Young Writers Society

Archora

This is a world dominated by a city, Kryn, stretching to the edges of the map. All species coexist in this massive metropolis, from dwarves to humans to goblins. Dwarves have made themselves known through their ingenuity and inventiveness, despite their small stature. Humans, by far the most common species, are also the most powerful. Almost all of nobility are humans because humans have magic. Very rarely, humans are born with the ability to siphon æther from the air, so they can power spells. Goblins are tolerated, but looked down upon because of their tiny brains.

Kryn is full of spires jutting from the ground. Inventors and alchemists are revered for their intelligence, and mages are employed by the King without question. Technology on Archora is steampunk and powered by æther, a mysterious energy pulled from the fabric of the universe through the massive castle-laboratory, Needlespur. The two biggest leaps in æther tech have been the invention of the Clockwork, faceless, steampunk, robots and the æther drive, allowing ships to fly above the city.

Magic

Mages are only capable of using specialized magic (necromancers use death magic, telepaths use mind magic, pyromancers use fire magic, etc.). Alchemists, on the other hand, use mostly serums and rune spells. Their abilities rely more on science than magic.



Archora is far from a perfect world. Criminals haunt the slums of Kryn, and citizens are separated into classes in ways that make it almost impossible to rise from anonymity. Political factions and corporations vie for power and pirates stalk the skies over Kryn. Are you an inventor or a mage? Will you earn the attention of a vain king, or will you side with anarchist pirates? Will the ambitions of the corporations diffuse themselves, or will they bring disaster to all?

Character template (sort of)

Name:
Age:
Gender:
Species:
Sexuality:
Allegiances:
Personality:
Physical Description:
Brief History:
Other:

Captain Artemus Zalthyrin had the world layed out before her. She stood at the prow of the Windracer, looking down at the massive city of Kryn. Spires pierced the horizon, as if they stretched to the end of the world. Æthership contrails added pale blue streaks to the vibrant oranges of the setting sun. Artemus never got over the sight, no matter how often she saw it, and doubted she ever would.

She heard a chirp at her elbow and moved to stroke the cobbled fur of her cat. "It's a great view, isn't it, Tabs?" she said. "Well, it's getting late. Better turn back. Lord Tiernan will want to hear a report soon."

"Trade ship!" a voice called from the deck.

I really should get back, Artemus thought.

"Corporate, by the looks of it."

...Just one more raid.

Artemus spotted a barge flying a few hundred feet below and ahead of the Windracer. "Vertical four hundred feet!" Artemus ordered. "Catch up with them!" It was unlikely they'd been spotted, and a cutter like the Windracer could easily outpace a faction barge. Illegal engine upgrades could come in handy.

Within a few minutes, the pirate ship had caught up with the barge. "Standard assault tactics!" Artemus commanded. "Tabs, you should probably stay here." Artemus leaned forward, plummeting over the side of the Windracer. More pirates jumped after her, diving towards the trade ship.

Wind roared in Artemus's ears, blocking out all other noise. She grinned as air blasted her eyes, making tears flow across her cheeks. Just above the deck of the barge, Artemus extended her arms, and air caught in the pocketlike wings under them. With an elegant swoop, she pulled out of the dive, rolling across the deck.

There was a moment of stunned silence on the deck as the crew stared at the intruder. Artemus unsheathed her sword as the rest of the pirates dropped from the sky. "Surrender your goods!" she roared at the crew of the barge.

Pandemonium ensued. The crew of the barge ran across the deck without rhyme or reason. Pirates did their best to look deranged. None of the corporate crew were armed and most surrendered without struggle.

The raid was over within minutes. The crew members were rounded up and corralled at the center of the deck. "Redrash! Itchybeard! Search below decks. Give it the usual treatment." The usual treatment was to dismember the engine and strip it of most of it's æther. The barge would be able to drift to a landing sight, but would be crippled or completely destroyed. "Tam, signal Regulus Fore to bring the Windracer level with the barge."

"You pirates are a plague on the skies!" one of the barge's crew said.

"Who said that?" Artemus said. Silence. "We're a plague? You factionists have corrupted Kryn! You extort the people below us, taxing them until they have nothing left. We pirates are the only hope Archora has left."

No one said a word. Two grizzled pirates stomped up from below decks. "Report?"

"Prosthetics, mostly," Redrash explained.

"But a good supply of æther, too," Itchybeard said.

"Oh, so it's Nano Corp. is it?" Artemus drawled, stepping towards the edge of the ship. The Windracer was drawing level with the barge. She strolled over the gang plank, calling over her shoulder, "Give Lockhart and the rest regards from Captain Zalthyrin."

Leila

Leila sped on her small floating ship to the larger air pirate ship, smiling that most of the crew was currently on a neighboring Corporate Trade Ship, probably raiding it. On the side of the ship was the word Windracer etched in red .

Leila's grin grew wider. Confident little brats... Wait till they get what's coming. Her hovership flew closer, until it was close enough to land on the deck. She grabbed her scythe and ran down into the boiler room.

The hallway was primarily empty, and Leila casually jogged the path unchallenged. As she ducked around a corner, a single crew member, likely an engineer, saw her. Shocked, he fumbled to grab the blade at his side. Leila was faster. Sprinting towards him, she jumped several feet into the air, clean over the pirate. As she did, she let her scythe's blade lower below her, so it was level with the enemy's neck. As she landed behind him, her scythe wrapped around his neck.

A smirk, a flick of the wrist, and a head rolled down the hall. By then, Leila had already kept on, reaching the boiler room. Two more engineers stood inside, monitoring the heat, but Leila extended her scythe and charged with enough force to pierce the torso of one, and she swung the bleeding-out body into the side of the other, knocking her into the side of the boiler. The heat of it singed her back, burning through her skin.

Turning, Leila noticed more pirates running in. At least seven, but most of the experienced fighters were on the trade ship. These were no more than kids when it came to combat. Leila smiled once again, preparing for an easy battle. What she was met with wasn't the simple fight she predicted.

Swinging her weapon at one, a second leaped in the way, blocking with his blade. While this happened another came running at Leila's back, sword at the ready. The group's coordination was unprecedented, but Leila still had enough skill to take care of them.

