Twelfth day of Spring Dawning (March)
Modern Era Callander Year 1727
Praise be to Azurath!  After my years of schooling at the Academy of Arcane Arts, I have been apprenticed to Sergi Andolini of the Council of Seventy.  He is the most skilled transmuter in Vasellio and rumors say he will one day become the Crimson Tower’s supreme chancellor.  To think that I, a poor farmer’s son, would be accorded such an honor as this.  It is a dream made real.  No! It is a miracle of the god of magic; even in my dreams, I could not have dared wished for such a thing as this.
The only blemish on this otherwise perfect day was running into that bully Luigi.  At least, after this, I will never again have to hear him say, “Look out, he’s going to turn you into a newt!” It was a mistake that any new student of transmutation can make – and the kid got better - but he never did let me live it down.  Oh, but now, I’ll have the chance to show him now.  I’ll have the chance to show them all what a skilled transmuter can do. 
Sergi Andolini!  Thank you, God of Magic.
I can hardly sleep for the excitement.  I wonder what kind of man Master Andolini will be.

Thirteenth Day of Spring Dawning
The initiation ceremony was the most boring thing I have ever experienced.  Supreme Chancellor Caroli is even more dry than my old Abjuration teacher back at the Academy - a thing I would never have believed possible before now.  As a part of the ceremony, I was given a special ring which authorizes me to enter the Crimson Tower and also allows me access to my master’s laboratory.  Master Andolini also gave me a book containing all the spells required of a tower initiate and also a few he personally feels are important.
For the rest of the day, Master Andolini showed me the tower grounds, or at least all the parts of it I am authorized to visit, which does not account for much yet.  My new master is everything I expected him to be.  His knowledge is remarkable and I am certainly blessed to be his student.  I can hardly wait to begin my studies.  Tomorrow, I will give a donation to the church of Azurath in thanks for this wonderful gift.  I know it is only a small amount, but it is all I have to offer now.

Seventeenth Day of Spring Dawning
Master Andolini taught me some of the basics of advanced shape changing today.  He was quite impressed with how quickly I learned the subject and with so few mistakes (I feel so sorry for that poor ape, but that’s why we experiment on animals, I suppose).  The studies were exhausting and I will sleep well tonight.
Master is meeting with Councilor Rosilino, an associate in the Council of Seventy, right now.  I wonder what they are talking about.  I don’t know why, but something about him makes me uncomfortable and I am loath to be around him.  Of course, I dare not say anything, lest I offend him; they say he has a terrible temper.

Twenty-ninth Day of Spring Dawning
“Change is the only constant.” That is what Master Andolini told me today.  At first, I didn’t understand, but then he told me things I would never believe were it not he who was telling me.
Vassellio was not always like it is now.  Once, long ago, all men were equal, regardless of their magical power!  And the Crimson Tower was founded as a place of learning for all mages. It was only five hundred years ago that it became a political organization.  When it became our kingdom’s government, no one exactly knows.  How strange, to think of our kingdom as having no special considerations for those of The Art.
Everything changes with time and we must be adaptable, ready to change with the times.  Rigidity is death.  That is the lesson Master Andolini wanted me to understand.  He is truly a man of great wisdom.
Next week, after he finishes the lessons in advanced shape changing, he is going to teach me a little bit about alchemy.

Tenth Day of Storm Breath (April)
I misread the measurements in the alchemic formula and ruined the experiment, not to mention half of my master’s laboratory.  The explosion caused almost six hundred crowns in damage.  Master Andolini was furious and I feared he would punish me as Councillor Rosilino insisted, but no, he merely instructed me to clean up the mess and took the damages out of my allowance for the next several months.  I escaped this disaster relatively unharmed, all things considered.
Except that now everything I eat tastes like vinegar.  Master Andolini tells me it will wear off after a couple of days.  Or at least, he believes it will.  I hope he’s right.

Nineteenth Day of Storm Breath
I caught Councilor Rosilino in my master’s lab today.  He said he was waiting for him so that they could discuss matters of importance, but all the council knows that he has gone to meet with representatives of Bladespell for continued peace talks with Adun and will not be back for three more days.  What was he really doing?  I don’t trust him, but I’m in no position to state my concerns.  I will have to keep an eye on him.
I wonder who that stranger in the tavern was.  He seems to know a lot about the Crimson Tower Council for a man not of Vaselliano blood.  Perhaps I should make some inquiries about this Viktor Morden.

Twenty-second Day of Tree Blossoms (May)

Master Andolini joined me in communion at the temple today.  His donation made mine seem small and insignificant, but when he sensed my feelings, he said this to me:
“For all its size, my donation is hardly a drop in the bucket compared to my great funds.  Yours, though much smaller than mine, is a great sacrifice to you and thus caries far more weight in our Lord’s eyes.  Remember, my young apprentice, it is not what the world sees in the wealth of your coffers, but the wealth that Azurath sees in your heart that is most important.”
I received word that father has fallen ill today.  I wonder if I should go visit him.

Thirtieth Day of Tree Blossoms
I had another encounter with Mr. Morden today.  I was accompanying Master Andolini on some Tower business and I had been instructed to wait outside.  Morden came out of nowhere and asked if there was anything he could do for me.
A curious question.  Obviously, there was nothing he could do for me.  The only thing I really want is more opportunities to increase my knowledge, but that’s no business of some outsider.  I told him as much and then bid him leave me.  He makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck and I like him not at all.
I also ran into Luigi again.  He hasn’t changed a bit since I first met him at the Academy.  He still insists I’m a fool for specializing in something like transmutation, when there are far more powerful forms of magic.  He is an idiot and a braggart, but he is skilled in the arts of elemental magic.  And he is going to take the test of the Seventy next week.  Damn!  He always said he would be an archmage before me and now it appears he will.

