered.

"Weighty tomes...exciting."

"I cannot fathom any more intense excitation than the pursuit of knowledge."

Aurora thought of all the other vaults hiding among the islands, waiting to be explored by some enterprising wayfarer. If only someone knew where those vaults were and, even better, how to open them. Oscilio was her ticket to the wonders of the Third Age. She could pick his brain—or whatever he had—and learn Enion's tastiest secrets.

"I could be up for some learning. But I've got a certain subject in mind."

"Name it."

"Tell me all about Enion's vaults."

Oscilio's core darkened a bit. Was he thinking?

"That aligns with the long-term objectives of my mission." His projected voice sounded almost smug. "Though it shall take years to explore them all."

Aurora smirked. "We'll see about that. I'm quick on my feet."

"Very well. Although I too have a favored topic in mind."

Uh oh. Aurora braced herself for a deluge of tedium. "Okaaay."

"You will introduce me to others like you. My mission requires the efforts of a multitude."

"I can play nice with others." She'd always been a firm believer that a wayfarer's discoveries should benefit everyone. "As long as I get first peek in the best vaults?"

"That is acceptable."

"Great! Put her there, partner." Aurora extended her hand to a nonplussed Oscilio. "Oh, I guess you don't have a hand to shake with."

"No," Oscilio said, "but I am familiar with the concept."

He slowly extended his arm toward Aurora. She wrapped her fingers around one of the metal spikes, which was pleasantly warm to the touch.

"The name's Aurora, and I'm very pleased to meet you."

To Halt the Dark

Ira crouched at the entrance to the Chrome Caverns, cool air on her face, desert heat at her back. Shiro stopped beside her, passing the order down the line to their cadre of Ninjas.

Though far from home, Ira never heard a word of complaint from her loyal Crimson Haze. They had stalked the creatures of the Night of the Dark Tide devotedly. Home was but a faded memory, obscured by the gathering mists of many years.

She looked to Shiro and nodded ahead, where the tracks they followed were swallowed by the open maw of the cavern.

"We have our quarry cornered," Shiro said.

"Yes, but the tight confines make our numbers count for less."

Shiro nodded with a grunt.

Ira entered, the Crimson Haze following close as her shadow, footfalls silent over stone worn smooth by monsoon floods. Either side, the walls were stone tendrils like ribs curling from a spine, the sky above visible, as though chewed through by a giant moth. Stranger beasts than that lived here in East Volcor.

Ira drew her blade, the engraving along the length of Edge of Autumn glowing golden in the low light.

At this, a guttural laugh emanated from deeper in the cavern. "So, you have chosen to die in darkness."

Ira spun, the voice behind her. A towering figure emerged from the shadows. Standing several feet taller than Ira's biggest ninja, the creature held an ornate claymore in its corpse-gray hands. Upon its head, a mass of tendrils writhed like maggots on rotting meat, framing a rictus death mask—eyes as black as a grave.

One of her ninjas had crept up the wall like a beetle, hoping to flank their foe. Now she leapt from her perch, Kodachi poised to strike. Runes flared along the enemy's sword as its wielder pivoted with inhuman speed to cleave the woman from the air.

The Crimson Haze reacted in unison, flowing forward to press the attack. Arcane energy burst from the monster's body, forming runes in the air that blocked the assailants' blows. Between those swirling shields, the claymore struck out, slicing, disemboweling, until four more ninjas lay bleeding upon the stone.

Ira and Shiro shared a resolute glance before leaping into the fray. Shiro ducked between the runes and rained short, sharp strikes against the creature's sword. Ira sprinted across the cave and ran straight up the wall, following a rib of stone that curved up over the monster's head. The remaining ninjas used Shiro's distraction to hit and run, carving deep wounds in their enemy's foul flesh.

The beast roared, and its runes exploded, sending the ninjas flying backwards. But Ira descended through the maelstrom, the okana luminous on her bandaged arms, protecting her from the withering potency of Edge of Autumn as it sank, point first, into her enemy's right shoulder.

A clang resounded throughout the cave as the claymore hit the floor. Ira gripped hard to the handle of her sword as her weight dragged the blade down through the monster's long back. She pulled her sword free, the sound like the ripping of rotten canvas. Beaten, the fiend released a gurgling sigh.

"Tell me what I need to know," Ira said through gritted teeth. "I'll make sure your death is fast."

The creature's laugh was a dank rattle in its throat. "Grave dirt is cold, and worms are hungry. That is all you need to know."

"Slow it is then," Ira said.

Screams echoed throughout the cave as tentacles shriveled and fell away. Skin flaked off in dry sheets that drifted to the floor. Flesh cracked and wounds ran with sepulcher dust. The cries weakened, then stopped. The creature's body collapsed in on itself and the death mask toppled into the desiccated remains.

