Edge of Creation (Exalted Quest)

Off to War
"Are you colorblind?" you ask Kalla, when she returns. "Or are you under the impression that I am?"

By this point, you hardly even need it. The endlessly warm and dry air this far south has already sucked most of the moisture from your sturdy traveling clothes. Which makes the ridiculous fabric she came up with from…somewhere…all the more offensive. It's a garish blue color, with metal beads sewn to it in patterns suggesting stars, and eyes, and abstract curves.

"Hey, orders were to find something 'mystical-looking' to wear. On short notice. This is mystical as all get-out. People see you in fancy robes with shiny stuff on them, they'll be sure you're a real witch."

"Unless they know anything at all about sorcery, in which case they'll think I'm some kind of idiot poser. I'm not going to look like a sorcerer, I'm going to look like a peacock. Where did you even find these awful things?"

"Oooh, peacock. That's a good idea. We should find some peacock tail-feathers, and have them stick up from your collar, behind your head. That would look super-mystical. Next time, maybe. Already pushing my luck getting these made quickly. So stand still, and let the women work."

The women are a pair of peasants who are rapidly transforming the rolls of gaudy cloth into a flowing robe with deep dangling sleeves and a collar that stands up higher than your ears, with hasty stitches.

"You should shave his head," one of them suggests around a mouthful of pins clenched in her teeth. "Shave his head smooth, and put a little make-up on him. Very dramatic looking."

"Not today," Kalla decides. "We're in a hurry, no time to practice, and bleeding scalp cuts don't really give the right impression. Maybe next time."

"Never," you clarify. "Never, ever. So this mercenary band has seamstresses, too?"

"No, love," the second one answers, "we work as the same house the curtains came from. Come by, when you have some extra time and money. We'll give you the sorcerer discount."

When they finish, Kalla appraises you.

"Not bad. Should fit over a mail shirt, in case things get ugly, and lots of room to hide weapons. Still feel like it's missing something."

"Arak-Devourer, attend me!" you intone in a solemn voice.

One of the seamstresses shrieks as long legs with too many joints sprout from your neck, and then pull the rest of the sseljae free from your flesh. Arak scuttles around your torso to perch on your shoulder, and gives a jaunty wave to the other people present.

"Nice threads, Fadi," the giant demon-insect compliments. "We going to a party? Think they'll have drinks?"

"Now," Kalla approves, "you look like a sorcerer."

——————————————

The royal palace is modest in size, but attempts to make up for in in sheer gaudy excess. You've seen larger palaces in your travels, owned by dynasts or wealthy Guild factors, but none actually coated in powdered gemstones before. It glitters in the evening light, casting the red rays of the sun back in a display that is literally painful to look at.

"It's something, isn't it?" Captain Zuobi says, as you pass the outer gate. "I don't know what exactly it is, but it reminds you this place may be a jumped up sand dune on the bottom of the world, but it's sure as hell a rich sand dune."

"Seems pretty bold," you answer. "Back in Harborhead, there would be thieves lined up around the city to try and scrape the paint off this place and sell it. You couldn't hire enough guards to stop them, because the guards would be trying to scrape off a piece, too."

"Not much use in it, here," Zuobi shrugged. "Can't eat or drink ruby sand, and you can't sell it, either. The Guild runs caravans every year through the pass, and they come back with loaded with gemstones. Stuff is just laying around on the ground in parts of the Wyld, I guess, if you know where to look. Anyhow, they don't even bother carrying dust back north with them. Anything too small to cut isn't worth hauling across the desert."

"I'm surprised," you switch subjects, "that they just let us walk in armed like this."

You glance back at Zuobi's two customary shadows, and your own newly acquired bodyguard, who Zuobi directed in your earshot to prevent anyone from 'stabbing the secret weapon in the back'. That gave you a warm feeling of security.

"They don't get much choice. For a few years now, Bar-Path doesn't have enough of an army to fight off a stiff breeze. They rely on mercenaries like us, and the others you'll see inside. There's five or so companies in the city. Hoping that competition will keep any of us from deciding to just take over. But like hell am I, or any of the other captains, walking into a meeting with that bunch of cutthroats unprotected. So the Vizier can either let us come armed, or he can leave this shiny palace and come meet me on my home ground instead."

"That seems…unstable."

"Yeah, lots of ways it can go to hell. Not my problem. Moral of this story is, if you ever find yourself ruling a city, and you want to keep doing that, don't have a damned civil war. Bar-Path used to have a decent guard force, but the Sultana's oldest kid got grabby and rebelled. Got most of the army on his side, killed his sister, came real close to winning. Would have, if the Vizier hadn't found enough mercenaries to drive him out of the kingdom. Then they purged the army, which worked, but leaves them sitting on a crate of firedust, waiting for a spark. Bad politics means good money, though."

The inner gate opens into a courtyard, paved with flagstones, where the Sultana gives audiences. At the head of it is a jeweled throne, holding the Sultana herself. She is an older woman, weathered by years and responsibility. She sprawls on the throne in daze, paying no mind to the events unfolding in front of her, as servants fan her and offer her refreshments.

The Vizier makes a sharp contrast to her listlessness. He buzzes confidently between the different groups like a pollinating bee, an immaculately groomed and coifed figure of striking good looks and boundless energy. He instantly notices you and the captain entering, although he continues his current discussion without missing a beat.

The four clumps of armed soldiers you see probably represent the other mercenary companies. There's youthful woman with a scimitar and the spurred boots of a cavalry rider, a thin man flanked by stone-faced spearmen, and a barrel-chested man is boasting loudly at his opposite number, a tall woman with a tattooed face and a brace of firewands balancing the wavy-bladed dagger hanging from her sash.

Zuobi makes a polite bow towards the Sultana upon entering the courtyard, and then moves to join the other mercenaries, and you stick to him, assuming an imperious frown meant to assure everyone that you are, as a sorcerer, Serious Business.