First Day of Sword Point (June)
Increased border disputes have prompted the Tower Council to send Master Andolini to speak with Adun’s representatives again.  He will be meeting with a Colonel Jurgen Krieger for these latest peace talks.  Master has met Krieger before and says he is a noble and even-minded man, if mistaken in some of his beliefs.  He expects the colonel will be most reasonable.
While he is away, I am to continue my training under the tutelage of the enchantress Maria Giacolone.  Though I will miss Master Andolini’s lessons, I hear Mistress Giacolone’s is an excellent teacher.  Perhaps this will give me a chance to learn some new skills.

Fourteenth Day of Sword Point
Father died today.  Mistress Maria will let me return home for the funeral.  She is such a caring woman that when I told her the news, she actually wept for my loss.  She even offered to pay for the trip home.  Of course, I couldn’t possibly have accepted money from her - that would have been most inappropriate - but I was nonetheless grateful that she would offer it.  I think I will enjoy being her student.

Eighth Day of Summer Flame (July)
Maria is absolutely amazing.  Her power to influence other’s minds is unbelievable.  She can make a man dance naked on top of a table without ever questioning that it was his own idea - a lesson in showing proper respect to a woman, she said.  I must be sure not to rouse her ire.
I received a letter from my master today.  The negotiations are not going as well as planned and he will be gone for a few more weeks at least.  Though the news is distressing from a political standpoint, I’m glad to have more time to get to kno to study with Maria.

Sixteenth Day of Summer Flame

Councilor Rosilino is under inquiry from the Council of Seven today.  He is being called into question about his unusual activities over the past few months.  It seems I am not the only one who has seen him in places where he does not belong.  I know I should have proper respect for my superiors, but it will be most satisfying to watch him wriggle like the worm he really is.

Twenty-first day of Summer Flame
Every time I look at Maria, I feel my heart race.  My every waking though is of her beauty, her grace and her wit.  Even though such a thing is not appropriate for one of my position, I cannot deny my love for her.  How torturous, that our relationship must remain as teacher and student, that I must endure the fires of passion for someone I am always near, but can never get close to.  Have I somehow offended Trivia, that he would weave such a cruel fate for me?  Or is this perhaps some twisted game of the trickster?  Whatever it may be, I do not know how long I can endure this pain.

Twenty-Eighth Day of Summer Flame
A curious thing happened today.  Mr. Morden came to me while I was running errands and asked how I was getting on with my new teacher.  He even called her by name!  I was so shocked that I did not know how to answer him.  Then he said, “If there is anything else I can do for you, you need only ask.”
I asked Maria if she knew him somehow, but neither his name, nor his description had any meaning to her.  Who is this man?  And what did he mean by “anything else?”
Councilor Rosilino’s inquiry was concluded today.  I can’t believe that the Tower Council could find no evidence to convict him of anything.  After all I know he’s done, he escaped trial with no more than a verbal reprimand.  It’s intolerable.

Fourth Day of Low Rivers (August)
Maria postponed our lessons today. She seemed a little odd, like something was bothering her.  And she was so pale, like a ghost.  I wonder if she was ill.
I wish I could help somehow.  I don’t care if my feelings are inappropriate, I only want her to be happy.  I want to see her smile.  Such a lovely smile; the goddess of beauty herself does not hold a candle to that woman.  There must be something I can do.
Perhaps he could help?
No.  What a stupid thought.

Fifth Day of Low Rivers
Mr. Morden found me again today.  Though it sounds impossible, I think he knew I had been hoping to run into him.  I told him what I wanted and he said to meet him again tomorrow at the tavern.  What a fool I’m being, to trust this stranger I’ve only met a couple of times before to help me in such matters as this.  What could he possibly do to help me?
I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.  After all, I’ve gone along this far, I may as well see what comes of it.  What could be the harm?

Sixth Day of Low Rivers
I received a letter today.  The peace talks are concluded and Master Andolini is returning home.  It will be good to see him again, but it does mean that my studies with Maria are finished.  On the other hand, perhaps now that I am no longer her student we can pursue a relationship of a different sort.

And Morden seems to have proven reliable.  I don’t know exactly how, but the rare magical components he gave to me were of great importance to her.  I fear to wash my cheek and lose the feel of her lips against my face.
I wonder what else I can gain from Morden.

Eleventh Day of Low Rivers
Master Andolini has returned and he’s been nominated to become First councilor to the Supreme Chancellor for his diplomatic accomplishments in Adun.  Unfortunately, Rosilino has been nominated for second councilor.  Something is very wrong with that arrangement, but I have no proof of anything to bring against him.
My master has arranged for me to take the test of the Seventy.  I must face one of the archmages in a magical duel and at least end it in a draw.  If I pass the test and am raised to the level of archmage, I will finally be in a position to court my beloved Maria.  But how can I beat one of the great archmages of the Tower Council?  I am but a simple farmer’s son.  Perhaps it is time for another visit with Mr. Morden.

Fifteenth Day of Low Rivers
Morden tells me that I already know all I need to pass the test of the Seventy, if I only remember my lessons.  What is that supposed to mean?
Master Andolini was elected today, as was Rosilino - I swear there is foul play there.  When I met him in his office to congratulate him, he gave me a special gift.  The device is a magically prepared miniature cage of pure silver.  It can be used to amplify the magical power of specific transmutation effects and, though it is a simple spell that he does not expect me to ever need use, he said to keep it as a reminder of something I must always be aware of if I am ever offered a position of power like he now holds.
“Power can bring great prestige and great titles, but with such things also come great responsibilities.  Leadership is like this cage; it looks nice from the outside, but only from the inside can you see just how much freedom you loose in accepting it.”