She jumped over the one running at her back, letting him run straight into another's blade. They clashed before turning their attention back to her, still midair. Another pirate threw his sword at her, but she twisted in the air and dodged it, landing atop the now defenseless on, plunging her hand into his neck. With a spasm, he fell dead.

Even more pirates ran into the boiler room, and Leila realized the only way she'd get out of here alive was to overload the boiler (like the original plan), blow a hole in the ship, and climb up the hull to the deck where her ship was. Ignoring the attackers, she crossed to the boiler and fidgeted with a ton of levers and dials. She had done this enough times to know exactly what to do.

As she did so, a couple pirates charged at her. One had her sword extended, and Leila, still reading the dials, kicked it out of her hand. Grabbing it, she slashed at the pirate's eyes, then shoved the blind assailant into another. They both tumbled into yet a third, who tripped and fell into them. The third one's sword plunged into the other two's necks, and it then pushed up into his stomach.

Most of the pirates backed away, too scared to attack. But one brave (or foolish?) soul charged through the crowd, holding a tacky machete in hand. Leila looked her in the eye and laughed at the challenge.

“Did the trade ship bore you, Artemus?” Leila said slowly, words rolling off her tongue. Each syllable was embellished and emphasized, like Leila was relishing in saying every part of it.

“How do you know my name?”

“You don't think I charge in here without any research?” She asked before laughing again, then running her hand through her hair excitedly. “But enough of this boring talk.” As she said it, she charged forward scythe out. Attempting the same maneuver where she leaped over and beheaded the enemy was a mistake, as Artemus predicted the move and lifted her machete above her head. Leila barely escaped by landing on and leaping off the blade.

Artemus charge forward, machete pointed to the side and nowhere near Leila. The blade was brought over to Leila's head, but Leila ducked below it and slid between Artemus's legs. Hopping up and spinning around, she held the scythe with both hands and pointed it at Artemus's back. Slowly, Artemus dropped the machete and lifter her hands above her head.

Leila grinned and opened her mouth to speak when Artemus dropped to the ground. Instinctively, Leila lunged with the scythe forward, but Artemus was already below her. She extended her arm for Leila's leg, but Leila jumped backward. Yet as she landed, her foot slid out beneath her, and she fell to the ground.

Crap, she though as the pirates grabbed her scythe and pulled it away. They then chained her hands together and brought her away to a holding cell.



Leila was in a holding cell, her scythe resting on the wall just outside the grated door. One the left and right of the door were guards, both chatting with each other nonchalantly.

“She killed eight crew members.”

“Did I?” Leila asked, approaching the door. “I lost count. You sure it wasn't more? Cause I can make it ten.”

One of the guards laughed at her. “We aren't afraid of you anymore, not while you're in that cell.”

Leila charged at the door, stopping before she hit it. The guards instinctively jumped backwards and grabbed at their sabres. She laughed. “Yes you are, apparently.”

The guards began ignoring her, so she crossed the room back to a far wall. Through it she heard a discussion between an authoritative figure (she assumed it was the Pirate Lord himself) and Artemus. She began to eavesdrop.

“Her execution will be tonight.”

“With all due respect, sir, she's only but a child.”

“And there's eight of my men dead and in coffins. She's a threat to everyone, and we can't risk letting her live.”

“So we kill a little girl?”

“She's fourteen. Not by any means a little girl. Besides, it will be a quick, maybe painless death. The usual punishment for intruders.”

Leila didn't want to stick around to learn what that death would be, so she reached into her pocket and grabbed the chain she always kept with her. From the back of the room, she tossed it out through the bars and it caught on the special hook she modified her scythe with (for this type of occasion). She pulled it forward so it slammed against the door. The guards, taken aback, leaped forward. Leila grabbed the handle of the scythe and spun it in a circle, slashing both of their stomach's open.

Reaching through and grabbing the key off one of their necks, she unlocked the door and ran down the hall, eventually reaching the deck. No one was on deck. Most of them were heard chanting “Execution!” from below.

She crossed over to her ship, which remained unnoticed through all the mayhem, and leapt on it. Pushing it off the ship, she took off into the distance, putting the Windracer behind her.

~Adelaide~

Adelaide lay awake in bed, waiting. It was five minutes before the guards would open the door and escort her to where the aether was. The guards were already there of course, they always guarded her. It wasn't clear to her whether they were protecting her from the public or if they were protecting the public from her.

Probably both, she decided. Seers were dangerous; although Adelaide didn't feel very dangerous.

For a prison, it was comfortably furnished. The clothes, furniture, books, and a fireplace made it quite a comfortable living; there was even a small window; which would let in some sunshine part of the day. She was treated with every courtesy; the guards even called her "Milady." They were never permitted to call her by her name.

Even so, she hated being away from the Aether. If she exerted herself, she could extend her senses to nearly a 100 feet. With the aether though, her range became nearly unlimited; the only limits were the speed at which she could comprehend what was happening. It was the only thing that made life worthwhile.

The key turned in the lock and Adelaide sprang to her feet. Finally!

Sirjad:

As the evening drew on, Sirjad watched the heavens turn a lazy orange above him, as the sun majestically set upon the horizon and trade ships crossed the skies. He speculated on what the feeling must be like, to sail on open air with the endless earth below you.

Yet a cacophony of drunken shouting nearby drew Sirjad back to the shadowy streets, the stagnant rivers, and the buildings crammed to together at every possible angle, of the Kryn under-streets. The only life he could hope to live.

But Sirjad knew, as he crossed the disintegrating bridge that led to the door of his home, that he’d been luckier than most, living life as a mercenary. He was a man who trod both worlds, that of the higher nobility and the world of the criminal underground and the slums.

And that was how he liked it. Few people could boast of serving Earls of the King’s court and Thief Lords of the Kryn underground.

Sirjad hammered on the decaying wood of his front door, and it was opened almost immediately. There was a flurry of blonde hair and excited squealing and his beautiful daughter, Sen, leaped into his outstretched arms.

“Papa, you’ve been away all day!” Sen cried out.

Sirjad kissed her on the forehead and set her down. “I’m sorry little one.” He spoke as she followed him into their open living room and sat beside him upon the couch whilst a fire grumbled nearby. “I had some things to attend to.”
“What ‘things’ might they be?” Sen questioned, as curious as ever as she made herself comfortable.

“Well I went to see Saadric earlier...” Sirjad began, before he noticed Sen’s frowning face.

