Jak Koke - The Edge of Chaos

Slanya insinuated her way through the people, heading for the Jewel and its reportedly seedy clientele … including her guide. Not for the first time, Slanya wondered what she’d gotten herself into. This Duvan character sounded uncivilized and potentially dangerous.

Ormpetarr drew all races and all professions. It was a magnet for adventurers, danger seekers, and those on the extreme edge of reason. Dwarves and elves worked side by side with humans, halflings, and genasi. Order was intermittently enforced, and yet everyone seemed to operate under similar basic understandings. Still, there wasn’t enough of a social contract for Slanya’s comfort. In the monastery they learned about the interdependence of the different parts of society. Kaylinn required all her clerics and monks to acknowledge this interdependence and make explicit their agreement to maintain the order.

The rules of commerce and social convention in Ormpetarr were more haphazard and arbitrary than Slanya was comfortable with. For all her helpfulness, Tyrangal wielded her Copper Guard like a weapon, and the only group powerful enough to thwart their influence was the Order of Blue Fire.

Slanya didn’t know all the ins and outs of the city’s power struggles. This absence of the rule of law was certainly unfair to the newcomer pilgrim, who could easily get fleeced by predatory swindlers and street vendors.

The Jewel was in an older wooden structure in the center of the town, across from the main inn and down the street from the Order of Blue Fire’s headquarters. Slanya entered through the swinging doors and stood alert and ready.

“Welcome to the Jewel,” came a deep voice from the darkness to her right. “I’m guessing you’re not here for a drink, and you don’t look like you’ll be buying our usual services … although we are discreet if that’s what you’re looking for.” The voice held an amused edge. Slanya’s eyes had adjusted enough to the dim light in the room to see the voice’s owner, a large half-orc wearing an apron and tending the bar.

“Or maybe you’re here for a job?” Slanya glanced left toward this new voice. Leaning against a post was a middle-aged dwarf woman wearing makeup and brightly colored, fancy clothes. “You’re a mite threatening,” the dwarf continued, “but not unattractive … and the bald, tattooed-scalp look would attract a whole new clientele!”

The bartender laughed. Other than the two who had greeted her, the Jewel was predominately empty. A small group of halflings and humans spoke in hushed tones in one corner, and there was an elf in scarred black leather standing at the bar.

Slanya felt her face start to redden, but she concentrated to make it not show. “I’m here looking for a human named Duvan,” she said. “It’s important.”

“Duvan is here,” said the bartender. “But he’s, ah … indisposed, if you know what I mean. Knowing Duvan and Moirah, he will be here all day, and maybe all night as well.”

The dwarf woman spoke. “You’d best come back tomorrow, girl. Unless you fancy a drink, a rattle and roll, or a turn in one of our comfy beds. I guarantee they’re more comfortable than the burlap and straw you’re used to.”

Slanya took a slow breath to avoid the anger she felt rising. Anger was the enemy of self-control. All of her identity and abilities required control of her body and mind. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer and the advice, but I need to find Duvan now. I can’t wait until tomorrow.”

“It’s your funeral,” said the bartender.

“All life is,” Slanya said. Stepping into the hall, she started opening doors.

A knock sounded on the chamber door.

Commander Accordant Vraith rolled over and went back to sleep in her darkened bedroom on the top story of the Changing House. Her wide bed was luxuriously appointed with down-stuffed pillows and silk bed linens.

Such comfort befitted a person of her stature, and she wasn’t about to relinquish her privileges just because the Order had assigned her to this pit. Working at the very edge of the Plaguewrought Land was supposed to be the highest honor, but Vraith hated it.

She was only here to make her chances of rapture-of absorption into the sharn-more likely. Once she’d followed through on its prophecy and had completed the rituals then she would be truly transcendent. She could escape this grubby mortality completely.

Ever since the spellplague had appeared to her on thirteenth birthday, hovering like a ghost of blue fire in her dormitory room at the wizard academy, she had wanted to merge with it. Ever since the spellplague had touched her, blossoming a spellscar in her chest, Vraith had pursued a singular agenda.

She would learn and work, manipulate and coerce, struggle and create to achieve her goal. Whatever it took, Vraith would do it. Her passion was unmatched, her dedication unparalleled.

Vraith was convinced that when her ritual expansion of the Plaguewrought Land succeeded, the sharn-creatures of pure chaos and power-would see the benefit of her contribution and welcome her into their immortal essence.

Only when she had become part of that godly communal consciousness would her rapture be complete. Only then could she escape this dingy backwater.

The knock sounded again, more insistent.

What could the perpetrator be thinking? she wondered. She had a reputation for quick anger and decisive justice for those who disobeyed her commands. And one of the reasons she had cultivated that reputation was so that her sleep would not be interrupted.

Vraith slipped out of the silk sheets. “This had better be important” she said, standing in the cool dark.

“My apologies, Mistress Vraith,” came the muffled reply. “I have urgent news.”

Vraith had trouble placing the voice at first, primarily because she was expecting Renfod or one of his lackeys. Standing naked in the darkened chamber, Vraith’s small body gathered energy. Wrath was a great source of power, and Vraith knew how to use it.

She walked to the door and opened the small viewing square in the top of it. “What is so important that it justifies waking me?” she snapped.

“I am sorry.” Beaugrat cowered on his knees outside the door. “I needed to speak with you right away.”

Vraith’s spellscar seemed to burn in her gut. Looking down on her nakedness, Vraith watched her spellscar, which formed a jagged, deep black line from her sternum to her crotch. Her abdomen glowed slightly red with the scar’s activation, and suddenly she could see Beaugrat’s soul, the spirit energy of his life force.

Red tendrils wisped out from her spellscar and intertwined through the door with the threads of Beaugrat’s soul. She probed his being and understood the weave of his life energy. One magical tug and he would be dead.

“Go on,” she said. “Explain.”

“Tyrangal’s pet. Duvan.” Beaugrat’s speech came haltingly. “He seems to be immune to the Blue Fire.”

That got Vraith’s attention. Such a power could be devastating to the Order and to her plans. “How do you know?”

“Our team went with him as instructed,” Beaugrat said. “We lost the sorcerer, but Seerah and I tried to take the items that Tyrangal had sent him to get.”

“You failed to get the items?”

“Yes. The rogue is very resourceful; he killed Seerah, and when I tried to kill him by summoning the Blue Fire …” Beaugrat gestured at his shoulder spellscar. “It had no effect.”

Questions swirled around Vraith’s consciousness. Was this true immunity or just resistance? Was it an active power that needed to be invoked, or an innate aspect of this person? Did it require components? Speech or motion? Did it come from a spellscar?

Too many questions and not enough answers.