The Thing About Doors...

by **Razkar** on January 2nd, 2013, 2:35 am

55th Day of Winter, 512AV
High Spirits
13th Bell

The rider approached slowly, and it galled him to do so. The black horse under him cantered slowly; without his tugs of the reins now and then, Mrrko would probably have forgotten they actually had a path to follow and went meandering. The journey from the copse of trees north of Riverfall usually took half an hour; this time it took more than twice that.

And, at this pace, the cloaked and hooded rider could near every muttered and whispered word said about "the Myrian" as he and his steed clopped down the street in silence.

But Razkar did not press his horse, and not for the beast's sake. For nearly three weeks his world had been little else but crippling, mind-numbing inactivity. Sparring, exercise, training, all had been denied to him by his traitorous, healing body. He had heard that compared to humans, Myrian skin and bones knitted remarkably quickly.

Not quick enough, had been his abiding though for weeks.

Even then every false step by Mrrko sends a fresh jolt of aching pain into his side and leg. The gashes that laid into both, barely three miles from the cobbles Mrrko now walks upon, had been stitched and cleaned and had indeed healed. But the pain was still there. The reminder that for all his budding skill and potential as a warrior, he still had a long, long way to go.

And his Goddess-Queen knew pain was his best scholar.

More whispers and suddenly running feet. He slid his head to the side and saw a human female and her son hurry away. He didn't even smile; the sight had since got become boring to him. The cold was more of a concern for him now. Tunic and breeches cover him, the latter repaired with a needle and thread after being slashed open. His leather armor, well... he still wore it, but it needed to be repaired, and now it covered his chest just to give him a little more protection.

His cloak was the real boon, though. Long, thick with frayed flesh and hair, and topped with a hood. It protected him against the bitter, whistling wind.

Razkar raised his head, and finally a thin smile crossed his face. Not too far, now.

The new handle of his hand ax tapped lightly against his leg.

by **Razkar** on January 4th, 2013, 4:52 am

Nessela was tired of hearing people refer to her store as "a little worse for wear". The Konti had accepted long ago that this was partly because the furnishings and furniture of High Spirits needed a good day's cleaning and business was somewhat slow. Well, that was why they made the statement, anyway.

Her problem with it was that to Nessela, every inch of the magecraft, Malediction and Spiritism store was beautiful.

"They just don't see it, lovie," she said to the faint but unmistakable purring sound on top of the shelf behind the counter, "But that's alright. I do..."

She wiped her pale hands with the dirty rags, completely missing the redundancy of this. It was more of a habit than anything else. The moldings needed to be brushed and cleaned every week, and this was the day. Dust and spider webs gravitated to them hungrily, and while she was always looking for a little ambiance here and there (stuffed reptiles always helped), she still believed there was a difference between chaotic interrior and messy.

"I'm sure I have a treat for..." The purring stopped as the Konti stopped patting herself down and rolled her eyes. The roll stopped when they were directed to the shelf, and she cocked an eyebrow. "Why do you always let me do that?"

There was the pattering of padded feet on the shelf. No, that's too strong a description. There was the... suggestion, of movement. Movement despite the lack of it. Anyone (or anyone normal, more accurately) would have come in and suspected, perhaps even fancied, that something moved up there. But then they would have looked and logical function would have reassured them that, no, there wasn't, because it was devoid of life.

Technically, they'd be right. And wrong.

Nessela put her hand out and stroked the thin air. She missed the howlwing. It understood her, and loved her. That was probably why it didn't move on when it had the chance. The Konti smiled, and it was a sad, beautiful thing.

"Can't linger forever, little one," she whispered, petting the fuzzy, invisible head, "We know that better than most..."

Hooves on the cobbles. Well, that was nothing new. The street outside wasn't a main thoroughfare but it was still pretty busy during the day. Not that much... ever...

Nessela frowned. The hooves stopped outside her store. The twin slaps of leather on stone, feet landing on them... the rider. The faint whips of leather being lashed to wood, the horse being tied up and the rustle of fabric... a feed bag, by the sound of it. And then, to cap it off, footsteps, slow and measured, to her front door.

The Konti cocked an eyebrow and put on a bemused smile just as Razkar walked through the door.

"Well, well," she said as the portal opened, "how unexpected..."

by **Razkar** on January 5th, 2013, 5:38 pm

"What is?"

"Excuse me?"

"What is unexpected?"

It took Nessela to work out that the Myrian had, in fact, heard her last words and realization bloomed in her eyes. "Oh! Yes. Your arrival, I mean. You coming here."

Razkar closed the door behind him, barring the wind with its icy teeth for at least a few bells. Even if this was not the place he was seeking, being away from the chilling weather would have been a boon unto itself. He walked slowly towards Nessela and the counter, eyes roving over the shelves and tables and myriad of goods on offer.

"Mean because I am Myrian? Or because I am customer?" He saw the hardness creep into Nessela's eyes and tried to diffuse her mood. "Sorry, mistress. I hear that work is not good here. Not many come here anymore."

The Myrian smiled in recollection as he came across a rack of bones, skulls and remains from a half-dozen kinds of animals. Carvings, etchings and deep writings were printed into all of them. Some were large enough to have pictures of them, like cave scrawling.

"That not good to me. People ignore old ways. Power of Bones. Is sad."

"Is that really the best you can speak the Common tongue?"

"Was not raised with it."

"Evidently..."

"Hmm?"

"Evidently. It means-"

"I know what means." Razkar said, turning a little faster than Nessela would have liked, just as he'd intended to do. His eyes mirrored her hardness now, but there was no fear in hers. "Know what word "bigot" means, too. And "rude". I know other words, too. How much Myrian you know?"

