The Laws of Wizardry

[Caden Law]

It's an ethnic ghetto, was the very first thing Caden thought upon arriving at Inhuton. And he was absolutely right, for a given value of right. Inhuton was a small-ish section of Evernorth that was as glitzy on the street side as it was shabby everywhere else. The people were different from the city's norm; they weren't variations of what passed for Salvic humanity. Almost none of them had the pale skin, the brown or blond hair, the blue or green eyes. Some of them didn't even have eyes for that matter. Hair was optional on a good number. Pale skin was an increasingly rare commodity the further Caden went past Inhuton's invisibly defined borders.

The only thing that really marked Inhuton was Inhuton. It was nothing like the city it occupied. It was as different from Evernorth proper as a determined anthill was from grass.

Shops lined the sidewalks, along with the occasional vending stand that somehow managed to stay in business despite the rancid conditions of the place. Most of the buildings were mixed brick and wood, and whatever side faced the street was always neatest. Some of the buildings sported signs of alchemically glowing lights and shapes, and a few of those could hardly be Church-approved. There was a strange uniformity to it all. The same couldn't be said of the people roaming the streets: They were as cosmopolitan as any crowd he had ever observed in Scara Brae or Corone, if not more so. Wyrmfolk stalked by in gangs, bearing Brood markers that would've had them at war anywhere else. Tyrant Dwarves conversed openly and equally with Drow, and a whole littler of Hobgoblins went streaking (literally) through the street at one point. Caden even passed a cafe where a High Elf, Dark Elf and Drow were all playing a certifiably human card game over a hookah and a pint of something steamy.

The only things binding these people together were unity in poverty and opposition.

And the further along he went, the more Caden noticed something strange. It wasn't that this motley coalition of abhumans and inhumans and outright freaks of nature regarded him with enough disinterest to imply that he was one of them.

It was that Inhuton was a lot bigger inside than it was outside.

No way in Hells they could cram this much into the few blocks it takes up outside, he thought, and almost immediately found out why.

There was a tower at the heart of Inhuton. A mile high and shaped like a spear or arrow orbited by emerald spheres and halos of iron chain links thicker than a human body. Sigils writ large in flowing spirals up and down the height of the building, and there was no obvious way in or out but for a circle painstakingly carved into the air between its base and the sidewalk. The whole thing smoked a faint eldritch green towards its zenith, and Caden could swear the clouds were shaped to resemble sigils of spatial distortion.

"Ah," Caden said, then carefully adjusted his glasses to make sure of what he was seeing.

Yep.

The tower was still there.

"Well," Caden said, then considered the situation carefully. It reminded him of the Evernorth he had seen in that twisted future of N'Thayn'sal, up to and including the cheap masonry and shacks that surrounded it. Which only made sense: Nobody would really want to live near this thing if they could help it. The buildings surrounding it were probably little more than urban stuffing, and most of them likely served some foul purpose of their own: Sacrificial altars the size of a Church hidden away in structures barely bigger than an outhouse; arcane armories ready and waiting and hating for the day when the ruse was finally over and their creators could unleash them at will.

"There's something you don't see every day," he said to himself. He was not, however, the only one listening.

"Only if you don't live here," said a voice that was younger than it had any right to be; thirty-something going on a thousand, and high enough to come straight from the back of the nose. "And you, Wizard, do not live here."

Blueraven's rod, sword and bowie were gone, but Ogden's people had left him his Hat and a Wizard who isn't a shifty bastard will not be a Wizard for long. Caden had stowed his wand in the Hat, and he called it out now with a flick of the wrist. The Hat jolted to one side of his head, he turned hard and his hands came up clasping the wand like a sword. Magic was already buzzing around his hands like a bee-hive made out of lightning -- but he didn't release it.

He just stared.

"Do I know you?"

Perfect, gleaming white teeth were bared to him in a smile that would've made any mortal painter weep. "Not here, not now," said their owner, whose very aura shone like gold andwhose eyes blazed like miniature teal stars. "But maybe somewhen and somewhere else. Do I look familiar, Wizard Blueraven?"

"Yes."

