Armes Albrecht for decades had made a habit of doing her morning exercises in solitude as the sun rose, alone in the training hall. Her routine was simple – following the motions of battle. Swing. Thrust. Parry. Lunge. Backswing. Step. All of them were executed with excruciating slowness, however, while holding an awkward, heavy sledgehammer – the strain of keeping the thing steady as she moved glacially from form to form made even her bulky arms tremble, and her hair and simple training garb was soaked with sweat. She was in the middle of an estrelitta when a furious voice spoke out just behind her, startling her badly enough that she nearly dropped the hammer.

              “You left me to die, Albrecht!”  

She acted on instinct and whirled, raising the weapon in a sweeping strike, but received her second shock of the morning as she found herself being stared down by the outraged eyes of the king’s Fool. Unable to stop the motion, she released the hammer, letting it whirl off to crash into a rack of training weights on the wall. The Fool didn’t flinch, carried forward with his anger, and stabbed his finger at the center of her collarbone, glaring up into her eyes. His jester’s motley was travelworn and singed, and he looked exhausted.

              “You set the inn on fire, and you left me to die! I woke up in an inferno, Albrecht! That you caused! Do you have any idea what that’s like? And after I managed to get out intact, what kind of scene awaited me? Did you lose your mind, demon? Did the bloodlust become too strong? You left the innkeeper in HALVES! What the devil happened?! Where did you go?!”

              Armes was pale with realization. “They had stolen her. They were stolen her, and I, ah… I forgot about you. My duty was too important, and I acted without thinking.” She thought back to that night – returning to her room, which she had left so briefly, only to learn that her belongings had been snatched, including her pack with its precious cargo – the Princess, hidden away. “I was ordered to-“

              Though it seemed impossible, the Fool actually managed to get even angrier. Armes actually took a step back – she didn’t know the jester had a temper at all. “You FORGOT me? In your haste to what, Albrecht!? To slaughter a few pickpockets? For swiping your precious toy? I know you threatened me to keep it secret, but I didn’t think you were truly that mad!” He snatched his belled cap on his head, twisting it in his hands. “What in all the gods names could be that important?”

              She took a steadying breath, her composure beginning to return. Heavens above, what a shock that had been. She was losing her edge. And who would have imagined he could move so silently with all those bells? She took another breath. “I will show you. Come with me, to the Princess’s chambers.”

              He didn’t agree to follow her right way, and when she finally managed to coax him into coming along, he spent the entire journey through the halls haranguing her, delivering insults cruel enough to blister. She couldn’t fault him for it. She hadn’t thought for even one moment about his fate after running to Alysia’s rescue. She accepted that enough retainers and guards had witnessed her beratement that she would simply have to live with the consequences. She raised a hand as they approached the door to her rooms, however, and he briefly paused his tirade. “What you are about to see is a secret. A secret of the Realm, not just of myself. Everyone who has borne witness must swear an oath not to reveal it to anyone who may be able to endanger the Realm, on pain of death. Do you understand?”   

              He gestured impatiently as he made the sign of the Redeemer, rapidly rattling off the customary vow, and she knocked, opening the door only after hearing the Princess’ assent. “So let’s see what’s so blasted important that you- ah, Your highness! Good morning!”

Alysia sat at the window, staring down at the town below the walls as she rested her chin in her hand. Her bear-self sat in the crook of her arm, staying still as her puppet-self turned to regard her visitor. “Oh, it’s you! Thank goodness! I was so worried, after that night at the inn!”

              The Fool approached, laughing and smiling. “Oh, you heard about that? Hahaha, the fire found my jokes in such poor taste that it wouldn’t devour me, though I-“ He froze as he drew near, though. His eyes darted to the bear, clearly recognizing it, and then back up to Alysia’s face. He stepped closer, and she shifted with a quiet rattle of wooden joints, surprised when he reached out to gently touch her wooden cheek. “You’ve been through some changes since the last time we saw each other here at the castle, haven’t you, Princess?”

              “Well, the last time we saw each other was actually that day on the road you spotted me in Armes’ bag, really…” She said with her bear-self, holding herself up and taking his hand with two small paws. “It’s been quite a year for me.”

              The Fool’s eyes were bright with wonder. “What on earth happened?” As she told him the whole story, including all of the near misses and dangers, his face – usually so expressive that each emotion seemed almost a caricature of itself – was still, as he merely listened intently, nodding at points, occasionally murmuring a quiet request for clarification. When she described the brief death of Armes and her terror in the witch’s jar, he squeezed her paw tightly. “It’s a miracle. You being here, to speak to me today, is truly a miracle. The songs they’ll sing about your journey will be incredible, when this is all behind you and the tale can be told.”

              He looked over his shoulder at Albrecht, who had taken a seat on an ornate little sofa. “I understand a bit more, now. You’re still a beast in human shape.” His expression softened slightly. “But at least you’re a loyal beast.” He sighed, and looked back to Alysia. “So! You’re blessed with two bodies now, then? Would you reward your dear Fool with a little demonstration of what you can do? I’ve never seen anything like this before, even when I toured the Magisterium.”

“Of course!” Alysia rose and gave the fool her seat, joints rattling softly as she paraded back and forth through the room, both of her bodies in unison. She danced a courtly ballroom dance with an imaginary partner, and with the slim decorative rapier she had been given ages ago by her father even fenced with the air, thrusting and parrying. “Elbow in, Alysia,” Armes murmured softly, the puppet rolling her eyes even as her expression remained carved neutrality.

              The Fool made suitably impressed noises, but as he watched intently he began to frown, and raised his hand. “You find people are uncomfortable around this form even when you disguise it carefully, don’t you? Odd looks. Confusion.”

              Alysia blinked and nodded, carefully returning the rapieer to its scabbard and tossing it carelessly onto her bed. “Yes. Even when I wore gloves to cover my hands, and hid my face behind a fan – people would get uneasy around me. Like they could sense something.”

              “I’m not surprised. You’re marvelous, truly, but…”

              “But what?”

              “You’re clearly an amateur.”

              “I beg your pardon?” both of Alysia’s voices asked, simultaneously.

              The Fool didn’t seem to notice her irritation, rubbing his chin as he thought things through. “A gifted amateur, but still. It’s not both of them, though. Your little body looks as alive as anyone has ever looked. It’s the big one. That one’s not ‘alive’ in the same way. You have to think about what you’re doing, don’t you? It’s not second nature.”

              “I- well, yes. But How can you say that? I can play cat’s cradle with it! I can knit!  I couldn’t do that before I was changed!” She sounded hurt, like a youth who’s schoolwork was being criticized. “What else could there possibly be?”

              The Fool seemed to struggle to put it into words, and finally shook his head. “I have to show you. It won’t mean anything if I don’t show it. I’ll be back in a moment – if I am permitted to leave, Albrecht? Unless you planned to throw me out of the window once you revealed this whole plot to me?”

“I don’t care for defenestration. Come and go as you like, you’re the Fool. The castle is your home. And… I’m sorry.” She bowed her head slightly in apology. The Fool merely hmphed as he passed, before jogging off with a clatter of bells.

“I can’t believe you forgot him.”

“I had to maintain my priorities! You came first!”

“In a burning building!”

“I said that I was sor-“

 They were interrupted as the Fool returned, carrying a sturdy trunk. He unlocked it and carefully removed a lovely marionette, making the Princess gasp in wonder. It was half of a matched pair, silly caricatures of a princess in pink lace and a prince with puffy sleeves and floppy hat. He carefully set the prince-puppet aside, and after smoothing her lace and gown, took up the handles of the princess-marionette.

“With puppets, you don’t just wiggle a string, and it moves,” he said, as he guided it gently in a graceful walk across the floor. “It isn’t enough to make the movement ‘right’. It needs more, if you want your audience to believe it. You have to give it the illusion of life. And that’s where you’re falling short.” He carefully tipped the handles and tugged strings, and the puppet danced, a dance just like Alysia herself had performed a little while before. Her bear-self walked closer, watching with wonder and frustration – in the Fool’s clever hands, the doll truly did seem to come to life in a way that she knew her own puppet-self didn’t. But she couldn’t understand what exactly he was doing differently.

“Every one of us from birth, though we don’t know it, is a student of human emotion. We know what it looks like, we know the universal motions of joy, of rage, of grief. And we know when something is missing, too. We might not be able to articulate why, but in our minds, we recall every time we’ve seen an emotion before, and we can tell something is lacking. To perform, you have to be more than a student. You must become a scholar.” The puppet’s dance faltered, and it stumbled, taking a few wobbly steps before sinking to its knees. Its posture hunched and it folded its hands across its chest, drawing inward, head lowering – seeming to sink into sadness so profound that Alysia raised one of her paws to comfort it almost without realizing what she was doing. “You must become a mirror that you hold up to audience, so they see their feelings reflected in you. That makes it true, that makes it real.” The puppet turned its carved wooden face up to Alysia, reaching out to touch her paw with its stiff fingers. It nodded, as if in gratitude for her kind gesture. And then in a heartbeat the fool whirled it up and away, to sprawl it carefully on a table, lifeless again.