Now the Konti smiled and extended a pale, thin arm towards the Malediction display that Razkar had been gazing at. His eyebrows arched before she even spoke, knowing what her words would be.

"Enough to make."

"I am impressed."

There was a silence. Not the best first impression, girl, Nessela thought testily, reminding herself that caustic though this... person, might be, he's also her first customer in a few days.

"Thank you. I am Nessela. Welcome to High Spirits."

Razkar cocked a sardonic eyebrow, as if silently questioning the formal greeting after the owner had mildly insulted him. But he decided to gloss over it. She was useful, after all, and he would definitely need her very shortly. Besides which, she was still a female. He bowed, not low but low enough.

"I am Razkar of the Shorn Skulls, mistress, and I come to seek your services."

Nessela nodded slowly, feelings The Whispers start to crowd around her. The capitalization is earned, by the way: they were a constant in her life, a very real phenomenon, and so they had earned proper recognition. in fact, many of them had lived before, and only a fool paid no mind to spirits. So she listened as she looked and nodded and... learned...

Death[/i, the whispers said, [i]this one... it walks with blood ever on his hand... strides through blood and horror and smiles... smiles with teeth clogged with pain and murder...

"What is your trade, Razkar?"

"I am a sellsword. A merc-"

"Yes, I am familiar with the term," the Konti said with some measure of distaste, but Razkar was used to the tone. Mercenaries were distrusted and reviled the world over; why would Riverfall be any different? "You kill for money, basically?"

"Yes."

The shortness of the answer would have surprised many, but it did not with Nessela, and not jut because of The Whispers. Myrians approached death, murder and fighting much differently than any others. They lived with the first in their jungle, had difficulty understanding the second and were raised to almost worship the third. But when your Goddess and Queen is that of War, what did you expect?

She had known several Myrians. Mostly females. They were hard, uncompromising and, yes, often savage people. But they were not monsters. In a horrible, twisted way, they were more free, because they accepted the brutality of life. This one seemed little different.

"Hmm..."

Her eyes wandered down to his belt, and saw the weapons looped and stuffed there. The handle of a kikri poking out from behind his back... a lakan before his stomach... a gladius on his right-

"Is... Is that bone?"

Razkar looked down and unsheathed his gladius. Razor sharp and well-maintained, it shimmered in the dirty light filtering through the windows. He reversed his grip in one fluid, practiced gesture, offering it to her hilt first. But she did not grasp it: she merely studied the bone handle and the words and circles carved onto it...

"This was... Malediction."

"What is word?"

"Malediction." She said in his tongue, but still all she got was a blank stare. Nessela frowned, and then thought back to a curious expression he had used. You didn't have to be a genius to add two and two. "The Power of Bones."

"Oh. Yes. Was from enemy. I took and went to woman in my village. She made power onto bone." He stroked the hilt lovingly, felt that familiar thrill as the departed soul of Elanosa screamed through her dead and dried bone. "It is helping. It always has. And I come for same thing."

"Oh?"

The question was attached to the simple word, and Razkar sheathed his sword... but pulled out a hand ax instead. Nessela frowned deeply as she immediately saw the handle to it, a thick, gleaming thigh bone instead of a shaft of wood. Even a glance told her that was not a human or Myrian bone. Far too long.

It was an Akalak's. He had an Akalak's bone, and a lakan, and...

"Do, ah... do I want to know how you got hold of that?"

"I not know. Do you?"

Another silence. Contemplative, with only a weird purring that Razkar could not quite place and finally the Konti shrugged.

"No. I on't think so."

"I not think so, either..."

by **Razkar** on January 22nd, 2013, 3:48 am

The Arma'Drex Smithy
10th Bell

A few hours before Razkar walked into High Spirits, he was walking into somewhere very different. Though, he mused as he heaved open the door to the smithy, if the armorsmiths were to be believed, what they did with hammer and flame and ice in places such as this was very close to magic. They took lumps of iron, often still with dirt clinging to them, and by brute force and hard-won precision, crafted weapons that could carve a Dhani in two and armor that would with stand an Jamoura's strongest punch.

What is that if not a breed of magic?

Stepping in and out of the cold, he immediately saw that Arma/Drex was much larger than it looked from the outside. Two caverns split the hall in two, one lined with weapons, the other with armor. Razkar knew what he needed today, and started walking left. Soon he was strolling past a huge glass counter packed with daggers and knives and small maces of every conceivable kind. To his shock, he even saw Myrian and Dhani weapons for sale.

Behind the counter was yet more weapons, warhammers with heads as big as his torso, pikes and spears twice as long as his body, swords and glaives and axes of every description... and a hulking, smiling Akalak at the end of it.

"Enjoying the view?"

As a professional user of his wares, Razkar nodded slowly to Haiduk, Weaponsmith of Arma/Drex.

"You have many kinds. I am impressed."

"You're Myrian, aren't you?"

Razkar, with his dark skin and filed teeth and tattoos and cloak of scalps and topknot above it all, cocked a satirical eyebrow: "What tell you that?"

"Just a wild guess. How can I help you?"

Razkar got straight to the subject and pulled a shattered ax head from his belt. Haiduk's personality seemed to shift in an instant, eyes losing their cheerful mirth and becoming cold and clinical. He shook the head, with the shorn shaft still attached, and turned it over in his hands.

"Hmm... clean cut... must have been a sharp blade that did it. So, I take it you want a new shaft?"

"Yes, but not wood." The Myrian's hand vanished again, and come up with something else. "Want new shaft... to be this."

