The Practice of Sorcery
Twenty Fourth Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC
Sorcerer's Deep Military Academy
Insofar as there could be said to be precedent for studies into the arcane sponsored by the state and paid for by the treasury, they were those of Old Valyria and perhaps Sallosh of the Warforged Anu. In the former case it was more a matter of standardizing and spreading the discoveries of various organizations and cabals, and in the latter a purely academic system of those little concerned with the practicality of their work, perhaps as a manifestation of the ever widening gulf of the failing magic of the time. All this Akneac of Aspheaven had learned in his studies, both among the Disciples in Mantarys and later, coming to Sorcerer's Deep after what they were now calling the Crimson Accords, whereby Manatrys and Tolos would form the easternmost expanse of King Viserys' dominion. The more he read into the history of the world before the Doom, the more he realized how secretive the mages of old had been, how greedily they horded lore that soon grew hollow and bitter as ash.
Little wonder the first thing the Dragon King had arranged was an exchange of knowledge. The mage had been proud to see men and women throughout the Disputed lands, and even the very island Sorcerer's Deep rested upon, make use of Mantarys' rituals The ritual crafter's slow art had never drawn him, however, nor the building and rebuilding of the same piece of magic to make it simple enough for anyone to use, like polishing the stone tools his grandfather would use for tasks too simple for cherished works of traded iron. He had not left home for Mantarys, and then Mantarys for the wide world, that he might be a mere flint knapper of the arcane.
It had been the soldiers in their gleaming armor and golden cloaks that had drawn his eye, and though he had not excelled in those aspects of magic that would allow him to join the legions on the field of battle, there were other ways to contribute, other ways indeed.
Where the notion for the Steel banners had come from, Akneac was not entirely certain. He had heard everything from an ancient snake-folk secret to Djinn trade, even to secrets stolen from fiends. Personally, he favored the first theory as it best accounted for the involvement of the priest of the Old Snake and the blessing of the new, but ultimately he did not care enough to know the answer to look too deeply. What was important, truly important, was not the ancient roots of the banners, nor even the weeks of frantic enchanting, testing, destruction, and reforging in the face of flaws. What was important was what would happen on this field today.
The banners were raised to the call of legionary horns, as befitted the flying of the three headed dragon, but these banners were not like any others that had ever been borne by the legions into battle. Wrought not of wood but spellsteel adorned not with simple cloth, but the scales of Sothosy Painted Lizards who it was said knew no fear of man or beast, and painted black with the same humble oils that darkened a legionnaire's armor, it was inked in red with the blood willingly given from a thousand palms that had drawn steel in service of the Dragon. They snapped hungrily in the breeze.
For a moment silence reigned in the horn's wake, then a chant rose from the battle mage standing before the line of armored figures. He spoke a spell to cast fears into their thoughts and break their wills. Not one wavered, not one stepped back.
"Again!" the corporal in command called out in a voice used to endless drills, trained to carry in battle. Again the spell was cast and again by the banner rebuffed, even more times and Akneac was more pleased by the moment. A fine day's work.
Safety in Numbers Complete 37/25
OOC: The narrator of this piece comes from a place so remote and poor that they still used polished stone tools on occasion, on the plus side they were so dreadfully poor that no one bothered to conquer or enslave them. Not yet edited.