Ira bent down and picked up the skull, one finger through each of its eye sockets. She turned it in her hands, curious, then ran her thumbs over the runes engraved in bone.

Ira wiped a rag along Edge of Autumn's full length, cleaning dried gore from the blade. The sword had been in the Ikaru for generations, brought with them from across the sea. Some said it was a sliver of devastation. That it splintered away from the cataclysm that took their homeland. The sacred okana, written upon her bandages by the Blind Ferryman of Skylark Peak, acted as wards against the weapon's withering ways. Anyone touched by Autumn seldom saw another season.

Shiro returned from burying their dead and settled with a groan by the campfire.

"Those were strong words you spoke, strong enough to carry their spirits into the cosmos."

"The dead have no use for words," she murmured.

"Ira." Shiro sighed. "I have followed you long enough to know when something haunts you."

"The Night of the Dark Tide haunts me. It always has."

"But this is different."

Ira nodded. She sheathed her sword and rested it across her knees, running her finger over the cherry blossoms engraved on the leather.

"Since we started hunting that creature, I've been dreaming it, every night, the dream growing more vivid the closer we got."

"Tell me," Shiro said.

Ira glanced across the fire at him, his eyes heavy with concern and compassion. He was the oldest of the Crimson Haze, his face etched with fine wrinkles, but he was as capable as any in the group. He was also her second, the one she trusted most.

"People are screaming all around me, fires burn across the village, and shapeless monsters stalk the shadows, killing everyone they catch. I'm there with Jing. I don't know where Xilin is. Perhaps he is already dead? Jing and I are adults in the dream, but nothing else is different. We're still overwhelmed, still powerless."

She had seen Jing only once in recent years, the lower half of his face hidden behind the mask of the Aui's Scales. But she would recognize those eyes anywhere. The same eyes as their father. She grimaced thinking of him and his betrayal.

"What does it mean?" Shiro asked.

Ira's head hung low, eyes stuck to her sword, remembering the shrine it had laid in, the shrine that Xilin died in.

She knew exactly what the dream meant. The House of Blossoms called to her and it would not stop until she returned.

"Nothing," she said instead. "It's just a dream."

Shiro looked at her, brow furrowed in doubt.

Before he could speak, Ira stood. "Goodnight, Shiro," she said, turning from the fire, taking her sword and the saddlebag laden with the rune-covered skull.

Shiro wouldn't try to stop her. He knew better than that. But he would insist on the Crimson Haze accompanying her on the journey home. Best not to let him know. It was her home, her family, her nightmare to face.

And she would face it alone.

Ira stole away from camp before dawn, taking a longma for the arduous journey from Volcor to Misteria. Her heart swelled when in the distance she saw sunlight shining through the mists, villages and mountain peaks hidden within.

She was almost home.

Ropes criss-crossed the mountains and valleys, connecting the region and its people, even those of the hidden villages. She could find a quicker route to the House of Blossoms along rope and path, but it seemed important she follow the trail of that dark tide which had swept through Misteria all those years ago.

The longma slowed as they ascended toward the mountaintops and into Misteria proper, unaccustomed to the cooler climes. The locals openly stared at the woman atop the strange and massive steed. They passed through villages, past farms and rice fields—places spared from the violence of that terrible night.

Soon they found themselves on the same path the monsters had taken, the remains of destroyed homes, teahouses, and shrines barely visible beneath the sprawling, tangled foliage — time and nature seeking to purge these lost places from the land, and from the memory of its people.

Animals startled at their approach, the only life left in these once vibrant communities. It wasn't just her family's house that had been destroyed that night, but their very name; the respect they had cultivated over generations wiped out in a single night, along with almost all who had needed their protection.

Finally, Ira and her longma reached the outskirts of the Ikaru estate as the sun hung low.

"Woah, girl," Ira said, patting the thick dark fur on the longma's snout, the beast exhaling wisps of smoke. She tied it to a tree on a long rope so it could forage while she was gone, then took her saddlebag from its flank. She checked the skull was still inside, and slung it over her shoulder.

From a high spot, Ira looked down into the clearing that had once been the central square of the estate. It was strangely barren compared to the overgrown villages she had passed. For a moment, she was a child again, standing in that exact place, watching monsters destroy everything she had known. To the right was the entrance to the tunnel she and Jing had used to escape the monsters that had slain her family, caved in, the formless monster that had killed Xilin entombed beneath tons of stone.

Fear gripped her, remembering Xilin's sundered body, the grasping hands of the monster reaching to grab her, the tunnel collapsing as she and Jing fled. She rested a hand on Edge of Autumn's hilt, drawing solace from the family weapon, the fear still present, but dulled. She was a child no longer. She would face whatever she found here.