A long, gleaming white bone was held in his dark hand. It was well over a foot long, easily capable of being what he wanted it to. Haiduk took it in his other hand, frown deepening bit by bit... until they flickered darkly to his "customer".

"Where did you get this?"

"In battle."

"It's from an Akalak, isn't it?"

The two men stared at each other and if you looked close, you could see the tension crackle between them. Razkar weighed up the pros and cons of lying. It might work, it might not. But lies did not come easily to his tongue, and they always tasted so bitter and wrong. He tilted his chin a little higher, and chose his words carefully.

"Yes. We fought. He lose. But before he die, he broke my ax. So now he can make better."

Now it was Haiduk's turn to consider his options. He couldn't avoid the fact that he was holding the bleached bone of one of his own race in his hand. He knew enough of Myrians to take an educated guess at what had happened to the meat. But... business was business. And battle was battle. His jaw clenched and he decided that the former would take precedence over the latter.

And that would be his partial, impersonal revenge.

"Forge rental is usually twenty gold a bell." He said, words low and just begging to be argued with. "But for this job... thirty. Shouldn't take more than an hour."

Razkar nodded slowly and kept his face neutral. He knew that he was being bent over a barrel, but he also knew that this place was revered as the finest smithy in Riverfall and, therefore, the entire Cyphrus region. They would repair his weapon better than any others in a hundred leagues. The price was worth it.

Besides, he thought with an inner smirk, it will be the gold I got for killing that petching Akalak that will pay for this, anyway.

"Deal."

They shook on it as a formality, and Haiduk walked to the tunnel leading to the rear of the smity. He turned in the doorway almost as an afterthought.

"You can watch if you want."

"Thank you."

He did, and he was duly impressed. Though the heat of the forge the Haiduk sweated over made his own skin weep and shine, Razkar stayed and did not take his eyes from the Akalak's labor. He removed the broken shaft from the head of his hand ax, carefully filing away the errand splinters until it was sholly iron again. Then h went to work with the bone... and decided on something a little different.

"The hole for the shaft is too narrow for the end of the bone." He pointed to both and Razkar could see he was right. The top of the high, where the ball was, was too wide to fit through the narrow hole in the ax head. "But I can form the head to the top of it. Does that suit you?"

Razkar thought it over and nodded once he saw the look in the Akalak's eyes. The challenge had grabbed him, and he could use that. Like all master's of their craft, Hiaduk had been seduced by a problem that only he could fix. An invisible, metallurgic opponent that he could pit his wit and skill against.

He watched... even as the Akalak warped and twisted the razor-sharp ax head into something else completely. But soon he understood what he was doing. He was re-forming the blade, widening it along its edge, shortening its rear to it would attach to the ball of the thigh. The forge flared and gouts of smoke whooshed into the vent. Smoke and steam sizzled and roared, but Hiaduk did not tire or yield.

Finally he held the new ax head up to the light... and a smile of pure satisfaction crossed his lips.

"It's good," he said, but he wasn't talking to Razkar anymore. His hands moved swiftly over the hot metal and the gleaming bone. "Now... to make them one..."

There was a flare amid the smoke and Razkar stepped forward to see the amalgamation of metal and bone. With hammer and ice, Hiaduk crafted and combined the two materials together inch by inch. He submerged them both in water and the liquid nearly boiled just by having it under its surface. But when he withdrew it... a new ax was born.

"We'll put some straps around it."

Razkar wasn't arguing; he was barely speaking. He was entranced at this new thing that Hiaduk had created. He watched like a child before his teacher as the Akalak twisted a long length of leather around the bone shaft, thickly at the base to cushion the hand of its wielder, a wisp or two around the top... and finally tied if off where metal and bone were joined.

"And now... to sharpen it..."

The whetstone was a massive contraption operated by the Akalak's bobbing head. Razkar hadn't seen it often, and watched with interest as his pumping leg turned the stone around so fast that when he put the dull head to it-

Sparks. And they flew like fire across the floor in a red arc.

"Ahhhhhh..."

Hiaduk looked up from his work and allowed himself a quiet smile. Then he returned to his work. Chimes and chimes went by until he was satisfied, blunt edge now honed to a razor sharpness. He ran a thumb over the edge... and blood stained it. But, to be sure, he went over to the corner and planted a wooden manikin in front of Razkar.

"Time for the test." He said with just a trace, the barest ember of uncertainty, and proffered the ax. "Have a crack at it."

Almost mirroring him, Razkar reached forward slowly and grasped his new weapon. It was... heavier, that was for sure, but mostly at the top, which would only make the strikes stronger. The head was much wider, too. He swung it experimentally... and the balance was as good as before.

Hiaduk was silent and still, arms crossed, like a mother watching her child take its first steps.

"When you're ready..."

Razkar turned to the manikin, cocked back his arm and swung-

Tok... tok... tok-tok-tok-tok-tok...

Both men watched the wooden head bounce and then roll across the stone floor. Razkar had felt the blade hit the wood, and then continue as if nothing was there. He leaned close, mouth open, and examined the cut.

He could balance a bottle on it.

"By the Goddess..."

Hiaduk seemed to swell another foot, beaming, the side of his personality that had greeted Razkar rising from the depths to take credit.

"Worth the money, Myrian?"

"All penny, Akalak..."

----------

"Not finished."

Hiaduk turned with his eyebrow raised when Razkar spoke next. He crossed arms like tree limbs and leaned back against the counter, now they were back in his part of the smithy and not sweating like strumpets in temple.

"What's left to do, Myrian? By the way, I never asked your name."