Arak prods you gently from his perch on your shoulder, and whispers in your ear.

"Try to get near the skinny one. He smells…delicious. He's been in something really nasty!"

"Not now," you hiss back. "Just stay put and look terrifying. If you embarrass me now, I swear you'll get no booze for a month."

Bottle bugs, like Arak, delight in consuming toxins and poisons of all types, including alcohol and various recreational drugs. And, since they can pass through flesh, they aren't above taking the booze right out of a drunk's veins. The last thing a tense military negotiation needed was a stoned demon trying to defend itself from a newly sober mercenary.

"Vizier Jahal," Zuobi greeted. "Captains."

"I may have to promote myself," the loud man returned. "Recruiting is going well. I may be commanding a legion soon!"

"A legion of green recruits that don't know which end of the sword to hold," the tattooed woman sneers. "If you even have enough swords to arm them. They'll scatter the first time they see a barbarian."

"Enough of that," Vizier Jahal interrupts. "This isn't the time for squabbling. We have a siege to plan. Captain Ceera, have you managed to learn anything new?"

"Not enough," the cavalry-woman admitted. "The invaders don't seem to be spreading out as quickly as anticipated. I thought they'd be burning and looting through the outlying villages by now, but they've stayed concentrated pretty close to the fortress. I don't have a good count of their forces, but it's looking like less than two wings, right now, but growing quickly. And they're cagey. I have a lot of scouts who went out and never reported back in. The ones that made it back tell me they've only seen infantry, no mounts. But some of the soldiers look big. May be mutants. And they're catching my people somehow. I've pulled most of the observers back; we can't keep throwing away trained scouts and mounts for nothing."

"So the light cavalry is as useless as ever," the thin man hissed. "We hardly need the scouting; they have to be coming here. The city is the only prize worth attacking. We just wait here, well supplied, and let them break themselves on the walls, and afterwards push them right back into the tainted lands. A bunch of screaming savages can't lay siege to a city."

"They couldn't lay siege to a fortress either," Zuobi observed, "but somehow they control it now. Waiting for them to attack is stupid. If they are patient enough to bottle us up here, every day means we're getting hungrier and they're getting reinforcements. That's going to get ugly real fast."

"And I suppose you'd rather go meet them in the field, then? Foolishness. Even if you get an advantage, they can fall back to the fortress to defend. I'll have no part in it."

"You're not invited, anyhow. I don't need a bunch of green conscripts slowing my troops down. Your rabble would just get in the way. Although, Ceera, I COULD use some support from your cavalry. I'll cut you in on the spoils. We're going to take the fortress back, then crush the barbarians against it in the field."

"I'm listening," Ceera answered. "But it better be one hell of a plan. I'm not getting chopped up because you're thirsty for a fight."

"Oh," Zuobi smiled, "It's a hell of a plan all right. Allow me to introduce my trump card. Step forward, Sorcerer Fleet-Foot…"

——————————

The sixth day after the war council finds you overlooking the Fortress Zangir from the forbidding mountains to the east of the pass. The fortress itself is a relic of earlier times; grown from the living stone of the mountain, walls fifty feet high and ten feet thick seal off the narrowest point in the path, a chokepoint barely an arrow-shot wide. Great bronze gates, operated by mysterious magics of the ancients, have been swung wide, and a multitude of tents have been pitched right outside.

The mountains themselves are harsh and forbidding. There are no easy climbs; no simple descents. To scale it with mortal tools would be the job of weeks.

Fortunately, you are not restricted to mortal tools. On the day of your departure, you summoned the Stormwind, and it carried you and the assault team a hundred miles to the east, then south again to the mountains, and back west to a spot within ten miles of the fortress itself. Traversing those ten miles in secret took longer than the entire trip out, but it seemed to have worked; you, and Lt. Kalla, and fifty grim-eyed men were staring down at Zangir undetected.

A day ago, the camp around the fortress stirred like a kicked anthill, and the bulk of the army assembled into loose lines and began shuffling north. They were a motley assemblage; various tribes standing aloof from each other, or mixing uneasily. That meant this was the night of your assault.

Kalla warned the men to rest, to eat lightly, and fill canteens. Then she failed to take her own advice, sprawling out by the edge of the cliff where she could peek over and watch the battlements below.

"Not tired?" you ask quietly, as you settle down a few feet away to meditate.

"Too close to the fight. People who can sleep before a battle should, but I'm on edge. Wouldn't work, so I might as well keep an eye on things. Why are you here?"

"Same thing, I guess. Don't know how I could sleep. First time I've been in a battle. Besides, I have some preparations I can do. Magic, you know."

"Don't figure I do know, really. All that sorcery stuff is over my pay grade. But really, why are you here? Why are you on this mountain? You're not from Bar-Path. You're some big muckety-muck from far off, throwing magic around like bad ale. Why, when you saw there was a fight coming, didn't you whistle up a tornado and ride it back to somewhere nice and safe?"

"Well, you are paying me. Paying me quite a lot, I think."

"Yeah, and for a throat-cutter like me, that's enough. I got a few very specialized skills, and I'm not too squeamish to put them to work. But you could make money anywhere. Yozi-spit, you can make water. There's a dozen cities in the South where that alone would make you a rich man, and nobody would try to stick a knife in you."

You pause to consider for a moment.

"I saw the people in Bar-Path when I reached the city. All those farmers and herders and merchants. Packed in the city tighter than kernals on an ear of corn. This invasion is costing them. A farmer leaves his farm, he loses everything but his life. And maybe even that, if the barbarians reach the city. And they can't just whistle up a tornado and run. Doesn't seem quite right for me to."

"Bleeding heart, huh? Well, this is going to suck for you, then. Taking a fortification not a very nice battle to cut your teeth on."

