Scall's Magic

“You never change Rosin,”
‘You will never change‘? And comma after ‘change’

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Very well, take a few from my department but if the scholars come knocking on my doors I’ll send them straight to your workshop!
Comma before ;but’?

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Two young women, apprentices and an old sage (marked so by the gem in his ear). Rosin looked at the sage, he would be most useful.
I would use some kind onf synonym for ;sage’ there.

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“What are your skills,”
A question without a question mark.



Well, so that’s part one. Good job, though not a lot of action, which is why I would hesitate before turning it into a chapter. -But then again, I like to change thing, hehe, even when they are not in my work. Sorry if I repeated someone else but I glimpsed that you responded to the other critics’ so I automatically assumed that you made corrections.

Uhm, to the questions that I will answer shortly:

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Are you interested in the characters and there paths?
‘Their’?

Ah, sorry, didn't paste the first part from Word.

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“This, my fellows is fossilised Dragon bone.”
Comma after ‘fellows’?

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Carefully he took the bone off the table and backed away.
Comma up there? I’m not sure, though.

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A few murmurs of laughter could be heard as he was back-stage of the lecture theatre.
I don’t like this sentence, sorry. It just (in my opinion, of course) doesn’t fit, probably because of the ‘was’. You have ‘went’, you have that he did something, and… Oh, I don’t know. It’s probably alright. If you don’t hear this from at least 2 other people, don’t change it, lol.

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Magic was one of the things that kept the Empire alive. It powered trains, was used for weaponry and was used as the basis for most cures.
You have ‘was used’ two time in one sentence.

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He had just officially embarrassed himself infront of the entire school of Doctors
Space between ‘in front’

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“A message from the North, sent by mounted messenger.”
Too much of the ‘message’, in my opinion. Maybe you should swap ‘messenger’ with a synonym? A bit down you use the word again.

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He tried to destroy the town and has murdered five already!
The whole message (there we go again - message, lol) is kept in a formal style. I don’t know why, but that ! sign is kind of making it informal.

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He is our prisoner for now however I have been told that you are one to study Magic Lore.
Comma up there.

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”Rosin,” she expressed delight, taking him into a hug. He returned it, not-surprised
Delete the -

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Slightly envious he invited himself inside.
Comma after ‘envious’?

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However he could overpower me easily.
Comma there.


Sorry again. I did think the list was a bit short xD

-elein

P.S. Reviews of Rosin 2/3 will come.

Rosin 2

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Of course, there were a few tourists, going over to Mingar; the worlds second largest city to Laigar, the Capital of the Empire.
Don’t understand the necessity of the semicolon there, I think you wanted to type a comma.. Apostrophe (yay, I wrote it correctly!) in ’worlds’.

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Rosin hurried down a huge flight of stairs onto the eighth platform where an old iron train greeted him.
Argh, commas. I think the sentence would run more smoothly with one, but I’m not sure.

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Each iron vessel connected to another to form a long chain of vessels, a magitrain.
Uhm, I think that the reader will figure out what you are talking about, No need to repeat ‘magi train’.

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The sage, emotionless, limped towards him from the steps he had descended. He forced his way through the crowds, pushing children to the side.
Who exactly forced his way?

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Rosin smiled again, nothing like a Sage, it was in their blood.
Unclear sentence alert.
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They were made viscous for fighting, and then the ones with magical abilities were trained up into Sages in the lands of Nask.
The above, wails*

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He nodded to the Sage
Is Sage supposed to be from capital or not?!

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He nodded to the Sage and they waited awkwardly.
Weird sentence. Probably perfectly correct, but read it again, okay? Oh, I’m being picky.

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Relieved, the two apprentices walked towards him, pushing each other playfully and tickling each other with magic.
Why exactly are they relieved? And you never said that they where there.

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”All ready then?”

Comma before ‘then’? Eh, not sure again, Stupid commas.

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he regarded the other one, she was less pretty than the first but may prove exciting on the journey.
I would make two sentences out of that one. Might instead of may? Though truthfully, I don’t know if there’s a difference.

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He pretended to be impressed, he needed to gain the trust and friendship of his companions, small talk could be the difference between trust and coldness.
You jammed a lot there, didn’t you? I would split this a bit,

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She fiddled with her skirt, Kali began to laugh.
Two sentences? Uhm, you’re beginning to make me hesitate before typing tjose two words, lol. No, its not funny.

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“Quite right Sage.”
The problems of capitals, and a comma before ‘Sage’.

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“No but lighting the furnace like that will kill us all.”
Comma after ‘no’.

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There was so much he understood about Magic Lore yet he couldn’t even light a stove.
Weird sentence, I think you should change it somehow.

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Rosin heard a slamming noise, he must have shut the doors.
Who shut the door? A bit down you have ‘movement’ two times quite close to each other.


Rosin 3/

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A slamming noise echoed through the magitrain again, followed by a scream.
Again? Are you associating this to the closing of the door? Or did I miss something? Sorry, a bit tired =)

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Then a soft voice came. The Sage’s Voice.
Why in capitals? And you have ‘voice; two times.

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“Well – the girl?” he held back tears of confusion in his eye.
Oi, already crying?

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He was released but remained a prisoner.
I know who was released, but… Maybe you should say who nevertheless?

One comment: this chapter was a bit short, wasn’t it?


Rosin 4

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Rosin was surprised with the nationalist bitterness of his own voice, it was usually Eskuire, his apprentice who said things like that.
Add another comma.

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One male Sage grabbed her and took her away.
Just like that? Without any protest form her side?

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“Our people know much about Magic Lore, but, you know far more.
Delete the second comma?

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And you want me to help you to take over my own Country
Capital ‘country’? Was that on purpose, it being an Empire?



So that’s it, I think. Probably missed some things - again, I’m a bit tired.


Generally I think you did a good job, it was very interesting. I think it is unnecessary to make so many chapters, though. Also, you should describe Rosin’s feeling a bit more. From your descriptions I think I can make out what kind of person he is, but I still suggest that you write about what he feels.

