beren terino

I just stumbled across this bookmark again, and I feel like I owe you an explanation, and an apology. I was over-ambitious. I admit that frankly. This started out as a simple, limited story, well-grounded in the games, but it quickly became so much more. I was overwhelmed by your kind words, and still flush from the excitement of finishing National Novel Writing Month. I was replaying Geneforge 5, and my mind was full of Shapers and stories, epic war and battle. But, alas, I was struck with my two biggest writing nemesi- overambition and lack of time. Through a combination of exterior and interior reasons and excuses, I never, ever, spend as much time writing as I would like to- or should. Worse, I was overambitious. This fiction always was intended to portray the Shapers at war. However, as I struggled with the first battle scene, I discovered an unfortunate truth- big battles are HARD. It's easy to imagine tactics, and new war creations, but writing such a scene so it's actually exciting is very, very, hard. And, as time went on, I struggled to keep my inspiration. I finished Geneforge, and my mind also moved on, bombarding me with new inspirations. There was no real reward for finishing this story; no shining hope of being published. Real life ground on, and I honestly forgot I had started this fanfic. And so, I apologize. I'm sorry for setting up this epic story and leaving it half-finished; I'm sorry for leading you on for so long; and I'm sorry for for forgetting about it. I know you have no reason to forgive me, and I don't expect it. I'm not going to make promises. I've started college; I have schoolwork, clubs (including writing for a radio show), friends, and a thousand other writing projects I want to finish. But, I will say this: I will re-read what I have written. If it inspires me again, if my characters have enough life of their own, I may take pen to paper once again. If not...if I loose interest again...don't get your hopes up, is all I'm saying. But...there is a chance of revival. A slight one. Maybe. A little bit. Begging your most sincere apologies, Beren

Wait a minute, what's that I...is that...an update? HOLY CRAP!!! http://www.spiderwebforums.com/forum/ubbthreads.php?ubb=showflat&Number=207476#Post207476

Don't lose all faith...I haven't abandoned this project completely, but I do admit that it's slipped somewhat in my priorities...I promise that I will update it, however. Eventually. In the meantime, please accept this short story as a peace offering. It has no relationship to Geneforge, but it is an unashamed Conan tribute/rip off, so you might enjoy it. Click to reveal.. Greetings, reader. Know that you hold in your hands a full recounting of my life. The son of a human woman and a hill giant warrior, in my youth I have been a sellsword, a crusader, a legionnaire, and more. I have had more adventure, more sorrow, and more peril in my life than a hundred lesser men. For these are the tales of… Grod the Giant Part the Twelfth: The Wyrm of Kay’rath After an unfortunate misunderstanding with Lord Opanir, regarding the affections of his youngest daughter, I was forced to flee his city in a great hurry. I hopped aboard the first ship leaving port, only to discover that its captain intended to pass through the infamous Kay’rath isles, where thousands of narrow coves provide ample anchorage for any number of pirates. Therefore, it came as no surprise when our ship was attacked by a particularly vicious crew one stormy night. During the fighting, I was thrown overboard, and barely managed to stay afloat by catching hold of a piece of wooden wreckage. Sadly, permanent rescue was not so easily found… “Goddamn pirates,” I muttered to myself, shifting my grasp on the driftwood. “Sinking my goddamn ship. Two days of floating around this goddamn pond…” I tried to spit, but my mouth was dry. “I just wish something would goddamn happen.” Suddenly, something huge and scaly burst up from underwater. I fumbled, barely managing to grab onto a spike before I fell off. The beast I was clinging to continued to rise. Then, with a loud thump, it spread huge, bat-like wings and took to the air in true flight. ‘A dragon’, I though. ‘[censored]’. I reached down and touched the handle of my shortsword, reassuring himself that I had not lost it over the past few days, but the constant immersion in saltwater had surely rusted the blade, even with the special protective scabbard. ‘What the hell is a dragon doing in the middle of the Inner Sea?’ I was clinging to one of the many spikes that started at the tip of the dragon’s tail and continued all the way up its titanic body and neck. The tail was tipped with a diamond-shaped barb ominously close to his own feet. The dragon was fairly serpentine, but had six limbs, aside from its wings- four squat, powerful legs at the base of its body, and two slimmer arms in front of its wings. The wings themselves were absolutely enormous- each one much have stretched more than a hundred feet, and they were nearly fifty feet wide at the broadest point. Its head resembled that of a lizard, but it was capped with swept-back spines, and a vast alien intellect shone in its golden eyes. The entire creature was more than two hundred and fifty feet from tail to snout, and entirely clad in sapphire-blue scales, each one the size of a tower shield and hard as diamond. I twisted, planted my feet on the spike beneath me, and began to climb. As I did, I realized that I truly had no idea what I was doing. Dragons were incredibly powerful creatures, nearly impossible to kill. Even adamantine weapons had trouble penetrating their scaly armor, and their scales reflected magic as well as steel. No part of their body was unprotected- their eyes were covered by a transparent membrane that was almost as strong as their scales. Their ears were armored by their head-spines. The soft tissue in their mouths could be injured, but in the heat of battle their mouths were typically filled with fire, and any attack would have to make it past hundreds of man sized, razor-sharp teeth. Any attack on such a beast required careful preparation and extensive magical support- both of which I lacked. My only resources were a single short blade and my own strong right arm. Feeling my weight on its tail, the dragon twisted in midair, doing an aerial somersault of some sort before going into a vertical dive. I hung on with all of my considerable strength, but I still felt myself begin to slip. Suddenly, the dragon snapped its wings out in a huge down stroke. The shock of the maneuver threw me off the wyrm and into the air- hundreds of feet above the ocean. “[censored],” I swore as the dragon twisted and swooped towards me. Its right foreclaw closed around me like a vise, crushing my ribs and squeezing the breath from my lungs. I struggled frantically to draw my sword, but the dragon held me too tightly. Its widely opened mouth loomed before me, and a plan formed in my mind. It was desperate, reckless, and almost certain to fail. In other words, right up my alley. The dragon took a moment to roar in triumph, nearly defining me, before tossing me into its mouth. I nearly gagged at the smell, but managed to land on my feet. The dragon’s mouth was easily large enough for me upright- I’ve seen smaller houses. The tongue quaked beneath my feet, and I jumped to the side just in time to avoid being swallowed, drawing my sword as I did so. Taking a two-handed grip, I sank the rusty blade up to the hilt in the base of the dragon’ tongue. There was no immediate reaction, but I set my feet carefully and wrenched it sideways, tearing a wide gash in the tender flesh. Hot, sticky blood fountained out, and a ruptured saliva gland added its caustic liquid to the flood, searing my unprotected, sunburned flesh. The dragon bellowed in pain. Ancient instincts kicked into action, and its nostrils flared as it inhaled deeply. I heard the rushing air, and turned to run, blood-soaked sword in hand. I leaped between the dragon’s razor-sharp teeth, tearing open my thigh on an incisor, and plummeted from its open mouth an instant before I would have been incinerated. A massive plume of fire scorched my back as I fell. The plume of white-hot flame, hot enough to vaporize steel, blasted out across the sky, a mile long and a hundred feet wide at the tip. The dragon spotted my falling body, and it snarled murderously. Hurt, it thought, the single sensation echoing through its simple mind. Kill. I heard the scream of rage, felt the wind of the dragon’s dive even above the sensation of falling. Well, I thought bitterly, I tried. The claw grabbed me again, this time from behind. my sword arm was free this time, and I flailed away at what flesh I could reach, but my sword simply bounced off the dragon’s scales. From the corner of my eye, y saw the ocean fast approaching. The force of the impact smashed me flat. A normal man would have been killed instantly; as it was, I ‘merely’ broke another few ribs, my nose, and nearly dislocated both arms. I struggled to free myself, but the dragon did not comply. it whipped its sinuous body around with effortless grace, bearing me father down into the lightless depths. The claw holding me thrashed about, beating me broken body against the water. Once I passed close enough to its head to see the madness in its eye, but then I was borne away. Chest bursting, pulse pounding in my head, I knew I had to get free soon. I stopped slashing wildly and took careful aim at a point between two of the wide scales. Setting both hands on the hilt, I thrust with all of my strength, and the blade dug into the seam. The dragon’s massive hand convulsed, and I slipped out of the dragon’s grasp and made a break for the surface. The dragon caught me first, shooting up from the depths like a bolt from a crossbow. The initial wild rush bore me up and out of the water in an explosion of spray, but then I was falling backwards, and the dragon’s vast mouth was rising to meet me… Long fangs snapped shut beneath me, and the world went black. The dragon rose into the air again, its huge wings beating strongly. It had already killed one of the tiny monkeys, but that was nowhere near enough to sate its bloodlust. It extended its head, sniffing at the air, and caught the faint scent of a whole ship full of the monkeys, rich with the smells of blood and death. Its wings beat powerfully, driving its massive body forwards. it would eat well tonight… As it flew, it became aware of a strange pain in its throat. It coughed a few times, but that merely made the pain worse. It spat out a quick fireball, but the pain must have been coming from a point below where the flame ignited, for it persisted. It wasn’t too bad, the dragon finally decided. Just a bit of metal from the latest monkey, stuck in its esophagus. It would go away soon. The dragon flew on in silence, trailing a menacing stream of smoke. The pain was getting really bad now- it felt like something was pushing against the inside of its skin- The tip of a sword, scarred and pitted from the dragon’s acidic blood, poked through the flesh of its neck, and screaming a wordless scream, I burst through after it. My skin was badly burned and I was covered head to toe with blood, much of it my own, but I was still very much alive. Not for long, though, because I was still hundreds of feet in the air. I managed to catch hold of one of the dragon’s claws, and the force of the impact wrenched my already abused shoulders. I pulled myself up, every inch of my body protesting behind a fog of adrenalin. The dragon was getting frantic now, grasping at its wounded throat with both forepaws. ‘No good, you bastard,’ I thought triumphantly. ‘That’s a mortal wound if I ever saw one.’ And indeed, the dragon’s wing strokes were already faltering. As its blood poured out, and its breaths rasped and whistled through the massive wound, it drifted lower and lower, until finally, its eyes shut and it simply plummeted from the sky. Of course, that meant that I was also falling. I swung my feet around under me and kicked off as hard as I could. The dragon hit the water with enough force to fling hundreds of gallons upwards. Its corpse broke the surface for me, so that I dropped into the sea with barely any pain, but that still left tons of water hanging overhead, about to come back down in a big hurry. I sucked in a deep breath and dove as fast as I could, trying to get under the dragon’s body before the waves came smashing back… The pirates- ironically, the same ones who had sunk my first ship- found my body the next day, washed up on the shore of one of the innumerable Kay’rath islands. I had nothing of value, and they initially planned to leave me there, but then they saw one of the dragon’s wings, snapped off by the force of the impact, a few hundred yards down the beach from me, and decided that maybe they would wake me up and ask me a few questions. Eventually, I managed to make them believe my story, and in admiration, they offered me a place on their crew. I accepted, at least as long as it took until we got back to a reputable port. But that is a story for another day.