“Saadric?” Sen asked. “Isn’t he the Dwarf, who always ruffles my hair and drinks alcohol all the time?”

Sirjad chuckled. Saadric had been once been one of the greatest warriors of the Steelfists, the Dwarven military association where Sirjad spent most of his childhood.
But then, the dwarf got old, fat, and sleazy, as Sen liked to remind him.
However, one thing that he was good at was finding jobs for mercenaries floundering in unemployment such as Sirjad.

“He’s got me assigned the Kings-Guard in Needlespur Castle.” Sirjad smiled. “I start there in two days, and will gain at least four hundred ruby marks every week.”

Sen’s face lit up like a candle. “Papa that’s fantastic! We’ll be living comfortably for weeks on end!”

“Hopefully we will little one.” Sirjad grinned. He shifted on the couch, and felt the crackle of paper which he was sitting on. He pulled a creased newspaper from underneath him, and frowned as he skimmed over the text.
“Dammit Sen. Are you reading this rubbish again?”

Sen glared at him. “It’s not rubbish papa. It’s interesting writing by a very polite sounding lady. Her name is Belladonna Aere. You should read some of her work.”

Sirjad was already doing so, the expressions upon his face moving towards one of thorough annoyance.
“You’re young Sen. You don’t about the world. You don’t how awful it can be. This woman...”

He said this pointing to a lengthy article in the paper, showing it to Sen.

“...thinks she understands everything. She thinks that the nobles can be better, and work for good causes. But none of that is true, you hear, none of it! There will always be corruption, there will always be people doing terrible things. I want you to understand that.”

“You’re such a hypocrite.” Sen yelled. “You always work to protect and to help the people who are richer than us, and yet you say that nothing can ever change.”

She glared at him with those defiant hazel eyes of hers. “Mother wouldn’t have wanted you to think that way. She always worked for a better world, I thought you did too.”

Sirjad felt a raging fire blaze inside of him, as he returned the angry gaze towards his daughter, compelling him to do things that he never would have considered doing before. Eventually, he regained control of his feelings, and extinguished the angry flames of his mind.

Sirjad stood, and trudged out of the room. “Get to bed Sen.” He growled. “I need a bloody drink.”

It was late into the evening; Sen had drifted off to sleep a while ago. Sirjad stood in his bedroom, staring into a shard of glass embedded into the wall, watching the reflection of his straggly beard, and unkempt raven hair.
He looked down at his hands, and opened his palm. His body coursed with magic and a flame sprang into life in his hand and danced across his skin. Almost immediately the memories rushed back to Sirjad,

Clashing blades,

Shouting,

Flashes of lightning,

A scream as his beautiful wife and companion plunged off of the ship and fell to her death.

Sirjad closed his hand, and the flame died.

Gobban Raylen

Nothing was better than the smell of the forge and the ring of a hammer against the anvil. These were Gobban's instruments, and he played them masterfully. He had been up since before dawn getting his chores done. Tending the coals in the fire. Getting the steel heated to begin working the order of tools requested by the local farmers.

He paused in his strikes to return the faintly glowing steel into the forge. He looked at the hammer and anvil that were now his, a sign that his foster father and teacher thought he was ready to make his own way as a Smithy. A few years of saving up and he might be able to afford to build a smithy in the next village over.

Of course, it was the dream of every smithy to be named the a royal smith and craft items to the needs of the castle. Just to open up a shop in the capital would have been a dream come true for Gobban. But a lowly peasant like him couldn't ever achieve such a status.

Especially with his reputation.

"Hey," a grizzly voice called, still half asleep as he rubbed at his eyes. A heavy set man came out of the living quarters and paused by forge to give Gobban a glare. "I thought I said that you didn't have to do these apprentice chores any more."

"Old habits die hard, Haslfur," Gobban responded. The older man chuckled and patted Gobban on the shoulder. His bald head shining as it reflected the glow of the forge and his beard a bright red like he were growing forge fire.

"Gonna wake myself up," Haslfur grumbled as he headed to the water barrel. Splashing the chilled water on his face he gave his beard a shake.

"Guess we should get our wares out for display," Haslfur said with a grunt as he rubbed his back. "And bring out that dagger you made...that one you named after a flower...Shade something."

"Nightshade, and be sensible Haslfur," Gobban said assembling some armor onto a stand before organizing some sickles on a table to display. "People will want to see the skill of the master smith. Not me."

"Gobban," Haslfur said sternly. "You are a master smith. You have got to start having some faith in yourself. I'll bet the moment one of the fine young ladies see your work that they will want to know the man who made it. Now hurry up. We don't have time for dawdling."

Gobban wasn't sure about it, but Haslfur was right. After all it had been his project to prove that he was ready to be more than an apprentice. It was what made Haslfur sure of his abilities.

Marching to a small chest, he gently opened the lid. On a bed of burlap rested a dagger roughly a foot in length. The blade was triangular in shape at an inch and half width at the hilt. Etched into the flat of the blade on both sides were curling ivy and five petaled flowers. Nightshade, as its name implied.

He grasped it by the black leather hilt, decorated with thin silver cord that coiled around to the leather hilt. He rushed back out with the dagger in hand to the only place left on the table. He shook his head as Haslfur had placed a small pedestal in the middle of the table to place Nightshade. Haslfur was going to make Gobban's dagger the center point of all his wares.

Setting the dagger at an angle. He smiled, hopeful that maybe....just maybe, someone would see value in his wares.

"What are you so amused about, whore's son?" an older man growled. Gobban turned to the man. One of the many farmers that had requested tools for his farm. "Has your master finished with my sickle? At least I hope your master was the one that worked on it. Don't know what kind of job would be done by a whore's son."

Gobban's face turned red with frustration. People call him whatever they wanted, but calling him whore's son suggested that his mother was a whore. Which she wasn't. But Gobban could never bring himself to speak up against it. He hadn't 'found his voice' as Haslfur would say.

Luckily he didn't have to.

A crack of a maul on the wood of the table near the farmer made both of them jump. There stood Haslfur with a pissed off expression on his grizzly features. "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you from inside my forge, what was it you were calling my ward?" Haslfur's fingers tapped on the handle of the maul as he glared at the farmer.

"I...I didn't....I'm here about my sickle," the farmer quickly stammered.