An hour before midnight, the troop assembles, and you call the storm. Riding a tornado isn't flying. Tornados hug the ground, though they can jump and hop a bit. Your transportation spells could get you to the roof of most buildings, but Zangir is too tall to surmount from the ground.

Which is why you are approaching from the mountain. You perform the incantation of the Stormwind Rider, and a swirling vortex of air descends from the clouds, plucking your band from the mountain and carrying them down the slope like an avalanche.

It is not a subtle transport. The handful of guards atop the battlements hear your approach, and then see the funnel cloud bearing down in the light of the full moon. They have little time to respond before you deposit your band on the top of the fortress, and then the mercenaries set about their deadly work. A full dozen have been tasked with seizing the doors to the fortress interior; they sprint for the portals, iron pry-bars mixed with naked blades, and hold it before some clever defender can think to close and bar them.

The rest fall on the watchmen. Outnumbered six to one, the end is fast. Some of the defenders are felled by hurled sling-stones, others are knifed, and one is just pushed over the side by brute strength. He shouts, briefly, as he falls, and then is silent.

Kalla quickly gathers her talons of killers, and arranges them to sweep the fortress. At the front, men with round shields and short swords advance down the corridor; behind them, the second rank is armed with short spears, held over the shoulders of the point men to skewer anyone who attempts to close with them. Then a second group of swordsmen and spearmen arranged behind them, and so on. You are positioned in the middle of the formation, where any attempt to reach you must bypass several ranks of soldiers.

Arranged so, like a spiny caterpillar, the assault forces advance down the long staircases at a pace just short of a run, minus a squad left to hold the door to the roof. The first resistance is encountered at the first landing; a fang of warriors, unarmored and carrying spears, are trying to ascend the same staircase. Your column crashes into them like a falling stone, knocking their leader back into his comrades, and then plunging swords and spears into them before they can untangle themselves.

Glancing at the corpses as you move over them, you see strange and grotesque features grafted onto human forms. One man has a shiny solid black eye, slowly clouding, opposite his brown human eyeball; another has red and black scales dusting his forearms. Wyld mutants, then.

The second cluster of defenders is slightly more successful; even as they are overwhelmed, one manages to sink a spearpoint into the thigh of one of your shieldmen, who sinks to the ground.

"Damnit!" Kalla growls, pointing. "Get a tourniquet on him. You, and you, carry him back to the roof, and then come back down. Quickly…"

You hold up a hand, and move closer. "First, if I may…Arak, tend to this man. You two, hold him still!"

With wide eyes, the two soldiers press their weight on the wounded man, while trying to stay far enough away that Arak will not touch them. Superstitious grunts; think every demon is going to try to steal their soul or something.

You rip open the man's trouser leg around the puncture, to expose the wound. Arak dives head-first into the soldier's leg like a pelican chasing a fish into the water.

The wounded man screams, from fright or from pain, but is prevented from thrashing too much by the efforts of his comrades and you bracing the injured leg. Quickly, the blood stops spurting from his wound, and looking closely, you can see a collection of spidery appendages around the gash, pressing the flesh together, while other limbs neatly join the sundered flesh with stitches so tiny they're hard to make out. All the while a rhythmic chirping sound fills the corridor; Arak singing happily while he works. In fewer than a hand of minutes, Arak has completed his sewing, and pops back out of soldier's thigh.

"Should heal cleanly," he announces, scuttling back to your should with a satisfied air. "He shouldn't exert himself, or he might pull it open again., and he needs to make more blood."

"Good work, Arak. NOW, you two can carry him up to the roof. You heard Kalla, hurry! And tell him not to walk on that leg. Get him water."

Kalla is staring at you and Arak with a look of confusion and horror on her face.

"The hell?" she finally asks. "The hell was that?"

"He was badly injured. He would have bled to death, or lost the leg from the tourniquet. So Arak stitched him up. I assure you, a sseljae is quite as good a surgeon as any mortal you've ever met."

"Rather better," Arak suggests. "Humans have such clumsy hands, and not enough of them. How you get by, I'll never understand."

"So he's going to be OK?"

"Given time to recover, yes."

"Is he going to turn into a demon, or an insane cannibal, or anything?"

"No. Nor did Arak steal his soul, or lay eggs in his wound that will chew their way out of him."

"OK," Kalla shivered, with the firm air of a person who has decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, "the bug is a doctor. Here that, everyone? If you get hurt, we are letting the sorcerer's spider have a go at you. If you don't like that, don't get hurt.

Third squad, when we reach that intersection ahead, you're going to stop and hold it. Don't let anyone get behind us. The right passage leads to the barracks; spike the doors, barricade them, and kill anyone who tries to get out. There's no armory on that side, so they shouldn't have much in the way of weapons. If they stay put, don't go in after them. There's no way out besides this hall.

Second Squad, go left and secure the armory and larder. Bunker up and hold them. If they aren't armed and they don't have food or water, we can force them to give up. If this turns into a fair fight, though, that's bad. Everybody else, we're taking a walk to the gatehouse. That's where we're going to win this thing."

"You seem… very well prepared for taking this fortress," you note to Kalla.

She gives a wolfish grin.

"Did a tour guarding it once. So I've given some thought as to how we'd go about attacking it, if you know, we ever needed to do that. Although, I figured I would have to start at the bottom. Still, not wasted effort. Always know how to defeat your own side's defenses. Makes it easier if anyone starts thinking about backstabbing."

Your crowd of warriors moves quickly down the staircase the makes the last branch from that intersection.

"This is the part where we win or lose," Kalla tells you. "This fortress has two levels, and the roof. The second level has barracks and store rooms. The men we left behind will hold them. The ground floor is the gate room, large enough to pass a caravan through. It and the roof are the only entrances. If we can close the gates, anyone still inside must surrender or perish, and then we hole up here and wait for the Captain to come and crush the barbarians against the walls. If we do not…they can get reinforcements from the camp outside, and will overrun us sooner or later. In that case, we flee, or trust to the mercies of the invaders. The largest group of defenders will be waiting here; we must defeat them, and take the gates. Now, if you have any tricks left, would be a fine time to use them."