The abrupt turns of action - yeah, that’s good, it grabs the reader’s attention, but sometimes I have a feeling that your jumping a bit too fast, e.g. when Kali was taken. She was taken, and that’s it. Period, full stop, whatever. Just like that. She didn’t scream. She didn’t protest? didn’t beg or anything?

Magitrain - very interesting, in parenthesis. Just wanted to say here that I really didn’t expect it. Really. I though the world be the medieval kind, lol. Don’t know why. I think I somehow got the idea from the part about Derren. Kind of doesn’t fit here, but I;m reading the story in bits and as the fable goes on I’ll probably change my mind.

-elein

P.S. Keep on posting.

Thankyou for the critique Elein. Much appreciated.

Note: These are not chapters, they are scenes. Rosin /1 and Derren 1 could be put into a single chapter (example).

I did have flintlock rifles in part 1? However I know what you mean, I need to be more vivid about time and technology. Im glad my Magitrains were well received.

What do you think of the story and where it is leading?

Mhm… I think it’s pretty interesting, to tell you the truth. I’m not going to tell you where I think it’s leading cause I’m gonna be totally wrong, lol. I’ll keep that for myself. Meanwhile, I hope you’ll finish it!


Are you interested in the characters and there paths?

Yeah, especially in Derren. I have no idea what will happen to him, whether at the end of the story he’ll live or die, go on the good side or remain evil. Rosin- well, he’s kind of the good guy here, isn’t he? The fact that he actually met Derren means that he got out of trouble (or, of course, the Sages made him do it). If you don’t make an unexpected twist he;s going to live a ling and happy life after this. (don’t understand me wrong, you can change that if you want. I;m just talking about the standard book here, lol).


Who is your favourite character and why? (prefereabley out of Rosin and Derren, maybe Scall)

Truthfully? I think Scall is the most interesting, but that’s probably because he’s a demon, lol. However, I won’t choose him because I know so little about him. Who exactly is Scall? What do demons mean to that world? I know, you shouldn’t answer those questions too soon, but I still want to know, lol.
Derren strikes me as the one who will have the most to say in the story, I don’t know why. He’s the eerie, evil kind - I always loved those. Later on in the story you might give some background information on him, though. You wrote most about Derren, about his character and feelings, that’s the guy I know most about. I was reading a part about Derren and (quote) Now is was Scall, for magic and for guidance. -You missed a letter there?
Rosin - Rosin, as I said, gives me the idea of a good guy. I mean, (quote) No life was worth the Empire, he wasn’t that patriotic, What heroism! Lol, Also, you don’t talk much about his feelings. You can learn a lot about a character by his actions, but writing what he feels more wouldn’t be anything bad. -But I have the idea that Rosin can turn out to be the most complex. I mean, he’s good, but… He has some ambitions or something?


Is my world clear enough? What do you think of the world created?

Uhm, as much as I like your story, I didn’t really find the world that clear. I suppose you’ll bring some facts later on in the story, and that’s good cause you won’t give a heap of information all at once. That always makes me dizzy. (I have a nack for doing that, lol).


-elein

Thanks again - that was most helpful.

Phorcys wrote:Ok, this is the first part of Derren's story. I am having different stories of the characters and tying them together at the end of the middle or at the end. So this is the first chapter in Derren's Tale. Feedback is welcome whether it be language or character wise etc.



Updated: Part 1 and 2 Corrected



Added: Part 3, Derren
Added: Part 1, Rosin
Added Part 2, 3 and 4, Rosin


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Derren
/1

The girl gasped heavily, her breath melting on the bronze dagger at her neck. Derren held it there for many moments, waiting, waiting. But how long he could wait depended on his daring to continue with the instructions from the scriptures.

The church was alight with candles and torches, creating a strong heat. The religious pendant around his neck grew heavier by the day, he became exhausted with the burden. He leaned forward and looked into the girl’s eyes to find tears which, moments later, flooded over her face. He raised an eyebrow.

“Why do you cry, girl?” He spoke and forced the knife a fraction further so she pushed against the wall. She was silent.

“Hush now,” he whispered to her and kissed her softly on the forehead. He bit her skin delicately, drawing a droplet of blood. She screamed for only a moment before Derren forced the knife through her throat.

Power.

Intimately he watched life fade from her eyes, her tears filled with the shadows of a power. He didn’t blink; he saw the magic he wanted in death. The magic had called him for many years, he had researched it and become obsessed with its uses. The girl’s eyes rolled over. He stabbed her again in the throat, aching for another look. Alas, she crumpled to the floor.

He waded his tongue through the blood on the knife and sucked the dagger clean, careful not to cut himself. He pulled the pendant from his neck and looked at it in disgust – religion! Religion held no power. He went to throw it but it did not leave his hand.

He put the pendant onto the table and sprinted to the church door. Then he scurried back, furious with himself, and picked up the pendant once more. He was unable to be rid of religion for it had become a part of him, a part that had been grafted onto him with his job as priest. He burdened the pendant, an indispensable hatred.

He looked at the girl once more, a sudden guilt washing over him. The scriptures had lied to him, they had promised a reward of magic and power. He had to get out of the town – he would be shot in the streets of Blesser for this crime, but they were ignorant to the world: they had not read the devil’s scriptures that lay in the catacombs of the church. They had been so persuasive. They too must be the lies of men, in disgust with himself he spat onto the floor. “Blast,” he cursed as he gathered a few robes from the alter; meat and wine from the cellar. He passed the girl again. Then stopped.

He squinted into the shadows of the Church entrance. “Show thyself.” And by command a man with red skin appeared at the doorway. Derren knew him from the scriptures.

“Scall, great demon” he whispered before kneeling on the floor.

“You have begun your path to greatness,” Scall hissed. “The divine art of murder has been fulfilled.”

“Master, I thought the scriptures had lied after I killed her, I thought that I had been fooled into a crime and that I was an imbecile for following your words.”

“The scriptures never lie to those who follow. I know – I wrote them.”

Derren stood. “Then you shall give me my power,” his confidence had grown, a delightful passion in his eyes.

“Yes, the power of movement is yours.”

Derren looked around, waiting for light or magic blasts but none came. Scall had gone.

