It’s been less than a day since you reached the plains of [REDACTED], and already you miss the forests.
The sun beats down from a bright blue sky, and though the farmers in the rice fields you pass don’t seem to notice, you’re already sweating. Most of them pay you only brief attention, just another wanderer down the road, though a few give you long, suspicious glances. You don’t bother to acknowledge those; you have somewhere to be, your instincts pressing you forward. You’re not sure what you’re following, exactly, but the old man told you to trust your instincts when you parted, and he had never steered you wrong.
You reach the gates of the town – [REDACTED], the name comes to you as you bother to think of it, the way so much knowledge comes now – as the sun passes its peak. The gate guards inspect you with a cursory air before letting you through, but you notice their eyes already straying to the road. You’re not what they’re looking for, but they’re definitely looking for something. Bandits, most likely; you’ve picked up a few rumors from travelers and taprooms that there’s a gang in the area growing fat and bold on the storehouses of farmers. Not bold enough yet to demand their own “taxes”, but clearly more than the local magistrate can handle.
Something you can help with, maybe, though you doubt it’s the source of the instinct drawing you forward. You could handle a bandit gang, now, especially with time to raise your own forces, but so could the local guards. No, there’s something else going on, and as you turn a corner, you think you may have found it.
A group of young men and women, half a dozen and all, stand miserably in white robes and black caps before a rotund figure who can only be the local magistrate. Behind them must be their relatives, looking equally miserable, if not more so. The magistrate is giving a long speech in a language you initially don't know, but the unfamiliar tones and syllables rearrange themselves into something intelligible as you listen.
“--great honor, that these young men and women have been chosen as students of the most esteemed scholar, [EMINENT SCHOLAR]! Rejoice with them, for their spiritual merit will surely increase beyond their humble origins! Their courage and dedication shall reflect most positively upon their families, and in gratitude for their most righteous service, I, Magistrate [CORRUPT MAGISTRATE], shall forgive certain matters of overdue taxes–”
The “new students” don’t look particularly honored, and their families show absolutely no inclination to rejoice, but the outcry that interrupts the magistrate doesn’t come from them. It comes from above.
Wailing like a lost soul, a young woman descends from the sky, trailing great plumes of black mist as she falls. The magistrate’s guards immediately hustle him out of the plaza, towards a large building that must be the local yamen, and the rest of the crowd scatters away from the impact, leaving you alone in the plaza. You can feel the woman’s life guttering low, see the runaway sorcerous transmutation that’s killing her, transforming her into that greasy black mist. Whatever desperate message she brings, whatever knowledge she holds, are on the verge of scattering on the wind.
But seconds are all you need.
Your authority sinks into her body, rough and unpracticed but effective, and Death obeys your command. The woman lands roughly, but alive, the flame of her life stoked by your will, and you kneel at her side as you focus your mind into the patterns of the Academy of Thought that you’d learned over your journey, feeling the first flickers of feedback static murmur at the edges of your mind.
The woman’s name is [REDACTED], and her mind is a whirlpool of terror, despair and urgent determination. She can barely form words, but she recognizes the touch of your thoughts and almost hurls images at you, one after another. An old man’s face, eyes burning with obsessive hunger. A woman, watching, her face twisted in a contemptuous sneer. Flashes of theurgic rites that even brief glimpses can tell you mean nothing good. Deliberately accelerating her own spiritual decay, until the shackles that hold her break, and she leaps into the sky…
Slow down, you think desperately at her. For now, you’re safe. I’ll not let anything harm you.
Violent denial. I am not safe, stranger, she thinks fiercely. Not while [THE MOST ESTEEMED SCHOLAR] searches for me. I’ll scatter myself to the winds before I let him or his filthy apprentice use me or any other student! You realize, with a dull shock, that she’s only a year or two older than you – and the other “students” gathered in the courtyard.