Originally Posted By: Shaper Tristan Ugh, it's like trying to read a book one chapter per week, this is definitly my favorite fanfic...... Though this chapter was far too short. It's not the whole chapter- I'm trying to post scenes as I finish them, rather than wait until I have the whole ~10 page chapter, hopefully eliminating some of the frustration. Thanks for the compliment, though- I'm glad people are enjoying it.

Many apologies for the long delays last chapter- besides real life intruding, it turns out that army scenes are rather hard to write. The saga continues... Chapter Four- Hraki Castle “You WHAT?” “Ah…suffered three hundred and seventy-two casualties, including a hundred and four serviles and two mages, my Lady,” Beren said sheepishly, remaining on his knees. “You,” Lady Nariah growled, powerful hands flexing at her sides. “I trusted you, gave you resources and authority Shapers would KILL for, and asked you to do one. Simple. Task.” A pause. “Investigate and fortify one stinking, crumbling, ruin. It should,” she glared, “Have been easy. And yet, somehow, you manage to kill half your command doing it!” “My lady…let me explain,” Beren pleaded. “There was-” “Damnit, I don’t want to hear you grovel!” Nariah threw herself down on her throne in disgust. “I had confidence in you, Beren, and you failed me.” “I-” “FAILED ME!” She screamed, her words echoing back and forth across the chamber as she glared at the disgraced Shaper before her. “Please, my lady,” Beren tried again. “If you’ll just talk to-” “I don’t want to talk to your damn Dn’arre wizard,” she growled. “I don’t want to talk to Matys, or Linari, or Garod., and I don’t want to talk to you. Get out.” “…Lady?” “GET OUT!” Again, the angry echo boomed out. “Get out of my castle! Hell, get out of my province!” “I’m sorry, but-” “OUT!” Nariah’s hand darted to her belt, and Beren ducked as a throwing axe whizzed past his head. It clattered off the wall on the opposite side of the chamber, and he scampered for the door before she could find another weapon. Master Kyager was waiting for him just outside. The old Shaper had a prominent nose, bushy white mustache, dark green eyes, and a shock of curly white hair underneath the hood of his traditional robe. “Sounds like the good Lady just tore you a new one,” he chuckled. “That she did,” Beren agreed ruefully. “I’m lucky there’s enough of me left for her to do that much.” “I read your report,” Kyager nodded, taking out his pipe from underneath his robe. “You got clobbered out there, and rightfully so, but from the look of things there wasn’t much you could have done.” “No,” Beren grimaced. “I’d never heard of these death pact magics before the battle. But…I should have been able to do something,” he muttered, shaking his head angrily. The old Shaper patted him gently on the arm. “And that’s why you’ll be a better Shaper Lord than Nariah one day. But until then…what are you to do now?” “What was…I don’t know,” Beren said, confused by Kyager’s last statement. “Go back to the Council, apply for another position, I guess.” “But that’s not what you’d like to do, is it?” Kyager’s eyes glimmered as he lit his pipe. “I’d like to get my hands on whoever ordered these attacks,” Beren admitted, anger flashing in his eyes. “But that’s hardly an option now.” “Not necessarily,” Kyager blew a smoke ring. “Nariah never gave any official instructions as to what to do with you. As the official representative of the Council, I could, perhaps, be persuaded to write you some agent papers…” “What do you want from me?” Beren asked, suddenly guarded. Agent papers would identify him as an official agent of the Council, giving him permission to travel and oblige local commanders to give him what aid they could. They were like a license to wander around and stick his nose in things that were none of his business. It would give him the perfect opportunity to hunt for those behind the attack, but…no-one would just hand over such valuable documents without first extracting a major price. “I believe you were on the Project Starfire team a few years back? Under- oh, who was it now…ah yes, Shaper Dakar, before his…unfortunate demise?” “Yes…” “Excellent,” Kyager grinned. “Show me how to Shape those kinetic energy glands and we’ll call it even.” “Certainly,” Beren said, pleasantly surprised. “I’d be happy to.” ---------------------------------- That afternoon… Tuck, roll, twist…Beren finished wrapping the last crystal vial in insulating silk. He handed it to a servile, who carefully tucked it away in a well-padded pack. “I think that’s it,” he said, half-to himself, as he stood up and stretched. He didn’t have much in the way of personal possessions to pack, but securing a full set of Shaping tools and compounds took far more time than he would have liked, particularly after spending so long teaching old Kyager. Still, the time hadn’t been totally wasted- he had Shaped two kinetic roamers- both full, companion creations, and that should be enough of an escort for the moment. With agent papers, it wouldn’t be too hard to persuade the creation keeper to let him sign out a packbeast to carry his bags. There were a few hours of sunlight left, more than enough for him to reach the nearest fort. He laced up his essence-infused light armor, made from small plates of glaahk chitin attached to a leather vest, and slipped on the matching boots and bracers. A short sword and wand case went on his left hip, a pouch of explosive crystals and healing spores on his right. He donned a selection of enchanted jewelry, and shrugged on his Shaper robe. He was ready to leave. “Beren?” Make that almost ready, he corrected himself, as he turned to face the newcomer. “Hello, Linari,” he said coolly. “I heard about what happened to you,” she said, her soft green eyes filled with sympathy. “It’s…it’s terrible.” “[censored] happens,” he shrugged philosophically. “What are you going to do now?” She took a step forwards, pulling back her hood. Her long red hair spilled down over her shoulders, glistening softly in the light. “What Nariah should be doing,” he said grimly. “Screw defense. I’m going to find out who’s behind these attacks and force-feed them their own liver.” “But…without Lady Nariah’s resources, how will you…” “I have agent papers,” he explained. “The local authorities won’t know what’s happened; they’ll help if I need it. Besides…you saw what happened when we tried force. They wiped out our division like it didn’t exist! There are times when one man in the wrong place at the right time can make all the difference in the world.” “I…I could go with you,” she said, drawing closer to him. “Help you.” “I’ll be fine on my own,” he said, taking a step back. “You’ll be more useful here, protecting civilians.” “But…” she pouted. “I want to be…with you…” “Linari,” he said softly, “You’re a Shaper. Our feelings aren’t important. Harden your heart and do what needs to be done.” He stepped briskly towards the door, taking his pack from the servile holding it. “Farewell.” Linari dropped to the bed in disgust and waited until his footsteps died away. “Well, [censored],” she muttered. ------------------------------------------- Sharatir was waiting for him outside the castle gates. The tattooed wizard had his pistol tucked into his belt, and was holding the reins of a small packbeast. “What are you doing here?” Beren asked suspiciously. “I hope you aren’t going to turn down my help.” “Only because I suspect you know much more than you’re letting on,” Beren muttered. “Perhaps,” the wizard smiled enigmatically. “I believe you were hoping to reach Fort Kirgsaat before sunset?” The two men walked in silence for a time. The only noises were the squelch of their footsteps, and the occasionally whinny from the packbeast. Finally, Beren could stand it no longer, and turned to face his companion. “Why are you really here? No-one in their right mind would travel so far north just to look at some old ruins in a swamp. How did you even know they existed? And how the hell did you get your hands on a packbeast?” “The creation keeper had heard all about the battle, and he, at least, decided that I had been helpful. And I have a small amount of gold for…travel expenses,” Sharatir explained. “That,” Beren said icily, “Was not the pertinent question.” He cracked his knuckles. “Did you know that one of my favorite teachers studied magic in Ts’rrede? He used to go on and on about all of your fascinating traditions…like identifying tattoos.” He smiled. “I had a junior Shaper look up the order of the Quiet Circle. Turns out that your markings don’t quite fit the bill.” “Is that so?” Sharatir’s smile remained unshaken. “In fact,” Beren’s eyes twinkle dangerously, “They don’t match any Dn’arre school of wizardry that we know of.” “Perhaps your intelligence is lacking?” “Perhaps,” Beren nodded. “But then again, while your tattoos don’t match any known school, Shapers have seen them before. Wizards of this…unknown school, shall we say…they’ve been seen all over the continent, on seemingly innocuous errands. But, somehow, wherever your kind is spotted, trouble of an…unusual nature seems to follow. Rebellions. Rogue creations. Renegade mages.” Sharatir remained silent, although some of the serene good humor faded from his eyes. “Now, some accounts blame the wizards,” Beren continued. “But me? I find myself more in agreement with those who noted that the wizards often aided locals against the threats. It seems that they believe that your order are more like our agents- dispatched by some central authority to enforce your own laws.” “You’re not far off, friend Shaper,” Sharatir inclined his head. “I underestimated your order’s perception. There’s only a single facet of my school’s mission which you overlooked.” “Care to share what it is?” “I might as well, as it appears we have the same goal.” The wizard fingered the hilt of his gun. “The Order of the Invisible Star consists of many types of adventurers, not just wizards, but we share a common purpose- opposition to the Crj’arre warchief known as Crj’hyrn, or the Fist of Crajire.” “Hold on a moment,” Beren raised a hand. “We have records of your order stretching back for centuries. Not even Shaping can prolong a man’s life that long.” “I am not well versed in your arts, but there has been a Crj’hyrn for two hundred and sixty-three years,” Sharatir admitted. “We suspect that there have been many men who assumed his mantle, but their goals have been clear from the start.” He looked Beren straight in the eye, voice deadly serious. “They desire nothing less than the total eradication of your people.” “The Shapers?” “Not just the Shapers. I said your people. Soldiers, farmers, merchants, craftsmen…they want to reclaim the land you stole from them. They will stop at nothing until every man, woman, and child from the land you call Old Terrestria is dead, your towns razed, and your names forgotten.”

OK! I (finally) finished Chapter 3! Only another five hundred words or so, but that was a mean cliffhanger I left you off on. I apologize again for how long you were left hanging- I hope to have the next section up sooner. A link for ease of access: http://www.spiderwebforums.com/forum/ubbthreads.php?ubb=showflat&Number=204985#Post204985

Originally Posted By: Geneforgeisformeyukkyu I wonder what Beren Terino has been doing? Long term project. Raymond E. Feist novels. Finals. Girlfriend. Red Dead Redemption. Registering for classes. Editing my novel. Guitar. Sins of a Solar Empire. Looking for a summer job. Working on other stories. Jumping around like an attention-deficit rabbit hopped up on amphetamines. You know...the usual. Thanks for reminding me about this, though. A month without updates? I'll certainly try to rectify that before too long.

Modern 'bulletproof' vests are made from extremely advanced materials and polymers, but they are not bulletproof. Completely bulletproof armor would weigh hundreds of pounds and make movement impossible. While Dn'arre firearms aren't nearly as powerful as modern ones, Shaper material science is far less advanced than ours. Shaped armor is very strong, yes, and would *probably* be proof against most firearms. I'd certainly expect plenty of bullets to bounce off. But that's not a guarantee, and if, say, a high-power musket is fired at close range, it might penetrate. I don't really know- I have no idea what kind of relative strength Shaped metal has compared to normal kinds. Anyway, this is a story I'm writing, not a game- narrative imperative trumps all.