His heart began to pain; he felt it tearing apart, piece by piece. The pain halted and he closed his eyes and felt a brewing power inside of himself. It gurgled and pulsed, trying to break out. His hands summoned power while focused on a candle nearby. He felt an extra arm, extendable and flexable that had infinite strength; a magical limb.

He placed this new, invisible limb underneath the candle and pushed upwards. The candle levitated in the air, held by magic, his magic. The magic was what the scriptures had stated: like an extra arm or leg only ten times more potent. He could simply reach out and push away objects or pull them close, make them rise or fall. His hands looked at him and he looked back at them with respect.

Summoning more magic, he made the girl’s body float in the air, moving her with simple hand motions. He breathed heavily with shock and elation. Adrenaline pumped through him because of the rare magic he had been given.

“Master, I thank you for this magic.” Still using his power to hold the girl in the air, he used more to rip the pendant from his body but a clear mental barrier had stopped the magical whim. Battling to get rid of his burden, he tried again, still blocked by a mightier force. Magic brought it back to dangle around his neck. Some things could not be disposed of so easily. His delight became dented for a few moments before the tingling in his hands raised his spirits once more.

He blasted the chained doors open and threw the girl out onto the Main Drag. A few people of Blesser town stopped in front of the carcass. Derren heard screams and nodded his head with satisfaction. A few men pulled out their flintlocks and aimed them at the wide-open doors. Laughable: their guns were no match for the arts of magic.

Then it hit him – flight. He used all his focus to bring magic underneath his feet to lift him into the air. He flicked open his eyes and looked beyond the Church Entrance out to the Main Drag. He pushed behind him and he soared through the air and landed outside, beside the girl’s body. People backed off around him, frightened. He caressed the girl’s knife wound with his hands and kissed her once again, this time on the lips. He suckled them, his way of saying ‘thanks’.

More than a dozen guns were pointed in his direction. His eyes met with those of a large wigged man. A moment passed, his eyes gleamed with disgust. “Shoot him.”

The lead bullets came at Derren quickly; but a little magic stopped them and sent them back at each gunman in turn so all could see his new power before they died. He raised his eyebrow at the unarmed wigged man, as if daring him for a challenge.

The fat wigged man stilled and trembled. “Derren, what are you doing man, you are killing your townspeople.”

Derren spat at his feet. “Judge, for years I have been forced away with religion, no one in this town follows the god Kread and not even I follow him now. A new path has found me, one with Scall and his devils.”

“You are a murderer!” The wigged judge saw no reason.

“Life is but a trifle, it is in death we are most powerful.” With all the magic he could muster he forced the wigged man backwards and rendered him unconscious.

Pain entered his heart again. A great weakness came over him. He felt the confidence leave his eyes. The judge ran at him.


Think Derren. Think!

He spotted a stone and tried to lift it with magic. It quivered a little before remaining still. He tried it again and coiled up his hand in an attempt to use magic. Nothing. He attempted over and over again until he collapsed and thumped the ground with all his might, begging for his powers to come back. He was once again the old, quiet priest – powerless.

“Scall – my Magic? My Magic!” He begged to the earth. A dozen men hurled him onto his back, too weak to fight. Metal chains bound him all over. He still pleaded with Scall. The last thing he heard before a flintlock was pointed in his face was the sound of rain bleating in pools of blood.



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Derren
/2

He squinted at a red-skinned man, Scall. The memories flooded back: the murder, the dagger, the magic; especially the magic.

“So you have discovered the limits of magic,” Scall breathed at him, cracking his neck. Derren stood up, fists clenched, enraged at the demon for not warning him before.

“You never said there were limits!”

“One must discover boundaries for themselves, second hand knowledge is useless.” Scall was unfazed.

“You let them capture me.” Stopping momentarily he wondered where he was, he looked about him, discovering a stony prison with runes carved into the walls. The Church still held him, would he ever be free of religion? Glancing down to the floor, he noticed a mound of earth, a grave. He was in the crypts.

“It was a necessary step for you to take. A downfall.”

“The scriptures did not forewarn me of this weakness,” he muttered, pacing. “So when I use magic I use some of my mortal energy?”

“Yes.”

“So now that I am replenished I once again have magic?”

“Yes, but this is sacred ground – a tomb of the dead. Your magic cannot be used on blessed soil.” Scall vanished and reappeared in a sitting position on the mound of earth.

“But I performed magic in the alter room, that is blessed.” Derren turned to look at Scall who was still cracking his neck.

“No it is not, only where the dead are buried is blessed ground. Churches are neutral ground, unblessed for they were once alike to rest houses.”

Derren started to the door. Locked. He cursed under his breath and limped back to the centre of the room.

“Will you let me out?”

Scall’s black eyes gleamed at him. Derren hated himself; he was just like the old man stereotype: weak and pathetic. Once again he found himself using someone or something as a crutch. For years it had been religion, it provided shelter, money and status. That wasn’t enough. Now is was Scall, for magic and for guidance. One day he vowed to be his own man, self-reliant and ever growing in power.

“I cannot affect the world,” Scall said, “But only appear where I am believed and give the powers of magic to my followers.” Derren pursed his lips; he had the advantage over this demon when it came to magic, interesting.

He circled Scall, peering at him through worn eyes. His face wrinkled as he spoke, “The scriptures spoke of more powers.” His voice was more serious now, determined and full of desire.

“Yes,” breathed the red demon. A dagger appeared before Derren, the one he had killed the girl with. “This dagger is the one you found amongst the scrolls of the dead, it contains many properties.”

”Yes,” he hissed impatiently, “tell me what they are! I need more magic, better magic.”

“Boundaries must be found by man himself—Quickly! I sense a presence is coming.” The red demon vanished but the knife remained, he took it out of the air and stroked it with his palm before concealing it in his robe pockets.

The door swung open, the wigged judge appeared and coughed, announcing his presence. Derren met his eyes, his body unflinching.

“Well, after three days you finally woke up,” the Judge boomed heartily, making small talk. Derren just glared at him, not wanting the pointless drivel.