"Isn't ready yet," Haslfur growled. "How about I send for you when it's done? Now get." The farmer quickly began moving when Haslfur picked the maul up once again.

The older smith's expression was much softer when he turned to Gobban, who was currently wiping away the tears that were rolling down his cheeks. He hated that he could never find the courage to speak out against those that would shame his mother. His mother who raised him to the age of five before a fever took her from him.

Gobban's eyes were puffy as he forced himself to keep control of himself. Haslfur gave him a hug with his tree trunk-like arms before he gave Gobban a gentle nudge toward the forge. He would deal with the merchants and the customers while Gobban worked in full view from the street.

The ringing of the hammer sounded once again. The only sound that seemed pure to him in the world. The only sound that could never be tainted.

Caroline Nobelia


Carol dipped her pen in the inkstand and referred to the notes that lay scattered on her desk. For this week's edition of the Reformer, she has chosen to discuss the states of the workers in corporations. A fresh breeze wafted through the window of the airship and she couldn't resist propping her chin on her hands and gazing out the window. The papers on her desk, a little spoilt by her ink pen, lay forgotten as her eyes wandered from cloud to cloud, bird to bird...

"Carol!" Obviously her mother's voice. A tapping sound jarred Caroline from her thoughts.

Carol rose up and opened the door.

"You aboard? Booty's in the Nano Corps." Angelina Nobelia, Caroline's mother, peered at her behind an enormous hat lavishly decorated with peacock feathers that shadowed her high cheekbones and blazingly brown eyes.

Caroline swallowed. She always hated that the pirates had to use force--for the "greater good", or so they said. She knew that the Nobelias were trying to exterminate all the corruption, but some of the other pirates were really corrupt themselves. And some honestly didn't care. She hated that even more.

"Angie, Carol's not willing! We've already asked dozens of times!" A booming voice filled the hallway and her father Erik strode toward her, his well-trimmed beard flickering slightly in the wind. His muscular arms were folded across his chest, so different from Caroline's thin arms.

Carol glanced at her notes. And then back at her parents. Then to the pile of Reformer newspapers in the corner of her room, folded neatly in a basket. Well...it was the perfect timing to deliver her papers. "I'll be aboard. I won't pitch in to the raiding"--She waved a hand as if she was dismissing it--"but I'll be sneaking copies of the Reformer for the workers to read. And some nugget-hunting for my next essay. And do please stop terrorizing the workers."

Angelina snorted. "We'll try, but you can't keep nobody scared when you raid. Anyway, can you say to the workers, 'Here. Read this.' when you get paralyzed just by asking Uncle Rob for a spare egg?"

Carol picked up her basket of newspapers and stored her notes and a pencil inside. "Ma, Pa, I’m going to just bury it in corners. And scout."

Erik’s smile widened. "She's aboard, then, Angie. I’m sure she’ll be fine." He closed the door behind him and reopened it to peek in. "Carol, eh, get your gimmicks prepared. Hide a rapier or dagger alright? And absolutely no magic." He shut it tightly. “I’ll be throwing the anchor down.”

"But--"

"No," her mother cut in. "Be wary. Like I said for the thousandth time, Carol, the King will snatch any mage magicking willy-nilly under his nose and force them--her, in this case--under his service." She walked over to her daughter and grabbed her wrist in a pince-like grip. “If you cast any spell, you will face me. You promise not to. It’ll wound us all terribly if you’re taken by the King.”

Caroline looked up at her mother. “I will.” But how could she practice her magic when she rarely walked on the ground. She wanted to hone her magic. She wanted to bring good through her magic. And…she desperately wanted to prove to the world that she wasn’t a worthless teenager. The other sky pirates were condescending simply because she couldn’t wield a scimitar. She closed her eyes. No. She would channel her strength through her mind: her pen and her mind and her earth magic.

Caroline slung her arm under the basket and reluctantly strapped a dagger to her side. As the anticipation of the journey filled her, magic roared through her veins. She was ready, and if necessary, she would cast a spell, no matter what her mother would say.

Arlen Colden

Arlen fiddled with the metal contraption in his hands, making sure each part was in its proper place. Satisfied, he took a small blade and scratched a rune on one side, mouthing a word as he made the last stroke. The rune flared and then dulled to an orangey color when Arlen blew on it gently.

A smile spread across his face. This was the first time he had managed to successfully establish a rune on his newest invention, a constant gauge of the æther concentration within a particular place. When he managed to complete the fully perfected contraption, those haughty royal mages would not be able to be so contemptuous of alchemists anymore. Science had its worth, just as much as magic did. He supposed that some people couldn't see it without hard, cold proof in front of their eyes. Or perhaps they didn't want to see it.

Mostly, though, Arlen hoped that the king would start taking him more seriously and actually start to listen to him, for once, especially about Rahel. The earl's thoughts drifted to his estate and he rubbed his ring absentmindedly. There was always something that could be improved there, especially since much of Archora's wealth was becoming very heavily concentrated in Kryn's center. Some of Rahel's inhabitants were moving to the city, he had heard. It would be hard to manage the land if too many of them left, though Arlen could not blame them for wanting easier--or perhaps better--lives than they had on his estate.

He shook his head to clear the thoughts out of his head. Those things would be faced in their time. Right now, he had to focus on his work and make sure no one could break him down.

Arlen busied himself with carving the second rune. Things were looking very good so far. Based on his calculations and studies, the device only needed five of the more basic runes to operate. He could add the extra, more complicated ones for security and protection later, after he showed the king how the device worked.

This second rune was a little tricky, since it almost always managed to slip away from the knife or pen creating it at the last stroke. Arlen knew that in these last few lines, he would have to be absolutely focused. Failure would lead to unwanted consequences.

There. Arlen narrowed in on the rune, which was starting to twitch. He readied his blade and--

"His Majesty has arrived!"

BOOM.

The next thing Arlen knew, he was coughing and blinking rapidly at the receding smoke around him. His apron and face--and probably hair--were coated in a thin, black residual substance.

And his invention was now in pieces of scrap metal all over his workshop.

He had always secretly hated the herald's loud voice and the fanfare that followed the appearance of King Gerard VIII on his daily visit to the aether source. Arlen could never trust that the tool in his hand wouldn't slip in the wrong direction when he was startled. And nothing else startled him in such a disastrous way.

