Blood And Stone

MAGICAL CAPACITY

Every living and undead being has within them magical energy. This goes by many names, from psi, to soul-force, to mana. The result, however, is the same. This resource is used to cast magic. Regardless of the spell or effect, an energy cost is demanded. Generally, the more powerful or complex the technique, the higher the magical cost.

The amount of magical energy you have to expend at any given time relies on a number of factors. First, is genetics, one can by luck or inheritance gain a large pool of magic to draw from. Elves tend to possess very high reserves naturally, as Lilith does. Naturally, this leads to elven mages being a fairly common sight.

One can also expand their magical energy reserve through training. Simply using magic will expand your reserves over time. The more intense the strain on existing reserves, the greater the growth. Hard work will beat talent in this case, but a magical prodigy with even mediocre training and only some effort will still beat out a hardworking but low-reserve individual.

Once expended, magical energy can be regained simply by resting, but exercises such as meditation or breathing techniques can increase the recovery rate of the user's energy exponentially. Some people will also recover more quickly thanks to genetics or talent than others.

It should be noted however, that large raw reserves of magic are only part of what makes a great mage. The ability to regulate one's outflow of magical energy, through hand seals or spoken words, as well as willpower will greatly help in determining one's ability to utilise magic effectively and safely. Highly controlled magic is precise and predictable, making it more useful than uncontrolled, often destructive use of "wild magic," or spells with only a vague purpose and degree of controllability.

Lilith had spent the afternoon drifting about the castle grounds, mostly unnoticed. She had picked up fragments of the guard's conversations, pieces of a diorama. They were speaking about some kind of alliance between Solomon and Archduke Manus. An agreement over land? Lilith knew little about Manus, save for what her mother had said about him. He was ambitious, and had flexible morals, where the prospect of gaining power was involved.

She recorded her findings, in the elvish dialect of her people. On writing down the information available to her, something clicked with her. The Black Iron Prefecture was a mining town, famed for being home to magic-soaked rocks, black iron. Anything forged or cast in it was famed for its compatibility with runic inscriptions, and ability to take on magical energies. These had an obvious military value, and the Archduke's obsession with power was just as focused on the arcane as the military. He'd already procured the Mason's Mark, as well as the Saint's Mark, which his own house owned. The circumstances under which he gained the Mason's Mark were a secret, one that was viciously guarded. Dolorem could meet a similar fate to its previous owner. Moreover, the expanding territory of the archduke would soon become his empire, it already was, in all but name.

She nervously fidgeted with the bracelet Dolorem had gifted her, the one he had commissioned from the nation's finest jeweler, and empowered himself. He had set within the bracelet a charm in the form of a snake's head, cast from silver. It was an ophidian brace, for her protection. If the need arose, speaking its command would cause the bracelet to unwind, covering her hand and forearm, the snake's fangs extending along her fingers to strike at opponents. She hadn't needed to use it yet.

Lilith heard footsteps coming along the hall outside her room, and froze, every muscle tensing, waiting. They passed by, and faded off in the other direction. She relaxed somewhat, realizing that her anxiety was an overreaction. She organized her thoughts, trying to rationalize the situation. Dolorem had been sent to retrieve an ally of the Cranswells, who owned the southernmost bastion of their influence. They intended to expand their reach, and Johan's capture had pushed them back, or at the very least, delayed them.

This was the prelude to an invasion, setting up a stable base to invade from. Dolorem was unknowingly betraying his own people. Solomon was selling them out, but why?

Lilith sat for quite some time, agonizing over a course of action. If the House of Mist became a puppet, how long until her own House of the Morning Star fell? How long would her mother be able to hold back the tide? How long could her father's negotiations delay the inevitable? She herself couldn't take any kind of drastic action, lest she justify a war. If anything were to be done, it had to be done in absolute silence, and away from view.

Before any of that happened, she'd need the tools to do so. Composing herself, she headed out of her room and down the hall, in the direction of Dolorem's chamber. Checking nobody was around, she pushed open the door, and headed in.