“I guess it was your smart idea to place me in blessed ground, Varzin,” he toyed with the knife in his pocket.

Varzin didn’t answer and instead looked at him with disappointment. “What happened to you? You were once someone I could trust, confide in. A man of Kread!”

Derren lunged forward and grabbed the man by the face, whispering into his ear. “Religion is weak my dear, power can be found in other sects.” Varzin pushed him backwards, he stumbled slightly.

”Then why do you still wear that pendant of Kread, the silver triangle, Freak?” Varzin straightened his wig, more aggressive now that Derren had broke the taboo of man to man contact.

“We all have our secrets,” he whispered, wondering if Varzin had guessed he could not yet let go of his moral life. His fist clenched around the dagger – he had killed once, another time wouldn’t hurt. In fact, he wanted to. He wanted to kill him. See the blood pour from his throat. And death. Sweet death. For in death was true power.

“Indeed we do preacher. I'm surprised; you have not yet asked me how I knew the weakness of blessed ground.”

Now he was showing off, his clench tightened on the dagger. Varzin was teasing him. He mustn’t take the bate, but it was tempting, God it was tempting. How did he know of the blessed ground? More questions filled his mind but he would not utter any of them, he would not give Varzin the satisfaction.

“I have not,” he said wittily, watching Varzin grow in frustration.

His little trick hadn’t worked. Derren would not ask him anything. He knew that he was about to get the full story anyway.

“Well, you see, we had to sedate you for a few hours and then I sneaked into the Church with my men and ransacked the catacombs below it. I found a rather interesting read,” Varzin looked at him with disappointment.

“The scriptures cannot be read by anyone other than the priest of the church, idiot!”

“Precisely, seeing as you murdered about five people I took the liberty of instating a new priest. He proved most helpful in our investigation,” Varzin slouched on the wall of the crypt.

How dare he! How dare he read the scriptures, his scriptures. He reached for magic only to find none. Then, the cold dagger pressed against his hand.

Old Derren took out the dagger. Held it afloat for several moments before striking. Viper-like, he went in for Varzin’s throat. He was too quick: he moved out of the way and withdrew a flintlock, shooting at Derren’s leg. It hit. He nursed it with his hands but the pain was too great, he collapsed to the floor, applying pressure to the wound.

“Sad, how evil can corrupt even the most pious of men.” Varzin marched out of the room. Derren stretched for his foot to no avail. The door slammed shut and he was alone once more.

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Derren
/3

Derren took each bone in turn from the mound and assembled them into a skeleton. He felt sick, burrowing through a man’s grave. But, he reminded himself, this was no time for morals; his life and power was at risk.

A week had passed and little food and water had been provided. Derren had quickly withered into something that resembled a walking corpse, waiting to die. But he wasn’t going to. Not yet.

He looked at the empty mound, it was a depression in the earth. He smiled at his work before coughing dust from his lungs.

“You see, it will work,” he glanced at Scall, he had proved him wrong.

“We’ll see,” the demon hissed as he threw knucklebones into the air and watched the patterns as they landed.

He observed the skeleton he had placed into the crypt corner. The bones were old and twisted but they may pass as fresh. The lizards that crawled into the crypt would have devoured fresh bones away, he hoped Varzin was wise enough to know that because the skeleton was supposed to be him.

Pleased with himself, he sat in the depression and began to pile dirt onto himself until only his head was visible. He then filled the remaining hole up, leaving a tiny crack for air. Then he waited.

The plan was simple. He replaced the skeleton for himself and he was pretending to be the dead man inside the mound. Food was pushed under the door so he hadn’t seen a man since his conflict with Varzin. Surely, Varzin would want to see him so the next time he came he would allow Varzin to believe him dead and then wait for him to leave. The door would be open and he would be free to leave the crypt. It sounded good to him but Scall was pessimistic, he thought it was a stupid idea.

He felt a weight on the mound. “Are you really going to go through with this?” The demon moaned in a bored voice.

“It’s the only thing I have got. If you’d help me…”

“No. Humans must find the bou—“

“—daries for themselves,” Derren finished for him in a lazy voice.

It was quite uncomfortable, cramped and dusty. No good for his old lungs. He coughed viscously and wondered when exactly another human would make an appearance. Until then he had Scall to keep him company, he hadn’t left his side yet. However the red man was also pessimistic and domineering. His wit had a habit of destroying ideas and also Scall was rarely wrong. When Derren requested help, Scall, annoyingly obeyed the sacred laws of immortal/mortal help at all times. No immortal was allowed to give knowledge of boundaries to a mortal. They were only allowed to give background information and knowledge that was already among humans. It was when he obeyed these laws he was most scary, He would rise and become taller, making himself unquestionable.

Over the past week Derren had made several escape attempts. He started by going around the room, reading and pressing the runes on the walls. He thought that it could be like in books where there would always be a secret tunnel that lead miles away from danger. The notion was soon dampened when Scall smugly read the entire inscription; it spoke of nothing but information of the man in the mound.

He had also attempted to jump in the air and call for magic, he thought that if he did this he wouldn’t be on blessed soil. But as Scall lectured him: “There are no technicalities in Magic Lore.”

This was the last hope, his only chance of escaping. It was a crude yet simple. He didn’t care if it worked or not, it was an idea, a desperate idea.

The knucklebones landed above the mound, he heard Scall rattle and throw them down. Quietly, he thought of the many times he had played the game of the bones with Scall – a game of deathly chance. The bones apparently had other uses, he was so old yet so much was to be learned about magic and most interestingly: magic in death.

The knucklebones stopped and the door clicked open. He fell into silence and gripped the knife reassuringly.

A hearty laugh filled the room followed by many, many footsteps. It was Varzin and his men, Derren presumed. Then the laugh stopped and silence ensued. He felt a rain of sweat cover his face, his lip trembled. Please work, please work, please work. Again he felt the sensation to leap out and stab Varzin then and there. Resisting, he closed his eyes and focused on listening.

Another man spoke in a broad southern accent, “can this man disappear, I thought you said he was powerless on sacred soil?”

“No, err…well I thought he was,” boomed Varzin.