This fight will decide the success or failure of the assault. You have enough essence left to use one spell, or you can rely on force of arms and more subtle arts to see you through while conserving your strength.

Tactics Vote:


[ ] Try to concentrate the defenders and then wipe them out with a single spell.
[ ] Engage the enemy with sword and sandstorm, conserving your arcane power for later challenges.
[ ] Try to convince the defenders to surrender without a fight — how?
 
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Argh. I did a poor job of figuring out how I was going to pace things, so that update took forever to write and has too much stuff in it.

Got there eventually, though.
 
Hey, I was worried that this wasn't going to keep rolling. Glad to see it did as I have high hopes for it.

"No, love," the second one answers, "we work as the same house the curtains came from. Come by, when you have some extra time and money. We'll give you the sorcerer discount."
That discount is negative, because everyone knows that sorcerers are rich and can afford to pay extra. Never wear your stupid-looking fancy clothes if you want to be charged reasonable prices.

"Yeah, lots of ways it can go to hell. Not my problem. Moral of this story is, if you ever find yourself ruling a city, and you want to keep doing that, don't have a damned civil war. Bar-Path used to have a decent guard force, but the Sultana's oldest kid got grabby and rebelled. Got most of the army on his side, killed his sister, came real close to winning. Would have, if the Vizier hadn't found enough mercenaries to drive him out of the kingdom. Then they purged the army, which worked, but leaves them sitting on a crate of firedust, waiting for a spark. Bad politics means good money, though."
Unfortunately this sounds like a much more difficult problem to solve than the invading wyld barbarian army. Forming a stable state generally is, for someone without high-powered social and bureaucracy charms.

The inner gate opens into a courtyard, paved with flagstones, where the Sultana gives audiences. At the head of it is a jeweled throne, holding the Sultana herself. She is an older woman, weathered by years and responsibility. She sprawls on the throne in daze, paying no mind to the events unfolding in front of her, as servants fan her and offer her refreshments.

The Vizier makes a sharp contrast to her listlessness. He buzzes confidently between the different groups like a pollinating bee, an immaculately groomed and coifed figure of striking good looks and boundless energy. He instantly notices you and the captain entering, although he continues his current discussion without missing a beat.
I wonder what the relationship between these two is, as the most visible power figures and clearly closely allied with one another (from the sound of it, the Vizier basically won the civil war on her behalf). The Sultana gives the impression of letting the Vizier handle things while she's merely visible, but no one gets "weathered by responsibility" unless they've actually been paying mind to their responsibilities, so she must take at least some parts of her job very seriously.

"Vizier Jahal," Zuobi greeted. "Captains."

"I may have to promote myself," the loud man returned. "Recruiting is going well. I may be commanding a legion soon!"

"A legion of green recruits that don't know which end of the sword to hold," the tattooed woman sneers. "If you even have enough swords to arm them. They'll scatter the first time they see a barbarian."

"Enough of that," Vizier Jahal interrupts. "This isn't the time for squabbling. We have a siege to plan. Captain Ceera, have you managed to learn anything new?"

"Not enough," the cavalry-woman admitted. "The invaders don't seem to be spreading out as quickly as anticipated. I thought they'd be burning and looting through the outlying villages by now, but they've stayed concentrated pretty close to the fortress. I don't have a good count of their forces, but it's looking like less than two wings, right now, but growing quickly. And they're cagey. I have a lot of scouts who went out and never reported back in. The ones that made it back tell me they've only seen infantry, no mounts. But some of the soldiers look big. May be mutants. And they're catching my people somehow. I've pulled most of the observers back; we can't keep throwing away trained scouts and mounts for nothing."

"So the light cavalry is as useless as ever," the thin man hissed. "We hardly need the scouting; they have to be coming here. The city is the only prize worth attacking. We just wait here, well supplied, and let them break themselves on the walls, and afterwards push them right back into the tainted lands. A bunch of screaming savages can't lay siege to a city."

"They couldn't lay siege to a fortress either," Zuobi observed, "but somehow they control it now. Waiting for them to attack is stupid. If they are patient enough to bottle us up here, every day means we're getting hungrier and they're getting reinforcements. That's going to get ugly real fast."

"And I suppose you'd rather go meet them in the field, then? Foolishness. Even if you get an advantage, they can fall back to the fortress to defend. I'll have no part in it."

"You're not invited, anyhow. I don't need a bunch of green conscripts slowing my troops down. Your rabble would just get in the way. Although, Ceera, I COULD use some support from your cavalry. I'll cut you in on the spoils. We're going to take the fortress back, then crush the barbarians against it in the field."

"I'm listening," Ceera answered. "But it better be one hell of a plan. I'm not getting chopped up because you're thirsty for a fight."

"Oh," Zuobi smiled, "It's a hell of a plan all right. Allow me to introduce my trump card. Step forward, Sorcerer Fleet-Foot…"
Okay, so we have three mercenary captains: One who takes drugs and is in charge of a swarm of unreliable rabble; one in charge of a group of cavalry (light are mentioned, but not necessarily only light; more data needed) who are about as skilled as one would expect given that horses are damned expensive to keep alive and fighting fit and more so in the middle of the desert; and then our employer, who is in charge of a group of skilled and reliable infantry, plus one sorcerer.

While likely to be effective against the barbarians, our plan has also arranged for the higher-quality troops to take all the damage while, presumably, leaving a swarm of rabble holding the city. When they're led by a druggie who has a poor relationship to the others, and there are no significant forces left directly in the service of the Sultana. This seems like a setup for things to go horribly wrong immediately after we barely eke out a win and are trying to return to the city, wounded and tired, but perhaps I'm overly paranoid.