Razkar gave a short bow. "Razkar of the Shorn Skulls."

"Well, Razkar of the Shorn Skulls, you're honored to meet Hiaduk of the Sweaty Forge, I'm sure, but I think service has been rendered and now it's time for payment, don't you think?"

A cocky grin was spread across his face and Razkar didn't think it was all due to the masterpiece he had just forged by skill and application. Now the work was done and the challenge bested, that disapproving tone was back in his voice, as if he was remembering that he'd used the bone of one of his own kind as a tool.

Razkar did not rise to it. He still had things to do, and goods to purchase. Not just purchase, in fact.

"And I pay for ax. But need something else."

"What's that?"

"Need... ah... word for leather... leather that holds blades on body?"

The Myrian stared almost pleadingly at Hiaduk and with upraised eyes he sighed.

"Weapon harness, you mean?

"Yes!" Razkar said, pointing triumphantly. "Weapon harness! But need it made, ah... special?"

"Custom?"

"Is same?"

"Kind of. But I get your point. However, that is not my preserve. It is, however, the domain of my partner." He pointed across the way into the part of the store lined with armor from across Mizahar. "He'll do it for you."

Razkar bowed again and made to turn-

-but a purple blur shot out and rested a hand almost gently on his shoulder. Sheer instinct had his hand at his gladius before he'd even realized... but he stayed it.

"You can pay him after, Myrian. What's his is his... and what's mine is mine."

Razkar counted out the thirty gold mizas and that was that. He examined the new ax with bone shaft and wider head once again under the light streaming from the top window. Hiaduk couldn't help admiring it, too, even as he jingled the pile of coins in his hand.

"You do good work."

"That's the best word you can give me?"

"... very, very good?"

"I suppose that will have to do."

----------

Razkar's first impression was that Loriim did not look like an Akalak. Well, that's not fair. His first impression was that he would not likely be around so much armor in his life unless he joined the Sylirian Knights in the middle of a battle.

Manikins surrounded him like a silent regiment, and none of them wore the same armor twice. Chainmail, leather, plate, half-plate... and things Razkar did not even have words for. He circled the small stage in the middle of the room, lit by the skylight, and marveled at every display.

If he's as good with leather as he is steel, I should-

"Can I help you?"

Razkar nearly jumped a foot in the air and his gladius was half-drawn before he realized it was a... significantly shorter Akalak. Loriim backed up a step, frown on his face, looking the Myrian up and down.

"Er... are you OK?"

"Sorry, sorry. Was surprise. You own store?"

"Yes, I own store."

"Man over there-" Razkar pointed to the other side, where Hiaduk was... yes doubled over laughing "-said you can help me." He bowed shortly again, remembering his manners. "I am Razkar of the Shorn Skulls."

"Oh. I'm Loriim of... Riverfall, I guess."

"Not Sweaty Forge?"

"What?"

"Nothing, er, need weapon harness. Need special make."

The Akalak (Goddess, Razkar thought with some shock, he's barely taller than me!) rested his weight on his right foot, crossed his arms and gestures with one hand.

"Show me."

Razkar licked his lips and prepared to pantomime, because his Common certainly wasn't up to it.

"Need, ah... need place for gladius here-" he patted his pelvis, in between his navel and his right hip, at the waistline, "-and place for ax, here."

He patted his right hip and pretended to draw the short sword with his left hand and the ax with his right. He supposed he could make it more... symmetrical and have one on either hip, but crossing his arms to get to each weapon was more complex than simply reaching down for each at the same time.

"With me so far?"

A piercing and decidedly academic glare shifted minutely as the Akalak nodded. He didn't carry himself like an Akalak, either, Razkar noted. More like a scholar than the swaggering warriors he'd seen before.

"Continue."

Razkar gestured to the his left pectoral, handing grasping the handle of an insivible dagger pointing upwards.

"Need place for kukri, here. He patted the curved blade currently shoved down the back of his breeches. "For... fast pull." His hand jerked down, pulling the blade from its vertical sheath, handle down, and righting it horizontally in the same movement. Then he turned around and placed both hands at his back. "And need two places on back for..."

He paused, knowing that the Akalak would think he was searching for the right word. He was, but for an entirely different reason. Having an Akalak make an ax shaft from a bone was one thing, but he knew the multicolored male race held an almost religious respect for lakans. If he was to tell one, even a bookish one, that he was going to have them festooning his chest, thing might... go badly.

"... long daggers. Point up, handles down." He made a gesture of pulling the weapons down and free from their imaginary sheaths, whipping his hands from his back and straightening them quickly. That one he would like most of all: hidden by his cloak, no-one would know he had the two lakans until he drew them. "So... you have idea now?"

"Oh, I have several, Razkar of the Shorn Skulls." Loriim was caressing his jaw now, ideas flashing and forming and collapsing and replaced in rapid succession before his eyes. "Some of which have promise. But a custom job like this will be more than usual. Say... ten mizas? Gold?"

Razkar nodded just like he did with Hiaduk. Twice the price it would cost him in the Warren, but the best cost the most; that was simply the way of it. And he needed something better: Goddess knew his belt couldn't take much more steel jammed inside it!

"Deal."

"Follow me."

Razkar did, trailing the Akalak behind his counter and into the rear room of the store. It was... well, "chaotic" would be the mother of understatement. Metal and leather of all shapes and sizes were strewn and slung in every corner. Tools were neatly lining the wall but for the life of him, Razkar couldn't make out any order to them. But Loriim moved smoothly amid the anarchy, picking out tools here and there. Shears, a small hammer, a jar of thick, pungent paste.

And a measuring tape.