Artilas shoot acid. I don't know what kind of penetration they had in the games, but they ought to melt right through iron and steel. But yes, I suspect a shaped breastplate would hold up against small arms, at least at decent ranges, given that it's stronger than steel- even in Napoleonic times, only muskets could penetrate a good steel breastplate. Also, while Dn'arre wizards are strong, they aren't that strong. They can do a lot of damage to an opposing army, but so can a Shaper, or a Crj'arre shaman. Certainly not enough more that they don't need armies.

I'm trying to make all of the factions different, but balanced, to borrow a term from gaming. Dn'arre wizards have more powerful battle magic than Shapers, but they don't have the same kind of...environmental impact? Shapers do a lot more than just cast spells- think of all of the organic technology, from batons to mines to automatic doors (and, least we forget, plagues, which were hinted at from time to time in the games). To be on the same level of civilization, the Dn'arre needed something to make up for the lack of Shaping- technology. I want the factions to do different things. Shapers, as seen in the games, have simple, elemental magic, creations, magical machinery, and enchantments. The Dn'arre, to balance things, get *crude* guns- late seventeenth/early eighteenth century style, muzzle-loading, smoothbore flintlocks (with a range of less than a hundred meters, according to wikipedia, a fair deal less than a well-made bow). They're not a whole lot more powerful than well-made batons, and they're not as reliable. The reason Shapers don't like guns is that they can't detect them as easily as batons (which are, after all, alive). A man with a pistol is on about equal footing to a man with a baton, while an artila might be considered equal to a light cannon. Both Shapers and Dn'arre consider their own weapons to be superior, after all factors are considered. I'm reasonably confident in my ability to keep things straight.

I'm not dead! I'm not dead, and neither is this fanfiction! New scenes are up, as is a revised section on the setting (see the first page of the thread). Sorry for the cliffhanger, but I need to sleep and mull on how to continue. I wouldn't normally have posted it, but I wanted to reassure everyone that I'm still here, and still working on things. School, video games, and other writing projects continue to take up my time, but I want to say, again, that this story is NOT dead. I'm working on it on-and-off, when the inspiration hits, and it will keep updating, if slowly. Sorry for the long delays.