Twentieth Day of Low Rivers
I was nervous before taking the Test of the Seventy today.  My opponent was to be none other than Luigi from the Academy.  I was not sure if I would be able to hold out against his powerful elemental magics, but before I was about to go into the Room of Preparation, Morden slipped past me, pressed a scroll into my hand and was gone as quickly as he had come.
The scroll contained a few simple notes on the nature of magic taught to all first year students of wizardry, but the specific points that he highlighted, along with the words “change is the only constant,” scrawled on the bottom, made me think about the knowledge in a way I never had before.  Suddenly, I had a whole new understanding of magic.  This new approach allowed me to best my opponent with ease, converting energy from the simplest spells to be used to counter his.  Even when he realized it was a simple matter to deflect his magic, he continued to barrage me with fireballs or lightning bolts, pouring everything he could into them.  Once he had tired himself out, I offered him the chance to yield.  He refused, thinking that since transmutation spells were mostly for support of more powerful magics, I would have no means of defeating him, thus the match was a draw.
To this I answered, “Your problem, Luigi, is that you can’t understand the value of adaptability, so you don’t know what to do when your plans aren’t working.  You need to learn how to change.”

I will forever treasure the memory of his expression as I summoned the last of my power and turned him into a newt.  As a last bit of justice, none of the Tower Council could quite understand the way in which I shaped the flows of magical energy to do it, so he has stay in that shape until I replenish my magic and can undo it personally.  Given how exhausted I am from the duel, it may take a couple of days.

Twenty-First Day of Low Rivers
Once again, I had to sit through another boring initiation ceremony with Supreme Chancellor Caroli droning away all day.  He seems to have gotten even more boring over the last few months.  Fortunately, he’s old and when he dies, or retires, Master Andolini will take over.  Perhaps then, the ceremonies will be a little more interesting.
After the ceremony, Master Andolini and Maria joined me and my family to celebrate my accomplishment.  We went to the most expensive restaurant in Liore and ate until we were about to burst.  I must have eaten four plates of fettuccini alfredo.  And such wonderful baked zucchini.  To think that less than a year ago, I was little more than the son of a poor farmer, working two jobs just to make enough to afford my tuition at the Academy.

Third Day of Autumn Breeze (September)
Today is the happiest of my days.  Maria has accepted my proposal for marriage.  Her father has provided a generous dowry, far more money than I ever thought that I would see; I did not even know her family was so wealthy.  It almost makes me feel unworthy of being her husband, so little do I own, but her father assures me that my display at the Test of the Seventy is proof enough that I deserve his daughter.  I wish I could afford to pay for the wedding she deserves, but my family simply doesn’t have the means to afford such a thing.  We will have to settle on a simple ceremony.
I saw Luigi again today, as well.  I smiled and waved to him, but he turned away and stormed off like an angry bull.  I may have shown the value of my specialties to him, but it seems the experience has done little to improve his personality.  It’s sad to know a man who made a better amphibian than a human being.  Oh, well; it’s not a perfect world, after all.

Seventeenth Day of Autumn Breeze
The ceremony was today.  As a wedding gift, Master Andolini gave me an amulet with a spell of protection on it, as well as a staff made from petrified wood, topped with an amber gem; his prized Staff of Transmutation - a wonderful gift indeed.  He’s done so much for me, I can’t imagine what my life would have been like had I never met him.
Rosilino was also at the wedding.  He gave me a cloak empowered with a spell to make my enemies think I am standing a few feet to the side of where I actually am.  While he certainly spared no expense on the gift, I wonder just how many enemies he thinks I will run into to need such a thing.  Some say I was wrong about him, but I still do not trust him, and I never shall.