“How? How do I do that?” Alicia’s puppet-self had risen, and took a few uncertain steps closer, the Princess suddenly very conscious of her own motions.

The Fool smiled. “I’ll teach you.”

-----

              “No, no! Do it again. Remember – you’re showing the delicate pleasure of a secret you can’t wait to reveal! It’s about what you DON’T show as much as what you do! You’re being too coarse, too blatant. I know that you know this – now show me!” Armes watched with fascination as Alysia faced the tall, expensive mirror the Fool had demanded and smoothed her dress with her wooden fingers before settling into the role. While the Fool wasn’t satisfied, it was still remarkable in the knight’s eyes as the puppet seemed to relax, and then tighten, setting her shoulders just so, her head taking a very specific set as she flicked a fan up to hide her wooden non-smile. She glanced furtively left and right, and the fingers of her free hand held a delicate curl – as if she wanted nothing more than to call for someone’s attention, to whisper in their ear. “Good, good – you’re getting there… Better. Next. Your duty calls. You are in the court, and you are to meet a dignitary of the State. You wish to convey respect, but only precisely enough, and not an ounce more – you are the future queen, after all. Do it just as you used to. Think back to that time. Feel it. That moment never ended. You are living in that moment. Now… Show me.”

              The Princess’s body language had become so much more nuanced in the last few months that the trusted handmaidens who came in the midday to keep her company had finally begun to relax in Alysia’s company, smiling more naturally and even sharing the gossip and current events of the court. Armes marveled to see Alysia laughing with them, her shoulders shaking, chest rising and falling with nonexistent breaths. Her motions on the road to the castle had been mechanical and stiff, but they had gathered new grace – easing from stillness into motion, back delicately into stillness – little secondary gestures layered onto every action bringing them to life, a skillful recreation of her unconscious manner when she was embodied in her original form. The puppet body dutifully stepped into a wardrobe any time the King had visited, but the knight now wondered if maybe she shouldn’t any longer. Soon, if one didn’t know what to look for, Alysia would be able to walk through a crowded room with no one the wiser.

              The Fool and Princess had moved on to other subjects. “I still feel foolish, sometimes, when I exaggerate my motions. What purpose does that serve?” She made a show of picking up an empty teacup and saucer, each step of the procedure done in the manner of a pantomime. She even made a slurping sound as she touched it to her carved lips.

              “In our practice, you exaggerate so that in the moment, every little part of the gesture is second nature.” The Fool mimicked her motion with his empty hands. “We take the cup, we hold it. Ah, so hot! Pinky out. We blow on the tea. We close our eyes, we inhale, we savor. That first sip – ah, the warmth fills us! A sigh of satisfaction. You’re dividing your attention two different ways. If you internalize every gesture, you don’t have to think about it anymore. Your body’s memory will take care of the details for you. Does Albrecht think every time she swings her blade?”

              “Of course I do, I’m a thoughtful woman.”

              “God hates a liar, Albrecht.”

Sunrise still glowed pink and yellow above the distant hilltops in the east. The air was dry and growing hotter by the minute even that early in the morning. A day touched by Fire. It was auspicious, the old man decided. And even in his heavy grey wool and soot stained asbestos apron, heat seldom bothered him the way it appeared to bother his companion.

“I don’t know why I have to learn a spell like this in the first place,” the sweating young man in clean, freshly pressed white robes complained, “It’s so pedestrian. I’m not interested in becoming some shoddy traveling spellminster, I want to learn proper wizardry!” He kicked a stone with an expensive shoe, fussing as some of the artillery range’s dust came up with it and stained his hem. “This isn’t what my father is paying you for!” His cry echoed off the distant canyon walls, little burnable vegetation in the area to muffle them.

Arcanist Waldbrand waited patiently as his student – Klaren Elderflower, third son of a rich family, definitely not an apprentice, this little scrap of kindling would never survive a proper apprenticeship - whined, seemingly endlessly, till he had exhausted his supply of complaints. After a sullen silence fell at last, the mage spoke, his voice quiet but hoarse from a lifetime of breathing smoke and ash. “In a lifetime of practicing the Art, one will sometimes find oneself in circumstances that were unplanned for, unaccounted for. Even a master Magus can be caught off guard. And in those moments, you will not have time to scribe a circle of warding, you will not have breath to incant the thirty verses of blessing, and you will not have the presence of mind to utilize seven unseen servants to rend your enemies limb from limb. But you will have this.” He turned partially away, and with a swiftness and economy of movement demonstrating decades of practice, traced a complex pattern and flung out his empty hand, speaking the rough syllables of the true name of flame. The ball of fire flickered into existence already in motion, traced a swift arc and detonated midair a hundred yards away, briefly forming a red-orange sphere before winking out of existence. The hot wind of its explosion and implosion blew the youth’s hair back and forth, the youth rubbing his dazzled eyes.

“Agh! But – but why would I ever find myself in those circumstances in the first place? I want to learn to transmute lead into gold, to live forever, to enrich my family – not go into battle! A cannon could do it just as well or better!” The boy was shouting over the ringing in his ears.

“If you have found something worth finding, a lesser one will think it worth stealing. They won’t come to your door and knock, asking to purchase it. They will study you, they will hunt you, they will find the weakness in your guard, and they will murder you. It is a reality of the world – even among Arcanists, among the high Magisters themselves, you will find thieves. You must be prepared to defend yourself. And to defend yourself, you need a powerful ally. And the oldest ally of all people is Fire. Now, enough discussion. Attend!”

To the boy’s credit, while he did grumble softly, he did indeed attend. Within an hour, he had gained a fair grasp of the gestures for a simple hand-ball sized sphere of modest flame, and by midday had learned to speak the true name of fire without it catching within his throat. The youth was breathing heavily as the Arcanist gently helped him apply a healing ointment to his burned fingers, showing him how to wrap them lightly in clean cotton bandages in a way that wouldn’t hinder their motion. The boy cleared his singed throat, and rasped a question. “I didn’t really mean to... to demean, Arcanist. But couldn’t it be done in more a more elegant way? Fire is simply the reaction of excited elements, full of energy, given something to eat and air to breath. One need not…” He made a vague impression of the throwing gesture, mindfully NOT making any motions with his stinging fingers.

Waldbrand nodded approvingly. “That’s a fair question. And I’ll acknowledge it – you’re right, it need not be so…” he mimicked the boy’s throwing motion. “It is known - it’s a coarse spell, a workman’s spell. The magician’s hammer. And some of my brethren have an artisan’s pride, and love to use and demonstrate their fifty different hammers without considering that they don’t look particularly different or interesting to one who isn’t versed in the intricacies.” He indicated a line of wooden effigies down the range, archery or javelin targets on days when conventional martial training was occurring here. “The third one from the left will be our subject – and the third one alone. Attend.”

Drawing a wooden stylus from his robes, he knelt and scribed a neat block of pictograms in the ashy soil. “Don’t concern yourself with memorizing the details of this example, but take note – like any other spell, we work in specifics, and we set hard limitations. Fire is our ally, but the hunger of Fire inspires it to find any weakness in the invocation, so it may eat more. Our distance….” He extends his arm and raises his thumb, gauging the effigy against it. “…85 yards. We only wish to affect a single man, so we restrict our spell to our target alone, not to a point in space or an area, so he may not simply leap out. We invoke the flame for only as long as we need to kill, and dismiss it after – mind that! If you fail to dismiss the flame it WILL persist as long as the fuel allows whether you will it or not. Are there any other factors I may wish to control?”

“…Something to encase the radiant heat, so that the other ones aren’t also set alight, Arcanist…?” the boy offered uncertainly, smiling despite himself at the rough man’s sharp nod of approval. “Absolutely correct. We add that in the same verse where we define the target. In this way our called Fire stays contained where we bid it, and nowhere else.”

Waldbrand’s knees creaked as he rose back to his feet, and he dusted himself off. He reviewed his work again, and then incanted, the unnatural syllables flowing fast and fierce, embers and sparks following each arcane word and spilling over his asbestos apron. They were accompanied by movements almost like a dance, each phrase having its companion motion, which made the ashen old man seem for a moment nonetheless like a living flame himself. And eighty five yards away, precisely as the final gesture concluded, the archery target was wrapped in hungry fire, fire that burned white with its intensity yet didn’t roar or radiate heat. It glowed for about one and a half minutes, before winking out with a peculiar gasp as air rushed in to fill the empty space where the target still stood, but now was only thin sticks of charcoal and ash that tumbled upward with the hot air that was finally free to escape.