Hey, guys. It's been awhile- I've been distracted by schoolwork and other projects (which might actually get published someday). But I'm back, and things are going to start to get intense here in New Terrestria. In G4 and G5 we saw the Shapers involved in a guerrilla war, but...things are going to be a bit more blatant here. I'm posting scenes as I churn them out- they'll probably be more in a day or two. Chapter Three- The Infested Swamp “…And he said that he would attempt to visit within a week or so,” Beren concluded his report. Lady Nariah nodded, absently tapping her thigh. She wore plain, though finely made, robes, not armor, but she slouched on her throne like a surly teenager, not the Shaper lady she truly was. “I like this not,” she frowned. “Master Jarlyn merely confirms my suspicions that these blood creations were the work of skillful Shapers, not primitive amateurs like some in my court would suggest,” she finished, glaring at the now-empty Council representative’s seat. Beren nodded silently, for Shaper Master Kyager had been particularly outspoken in his scorn for the blood creations. He wondered darkly how the older Shaper would have fared in battle against them, but he knew he was being unfair. Kyager was an arrogant old man, but if he distrusted new ideas, that was his prerogative as an agent of the Shaper Council (1), and he was also fair enough to accept them once their virtues were proven, and he was not above lending a helping hand where it was needed. “His explanation for their power is certainly better than anything I can think of,” Nariah continued, “But somehow, it doesn’t feel right. I’ve had regular reports from the caravan transporting the captured creations, and they’re not getting any weaker. Worse, the dhaerman in particular have been getting stronger- one managed to break free of all the restraints and spells placed on it, and had to be destroyed. And word has come in of more attacks- strange creations have been harrying the towns of Traav and Reflakir.” “More blood creations?” Beren asked. “Aye,” Nariah nodded, “Yet another variety,” she said with a sigh. “Thankfully, they’re not as powerful as the dhaerman, but they’re fast and seem to be using hit-and-run tactics. “I dispatched most of the Shapers here to the targeted region,” she continued. “But every bone in my body cries out for action.” “With all respect, ma’am, what can we do?” Beren wondered. “Come with me,” she commanded, rising and walking to the center of her throne room, where a low wooden table was covered with maps of Ironwater Province. “Jharilar, Traav, and Reflakir are all located in this quadrant, close to the western border,” she said, pointing at a map. “The border forts send out regular patrols- which I ordered stepped up after your first report- so it’s unlikely that the attacks came from there. Any large concentrations of foreigners would be noticed. But if you look at the area between the affected towns…” Beren bent over the map. The terrain in the area was fairly unremarkable- swamp, swamp, and more swamp. There was only one unusual feature. “The Dn’arre Depths?” Nariah nodded in approval. “It makes perfect sense, if you assume that our foes are Shapers. It’s close to the border, but deep enough in the territory to avoid the border forts. The swamp there is much deeper than the surrounding area, so there’s little traffic, but, if you know the area- or have good maps…” She tapped the paper- “There are lots of old ruins in the area that our enemy Shapers could use, and a highway of sorts- a crumbled stone bridge back to the general swamp area.” “Sounds like the perfect base of an insurgency, all right,” Beren agreed. “Damn right it is,” she snorted. “That’s why I want you to check it out.” “Me?” Beren looked shocked. “You,” Nariah agreed. “Don’t look so surprised. I had to send most of my really senior Shapers off to wealthy towns to protect them,” she grimaced, muttering a curse against politics, “Or else they already had too many responsibilities. You’ve already proven yourself against the creatures- hell, you’re the closest thing to an expert on them I’ve got- and I’ve never made it a secret that I’ve got a soft spot for troublemakers like you.” “My lady, I-” Beren stammered, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Relax, I didn’t mean anything improper. But we all play the patronage game, for one reason or another, and I just happen to think that you’re one of the most talented young Shapers I’ve ever commanded. You’ll go far- unless you piss off someone with more influence than good sense,” she grinned. “You’re now in command of Shaper Division Four,” she continued. “I want you to build up an assault force and take it to the Depths. If the raiders are there, capture as many as you can, and kill the rest. But whether or not anyone’s there, pick the largest ruin and start building a permanent base there. Make full companion creations, but do so as fast as you can.” “Yes, my lady,” Beren bowed formally. “I’ll do my best.” “You’d better,” she scowled. “But get some sleep first- you look like hell,” she added, more kindly. “Oh, and when you start Shaping your force…proceed under war rules,” she added. Beren left the chamber in a stunned daze of surprise and worry. ‘War rules’ were almost never instituted. Normally intelligent creations- things like vlish, cadaroth, and firewings(2)- were strictly limited, only allowed to be Shaped as battle creations. But under war rules, he could Shape anything not explicitly Barred. It was a chilling responsibility. Under peace conditions, he could perhaps raise of force of drayaks and raid a village. But now, he could- in fact, was encouraged to- replace them with firewings and reduce the village to a smoldering crater. And it was not just he who had that authorization- an entire division- six low-level Shapers, a dozen mages, and a elite hundred soldiers- was under his command. It was more than he had ever commanded before. A Shaper Division wielded more firepower than many Anarchist kingdoms’ could assemble. He returned to his chambers, but for a long while, his mind was too busy for sleep to arrive. --------------------------------- The next morning… “I hear we have a new commander,” Matys, a fourth level Shaper, commented to his companions as he arrived in their shared laboratory. He was around twenty-five years old, and tall and muscular, with dark skin and hair. “Do you know who?” Linari asked. Another fourth level Shaper, she was a short, slender redhead, barely twenty-two years old. “I heard it’s Beren,” Garod grumbled. The oldest of the three Shapers of Division Four, he was a third level Shaper and had expected to be given command after the promotion of their last commander. He was tall and balding, with a short grey beard and dark brown eyes. “Nariah’s little pet…” “Actually, I hear he’s quite good,” Matys commented. “He was at Jharilar, and that accident at the Starfire Warrens a few years ago.” “Luck,” Garod scoffed. “Mark my words, children, he only got the position ‘cause he’s sleeping with Nariah.” Linari laughed. “Old fool,” she said affectionately. “I’ve only been here three months, and even I know that our lady looks to the Moon(3).” “Humph,” the older Shaper crossed his arms. “I still say there’s something wrong here.” “Like what?” Beren asked, suddenly looming up behind him. “Beren!” Garod jumped to his feet and bowed hastily. “Sir, I was just-” “Can it,” Beren said, waving him back down. “I don’t know you,” he said, looking over his new command, “And you don’t know me, so let’s not judge each other from gossip, however juicy,” he added, looking sternly at Garod. “We damn well better get along fine. If you have a problem with anyone on the team, tell me. If you have a problem with me, tell me. If you have a suggestion, tell me. That goes for the mages and soldiers as well. “Now,” he continued, dropping into a chair, “Our mission. We’re to Shape ourselves a nice little army,” he smiled, “Head down to the Dn’arre Depths, and pay a visit to anyone who might be hiding there. So, since I haven’t had a chance to request your files yet, why don’t you take turns telling me your specialty, how many creations you can control, and what you have now. “I’ll start,” he smiled again. “I’ll be honest and say that I’m better at magic than Shaping, although I’m certainly no slouch at it. I have the most practice making melee creations, but I’m competent in all schools. I can control a dozen battle creations, and up to fifty well-disciplined companions. I’m afraid I don’t have any with me at the moment, though- my glaahks died at Jharilar, and I haven’t had time to replace them.” The junior Shapers exchanged glances, then Linari stood up. “My name is Linari,” she introduced herself. “I specialize in artillery creations, with a special study in fire types. I can control eight battle creations, or around thirty companions. Currently, I have a pair of drayaks.” “Matys,” the next man said, bowing his head respectfully. “I’m a Guardian, a swordsman by training. I’ve no preference in creation types. Right now, my team consists of two swamp artila and a glaahk. If pressed, I can command maybe give battle creations. I don’t know about companions, but the most I ever handled at once was a dozen. I might be able to take more.” “Garot,” the last man grumbled. “I’m a melee creation specialist. I have four clawbugs right now, and could handle eight times that many if need be- or a half dozen battle creations,” he added bitterly. Beren nodded. “If we follow standard procedure for division of control, that gives us…oh, a hundred and fifty companion creations, give or take. I’d like to reach the Deeps within a week, so…” He rubbed his chin. “I figure four full days march, so call it three day to make fill out those numbers.” “What?” Garot blurted out. “We only have nine right now! We’d each need to Shape ten a day!” “More,” Beren said cheerfully. “Nariah told me that as of now, we’re operating under war rules, and I only want the strongest we can manage. Dhaerman in particular are tough bastards. “I’m thinking…” He crossed to a chalkboard and began writing down numbers. “Twenty firewings- modified for ice blasts- for an aerial force. Thirty swamp artila and twenty tralls to round out the artillery section. For the melee force…I like glaahk for their resistance to magic, but they’re not so hot against fire- no pun intended- and they’re also not the best front line fighters…” “How about battle betas?” Matys suggested. “I remember reading about this one variant with drayak hide.” “I like it,” Beren nodded. “If you can find the text again, let’s take sixty of them. That leaves twenty slots for reserve and auxiliary creations.” “Like what?” Linari asked respectfully. “Eight trailbeasts(4), for a start,” Garot said. “Two for each of us, for added redundancy. Maybe two more with magic glop instead of essence.” “I think we may as well keep the rest open,” Matys mused. “We’ll have enough on our hands as it is.” “Agreed,” Beren nodded. “Now, as to who’s Shaping what…” ------------------------------------- One week later… Beren opened his eyes as the squishing sounds of almost a thousand men and creations slogging through the swamp muck died away. He stood up and jumped down from the wagon where he had been meditating and surveyed the army. His army. His command. His Shapers, his soldiers, and his creations. Hell, he had Shaped a third of them himself, over the past few days- half of the frostwings and tralls, and forty battle betas. It was an impressive force, but, hopefully, on that wouldn’t be needed. “Sir?” A captain saluted. “You said you didn’t want to be disturbed…” “It’s alright, captain,” Beren nodded. “Report.” “We’ve arrived at the first rally point, sir,” the soldier began. “Major Dagin ordered the First and Third Companies to dig in at the base of the highway, and Second and Fourth to set up a perimeter guard while the serviles set up camp. Fifth is scouting. The creations-” “I can feel them,” Beren cut him off. “Thank you. Carry on.” The area was a flurry of activity. Serviles and soldiers were everywhere, unloading supplies and tending to tired creations. The ground was too watery for proper fortifications, but soldiers were cutting down trees and shrubs for temporary breastwork. In the center of the camp, a team of serviles was carefully assembling a steel Shaping platform. Beren strode towards them, calling out orders. It was time to get to work. ---------------------------------------------------- “Sir!” Beren looked over from where he was sitting at the base of the Shaping platform, studying a spellbook. A squad of muddy soldiers was approaching from the left, followed by a pair of battle betas. The fifteen foot tall creations- larger and more powerful versions of battle alphas- towered over mere humans, sunlight flickering over sharp bony ridges and dark blue scales. But Beren tuned them out to focus on the prisoner calmly marching between two of the human soldiers. He was obviously a Dn’arre, with their characteristic reddish-brown skin and clean-shaven head. Silver and green tattoos swirled across his body, covering his head and arms before vanishing into his loose green tunic and leggings. He wore sturdy shackles, but seemed utterly unconcerned by their presence. As well he should be, Beren thought sourly, for the tattoos clearly identified him as a mage- a wizard, to use the native terminology. “Greetings, Shaper,” the man smiled, and Beren noticed that his eyes were pure silver, without any trace of a pupil. “May I assume that you’re in command here?” “Perhaps,” Beren said guardedly, crossing his arms. “You certainly can assume that I can have you killed with a single word. What’s a Dn’arre wizard doing in my province?” “Just a little research,” the man shrugged. “I can’t imagine why your men took offense to that.” “Do you have a permit? Papers of passage from a border fort?” Beren grinned mirthlessly when the man shook his head. “That could be it. Or it could be that little device you were carrying,” he added, nodding at the pistol a third guard was gingerly holding, pointed away from himself. The device looked innocent enough, a small metal barrel with a wooden grip and a small hammer tipped with a chip of flint, but it could fire a metal ball a hundred yards and penetrate all but the strongest armor. “Three Shapers have been killed in the past decade by rebels sneaking those things into sealed meetings.” “I can hardly be blamed for that, can I?” The man asked, raising an eyebrow. “These are dangerous times, friend Shaper, and it’s not always feasible to defend oneself with magic.” “Regardless, what are you doing in my province?” “My name,” the man said, with a quiet dignity utterly at odds with his current imprisonment, “Is Sharatir K’traje, Wizard of the Quiet Circle. My order are scholars above all, and my specialty is history. I traveled here to investigate stories of ancient ruins in the swamp.” He lifted his chin to gesture at the Dn’arre Depths, where the shape of the main ruin could be seen looming above the scraggly trees. “And did you discover anything interesting?” Beren’s face was unreadable. “Sadly, I could not,” Sharatir admitted. “It seems the ruins are inhabited by a rather hostile band of Crj’arre tribesmen. They…ah…took exception to my presence.” Beren nodded silently. “Hm.” “If I may be so bold?” The Dn’arre raised an eyebrow. “I get the feeling that the same Crj’arre are the reason that you are here, are they not?” “If they’re the ones who’ve been raiding our villages, they damn well are,” Beren nodded. “In that case, my I offer my services in driving them off? Your people, while courageous, have never experienced the fury of a cornered Crj’arre. And there is something-” “I don’t think we’ll need your help,” Beren cut him off. “Your Crj’arre, while courageous, have never experienced the fury of an irritated Shaper. But you can watch,” he allowed, nodding at the guards to release the prisoner. “My thanks, Shaper,” Sharatir said, bowing. “Save it,” Beren waved a hand. “We don’t have anything that can dampen your magic short of killing you, and I’d prefer to avoid that for now. Get in the way, however…” “I understand,” the wizard bowed, as a guard unlocked the shackles. “Major,” Beren said, turning away from him to address a soldier. “Are all the men in place?” “Yes, Lord Shaper,” Major Dagin saluted. “The attack can begin as soon as you give the word.” “Consider it given,” Beren nodded sharply. “Matys?” “Yes?” The Guardian stepped forward from where he had been sharpening a longsword. “You’ll lead the first wave. I know we didn’t have much time to plan tactics, but I’m thinking…” Sharatir stood nearby, his face composed in an expression of helpful benevolence while he listened to the Shaper’s plans. Despite his travels, he wasn’t familiar with Shaper magic. He could feel their power- different from his own, but no less impressive, and if their creations had the kind of power their leader seemed to assume… But he could also feel the power emanating from the ruin, and its strength worried him. There was something strange about it, as well…a throbbing aura of some sort, dangerous, and somehow familiar… Beren vaulted up onto the platform, a clever set of interlocking steel plates and poles that gave the Shapers a secure, elevated position from which to direct the attack. A milky-white focus crystal had been placed in the center, in a shallow pool filled with essence. Linari and Garod were already there, waiting for him. “You heard what I said to Matys?” He asked. “Aye,” Linari nodded. “I did,” Garod admitted. “It’s a sound enough plan, but I’m not entirely confident in it. Someone in that fort has serious power, and he’s been throwing it around all day.” “I think he’s making blood creations,” Beren said. “If that’s all he’s doing, it shouldn’t change anything. If not…” He shrugged. “We improvise. Matys will lead, you two push. I’ll steer.” The three Shapers took positions around the crystal. Beren rapped the side with his hand, and a light flickered deep inside. Slowly the stone faded into transparency. Imaged moved, and Sharatir raised an eyebrow as he realized that the crystal was a scrying device of some sort. The Shapers’ eyes glazed over as they focused on their creations, and their arms fell limply to their sides. Sharatir stood awkwardly at the base of the platform, glancing at his guards. “Gentlemen?” He raised an eyebrow. “Would you mind if I sat down?” The two burly men exchanged glances. One shrugged, and the wizard smiled his thanks before carefully seating himself on the edge of the Shaping platform. He mouthed a minor charm, and felt a wrenching sensation as his awareness left his body. In astral form, he drifted towards the upcoming battlefield. The giant worms- artila, he had heard a soldier call them- peeled off from the main force of men and creations, forming two groups that moved into the swamp on either side of the ‘highway.’ The massive, scaly-skinned humanoids- battle betas?- marched in even ranks towards the ruin, moving with a discipline that would have done any Dn’arre legion credit. Behind them, tralls and human soldiers mixed together, and frostwings circled above the whole force. He could feel the presence of the Shapers, flirting to and fro, gently guiding their creations. As they neared the ruin, arrows began to fly. The first few shots went wild, but then came the deadly volleys that Dn’arre legions had learned to fear. Hundreds of shafts filled the air, hissing across the swamp with deadly accuracy to strike the leading creations. The leading ranks of battle betas wavered. A few toppled, dozens of arrows riddling their bodies, but as the Shapers steadied their minds, most simply roared and continued forwards, ignoring the tiny shafts that skittered off their scales or pricked their thick hides. Above them, the frostwings screeched and fired back, and huge patches of ice blossomed along the ruin’s walls. A few men screamed in pain as their limbs froze and cracked, but most had been able to duck back under cover. Still, their thick sheets of ice prevented them from shooting back, and the main force of creations continued to advance. Suddenly, the doors to the ruin burst open, and a dozen dhaerman loomed out of the mists, wrapped in magical energies. Behind them, a pack of xenefron bobbed and weaved, snake tongues darting out of their mouths to hiss at the advancing creations. The dhaerman roared, their inhuman voices clearly audible back at the camp. They raised their hands, and massive waves of fire lashed the Shaper lines. Despite their extra resistance, battle betas died. Almost a score of the huge creations tumbled to the ground or fell into the murky water, white-hot flames clinging to flesh. Sharatir saw the Guardian- Matys, he thought was his name- dive underwater to avoid the blast, wincing in pain even so. But sheer numbers absorbed the attack, and at some inaudible signal, every surviving battle beta followed the Shaper in diving to the ground. “NOW!” Beren cried triumphantly. The frostwings opened their mouths, and a flurry of blue-white energy struck the swamp water where the blood creations stood, freezing it solid. And at the back of the force, the tralls raised their arms and returned fire. Sharatir was shocked to see the squat, ape-like creatures spew bone needles the size of crossbow bolts from their arms, but even more shocked at the result of their fire. Thousands of razor-sharp needles filled the air, hammering the trapped dhaerman. Five died in the first volley, impaled by hundreds of projectiles. From the flanks, the swamp artila added to the carnage, killing another two of the huge creatures and splattering acid everywhere. Then the frostwings pivoted in midair and made a second attack run. This time they didn’t aim at the ground, and their powerful ice bolts flew with deadly accuracy. Two dhaerman were frozen solid, encased from head to toe in thick sheets of ice, while another actually shattered. The last twisted, its left arm handing limply from its side, and wracked the frostwings with another huge fire blast. Two of the winged creations tumbled into the water, but a dozen tralls and five artila returned fire, and it, too, died. Then they, and the other artillery creations, turned their attention back to the trapped xenefron. Back on the Shaping platform, Beren placed both hands on the scrying crystal and bowed his head. He gritted his teeth with effort, sweat beading his brow and the veins standing out in his neck. Sharatir swallowed. He felt the power of Beren’s spell- or Shaping, whichever it was, but there was something else. The Crj’arre shaman in the ruins was also doing something, and it felt like…suddenly the last piece clicked into place, and he gasped in horror. On the battlefield, clouds of essence gathered above the patch of ice, and a massive bolt of rippling distortion blasted downwards. The ice shattered, and Matys leapt to his feet, waving his sword. “The path is clear! Charge!” The battle betas followed him, roaring primal battle cries, with the tralls trailing behind and three companies of human soldiers hot on their tails. Beren stepped back from the crystal and mopped his brow. “And that, Mage K’traje, is how the Shapers handle their foes. Well done, everyone. If you’d be so kind as to handle the perimeter guard, Linari, while Garod tends to the wounded, I’ll join our forces for the mopping up.” “Wait!” Sharatir cried, waving his arms desperately. “The shaman! The Crj’arre shaman! I can feel him! He’s-” “What did I say about interrupting?” Beren snapped. “Do I have to…to…” His face went pale. “You feel it too?” “What is he…” Suddenly, there was a hideous shriek from the ruin. The old stone building exploded, sending huge chunks of rock, ice, and flesh spiraling through the air. Crj’arre and Shaper forces alike- anyone in the ruin- were killed instantly, and the tidal wave of displaced water swept more into the depths of the swamp, to drown under the weight of their armor. Dozens of things emerged from the smoldering rubble. Wispy, insubstantial wraiths filled their air- hundreds of them, glowing red, green, white, and blue. They darted to and fro above the shocked remains of the Shaper army, keening hideously. Spotting a clump of three soldiers dragging a comrade from the muck, a red-colored wraith dove towards it. A pair of hastily-fired thorns tore through it to no effect, and it crashed into the soldiers. All five vanished in a massive fireball. A dozen wraiths raced after the frostwings. The startled creations responded with bolts of ice, shooting down several of the glowing creatures, but they didn’t stop all of them, and the sky was filled with explosions of fire and lightning, while rocks and water rained down on the swamp below. Beren grabbed Sharatir’s shoulders. “What the hell is going on?” “I…I don’t…” The wizard looked as shocked as Beren felt. “The shaman enacted some kind of suicide pact! His death opened the path for these things to reach our world!” “What. Are. They?” Beren demanded, shaking him forcefully. “How do we kill them?” “They’re elemental spirits,” Sharatir said, pushing the Shaper’s hands away. “Vessels of pure energy, animated by the summoner’s will. These…they have no sense of self-preservation, only the faintest flicker of consciousness. They’re driven by the shaman’s anger and hate,” he said rapidly, eyelids flickering in panic. “I don’t know how to stop them! I’m a scholar, for Dranir’s sake! I’m not a battle mage!” “Ok,” Beren muttered, stepping back. “Elemental spirits. Ok.” He took a deep breath, concentration on his emotions. Ignore the fear, ignore the panic. Put them in a box and make the box go away. “We can do this.” “Elemental counterspells?” Linari dropped down beside him. “If they’re just collections of energy, an oppositely-charged strike should dispel them.” “Too inefficient,” Garod grunted. “There are hundreds of them. We’d run dry before we got through half of them, even if they didn’t kill us by then.” “Xerel’s Elemental Bombardiers,” Beren said, snapping his fingers. “Remember? Elementally charged spyfly variants?” “That might work,” Linari said slowly, “We certainly have enough essence. But the magical energy involved…too many of the herdbeasts are dead. We’ll never-” “I can help,” Sharatir jumped in. Everyone turned to stare at him, shocked at the sheer audacity of interrupting a Shaper, but he continued on regardless. “I’m no battle mage, but I can channel energy to the rest of you. As spirits are destroyed, I can absorb their power and redirect-” “I don’t much care how you do it, as long as it works,” Beren snapped, cutting off an angry remark from Garod. “Everyone, join hands. Three…two…one…” There was a moment of shock as the Shapers and wizard pooled their powers. Everyone felt an angry buzz in their minds, as alien energies sought to merge, but then everything snapped into place with an exhilarating rush of power. A huge plume of essence rose from the pool on the Shaping platform and gathered into a blob above the ring of Shapers. It bubbled, strange currents whipping through the liquid, and then a bolt of pure energy shot from Sharatir to the mass, and crackling streams of multicolored lightning arced over its surface. A rush of power rose from the Shapers, and the blob seemed to turn inside out before dozens of spyflies began to peel off from the mass. Each one had a swollen abdomen blazing with colored light. Barely sentient, Xerel’s Elemental Bombardiers had only one purpose- to find an oppositely charged spirit and detonate. The swamp filled with explosions as spyflies and spirits annihilated each other in massive bursts of magical energy. Within minutes, the last of the spirits was destroyed, and the Shapers (and wizard) gratefully sank to the ground. “[censored]…” Beren groaned, head pounding with the effort of continually Shaping. “Is that all of them?” “I…I think so,” Sharatir answered wearily. Energy still crackled from his bare skin, and his tattoos glimmered dully. “Tjk nakd trvvi’ran…I feel awful.” “We’re not much better off,” Garod mumbled. “Just be glad we’re still alive.” “Easy for you to say,” Beren groaned again. “I’m going to have to tell Lady Nariah that one of her Shaper divisions just got the [censored] kicked out of it…and maybe worse. Is Matys…” “I’m ok!” The guardian was slogging towards them, waving. His armor was shattered, and he was leaning heavily on his sword for support, blood oozing from massive burns on his back and sides, but he was alive. About a hundred soldiers and creations followed him, all that remained of Shaper Division Four. “Drained, but alive. What the hell were those things?” “Elemental spirits, according to the wizard here,” Beren said, jerking a thumb at Sharatir. “No kidding?” Matys raised an eyebrow. “How’d they summon so many?” “A death-spell,” Sharatir explained wearily. “No-one knows exactly how the process works, but when a wizard- or Crj’arre shaman- dies, they momentarily have access to incredibly powerful magics…a dying wizard can cast spells and curses ten times stronger than if he were alive and well.” “Great,” Beren muttered. “Homicidal, powerful, and suicidal. Lady Nariah is going to love this…” --------------------------------------- (1)The Shaper Council was an independent entity that governed all Shapers in New Terrestria. They were forbidden to interfere in political matters, but had ultimate responsibility for training new Shapers, approving creation types, and making sure Shapers obeyed their rules. (2)Firewings are flying creations that resemble bats, though they stand three feet tall and have fifteen foot wingspans. They are physically frail, despite impressive speed and maneuverability in flight, but their flame glands are more powerful than even a drayak’s. A firewing is among the most powerful missile creations a Shaper can create. Basically a Wingbolt replacement. (3)A man who ‘looks to the sun,’ or a woman who ‘looks to the moon’ is a homosexual. Shapers attach no stigma to sexual orientation, although the more religious Dn’arre do. (4)Trailbeasts are modified ornks (high-yield cattle). They are strong enough to pull heavy carts of equipment, but their real value isn’t in their physical attributes. Each trailbeast is a walking essence vat, capable of producing dozens of gallons of essence a day in a modified udder.