You don’t even hesitate. You can’t. [YOUR MENTOR] would have been halfway down the road to this Real Man Xiao’s stronghold already, and [YOUR FELLOW STUDENT] – you flinch away from the thought, still raw and aching – [YOUR FELLOW STUDENT] would have beaten him there. And you would have been right behind them, because this is what your brotherhood is for.
I’ll stop him, you promise, solid as stone.
Through the veil of smoke, you see her raise her head to meet your eyes, and nod once, firmly. Then let me go, elder brother. If he finds out I survive, he’ll have warning of your coming. Take him unawares, and send his soul to Hell.
You almost protest, but you can feel your grasp on her life waning. Another quarter hour would be the most you could manage, and even if you dispel the transformation, it’s already ravaged her body. Besides which, she’s right; rumors of her miraculous survival will spread, and this [EMINENT BUT EVIL SCHOLAR] will know his secrets are endangered.
“Rest well, then, little sister,” you murmur aloud, and withdraw your will.
The transformation is quick, after that. More and more of her body dissolves into foul black smoke, and as the last of her flesh dissolves, she reaches out one last time. Ware his apprentice. She puts on a fair face but she’s just…as wicked…as he…
A gust of wind rises, setting your traveling robes flapping, and then there’s nothing left of the student [REDACTED] but a few scraps of stained cloth.
You grit your teeth, rising, and murmur a brief blessing. The full rites will wait; you need the strength you would spend on them to carry out her wishes. The magistrate first, then; he’s clearly providing victims, so he must know something, and his guards won’t stop you any more than bandits would.
Before you’ve taken a step, a hand catches your wrist in a grip of iron. You follow it back to a [LOCAL] girl your age, her clothing as travel-worn as yours, the sword at her waist showing the signs of frequent use. She smiles brightly at your confused look.
“Before you charge in, we should talk for a bit,” she says. “Not that I’m against charging in! But we should at least exchange names before we go into battle together.”
You blink at her.
“My name is [REDACTED],” she says, apparently interpreting your confusion as an invitation to continue, “and you must be the one who can help me. I knew you’d come today!”
In your gut, the instinct drawing you onward finally stops.
MAGICIAN
The sun beats down from a bright blue sky, and though the farmers in the rice fields you pass don’t seem to notice, you’re already sweating. Most of them pay you only brief attention, just another wanderer down the road, though a few give you long, suspicious glances. You don’t bother to acknowledge those; you have somewhere to be, your instincts pressing you forward. You’re not sure what you’re following, exactly, but the old man told you to trust your instincts when you parted, and he had never steered you wrong.
You reach the gates of the town – [REDACTED], the name comes to you as you bother to think of it, the way so much knowledge comes now – as the sun passes its peak. The gate guards inspect you with a cursory air before letting you through, but you notice their eyes already straying to the road. You’re not what they’re looking for, but they’re definitely looking for something. Bandits, most likely; you’ve picked up a few rumors from travelers and taprooms that there’s a gang in the area growing fat and bold on the storehouses of farmers. Not bold enough yet to demand their own “taxes”, but clearly more than the local magistrate can handle.
Something you can help with, maybe, though you doubt it’s the source of the instinct drawing you forward. You could handle a bandit gang, now, especially with time to raise your own forces, but so could the local guards. No, there’s something else going on, and as you turn a corner, you think you may have found it.
A group of young men and women, half a dozen and all, stand miserably in white robes and black caps before a rotund figure who can only be the local magistrate. Behind them must be their relatives, looking equally miserable, if not more so. The magistrate is giving a long speech in a language you initially don't know, but the unfamiliar tones and syllables rearrange themselves into something intelligible as you listen.
“--great honor, that these young men and women have been chosen as students of the most esteemed scholar, [EMINENT SCHOLAR]! Rejoice with them, for their spiritual merit will surely increase beyond their humble origins! Their courage and dedication shall reflect most positively upon their families, and in gratitude for their most righteous service, I, Magistrate [CORRUPT MAGISTRATE], shall forgive certain matters of overdue taxes–”
The “new students” don’t look particularly honored, and their families show absolutely no inclination to rejoice, but the outcry that interrupts the magistrate doesn’t come from them. It comes from above.