The boy made a satisfied nod, as if he himself had cast the spell. “That’s more like it! It’s neat, it’s efficient, it’s a proper spell!” He coughed, his seared throat still rough, and took a careful sip from the waterskin Waldbrand offered him. “Yes, that it is, boy. Now setting aside the one we just burned, nine men still stand there, and ah – they each have a bow. They mean to kill you, I dare say. You have…. Ten seconds before they’ll be close enough to have a sure shot. Deal with them elegantly.”

“What? Deal with-“

“Nine. Eight.”

Klaren drew forth his own stylus and quickly knelt to the dusty ground, trying to scribe something similar to the Waldbrand’s spell as the magister counted down, but had hardly completed a line before the arcanist kicked dirt over it. “You’re dead. Rise. Again. Ten seconds, defend yourself from them.” This time the boy managed two lines before Waldbrand placed a booted foot on his shoulder and casually kicked him over. “You’re dead. Again.” The third time an arrow of hardened smoke buried itself in the middle of his scribing on the ten count, dangerously close to his hands. “Again, dead man! Defend yourself!” Each time the youth’s work grew more frantic, and each time the consequence for his failure was rougher, till the boy was clearly growing panicked, even genuinely frightened. “I can’t do it! There’s not enough time!”

“You’ll defend yourself or you’ll die here, boy! No gold, no immortality, just another dead fool in the dirt! I’ll burn you into ash myself if you don’t, mark my words! Now CAST, mage!” Waldbrand’s eyes were flame and the heat of his body was raising a whirlwind of smoke and ash. In the eyes of his young student, he had all the seeming of a fire-devil, and the boy fell backwards, scrabbling away. “No! No, please!” And in his panic, without even really thinking about it, he whipped his hand forth, a complex gesture clumsily spelled out in his blistered fingertips, and tumbled forth the true name of Fire, the rough syllables smoking as they escaped, and an angry red sphere burst into existence, wrapping itself around Arcanist Waldbrand and exploding with ferocity that rebounded off the distant walls of the canyon again and again. The boy cringed on the ground, trembling, fearful to look up in the silence that followed, broken only by soft footsteps approaching.

“Well cast, young mage,” the man said hoarsely, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Well cast.” The boy trembled as he looked up at Waldbrand, unburnt, ashen, dusty and gaunt and yet still somehow wrapped with potential light and heat and flame all at once. Klaren finally saw him for the full fledged arcanist he was, instead of a self-important old firecaller. “Forgive my theatrical approach. Fire tends to call to artistic souls,” he chuckled like two scraping rocks, before coughing and spitting. He helped the youth back to his feet, lending him an arm to stay steady. “In your time as a practitioner of the Art, you’ll no doubt learn many different spells, of all sorts. Not all of us become so tightly wound up with one aspect, like my brethren and I. But if you learn any one spell from me, let it be that one.” They began to walk towards the gates of the range, where distant, heavily shielded barracks and stables awaited. “You can depend on it. There’s a time for elegance, and a time for precision, and a time for efficiency. But for simple problems like ‘that man intends to stab me with a sword, right now’ a simple solution is the best. Learn it to the bone.”

“It didn’t do much against you, Arcanist,” the boy said, glancing sidelong at his teacher.

“No, that it did not.” The old man grinned. “Fire may be your ally, but it’s my friend. It loves me better.” The lad scoffed. “And also, I wouldn’t be much of a teacher if I hadn’t been warding both of us to hellfire and back this entire time – I could never allow real harm to come to you in training.” He spoke a word of unbinding, and the exhausted boy stumbled as he felt the weightless weight of unseen protections suddenly lift, like his entire body somehow skipped a beat. He hadn’t been aware at all.

“What about other wizards? Would it work on them?”

“I said it’s for simple problems, and no wizard has ever been called ‘simple.’ Some much less than others. If I ever found myself confronted by that insane geomatriarch who did in Nabjak the Vile, for instance, I’d just run, or give her what she came for and call it good enough if I remained intact.”

“Geomatriarch…?” Klaren repeated slowly, rolling the unfamiliar term around in his mouth. “Is she so strong?”

“From 'geometry'. And Hell if I know. But that one, she’s definitely complicated, and I don’t feel like being lectured at about how stupid fireballs are by someone who also knows spells that can unravel you alive like a worn out piece of knitting while she lectures. Whatever she came for, she can have the damned thing, it isn’t worth the hassle. Now let’s get you home and cleaned up before your lordly parents discover what a mess I’ve made of you, young mage.”

Malice. Malice, greatest offspring of the dreaded hell-kite Spite, and considered to be the last true heir of the legendary wyrm Hatred, the Hatred that had burned the realm to ash, whose rage had raised this mountain range in what had once been gently rolling hills. Hatred's last grandchild Malice, supposedly slain hundreds of years ago, the heroes who had laid him low immortalized in song.

Aluin had first heard the name (outside of song) as a squire, seated beside his knight-master Rowena in a sleeping hall in a wet little mountain town, listening to a bandaged, ill woman rave. A miner, she had been found collapsed on the road out of the heights, feverish, filthy, covered in wounds, with broken ribs and arms. She'd been searching for a seam of silver, and found what she thought was an abandoned wyrm-lair, the largest she'd ever heard of, with coins driven into the muddy floors, melted by the dragon's breath into rivulets of gold that had flowed between cracks in the stone. But it hadn't been abandoned at all. She'd seen a dragon, green fading into black, wings ruined and tangled by a harpoon and chain, eyes that were white and blind. A dragon longer than a hundred feet that lunged out of the darkness to eat her screaming mule in three quick snaps, the animal's jerking legs kicking and sending the miner off of the path, falling into the chasm below.

"It was Malice, oh Redeemer protect me, it was old Malice of the stories. He yet lives, oh, he lives...!" she had cried, grasping at his master's sleeves, her wide eyes unfocused, trapped in her terrified memory.

She had spent days crawling up from the rocks where she had fallen, until she had managed to reach the path again and stumble her way towards town, where she had finally been found earlier that day. The knight and her squire had been called to hear her story, once the healer had done what he could to comfort the woman, who looked to be on death's door.

His knight-master had sworn to deal with the threat immediately, though she confided to Aluin that she thought it likely just some mere hell-kite that had taken up residence in a mineshaft. Rowena had confidently led a group of volunteers up the pass, following the path the miner had described till they found what looked like the place. There she'd had them lay black powder charges and put the torch to it just as the thing began to emerge from the shadows, detonating the entrance and trapping the worm within, where it could harm no one. The beast had been heard screeching within and scratching at the rubble for weeks, but eventually went silent. That had been more than fifteen years ago.

Aluin's master was long dead, catching a crossbow bolt through the visor of her helm in some meaningless battle over a meaningless square of land in a meaningless duchy leagues from their homes. Aluin had been elevated to knighthood himself, though he hadn't done much with it. He was ostensibly on errantry, on a mission to visit every corner of the Realm while searching for wrongs to right, but in practice he had mainly found himself imposing on small villages and landowners, making a nuisance of himself, too dangerous to throw out the door but too insignificant to take seriously. That's how he'd found himself lurking in the smoky, dim common room of this forest village inn at the foot of the hills. It was too small to even have a name - it was simply 'the inn.' The only one for miles. He had been the subject of whispered conversation initially, but after a few days interest had faded, talk returning to normal concerns. That was when he heard the name again.

"Found ten deer dead in the glen. Not even eaten, just... just rent to pieces and left there. Damnable Malice will be the death of the Wood."

The name jerked him out of his revery, and he snapped to alertness, to see three woodsman talking quietly near the hearth. "Pray say that again, neighbor - what did you find?" He said, putting on an appearance of amiability and rising to join the men, who looked at him with discomfort.

"Oh, ah, it's... I found some deer, Sir. Looks like they were killed by some beast," the man said. He was shorter than the others, but they seemed to defer to him, nodding in support. "I was sure I heard you say 'Malice,' neighbor - I know that name," Aluin said, pressing for a little more. "That beast is meant to be dead."

"I'm sure you're right, of course, Sir, but.. there are some who have seen it, and they describe it so: green that becomes black, crawling on broken wings, dragging chains... It had the breastplate and ribs of a knight speared and tangled in it's horns." That last detail wasn't in any song. The only other person who had spoken of that was the miner, who had died of her injuries shortly after his master had rode off to seal the dragon away. Aluin felt a chill run through him, but pushed the feeling down. "Have you found this sort of scene before?"

"For maybe... three summers now?" he raised his voice to a questioning tone, and one of the other men mumbled a confirmation of, "Aye, three summer at least." Aluin bit his lower lip thoughtfully and nodded. "Well, whether it's a beast of legend, or just a common wyvern, we can't have the monster running roughshod through the King's Wood, mm? I won't ask you to guide me to where you found the deer, but perhaps if I drew a map, you could show me a path...?" The man, who had clearly been dreading the thought of being pressed into service, visibly relaxed and nodded. "Of course, Sir knight, of course. Happy to."