Originally Posted By: Unbound Draykon because when a shaper makes a creation it takes some of their essence. as described as special fluid that only ones that can shape have. so when a shaper uses some of this 'essence' it is gone until they absorb the creation. but only gives part of their orignal essence back. to restore essence shapers have to stand close to an essence pool to restore it. then the process is complete. No, that I get. What doesn't make sense (without metagaming) is why when a Shaper makes a creation, then visits an essence pool, it doesn't restore all their essence.

Thanks I do admit to making up battle creations, mostly to make sense of a disconnect I felt in the games. Some NPC creations (named ones) were smarter- talking thads and battle alphas, Greenfang from G4, and so on. At the same time, others (especially the ones you make) are virtually mindless. Some of the lore indicates that Shaping is a long, involved process, while in-game Shapers create creations in a single round of combat. It also, to me, explains why NPC Shapers could always make more creations then you, even when you're higher leveled- your creations are all battle creations, drawing a lot of strength from you, while their creations are mostly companions, and relatively independent. Because really...why is it impossible to replenish your essence after making a creation? If anyone knows the 'official' in-game explanation for this kind of thing, I'd love to hear it.

Only insofar as we all know that a roc is a giant bird.

Heh, I missed that one...I stuck in the footnote now. Short version, they're giant winged birds that Shapers fly around on.