Archamge Juliano Gandolfo, Second Counsilor to Supreme Chancellor, High Archmage Calvino, stood outside the gate of General Kretesh’s compound.  At least, he believed it was General Kretesh’s compound; there were very few such structures on the wild plains and the information he had been given came from the most reliable of sources, Diviner Caladonna, but the hesitation they were displaying was enough to make him question even her impeccable skills in The Art.
The building - if it could be called such - was a large dome of iron plates, crudely thrown together by whatever means these orcs could manage.  There were only two flags, General Kretesh’s standard - an axe, of all things! - and a standard bearing the holy symbol of Typhus, a spiked gauntlet grasping a bolt of lightning in its clutches.  There were no symbols, or stained-glass windows, or statues.  It wasn’t even painted.  It was just a revolting lump of metal in the middle of a vast, empty field of long grass.
Four towers rose up on the sides of it, from which a contingent of soldiers waited with their crossbows trained on them, waiting the inevitable order to kill.  He had heard that General Kretesh was a reasonable man, for an orc, and that he was even a wizard, if such things could be possible - an orc wizard?  Well, wouldn’t that be something to see? - but still, he was glad he warned his attendants to weave a ward to deflect their missiles and to keep a good offensive spell ready in their minds, just in case.  If the rumors of Kretesh’s respectable nature proved to be false, or if this wasn’t actually General Kretesh’s stronghold . . . well, he wouldn’t mind removing that unsightly wart of wood and metal from the face of the world.
Truth be told, this was the first time Archmage Gandolfo had ever seen orcs before and he was more than a little surprised.  They weren’t giants with horns and wings, they didn’t have long, forked tongues dripping with venom or acid, they didn’t have flames bursting from their eyes - he at least expected them to have claws, but no, not even that.  Their full-plate armor was carefully polished and remarkably well crafted, but it didn’t have any spikes or razors on it, nor were they wearing skulls or severed human hands from their belts.  All in all, the stories were proving to be considerably exaggerated.  They did have skin of a grotesque, ash-gray color and their eyes were yellow, or sometimes pale-green, and they had a distinctive overbite, but aside from that, he’d almost have thought they were human.  Just looking at them, it was hard to think of these brutes as the monsters they really were.
At last, there appeared to be some movement inside.  He could see the sentries lowering their crossbows, some of them turning to look back into windows of the fortress at whoever was approaching.  Perhaps the great General Kretesh was finally going to grant them an audience.
About time.
The crude iron gates slowly opened with a loud creaking, tearing up clods of dirt and grass.  Archmage Gandolfo stood up a little straighter, shoulders back, and forced himself to stand perfectly still, despite the painful screeching of metal on metal.  From the dingy blackness within, two orcs marched out with as much acclamation as a pair of cattle being herded out to slaughter.  One was the orc with the strange haircut - Belg, he had called himself - who had come out to greet them before.  Still in his chain-mail armor, marked on the shoulder with three red stripes to signify some rank within their army, the creature’s lips were moving rhythmically, as though he were chewing something.  The archmage assumed it must have been some grass or weed; the plainsmen were always chewing some sort of drug.
The other he had not seen before.  Taller than the first by a head, this orc’s black hair was conservatively cropped and noticeably better groomed than the others he had seen, making Archmage Gandolfo feel a sense of relief to know they weren’t all so unkempt.  He wore no armor, but a crude, sleeveless shirt and pants made from some animal’s hide and thick leather boots.  Strings of beads and gems dangled from his shirt, probably some primitive display of wealth, but what caught the archmage’s attention was the tremendous axe he carried, shining silver in the light of the midday sun.  The blade of the weapon gleamed with a pale yellow glow and the gilded handle was engraved with potent magical symbols.
The two orcs stopped in front of them and stood there, waiting expectantly.  Nodding with as much respect as he could muster, the archmage forced a smile.  He did not show his teeth, thinking it was best not to give the beasts any reason to believe they meant aggression, but the grip on his staff unconsciously tightened.
“I am in the presence of the great General Kretesh?” he asked.
“You are,” the orc replied in a soft and unusally articulate voice.  “What is your business with me?”
At last, the wizard thought impatiently, but said, “I am Archmage Gandolfo, Second Councilor of the Crimson Tower Conclave.  These are my attendants,” he motioned to the two wizards behind him and then gave them no more thought.  “By the order of the Supreme Chancellor, High Archmage Picarro Calvino, you are hereby informed that . . .”
He cut off suddenly, noticing that General Kretesh was making an odd sound in his throat.  To him, it sounded something like ‘ho ho ho’ - was the orc laughing at him? - and waving his hand in an odd gesture the archmage didn’t recognize.
“I beg your pardon?” he said, unable to keep the indignance out of his voice.
“State your business,” General Kretesh demanded brusquely.  “Speak it plainly, I don’t have time for this nonsense.”
Archmage Gandolfo’s hands ached for the white-knuckled grasp on his staff.  Did these barbarians have no conception of the importance of convention?  Could they truly be so crude as to not understand the proper means of showing respect for authority?  It took every ounce of self-control to keep from scowling at the orc.  His attendants, however, did not have as much discipline.
“You will show Archmage Gandolfo the respect he deserves,” said the one on his left.
To this, the orc called Belg laughed raucously.  Turning to General Kretesh, he muttered something in their guttural tongue, then turned to the wizards and spat on the ground at the archmage’s feet.  Though he knew his face would be sore the next day, he forced himself to continue smiling, but his attendants stared in horror at the brown blob on the ground.
“How dare you?” one of the attendants began, but Archmage Gandolfo raised a hand to silence him.
“If you wish me to be brief,” he said.
General Kretesh nodded and Archmage Gandolfo cursed silently.  It had taken him over an hour to memorize his speech and now it was to be wasted, simply because these animals had no appreciation for the effort people put into their work.  So uncivilized.  And now he had no way of knowing for certain he covered all the important parts.  He cursed silently again.
“We,” he paused, thinking of how to word it in such a way that General Kretesh could understand.  “We seek an alliance with your people.  We would like to hire mercenaries.”
The look of astonishment that passed between the orcs made the archmage feel sick to his stomach.  Where they such a violent people that the concept of an alliance was beyond their comprehension?  It was worse than he thought, if they were that bestial.  He had warned the Tower Council that it was an outrageous mistake to approach the orcs.
The confusion on General Kretesh’s face changed slowly to wariness.  “The other nations will look poorly upon such a treaty.”
This time it was Archmage Gandolfo’s turn to look astonished, try though he might to hide it.  He had never expected them to understand anything so complex as international politics, but then, even monsters must understand the need for relations among their own kind.  Still, a statement of such evolved intelligence was more than he ever expected from an orc.
“Perhaps,” he replied.  “But we have reason to believe another war is on the horizon.”
“With Adun,” General Kretesh said.
Archmage Gandolfo continued as though there had been no interruption.  “During the last war, Adun’s General, Hubert Von Housan, marched all over our land, unchallenged, for we did not have military power to hold them off.”
“Wuss,” Belg snorted.
General Kretesh gave the orc an angry glare and it quickly fell into silence.  Archmage Gandolfo made a mental note to find out what that particular orc word meant - he assumed it was some sort of insult, but there was no point in ruining negotiations by making it an issue.  He continued.
“If there is another war, we do not wish to repeat the same events.  We wish to have your warriors to aid us.”
General Kretesh eyed him sideways.  “You have wizards, many wizards, and they have none.  What can they do against you?”
Archmage Gandolfo scoffed at the brutish notion.  “The battlefield is no place for wizards.  We are rulers, not soldiers.  We do not sully our hands with the blood of our enemies like common . . .”
By the look on Belg’s face, the archmage wondered if he had misspoken.  The beast scowled viciously, revealing the fangs of his lower jaw and growled.  The creature turned to General Kretesh and spoke in its feral tongue and, for a moment, the general appeared to be considering the words - if they could be called that.  Finally, he shook his head.  The other began to protest, but he held up his clenched fist and it swallowed whatever it had been about to say.
“What do we gain from this alliance?” he asked.
Smiling, Archmage Gandolfo replied, “We are prepared to offer you a generous sum.”
“We have no need for gold,” the general interrupted.  “There is nothing we can do with it, but we do need trade.  As you can see,” he gestured to the fortress, “we do not have much and my people are not skilled in the ways of agriculture.  Give us food, materials to build our encampments and forge our weapons and see to the needs of my soldiers while they guard your homes from foreign invaders,” he stopped a moment and appeared to be considering, then with a smile added, “and books.”
Archmage Gandolfo’s stomach tightened with apprehension.  Did he truly expect them to share their knowledge of The Art with him?  The secrets of arcane magic were theirs and theirs alone.  Mere orcs had no right to it.
“What sort of books?” he said carefully.
“Any books,” the general replied.
The archmage relaxed visibly.  “If that is all you desire, then consider it done.”
General Kretesh extended his hand.  Suppressing a shudder, Archmage Gandolfo took it and shook.  Suddenly, the general’s expression hardened and before the archmage could react, he was jerked forward and the orc’s hand closed on his throat, holding it firmly enough that he felt the pressure, but not enough to harm him.  The attendants reacted by beginning to chant the words of their spells, but the archmage ordered them to hold and they stopped instantly.
“We have a bargain,” General Kretesh hissed.  “In two weeks time, four battalions of my men will cross the borders into your land.  At the same time, you will have everything you have promised me in payment, ready to be shipped back to us.  If you fail, or if you refuse to show my men proper respect, we will kill you all.  Remember, we are risking our lives to defend yours.  You owe much to us.”
Archmage Gandolfo nodded weakly, forcing himself to smile.  “It will be done.  As to respect, my people will show it to you, so long as you do the same.”
General Kretesh released the wizard, then turned and strolled back into his fortress as proud as could be, clearly supposing he had got the better of them in the deal.  Belg hesitated a moment, staring in disbelief at the wizards, then at the general and back again, then followed his leader.  With a terrible screech, the gates slowly closed.
“Why did you tolerate that sort of treatment, Archmage Gandolfo?” one of the attendants asked.
“Had you give the word, we could have reduced the whole fortress to ash,” said the other.  “Then they would have known to respect us.”
Archmage Gandolfo straightened his robes, smoothed his hair and took a deep breath to steady himself.  His heart was still pounding in his chest, but at least the ordeal was over and everything had come out better than he expected.  The Conclave would be pleased.
“A devil’s bargain?” he said to himself, almost laughing.  “It isn’t the first Crimson Tower will have made and it certainly won’t be the last,” he turned slowly to his attendants, his grip tightening on his staff, “but we now have four battalions of orc warriors to defend our borders.  If Adun thinks to invade us now, they will find it no easy task.” He suddenly lashed out, striking the attendant to his left with his staff on the side of the head.  “Had your foolish comments ruined this alliance, I would have turned you into a hare and tossed you into a den of wolves.  Make no mistake, it would mean nothing to me.  If you ever speak out of turn again, you will regret it, but not long enough for it to matter.  Understand?”
The attendant nodded, trembling from fear.  Archmage Gandolfo looked back at the fortress one last time.
“Barbarians,” he said, spitting the word out as if it were a bad taste in his mouth.