She had never actually been in Dolorem's chamber, and the sight of it surprised her. It was near-entirely bare, save for a simple sleeping mat and a handful of squat storage chests. The only other notable object in the room was his now-vacant sword rack. She suddenly understood why she had never been brought here. There was nothing there worth seeing in his mind. He had no attachment to the place, it was simply the place he slept. She opened one of the chests, and gingerly picked through its contents. Spare clothes, cooking utensils, a writing set, and little else. She looked in the second chest, wherein she found what she was looking for.

In the chest were seven scrolls, each one made of thin strips of wood bound to its neighbor by means of a length of cord. Each one bore a different symbol on the outside, one for each discipline of Shinobi magic. Fire, Water, Wood, Metal, Earth, the five elemental disciplines. Sealing, Divination, the esoteric disciplines. Dolorem had told her a little about them, but never went into detail, saying that it was a lecture he wouldn't wish on anyone. From what she did know, they all relied on hand seals in some capacity, in place of spoken spells. Each broad discipline could be further divided into jutsu, specific applications of the basic concept.

She opened the Fire scroll, what she found inside, the process that Dolorem had undergone left her feeling somewhat ill. To gain access to the discipline of fire magic, one had to have a fire seal inflicted upon them. A torturous process in which one was tattooed with an open seal, then thrown into an empty iron cauldron heated from the bottom. The seal would absorb the energy, eventually, but not before the victim could experience the pain of being burned alive, not before flesh was blackened, not before they wished for death. The seal, once charged by the fire, and fused to one's vital essence through the suffering caused, would be complete. The shinobi would then be healed physically, but the mental scars likely remained. Once completed, the process granted the shinobi access to all the fire jutsu, once they learned the requisite hand seals.

It was little wonder Dolorem didn't elaborate. The other seals had equally unpleasant trials involved, from being buried alive to having nails driven into the body. Lilith didn't want to believe someone would allow that to be inflicted on anyone, for any reason, let alone that Dolorem had done all of them, willingly. She cast the scrolls aside, and fled from the room.

She would have to find another method to stop the Archduke's deal from coming to fruition. She needed something to drive a wedge between the two, creating suspicion. It was a question of what, and more importantly, how. Lilith returned to the guest chamber and set about writing a letter to her parents, with the hopes they had wisdom to offer. If all else failed, she could return home, but that could arouse suspicion if done so hastily after Dolorem was deployed. For now, this would suffice. She wondered what Dolorem was doing out in Black Iron, and if he was safe, over and over, until the thick opiate waves of sleep finally took her.

***

Dolorem knelt at the bank of a stream, carefully cleaning his shortsword, removing any trace of Johan, trembling at the prospect of his future. He had betrayed the most powerful men of the North and Solomon. He would be vilified, more than likely, the story becoming mired in hearsay, and twisted by both the Archduke, and no doubt Solomon.

Was his judgment just? Doubt clawed at his insides. Had he made the right decision, in giving him a swift death? Did he deserve greater punishment? Did it even matter? He forced these ideations away, somewhere he could deal with them later, and sought out high ground.

He had work to do. He made his way up to the crest of a nearby hill, and surveyed the horizon for signs of a military encampment. Soon after, he spotted a hazy orange glow, perhaps 3 miles from the town.

He began the trek toward the settlement, keeping to the long grass, as he got ever nearer, he began to pick up on the hallmark sounds of a military camp. The hammering on anvils, the shouts of commanders, the soldier's comings and goings. Judging by the ferocity of their activities, an advance on the town was a day, no, mere hours away. He had to act immediately. To sabotage the camp would be near impossible, the soldiers were all on high alert, and the resources too widely distributed. A direct assault was his sole option. He'd simply have to hope he had the fortitude to survive long enough to cripple the enemy.