Letting the men guide his hand, Aluin drew an ink sketch of the area - not a terrible drawing, but he had never been more than acceptable at drafting and surveying. Centered on the village, the forest stretched for miles to the north and south, following the mountains, except for one spur which followed a stream into a canyon, rising up in a narrow back and forth twist into the peaks itself. The slaughtered animals had been found in a glen near that canyon. Aluin realized with discomfort that that mountain town he'd been in all those years ago was fairly close on the opposite side of the peaks - he marked it with an x.

"I'll be leaving in the dark, so that I can begin tracking in the light tomorrow. Advise your fellows to stay away from the foothills until I return," he advised the man, assuming that if he listened, the others would do the same.

"And if you, ah... do not return?"

Aluin grinned mirthlessly at the man. "Then stay away from the hills forever, neighbor. If it can kill a knight, it can kill you as well, and more easily. Move away and learn to farm." The woodsman had looked ill at Aluin's jest, shaking his head and muttering in a troubled fashion as he hurried away to spread the word.

The knight slept lightly, and rose only a few hours after midnight, stepping silently into the stable and saddling his horse himself rather than wake the poor stablehand sleeping in the straw. He grunted with effort as he lifted himself astride the animal, feeling the weight of his mail more than he had in a long time - he hadn't needed to wear it for more than ceremony in quite some time. He was glad of it, though, considering it a talisman against harm even if it wouldn't do him much good against something that could eat livestock whole, or burn him into greasy ashes. His sword was belted at his waist, and his worn old kite shield was strapped across his back, and he had a bundle of rough harpoons resting in the lance cup - all of them hastily modified pruning hooks and limb saws. He wasn't intending to joust the beast if he did happen to cross paths, honor be damned.

He rode slowly in the moonlight that filtered through the branches, letting his horse choose her steps carefully through the wooded path, trusting the animal to make the best choice for their steps as he chose the general direction. As they'd ridden, he'd listened carefully to the sounds of the knight. Owls. Shrews. A pack of wolves, thankfully distant. The buzzing of insects, the choir of frogs. Occasionally he would hear a branch snap, and see the glowing eyes of a deer looking back at him, the moonlight seeming even brighter in it's eyes. If he hadn't been paying such close attention, he might not have noticed as the sounds grew muted, and then fell into a near silence - a kind of breath-held stillness that reminded him of the moments before a battle began, or a storm erupted. It wasn't peaceful, but tense. In that tension, the sudden smell of death slapped him in the face, and he coughed, drawing a rag from his saddlebags and tying it over his face for a rough mask. He'd reached the glen.

Dawn hadn't yet broken, but the lightening sky was enough for him to take in the carnage. The woodsman back in the village hadn't exaggerated - if anything, he had shown considerable restraint in his assessment of the scene. A herd of at least fifteen deer had been... he wasn't sure "slaughtered" was the word for it. They had been torn into pieces by something monstrously large and terrifyingly fast, that had rent them with massive teeth and claw but eaten little, leaving parts strewn for yards in all directions. It was... brutality for brutality's own sake, as near as he could tell, not the act of a hungry animal. The dragon was lashing out at anything it could get it's teeth into.

The only sound beyond the breathing of himself and his animal was a constant, omnipresent buzzing of flies, which rose up in black clouds as he dismounted, gritting his teeth to keep from retching as he waved them away and walked slowly to the center of the glen. The grass was sticky with blood. It was horrifyingly similar to walking through a battlefield after the enemy had gone, retrieving any who lived. But here, nothing lived. "Mercy, protect me," he breathed, his first prayer in more years than he could remember. He had found a track.

It had taken a moment to understand that it was a track - it was more than two feet wide, claws like daggers pressed more than a foot into the soft earth, tearing furrows a yard long - he realized there were more, and deer track as well. In his mind, he thought he could recreate the scene of the beast's attack.

The wyrm had erupted from between the trees... there. It had forced them aside so violently that they'd been ripped partway from the earth, their roots exposed. Then, it had charged the deer in the clearing, and struck them so violently that some had been thrown to the ground. It had killed... a doe, here, then a young buck - velvet still on the antlers - then two more does. On and on, following each animal as it had attempted to flee, catching each one with dizzying speed, scattering it. And then... he followed a trail of crushed, smeared grass that seemed to have had some massive form dragged over it. And then it had crawled back into the trees, in the direction of the canyon he'd drawn on the map. Towards the mountains above.

Sunlight was beginning to paint the tops of the trees as it crested the eastern horizon, the coolness of night already promising to fade into a warm morning. But Aluin felt cold to his very bones, almost too weak to stand. He was afraid. He was terrified. His breathing was growing faster, and he thought of a dozen different lies he could tell the people of the village when he rode back through. Or maybe he could simply pass the village by and leave them to assume he had died. It would all be the same. No one would ever have to know. No one outside of these woods ever needed to know what he had seen. He gave a shuddering breath. Trembling, he mounted his horse with difficulty, clutching the saddlehorn to keep steady. Then he gave her a light tap with his heels, setting her on a course across the glen.

Towards the mountains.

If he moved now, the trail looked fresh enough that he could still follow it - if he delayed, it might get disturbed. He couldn't afford to lose this monster. Every atom of his body screamed to flee, but... he wasn't sure how he could ever face Rowena in the next world if he fled in the face of a beast she had ridden out to meet almost cheerfully.

The sounds of the forest didn't return even after the stink of death had been left far behind. The very few creatures he saw were furtive and shy, rodents moving silently through the underbrush, or birds flitting from tree to tree in short, scared dashes. He wanted to do the same - go to ground and hide, hide till this horrid presence was gone. Instead he pressed on, till the sun was high overhead. At a certain point the terrain grew too rough to proceed mounted, so he climbed back to the ground and unsaddled the horse, leaving her untethered. He wasn't one of those saintly knights who seemed to speak with their horses, but he and the animal knew each other well enough that he trusted her to wait here for him for at least a day or two - or to run like the wind if the wyrm came down the trail instead of him. He didn't feel like tying her to a tree and guaranteeing her death just to be sure he didn't have to walk home.

As Aluin hiked the rough, rocky wildlands, he saw more and more evidence of the creature, which hid its presence less and less - nearing it's lair, he imagined. Trees torn from the ground and tossed aside like weeds, massive stones shattered into splinters, a broad trail littered with occasional ragged scales. He stopped to pick one up, holding it up to the light. While it was rough and scratched, the color beneath was breathtaking - a green darker than a leaf in a moonless forest night. It transitioned ever so slightly lighter near the end than at the root - he was quite sure now that this was definitely the dragon of the song, now. It was just as it said - clad in armor of midnight leaves. Either the real beast or it's offspring. Either way, it needed to be put down. If it was venturing so close to villages and acting out so cruelly to mere animals, it was only a matter of time before it began to kill people. And its cruelty to thinking beings would be worse, since it was people that had mutilated it before. It had to die.

The trees - those that hadn't been snapped or otherwise destroyed - thinned as he climbed higher, and he realized he could smell something different - a sharp, sulfurous reek. It was similar to that of a wyvern's nest, but magnitudes stronger. He followed the scent like a bloodhound, moving swiftly but silently, carefully balancing his harpoons on his shoulder so they didn't clatter against his shield. He was grateful he wasn't in plate - not only would it have been a special hell to climb here in it, but the clatter would have announced his presence hours before he arrived. He froze as he followed the dragon-stink around a tall rock, and found himself staring into a long, dark passage. The cave they had blocked up on the peak must have been part of a greater system. The beast had found a way out.

This is stupid. This is stupid, and I shouldn't be here. I'm going home. I'm renouncing my knighthood and going home to become a monk. Stepping as carefully and silently as he could, he began to make his way into the darkness.

The cave was about fifteen feet wide, but tall, with a ceiling high above - a wide crack that ran into the heart of the mountain. Water dripped constantly from the stone above, and Aluin paused to rummage through his backpack, retrieving his flint and a sturdy little tin oil lamp. He struck a spark to it, wincing at the scrape of the stone against the rough steel, but the dragon didn't immediately come charging out of the darkness. So there was that, at least. He kept the flame as low as he could without risking it guttering out, and proceeded further, feeling as though the world shrank to a dim, wavering orange circle a few feet around as he did.