"If you please?"

Razkar unfastened his Cloak and gently hung it by the door, then assumed the position: feet together, arms spread. The Akalak measured his waist, his sides, his chest, his back, every conceivable angle that the harness might encompass. Loriim was silent save for the occasional grunt or sigh of contemplative "hmmm", and a chime later, he was finished.

"OK. If you'll be so patient as to wait, I think I can get started."

Once again, Razkar watched in silence as a master plied his craft in front of him. The saw the same shine in the Akalak's eyes, the same swiftness of his hands that was made more amazing by economy and sureness. He cut strips of leather, each the width of a belt, and arranged them experimentally.

"Hmm..."

That was when he noticed the difference between Hiaduk and Loriim. The forge was the perfect place for the former; fiery and eager to best himself against steel and its limitations. But Loriim was more... cerebral. Each adjustment he made was an intellectual challenge, not merely physical. Aesthetics mattered to him, too, but it was... functionality that guided him. Razkar had given him a fair guide; he wanted to stick to it was much as possible.

Finally the Akalak turned, strips pinned roughly together for the moment. Razkar frowned minutely and tried the prototype on. It fit over his head neatly enough, and around his waist: a thick, belt like harness with white chalk marks where the sheaths would be, and two strips that crisscrossed his chest and back. He looked down and saw a chalk mark on his left pectoral, where the kukri sheath would go. He knew there would be two more on his back.

He jiggled, jumped, turned and stretched, moved quickly and slowly... and the harness barely moved.

"You measure good. Fits perfect."

"You are satisfied?"

"Very."

"Good." Loriim's voice had but a note of satisfaction in it; he knew there was much work left to do. Razkar unbuckled and shuffled himself out of the harness and returned it. "Then I can really get started..."

"In earnest", he should have added. Razkar was by no means an armorer, but he knew he was watching a professional... even if he couldn't name any of the tools and substances he used. Face fixed and squinting in concentration, Loriim removed one pin after another and fixed the leather in place with a pungent, steaming adhesive that he heated over a candle first. Then, when leather was fastened to leather, he added the five sheaths he would need. One for a gladius, one for an ax, one for a kukri and two for the lak...

Razkar corrected himself. Long daggers. That was what they were for.

After a slow and silent bell of work, Loriim turned to him again and presented a very different harness. The sheaths were in place, and when Razkar fitted it over his head a second time...

"Try it with your weapons."

Razkar did, slipping his gladius and ax into the sheaths. They fit perfectly, and when he drew them, they were smooth and unleashed in a moment. And though he jumped around some, they did not come loose. But they were regular sheaths, not the one for his chest. He examined it a little closer and saw the clasp there that would hold the curved dagger in place while it was upside down on his chest.

"The clasp is a little innovation of mine," Loriim said simply, but there was surprisingly little pride in his voice. He was simply stating facts, pointing to the clasp. "Try it. It will hold the weapon in place, but with a good enough jerk, it will give, releasing the weapon."

Razkar tried it out. He sheathed his kukri, handle facing down, blade pointed to the roof, and did the clasp. It held. But when he grasped the handle and pulled-

-the kukri was freed and ready for blood. A slow, pleasured grin spread over his face.

"The two on your back are the same." Loriim crossed his arms, a quiet look of satisfaction on his face, along with a professional smile. "I had fulfilled my part, I believe."

Razkar caught the unspoken request in the words, and handed over a mess of gold coins. Even at a glance, Loriim knew it was too much, and he said so. Razkar shook his head, hand up, palm forward, refusing any return.

"You did fine job. Worth more than ten. So get fifteen. I wish you good day."

He bowed, and Loriim returned it. By the time Razkar had exited his store, the odd "little" Akalak was bustling to and fro amongst his manikin army, adjusting and removing and adding gleaming plates or lengths of mail. A chime later, Razkar was back out in the bright sun and the freezing wind, Cloak of Fallen back across his shoulders, and weapons resting snugly in his new harness.

The Myrian smiled in satisfaction, but there was a grimness to it as well. That was the easy part of his day. What would follow would be more than a chore.

It would be a test.

RecieptHandaxe Repair: 30gm.0sm.0cm
Weapon Harness: 15gm0sm.0cm
Total: 45gm.0sm.0cm

by **Razkar** on January 22nd, 2013, 9:13 pm

Nessela didn't need someone to draw a diagram to figure out what the Myrian wanted at her store. High Spirits was known as the foremost place for Malediction "research" in Riverfall. Myrians were a race known for devouring their enemies, and using their bones in everything from piercings to home decorating. They knew the power of that magecraft. And here one was, with one already-maledicted gladius, and another with a plain bone handle...

"I take it you want me to work the same power on this weapon?"

"Yes." Why beat around the bush when you didn't need to, after all? "How much cost?"

"Well, it won't be cheap," the Konti said with a sigh, but then placed the hand ax on the counter and leaned back against it, hands gripping the sides. Bright, piercing eyes locked onto Razkar's. "But it's not just the money, Mister Razkar."

"Not "Mister". Just Razkar," the man himself said out of instinct before nodding slowly, as if he understood some silent bargain. Maybe she was closer to Mayla, the old crone from his village, than he'd thought. "So you want favor? I can do favor."

Nessela shook her head slowly, drawing out the confusion from the Myrian as she took a breath and walked to her shelf. Skulls were on it. Human, Akalak, and many other races. Some had Malediction circles on them, but most were plain. They were useful in some ceremonies, but not all. She mostly kept them around because her baby loved to rub herself against the gleaming domes.

That and what was a Spiritism store without a few skulls here and there?