Wailing like a lost soul, a young woman descends from the sky, trailing great plumes of black mist as she falls. The magistrate’s guards immediately hustle him out of the plaza, towards a large building that must be the local yamen, and the rest of the crowd scatters away from the impact, leaving you alone in the plaza. You can feel the woman’s life guttering low, see the runaway sorcerous transmutation that’s killing her, transforming her into that greasy black mist. Whatever desperate message she brings, whatever knowledge she holds, are on the verge of scattering on the wind.
But seconds are all you need.
Your authority sinks into her body, rough and unpracticed but effective, and Death obeys your command. The woman lands roughly, but alive, the flame of her life stoked by your will, and you kneel at her side as you focus your mind into the patterns of the Academy of Thought that you’d learned over your journey, feeling the first flickers of feedback static murmur at the edges of your mind.
The woman’s name is [REDACTED], and her mind is a whirlpool of terror, despair and urgent determination. She can barely form words, but she recognizes the touch of your thoughts and almost hurls images at you, one after another. An old man’s face, eyes burning with obsessive hunger. A woman, watching, her face twisted in a contemptuous sneer. Flashes of theurgic rites that even brief glimpses can tell you mean nothing good. Deliberately accelerating her own spiritual decay, until the shackles that hold her break, and she leaps into the sky…
Slow down, you think desperately at her. For now, you’re safe. I’ll not let anything harm you.
Violent denial. I am not safe, stranger, she thinks fiercely. Not while [THE MOST ESTEEMED SCHOLAR] searches for me. I’ll scatter myself to the winds before I let him or his filthy apprentice use me or any other student! You realize, with a dull shock, that she’s only a year or two older than you – and the other “students” gathered in the courtyard.
You don’t even hesitate. You can’t. [YOUR MENTOR] would have been halfway down the road to this Real Man Xiao’s stronghold already, and [YOUR FELLOW STUDENT] – you flinch away from the thought, still raw and aching – [YOUR FELLOW STUDENT] would have beaten him there. And you would have been right behind them, because this is what your brotherhood is for.
I’ll stop him, you promise, solid as stone.
Through the veil of smoke, you see her raise her head to meet your eyes, and nod once, firmly. Then let me go, elder brother. If he finds out I survive, he’ll have warning of your coming. Take him unawares, and send his soul to Hell.
You almost protest, but you can feel your grasp on her life waning. Another quarter hour would be the most you could manage, and even if you dispel the transformation, it’s already ravaged her body. Besides which, she’s right; rumors of her miraculous survival will spread, and this [EMINENT BUT EVIL SCHOLAR] will know his secrets are endangered.
“Rest well, then, little sister,” you murmur aloud, and withdraw your will.
The transformation is quick, after that. More and more of her body dissolves into foul black smoke, and as the last of her flesh dissolves, she reaches out one last time. Ware his apprentice. She puts on a fair face but she’s just…as wicked…as he…
A gust of wind rises, setting your traveling robes flapping, and then there’s nothing left of the student [REDACTED] but a few scraps of stained cloth.
You grit your teeth, rising, and murmur a brief blessing. The full rites will wait; you need the strength you would spend on them to carry out her wishes. The magistrate first, then; he’s clearly providing victims, so he must know something, and his guards won’t stop you any more than bandits would.
Before you’ve taken a step, a hand catches your wrist in a grip of iron. You follow it back to a [LOCAL] girl your age, her clothing as travel-worn as yours, the sword at her waist showing the signs of frequent use. She smiles brightly at your confused look.
“Before you charge in, we should talk for a bit,” she says. “Not that I’m against charging in! But we should at least exchange names before we go into battle together.”
You blink at her.
“My name is [REDACTED],” she says, apparently interpreting your confusion as an invitation to continue, “and you must be the one who can help me. I knew you’d come today!”
In your gut, the instinct drawing you onward finally stops.