That said, Ceera seems professional and competent, which is always important for an allied commander. She and Zuobi can probably be relied upon to win the field battle unless they pull out a Lunar or something (in which case they're fucked, we're fucked, everyone's fucked). I'd like to have gotten a better impression of the Vizier but he seems competent enough, so maybe he'll be on top of things in the city and prevent any issues from arising.

Great bronze gates, operated by mysterious magics of the ancients, have been swung wide, and a multitude of tents have been pitched right outside.
This is a pretty important line to remember for the vote. There are however many barbarians fit in "a multitude of tents" standing ready to pour directly into the fortress if we can't get those gates closed.

"Same thing, I guess. Don't know how I could sleep. First time I've been in a battle. Besides, I have some preparations I can do. Magic, you know."
I had the impression that Fadi was more experienced than that, but maybe when saying "first battle" he's just not counting anything with a couple dozen people as one. Fighting off bandits hitting a caravan or whatever is certainly very different from true warfare.

"Don't figure I do know, really. All that sorcery stuff is over my pay grade. But really, why are you here? Why are you on this mountain? You're not from Bar-Path. You're some big muckety-muck from far off, throwing magic around like bad ale. Why, when you saw there was a fight coming, didn't you whistle up a tornado and ride it back to somewhere nice and safe?"

"Well, you are paying me. Paying me quite a lot, I think."

"Yeah, and for a throat-cutter like me, that's enough. I got a few very specialized skills, and I'm not too squeamish to put them to work. But you could make money anywhere. Yozi-spit, you can make water. There's a dozen cities in the South where that alone would make you a rich man, and nobody would try to stick a knife in you."

You pause to consider for a moment.

"I saw the people in Bar-Path when I reached the city. All those farmers and herders and merchants. Packed in the city tighter than kernals on an ear of corn. This invasion is costing them. A farmer leaves his farm, he loses everything but his life. And maybe even that, if the barbarians reach the city. And they can't just whistle up a tornado and run. Doesn't seem quite right for me to."

"Bleeding heart, huh? Well, this is going to suck for you, then. Taking a fortification not a very nice battle to cut your teeth on."
Aw. The heroic impulse is live and well; see that people need their lives made better and act to make it happen. Fadi is certainly powerful enough to make a huge difference here.

You rip open the man's trouser leg around the puncture, to expose the wound. Arak dives head-first into the soldier's leg like a pelican chasing a fish into the water.

The wounded man screams, from fright or from pain, but is prevented from thrashing too much by the efforts of his comrades and you bracing the injured leg. Quickly, the blood stops spurting from his wound, and looking closely, you can see a collection of spidery appendages around the gash, pressing the flesh together, while other limbs neatly join the sundered flesh with stitches so tiny they're hard to make out. All the while a rhythmic chirping sound fills the corridor; Arak singing happily while he works. In fewer than a hand of minutes, Arak has completed his sewing, and pops back out of soldier's thigh.

"Should heal cleanly," he announces, scuttling back to your should with a satisfied air. "He shouldn't exert himself, or he might pull it open again., and he needs to make more blood."

"Good work, Arak. NOW, you two can carry him up to the roof. You heard Kalla, hurry! And tell him not to walk on that leg. Get him water."
I am of sharply divided feelings about this scene.

On the one hand, Arak is great, and the reaction to seeing him at work from others is also great. Good characterization, world-building, all of that. I enjoyed reading it quite a bit.

On the other hand, they just flew fifty guys over a fortress wall in full view of that "multitude of tents". They slaughtered the initial defenders quickly and at least one shouted as they fell to their death. The defenders are charging up the stairs, and doubtless the barbarians in those tents are mobilizing in response to the fairly obvious indications that they need to do so.

Yet not only does Fadi order the assault team to stop their advance while medical treatment is applied, Kalla doesn't object, and everyone stands around watching for...
fewer than a hand of minutes
Sure, less than five minutes isn't that long in an absolute sense. But it takes a lot less than five minutes for that army of barbarians just outside the gate to realize that they need to be getting the heck into that fortress and killing their attackers. There is no time whatsoever to pause for surgery. Even if Fadi doesn't realize this (and while he's clearly high-Compassion I don't think he's so foolish as to forget that all fifty of them will likely die if they stop while one is tended to), Kalla certainly wouldn't forget it... though she might be overawed by Fadi's sorcery and demon, unwilling to object to his will in spite of the tactical foolishness. That would have left them being attacked mid-surgery in all likelihood, though.

So on first read this is great, but on second I feel like it's an unrealistically long cutscene in the middle of what was a fast-paced action sequence. Those barracks they're trying to lock down should have long since emptied and the courtyard be poured full of the army outside given the scene as written, but those facts are conveniently ignored because it was, admittedly, a very cool cutscene.

Not sure how to resolve that, really.

Now, if you have any tricks left, would be a fine time to use them."
...
This fight will decide the success or failure of the assault.
These, together with the first line I quoted, seem like pretty hefty indications to me that we should be cutting loose with the glass shards ASAP, cutting off their reinforcements and allowing us to immediately seize the gates. We can't afford to demand surrender because the enemy knows perfectly well that they're not beaten yet and we aren't exactly swinging around solar-tier social charms, here. We also can't afford to get tied up by the huge number of reinforcements they have to pour in, and Kalla knows it which is why she's telling us to use whatever we have left right now. Once we win this immediate conflict and get the gates closed our side will have the huge environmental advantage of giant walls on our side instead of being forced into a field engagement against massively superior numbers.

I'm pretty sure that spell leaves an environmental hazard in place wherever you blast it, so if we hit the area just outside the gates as the barbarians pour in we'll be both causing mass casualties and effectively cutting off their reinforcements even before the gates themselves are actually closed. Hopefully the rest of our strike force will be able to slaughter everyone outside the blast radius promptly and get those gates shut.