"I believe that was Lord Colden?" A laugh came from the other side of the door. Arlen bristled at the voice. Lord Sarken. The leader of the White Faction. The man had always had a way of appearing witty at the expense of his rivals in court.

"I should wonder if there's anything left of him in there," came another voice that Arlen hated. Lord Kerta, head of the Blue Faction. Pushy and overassertive, he never had any reservations about defaming other court members, especially if they were White Faction members or, like Arlen, refused to choose a side in the political warfare. Arlen was surprised that the two had decided to come together with the king.

Arlen opened the door. "Your Majesty!" he called. He hurried to the large figure of the king and bowed with all the grace and decorum he could muster, as if he were the guest of honor at the annual Third Royal Spring Ball instead of the dirtiest nobleman in all of Archora.

"Arlen!" King Gerard looked him up and down with an unreadable expression. "You are filthy, boy. What were you doing in there?"

Arlen gave a charming, nonchalant smile, as if the king had not yet again called him by his given name like a child instead of saying 'Lord Colden.' He said, "I was working on a new invention, Your Majesty. I am currently . . . ironing out all the kinks in design and engineering."

"Really? What is it supposed to do?" The king blinked his beady eyes slowly.

"I'm making a device that will report the concentration of aether in the general vicinity. Without the need for magical renewal spells."

Lord Sarken sniffed. "Without the need for magic? That is hardly--"

The king laughed, loud and long. "You never fail to amuse me, Arlen! If you ever manage that one, I'll exempt Rahel from taxes for the next fifty years!" He reached out a hand and patted Arlen firmly on the head.

Arlen fought the emotion threatening to show on his face. He felt like one of the king's prized hunting dogs, except he was not so eager to bark or wag a tail at the big man.

Think of Rahel, think of Rahel. Everything for Rahel. He had to endure it.

Gerard VIII wiped his now dirty hand on part of Arlen's sleeve which had managed to remain spotless in the explosion, leaving an elongated hand print in its stead. "Better luck next time, boy." He walked off, continuing on his way to the aether.

The two lords lingered behind, twin gleeful smiles on their faces.

"Did you really believe you could create something to monitor the aether without magic?" laughed Sarken. "My dear boy, Archora thrives on magic. Any of your alchemist formulas and false spells could never match what a mage could do."

" 'Better luck next time,' " mimicked Kerta, obviously mocking the king as well as Arlen. "Face reality, pup. You might as well give up on trying to be acknowledged as a real contributor to the court and just join the Blue Faction. Everyone knows that you are merely a pretty trophy for His Majesty to show off."

Neither of the men seemed to agree much, but they were definitely united in their scorn and condescension for Arlen.

Arlen laughed. "You underestimate me, my lords. I was appointed to the court to help His Majesty strengthen Archora's ties to the Æther. And I would never deny magic its place in our society. Good day." He bowed, clenching his teeth.

As the two enemy lords stalked off with quite some distance between them, Arlen sighed and wearily swiped at the residue on his cheeks. Feeling a prickling sensation at the back of his neck, he turned to see a young woman surrounded by a couple of guards. He had seen her around Needlespur every so often. Her name was . . . Adelaide?

She watched him with a strange expression of interest and pity. Arlen somehow got the feeling that she could see the turmoil inside him. He didn't doubt she could, as a seer. That was the reason why he always stayed away from the pampered prisoners who often wandered the halls. They could see too much.

Avoiding her gaze, he walked into his workshop with his head high and shut the door.

Leila

Leila looked out the window at the setting sun. The light shined onto the bars locking her inside. Across the hall was her scythe, locked in a safe metal cabinet. She could feel it within the cube. She felt its killing aura, the weight of lives on its curved metal blade.

It was a nice prison, she had to admit. It had blankets, something few of the many prisons Leila had visited could say. There was some decent heating, and even the walls were painted a tan color, rather than the cold stone gray she was used to.

It was surprising that she was in such a nice prison, since she killed someone. Maybe it was because he asked for it. He did touch her scythe. You never touch a girl's scythe. Then she also killed a group of soldiers who came to arrest her, but that was only a few extra casualties. Finally, she was sneak-attacked by six of them, and she was detained. (She let them catch her, because she wanted to break out of another prison.)

She sat down beside one of the walls perpendicular to the door. Next to her was the air vent which presumably connected all cells. She began to mutter to herself.

“Now think, Leila, what's the best way out of here?”

“My scythe is across the hall. So close, yet so far.”

“Maybe if I...”

“You're wasting your time. There's noa way out.”

“But what if I...” Wait a minute. That wasn't her own voice. She glanced at the vent. “Who are you?”

“Call me Adelaide. I've been in here a while. Guards come by on set intervals, and they line the halls and stairs. You can't escape.”

“You don't know me, do you? I'm Leila aló Kiersañova.”

“I've heard of you. Just an everyday murderer, like everyone else. Although something must be special about you.”

“Why?”

“Cause you're imprisoned in Needlespur. The king only locks up the highest level seers here. Something must be unique about you.”

“Strange. Wonder what. Maybe someday I'll learn what. Anyhow, I'm gonna escape. Seeing as you know quite a bit about this place, I wouldn't mind you coming with me. Well?

Suddenly a group of guards came marching down the hall. Three of them. They approached Leila's cell and stopped. One of the guards unlocked the door and crossed to Leila, grabbing her by the arm. “Come with us.”

Leila giggled. “Really? Amateur mistake!” She kicked the guard in the groin and grabbed his skull on both sides. A twist in the wrist and he was on the floor, eyes popped open wide. The other guard fumbled for his spear, but Leila was faster. She ran up in front of him and clapped her hands on his ears. He fell backwards, and the spear plummeted into his chest.

She crossed the hall to the metal case. It had some foreign lock on, with digits on a keypad. She pressed a button, and a piston extended on each side of the case. After fumbling with buttons for a while, she heard footsteps nearing her location. Hurriedly she cussed and grabbed the spear in the guards chest. She slammed the spear into the piston joint on one side and hit several buttons at once. Steam began fizzling from the jammed piston, and suddenly a piston bent inward. It turned red with heat, and then it popped. Somewhere inside, a minute explosion detonated. The metal wall blew clean off.

She grabbed her scythe from within as the guards turned the corner. By then she was behind them, and one left-to-right motion cut them both in half. Then she ran up to Adelaide's cell and pried the cell bars apart with her scythe. “Coming, or not?”