The stones of the cave floor beneath were raw stone and slick mud, sometimes black and shiny with wet mildew. Fresh white scratches he been made into the stones, though, dozens and dozens of times - years of Malice's hunts. Sometimes the wyrm seemed to have been taken with a fury, and the gouges grew deeper, carving ragged furrows that were inches deep into the living rock. Holding his light high, he realized they went higher than his dim lamp could show, perhaps all the way up to the ceiling above. He had to clench his jaw to stop from shivering, the lamp trembling in his hand. He didn't understand how any of the heroes in the stories could have challenged dragons so bravely - it was he could do not to sprint down the hills, screaming. He did almost scream, in fact, when he took his next step while still looking up, and found his boot crunching through the skeletal chest cavity of some long dead cadaver. His chest heaved and he breathed hard through his nose, mouth clamped shut because the moment he started to scream he knew it wouldn't end. He had seen death before - oh, he had seen so much - but here under the earth, it felt different, worse. This poor soul would never see light again. He swallowed bile as he wrenched his foot free, and leaned heavily against the wall to clam his pounding heart before he - carefully watching his step - continued.

The ceiling of the cave eventually grew lower, the crack narrowing and taking sudden surprising turns, climbing steadily into the darkness. The dripping water formed a thin stream that flowed and pooled, and sometimes Aluin felt small living things in the water when he had to step through it. The sound of the water splashing in little falls created echoes, so many that he couldn't tell if they were above or below, behind or before him. It came as a surprise then when he so carefully heaved himself up over a ledge, and found himself on the edge of a much larger chamber. Holding the lamp high, he stepped gingerly within, willing his eyes to perceive every detail of the darkness. The floor seemed to be made of round little stones, here, slathered in mud. But when he nudged a few of them together with his toe, they made a muted, soft clink. It was... coin. Coins! He stood in the hoard!

It wasn't as marvelous as the hoard of Spite was described to be. He could see rough, vaguely humanlike forms that might have been statues, but they were blackened by flame, smashed into limbless, headless remains. The fine tapestries on the walls were rags, and the gold, the gold had been trampled into the mud, or blasted and melted into heaps of rough slag. It was a ruin. Still...

As he reached down, thinking to pocket at least one or two pieces of gold, he felt some subtle change in the air. The scent of dragon, which he had grown numb too, was suddenly fresh and sharp, almost nauseatingly powerful as it filled his nose and lungs. He straightened carefully, so carefully. Dimming his lantern till the wick within flickered desperately, struggling to stay lit, he let his other senses extend. A whisper, a hiss of.. iron against stone, tile sliding against tile - scales. the deep, powerful breaths of an unbelievably immense creature. The almost inaudible rumble of each footstep, which reverberated through the stone and up through his feet. He could feel it, feel it stalking. Malice was approaching. He held still, clenching his jaw tightly as he felt a sudden heat - a heat coming from behind him. He had been followed into the cave, hunted even while he thought himself the hunter. Oh, Justice, please protect your foolish servant.

Malice crawled up over the ledge he had crested himself a few moments before, and he peeked over his shoulder as the dragon - so hard to see in the dim light, a shadow among the shadows - craned it's massive head back, and then forth again, a long tongue tasting the air. It's blind eyes were white, wide open in the dark. It spoke, which was such a shock that it nearly set him running. "You hide, then...? Good, rabbit, hide... I will dig you out, dig you out..." it was whispering to itself, but as big as it was it's voice rumbled like a drum. "Crack your ribs open and stuff you with rotten deer, leave you to hang, to age, yes..." The dragon finished crawling out of the tunnel, the chains piercing it's shredded, ruined wings jangling as they dragged across the stone. Malice used its broken wings like a third set of legs, and crawled forward through the chamber, the hot scales of its belly almost brushing the top of Aluin's head as it passed. Gods above and below, the thing was immense - the idea that this monster had once flown was astonishing. It's tail swayed as it moved on into the dark, and Aluin realized he'd been holding his breath the whole while, letting it out as slowly as he could as he felt the vibrations moving farther. His heart was pounding as hard as it had in any battle - he might not live long enough for the dragon to kill if this went on too long. He retrieved his lamp, and began to increase the flame, recalling those blind eyes. The little knob to adjust the wick creaked slightly.

It was only a moment of intuition that kept him from dying immediately. The dragon was on him in less than a heartbeat, it's head - half the size of an entire horse - darting back out of the darkness and snapping where he had been a fraction of a second before. Malice's jaws crashed shut on a pile of coins while Aluin bolted, running madly into the dark, acutely aware of his breathing, kicking piles of coins with each step. The monster screamed - a scream full of pure, distilled hatred. This thing wouldn't simply kill him, when it caught him, it would make him beg for it. Desperately, Aluin tossed his harpoons to the side, shrugging his shield off of his back and grabbing the edge. He came to a sudden halt, and heaved it as hard as he could to the side, closing his eyes briefly in prayer - if this didn't work, he didn't want to see what was to come. He heard the shield spinning in the silence before clattering into a mountain of detritus, and the dragon changed course, smashing into it and raging about. Aluin went to the floor, crawling silently back to his harpoons, freezing each time the thrashing beasts tail swung pash him - the tip moving so fast he feared it might strike his head cleanly off. He'd look just like one of the ruined statues, then. The thought gave him pause, and he realized he had... not a strategy, but maybe a desperate hope that could pass for one.

The dragon had risen from the heap of treasure it had been rampaging in, and in a fury vomited gouts of flame that hit the ceiling and spread like a wave to every corner of the chamber. The ragged remains of every tapestry burst into flame, ash and smoke stinging Aluin's lungs as he prepared a spear. He stood with his back to one of the statues. one that might have been a marble knight long ago - in it's rough broken hand it still clutched a stone spear of its own. Aluin swallowed, and dropped a few coins to the floor, watching the beast whirl to face him. He was startled by how beautiful it was in the firelight, even in it's wounded state. He had been a stupid fool to dream that he could defeat this creature.

Malice roared, its hatred shaking the foundations of the earth, and lunged with speed that was almost impossible to believe. Aluin readied his harpoon as the opened jaws raced towards him, and then collapsed to the ground beneath at the last second, letting the dragon lunge past, jaws open wide - and scream in agony as it impaled its soft upper palette on the broken stone spearman. Gouts of boiling-hot blood poured out, splashing on Aluin's face, causing him to scream in his own agony as his left eye went dark. With all the strength he could summon, he gripped his harpoon and plunged it upwards into Malice's throat, the creature's cries of agony bubbling and gurgling as blood flooded it's lungs. It rose up, crying out its defiance before collapsing to the floor, stones falling from the ceiling from the shock.

Aluin groaned as he rolled away from Malice, drawing his sword and watching the dragon's warily before approaching nearer. It struggled to breath, bubbles frothing from the corners of its open mouth and the wound in its throat. It's head rested on the cave floor, eyes half shut, staring at nothing. "Filthy insect..." it wheezed. "Every one of your kind... will burn..."

The knight carefully walked past the twitching claws, steeling his nerves as he stepped within the dragon's reach, placing a hand lightly on its hot scales. The creature shuddered, and he marveled at the way the motion made the scales shimmer in the dwindling flames. He suddenly realized that part of him would always feel shame for what he had done this day, necessary though it might have been. "Your pain will be over in a moment, king of the skies."

Malice snarled its hatred, kicking ineffectually with one of it's hindlegs before shuddering again. "You... will never know peace... insect. Forever, I curse..." it rasped. Aluin nodded solemnly. "If that is how it must be, then it shall be so. I hold no grudge against you. Rest, now, sky king." He placed the tip of his sword against a crack between two of the dragon's breastplate scales, and slid it home as swiftly as he could in his wounded state. The pitiful creature stiffened, and he hissed as its internal furnace heated the blade to red hot, burning the impression of the grip into his palms - a final rebuke. Then it began to cool, and coils of oily smoke leaked past the guard, the beast finally relaxing fully to the cave floor. It was over.

In the silence that followed, he considered taking some kind of proof that the wyrm was slain, but the thought of mutilating the dragon further than it already had been made him nauseous. He settled for collecting a scale from the ground, holding it in trembling hands and offering a deep bow to the slain dragon. "Rest well." His voice echoed in the silence. He didn't leave until it had faded completely.

Songs about the slaying of the great Malice came eventually to include a final movement wherein a nameless stranger arrived after the knights who first wounded it, who taught the dragon the virtues of Justice and escorted the dragon to the next world with kindness and grace. He is identified only by being blind in his left eye, his face scarred with burns, while his right eye is an incredibly dark green, shading into black.

"I'm telling you there's something DIFFERENT about these goblins!" shouted the youth, his eyes desperate as he looked from face to face with the rest of the party. He had been hired to pick locks and snoop - not for battle strategy. But after their third bloody encounter with this goblin band, which had ended with the pompous wizard dead, drowning in his own blood with a goblin crossbow bolt in his throat, someone had to say it. "They... they aren't stupid. They're playing us!"