After his meeting with the wizards, Kretesh felt a need to bathe.  What terrible creatures they were, to stand by and watch their own people be slaughtered by invading armies when it was within their power to stop them.  They had no sense of responsibility to the people they ruled. He would feel no remorse when he finally threw down the Tower Council and piked up their heads as a warning to future generations about what happens when you don’t serve your people.
“Permission to speak frankly, sir,” Beulg requested.
“Granted.”
As Kretesh opened the door to his room, tossing Spellreaver onto the bed and taking his seat on that much-to-small chair, Beulg ran his fingers through his hair and groaned in his throat, trying to think of how he wanted to say what was on his mind.
“Those men, they’re (Gibbering Mouther Ate Your Word!)-breathed,” the major spat.  “They open their mouths, but all that comes out is (Gibbering Mouther Ate Your Word!).  You know, I hear Basalano women are made to stay ‘mah all their lives and they don’t even try to do anything about it.”
Kretesh considered correcting Beulg’s pronunciation again, but decided against it.  He picked up his reading glasses from the end table and carefully fit them over his nose. 
“It’s true.  It’s likely worse than you’ve heard, as you may have gathered from the way they speak.  They are a horrid people.”
“Then why?” Beulg demanded.
The general picked up his book and opened it to the page he had left off.  “I know that you think I have made a bargain with a devil, Beulg, but you must understand, it is necessary.”
“But . . .”
Kretesh cut him off.  “Because we need what they have to offer us.  To bring together the wayward tribes of our people and teach them to be true warriors was child’s play.  They needed only a strong leader who knew the right things to say to unite them, but we do not have the resources to launch our campaigns into the northern kingdoms.  We barely have enough steel to arm half our men with proper weapons.  Once those shipments come through, we will have more than we have ever needed.”
“I don’t know,” Beulg muttered.  “I don’t trust them.  That man, he made me think of a snake about to strike, only he didn’t have the decency to rattle his tail.”
Kretesh put his hand on Beulg’s shoulder and smiled.  “Don’t trust them.  That way, you’ll have an advantage over them when you lead my men into their kingdom.  They’ll be expecting us to attack them at any time, but otherwise, they’ll trust us implicitly.  They’ll never suspect that we are capable of such a cunning plan as I have laid out for them.”
Noting the hint of sarcasm in Kretesh’s voice, Beulg leaned forward intently.  “What plan is that?”
“While you are defending their borders,” Kretesh explained, “you will also be observing them; both the Vaselliano and the Adun.  Study their battle tactics and report them back to me, so that we can plan in advance how we will fight them.  When the invasion of the northern kingdoms begins, we will know exactly how and where to strike.  We will crush them in one swift blow, before they even have a chance to organize.”
Beulg grinned broadly, his scar livid.  Standing straight, he saluted the general.  “Thank you for this mission, sir.  I will lead it with honor.”
“Good, good,” Kretesh replied absently, opening his book again and searching out his place in it.  “Organize our forces, and tell First Lieutenant Rrkal that she is in command of this outpost for the time being.  Unless we are under attack by enemy forces, I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“Yes, sir,” the major answered.
Kretesh waved him away and Beulg closed the door behind him.  Sighing deeply, the general looked again at the picture in the book.
“The Warrior of Flame fights an orc, huh?” he said with a bitter laugh.  Turning the page, he spat “Barbarians.”