Also hopefully we'll have enough dregs left for a couple personal-scale charm uses when whatever they used to take the fortress in the first place shows up and tries to take it back. We aren't lucky enough for that to be one-use or already dead.

Maybe we're lucky enough for them to be with the force that marched away, though. That might buy us enough time for an essence-restoring nap.

[X] Try to concentrate the defenders and then wipe them out with a single spell.
 
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[X] Try to concentrate the defenders and then wipe them out with a single spell.

Target rich environment.
 
[X] Engage the enemy with sword and sandstorm, conserving your arcane power for later challenges.
 
[X] Try to concentrate the defenders and then wipe them out with a single spell.

Time to set the butterflies free (or whatever they look like for us)
 
[X] Engage the enemy with sword and sandstorm, conserving your arcane power for later challenges.

I have the slightest inkling that we will have more than a bit of trouble when the barbarian reinforcements arrive. Best to have back-up.

Glad to see that this is moving forward!
 
That discount is negative, because everyone knows that sorcerers are rich and can afford to pay extra. Never wear your stupid-looking fancy clothes if you want to be charged reasonable prices.

;)

Unfortunately this sounds like a much more difficult problem to solve than the invading wyld barbarian army. Forming a stable state generally is, for someone without high-powered social and bureaucracy charms.

I wonder what the relationship between these two is, as the most visible power figures and clearly closely allied with one another (from the sound of it, the Vizier basically won the civil war on her behalf). The Sultana gives the impression of letting the Vizier handle things while she's merely visible, but no one gets "weathered by responsibility" unless they've actually been paying mind to their responsibilities, so she must take at least some parts of her job very seriously.

As far as the Sultana, remember that a few years ago one of her kids apparently murdered another of her kids and tried to overthrow her. That sort of thing adds grey hair fast.

Okay, so we have three mercenary captains: One who takes drugs and is in charge of a swarm of unreliable rabble; one in charge of a group of cavalry (light are mentioned, but not necessarily only light; more data needed) who are about as skilled as one would expect given that horses are damned expensive to keep alive and fighting fit and more so in the middle of the desert; and then our employer, who is in charge of a group of skilled and reliable infantry, plus one sorcerer.

While likely to be effective against the barbarians, our plan has also arranged for the higher-quality troops to take all the damage while, presumably, leaving a swarm of rabble holding the city. When they're led by a druggie who has a poor relationship to the others, and there are no significant forces left directly in the service of the Sultana. This seems like a setup for things to go horribly wrong immediately after we barely eke out a win and are trying to return to the city, wounded and tired, but perhaps I'm overly paranoid.

That said, Ceera seems professional and competent, which is always important for an allied commander. She and Zuobi can probably be relied upon to win the field battle unless they pull out a Lunar or something (in which case they're fucked, we're fucked, everyone's fucked). I'd like to have gotten a better impression of the Vizier but he seems competent enough, so maybe he'll be on top of things in the city and prevent any issues from arising.

I guess I went too fast here, but there are actually five mercenary captains present.
Tattooed woman, Loud Man, Thin Man, Ceera the cavalry captain, and Zuobi.

Loud Man was bragging about how many recruits he has, and Tattooed Woman was unimpressed.
Thin Man takes drugs and doesn't seem to have much use for Ceera and her cavalry.
Zuobi, is the captain of Rhino Company.

As far as troops go, Ceera's company is the smallest, and is basically all cavalry and support for the cavalry. They're also the only cavalry force to speak of. The other four companies are various flavors and qualities of infantry. Rhino Company is the smallest, but considers themselves to be the best.

So, it's not just one company of rabble holding the city, it's three!

I am of sharply divided feelings about this scene.

On the one hand, Arak is great, and the reaction to seeing him at work from others is also great. Good characterization, world-building, all of that. I enjoyed reading it quite a bit.

On the other hand, they just flew fifty guys over a fortress wall in full view of that "multitude of tents". They slaughtered the initial defenders quickly and at least one shouted as they fell to their death. The defenders are charging up the stairs, and doubtless the barbarians in those tents are mobilizing in response to the fairly obvious indications that they need to do so.

Yet not only does Fadi order the assault team to stop their advance while medical treatment is applied, Kalla doesn't object, and everyone stands around watching for...
Sure, less than five minutes isn't that long in an absolute sense. But it takes a lot less than five minutes for that army of barbarians just outside the gate to realize that they need to be getting the heck into that fortress and killing their attackers. There is no time whatsoever to pause for surgery. Even if Fadi doesn't realize this (and while he's clearly high-Compassion I don't think he's so foolish as to forget that all fifty of them will likely die if they stop while one is tended to), Kalla certainly wouldn't forget it... though she might be overawed by Fadi's sorcery and demon, unwilling to object to his will in spite of the tactical foolishness. That would have left them being attacked mid-surgery in all likelihood, though.

So on first read this is great, but on second I feel like it's an unrealistically long cutscene in the middle of what was a fast-paced action sequence. Those barracks they're trying to lock down should have long since emptied and the courtyard be poured full of the army outside given the scene as written, but those facts are conveniently ignored because it was, admittedly, a very cool cutscene.

Not sure how to resolve that, really.

I think this is all very valid criticism, thanks.

You're right that it's clunky and the timing is weird. I wanted to show that, first, things weren't universally going perfectly for the friendlies; surprise and organization are very good things, but they're not invincibility, and storming a fortress, even with a good plan, is dangerous. Also, I wanted to give Arak a chance to do something useful and freaky. But you're right that pausing for a few minutes in the midst of a time-critical fight is pretty dubious.

I'm going to leave it alone, but try not to repeat it in the future. Although, my post-hoc justification is going to be that this was a screw-up and the lost time will probably cost them. If they were being smarter, they would have left Arak back with the roof squad and just dragged the wounded guy to him while everyone else continued on. Kalla didn't do that because she didn't know Arak could doctor wounded people. Fadi didn't do that because he didn't think to say to anyone that his freaky demon was also a magical surgeon.