Adelaide hesitated before getting. “I think going with you is my best bet for getting out of here.”

“I'm glad. Hey, I thought you said it was impossible to escape. I already got us to escape.”

Adelaide laughed. “Don't think I haven't gotten this far. We still need to get outside.”

Then a rush of guards called out to them and charged. Leila lifted her spear at them. “Then let's get outside.”

Sirjad:
Seventh day on the job, and Sirjad still couldn’t find his way around the castle.

He’d been assigned to the eastern wing of Needlespur, as a second Lieutenant serving under Captain William Celedra, the smarmy, blonde haired Captain of the East Wing, and a man ten years Sirjad’s junior. He’d promptly decided to disregard Sirjad’s rank and send him on an errand for one of the æther engineers.

Sirjad had to deliver a length of pulley rope to the æther core, which weighed him down by the two iron spikes set into both sides of it. He had no idea what it was for, and so far was making a frustrating lack of progress in delivering it; the castle was unfathomably huge, and the eternal corridors all looked bafflingly similar.

They were also deathly silent, for most of the guards had gone to their dormitories for the night, and Sirjad almost shivered as his footsteps reverberated through the stone halls, the sound bouncing off mechanical automatons, that stood sentry along the hall, staring at Sirjad with faceless silver gazes. He'd never liked them, the robots always made him feel uneasy.

But all of a sudden, Sirjad turned a corner and locked eyes with two armed men at the far end of the corridor. Their faces were concealed by sashes of black cloth that were wrapped around their mouths, yet Sirjad could see from their widened eyes that they were surprised to have seen another human being.

“Hey!” Sirjad bellowed, striding forwards with a hand upon the hilt of his rapier. “What are you both doing here? This is a restricted tower!”

The two men gave no answer; rather the armed one raised a loaded crossbow and as quick as lighting, fired off a single bolt in Sirjad’s direction.

He dodged sideways; the bolt whistling past his head by inches, and the next man began to charge silently forwards, his dagger drawn.

“So it’s going to be that kind of evening then is it?” Sirjad thought with relish, and began to run in order to meet the man head on.
The two sprinted down the corridor towards each other, and before Sirjad was impaled upon the dagger, he jumped sideways and kicked off of the wall. His fist connected with the man’s head, who dropped, and Sirjad landed, glancing up.

The other man decided to abandon his companion altogether, and dived out of an adjacent window. Sirjad rushed over to the window, to see the man drifting down to an open courtyard on mechanised wings that unfolded from his shoulder blades.

“Pirate Technology. Take note of that.”
He pulled himself from the window and jumped onto a rooftop beside the courtyard.
Sirjad ran across the roof as the spy ran below him, towards a sheer drop that led out from the edge of the courtyard, and towards the rest of the castle. It was probably for sightseeing, yet this man was going to use it to fly off.

“Not today though.” Sirjad pulled the rope from about his waist, and whirled it across to the other end of the courtyard and bound tightly around a spike upon the opposite building. With very little thought he jumped off the roof.

The rope snapped tight, and Sirjad curved through the air. He crashed into the spy, who was knocked flying, and Sirjad let go of the rope, rolling to a stop in the courtyard and panting with exertion. “What kind of palace guard performs a stunt like that?”

The man groaned and pulled himself to his feet, and Sirjad unsheathed his rapier to parry the ringing strike that came at him.

“Assault on palace guard, bad idea my friend.” Sirjad stated, forcing a smile. He was responded to with nothing but a disconcerting silence.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed the other spy drift down to the courtyard on similar mechanical grasping a sword.
“Two on one. Not good, not good!”

A voice suddenly rang in his head. A voice from his past, and one that he knew all too well.
“Show no fear Sirjad, Fear is nothing but an old friend, or a distant cousin, whom you nod to politely should you pass it in the street. You leave it to its’ own devices.”
“Fear does not control a Steelfist. The Steelfist controls it.”

The two spies charged.

Weapons screeched as the three duelled across the courtyard, Sirjad ducking and weaving between attacks. The courtyard was wide open with a lack of any cover to help him, and he could feel the wind blowing from the precipice further ahead.

He deflected a swing from one spy, and caught the other’s arm, driving him back with a kick to the chest, knocking him to the ground.

The other came at him with renewed fury, wielding his short sword.
Sirjad misjudged a parry and found his sword skittering away. The spy somersaulted and kicked him across the head, knocking him down.
Sirjad rolled away from the strike that clanged into where his head had been on the ground. He took up his rapier again and slammed into the spy. The man reeled backwards as Sirjad rained down punches. He flipped him over his shoulder; the spy slammed into the ground and lay still.

Sirjad knelt down, exhaling from fatigue. But he had no time to rest, as the second man yelled and drove Sirjad backwards with a flurry of strikes, which he expertly deflected.

“I’ve got this. I can beat this guy.” He thought with excitement.

Until his foot reached the edge of the precipice.

Sirjad just had time to think, “Oh hell.” Before the spy jumped and kicked him in the chest, throwing him off the edge into open air.

Glaps Hendersom:

The soles of Glaps Hendersom's leather shoes clapped against the rough cobblestones of Kryn. He heard the guards wheezing behind him, but he was barely tired yet. Rows of partially collapsed shacks lined the alleys on either side of him. This maze of slums and twisting paths befuddled even the most experienced policeman, but Glaps had memorized every nuance in the streets. He turned left and pulled open a creaking door, slipping inside an abandoned building. Three guards barreled past him, faces red and chests heaving. Realizing their failure, the guards turned around and retraced their steps down the broader street. 

Glaps breathed a sigh of relief and carefully felt his way down the hall. He stubbed his toe on a rusty lampstand and grimaced in pain, cradling his foot against his leg. Once his group had moved in the building, there had been very little interest in moving the old junk out of the seldom-used passages. Glaps cursed under his breath but continued to grope along the walls, rubbing off a layer of crumbling brick and clay. 

Voices rose above each other in the large room approaching on Glaps' left. The clamor was kept to a level of barely constrained boisterousness. A smile broke out on Glaps' heavily lined face, although he tried to keep a straight face. Throwing the doors open, Glaps shouted, "All right, ya fools, listen up now."