Harold Leseter Maud moved quickly and quietly down the corridor. His steps made a echoing tap-tap-tap against the gray stones as he increased his speed and rounded a corner. Just one of the many warehouses where Lester hid his slaves and enemies.

“I have someone else.”

Random chance - the roll of a celestial die - is the true balancing force of the universe.  I was only a child when I learned this.
I had been abandoned as a baby and raised in an orphanage.  I hated it there; they worked us to death to earn the meager meals they gave us and the headmaster would whip us if we said anything without being asked.  Whether we were adopted by good people, or bought by slavers, it made little difference to him, so long as he got a good deal out of it.  I didn’t get on well with the other children, either, or, more precisely, they didn’t get on with me.  The hope of ever having a better life lashed out of them by the headmaster’s whip and their only hope was to never see it again.  They did as he said, danced on their strings like good little puppets.  It spared them a beating, but it killed their future.  To people like that, I was dangerous to be around.  I was too small to hold all the anger that I provoked from the headmaster, and they avoided me, lest the overflow fall onto them.
Why I never gave up like the rest of them, I don’t know - perhaps it was luck, the only real skill I had then.  For whatever reason, I kept telling myself that some day, things would be different.  I wasn’t going to wait around to be handed over to the first person to come along with a sack of gold willing to buy me.  No, I was going to make something of myself and I was not afraid to let others know of this.  That was the reason why the headmaster had decided that he was going to whip me harder than usual that day, to beat that self-righteous arrogance out of me.
That’s when Trivia rolled the first pair of dice in my direction.
As luck would have it, there had just been a noblewoman at the orphanage that day hoping to adopt a son, so the headmaster’s whip was upstairs in his office, locked away out of sight.  When I spoke up after the woman had left, he promptly went to retrieve it.  That was when I noticed that the headmaster, furious at my outburst, had forgotten to lock the door.  The headmaster never forgot anything, not even the smallest details.  It was something that would never happen again, a random chance that I somehow knew was my way to fortune.
Life on the streets of Wall City is hard no matter who you are, but it is especially difficult for someone who’s only ten years old.  I didn’t know a thing of the ways of the streets, I didn’t know the right way to talk to people or the right people to talk to - hell, I didn’t even know how to hold a knife properly, which was why I got beaten almost as badly and as often as I did back at the orphanage for a while.  It was the worst three years of my life, but I never once regretted my decision to leave, because at least here, I had a chance to make something of myself, no matter how slim it was.
I learned the ropes of the city rat’s life quickly and it wasn’t long before people had at least figured out that there were easier people to steal food from than me.  I became a pickpocket to survive and gained a reputation as the meanest knife fighter on the streets, but I still wasn’t going anywhere with my life.  I needed something to get myself started on a better road than what I was on.

There were others like me on the streets.  Darren Leingod, another cutpurse, had started off worse than me, but was recently rising up in ranks as a smuggler, and all his efforts in the black market were just beginning to show profit, but I knew that wasn’t for me.  I’d seen Leingod a couple of times and knew from the look in his eyes that he lived in more fear than any of the others back at the orphanage.  No, I didn’t want to make my fortune in crime.  Clearly, when you take something by force, you must spend the rest of your life using force to keep it and the thought of living with the constant need to keep one eye open while I slept just wasn’t appealing.
I don’t know if I really believed in gods at that time and, from what I’d heard from the noisy priests in the temple district, I certainly didn’t feel like worshiping any of them if they did happen to exist.  But then I came across a small shrine to Trivia in the slums.  Trivia was an interesting god, or so it seemed from his priests; without exception, every one of them were gamblers. They also didn’t like to preach much and would only tell you of their god if you asked them.  Even then, you had to ask about it when they weren’t too drunk or hung-over if you really wanted to learn anything.  Trivia was, officially, the god of the “Third Road.” There was an argument among the priests about whether that was fate or luck, or if they were really one and the same.  I spent many nights in the shrine watching them debate this point, often over a few mugs of ale and a game of dice.  It never did convert me to their faith, but it certainly was an interesting way to pass a few hours.
I was thirteen when the dice rolled a second time.  I don’t think it had anything to do with the copper penny I had casually dropped at the alter that morning, but I might be wrong.  After all, Trivia is a most whimsical god and you never know when a little lip-service will please him.
It was the middle of summer and I was searching the city for some easy target to lift a few coppers from for a loaf of bread.  That’s when I saw him.  He was wearing a dark purple robe with the hood drawn up, so I couldn’t see his face clearly, but he walked with a staff, so I assumed he was an older man.  He had a number of small pouches tied loosely to his belt, any one of which would have been simple enough to procure.  The funny thing about him, though, was that nobody reacted to him.  People mechanically stepped out of his way when he passed, all the while continuing their business as though didn’t realize what they were doing.
I had heard stories of wizards before, people who wielded powers beyond that of normal people, who could do anything they wanted by just saying a few words, or gesturing with their hands, or waving a stick.  I had been told that it was wizards who had discovered the power that worked all the machinery in the city and that in ancient times, they used to be able to make marvels greater than what we had even then, but they had long ago lost the means.  I had never believed any of those stories.  I’d met a couple of mechanists before, learned a bit of their trade from passing conversations, and it certainly didn’t seem to require mysterious power to run an electric street lamp, or a gas-powered furnace.  I’d never seen a wizard though, or anyone who claimed to be one.  “That’s because the real powerful wizards all come from Vasellio,” some would explain, while others would say, “It’s a godly magic that runs technology now.”
Sure they do.  Sure it is.
When I saw this man, however, I remember thinking, Could this be a wizard?  He fit all the descriptions of wizards I’d heard from people.  It was the first time that I argued with myself about what I should do.  On the one hand, I didn’t want to anger someone who might command great power in a very literal sense, but, on the other hand, I needed something to eat and the only people I’d ever heard talk of wizards were usually either slightly mad or wandering storytellers trying to amuse a crowd.  A dozen other possibilities came to one hand or the other and, in the end, I couldn’t decide what to do.  So I flipped a coin; heads, I go for it, tails, I don’t.