The fighting woman snorted with disgust, spitting with in the direction the band of little freaks had retreated. "Coward. They're goblins. Just nut up and fight instead've hiding in a tree or whatever the hell you were doing last time. Coriander might still be alive if you had been there." 

The boy could see that the rest of the group seemed to be more or less on the same page - some looking at him with open contempt, the elven priestess with something like pity. Her white robes were dotted with blood - in the last sortie numerous small darts had been thrown at her as she tried to approach the dying mage to heal him. 

"Please, my child, do not surrender to fear. Our group has triumphed over much worse odds, time and again... these small fiends pose little true threat." Her eyes were wide, pupils enormous - even for an elf, something seemed off, her speech slurred slightly. Oh gods, he thought. They put something on the darts.

"They flanked us! They isolated the wizard, disabled him, and used him as bait! That's not 'goblin mob', that's tactics! Please, please - look at her! We need to withdraw, we need to-" He broke off, hearing a twig snap. They were being watched. The fighter followed his gaze to the underbrush, where suddenly a little figure began to loudly flee, laughing nastily and scuttling through dead leaves. 

"You'll die for what you've done to my friend!" she roared as she tore headlong after it, ignoring the boy's cries to let it go. The twin rangers looked at him with disgust before they moved to follow, hastening when her distant footfalls became a crash of collapsing wood and stone, her shouted challenges become shrieks of agony. No sounds of battle followed - the screaming simply continued, cries for help, for rescue, echoing through the unnaturally silent wood. 

"I must help her," The elf said dreamily, turning slowly in that direction and taking a wobbly step before he caught her wrist. 

"Lady - no, sister. Sister. Please. Please, don't." He placed himself between her and the woods beyond. "It is a trap, and she is the bait. Our comrades have been killed. We need. To leave. We need to leave, now. Please, believe me." He looked directly in her gleaming eyes that looked through him, beyond him, imploring her silently to see his sincerity, to understand their situation. He swallowed, and tried to look as young and frightened as a human child (a child in the eyes of an elf, anyway) could look. "Sister, I'm scared...!"  

It finally seemed to reach her, and she shook her head as if to clear cobwebs. Her voice, while still slurred, regained a bit of clarity. "...yes. I will escort you to safety. I will return with aid." 

As they began to withdraw, as quickly as the youth could guide the unsteady priestess, he felt his skin crawl with the sensation of being watched, a dozen ugly little chuckles drifting around him. When the fighter's distant screams suddenly peaked and cut off, the two of them began to run. 

"Starship pilot who’s flying blind" - Make Up a Starship Pilot

The deep space vessel Long Stepper has external visual sensors, but they're all disabled by default within hours after leaving whatever berth the ship might have been at. The fact is, even when moving in system, the distances and speeds involved make looking out fairly pointless except to take in the view. If there's anything close enough to actually see nearby, the ship will either pass it or collide with it too quickly to respond. All of the ships real sensory business is done with radar, with tightly focused feeler beams, and with antennae listening in all directions for traces of other ships, of debris, of radiation. Everything is displayed neatly on screens for the crew.

Except that doesn't help anyone in the early stages of transition to high speed, since the entire crew at that point are puddles of red and yellow pastes filling their resurrection pods. And the pilot won't have functioning eyes again for months, once his body has been successfully rebuilt and his consciousness reinstalled in the wetware.

Long Stepper's pilot M Singh has tried many times to explain what the data feeds are like to others who haven't had their consciousness uploaded.

"It's like the information is related to me in the form of itches, someone drumming their fingers on my back, individual hairs being plucked. I guess? Like that. They wrote the software to hook into the simulated part of the brain that handles tactile information. So I don't use the sensors to 'look' outside the ship. Instead it's like, uh... Imagine each of your fingers was twenty thousand miles long and you were groping around a massive empty space, trying to find anything larger than a pea. And you have two thousand fingers, and they're all constantly in motion, so you can cover as much area as possible."

People just don't understand.

M Singh's visual receptors are more or less unused. He initially tried to stream entertainment programs or video games on his first trip, but stopped almost immediately - it was like having a screen the size of all creation directly in front of him, a little overwhelming. Now he prefers to spend his flights with his "eyes shut", simply turning that stream of information off.

He felt the "hairs" on the back of his "hand" rise up as the system clamored for his attention. One of the feelers had picked up on a small piece of debris that was near enough to the flight path to be a risk. After a moments consideration he initiated a series of micro burns which lasted only fractions of a second - but would result in flying forty kilometers wide of the debris in a few minutes. He could correct back to the initial path once Long Stepper was clear.

The ship AI notified him that he need not have bothered, it would have done so itself - and with considerably more efficiency.

Don't sulk, you'll have the entire rest of the trip to fly.

He placed a temporary mute on the channel before the inevitable reply that it was IMPOSSIBLE for it to sulk and that it was simply informing him blah blah blah.

He rechecked the course one more time. Two months of constant acceleration in the dark. Then once a stable speed has been reached, two weeks of regeneration for the entire crew. Then one week of all-hands activity to ensure all systems were operating perfectly, followed by three real-time years of working in month long shifts, each crew sleeping two months for each they worked. Eleven years time debt. He used the ships intercom to sigh, his digitally reproduced voice echoing through the empty passageways, and resolved to see what the job market looked like when they reached destination.

"Berserker who was thrown out of magic school because "Smash It With Your Fists", while effective, is not traditionally considered "magic."" - Making Up Adventurers, Cohost, 2023

"Maybe you should talk to someone before you go back. About your uh.. anger problem."

"I don't have an anger problem," the dwarf said, his voice tense. "I have a problem with people making me angry." He finished the sentence he was penning with a stab that crushed and ruined the tip of his quill, spattering ink all over the page, discarding it into a dented wastebin beside his writing table, filled with dozens of others, along with masses of crumpled, ruined vellum sheets.

"Most people don't get kicked out of the Magisterium for their temper, Theo!"

Theophrastus Bombastus turned to his companion, his face and smooth shaven head taking on a mottled red tone. "The MAGISTERIUM can go to-" his words halt suddenly, and he adjusted his small eyeglasses, his thick mustache trembling as he visibly calmed himself. "The Magisterium made a mistake. And after I show them my thesis, they will see that and acknowledge it and know what fools they've been." He gathered the pages of the thesis in question, a hefty stack of manuscript written in a heavy hand. Many Hands Make Light Work - New Applications of Mage Hand and Parallel Casting, Exploring the Unrivaled Utility of An Underappreciated Spell. Stuffing it into his satchel, he rose and donned his coat, the seams stretching audibly over his broad shoulders. "This will be my day of triumph. They'll remember this day for years."

...

Outside the Imperial Magisterium's Hall of High Magi, two guard-magi with spell-wreathed halberds barred the way, crossing their weapons before the massive brass doors. A page ran swiftly down the hall, crying out for more guards and somewhere in the distance a bell began to ring. "Move aside, fools. I have business inside." The dwarf glared at them.

"You aren't welcome here, Bombastus, and you know it," said the more senior guard, in a voice that only trembled a little. "If you leave now, there doesn't need to be any trouble. Like last time."

Theophrastus narrowed his eyes.

...

The Council of High Magi had only just noticed the sounds of commotion outside when the iron doors of their chambers were ripped off of the hinges by a pair of colossal spectral hands, crumpled like tin foil and hurled aside to smash the stone walls. Through the dust and falling rubble walked the dwarf, dragging the two battered, limp guardsmen by the collars before dropping them like a child who has tired of their dolls. "I have returned to your halls, my esteemed peers, to allow you to make right your great error of judgement. Grant me my status of Magus immediately. Once you read my thesis, I'm certain you'll see-"

"Magus?!" cried out one of the council. "You're no mage, Bombastus! One spell doesn't make a wizard! You were barely an apprentice - even my weakest students can manage a dozen cantrips!"

"Bombastus the one spell wonder!"

"Did you learn a new one? Power Word: Foot?"

The dwarf's brows furrowed and his little spectacles gleamed in the dim light of the chamber. A vein visibly throbbed on his bald scalp as he growled his reply through clenched jaws. "I am certain. You will see. The value of my research." He withdrew his thesis, and ghostly hands carried the bundle of paper to the highest of the High Magi. "I am achieving levels of parallel casting that NONE have before, and-"

The High Magus's hard voice cut him off. "You are exiled from these halls. Permanently, and with no hope of forgiveness. You will leave, and if you ever claim to be a Magus again you will be thrown into a deeper pit than any dwarven mine, and sealed within." The elf took his manuscript in hand, and with a contemptuous syllable, ignited the pages with a green flame, till they crumbled into ash. "Begone." The guards summoned earlier began to rush into the chamber, leveling their weapons at Theophrastus, who trembled.

The ghostly magehands floated beside him, clenched into fists. Then they were joined by a second pair. A third, a fourth. Countless mage hands, a mandala of potential violence. Theophrastus cracked his knuckles - thousands of them - and chaos erupted.