“Well I can’t take him into the Empire if he is no where to be seen.” The man seemed to have warmth about him, a mellow voice. Derren decided to show himself and forget his escape plan. Maybe this man had come to free him, bargain with him. He pushed out of the dirt and watched the fright of the men. Several town-guards stood around the room as he had suspected, pointing loaded weapons at him.

He scrambled to his feet and observed the man, tall and dark dressed in strange garb: a pinstripe half robe and fitted black cotton stockings underneath. He tilted a cylindrical hat towards Derren, it seemed to be a sign of greeting.

“Hello Derren of Blesser, I am Doctor Rosin from Kreeg,” he spoke down to him. Patronising. All doctors are, reasoned Derren. Rosin carefully extended a hand, it quivered slightly.

He looked at it with wide eyes, this man surely must be wary of a magic user. He must also be ignorant to Northern conduct: skin was never to be touched. The contact taboo had come about after a plague of illness, from that day on only verbal greetings were considered right. Derren grasped his hand and pulled him towards him, unfazed by petty taboos. A small cough from Varzin showed however that he was fazed by the act.

“Doctor, what business do you have here, I trust you haven’t come for morning communion.” Derren hissed, inches from his face.

“No, I am no man of religion—“

“—Like myself,” he interjected, staring him in the eyes.

He heard the clicking of guns so he released the doctor who straightened his half-robe.

Such a pride in clothes must be unhealthy for a man, thought Derren.

Derren took Scall’s knucklebones and threw them to the floor. “Do you play the game of bones, doctor?”

“We are not familiar with that game in the south preacher.” The Doctor was trying to smile and warm the room as much as possible. An idiot, by Derren’s standards. Life was nothing to be pleased about, in fact it was something to hate.

Scall had taught him the game of bones over the week; they had played it together, gambling only fictitiously to get to know the game. It was simple, each player would throw down five bones, cover them with cloth and the other player guessed how many had landed knuckle-up. However if he got the number wrong, a knuckle would leave his own finger and come into play, then the same player would throw six knuckles. If the player got the number right then he would throw the knuckles. The game continues until both players guess their number correctly, or lose all ten knuckles from there own hands. If that happens then they can gamble other parts of the body. The game was bound by an ancient law of magic, created by sailors and tavern-lords in the years past. This made it impossible to cheat.

Rosin, the Doctor, tried to ignore the bones on the ground and speak to Derren again. “I study a very important yet unsupported subject in the Great Library of Kreeg. I study Magic Lore.”

“An interesting subject doctor, of course it is little mystery to men of my ilk.”

“Indeed it is preacher, which is why I have come to speak to you. Until now we thought the only way to possess magic was to be born with it. You have proved us wrong; you have gained magic of some form on your own.”

This man wanted his knowledge, Derren spat to the floor, out of habit mostly. He wanted the power for himself. No. Scall’s Magic was his and his alone; no one would steal the scripture’s knowledge. But, couldn’t he just get the new priest to read the scriptures like Varzin had done? Was he needed at all?

“Surely the scriptures have told you all you need to know?”

“Scriptures?” the Doctor looked puzzled and turned to Varzin.

“The scriptures were burned after verbal translation.”

Derren scanned him for lies, none existed. The scriptures had been burned. This was good and bad – it prevented others from becoming powerful but also a reference had been destroyed. He would have to rely on Scall for information, not always a good plan seeing as the red man only gave half a tale. He remained emotionless.

“So, what do you need from me?” Derren said, stepping forward. He threw the knucklebones into the air and caught them one by one. He listened to the sound of bone hitting bone before looking at Rosin once more.

“Mister Derren, you are vital to my team’s investigation. We wish for you to travel to the Empire with us so we can work together, investigating the source of your powers.”

He tapped his head from side to side, deciding on the proposition. He could get away from here, and then there would be chance to escape. But escape to where? The scriptures contained further instructions and they had been burned. Maybe he would meet more men with magic in the Empire, maybe more knowledge could be gained and this wretched limitation of strength could be overcome. Either way, when he got there no one could make him spill his secrets anyway. Derren disliked the man, but trusted him. This was a two edged sword, no side sharper than the other. Just a way to decide was needed.

”How about a game of knucklebones Doctor?” He licked his lips, “If you can guess my hand I shall come with you. If I guess yours then I stay.” He turned to regard Varzin. “But the game only goes ahead if this man also plays. If either of us guesses his hand then I go free completely.”

The two men looked at each other, egging one another on to play the game. The silent conflict of ego’s amused Derren.

“What do I gain If I guess your hand, preacher?” Varzin mumbled.

“You gain this,” he withdrew the bronze dagger, properties unknown, the one he killed the girl with. “This is a dagger from evil himself, Scall, the red man who haunts these parts.”

Good Derren, a move of wisdom, praised a voice from the back of Derren’s mind, not sarcastic. He knew it was Scall and smiled.

A glimmer formed in Varzin’s eyes. The men sat and Derren explained the game to Rosin. Varzin also was refreshed of the game. Then he took the bones and began to shake them.

















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Rosin
/1

“This,” Doctor Rosin held up a bone, “is what my team have discovered after many years of searching.”

He quietly observed the bored faces of his fellow doctors of the Library below. “This, my fellows is fossilised Dragon bone.” He was expected shock and applause, but none came. He looked out into the lecture theatre to meet only silence. His smile was static.

A woman coughed on the front row. “Excuse me, but where is this amazing discovery.”

Rosin went red, he wanted to slap her. He felt the eyes of all the doctors burning into his face. Carefully he took the bone off the table and backed away. A few murmurs of laughter could be heard as he was back-stage of the lecture theatre. He wiped sweat from his brow and slid down a wall, crumpling his head into his knees.

Magic was one of the things that kept the Empire alive. It powered trains, was used for weaponry and was used as the basis for most cures. Yet, its lore was ignored. The ancient arts of magic and its origins, the way it was used were all useless in the eyes of the Empire. But, it was his passion. Day in, day out, Rosin and his team would excavate areas for traces of magical artifacts, or they would study scriptures from ages past and try to decipher them for the new tongues of the world.