There are a couple of really good places in Wall City to lift a purse, where the walls break into little alleyways that are perfect for slipping into unnoticed.  As luck would have it, the man was very close to one and he happened to be going in that direction.  I followed him for a few blocks, keeping a safe distance from him so that I could watch him, but not be noticed.  When he reached the spot, a tight back street between the Blushing Mermaid tavern and an abandoned warehouse, I made my move.
The pouch came off without any resistence and before anyone could have seen, I was making for the Blushing Mermaid’s basement door.  As I laid my hand on the latch, a firm grip closed on my collar.
“There’s nothing in that pouch for you, boy.”
The voice was soft and deep, not quite empty of emotion.  It’s tone was calm and it hardly sounded threatening, rather I thought that I was merely being told a simple fact.  But there was no way that I could have been noticed, of that, I was certain - I’d picked enough pockets to avoid being caught so easily - and that confidence made the situation all the more frightening.  Sweat beaded on my forehead and, as I carefully reached for my dagger, the only thought going through my head was that I was about to die.
“I wouldn’t recommend that,” the cloaked figure warned, not taking his hand off me.  “Remember that when you take something by force, you spend the rest of your life using force to keep it.”
If my whole body hadn’t been so tense, I think I might have soiled myself.  Not only had he seen me prepare to draw my weapon, he repeated something that I had told myself many times before, as though he had probed into my mind and read it like a book.  I went numb from the shock and the pouch slipped from my hand.  After a moment’s hesitation, he released my collar and bent down to scoop it up.
I seemed to have taken leave of my senses then, for instead of running, I turned to face him and, without any thought of what the answer might mean, I asked, “Are you what they call a wizard?”
The figure rose up and stared down at me.  Beneath his hood, I saw a stiff, chiseled face, not unlike the headmaster I had run from, but his chin was slightly more pronounced and his eyes were a piercing and disturbingly bright green.  There was also some kind of letter branded onto his forehead; I didn’t know it at the time, but I would later learn it was his name.  For a moment, there was only silence and I was afraid to break the eye-contact that he had made with me.  Finally, he spoke.
“Possibly.  Are you what they call a city rat?”
That caught me off guard.  The only people who had ever answered a question with a question before always meant it as a way of warning you not to keep asking questions.  Before I had a chance to decide if I was being threatened or not, he spoke again.
“Before we can answer that, we must first decide who ‘they’ are, and what exactly they call a ‘wizard’ or a ‘city rat.’”
I had always prided myself on having a quick tongue, which was why it thoroughly embarrassing for me when I started stuttering.  The statement seemed needlessly (Gibbering Mouther Ate Your Word!), yet, having brought it up, it appeared to me that he had made my question unfathomably complex.  I was simply overwhelmed.
When I failed to produce a response that was more than meaningless blubbering, the man shrugged and started to walk away.  As I watched him go, I suddenly found my tongue, but still missing my wits, I cried, “Wait!” He turned to regard me with his not quite empty stare and for a moment I felt as though the world was growing larger around me.  Another moment of uncomfortable silence passed as I wracked my brain for something else to say, all the while telling myself that if I didn’t shut up, I was going to get myself killed.
“How did you see me?” I forced out.

The livejournal is here, and the breakdown of who’s written what is as follows. Note: content marked with an asterisk (*) is not safe for a workplace environment and contains mature content and themes. Read all disclaimers at the top of the stories carefully.

puella
The Snow’s Daughter - PG, ~200 words.
Disciplined - PG, ~200 words.
Erosion - PG-13, ~1,450 words.
* Cold - R, ~1,400 words.
Girls in Closets - PG-13, ~850 words.
Good at What She Does - PG/PG-13, ~650 words.
* Not the Carefulest of Girls - R, ~3,000 words.
* Birthday - NC-17, ~4,650 words.
Meta: The Interview, Part One - PG, ~5,100 words.

JK
Daddy-Daughter Dysfunction - PG, ~2,000 words.
The Way - PG, ~2,150 words.

Collaboration
Burden - PG, ~5,800 words.

The Harvesting

The trees turn red, gold, orange, and brown
as they kill off un-needed extremities.
They prepare to defend against the future.

Awaiting the frigid winter to come,
we harvest cords of wood.
To defend against the future,
we collect the dead for burning warmth.

We harvest cords of wood,
drying and leaving them in covered barns,
We withhold vital food and water from the
dying, leaving them in covered barns.

The food is scarce in driven snow,
forcing bears and wolves to shamble out, seeking
pigs and cows to slaughter.  I smoke them
out of their hidden caves.

I seek dens and hibernation chambers, protecting my child.
Out of their hidden caves
Come trolls and other horrid fantasies.

Protecting my child becomes a daily struggle.
In the wilderness nearby
come trolls and other horrid fantasies, leaving
countless victims of nightmares and pain,

In the wilderness nearby
they kill off un-needed extremities.
Countless victims of nightmares and pain,
the trees turn red, gold, orange, and brown.

My wailing is the autumn wind, spilt water
when it fell.  Here everything is cool,
unhidden in the rains of May.
There is no sign in the cicada’s cry.
A crow is perched on a bare branch
quite unaware of last night’s storm.
I have not lain with beauty all my life
where ferns fell away in the broken air
of the immigrant’s dream come too true.
The trees along the river are what I see,
where the red hills, dotted with piñon,
declaim their dying.  To darken nature
and be summer woods in leaves no
steps had trodden black, to stay our
minds on and be staid for him to conquer.
Because I weep in the tombed
studio, I demand that the human race
be said to weep when weather howls
with tongues that talk all tongues.