Ira took the saddlebag from her shoulder and placed it on the ground. A purple glow shone from inside. Ira opened it and retrieved the skull, the bone-engraved runes glowing bright with dark energy. It leered at her, as though this had always been its plan.

She affixed the skull to her belt, running the rope through one eye socket and out the other, then carried on deeper into her family's estate as the sun dropped beneath the horizon and darkness fell.

The air was still, a heavy quiet smothering the night. If anything still lived in this place, it stayed silent as Ira walked carefully through the grounds, approaching the charred ruins of the main house. It stood dormant, rafters exposed to the sky as it had all those years ago when she'd returned to bury her dead. She navigated the broken steps to the open doorway. With one hand tight around the grip of her sword, she crossed the threshold, the skull lighting her way.

Her childhood home was eerie in that infernal light, familiarity corrupted. She expected to see the space that lived so fully in her memory. She expected to picture it as it was, bustling with family and staff, her and her brothers rushing from room to room, chasing an imaginary villain, perhaps, until someone would sternly order them to play outside.

Yet, something was different. She pushed deeper into the house, footprints tracked in the thick layer of dust on the wooden floor, the skull luminous, guiding her toward the rear.

The skull flared brightly as she neared an old storeroom, partially caved in. She cleared away the charred wood and fallen slate, finding a trapdoor she had never seen before. A secret cellar, perhaps? How had she not found this in her youthful explorations?

She brushed away the ash and saw that the trapdoor was etched with Misterian okana. The writing was black, burned into the wood. Deep magic. Blood magic.

Ira read over the message: To our dear children, Xilin, Jing, and Ira. Know that we did not do this lightly. We would protect you from all the horrors of the world, but here we have failed. You will know when you are ready. Let this be the proof. Stop the darkness that we could not. End it, and those to come.

Ira's breath caught in her throat. Her parents sacrificed themselves to contain something terrible, some evil that continued to poison the land. The Night of the Dark Tide wasn't over. Not yet.

Ira rested a hand against the surface and the okana beneath her splayed fingers began to glow a mystical blue. The glow spread up her arm, igniting the okana on her bandages, then spread up and around the doorframe, each character in her parents' message shining bright.

At that, a loud thud rattled the door in its frame. Ira drew her sword in anticipation, the steel song cutting short as the door splintered apart with a powerful crack.

A repulsive creature emerged through the opening, resembling a mass of human bodies held together by some monstrous cancer, an enormous eye in its center above a slavering mouth. A Puppeteer Beast. Ira had only read of these creatures.

Insectile limbs around its mouth unfolded, each one reaching for her as the monster rushed forward. Ira somersaulted back away from its attack and swung her blade in mid-air, slicing through the beast's jagged arms. They began to wither, then detached, falling to the floor. More limbs emerged to take their place, the graveyard inside its flesh filled with countless bones for it to use and discard.

It mattered not. She would plunge her blade deep into its eye, pierce whatever passed for a brain inside that beast. It would die.

She ran up along the wall and pushed off, dropping like a falcon onto her prey. Yet even as she descended, a wet body sagged out of the monster's gaping mouth. Xilin.

Ira faltered and pulled her sword back, dropping awkwardly to the ground. Xilin lurched to his feet and stared at her with dark, unblinking eyes.

"Why did you let me die?" the thing asked in her brother's voice. The same voice that had scolded her for sneaking into his room. The voice that had taught her silly songs by the great hearth at night.

"I didn't," Ira stammered.

"You did, little sister. You ran. I protected you. And what did you do?" His face hovered before hers, his eyes weeping black tears, his blue lips twisted with grief. "You left me."

"I—"

Skeletal fingers choked the words from her throat. Pain drove the false memories from her mind. Too late she tried to raise Edge of Autumn, only to find her wrists trapped in vices of bone.

Xilin drew back towards the monster's mouth, the cadaverous form dragging Ira with him. She struggled, to no avail, as the creature's jaws widened to receive her.

"Welcome home, Ira," Xilin hissed. "We shall be a family—"

A whistle of steel cut through air. A blade punched into Xilin's face, splitting the skull between his eyes. The effigy didn't scream, but behind him the Puppeteer did. Its claws released her and Ira scurried back, her mind now fully clear, her brother just a fleshy apparition, hanging dead on the end of the Puppeteer's appendage.

"Sister!"

Another voice. Another brother. This one as alive as Xilin was long dead.

He perched in the charred rafters overhead, dressed in the garb of the Aui's Scales, but without the mask covering nose and mouth. Jing jumped down, landing beside her, and offered a hand. She ignored it and got to her feet.

The Puppeteer screeched and smashed the Xilin puppet against the wall to free its flesh from Jing's throwing knife.

"What are you doing here?" Ira shouted over the din.