He rubbed the bone slowly as he stood up and looked down the corridor, both ways. It was empty: the doctors of the Great Library must be still in the lecture theatre on a different topic. He had just officially embarrassed himself infront of the entire school of Doctors. What did it take to be noticed? What did it take for his work to be appreciated? He asked those questions over and over again. He didn’t understand why his subject was dismissed in every discussion of science. Magic was the new science! It was all around them yet they sought no knowledge of how it worked.

“Doctor Rosin,” called a small boy, running down the corridor.

“Yes?”

“A message from the North, sent by mounted messenger.”

Rosin took the roll of paper, curious to why he, the least important person in the Library was receiving a message – high speed to boot. He unravelled it and read down:

May the Emperor Reign over Rosin,

A priest from our town of Blesser in the Hive Lands has come into contact with Magic. We do not know how he came to possess it nor what he did to gain it. He tried to destroy the town and has murdered five already!

This fiend seems to have weakened however, that’s when I searched his rooms and found scriptures in the old tongues. A new preacher was able to read them and we found his weakness was hallowed ground.

He is our prisoner for now however I have been told that you are one to study Magic Lore. We need your wisdom on how to control this beast as we all live in fear that he may strike once more.

The Emperor’s Servant, Varzin

Rosin read over the paper again and again. His services had never been questioned before. Well, that was it. He would have to travel into the North for this new sorcerer. His ambition was simple: bring him back to the Empire. This man was obviously abusing his powers for evil. With other magic-users around he could be controlled whilst he was studied. Varzin seemed unwise, he knew little about Magic Lore and his letter was not descriptive. Surely this man had been born with magic like all others; magic had never been acquired before.

He dismissed the boy quickly, sending a verbal reply of his plans with him. He heard a gaggle of voices from down the corridor. The lecture was over. He scurried through the corridor then followed the path to the workshop. Entering a locked door he found himself in an old, musty room. Home.

He breathed in potent mixtures before observing the latest experiment. Eskuire, his apprentice was holding a glass object over a liquid.

“How did the lecture go?”

“Badly. They didn’t commend our findings last month,” Rosin said, placing the bone into a velvet pouch and taking it to the filing room, a cluttered library of artifacts, papers and coffee beans.

”A, a, a, b, c, c, d. Dragons,” he muttered, trying to find the right place. He returned to the workshop. “I'm going away tomorrow,” he said at once. “Some business has come up in the Hive Lands.”

“The Hive Lands? I didn’t think any people lived in that place,” said Eskuire, stopping his work and rubbing his beady, geeky eyes.

“There is just one town, Blesser town on the moors – Wacko place.” He yawned as he slumped into seat and flicked through some old reports. “Apparently, some nut has found he has magic and terrorised the place.”

“Maybe its better, the Empire has wanted to regress from the Hive Lands for some time.”
Rosin smiled to himself, the boy was so naïve – one of these “new world” types who believed in the empire absolutely. Rosin was different; he didn’t care for the empire although he was obliged to serve it.


“The Locksley Report…” he muttered, scanning the paper. It was a new report, top secret as well from a fellow scholar over in Shale. Rumours of mass killings had occurred and Locksley had tied it in with a magical entity. He was vaguely interested in Shale affairs, he wondered if Locksley’s findings had anything to do with this maniac up North.

He piled the report into a case and started to pack other items such as a cushion and tablets.

“Are you bringing this Northerner back?”

“Hopefully, yes. He would prove useful for research purposes, plus we don’t yet know if he was born or had acquired this magic.”

“How else would he get it if he wasn’t born with it?”

“That’s why we need him for research,” smiled Rosin, “but of course I alone cannot detain him for transportation. I shall have to rally some old friends from the Magical Arts workshop and see if they are up for a journey.”

“This all sounds a bit fishy if you ask me,” blurted Eskuire.

”Trouble is, no one did ask you.”

Throwing his case to one side, he went to the back of the room towards another door. He opened it and found himself in a darker, cruder corridor. One lit with torchlight instead of magic. It was smaller in all ways, the doctor found himself crouching to get to the other end. He knocked politely on another door and it opened revealing a woman, behind her an enormous suite of machinery, blasts of light and moving people. Slightly envious he invited himself inside.

”Rosin,” she expressed delight, taking him into a hug. He returned it, not-surprised.

“Destilay, my love, I wish I could stay but work calls.”

”Work – Phooey. We never do any work in this workshop,” she giggled.

He glanced around, they enjoyed there livelihood. “Evident.”

“Now, now love, don’t get jealous because the Emperor gives us all the money.”

He smiled because she was toying with him, she always did.

“What’s this work business then?” She grabbed his hand and led him into the centre of the massive room. Splendid noises and burbles of magic wove around in the air, colliding to form new sounds.

“I need to venture up North—“

“—North! Be careful love, you aren’t protected by the Empire in the Hive Lands.”

“Am I protected by the Empire anywhere?” he rose an eyebrow, it was impossible to debate with a pouting beauty. “Anyway, I have to detain a potentially dangerous sorcerer; my interest in him is somewhat great. However he could overpower me easily. What I need is some of our old friends, say, three or four to help me.” His head span around, glancing at the ones he most liked.

“Have you got authorisation for this?”

“What do you think?”

“You never change Rosin,” she whispered and turned away. He saw the disappointment there. She had always been a stickler to the rules.

“Well you know very well the scholars wouldn’t give me anything. You saw me this morning.” He had said it at once, remembering that she would have seen him. He flushed with embarrassment again.

“Very well, take a few from my department but if the scholars come knocking on my doors I’ll send them straight to your workshop!” She held up her hands and the gurgle of machines and magic stopped. She closed her eyes and several people approached him. He knew this was communication magic, probably the most simple and crude form of magic – simply project thoughts into the atmosphere in simple tongue.

“Are you the ones interested in accompanying me?” He looked at the trio, a motley crew. Two young women, apprentices and an old sage (marked so by the gem in his ear). Rosin looked at the sage, he would be most useful. The sages were not from Imperial lands, they came from the north-east from Nask. They were particularly powerful because they were strong, and they had a lot of stamina to use up in the form of magic. He glanced over the two girls.