Knowing is half the battle.
 
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[X] Engage the enemy with sword and sandstorm, conserving your arcane power for later challenges.
 
[X] Try to concentrate the defenders and then wipe them out with a single spell.

The fortress was designed to hold off an army.Wipe out the defenders, take the gate, hold until relieved.
Or until your Essence recovers, at which time you can drop another glass storm on the army.
 
Closure
"I might have a trick left," you admit. "Not one I would usually employ indoors. How big is that gate room?"

"As big the fortress, minus the outer walls. It's all one big courtyard down there, with a gate on either side. One leads north, to the kingdom, and the other one south, to the tainted lands. When caravans come through, they let five or six wagons at a time in, then close the gate, charge a toll, and send them out the far side, then let in another batch. Makes it easy for the tax collectors to count noses, I guess. The gates have some kind of magic shit on them; you turn a big crank to open or close them, but it's easier than it ought to be. Two men can operate a gate. If nobody's trying to kill them."

"Not to be a pessimist, Kalla, but I think people might be trying to kill us down there." You pause as an idle thought strikes you. "They charge tolls to pass through the gate? Who the hell want to get out into Wyld-tainted wasteland bad enough to pay money for it?"

"Guild, mostly. They pay to go out, come back with wagons full of rubies and weird crap they trade for out there, and pay to come back in. Everybody wins, I guess. I dunno, I was never much for merchant crap. How stupid do you have to be to go wandering out where the fairies will eat your soul, if you don't just suddenly have your arms fall off for no damn reason first?"

"My family has spent ten generations cutting deals with demons for more power. I'm probably the wrong person to judge."

"There's that. At least you got power out of it. We need that. Fleet-Foot? We screwed this one up. We took too long, which means they gotta know we're coming. And they haven't sent anyone up these stairs since that last patrol, which means whoever is running the show down isn't a total idiot. Most of their army left to fight, but whoever remains is gonna be forming up in that courtyard now, and that's gonna be ugly. So make it a damned good trick."

"The best. Get me some room to breath down there, and then, when the time comes, make sure everyone is behind me. Two feet behind me."

She nods, and passes word to the twenty-odd men still with you.

In grim silence, you descend the stairs. Scant feet from the opening, you pause. Kalla pushes you flat against a wall, and more armed men squeeze past to assemble in cramped ranks. Then, with a nasty grimace, she gives the signal to attack.

The stairs down end at a simple stone arch, narrow enough that you could touch both sides with outstretched fingertips. The first two soldiers exit at a sprint, shields high at either side. On the left, a sword licks out from some unseen ambusher, rebounding from his shield; on the left, the attacker trips on a low spear-thrust at his calves, and tumbles to the ground, then painfully rolls to the side, abandoning his shield.

The third and fourth men, following closely on their heels, swerve sharply to either side of the door, stabbing furiously with long knives, trying hard not to give the ambushers time to recover from their second attacks.

The point here is not to have an orderly battle with the enemy, but simply to get as many soldiers as possible out of the stairs and hopelessly co-mingled with the enemy as possible, as quickly as possible. Whatever plan the enemies had made was almost certainly better thought out than a mindless, confusing brawl, so step one of Kalla's plan had been to exit any prepared killing fields and start a brawl.

It helped that her soldiers were all wearing mail. By the fourth pair of soldiers, a few arrows came hissing at the doorway, shattering on the stones or sticking in chain links. The arrows quickly stopped at a shouted command from outside; there were no safe targets in the melee.

Kalla and you were the eighth pair, you with your chopping sword, she with a pair of vicious hooked swords. In the courtyard, it was pandemonium. Your men had carved a small circular space, standing shoulder to shoulder. Barbarians lunged at them seeking glory, or were pushed by their fellows behind; they perished on the short blades of the soldiers; no less dangerous for their frenzy. Kalla leans past the battle line, catching weapons and arms in the merciless curve of her blades, and leaving them open for follow-up strikes to kill their owners.

"GET BACK!" a mighty roar breaks the din. "Back away from them, you fools!"

Grudgingly, the barbarians obey, disengaging warily from your line of steel. The ranks part, and a grizzled giant of a man steps forward, carrying a staff with some unidentifiable skull lashed to the top. His eyes are vertical slits, and his skin is covered in odd blotches, but his back is straight and his arms are like tree trunks; the warriors hasten from his path.

"Who is your leader?" he booms. "Let us speak, like honest men. I would know who I am sending to the underworld."

Your group catches its breath. Perhaps a dozen soldiers still stand, though many are bleeding; around your feet the dead and wounded of both sides are piled. Kalla steps forward.

"I'm in command here. Although I can't claim to know how an honest man would speak. What did you want to say?"

"I am Ashram of the Skull. The Walker Upon The Sands left this fortress in my care. That you are standing here now is honor to you, and shame to me. But you are finished. You are outnumbered, and your men bleed their lives upon these stones. You have fought bravely, but you cannot win. I will smother you with spears and arrows; it gains me no face, but need not even fight you. But, though I hold your lives in my hand, I need not close it. I will allow you, and all those you brought, to leave. Life is short; grasp it tightly, for yourself and your men."

He doesn't seem to be reading the odds wrong. Surveying the courtyard, you can see easily a dozen dozens of barbarians, in wildly differing regalia and markings, crowding into ranks. Worse, you see several clusters of men readying shortbows and hefting javelins impatiently; you have little doubt that Ashram can make good on his threats.

"Just like that, huh?" Kalla answered. "I suppose you'll be wanting us to throw down our weapons? Trust to you good intentions?"

"Not at all," Ashram smiled cruelly. "Keep whatever you like. You'll need the weapons. Just swear not to return here for a year, and I shall allow you all to take your wounded and walk right out the southern gate."