...

It took weeks to clear the rubble away. The destruction was worse than if an alchemical bomb had been detonated - the entire chamber of the High Magi had been torn down brick by brick by a thousand hands, all the way to the foundations, every fixture smashed into splinters, every timber snapped into kindling. By some miracle, not a single person was killed, but each member of the High Magi had the appearance of being trampled by a cattle stampede or caught in an avalanche, and the entire corps of guard magi was found beaten unconscious.

In the interest of saving face, no official word was ever spoken about the events of that day, beyond a vague announcement that the Magisterium were attacked by some unknown devil, who was defeated but managed to flee. No official arrest warrant was issued for the dwarf who tore a path of destruction like a tornado all the way to the city walls and disappeared into the hills. Theophrastus Bombastus has not been seen again.

Mage hand is no longer taught, as too many of the instructors grow ill at the sight of it.

"Adventurer who has gone overboard in their academic research on slimes, oozes, puddings, jellies and other related dungeon-blobs." - Making Up Adventurers, Cohost, 2024

The faint sound of a bell ringing brought Olivine slowly out of a hard-earned slumber, a drool-damp scrap of parchment sticking to his face as he roused and sat up at his writing desk. The thrilling life of the academic.

It wasn’t the ensorcelled bells the Magisterium used to announce a convening, or the sharp clang of a wooden spoon on a pot that heralded mealtimes for the apprentices and magii. More like a cowbell, maybe. He rose from his creaking stool with a groan, and poked his head out into the empty hallway. Yes, there it was, even clearer than before. Someone was definitely ringing a bell in the condemned east wing of the former Imperial Magisterium building, or what was left of it.

“You can’t be serious. It’s two in the morning!” He stuffed his feet into his slippers and went stomping down the halls, passing the snoring guard seated at the door with a snort. It was a clear night, and otherwise fairly quiet. He might not even have heard the bell if not for that. He ducked under the stanchions blocking the doors, and peered into a building he hadn’t entered since that incident with the mage-hand fellow knocking down half of the city years ago. He drew a deep breath and called out into the dark hallway, “Whatever fools are messing about, that’s enough! Get out of here before I bring the guardsmen!” The bell didn’t cease, or even falter. The mage scowled and stepped over some rubble, venturing inside.

The halls which had once bustled with wizards, apprentices, researchers and alchemists now seemed so desolate, a thick layer of dust coating almost everywhere he looked. It was, he had to admit, a little eerie here – a place that had once been full of life, now as silent as a tomb. A tomb with an idiot cowherd jangling a bell. Where was that damned ringing even COMING from? He called forth a small ball of reddish-yellow witchfire and set it floating just above him, banishing the shadows, and followed the sound, deep into the dark, down spiraling stairs into the below ground levels. He hadn’t liked this area even when the building was inhabited, and now in this abandoned state it was uncomfortable. Was it always so dank? The hall had a musty scent, and the air was thick and wet. Ah, there! There it was – one of the doors had a bell hanging outside of it! A thin chain through the wall was yanking on it, and it jangled persistently.

Olivine banged on the door with an angry fist. “That’s enough!! Some of us are engaged in important research! What the devil do you think you’re up to?” The tugging didn’t even slow, and he hesitated. Was this some sort leftover automated mechanism someone had forgotten after the building was emptied? Or maybe… a test subject left behind, emerged from some slumber? Perhaps he should get the guard after all. But then again, it might be something interesting… He made up his mind.

The door swung open with a creak, revealing what looked like a research lab similar to his own, brightly lit with candles, with tables and shelves arrayed with jarred research samples of some sort of liquid. He entered hesitantly, squinting against the light.

“Hello?”

The little chain led back, back, to a chamber with glass walls, which seemed to contain – “Good lord!”

Inside the chamber was a gelatinous cube, the sort of monstrous ooze that the city used to keep the sewers free of refuse, vermin, and people. And floating within the cube holding the end of the bell’s chain was a nude woman, wearing heavy goggles over her eyes and a swim cap, a glass rod held in her lips extending all the way outside of the cube. As he got closer, she seemed to notice him, and through the blurry, wobbly creature, he saw her pointing to a rope lying on the floor, the end of which had dissolved into uselessness.

“Don’t worry! I’ll – I’ll get you free! Just wait!” He cleared his throat, and stepped back, taking the stance to cast Ullmer’s Lesser Obliteration, but stopped when he saw the woman inside shaking her head vigorously and crossing her arms.

“No? No?? But you’ll – What are you pointing at?“ He looked around the room again, and in the corner found a pile of tools and implements, leaning haphazardly against the wall. One of them, a dull metal hook on a long iron pole, just might do the trick. He’d have to get pretty close to that thing, however. He grabbed it with both hands, and returned to door, seeing the figure within nodding, giving him a thumbs-up through the goo. He cautiously opened the glass door and stepped into the chamber, coughing at the vinegar scented humidity of the air within.

The cube didn’t turn, or move, but he still felt that it was somehow aware of him – it’s wiggles and jiggles seeming to increase as he inched nearer. But that may have been the woman’s own attempts to swim closer stirring it’s various… ichors around, within. Steeling himself but prepared to leap back if the thing lunged, he gingery pressed the iron hook against it’s trembling side, shuddering in disgust as the membrane first resisted, and then abruptly yielded, allowing him to slide the tool in easily. The woman inside grabbed hold with both hands, and he throw his weight back, hauling her towards the creature’s exterior with all his strength, feet slipping at the last moment on the slick tiled floor and depositing him flat on his back. It was enough momentum that she finally pulled free with what could only be called a slurp, and fell coughing and gasping for breath on top of him, slick with cool goo that he could feel soaking into his robes already.

“Thank-“ She broke into a second cough, and spat unceremoniously to the side, as she sat up, straddling him. Olivine tried very hard not to think about it, or stare. “Thank you! I was beginning to think no one would come, and that would have been unfortunate! All of my research would have been pointless!”

“R-Research! You would have been dead!”

“That’s the thrilling life of an academic! Risking it all, for knowledge!”

“Don’t be absurd. Also, um, you’re – let’s move to the other room, away from that thing.”

“Oh, of course, of course.”

As she climbed off of him, he realized that he recognized the chubby little woman, though he wasn’t quite sure how yet. She walked around the monster, bare feet slapping on the wet tile, and cheerfully followed him out once she had retrieved a pair of incredibly thick spectacles from a table.

“I’m glad I didn’t take these inside. The gelatin won’t damage glass, but the wood of my frames would be ruined.” As she put them on and grinned cheerfully at him, it finally came home.

“Meghanna! You’re Meghanna, I know you! You were the one with that thing with the dragon!” He was agog – he hadn’t seen her in so long, he was sure she had departed the academy afterwards.

“Oh, that was years ago. The worms I found on that trip were very interesting – one of these days I’ve got to publish the research I performed with them. Right now I’m onto something else, though. Really great stuff.”

“What stuff? And do you want a… towel, or something…?” Olivine coughed politely into his hand, but Meg shook her head, seemingly totally unperturbed by standing around in her skin in front of a total stranger.

“No need, this stuff will flake off once it dries. Besides, it disintegrates plant fibers very quickly, I’ve learned. It’s much more effective on those than animal tissues, I think.” She bent down under her desk to retrieve something, and Olivine began to sweat a little. “Here!” She set a box down, rattling the jars inside. “I’ve got samples of more than three dozen different oozes, slimes, puddings, ichors, gels, jellies, and snots, from the various cave systems and dungeons within one hundred leagues of here. And I’ve been testing their properties, seeing if they have any applications that could be useful in food processing, or industry. We already use them for keeping things clean, why not explore more applications?”

“Because they aren’t safe! That one there attacked you!”

Meg blinked and looked over at the cube, which had begun to ooze aimlessly about its chamber. “Oh, no it didn’t. I was performing a test. I noticed when I was collecting my samples in the springtime that often I’d find these things with dead animals floating in them in their winter coats. I have a feeling that most people who die from these creatures aren’t killed by the digestion, but by drowning. I was inside of that thing for twenty minutes-“

“Twenty minutes!?”

“- and the only part of myself to be eaten was my pubic hair.” He was startled to see she was right, his cheeks reddening. “People entering caves or dungeons can bring hooks along to retrieve their friends if they should happen to be swallowed. This information will save lives!”

“S-still, that was far too reckless. You mustn’t do that again without someone to act as a safeguard!”

“Oh, I was sure someone would come along. And here you are! What was your name again?”

“Olivine the Extravagant. Ollie.”

“Meghanna the Magnificent. Meg.” She clasped hands with him and smiled. “Let’s head over to my room and scrape this off, put on fresh robes, and I’ll show you my notes.”