“What are your skills,” he asked them both, nodding politely.

”I am about to complete my induction into the Great Library in the art of mag-mechanics,” she bowed her head. He pursed his lips. He hated how he was considered superior to most because of his title of “Doctor.” He admired magic-users, but did not envy them for their abilities. Magic was both a gift and a sin. He was a thinker, a researcher – not a doer. Sorcerers were doers.

“The same here,” the other girl said.

“Then you will all do, thank you old sage.” The sage did not speak. Sages never did. “We shall meet at Laigar Port at noon tomorrow?” They all nodded and returned to their work.

He turned to Destilay again; she was across the room, looking busy. He mouthed the words ‘love you’ before heading back to the Magic Lore workshop.

Rosin
/2

The Port was filled with people. They were professionals, darting all over the Empire to trade goods, services and wares. Of course, there were a few tourists, going over to Mingar; the worlds second largest city to Laigar, the Capital of the Empire.

Rosin hurried down a huge flight of stairs onto the eighth platform where an old iron train greeted him. One of the most common marvels of mag-mechanics was the magitrain. A colossal vessel mounted on a triangular rail line, moved entirely by magic. He breathed in the musty smell of iron works and observed the source: a team of workmen mending the iron rails.

Each iron vessel connected to another to form a long chain of vessels, a magitrain. On a parallel rail stood a lone vessel, rusty and old. That’s ours, he smiled to himself. Then he peered around, looking for the party.

The sage, emotionless, limped towards him from the steps he had descended. He forced his way through the crowds, pushing children to the side. Rosin smiled again, nothing like a Sage, it was in their blood. They were made viscous for fighting, and then the ones with magical abilities were trained up into Sages in the lands of Nask.

He nodded to the Sage and they waited awkwardly. Rosin dared not make conversation with him, some Sages vowed silence in order to focus their powers.

Relieved, the two apprentices walked towards him, pushing each other playfully and tickling each other with magic.

”All ready then?”

“Ready for what?” One apprentice bit her lip seductively and held out her hand, “Kali.” Rosin smiled doggishly but didn’t take the hand. He wasn’t that desperate. Yet.

“Kali, and you are…” he regarded the other one, she was less pretty than the first but may prove exciting on the journey.

“Winfrey.”

“A name of the Shale.” He pretended to be impressed, he needed to gain the trust and friendship of his companions, small talk could be the difference between trust and coldness.

“Yes, my father was born there, but he found the Empire had more uses for his magical abilities,” Winfrey said.

Rosin looked her up and down, “It is common for magic to pass through blood, although my research shows its strength deteriorates.”

“It does Doctor, my powers are neither strong or weak.” She fiddled with her skirt, Kali began to laugh.

Rosin was about to speak but the sage interrupted, “I am Sage Granik. Now introductions are over, lets go before our bones decay.”

“Quite right Sage.” Granik made his way over the bridge to the rusty vessel. With a sweep of his hand the door slid to one side revealing a roomy living quarters. They all stepped inside and claimed their beds, unpacked their things and explored the place.

Passing a small kitchen and boiler room, the Doctor made his way to helm of the vessel: the Engine room. He squeezed into the mesh of old piping and boxes. There was a tank lined with pure gold, on the front of it was a stove with a stack of wood already prepared there. He studied the contraption for many moments, always wanting to see the engine room and the way magic powered it. He took a match and held it, ready to burn the wood.

”I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a breathless voice came. The match crumbled in his hands.

“Sage? Perhaps you can think of a better way to power the vessel?”

“No but lighting the furnace like that will kill us all.”

“Oh,” He felt stupid, felt himself burning up like at his lecture. There was so much he understood about Magic Lore yet he couldn’t even light a stove. He smothered a laugh – he would have found this mistake funny in other company but Granik seemed to be man of little humour.

The Sage hobbled forwards and held out a hand. Rosin heard a slamming noise, he must have shut the doors. Then the wood began to smoke and glow gently, not growing but remaining constant.

The floor shook. Movement. At the pace of a snail the vessel began to move forwards, sliding on the metal triangle below. Gaining a little speed the vessel began to shake from side to side. A movement from the Sage increased the fire slightly. The vessel stabilised then shot at a comfortable yet fast-paced speed.

“How does this work?” Rosin touched the gold, singing his skin. He sucked on his finger.

“Inside the gold tank is distilled magic mixed with water. When it senses heat it moves away from it at such a force it will move a vessel at a speed unmatched. The greater the heat the faster it will go.”

“Distilled magic, I thought it could only be obtained from the blood of a sorcerer,” Rosin murmured, still craning around the room, and playing with different pipes and switches. The sage didn’t answer, blinked and returned to the living room.

Rosin followed him through. Only when closing the door did he notice the logs did not burn up, the fire was everlasting. He closed the door. How powerful was this Sage?



Rosin
/3


A slamming noise echoed through the magitrain again, followed by a scream. Rosin didn’t move from the Kitchen at once, he passed it off as the wind or creaking. Another scream came. A woman’s. Cautiously he sidled down the corridor and peered around into the living quarters. The Sage sat in a rocking chair. Back and forth. Back and forth. Kali entered the room.

“Where’s Winfrey?” she asked passively, placing her hair into a bun. The sage’s eyes flicked open but remained eerily silent. The creaking of the rocking chair stopped and the only noise remaining was the chuggachug of metal on metal from the boughs of the train.

Rosin remained in confusion yet plucked up the courage to enter the room. The Sage followed him. He passed into the other rooms, looking for Winfrey. Then a soft voice came. The Sage’s Voice.

“She decided to go, a journey like this was too much for a girl.” Rosin looked at him, eyes in semi-anger. His lips pursed.

”Sage, do not test my patience, what have you done with the girl?”

“Nothing.” Kali ran to Rosin’s side, her shoulders trembling.

“Then why has she left all her possessions here?”

Sage Granik was silent.