The din died down to almost complete silence. Glaps offered a casual grin and continued, "The heist today was successful." Cheers erupted around the room. It was a strange sight, to see the rugged thiefs pumping their fists in girlish excitement. 

Glaps shushed them again. "The total income was almost $50,000." This time, he sensed the cheer arising and held up his hand to stop it to stop it in its place. "We have a little more work to do before this case is all wrapped up. A few more loose ends and then we can live comfortably while we plan another success!" 

There was scattered applause, but then one man stood up. He was rough, like all those gathered, but he seemed worn down in a way, corroded by the test of time. It was clear from the scars lining his face that he'd seen many a fight and taken a beating from time to time. With this crowd, more scars equaled more respect. As such, there was dead silence in the room and everyone listened attentively. 

"All right now Glaps, we've all followed your directions without question for a few months now and we haven't gotten the promised reward. I understand that you may need some time, but some of us need the money you guaranteed for our loyalties."

The man folded his hands, trying to act civilized, but the muscles in his arm sent a different message. 

Several other men also rustled in their seats, agreeing with the man. They began to rise and started to corner Glaps, cracking their knuckles menacingly. With any other group, a sudden change in temperament as severe as this one would be suspicious, but these men were hardened criminals, itching for a fight and their cash. It was oftentimes like trying to wrangle a group of unruly kids-- they could only beeps quiet for so long before they needed to scream. Besides, there was no time for such reflections at a moment such as this. Defend now, think later. Glaps' old motto came back to him, and he repeated it to himself to soothe his nerves. 

Of course, he had known a revolt was on the horizon, but being challenged by a group of rogues was always intimidating, even when he was prepared for it. He was much smaller than everyone here, leader because of his brain rather than his brawn. Everyone here, however, was muscular and athletic, able to floor any opposition in an instant. 

"We have one more heist to pull off, them you will receive the reward in full. If you insist, I can distribute a few more dollars now, but it may mean that our robbery is a little more. . . risky." Glaps explained. Some men backed down, and most lowered their fists. Glaps knew he needed more to fully dissuade their rebellion, but no other convincing reasons seemed suited to the situation. He decided to take the age-old path of flattery. 

"Your bravery and loyalty have made you the ideal team to work with, and I am a firm believer in rewarding the actions you've displayed. If your work ethic and caringness continues, it will show up in your pockets." 

This time the crowd accepted it, but Glaps was certain he was now bound to repay them as he had promised. He needed them to cooperate or he risked his life. He spread a map out on the table and snapped his fingers to draw their attention back to him. 

"Here's the plan, gentlemen. Tony and Rob will be our scouts on the wing, so they'll run forward down the alleys and keep watch for cops and divert them if we see some. Behind them we'll have teams of three, the three Angelo brothers and Louis, Mark, and Carlos. They will head into the back and take out any employees in the storeroom. Once they've done that, they will signal to Ralph and Zach, who will distract the clerks by causing chaos in the front of the store. Once they've done their job, the rest of us will swarm in and make off with everything we can find. Remember, we're prioritizing any gold or silver items and perfumes. Does anyone have any questions?" 

There was silence in the room, apart from a few chairs sliding along the floor and a muffled whisper. Glaps looked around and grinned with satisfaction. "It's been a pleasure, gentlemen. I'm looking forward to this heist."

***
Glaps scanned the room carefully, checking that everyone was present before he called for order. The room's volume had diminished to a low whisper, which was as quiet as this group ever was. Glaps slammed his fist on the table to draw all attention to himself before clearing his throat to speak. 

"One more, men. Fill my hands with valuables and I'll fill your pockets with gold. I'll translate everything into money, all I need is for you to get it. You've promised me our utmost dedication, and that's what I expect. Each of you have different prices, and you were all extremely worth it. I can't say how much I appreciate your sacrifices and diligence, and it all ends today. If everyone follows the plan to the letter, we should have no trouble escaping without a single scrape. Communication is the most important part of our operation, but close behind that is teamwork. You know the drill, and I am fully confident in your abilities. Remember that you are all counting on your colleagues and your colleagues are relying on you. Do not betray that trust. Let's commence!" 

The men cheered and clapped each other on the back, pumped with adrenaline like young children preparing to go on an adventure. Glaps grinned with pride, feeling the same energy even though he was simply watching from a distance. He let the men do the dirty work and he reaped the rewards. His life was about to move from a duke to a king in a matter of minutes, assuming these seasoned professionals could do their jobs. He wasn't concerned in the least. 

The thugs were joking, already separated into groups. It was only when everyone was together that Glaps noticed the differences between them. Louis easily stood out because of his height, easily dominating the entire group. Ralph and Carlos were the only scrawny ones, skinny and lean. The rest of the posse were typical thug-like figures, burly and well-built. Glaps pulled the head communicators out of his pockets, whistling to call the gang over. 

Slowly, everyone shuffled over towards Glaps, forming a loose ring around him. Glaps distributed the headsets gingerly, treating them with something just short of reverence. "All righty now, gents. You know the drill- these strap round your necks so they reach your mouth and ear. Be very careful- if the guards see them you'll be interrogated and locked up for life. They hate these clever gizmos, and there are only a couple of 'em around, so don't break them."

Glaps watched each one carefully, trying to ensure the safety of the headsets as much as possible.  These highly illegal amd risky devices were powered by æther, and the government refused to allow the regular civilians to access this powerful material. He trusted these men with his life, and knew they would never be so careless as to get caught.

The men started to file out of the headquarters, murmuring amongst themselves. Glaps was the last in line as usual, escorting his men outside in a relatively hasty manner. He realized something was wrong when there were muffled thumps, then a gunshot. 

Quickly retreating, Glaps attempted to bolt the door, but a policeman was waiting for him. The cop forced the door open and slammed a struggling Glaps against the door, pulling his hands behind his back and securing them with shining metal handcuffs. 

As Glaps was dragged away, he took one last look at his old hideout, somehow knowing that he would never see it again.  

Sirjad:

Sirjad tumbled from the ledge into the open air, fingers scrabbling for a handhold. He rolled painfully across several ledges, before his gloved hand closed around the nose of a glaring stone gargoyle.

He glanced below him, exhaling, to see the rest of the castle stretching below him. The turrets of the towers, concealed by the shadows of the late hour, looked evilly sharp from where he hung, and he’d surely be impaled upon one of them should he fall.