He crept toward the encampment, snakelike, unseen, and activated his mark, a thick fog spewed forth from his outstretched arm, enveloping the camp, swallowing it in homogenous grey mist, restricting the view of all those within it, save for Dolorem. He drew both his swords and began to walk into the obscured camp. His steps were slow at first, methodical.

The haze of torches began to move about once the crimson glare of his eyes became apparent, surging with the power of his mark, piercing through the otherwise impenetrable mist. His advance gained momentum, he began to run, then sprint. The first soldier who had seen him charged forward, sword leveled at Dolorem's heart, only to freeze on the spot upon coming into close range, paralysed with indecision for a brief moment.

The brief moment that spelt his end. Dolorem ducked beneath his raised arm, plunging his shortsword deep into the man's back, just above the nape. His comrades advanced, blood boiling at the death of their kinsman, weapons thirsting for blood.

Dolorem used the mist and the element of surprise to his advantage, weaving in and out of visibility, leaving behind spectral afterimages to further sow discord. He leapt from one target to the next, a dervish of lethal blades. Where many attacked at once, he unleashed the true extent of his acrobatic capabilities, dancing between flurries of blades unscathed, punctuating the orchestra of clashing steel with the sickening sound of bone-shattering under the force of his kicks.

In the tumult of swirling mist, soldiers were trampled by their own allies, wild swings caught an unintended victim, some simply fled, satisfied to live a cowardly life rather than die fighting a demon given flesh.

When the whistle of arrows rose from within the mist, Dolorem thickened the mist, making it impossible to see beyond a few yards. His mark granted him the ability to cast illusions, and that included casting them on himself. He slowed his perception of time to a crawl, him now free to observe the situation in perfect clarity. An arrow passed by his shoulder, he grabbed it from the air and plunged it deep into the throat of the closest opponent. The rising chorus of panicked shouts was a sign to him to change tactics.

Dolorem sprang up the side of the nearest siege tower, aided by his Wood seal, stretching and warping the surface to produce handholds. He took control of the mist, spinning it, weaving it into the form of a great serpent, coiling about the camp, deathly white save for poisonous yellow eyes. In reality, he stood within the snake's maw, the monstrous creature no more than an apparition. He wove a series of hand seals, the air about him becoming thick with elemental energy. Finally, after the twenty-eighth seal, he released the apex of fire jutsu, Ho-Misubi.

The sky soon glowed orange, as radiant streaks of flame descended from the heavens, spears of white-hot blaze, impacting the earth in a torrent of sparks, sowing terror. The spears themselves did little damage, but the fear instilled was more than enough to compensate. After all, who wouldn't flee upon seeing the very sky turn upon them, spewing dragon-fire.

Indeed, the camp was in disarray, with only a short skirmish, he had routed them. He had used fear in place of brute force, he had acted as a shinobi. Carefully, so as to avoid detection, as his illusory serpent lunged and hissed threateningly, he climbed down from the siege tower, hoping to slip away undetected before the mark claimed its debt from him. Once the dust settled, he'd become exhausted, and his fire seal would need time to replenish itself.

He allowed himself a moment to breathe once his boots touched the grass. He made his way toward the cover of a nearby forest, his footsteps silenced by the ash that now spiraled down like snow around him. Before long, though, his journey was cut short by the punishing impact of a sharp object to his ribcage. The bolt deflected on the splints lining his jacket, nonetheless, he was winded, possibly with cracked ribs. His vision blurred, the pain mixing with exhaustion into a virulent poison. He turned around, once again slowing time to survey potential threats.

Indeed, a figure, shrouded in a billowing mauve cloak stood before him. Its face was obscured by a mask of purest alabaster. One gloved hand was revealed from beneath the purple veil, but it held no weapon. No, through sheets of ash falling between them, he saw the vaguely glowing outline of a Mark. This one, in particular, the Mark of Masons. He had been struck not with arrow or bolt, but with a hardened, wickedly sharp, length of stone. The Masked spoke. "Shall we fight openly, or would the likes of you prefer to slink in the shadows, stab me in the back, perhaps?"