Their character knows no depth; their capacity to bear burdens that would break us is augustine1; their nurturing knows no bonds.  They sacrifice that their families might not be left wanting.  They cry when happy, smile when broken, laugh when nervous, and carry on long after they are past hope – and yet deceive none whilst doing so.  Are we capable of such as well?

Do we not cry as suckling babes for their mothers when we have fallen ill?  Would we not that we were suckled2?  And do they not, though sickened themselves, suckle us to our content?  Can we say that we possess love unconditional?  Can we claim that one tender kiss from our lips heals all?

Nay, my good men, perish the thought.  We do not, we can not, we are not, and we have not.  Those supernal qualities are possessed alone by those who are our betters.  They scold us, mould us, nag us, pry us, test us, wind us, and twist us.  And who among you is not the better for it?  I would that you check your bottoms3 for smoke4 were you to make such a claim.

All things, gentlemen, can be summed up by one singular point: we are lost without them.  We cannot make it through this life without a good woman to encourage us; to offer us her sweet words of kindness; to strengthen and support us; to be an example to us; to lift us up when we have fallen; to make us a better us.  Yet, they have ingrained within their very pith the capacity to carry on without us.  Their strength lies in allowing themselves to be needed by us.  And yet, are they not equally strong without us?

And so, good men, we serve them.  We toil and labour; we callous our hands and burn our backs; we protect their grace with all the passion and fury like paladins of old.  We must, for our honour lays in their bosoms5.  Our fate is no better than the worms that rot our fallen corpses should we find ourselves rid of those who love us so dearly.  All our labours are but too few should all of them be offered in tribute to her.

Yes my good men, women are so much above us that all the better would we be for admitting it more quickly.  They do have one flaw, however.  With all their complexities, all their gentleness, all their strengths, all their grace, all their beauty, they have this one great weakness.  It is incumbent upon us as their servants – for servants we are and no more than servants ought we desire to be – to remind them of this.  This single flaw is that they forget their own worth.  Gentlemen, this cannot do.  We must capitulate ourselves now that we should spend the rest of our lives, nay eternity, to prove that we are indeed worthy of our queens.  They deserve nothing less.

I wish I could express to you the deepest sorrow that I feel at this time.  No one could understand, save they, too, have buried one of their own.  That is something that every parent fears.  But I suppose that even they who have buried their own could not fully understand my grief.  I try not to think about it too often, but the memories are still fresh in my mind.

I remember the day that I brought you into the world.  Things were different then.  I don’t remember exactly when they started allowing fathers into the delivery room, but it wasn’t too long after you were born.  I don’t know if your father would have been there, even if he had been allowed.  You know how old-fashioned he was.  I still miss him.

I wish you could have gotten to know him better.  I fear that you were denied one of the most wonderful opportunities because he passed away when you were only ten.  He was a good man, the best I have ever known.  I was proud to know him, even prouder to call him my friend and husband.  He worked so hard, so that you would have a life that was relatively problem-free.  That’s not to say that we went without problems.

I pleaded with him to not take that last job.  He didn’t say much.  He let me yell at him while he just sat there.  Finally, when I was too exhausted to yell at him any more, he simply said that he had to do it – no other miner had the experience necessary to save those men.

You know, he did save them – every single one of them.  Knowing that offers at least some comfort.  He was the kind of man that even if he knew the end from the beginning, I truly believe he would have done it anyway.  It’s easier to let him go knowing that.  Letting you go is so much harder.

I remember fondly your growing up, and all the times you would come into the house crying.  Sometimes it was because the other children wouldn’t play with you, sometimes it was because you had fallen and scraped your knee, and sometimes it was because you had lost your ball.  Somehow you believed, somehow you knew that I could make it all better.  I was okay with letting you think that.

I suppose I’m no different than any other mother who wishes that her child would always stay that age.  I would bake you cookies, I would kiss each scrape, I would bandage every bruise until the day I died if I could.  I think that that is one of those prayers that God doesn’t answer because He knows that there are much richer blessings – and heartaches – in store in watching your children get older.  Mothers just don’t have the wisdom to understand that until it is done, and we would very likely deny ourselves those blessings if we were given the opportunity.

You see, son, a mother needs to be needed.  That is what brings her her greatest joy.  I suppose that is what makes part of every child’s growth, and particularly your passing, so difficult: you don’t need me anymore.  I guess every mother experiences that at some point or another; at least I like to think so.  Believing that makes it easier.

There were times that I thought you would never make it to your eighth birthday.  No one could have convinced me that it would all be okay, that you would make it through each and every scrape and bump – well… almost each and every.

In some ways I think it’s harder for a mother to watch her child get stitched up than it is for the child.  You see, son, there are no visible scars for the mother to show off and brag about – the way that children so often do – once the stitches come out.  I do not think any of us would want it that way either.  It is one of those unspoken rites of passage that all mothers share.  It is the soul stretching that we’ve never asked for, yet wouldn’t trade for anything in the world

I suppose children, too, have their own rites of passage.  Even now I don’t think I could have ever told you no when you asked if you could have a puppy.  I held off on that for a bit.  Children tend to ask for things and then forget about them in a day or two.  You were no different in a lot of ways, but not about the puppy.

What impressed me the most was not that you still wanted one, even after a month of “we’ll sees”, but that you started doing extra chores just to prove yourself responsible enough to take care of a pet.  How could I say no after that?

The day we brought home your puppy was one of the happiest days of my life.  You were smiling the entire day.  The two of you made the cutest pair.  He loved you so very much.  I knew the two of you would be the best of friends.