"My spies saw you on the road," he answered.

"And you thought I needed your help?"

"No, I expected trouble would follow you."

Jing's knife clattered to the floor. The beast drew Xilin back inside itself, then swelled grotesquely. It vomited, entire people slipping from its mouth slick with slime. Puppet after puppet spewed forth and rose stiffly to their feet.

Ira recognized the faces of these foul effigies; they were the tutors, maids, guards, cooks, and other servants of the massacred Ikaru household.

Jing drew two long knives from his belt and glanced at Edge of Autumn. "Planning to return my inheritance?"

Ira managed a smile. "It chose me, remember?"

The puppets rushed forward in a wave of horror. The siblings stood side by side, blades singing as they sliced through shadowed flesh. Bodies fell at their feet, faces they had seen every day, twisted in hatred, each cut destroying their childhood for a second time.

They fought fast, they fought hard, but there were too many. Their arms grew leaden, and soon they stood back to back, surrounded by leering doppelgängers.

"Lower your weapons, children."

Out of habit, familial instinct, Ira and Jing obeyed as their mother stepped out from the shadows.

"We're here now," their father said, appearing beside her. "We'll take care of everything."

Something inside Ira's mind snapped, a scream strangled in the back of her throat.

"Jing..." she whispered.

She felt her brother tense, words failing him.

The father leaned forward to peer at the sigil on Jing's tunic. He laughed, as if Xilin had told him one of his jokes.

"You must not know the history of the symbol you wear," accused their mother.

"The sign of betrayal," said their father. "A tribe that bargained with Shadow and allowed passage through Misteria to Solana."

"We protect Misteria," Jing stammered.

"They had only one demand," their mother continued. "Destroy our rivals."

"That's a lie!" Jing fell to his knees.

Ira's hands tightened on the handle of her sword. All these years seeking vengeance, yet she had never known the truth. The Scales had engineered the deaths of her family and destroyed her life.

In unison, their parents uttered that ancient and hated proverb, their voices distorted, the Puppeteer's own voice leaking through.

"The feather shall break in the grip of the talon."

As if to punctuate the statement, their father turned to their mother, a grim smile on his lips. He gripped both hands tight around her head, gouging her eyes out and crushing her skull, sending the effigy back into the shadows.

The gruesome spectacle knocked Ira off-balance. But rage soon replaced shock, her anger unflinching. With a roar, she stepped forward and swung Edge of Autumn, cleaving her father's head clean off his shoulders.

The beast's remaining puppets surged forward. Jing leapt to his feet, and together he and Ira littered the floor with dismembered memories. Until Jing's daggers were wrestled from his hands. Until Ira's arms were wrapped in their cold embrace. Until sister and brother were drawn, inch by inch, toward the Puppeteer's slavering maw.

"Ira!"

Shiro raced into the room, the Crimson Haze behind him. They threw themselves into the fray, cutting down the monster's puppets.

Freed, Ira howled in wordless fury and charged at the Puppeteer. In her path, the creature disgorged one more body. A girl, hands raised, as if in surrender. It was herself, delicate as a blossom, the tender age she had been on the Night of the Dark Tide.

"The Shadow shall return," the girl intoned. "In the dying Light, all will be—"

Ira stepped past her younger self and brought her sword down, severing the Puppeteer's gross appendage, ichor leaking from the cut as it flopped on the floor. Her childhood self wilted and died like a cut flower.

She drove Edge of Autumn deep into the Puppeteer's eye. The orb shriveled and the creature collapsed backward, choking as it withered.

Around her, the sounds of battle fell away.

Silence settled over the ruined house, heavy as a funeral shroud.

Heavy as revenge.

Ira, Jing, Shiro and the Crimson Haze gathered in what was once the Ikaru gardens. Wounds were tended, simple meals cooked over small fires, horses and longma fed and watered after their long race to Misteria.

"Thank you, Shiro," Ira said. "I shouldn't have left how I did."

"Sometimes you forget, it's our vengeance, too. We were all affected that night."

"I won't forget it again," Ira said.

She patted Shiro on the shoulder and approached Jing sitting alone at a fire, staring deep into the flames. She sat beside him.

"This is the moment where you tell me 'I told you so'," Jing said.

Ira frowned. "True, I never trusted the Scales, but I never doubted your intentions." Jing had dedicated himself to peace in Misteria, that much she understood. "It's a worthy cause."

Jing nodded. "I've been thinking about that."

"Will you leave?" Ira asked.

"I can't leave."

"Even now?"

"It is worthy work we do. Whatever has corrupted the Scales will be excised. That is my path. What of yours?"

"You know my path, Jing."

"I have certain resources at my disposal," Jing offered, speaking as spymaster rather than brother. "If you need help, I will do what I can."