The southern gate leads to the tainted lands, where the energies of the wyld twist and change all who live. Spend enough time there, and any mortal will become a warped mutant, like the motley forces before you. Ashram's warriors cheer and shout at this sentence.

"Generous," Kalla replies, "but I cannot accept. My captain will be here as soon as he finishes wiping out your horde that so obligingly marched out to meet him, and I'm supposed to have this fortress ready when he arrives. But I'll make you a counteroffer; you and your horde go home now, and we won't pursue you. You don't want to be here when he arrives. Take your own advice, and grasp your life tightly."

"You sway on your feet, and speak of what you do not understand. The slightest breeze will make you fall. The Walker leads that army and cannot be defeated. Your captain will be broken like a clay vessel thrown against a rock. Our shamans received visions in the strange lands promising it, and the Walker came from the gate to fulfill them. Now we restore that which was stolen, and claim that which we have been promised. Go home? We are home now, and every warrior here has sworn an oath to die before going back beyond the world. So be it. I have dealt fairly with you; your ghosts will have no complaints against me."

That seems a lot like the conversation is drawing to close, which makes this the best opportunity you're going to get. You push forward through the ring of soldiers, and extend your arms to sides, the left even with your shoulder, the right with your waist.

"Before me stands an insult to the order of Creation," you intone solemnly, moving your arms to the second position. "Let the offense be answered by Air and Earth and Fire."

Ashram pauses in incredulity as glowing sigils burn in a circle around you. Archers raise bows uncertainly.

"Let ugliness be erased by beauty," you pronounce, "and let strength make way for delicacy."

As you shift your fingers into the required arcane signs, you hear Kalla screaming at the men to back up. A hasty arrow tugs at your sleeve, as the barbarians react to the obvious signs of sorcery.

"I offer you no mercy," you complete the ritual, thrusting your left fist towards the enemy, and then opening it to reveal a winged shape of pure essence perched upon your palm. "But the DEATH OF OBSIDIAN BUTTERFLIES."

The insect launches from your palm, turning from scintillating rainbow of light to a glossy butterfly of black glass and hurtling forward like a slingstone. To either side of you, countless other butterflies soar past, in all shapes and sizes. The temptation to turn and see where they come from is, as always, intense, but you remain as still as a carved statue. Glass butterfies fill the courtyard with their razor-sharp wings, passing so close by that you can almost feel them touch your skin, but never quite contacting.

You are the only thing they do not contact. The courtyard is actually too small for the spell to work fully; butterflies smash into the walls and ceiling, spraying shards in every direction, and leaving fine scratches on the stone. Between the walls and ceiling, it is worse. They slice into the warriors in front of you like an endless cloud of knives; each as light as a a floating feather and as sharp as a rumor. First, the arrows in flight towards you are cut to splinters, and in the next instant the men who fired them are likewise shredded to bloody rags. Before their blood has finished painting the ground, the second rank is being struck by flying glass.

In seconds, it is over. The wind of razor-winged constructs ceases, and the sound of shattering glass recedes, leaving only the moans of the wounded and dying. Blood is spattered across the walls and ceiling like a mad painter was set loose, and pools on the flagstones knuckle-deep.

A bare few barbarians, still able to stand, goggle in shock, and then simply turn and flee out the gates.

You sink to one knee, your energy reserves exhausted by this last spell. You couldn't light a candle with sorcery right now, much less cast another spell.

Behind you, there is the sound of retching. One of the soldiers must have a weak stomach. Perhaps more than one.

Kalla is sending troops, those who can still walk, to operate the cranks which close the great gates. They crunch across splinters of shattered obsidian and leave red footprints in their wake. Kalla herself kneels down by the bloody effigy that remains of Ashram, and listens as he whispers some last message.

"Let go," she finally says, standing up again in the field of offal that was an army. "Your oath is complete. You did not leave the world again. May your next life be kinder."



End of Chapter 1
 
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Oh, I love it when circumstances align to allow scenes where a large amount of people are obliterated by sorcery. That was awesome.
 
I wanted the first spell really focused on to be memorable, so I went back and read the description of DoOB, to get a feel for what it would look like.

And I concluded that is would be messy. Because, seriously, slashing everyone in the area of effect all over any exposed skin with shards of glass. And every time a butterfly hits something solid, it breaks, because it's glass, and throws more splinters of glass everywhere.

Combat magic is nasty.
 
My family has spent ten generations cutting deals with with demons for more power.
double 'with'
each as light as a a floating feather and as sharp as a rumor.
'razor'?
You sink to one need, your energy reserves exhausted by this last spell. You couldn't like a candle with sorcery right now, much less cast another spell.
'knee', 'light'
Excellent chapter.

I wonder about the utility of the spell though... for all its power, it seems like we are completely vulnerable while casting? If any of the barbarians kept their wits about them, we would be a pincussion before we finished the chant. And we can't have anything between us and our target that also wouldn't be shredded.

Are there ways to deal with that sort of risk?
 
Excellent chapter.

I wonder about the utility of the spell though... for all its power, it seems like we are completely vulnerable while casting? If any of the barbarians kept their wits about them, we would be a pincussion before we finished the chant. And we can't have anything between us and our target that also wouldn't be shredded.

Are there ways to deal with that sort of risk?

Casting in the middle of a fight definitely leaves you vulnerable. It's a big downside to the raw power of sorcery.

There are ways to work around it. For instance, have bodyguards with shields who can block for Fadi during the casting wind-up, then duck away right before the spell goes off. Or, don't wait to cast until you're right in the enemy's face. DoOB creates a zone of slicy obliteration that's thirty yards wide and a hundred yards long. That's pretty far off. If you're chucking that at people 75 yards away, return fire is much less of a problem.

There's also the popular fallback plan of wearing armor, or using even more sorcery cast ahead of time to make later sorcery safer.

Conan throwing his sword at you when you start being spooky is always a potential issue, though.
 
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