But when she spoke, she caressed the skulls. She remembered they had belonged to living, breathing men and women once. People who had dreams and ideas and loved ones and hates and loves. Good and bad, every one. Now just decapitated, bleached decorations in a failing store.

She sighed again. People were so quick to rush towards the unknown. They acted like will and intention would belay consequences, that magic was some cure-all that bent and shaped reality to ones whims without repercussion.

But there was always a price.

"I need no favors from you, Razkar. I just want you to understand what it is you ask."

"I know Power of the Bones."

The bark of laughter was like a slap in the face, but she didn't whirl on him. He just saw her pale hair swing back and forth as she shook her head, scorn and sadness in her every gesture.

"You have seen it, I'm sure. Even watched a practitioner. But you do not know it, Razkar."

"I felt soul of woman in bone," Razkar said, low and serious and on the verge of anger, tapping his gladius. He did not often allow anyone to tell him what he did and did not know. "I saw in mind and felt in body. I know what I ask. I know what I risk. So not tell me I not."

The Konti turned slowly, and Razkar met her gaze with one as cool and level as hers. Nessela stepped forwards and picked up the hand ax, holding it in both of her delicate hands.

"Do you know what magecraft is, Razkar?"

"Is... djed. Magic."

"No, Razkar. It is a door. And what's the thing about doors?"

Razkar set his jaw but did not snap, even though he knew he was being played with. This woman was valuable and skilled and not an idiot. Her tone was... annoying, but he saw only concern and warning in her eyes, not condescension.

"They open."

She stepped forwards again. Razkar felt like he was being offered a final reprieve.

"They open both ways, Razkar. They can give power, and they can give horror. They can project our world... and let others in. Before we go on... I want you to understand that."

Silence in High Spirits. Even that weird not-movement seemed to quiet (and Razkar was sure he hadn't just heard purring). But on the very edge of his ears he heard something. Just a faint trace, and only for a moment. They sounded like...

Whispers.

He nodded.

"I understand what I do."

"Then follow me."

by **Razkar** on January 25th, 2013, 5:17 am

There was, of course, a backroom. Not just a room behind the counter for accounts and leftover frog entrails, but a proper room for the more... unorthodox magecrafts. Razkar followed Nessela down a winding staircase, lit only by a bobbing candle. Finally she came to a locked door that was soon not, and entered a much plainer room.

It could have been a basement or a wine cellar in times past. Now it was something else.

There was power in there. Rakar could feel it tingle on his skin and growl in his guts. Not the showy "magic" that many trafficked in, but an elemental knowledge, set apart from the more elemental crafts. The artifacts and dusty bones in that room were gateways to a place beyond this one; where even volcanoes and tidal waves were but passing annoyances and the most powerful Reimancer or Fluxer a trivial clown. The world beyond this world. Where all its pomp and majesty and terror and passions were just shadows.

Razkar felt only the echoes of that power. And that was more than enough.

Mayla would be envious of me at this moment.

"There are three things I want made clear before we begin." Nessela said as she sat down behind the small circular table in the middle of the room. Razkar stood over the seat opposite her until he was- "Oh, it, for the sake of the Goddess..."

"Thank you?"

"Where was I?"

"Three things."

"Yes. First of all, the price is a hundred gold mizas. That's non-negotiable, non-refundable and in advance. I trust you know why."

Razkar noted the suddenly acquisitive gleam that shone in the dim light of the room, and it was coming from the Konti's eyes. He'd nearly forgotten in her musings and concern that she was running a business, after all. A hundred mizas would take care of Goddess knew how many bills and expenses.

"Why advance?"

"Because, dear Razkar, I don't know for sure what will happen once the ritual is complete, and neither do you." The Kontu's tone now was all business, which made her mage vocabulary all the stranger to Razkar. But the warning as really and loud enough. "It might work perfectly. It might not work at all. It might kill you, me and every other living thing for a mile around us."

She noted the look on the Myrian's face and rolled her eyes.

"That last one is a tad unlikely. However, more unlikely is the risk of you being... unable to pay me, for whatever reason."

She said it so simply, but her words were enough to set off a tidal wave of thoughts and fears and hushed stories in Razkar's head. He'd heard that failed practitioners of the Power of Bones had morphed and twisted into monsters as divine payment for their hubris. Or been snatched out of existence, banished to the Void body and soul for a few chimes of bodily agony, and then an eternity of spiritual isolation.

Tap... tap... tap...

Nessela's finger rose and fell, steadily, and relentless, and her expression was similar. In the strange, flickering light, it seemed to Razkar that the young, smooth-featured woman had aged in mere chimes.

"Do we have a deal?"

A jingling of metal became a clattering, almost, as Razkar painstakingly counted out a hundred gold mizas. He shook his head as a third of his finds vanished when he pushed the glittering mound forwards.

"It was easier to just kill that tiger..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"I speak Myrian, Razkar."

"Not about you. What is second thing?"

Nessela tipped the golden mound into her purse and strung it tight. Well, that was food taken care of for the season; this one and the next. A little more chipper but eyes still serious, she turned her mind back to the task at hand.

"Secondly, I will assist you in the crafting of the circle necessary for the ritual, but you will carve the lettering or images that will give them true power. Is that understood, also?"

"Yes."

"Do you know why?"

Now he had his pragmatic head back on, Razkar thought he did, and answered with a wry half-smile: "So if bad happen, come on me. Not you."

"It will come one me, anyway. But it will focus on you. Thirdly, we will use my tools. I have had them for many years and they are well-tasked for what you want. Is that acceptable also?"

"I not carry carve tools."