Except Sirjad had no time to reflect on this dangerous situation, as he heard the spy hop off the above ledge, onto the one that he was hanging off. He was obviously getting cocky, and wanted to dispatch the palace guard that had caused him so much trouble.

“Well not today. Bad idea, getting cocky.” Sirjad thought with amusement.

As the spy jumped forwards to stamp on Sirjad’s fingers, he pulled away and hauled himself up onto the ledge backing away from the spy, who crept forwards with the point of his weapon held menacingly before him.

Sirjad reached for a sword that wasn’t there, already feeling the swaying effects of gravity.
There was a walkway nearby, that stretched over a yawning rift between the tower they were next to, and another tower opposite. Should Sirjad try to jump onto it though, the spy would surely escape.

“A Steelfist controls the situation to his advantage.” Spoke the voice from his past again.

As if in response to a command, Sirjad hopped backwards as the Spy struck out with his sword, and reached out blindly for a weapon behind him, anything.
His hand closed around the halberd, belonging to an empty suit of armour, set upon the walls as another gargoyle.

Sirjad jabbed the halberd outwards, and the spy parried and struck again. The glittering metal of his sword bit into the stone as Sirjad ducked, and slammed the butt of the halberd into the spies face, hearing a satisfying grunt of pain.

The man obviously realised he was losing this battle, and somersaulted away onto the walkway that Sirjad had noticed, beginning to run towards the gap between the two towers, where he would be able to escape.

Sirjad jumped after him, landing in front of the spy, blocking his escape route.

“Nice try mate.” Sirjad just had time to say, before his opponent launched forwards, his blade flashing.

Sirjad deflected several blows as they fought backwards and forwards, before Sirjad found the halberd snapped in two pieces in his hands. He span under another strike, and slammed the snapped piece of wood into the spies’ stomach.

The spy, however, caught Sirjad’s second blow on his blade, striking him across the side with his sword and flipping him across his hip, Sirjad crunching into the stone, and going rolling across the walkway.

He groaned in pain, clutching his side, feeling drips of red between his fingers.

“Tired. So tired. And so much pain. I guess I’m not as fit as I was in my youth.”

Through bleary eyes, Sirjad glimpsed the spy sprinting down the walkway towards the city skyline in the distance, his mechanical wings unfolding and carrying him off into the wind.

“I can’t let him get away. Not after all that.”

“There’s only one thing I can do then.”

“Hopefully nobody sees this.”

Sirjad forced himself to his feet, and held his hand before him,

Concentrating,

Concentrating,

Magic coursed through his veins, and fire sprung from his palm, leaping out through the air like a snake, and colliding with the flying spy.

Sirjad heard the spy cry out in surprise as his tunic erupted into flame, coursing him to veer off course and to crash through an open window into a nearby tower.

“Quickly, quickly, he’s going to escape!”

Sirjad ran down the walkway as fast as one can whilst wounded and beaten up. He leaped from the walkway towards the window, grasping it with his hands, and hauling himself in.

Sirjad dropped onto a vibrant carpet, and raised his eyes to see a myriad of bright lights, and a group of shocked faces, belonging to some well dressed noblemen.

It seemed he and his friend had interrupted a party.

Sirjad noticed that several men and women were knocked down to the floor by the spy, clearing an open pathway through the crowd. He glimpsed the black figure of the spy, running towards an open balcony that led out into the city skyline.

“Stop him!” Sirjad bellowed, chasing the man through the crowd, but most of the foolish nobles were too shocked to do anything. Many of them were likely to be powerful mages as well.

One brave young lad with silver hair stepped out to intercept the spy, but was instantly knocked back with a powerful shove. The spy reached the balcony, dodging several lunges from nearby guards, and threw himself off of it, his wings springing into
existence, and the wind carrying him towards the city skyline impressively fast.

Sirjad snatched a crossbow and a bolt from a nearby guard, without asking him, and knelt on the balcony edge, loading it, and aiming towards the black speck flying towards the horizon. The spy was flying above a tremendous lake, outside of Needlespur.

“I only have one chance.”

“Can I make a shot like this?”

“You are a Steelfist! Cast off worry, fear, and self doubt. Cast off the pretences of boyhood. Become the man you were meant to be!”
Sirjad fired, and the shot was dead on. He heard an obscure scream, and the spy plummeted from the air and into the lake with a faint splash.

Sirjad turned and strolled forwards, handing the crossbow back to its surprised owner. The noblemen were looking at him with amazement.

“I’m going to need some soldiers.” Sirjad spoke out to the noblemen. “But one of you will need to come with me down to the lake, before that guy swims away. I haven’t any right to command.”

Almost immediately, the silver haired lad who had tried to stop the spy stepped forwards.

“Let me come with you Lieutenant. I might.... know some stuff about technology like that man had.”

Sirjad shrugged. The rest of the crowd were looking at the young man oddly, but he didn’t particularly mind which nobleman came with him to apprehend the suspect. They were all the same after all.
***
Fifteen minutes of walking, and one of the soldiers bandaging up Sirjad’s injured side, led them to the lakeside. The nobleman’s name was Arlen, and he seemed to be taking the situation seriously. He seemed like a type of guy who knew what was at stake these days.

At the lakeside they came to a trail of spotted blood leading into a dark alley, where it became impossible to distinguish in the dust.

Sirjad swore furiously, not caring if there was a nobleman nearby. After an evening of being beaten up, he just had to lose the spy! The other man that he had knocked out would have come to by now, and escaped.
“Why does my luck go downhill so much these days.” Sirjad thought with frustration.

Except he heard Arlen cough for Sirjad and the soldiers attention, and Sirjad turned to where Arlen knelt by the lakeside

“Lieutenant.” Arlen spoke. “Look at this.”

The lad was holding a dagger, a glittering, razor sharp one, which had hung upon the spy’s belt. There was an emblem engraved upon the blade. A five pointed star, with lines trailing off of it, as if the star was falling.

“This could be a lead for finding the spy!” Arlen said with excitement.

Sirjad was about to agree, and to ask for the dagger, before he heard a clatter of
footsteps, and noticed a palace guard charging down a nearby path, obviously incredibly short of breath.

“Lieutenant Sirjad?” The guard questioned, and Sirjad nodded.

“You are required to make yourself present at the castle immediately. There is a situation.”