Sorry it's been so long. Chapter two is here, in its entirety! Answers start to emerge...but are they the right ones? More to come! Chapter 2: Jharilar Ruins Three days later… “What the hell is going on here?” Beren looked up from the artila he was treating to see a tall, powerful figure looming over his head. The woman was taller than he would have been standing, with shoulders nearly as broad. She was clad in polished plate armor, still shiny despite the all-encompassing muck, and all but glowing with the essence that had been folded into it. A longsword and baton hung at her side, along with several wands and a pouch of crystals. A magnificently built wingroc (1) was perched on the ground behind her, easily large enough to carry its master aloft for hours at a time, but the massive bird-like creation was panting with fatigue as nervous serviles gingerly attempted to remove its flight gear. “Lady Nariah!” He hastily rose and bowed respectfully. “I wasn’t expecting-” “Oh, lay off,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “Your message would have gotten even a heartlands governor off her fat ass. Now give me a report.” “One moment, please,” he said, and beckoned to an assistant healer. “I’ve blocked the pain and repaired most of the damage to the stomach and swim bladder- the rest should heal up fine on its own. Finish washing out the wound and bandage it.” He turned back to Nariah. “Where do you want me to begin?” “Where your message left off, obviously,” she sighed. “What happened after you reached Jharilar?” “I divided the soldiers into three teams, put the artila on perimeter watch, and created battle creations,” he began. “We went into the ruins to look for survivors. The attackers were still there, and we suffered heavy casualties- one team was wiped out completely, another suffered three dead and two wounded, and three companion glaahk were killed as well. That’s when I ordered a general retreat to close off the town while we waited for reinforcements.” “And then?” “Several of the…things…tried to fight their way out, but we were able to take advantage of the pathways- and lots of battle creations- to bring them down. I healed as many soldiers as I could, but out of the original thirty-four, only eleven were alive when Commander Beryat arrived.” Nariah grimaced. “That bad?” “That bad,” Beren nodded. “And two of your artila, as well. But the creatures didn’t seem that bright- after the first few attempts, they seemed to decide that they were trapped and didn’t make any attempts to fight their way out. “Once Beryat and his men arrived from Fort Torvan, we prepared a general offensive to kill or capture the remaining creatures.” “You keep calling them ‘creatures,’” Nariah pointed out. “They weren’t natural, were they?” “Not at all,” Beren shook his head. “But they weren’t creations, either, not quite.” “What do you mean?” “We have several captured specimens,” he said, pointing at a large, heavily-guarded hut. “And…their bodies are similar to a battle creation’s, true. But parts of them- their minds…it’s hard to believe without seeing it for yourself.” Nariah followed him into hut, hastily assembled out of wood and warding spells. Almost more magic than wood; the sparks crackled along the timbers and the entire building was lit by a multicolored glow. Inside, several creatures were heavily chained to the ground, all but catatonic under the influence of Shaper control spells. There were three of the large, goat-headed humanoids that Beren had battled earlier, but there were a half-dozen creatures of a second variety. These were smaller, ranging from four and a half to five feet tall, with bulky, ape-like bodies, huge hands, and vaguely canine heads. Nariah raised her eyebrows in surprise, and bent to examine one of the smaller creatures. It hissed and lunged at her, mouth opened wide, and she jerked back in surprise as she noticed that it seemed to have a snake- head and all- in place of a tongue. “This one’s been fighting off control spells all week,” Beren said apologetically. “But it should make an excellent demonstration. Observe,” he continued. “These creatures resemble battle creations in many ways, such as the lack of discrete internal organs.” He glared at the creature, freezing it in place, and made a careful gesture with his right hand. A line of glowing yellow light appeared on the creature’s chest. He gestured again, and the flesh peeled back along the line as though cut by a giant knife. Inside was a mess of dark-red flesh, black bone, and other, unidentifiable yellow and brown tubes and fluids- a far cry from a companion creation’s discrete organs and blood vessels. “And yet, while no Shaper has ever been able to keep a battle creation alive for more than two days, these have survived for days- certainly since we captured them, and most likely since Jharilar was destroyed- without any food or magical sustenance.” “Impressive,” Nariah mused. “And they certainly look fearsome enough, but I fail to see why they’re so strange.” “Watch carefully,” Beren warned. He took a deep breath, and made a broad motion with both hands. The creature shuddered, then went limp and began slowly melting into blood. “That’s different,” Nariah rubbed her chin. “Some kind of-” She suddenly broke off as she noticed a pale, almost transparent figure writhing in the air just above the melting corpse. It was only visible for a moment before it faded to nothingness, but the mere sight of it was enough to send shivers down Beren’s spine. “What the hell was that thing?” “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me, ma’am,” he said respectfully, shrugging helplessly. “It almost looked like a shade of some sort,” she muttered thoughtfully. “Is that even possible?” The powerful Guardian drummed her fingers against her thigh, her face thoughtful. “I’ve heard of essence shades, but never in New Terrestria…the knowledge was lost well before the first colony was ever founded…” She fell silent again, and for a long moment the only sounds were the crackling of wards and the clink of her armored fingers on her armored thigh. Finally, she seemed to reach a decision. “Beren, I want these creatures prepared for transport back to my citadel for further study. Use anything you can salvage from Jharilar.” “Yes, ma’am. Am I to accompany them back?” “No,” Nariah shook her head. “You’re to take my wingroc and fly to the Crinidor Research Warrens.” “Master Jarlyn?” “Master Jarlyn,” she nodded. “See if he can offer any hypothesis, or, better yet, is willing to come look at the things himself.” “Yes, ma’am,” Beren bowed his head respectfully. “If I may…they need a name. We can’t just keep calling them ‘things,’” “Fine,” Nariah shrugged. “The big ones are dhaerman, and the small ones are xenefron. Now get to work.” --------------------------------------------------- From above, Crinidor Island didn’t look like much, Beren reflected as the wingroc glided slowly to the ground. A small rocky outcropping in the middle of Iron Lake, the surface was almost totally empty, save for a small dock and a path to the compound door. It followed all of the standard Shaper guidelines for research- it was remote, easily isolated, defensible, and buried underground for good measure. It was also the home of Master Jarlyn, possibly the most skillful Shaper in New Terrestria, and certainly the most dangerous. He specialized in battle creations- where another Shaper might labor for days to create a powerful force, he could create a hundred battle alpha with the wave of a hand. Well over a hundred years old and still strong, thanks to his arts, he had been instrumental in the creation of no less than three completely new creation types- the cadahizon (2), war trall (3), and voidhound (4) -, a dozen significant variations of existing creations, and hundreds of minor variations. If anyone could figure out the mystery of the blood creations, it would be him. The wingroc finally touched down by the dock, and a pair of armed guards came forwards to take care of it as he slid to the ground, stifling a sigh of relief. Flying was fast, but far more uncomfortable than riding or sailing. Not even Shaper discipline could completely suppress the muscle cramps or motion sickness that came with it, and long-distance flights were often bitterly cold. But he had more important things to worry about now than the state of his legs, and he ignored the pain and strode briskly towards the compound’s entrance. “Greetings, Lord Shaper,” the guard captain said, coming to attention as he approached. “May I ask the purpose of your visit?” “I’m here on behalf of Governor Nariah,” he answered haughtily, showing the soldier a roll of parchment. “Deliver this to Master Jarlyn and tell him I would like his expert opinion on the subject.” “Of course, my lord,” the captain bowed, passing the message to a subordinate. “Private Lewin will take you to the guest quarters to wait for a response- if, that is, it its acceptable?” “That will do,” Beren nodded. “Carry on.” He followed the indicated soldier into the warrens. After a lifetime in service to the Shapers, they were nothing new- a confusing maze of cramped corridors, full of Shapers, serviles, and other assistants, and thick with strange mists and scents no magic could fully eliminate. The overpowering smell of essence, the hum of energy through crystal conduits, the constant activity…it was all strangely comforting, Beren thought ruefully. “The library is just down this hall and to the left, Lord Shaper,” the soldier bowed respectfully. “Do you need anything else?” “No,” Beren shook his head. “You may return to your post.” “Thank you, Lord Shaper,” he said, bowing again, before hurrying off. Beren started down the hall towards the library, but halfway there he paused in mid-step, head cocked to the side. It was hard to tell underneath all the noise, but… He strode down a side passage and the sounds got louder- pitiful sobs of fear and pain, and an angry voice laded with intent. Robes swirling around him, he kicked open a dormitory door. Inside the tiny room, a man in Shaper robes was bent over a cowering servile kicking him viciously. Beren’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he saw the spilled tray of food on the floor, and the whip in the man’s hand. “Stupid creation! Screw up my lunch again, will you? I’ll teach you!” He raised his arm for another blow, only to find a viselike grip on his wrist. “Who dares? I’m a Shaper, damnit, and I-” His angry bluster trailed off as he looked over his shoulder and saw that Beren, too, wore the robes of the Shaper order. “‘Who dares?’” Beren said softly, dangerously. “I dare,’” he hissed, and slammed the man into the opposite wall. His fist rammed into his stomach, and the Shaper doubled over in pain, dropping his whip. “You’re a fine on to talk about dare,” he continued, kicking the man in the ribs. “It seems you only ‘dare’ to pick on a helpless creation who can’t fight back.” Kick. “Well?” Kick. “Do you ‘dare’ prove me wrong?” “No…” the man moaned. “Please…don’t…” “I ought to kill you now,” Beren hissed, crouching down and digging his fingers into the man’s hair. “You’re a disgrace to the Shapers. Creations are our children,” he continued, pulling the man’s head back. “We created them, so we are RESPONSIBLE for them. We don’t beat them when they do wrong,” he snarled. “How would you like it if someone did that to you?” “Please…you…you’re hurting…” “Hurting you?” Beren’s grin was terrible to behold. “Why, so I am. Because you're worth less than that servile, you pathetic piece of [censored].” “Ahem,” someone cleared their throat behind him. He dropped the battered Shaper and leapt to his feet, turning to face the new arrival. He was tall, and almost rail-thin underneath the traditional Shaper robe. A long, patrician nose, sharply pointed chin and piercing blue eyes were the dominant features of his thin, clean-shaven face. He carried himself with all the arrogance and dignity of a high-level Shaper, and despite his severe, almost aesthetic demeanor, Beren could feel his power. “Who are you, and why are you beating one of my researchers?” The man asked, glaring dangerously. “I apologize, Master Jarlyn,” Beren said, bowing respectfully. “I am Beren, a third-level Shaper here on the behalf of Governor Nariah.” “Beren…yes, I’ve heard of you,” Jarlyn said slowly. “Moderate skill at Shaping, a respectable talent for magic, and a small aptitude for combat. Creative, quick-witted, and responsible, but a short temper and problems with authority, yes?” “That would be me,” he shrugged. “Past Shapers may have let you get away with such behavior,” the bald Master said coldly, “But I will not. Unless you can provide a satisfactory explanation for that,” he nodded at the Shaper writhing in pain on the floor, “I will have you thrown out of my Warren at once- and you will be grateful I do not have you executed.” “Again, I apologize, sir, but I heard him cries of pain from the main hall, and thought I should investigate,” Beren began carefully. He had been threatened before, but coming from Jarlyn, the words were less a threat and more a statement of fact, and Beren felt a chill run down his spine. “I entered to see this…man…whipping a servile, an act which, besides being grossly immoral, violates three separate Council decrees.” “I see,” Jarlyn muttered, frost dripping from his voice. “I have read your master’s letter,” Jarlyn continued, in the same slow, calm voice. “A most interesting phenomenon.” “Yes, sir. She felt that your expertise would be crucial to understanding the phenomenon.” “Yes…yes, I can see that. It is a most peculiar dilemma.” He rubbed his chin. “The substitution of blood for essence is not impossible. Indeed, the oldest surviving tomes and servile minds suggest that the use of blood was commonplace before we learned to produce essence. But to keep a battle creation alive for so long…” He began to walk, gesturing impatiently for Beren to follow. “A true battle creation lacks the complex internal organs that keep you or me alive. He has a simple skeleton and muscles, but no digestive tract, no bloodstream, no lungs. He is no more than a puppet, kept alive by the Shaper’s magic and essence. From your description, these creatures seem no different, yes?” “As far as my or my lady could discern,” Beren nodded. “To keep a battle creation alive for longer, extra magic is required. More than that, magic delivered equally to all parts of the body. You heard about the Mardskin experiment?” “Yes, sir.” “Running fine crystal filaments all through a creation’s body to transmit magic. Successful, but impractical. These blood creations you described, they had no such artificial enhancements, correct?” “Correct, although…” he thought back to the creations he had dissected. “There did seem to be inorganic material in them…tiny crystals or metal powders.” “Interesting,” Jarlyn muttered. “They could have been magic reservoirs, but such things empty quickly. And the creation you fought…this dhaerman…it used magic against you?” “Yes. Some kind of fear spell or aura, and a fire blast.” “That kind of expenditure- let alone the long survival time- makes a magic reservoir unlikely. The fact that it is Shaped out of blood makes it even more unlikely- blood is a less effective material than essence, so it should take MORE magic to make a blood creation work, not less. Which brings us to the last element- the shade you believe you saw. I trust it was not a fabrication?” “Definitely not,” Beren bristled. “I saw several under experimental conditions in the field laboratory, as did my assistants and Lady Nariah.” “A shade, bound into a creation…is such a thing even possible?” Jarlyn looked intrigued now, as he led the way into his own personal workshop. It was large and Spartan, devoid of decoration, but with every set of tools a Shaper could ask for. Racks of books and scrolls filled one end of the room, and the other was dominated by a glowing power crystal. A deep pool of live essence sat in the center, rippling slightly in response to the presence of two Shapers. Workbenches and tool racks sat along the sides, and the floor was decorated with containment circles. “Before reading your report, I would have said no,” he continued, sinking into a plain wooden chair. “A shade, though a being of pure magic, has its own mind, its own essence. So does a creation, even a dim-witted battle creation. To make the two merge…possession has been documented, but only anecdotally, and even then, the stress tends to kill the host quickly. More, raising a shade is difficult. It requires powerful magic or emotional stress.” “If I may, sir,” Beren said, raising a finger, “I think I may have seen where the blood creations were Shaped. I didn’t think it was related at first, but after hearing you…” “Go on,” he said impatiently. “There was a warehouse, on the outskirts of the city,” Beren said slowly. “Five villagers had been captured and tortured. Excessively so. There was a circle drawn on the ground- in blood- with a pit in the center, also filled with dried blood.” “Torture would certainly help call up shades,” Jarlyn nodded. “And if such a thing could be done- which I still find highly unlikely,” he added, raising a hand, “It might well prove capable of powering a battle creation. For a time.” He stood, began to pace again. “Shades have power, true, but it is not unlimited. I would expect these blood creations to weaken and die, over time.” “This is all well and good,” Beren said, standing. “But doesn’t answer the real question- who created them?” “Now that,” Jarlyn said, picking up a old, leather-bound tome, “Is the real question. Not a classically trained Shaper- anyone with enough expertise to merge a creation and a shade would be more than skilled enough to make a companion creation. The process is interesting, but does not seem to offer any significant advantages over the traditional method. My money would be on an Anarchist, one with no proper knowledge of Shaper methods, but some training in magic. Possible a Dn’arre, although I can’t for the life of me imagine why.” “And the very idea of Shaping violates many of their beliefs,” Beren pointed out. “They tolerate it in others, but…” “I have said my piece,” Jarlyn said. “Further speculation is useless until we learn more about this rogue. Return to your mistress. Tell her that I will conclude my experiments and visit within the week to examine any of these blood creations that are still alive.” “Thank you, sir,” Beren bowed. The old Shaper snapped his fingers, and some of the essence in the pool bubbled upward to form a fyora. “Follow him- he will lead you to the gate.” Beren bowed again, and followed the reptilian creation back through the warrens, his mind churning with activity. Not a Shaper. The attacker- or attackers, for all of the warehouses around Jharilar had been similarly despoiled- was not a Shaper, yet employed creations. Worse than that- he employed powerful creations. This was no simple peasant, who had just learned of his powers. The blood creations had been powerful, complex, and distinct- the result of years of work. And if Jarlyn was right, binding a shade to power the creations would be harder yet. No, in his mind there was only one possibility. Somewhere, the Shapers had an enemy, one with power and resources they had never seen before. The destruction of Jharilar had not been an isolated incident- it was a declaration of war. War the likes of which the Shapers of New Terrestria had not seen in centuries. Beren suppressed the urge to shudder as he emerged into the dying sunlight. Things were going to get a whole lot worse before they got better. ------------------------ (1) A wingroc is a type of large, flying creation, with a thirty foot wingspan and the strength to carry several hundred pounds of baggage- including people, with the air of special saddles. (2) A larger, stronger variant of the cadaroth. In addition to their acid-producing glands, their claws are capable of injecting a foe with tiny creations that continue to produce acid for several minutes before their death. (3) Based on notes from ancient Shaper documents, war tralls are bulky, ape-like creations with batons Shaped into their arms. They are difficult to Shape, but are extremely tough, and capable of firing high-caliber thorns with devastating accuracy. (4)A variation on the Roamer template, voidhounds are capable of absorbing all sorts of spells and storing their power for their Shaper’s own use.