"I'll take that as a "yes", then..."

The Konti bent over and there was the wooden scraping of a drawer being opened. Razkar did not see it in the low light. Outside of the table was merely a world of flickering shadows that played over skulls and bones and charms and trinkets from more places and corners of Mizahar than he'd ever heard of. He saw desert runes and Suvan Sea scrolls; Isurian metalwork next to Sunberth trophies; Akalak bones next to... Myrians skulls.

His own kind would watch over his that day. Or at least he hoped so.

Nessela placed an ornately-carved box onto the table and pushed it forwards. When she opened it, a dozen picks of various size were resting in velvet. They ranged in size from thick enough to be chisels, to fine enough to carve words into a finger bone.

Nessela extended her hand. Razkar handed her his ax.

"We'll begin..."

RecieptMalediction Ritual: 100gm.0sm.0cm

by **Razkar** on January 26th, 2013, 10:54 pm

There was reverence in her every move. Razkar noticed that quickly. Nessela's slim, almost-alabaster hands adroitly and carefully undid the leather strap wrapped around the Akalak thigh bone, unwinding it round and around until only the bone was exposed. She spoke as she did so.

"This bone is much wider than a human's. That afford us the opportunity to make a larger set of Malediction circles." Her eyes flickered to the edge of the table, boring through it to indicate Razkar's gladius. "The one with your sword? Fine bone, but narrow. It did not allow you much... poetry. You know this word?"

"Yes. Poem."

"Good." She selected a pick with her deft fingers, tested the end of it with the tip of one... and shook her head. "Too narrow." She selected what Razkar guessed was a larger one; he could barely tell the difference. But that time when she tested it, she nodded with grim satisfaction. "Perfect. Deep enough to make the circles and keep the carving sharp and clear for years to come. Now..."

He reached into the case again and produced a small well of black... ink? Razkar assumed it was ink, but it didn't smell like it. It was a smell he was familiar with, forever. He's just usually sensed it on battlefields. After the slaughter.

The Konti started to carve, and Razkar was silent as she worked, but she was not. Chimes stretched into bells, he was sure of it, but did not bother trying to keep track of the time. Only fools rushed work of this importance. If he had to stay there the rest of the day and night, so be it.

He watched her thin but strong fingers move in tiny, steady jerks, carving circles into the bone. She replenished the tip of her pick every now and then from the inkwell.

The single candle was all she worked by. She did now mvoe save for her careful fingers. And her lips.

It was nothing but a murmur, and Razkar was scarce sure he was hearing it. He thought it was that strange whispering he'd heard upstairs, or that damnable purring that came from the bookshelf. But no, it was words... and as his ears pricked, he was silently stunned to realize it was Myrian.

He recognized it. A litany of protection. And when he saw her lips move... he remembered Mayla, sitting in her bone-forged hut outside his village in Taloba, her hands moving like Nessela's were now, crafting circle of power onto a gleaming bone for Razkar to wield as a weapon.

Her lips had moved in the same way.

Finally she stopped muttering. Her hands followed suit. She held the bone up to the candle and Razkar could see five black circles carved onto the wood, each large enough for a few words of his native tongue. She extended her hand towards him and he took it gently, studying it...

"The carving is deep," she said, and now her words were but a whisper, "And will endure. But now, they are but potential. You must carve the words that will give this weapon the power you seek."

The pick hovered in front of Razkar, proferred by her steady hand, and her eyes matched it.

"Choose your words with care, Razkar."

That was all she said. The rest would be up to him, and they both knew it. Razkar spent a moment feeling the weight of the pick, its balance. He would have it in his hand for bells, he guessed that much. He took his mind back to that day, to the enemy he had fought, whose name he never knew and had never had reason to kill before that bright afternoon.

How to sum up such an event in but a handful of words? It was vexing now as it was years ago in Mayla's hut, carving the words for Elanosa onto her own dead bones.

Nessela watched as the Myrian frowned, staring at the circles, turning the thigh bone over in his hands... and then he changed his grip on both pick and bone, held the latter steady onto the table and the former gently but firm... and she watched him start to carve...

He was cautious, careful and accurate. Well, perhaps not the third one, but the first and second afforded him most of the third. He carved deep into the bone, but not in long strokes, lest his lines waver and his work be ruined. Myrian wasn't a particularly complex language, but its alphabet was surprisingly... elegant. One line or mark out of place, and the words would be gibberish.

Razkar guessed that would not be a good idea on an item imbued with the Power of Bones.

Slowly, the words began to take shape. Nessela frowned as she watched five words in Myrian appear in the top circle, in a rough square almost filling it. Her lips moved softly as she sounded them out...

Violet Warrior
Of Double Blades

Razkar's eyes were on his work, and his hands were one with them, but his mind was on that memory. Of the violet-skinned Akalak a foot taller than him, eyes hard and determined, with a lakan in each hand and. Now that he had his start, the words came easily, memory and articulation melding together as the pick moved to the middle circle.

Skilled, Cunning
Strength And Will

He fought hard, and his blades moved so fast and so accurately that Razkar was hard-pressed to block his blows, let alone mount any of his own. But he was no knight errand, that Akalak, and when the Myrian fought dirty, he responded in kind. Razkar had rarely been so close to death in that duel, fighting any implacable and towering enemy.

The final circle was filled, gradually, each word taking chimes and chimes, but Nessela approved. Razkar wanted this ritual done right, and patience was the best way to accomplish it. She squinted as the last words were carved into the bone, slightly smaller since there were more of them

Fought Well
But Defeated
And Devoured

Razkar's hand had the barest tremble in it by the time he finished the final word. How long had he sat there? A bell? Two? Four? He did not know, and there was no means to find out. Time was irrelevant down here, in a place bedecked and festooned with trophies or places and beings that were eternal. Once he was finished, he blew gently on his work, banished scraps and fragments from the scratchings.