Dolorem drew both his swords.

Dolorem didn't charge in. He was already approaching his limit, and against an opponent with unknown abilities. He entered a low stance, presenting as little a target as he could, for fear another missile be hurled his way. He could attempt a diversion and run for it, but there was no guarantee he wouldn't be felled as soon as he turned his back. He would wait for an attack, counter, and repeat, wearing the target down as efficiently as he could.

The Masked clapped their hands, the sound emitting an almost tangible pressure wave. The ground rumbled beneath Dolorem, then jagged stalactites erupted from the soft earth beneath him. He leapt back, the serrated edges of the spikes snagging on the fabric of his hose. He stumbled back, realizing that the very ground on which he stood was now his enemy. The Masked was inscrutable, almost inhuman. No body language, no facial expression, nothing. Further spikes rolled up in front of him, tracking him, hunting.

Dolorem sprinted around the Masked, attempting to outrun the approaching tide of rock, constrict his opponent. He spun threads of shadow into a shuriken, flinging it at his adversary. It grazed their shoulder, the rotating blades struggling to bite any deeper into the target. The momentary distraction caused them to lose focus on their ranged onslaught. Dolorem capitalized on the brief reprieve it granted, dashing toward the Masked.

They couldn't concentrate on sorcery and themselves at once. He bore down on his foe, both swords coming down in unison, only to be thwarted by the Masked's forearm. They had blocked the wickedly sharp blades, the weapons sparking off their arm. The shock of the impact traveled up Dolorem's arms, shaking his bones. The Masked grabbed his longsword with their free hand, and wrenched it free of his grip, before sending him sprawling to the ground with a vicious kick.

Dolorem tasted blood as he struggled to draw air into his lungs. Each breath felt like being lashed with a whip. Dolorem's vision blurred. Mind racing, he constructed a counter. If blades didn't work, and he couldn't keep at range, his best option was blunt force or grappling. He hurriedly wove hand seals, then slammed his hand into the ground. His wood seal briefly glowed, before great tree roots pierced the ground underneath the Masked, reaching up, restraining them. The Masked struggled against their binds, but the living wood compensated, having just enough flexibility to thwart their prisoner. Dolorem was already preparing the second part of his offense. This time, his hand seals were to activate his metal seal. He hardened his limbs, retaining flexibility thanks to the nature of the spell. Fists now sufficient substitutes for weapons, he advanced.

Dolorem unleashed a merciless onslaught on his opponent, each blow sending chips of the Masked's stone armor flying. He didn't relent for one second, for the armor was regrowing even under his barrage of strikes. Little by little, he gained on the armor, his target having given up struggling against their binds to focus on surviving. He landed one particularly vicious punch on the Alabaster mask hiding the enemy.

His fist broke it without any difficulty, connecting with the face beneath. Dolorem found himself facing the piercing gaze of one revealed eye, an unnaturally icelike blue. Realizing that their cover had been destroyed, the masked changed tactics. The armor dissipated, and the Masked unleashed a skull-rattling roar, before causing a massive ring of stone stakes to surround them, shredding their binds and spearing Dolorem in the shoulder, but not before a final, decisive blow shattered the masked's ribcage.

Dolorem was blown back, sent tumbling into the ash and dirt. The stone pillars formed an impenetrable wall around the Masked. Dolorem hadn't the strength to fight them any more, he was blacking out, and badly bleeding. Fortunately for him, the wall receded to reveal the Masked had disappeared, apparently into thin air. Dolorem's head spun, as he gazed up into the twisting columns of smoke, and the star-filled sky above. He couldn't do it anymore, the wound in his shoulder blurred his thoughts and his body was exhausted of energy entirely. Darkness soon took him, and he fell into a deathlike sleep, not knowing if, or when he'd wake.

***

That night, Lilith spent hours staring at the ceiling, feeling a strange mix of numbness and fear. Only hours ago, it had hit her from nowhere. A sense of foreboding, imminent misery. Elven instincts were more honed than those of humans, and weren't to be taken lightly. As suddenly as it arrived, it subsided. Leaving her feeling strangely empty. She couldn't sleep, so she paced in her room.