I have to say...I think you're wrong. I've been going back and playing through G1 for the first time (previously having played only 3-5)and it's entirely playable. Yes, the interface isn't quite as polished as the later games, but it's far from impossible. The inventory window is the worst offender, but usable items are on top, and by the time I have more than a screen or two of items, my poor Shaper is over-encumbered and on his way back to town to sell things.

I @%^@#ing hate podlings...far and away the most annoying creation to fight, on any difficulty level. My favorite would have to be Wingbolts, both for their power and their look. And they're the only flying creation you ever see. And the load screen picture of a Shaper making a Wingbolt in G5 is badass. The Cryora is second. Cute, but stronger than a measly fyora.

Ice, if I remember correctly.

An interesting beginning, very much like the standard Geneforge opening (which was probably your intention). It's a bit too early to comment on the story- although I highly encourage you to keep writing. I'd like to see where it goes. The flyoras are certainly interesting. I'd also like to offer you some tips as a fellow self-taught author. I've hidden them if you don't want to see them, because they might seem kind of harsh (they're not. I offer them in the purest hope of encouraging and improving your craft). I'm not a professor or anything, so don't accept them as gospel, but...things to keep in mind. Click to reveal.. Please, please, please use proper spelling and grammar. I'm not saying that you need to stop and correct things while you write, and it doesn't really hurt your story, but it just makes things easier all around. Most word processing programs have a spelling/grammar check built in that helps you catch things like capital letters. Google Documents is free, and I believe it has all the features you'd need. Also, please take the time to type out complete words. It's a story, not a text message. You can take your time with it. Syntax (the way your sentences are constructed) is also important. A lot of sentences in your story are extremely long and rambling. They don't have to conform to all grammatical laws, but they should make sense. It's not something that comes easily to everyone, but as a general rule of thumb, try reading a sentence you just wrote out loud (and remember that a comma is a brief pause, not a full breath). It it sounds stilted, rambling, or otherwise unnatural, maybe you should edit it. If it contains more than one big idea, it should probably be broken up. Stylistically, some variety in word choice is good. Repeated use of terms 'he,' 'the prisoner,' and so on often comes across as unnatural. Again, stylistically speaking, descriptions are good. They don't have to be long- purple prose is worse than nothing- but it should be enough that the reader can get an idea of what things look like. We, as fans, might know what a fyora looks like, but it's bad form to assume things like that. Try to work descriptions into the flow of the narrative, rather than dropping them in as big blocks of text. When writing, try not to get hung up on minor points like descriptions or word choices. Just put down something and keep writing- you can always come back and fix it later. For longer stories, I find that a rough outline is very useful- otherwise, I tend to write myself into a corner. Above all, keep writing! Practice makes perfect is NOT a cliche, and that's especially evident in writing. Look back at your older work and see how much you've improved. Keep writing, and you'll get better yet. Read anything you can get your hands on. Critique other's work, and let them critique your own. But above all, write. I hope you find my comments were helpful. Please don't be offended- if you are, as you say, just starting as a writer, it was a very good start, and I encourage you again to continue.

Don't worry. That idea, though interesting, has virtually nothing to do with the story. And the blood creations have much more going on for them than just being made out of blood...

They're really the same as the rotghroth and drayak- the differences are either cosmetic or not reflected in the in-game stats. And yeah, blood shaping did seem a bit obvious, but...well...that's not all there is to it.