“Oh, I couldn’t, I ought to get back to my own-“

“You’re going to make quite the sensation in the Magisterium walking around like that.”

As he looked down, Ollie gasped to see that the cotton and linen of his robes and undergarments were in tatters, the material dissolved by the goo which had soaked it. He covered his groin with both hands, embarrassed, but the fat little wizard laughed and took him by the elbow and led him away.

The thrilling life of an academic, indeed!

"A mage who meant to sign up for the course on worm studies, not the course on wyrm studies!" - Making Up Adventurers, Cohost, 2023

The first prompt I made, and the first story I wrote!

"I'm not-" wheeze "even supposed-" gasp "to be here!" Came the huffed protests of the little mage trailing at the back of the group.

Meghanna The Magnificent (or 'Meg the Mole' as other apprentices referred to her behind her back and also to her face) was not dressed for an excursion onto the Glassplains - she was more prepared for an afternoon working in the Academy's botanical sanctuary. Robes reinforced for kneeling and working in the soil, an apron with sample cups and empty jars, a pack full of tools and the various accoutrements of a mage in the studies of earth and growing were in stark contrast to the tough leathers and spell-woven shields of her classmates. She took care to avoid following the footsteps of the others, whose hard boots broke the thin crust of glass that covered much of the soil here, leaving splinters that could shred her thin shoes to ribbons.

Magister Porphyry, the wizard leading the group, signalled a pause and folded his arms impatiently as he waited for Meg to catch up. "Magus Meglana- "

"Meghanna." Several mages snickered quietly.

"Magus Meghada, that is enough!" He managed to snap and whisper at the same time. "Mixups regarding course assignments are not my problem, they are yours. What IS my problem is that you are slowing us down, making an appalling amount of noise, and generally being a real DRAG during what is supposed to be one of the highlights of this course - the field observations of the Glassplains Hellkite." The irate wizard's volume began to climb, and Meghanna cringed into her robes. "I am solving MY problem right now. If you insist you do not belong here, you may wait right here in this spot. Silently! When we have completed our observations, we will return this way and you may accompany us back to the designated Longjump portal site. Otherwise, come along, and attend. You may learn something of use to you in your, your... worm... studies. I will hear nothing further from you!"

Without waiting for a reply, the Magister turned on his heel with the crunch of splintering glass and stomped away, the other apprentices in the group smirking as they followed along, till Meg was left alone for a moment before shamefacedly trailing after the rear of the group.

Meg found herself unable to really hear Porphyry's whispered descriptions of the Glassyard Heckflier or whatever it was called, however, and instead found her gaze fixed on the ground. The glass was broken here and there by short, small leaves shrubs that pushed their way up through the crust, with thin bark that showed signs of surviving many, many fires. Small sticks and twigs lay in the ground below, long burned, studded with seedpods that had burst open in the heat. "Fire ecology," she mumbled to herself.

She knelt down, doubly grateful for the kneel padding on the front of her robe on the dangerous surface, and poked with growing curiosity at the exposed soil with the tip of the trowel she had brought, turning some over. A surprising amount of creatures began to squirm back under cover - beetles, ants, an earthworm of surprising charcoal black shade. She gently plucked it out, letting it wriggle in her palm. The soft body went from glossy black to ashen grey as she held it, and began to glow just beneath the surface, looking for all the world like a twig of ember in her palm. "Lumbricus... lumbricus ignis. Bonfire worm. Beautiful..." Something about it's presence unsettled her, though. She gently dropped it into a specimen jar with some soil and pocketed it. Bonfire worms. What was it about them?

She dusted herself off as she rose back to her feet, turning back the way the group had come, and froze. The footsteps left by the group positively WRITHED with the black worms, wiggling up from below and spilling onto the surface. Meg took a step back in alarm, sparking a grouchy protest from the apprentice she bumped into. The earth under the nearby bushes was also beginning to shift and churn as bonfire worms erupted to the surface. She suddenly recalled the other name associated with Lumbricus ignis. Wildfire worms. They had a mild mystical property of emerging in the moments before a fire broke out. In some lands they were used as a last moment warning system of sorts to prepare for a burn.

The gathered wizards startled as Meg's voice - usually described as "squeaky" or "mumbly" blasted loudly through bespelled hands. "EVERYONE TAKE COVER RIGHT NOW!" As they turned, they saw her summoning ghostly mole-like claws to the end of her hands and burrowing rapidly into the soil, ignoring the glass cutting her fingers. Then the wise among the group immediately ducked behind their shields, spells flaring up with protection against fire.

Porphyry, angry at this new interruption, began to shout a rebuke, and failed to notice the truly splendid example of the Glassplains Hellkite, crimson and scarlet, sweeping towards the group. Flying barely ten feet above the surface, it began to spew a wall of flame that swept over the group before it, roasting the flatfooted Magister in a single (mercifully short) moment. The surviving magi saw the beast snatch him up with it's claws in a motion described as "elegant" and "graceful" by many of them.

After a few minutes, the limited amount of fuel on the ground burnt away, and other than the smoke, soot and a brittle, thin coat of fresh glass in the sand, most of the evidence of the fire was gone. The worms retreated to the soil, and Meg the Mole poked her head back up from the ground, blinking in the bright light and hot air. "...if anyone is looking for something to fill the gap in their schedule now, I think there's still seats available in Mystic Vermiculture."

"Bard who as a girl was cursed to have snakes and toads spill out of her mouth every time she spoke, which she leaned into for being "metal as fuck."" - Making Up Adventurers, Cohost, 2024

Excerpt from an interview with Briarthorn Blacktongue, the lead singer of Toadmother, in the Bardic Quarterly issue of the 235 Imp. Winter

BQ: I don't think I've ever seen a troupe quite like yours. How did you all find each other?

BB: Oh, yeah, haha, I'm sure. Most people with our condition get locked up or die in the woods or shit like that. (As she speaks, a large centipede crawls out of her mouth. she absently wipes her chin but otherwise makes no notice of it.) So like, you know how this happens, right? the usual fairytale shit, right? Some magic bitch wandering around and whenever she runs into a house with two daughters, she curses one and blesses the other. So like, my mom fucking sucks, right? She was always playing me and my sister off of each other, and that week I was 'her favorite'. But my sister was being "the good sister" and when she talks to the lady at the door, bam, next thing you know - blessing. Jewels every time she talks. And mom's too stupid to see what's coming, so she marches me out and has me demand the same, and I get this. (She spits, a black beetle that flies lazily away.) Guess who's the favorite now, right?

BB: Anyway like, me and my sister, we work it out between us eventually, she's cool now... She paid my way through bardic college, I couldn't ever have done it without her. Mom turned me out into the streets though, she can get fucked. Anyway. While I was in school I was collecting tales about people like me, and I find out this same fairy fuck wandered through like THREE different villages in our province! Can you believe that shit? And after graduation I went looking, and I found four girls, almost word for word same story. I was too late for the fifth one, she... it was pretty bad. But yeah, like, I taught the girls how to play, and next thing you fucking know, Toadmother.

BQ: What sort of reaction did you get when you first started performing?

BB: Oh my god, people HATED us! Like you wouldn't fucking believe! Not just because they weren't used to amplified sound, like, even if we went acoustic and accapella people, they were NOT into the- th- ohfuck- (she holds up her hands and waves our interviewer off as she retches and coughs out a large adult bullfrog, followed by a salamander) -jesusfuckingchrist, that was a bad one. I hate the bullfrogs, fuck. But like, they would freak out. We stopped just performing in the squares or whatever, started looking for... you know, OUR people. Finding our audience. Doing shows for black masses, covens, shit like that. They couldn't get enough of us! And we kinda spread from there, normal people started hearing our sound and liking it... and shit took off. It took years though. Might have gone a little faster but I was also doing quests and shit, because I have to make sure the girls are taken care of. They don't all have good relationships with their sisters, so I wanted to be sure they can be all right on their own even when we aren't working. Without having to rely on anyone but each other, you know?

BQ: That's generous of you.

BB: Hell no it isn't. They're my family, even if we've got different parents. We're all the same. We all know what it's like, and we can count on each other. (She spits out a small blue lizard, beautiful and gemtoned, catching the damp creature in her palm). Even if something happens to me, Toadmother will keep going, and they'll have each other, and everything we've built. (She releases the lizard into the grass.)

BQ: Do you all have anything big planned for this upcoming year?

BB: (Grinning) We're going on tour. We're taking the show to all five Realms, especially the Fae, and ending with a performance before the Summer Court and the Queen of the Sidhe. We're gonna show them just how... grateful we are, for the very special gift they've given us. We'll show them real fuckin' good.

(She leans towards the interviewer and opens her mouth, revealing a black serpent perched on her tongue, which slithers partway out and hisses - before retreating, being swallowed again.)

BB: We're gonna knock em fucking dead.