Elves didn't really need sleep, anyway. Over and back, gazing out at the night sky. As the moon reached its apex, she made her decision. She gathered her outer robe, her traveling-cloak, and her pack. She needed to get out of the house, clear her head. Too many points of disconnected information swirled about in her head, twisting, spawning new possibilities, each one more vile than the last. Land deals, alliances, imperial expansion? She needed someone to talk to soon. Her own thoughts needed to be reined in.

She opened the door of her room and stepped out. As she made her way down the hall, footsteps approached her. Three, no, four people, moving fast. Homing in on her location. She turned the corner to come face-to-face with Solomon, flanked by three guards. Nothing was said for one agonizingly long moment. Lilith didn't back down. She had no reason to run, nor was she raised to shy away from confrontation.

Solomon shattered the silence. "Such a beautiful language, Elven-speech, wouldn't you agree?" His severe features were warped into a smug grin. A venomous chill crept up Lilith's spine. She stood her ground, staring Solomon dead in the eye. "What's the matter,"he continued, his tone unbearably self-assured. "You had so much to say in your letter." Lilith retorted. "I'm surprised you can read at all, let alone elvish." Solomon seemed to take exception to that. The smile melted off his face. He said nothing, but motioned for his guards to move in. He turned to leave as they advanced, but stopped. Turning he spat "If she resists, accidents are permitted." With that, he departed to his chambers, he wouldn't stand around and be belittled by anyone, much less Lilith.

Lilith took a single step back, taking a fighting stance. In response to her whispered command, the Ophidian Brace unfurled, silver fangs laced with iridescent venom. " I don't want this fight," the guard captain said, almost pleadingly. His grip on his halberd was shaky, uncertain.

Lilith answered "I wouldn't want it either."

***

When Dolorem did wake, he was still in agony, lying beneath a watery sunrise. He needed to see to his wound before it got infected. To do that, he'd need to at least get back to the town, in spite of the burning that spread from the wound into every fibre of his being he reached for the little pouch tied to his leg, fingers numb and shaking. He had a pain suppressant in it, short lived, but powerful. He dug it out and opened the paper it was wrapped in. It was a mix of rice flour, and a painkiller drawn from knotweed. He began to chew on it, and attempted to stabilize his breathing. The bleeding had stopped, thankfully, but judging from the coppery smell on the grass around him, not before he lost plenty of blood. Slowly, agonisingly, he got to his feet.

His entire torso felt like a bag of broken crockery. His legs had been spared any serious injury, but were exhausted. The painkiller hadn't taken hold yet. He started walking regardless, he would almost certainly die if he didn't see a healer, and soon. His head spun as he began his awkward, staggering pilgrimage to the town. Every part of him burned, every step was a herculean effort.

By the time he had reached town, five hours had passed, the painkiller had managed to dull his pain somewhat, but now an insatiable thirst burned in its place. His jacket was bloodstained and filthy, pierced by the rocks and torn by blades. He dragged himself along the street, met with looks of terror and disgust by townsfolk. He didn't blame them. He looked like a corpse, and a filthy one at that.

He reached Black Iron's temple, and flung himself at the door, shoulder first. The door was unlocked, and he crashed to the ground, landing heavily. The pain of the impact blurred Dolorem's vision with white sparks, and he began to hack up blood. He was bleeding internally. Dying. He began to see double, then his vision tunneled as muffled voices rose around him.

There was nothing he could do now. If he died he died, he thought, his mind wandered in the blackness. Lilith drifted into his thoughts, anchoring him to the mortal coil, even as his grip loosened. He couldn't die. He had a wedding to plan. He promised. His ability to think was waning, he felt his own heartbeat failing. Was this the end of the line for him? It couldn't be, he still had so much to do. Regardless of this, darkness swallowed him.