Well, I'm back, with a new chapter- the first in the story proper. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it! Oh, and rest assured that I have a long-term plan for things. Unanswered questions (which this chapter's full of) will all be answered in time. Hopefully less time than it took between this and the prologue. As always, I'm eager to hear feedback. ---------------------------------------------- Chapter One: The Screaming Hills Two years later… The grizzled sergeant at the head of the column signaled for a pause, and Beren leaned back against a tree, panting gratefully. He had thought himself to be in good shape, but this… He shook his head ruefully. Ambitious Shapers (like himself) often viewed assignment to frontier provinces like this one as a much sought-after blessing- they may not have the prestige of a stint at a major establishment in a more ‘civilized’ province, but there was far more opportunity for independent command, adventure, and the kind of heroic deeds that turned heads back home. Beren had been assigned to Ironwater, a newly-established province on the very frontier, for two months now, and had been wishing he was back in Highmoor for the seven and a half weeks. There was a reason Ironwater had not been settled until now- the place was a swamp. Located on the western shore of Iron Lake, the massive Hraki Swamp was fed by two major rivers, keeping it perpetually full of waist-deep mud fields and spindly mangrove trees. This far inland, the temperature was stifling- it had to be over a hundred degrees, and the air was nearly solid with humidity. Huge swarms of flies drifted through the swamp, accompanied by other, larger predators. Even with his enchanted robe, Beren would have been acutely uncomfortable just standing in the swamp, much less marching. But hellish though the swamp was, it was also marvelously fertile, producing crops of rice and other, more esoteric herbs year-round. The first-level Shaper Lord Nariah held court at a moderately sized port town on the lake coast, and several small herb-gathering communities were scattered throughout the swamp (usually along one of the several deeper rivers that ran through it). One of those towns was the reason that Beren and the thirty-odd soldiers and creations were slogging through the swamp right now. Jharilar had failed to send its latest harvest downriver for sale, and two merchants- and a squad of flying creations- had set out for the town and never been seen again. None of those occurrences alone were unusual, but put together, they painted a worrisome picture. Nariah had ordered Beren to take a squad of soldiers to see what was going on. He wore a Shaper robe, of course, with extra enchantments to repel flies and generate a continual mist of cool air inside it, as well as his usual assortment of essence-infused light armor. He carried a thorn baton and dagger, but his true weapons were the supply of essence-filled crystals in his belt pouches, and his creations. He had personally created the four glaahks that followed him, but the six modified artila were another’s work- he had yet to master the special amphibious variety Nariah had pioneered for use in the swamp. Superficially, they were similar to the normal models that apprentices cut their teeth on- big, multi-segmented worms, with four blue crystal mandibles and the ability to spit acid. The ones at Beren’s side were bigger than normal, almost six feet long, and dark grey chitinous plates covered the most vulnerable parts of their soft bodies. Unlike most artila, however, these ones had both lungs and heavily guarded gills, and their bodies were shaped for swimming, with gas chambers and a flat, paddle-shaped tail. Their eyes were adapted to the dim light and mist of the swamp, and Nariah had proudly demonstrated their ability to hit a man-sized target from a hundred yards away. Beren was also accompanied by three squads of human warriors- one of swordsmen, one of baton wielders, and one of specially trained scouts- each with ten seasoned fighters, led by a sergeant with a wand of blessing magic. “Having trouble, lord Shaper?” Captain Fomir’s voice bordered on contempt, but Beren was too tired to discipline him. Besides, he deserved some of it- even the lowest private had moved faster than him in the muck, and Shapers were supposed to be superior beings. But he had somehow managed to keep up without giving in to the temptation to summon a creation to carry him, and he knew that the men respected him for it. “I’m afraid I’m not as athletic as I thought I was,” Beren admitted. “How close are we to Jharilar?” “No more than twenty minutes easy march to the closest storehouse, sir,” the soldier answered, slightly more respectfully. “After that, less than an hour to the town center.” “Very well. Carry on, Captain.” “Yes sir.” Fomir saluted. “With your permission, sir, I’d like to dispatch a few scouts to check out the warehouse. They can make it there and back in half the time we could, and I’d like to-” “Like to have more intelligence before we proceed,” Beren finished for him. “An excellent idea. But allow me to save your men the effort.” And emphasize my power as a Shaper, he added privately. No sense letting this provincial captain get too full of himself. He stood up, ignore his aching thighs, and cast a minor spell to make multicolored light spill out from his outstretched hands. All eyes in the company turned to watch, as he slowly summoned up a blob of essence and allowed it to float between his palms. Then, as it bobbed gently in mid-air, he began to Shape. First the blob divided in fourths, then each quarter rolled itself up into a cigar shape. Each cigar extended four small, membranous wings, six spindly legs, and two outsized eyestalks. A ripple passed through the shapes, and then there were four dragonfly-like creations perched on Beren’s arms, each the length of a man’s forearm. “If you’ll designate the direction, Captain, my creations will check it out. They can fly there and back in less than a quarter of the time it would take your scouts…except they don’t need to, because I see everything they do,” he said coldly. With that, he sat back down and let his eyes glaze over as he focused on his creations. Sorting out the mismatch of views from four spyflies had taken some getting used to, but after years of practice Beren barely noticed. He followed as the swamp whizzed, occasionally reaching out to give his creations a guiding nudge. After barely five minutes of flight, they reached the warehouse Fomir had mentioned- a big, squat, wooden structure, covered with pale brown corrosion-resistant paint. One of several similar structures at the extremity of Jharilar’s fields, laborers would leave their loads inside until creations could carry them to a central location. The number of crops currently inside should give him a rough idea of whether or not the village was still working- and if not, how long it had stood idle. He was expecting a week or two’s worth of harvest- that would fit with the most plausible explanation for the village’s silence, a plague. He wasn’t expecting so much blood. Back at the camp, he sat bolt upright in surprise, momentarily breaking the link to his creations before he managed to control himself enough to take a calmer look at the scene. It wasn’t the goriest scene he had ever seen- not even close. Hell, just last week, Uldarin had tried to Shape a fyora and messed up the flame glands…it had taken days for the serviles to scrub all the blood off the floor. And walls. And ceiling, too, for that matter. Or that time he had accidentally used month-old essence, and the battle alpha had melted… No, while the scene inside the warehouse was nasty enough, it wasn’t the gore that bothered him. It wasn’t the sick, twisted horrors that had been inflicted on the poor, fly-covered bodies before they had mercifully died, or the twisted husks of corpses that were barely recognizable as bipeds, much less humans. No, it was the sheer, deliberate cruelty with which the torture had been inflicted. A Shaper saw a lot of suffering, especially at a frontier post where he might be called into service as a medic, and Beren recognized the results of what had been a deliberate effort to cause the maximum amount of suffering a human could endure. More than that, a palpable aura of pain and fear hung around the cabin, almost crippling in its intensity even through his link with his creations. “Shaper?” Fomir’s tone was almost concerned, and utterly lacking in its former scorn. “What is it?” “See for yourself,” Beren answered, and placed a hand on the soldier’s forehead. His eyes opened wide, and he fell backwards, a little jet of vomit spewing from his mouth. “I think we’d better cut this break short,” Beren suggested. “I think we’d better cut this break short,” Fomir agreed, wiping his mouth. “On your feet, soldiers!” He bellowed. “Fall in! Double march!” ------------------------------------------------------ Fifteen minutes later, Beren stood in the warehouse, examining the carnage with a critical eye. Outsides, soldiers and creations kept a watchful eye out for enemies, the former fighting their nausea. “I’ve never seen anything like it, sir,” Sergeant Lanem said. The middle-aged soldier was one of three men who had accompanied Beren inside. One of the others was sketching the scene on a sheet of parchment, stopping occasionally to retch, while the last clutched his baton and stood watch over the others. “Not even among the Dn'arre city-states?” Beren asked. Before some unknown disgrace had got him banished to the frontier, Lanem had worked as an embassy guard in several different Dn'arre (as the continent's natives called themselves) cities. “It’s not even close, sir,” He answered, shaking his head. “Their magic is formal, yeah, and structured, but these circles? Runes? Completely the wrong style. And the…the Dn'arre never used blood." “They look almost like containment circles,” Beren scratched his chin, speaking softly to himself. “But…not quite. And those pits in the centers, the ones that look like they were full of blood…there’s all kinds of magical resonance around that. It almost feels like someone was Shaping, but…without essence…” He shook his head. “Have you finished your sketches, Private?” “Just about, sir,” Private Hardelr said, tucking his pen into a pocket. “Then pack up your gear. We’re leaving,” Beren said abruptly, heading for the door. Flickers of red and orange energy danced around his hand. “Is anyone still inside?” “No, sir,” Lanem reported. "Good." Beren gestured, and the warehouse exploded into flames. “Tell the scouts to fan out and look for tracks. Everyone else needs to get their asses in gear, because we’re marching for Jharliar.” Fomir and his sergeants began barking orders, and the soldiers quickly fell into marching order. “Lord Shaper,” a scout called out, running up and saluting. “We’ve found tracks.” Beren followed the nervous young woman to a patch of unusually dry ground, thick with low trees and scraggly shrubs, where two more scouts were staring at a spot on the ground. As he got closer to the patch, he noticed that one of the bushes was actually a tree, broken off at the base. Whatever had snapped it had left a pair of deep footprints in the mud next to the stump. He pursed his lips and nodded silently. The footprints were nearly two feet long, with deeper groves hinting at fearsome claws. From their size and spacing, Beren estimated that the creature that had left them was over fifteen feet tall and roughly humanoid. Too big to be a battle alpha, he though. Not a beta, either, not with those claws…the wrong shape for an cadaroth (1), not to mention the lack of acid stains...no one would be crazy enough to make a drakon, even assuming they knew how, and the shape wasn't quite right anyway…and still residue of essence…not quite… He tried to still the worry gnawing at his belly. The best-case scenario was that they were dealing with a rogue Shaper, one with power, imagination, and a penchant for hideous torture. He gave a mental snort. It was hard to imagine a rogue Shaper as a best-case, but still…better the devil you knew… --------------------------------------------- Jharilar burned. The smoke had been visible long before the town itself came into view. Half of the buildings had already collapsed into smoldering piles of rubble, and not and again fresh bursts of flame rose up among those still standing. “No…we’re too late,” Fomir muttered. Beren maintained a dignified silence, as benefitted a Shaper, but inwardly he nodded agreement. “This is now a rescue mission,” he said coldly. His spyflies rose from his shoulders and dashed off, two racing towards the nearest military outpost, and two heading for the capital. “My artila will hold the perimeter,” he continued. “Captain, split your men up into three teams however you see fit. I’ll send a glaahk with each one- it looks like whatever attacked may still be there.” “And you, sir?” Fomir asked, saluting. “I’ll be fine on my own,” Beren snapped. “You have your orders. I suggest you carry them out.” “Er, yes, Lord Shaper.” Turning away from the soldier, Beren drew a pair of essence crystals and crushed them together. The essence billowed out to become a fifth glaahk, and a pair of drayak (2). The creations looked something like six foot long lizards, with dark-green, armor-like scales, spines, fangs, claws, and the ability to breath explosive jets of fire. He motioned for the last glaahk to join the band, and climbed up on its back to get a better view of the soldiers assembling into small teams. He raised his hands, and a thin spray of magic-infused essence coated the creations and soldiers. “That should offer some protection from fire,” he explained gruffly. “More than enough to deal with natural flames, at least.” Then he dismounted and advanced into the burning town. The swamp immediately outside Jharilar was even deeper than elsewhere, for hard-working serviles and humans had tons of mud from under the water and piled it up to give the town’s residents a relatively dry home. Beren crossed over one of the channels which had been left unexcavated and passed through what had once been the town gates, shaking his head sadly. He couldn’t detect any signs of life among the shattered timbers and smoldering ashes- not even a toad or swamp rat. Huge bloodstains and scorch marks decorated the dirt ground. As he entered the less-destroyed area he could hear the inhuman roars and screeches of the attacking creations, all but drowning out a very few human cries of pain. Suddenly, as an especially loud roar cut through the din, and the ruined town fell silent- even the human voices dropped to a faint whimpers of pain. Beren narrowed his eyes, and cast more defensive spells. Clouds of essence appeared around the bodies of his small group, and dull green light danced across their armor and scales. With his creations assuming a defensive formation, he tried to home in on the nearest human voice. He could not have moved more than thirty yards when one of his glaahks cried out in pain. He whirled to see it being torn apart by what had to be one of the town’s attackers. The creation- if creation it was, for he still couldn’t feel any of the usual tell-tales- was huge, easily seventeen feet tall, with curling horns reaching even higher. It was roughly humanoid, with a goatlike head and short, solid legs, and its leathery skin was a uniform dark red. Its long, muscular arms were tipped with vicious, six-inch claws, currently buried deep in his glaahk’s flank. A crest of long black spines ran down its back and heavy tail, which was tipped with a massive stinger. It snarled at him, revealing a mouthful of razor sharp teeth, and the hair on the back of Beren’s neck rose as it began to cast a spell. He moved first, overcoming the almost crippling shock and terror which had accompanied the creature’s arrival. Beams of magic and essence blasted it backwards, lacing its flesh with tiny creations that continued to pump out painful aftershocks. But the thing ignored the pain, rolling to its feet with surprising agility. It raised its hands, its eyes flared, and a massive wave of fire rolled outwards to hammer at Beren and his creations. He grunted as it penetrated his wards and scorched his flesh, but the wound wasn’t bad, and the cloud of essence around him was already beginning to condense and heal him. His drayaks, unaffected by the magical fire, bounded forwards and replied with their own jets of flame. The creature staggered backwards, more surprised than hurt, and Beren fired a bolt of pale blue energy. There was a flash of light, a wave of cold air, and the creature tripped and fell once again, its feet enclosed in ice. The healthier glaahk, scorch marks all along its carapace, was upon it almost before it fell, stabbing furiously, and its injured counterpart joined it a moment later. Green blood still gushed from the huge wound on its side, but the essence cloud was working, and it was still on its feet, if only barely. The drayaks leapt forwards to join the fray, ripping and tearing at the creature’s flesh with their own fangs. Beren, his view obstructed by his own creations, settled for casting a spell that charged their attacks with baneful energy. The creature was down, but not out. It flailed wildly, tearing a nasty gash in a drayak’s side and almost severing the healthier glaahk’s leg. Shaking off its attackers, it lunged forwards, fastening its jaws around the injured glaahk’s torso. Beren blasted it back to the ground, but the damage was done- the glaahk was dead, its body already beginning to melt back into raw essence. The creature was starting to dissolve as well, though the drayaks continued to optimistically tear off chunks of its flesh, but not into essence. Instead, it was collapsing into a puddle of thick, dark red fluid that looked and smelled almost like… “Blood?” Beren squatted down to dip a finger into the pool and sniff it. “It was made from blood?” He straightened up and surveyed the carnage. “What the hell is going on here?” To be Continued... (1) A cadaroth is a variation on the rotghroth. It's a fast, powerful battle creation with acid-infused attacks, but its flesh and shark-like skin are proof against its own acid, and it does not look half-decayed. (2) Or, rather, an officially sanctioned variation with reduced mental capacity. The drayaks Beren made were every bit as physically strong as their Barred counterparts, but were no smarter or more independent than a fyora, and could not use magic other than their breath weapons.

Going back and playing through G5 again, I found an 'access crystal' in Brenhold's keep. The narration made it seem important, but...where does it give access to?