"Now the words are done," Nessela said quietly, sliding over the ink well, "Fill them. Make them stark and clear for the gods."

Razkar did what he was told without complaint. He glanced into the tiny vial and saw plenty of thick liquid inside it. He dipped the end of the pick into it, tapping off the excess and gently fed it into the first word... and started etching it into them.

A tiny, determined scraping was all that was heard by the two in the darkening room, as the candle burned down and life passed around and above them. Unnoticed and uncaring, save for the shadows' whispers.

by **Razkar** on January 29th, 2013, 9:38 pm

"There is still one more thing to do, Razkar."

The Myrian in question just nodded. His body was numbly obeying commands now, weary from bells sitting down and carving and squinting at his work for painstaking chimes after chimes. But his mind, fittingly enough, knew better, and was still girding itself for what was to come.

What would end this ritual was not a matter of body, but will and soul.

"You know what is required to seal this, I trust?"

Razkar nodded again, wiped the pick clean and then dig the tip of it into his finger. Nessela watched as blood bloomed on the dark digit, shining in the flickering candlelight. There was no hesitation in his movements in what followed. She understood why, after seeing his gladius. He had been here before.

He placed the hand ax flat on the table, Malediction circles and their fresh lettering facing upwards. He held his finger over them and squeezed... and she heard the muttered words in his people's tongue that spilled from his lips with the scarlet liquid.

"In Myri's name..."

The first drop plopped onto the top circle, spattering perfectly with a barely audible impact.

"And the name of my clan..."

Another drop into the middle circle, and Nessela frowned almost imperceptibly. The whispers were becoming louder. The summoning had begun, but soul or raw djed, she did not yet know.

"I ask blessing from the Goddess of War..."

When the third drop fell and spread across the bottom circle, Nessela actually winced, the room unchanged, no change to the candle, but it felt like a hundred voices shouting from the middle of her head, until one voice drowned them out.

The Akalak.

"With this offering, forged from war and victory."

It was done, and the raging, wordless voice ceased as if it had been the candle on the table suddenly snuffed out. But her eyes were not of most; she could see things beyond the mundane, earned and learned from years in the craft of mages. Nessela swallowed and absentmindedly stroked a strand of white hair from her head.

"You... You have to pick it up."

"I know."

There was no blowing winds or unearthly moaning or fireworks. At least not as far as Razkar saw, and with a faint sense of disappointment. He knew that power did not need to be grandstanding or over-elaborate or exaggerated, but... nothing? He almost felt cheated.

But even a novice in the art of Malediction, which he was, could sense on some tangential, primal level that what was sitting on the table now was not just a hand ax. It was something else... carried something else...

He reached out his hand, took hold of it, and the ax did the same to him.

Instantly he felt a fire scorch his hand but knew there would be no burns or smoke or flame. He gritted his filed teeth until one bit into his gums, the shock and pain banishing all the weariness he had felt a mere chime ago He forced himself to keep his eyes open and saw the Konti back away from the table, but unable to look away from the... battle?

Yes. That was what it was.

Razkar did not need the inside of his eyelids to see the Akalak again. Freshly summoned from the next world, he could see a hazy violet figure wreathed in smoke, printed on the inside of his eyes and nowhere else, it seemed. Gone was the composure and cold ferocity that he had seen when the Akalak was alive. Now there was a raging indignation and thirst for vengeance.

Slowly, perhaps... pleasurably... Razkar grinned.

"I... see you..."

There were no words; they were unnecessary. Only a scream of hatred that shook Razkar's bones and nearly buffeted him from his seat. But he persevered, he sat and gripped his weapon like he had when he confronted Elanosa years ago in Mayla's hut. The same words he spoke then came to his lips, as true then as they were in that room in Riverfall.

"I do not suffer... the dead, Akalak... and you were bested."

The wraith howled again and Razkar jerked his hand behind his back, coming up with a fistful of curved, gleaming steel, as if showing it to the figure that he alone could see. He grinned wider when he saw the Akalak's rage crumple into something like... grief and pain.

"Good. You are dead, but still feel pain. Then you know you can be defeated again. I took your life. I consumed your flesh. I crafted a fine weapon from your corpse and took your own. Now I will defeat you again."

Nessela just watched. It was all she could do. Whatever djed or magic or struggle or evil was taking place, it was all between the man and the ax. Malediction was a very personal magic, crafted by those who wanted to augment their own power with those of the dead.

Meaning, the Myrian was on his own, and as long as he didn't damage any of her stuff, so be it.

More words in his native language flowed, fast and guttural, sometimes angry, or mocking, or cajoling. She couldn't follow some of it, and her eyes never left the quivering weapon in his hand... until his voice rose to a scream that rushed around the room like wind.

"You are dead, Akalak!" Razkar roared, relishing the shade before him contort in agony. "Two warriors met; one walked away! That is the way of our world! I take my spoils, whatever I deem them to be, and what I deem this day... is your power for my ax! And you-will-GIVE-IT!"

Nessela heard the scream, but it did not come from Razkar's lips. Then the candle blew out and damned the room to pitch.

by **Traverse** on February 3rd, 2013, 5:07 am

"...And My Axe."

Razkar :

Additional Notes :

Questions, Concerns? PM me and we'll be to the bottom of it. Safe Travels!

Solo The Thing About Doors...