“Answer me Sage,” he grasped the Sage’s arms and rattled him in an attempt to gain an answer. “Well – the girl?” he held back tears of confusion in his eye.

Invisible hands flung him onto the wall and held him there. Kali was pinned to the floor.

The Sage rose from the rocking chair and looked at both of them.

“Do not ever touch me again. Do you not understand? Winfrey wanted to leave so I threw her from the transit and lowered her to the floor. She will collect her belongings on the way back.”

He was released but remained a prisoner. Granik was lying, but his eyes dared anyone to accuse him of it. Rosin scowled at him and seethed, lost for words. What ever he said - the sage was more powerful. As long as they were on the vessel Granik had command now, no hope of overpowering him. That was it. The Sage got rid of Winfrey because two apprentices could overpower him. But why didn’t he want to be overpowered?

Rosin’s head flooded with questions. He sat, not taking his eyes off the Sage and for the rest of the day wondered of his motives.

Rosin
/4

Rosin sniffed as he drew several blankets around him and Kali in the Engine room – the only heat from the everlasting fire. He looked at the door. Locked. It had been for several days now. Ever since he questioned Granik again, they had been forced into the boiler room and kept there with little food and drink.

“Who is this man?” Kali asked, still trembling over Winfrey.

“I don’t know but he should never have been allowed inside the Empire. Least of all in the Great Library. We all knew we should never have made peace with Nask. They are too untrustworthy.” Rosin was surprised with the nationalist bitterness of his own voice, it was usually Eskuire, his apprentice who said things like that. Yet, he found himself proved wrong. The Empire was on its own. He wanted to be back in the warmth of his workshop now, but instead he was in the freezing Engine room with a half-wit apprentice and a glass full of water.

The floor was becoming calmer and the fire was diminishing quickly. The transit was coming to a stop. They began to slow. Slam. The side door was open. Surely they couldn’t be at the borders yet, they had only been following the River’s trail for two days and it was a three day journey if they were lucky. Murmers were heard outside; Rosin got up and pressed his ear to the door, desperate to hear.

He fell back as the door opened revealing Granik and a crowd of men and women dressed in simple brown skirts leaving their upper bodies naked. Their chests were huge and muscular, they must have done some labour to achieve such strength. He looked up at them and pulled himself away with his arms. They spoke to each other in a harsh tongue, and laughed amongst themselves. Rosin flicked his eyes to their heads and noticed each of them wore a crystal in their ears, varying colours. They were all Sages.

“Kali, we are going have to dispose of you here,” Granik said, motioning to her. One male Sage grabbed her and took her away.

“Where is she going?” Rosin stood and looked at Granik. He knew he wouldn’t kill her.

“We are chaining her to the side of the river. A boatman may pass her and take her back to the Empire.”

“She’s better away from all this,” he spoke to him with no fear, but confidence. “Are you ready to tell me your motives?” The Sages laughed, he was annoyed with them, he hated being out of the circle.

“What’s funny?”

“You are,” one jeered but was silenced by Granik.

“Doctor, we have a proposition to make.” They came into the room and surrounded him. He found himself forced onto the floor, faces bearing down on him.

”You see, the Empire has opened its doors for too long. Our leader has planned this for many years. The republic of Nask is about to invade the Empire.”

Rosin found himself laughing, “You think you can invade the most advanced and developed country in the world?”

“Yes. Your sorcerers are ill-applied, your fighters are diminished. The Nask for many years has been a military state, we devote our lives to the service of the army.”

Was it possible they could invade? Would the Empire really be that weak. Surely not, surely the Nask wouldn’t dare to invade. He decided to play along.

”So where do I fit into this take over?”

“We don’t know many details but this one you seek in the North is the one we need.”

Why would they need a simple sorcerer? Why not any other? Rosin looked at them suspiciously, they had to know more.

“Why?” He stood up, still he was the shortest there. Slightly intimidated, he made himself look bigger by puffing out his chest and widening his eyes. It didn’t work, perhaps only Eskuire found that scary.

“We do not know, our leader has many secrets that would endanger his plans if he told us.”
“Again – where do I fit into this?”

“Our people know much about Magic Lore, but, you know far more. We do not have access to the archives in the Great Library, thus we cannot compare styles of magic and so on.”

“And you want me to help you to take over my own Country?” He stared at them in disbelief. But, was he really so passionate about the Empire he would die for it? Yes he was. His family and friends could die in this invasion. “No, you will have to kill me.”

They murmured amongst themselves, muttering in harsh tongue. A great hand wrapped around his neck and the procession lead outside. Granik pointed at Kali who was wailing at the riverside.

“A second chance. Serve us or her life is over.”

No life was worth the Empire, he wasn’t that patriotic, “I shall do as you wish.” All the luggage and food piled out of the magitrain with magic.

“Good,” Granik said. Granik halted and slowly moved his hands through the air. Rosin flicked his hair from his shoulders to look at the vessel being torn from its rail and thrown to the side. Its walls creased inwards, as easy as folding paper and the vessel became a ball of crushed iron, unusable and unfixable.


“We go on foot from here.”

Rosin followed the river with his eyes onto the horizon line where a blocks of shadow waited: Fort Eeree, the western defence of the Empire and the only way out, or in. The Sages collected perishable food and left it with Kali, they took anything that would last with them, but no other luggage. Rosin scraped up some of his important folders and put them in his case. He looked at Kali but ignored her screams and begging, it was best not to dwell on it.

He followed the Sages through the wintry plains towards the fort on the horizon.

I like it, the only thing i ahve to say is that it would be useful to have some background to derrene.g what drove him to become what he is? why did he become evil? etc... i feel like i've been dropped into the middle of the book instead of the beginning.

I liked how you described the action, though I'm confused as how the characters got this way. Maybe you should write a prologue which details the events?

The back story of derren is given throughout the book as little chunks

WOW! I AM NEW AT WRITING AND I'LL NEVER BE ABLE TO WRITE LIKE THAT! *mouth open in awe* I really like it!

This is probably the best thing i have read on this website so far! the characters are exilently designed and it has sort of a creepy feel to it, yes i read the thing through and i think your going in the right direction unless of course your going left........