"As I should," spoke the High Elf, who dressed in robes of white and gold over a tight scarlet suit, and who bore a sword that was awfully familiar in the most literal sense. "My name is Raun Yenuial; Forefather of Aldinar, Eledier, and Vara; Forefather as well to the Diadem Fingolfin, though his line chafes to acknowledge it," he declared, and the resemblance was strong enough to back it up on all fronts. Aside from his glowing eyes, Aldinar's brow and Eledier's ears, the Elf could've passed himself off as Findelfin. And his surname even matched up to the alias that the lost General had used in the darkened future of N'Thayn'sal. The only thing that tainted the glamour was...

"You're a Warlock," Caden said, which was reason enough to keep the spell aimed squarely at Raun's face.

"The proper term is Warlocked Seer," Raun replied with a faintly amused smile. "I went too far on the Path, Wizard, and Saw the truth that my Starlit Gods did not want me to know. I broke my oaths to them and found new ones, and new bonds to go with them. I am the master of this Domain, for as long as I may cling to it. My disciples are many. You are not, and never will be, one of them. So tell me," he began to draw the sword, its blade colored icy blue with red sigils, just as Caden knew it would be. "Why should I let you live, knowing what you have seen and where your loyalties lie."

Because I have none, a smarter person would've said.

Caden was too afraid to be smart. So he just let fly with a bolt of lightning at what was effectively point blank. The spell arced tightly and reduced snow to boiling water with its passage, and then it hit a swinging dehlar blade and split in half. The leftovers veered wildly off any kind of course, torching lines into the street and setting fire to a nearby shack in the process. Blueraven immediately tried to step back -- gain distance, gain the high ground, gain anything he could...

...and there Raun was, holding Caden's wand-hand at the wrist and bracing his sword's edge just millimeters from the Wizard's throat.

It was the most sobering defeat Blueraven had experienced since his time in Raiaera. Simply because there was absolutely nothing he could do. His mind siezed up and his body wouldn't move and it was all he could do to keep breathing while his eyes locked onto a point six inches higher than one of the nearby buildings. The entire time, Raun stood calmly by. He still wore that same little smile, utterly unphased by anything as he answered his own question.

"You know what this is, don't you? A Magicide Blade. Enchanted dehlar, bane to any spellcaster no matter his preparedness." The edge came close enough to split one of the hairs on Caden's neck. He finally looked down to meet Raun's Seering eyes. "Why should I let you live, Wizard? Because there's only one path in all of destiny where I am allowed to kill you."

"And that is?" Caden finally asked. Just speaking felt like choking on bits of gravel.

"If you do not swear to keep silent what you've seen here, I will kill you. Simple, is it not?"

"I hate the way you people talk," Blueraven finally chortled. The alternative would've been to wet himself in abject terror and disgust.

"You're going to hate us a lot more when you get to the other side of Inhuton," Raun said, almost sadly. "But you will understand that soon enough. Now swear it."

For a moment, Caden closed his eyes and seriously considered not doing it. To give his word here and now meant that at least one aspect of N'Thayn'sal was probably guaranteed. Evernorth would someday collapse; Warlocked in the shadows of mile-high towers, its people living day-to-day by the whims of their arcane overlords.

...but if he didn't, Blueraven reasoned. If he didn't.

One apocalypse or a thousand?

The reaper queen smiled in his nightmares. There were bodies burning on the moons. The stars were going out. Nations had been reduced to bowls of blood and corpses, and the dead walked in agony against the living.

And a girl who might have been his daughter grew up to fight the war that he was never there for. And her mother, who might have been his wife, grew ragged and hopeless and fought to her grave.

Caden grit his teeth and Said...

"I swear by my own Name that I will not reveal this place to anyone who doesn't already know."

"Not enough," said the Elf.

"...and to never raise magic against you or your Disciples."

Raun smiled again. "That will do."

The blade pulled away from Caden's throat. Raun held his wrist a few seconds longer, then let go and sheathed his sword. The Elf turned and started to walk away.

Stopped at the corner of the nearest street. Looked back and regarded the petrified Wizard with a level gaze as children mobbed by; all Wyrm and Elves and a Dwarf or five.

"Suffer well, Wizard Blueraven," he Said, his Voice heavier and more electric than anything Caden had heard in his life. "Your journey awaits on the other side of my Domain. We will meet again."

Caden didn't wait for the Warlock to tell him anything else.

He ran away.

[Caden Law]

Inhuton blurred. Caden ran so hard and so fast that his legs felt empty and it burned just to breathe; until he tasted blood in his throat and there was a slow-freezing trail of snot on his upper lip. Nobody deigned to notice him as he passed. It was like they were used to seeing this sort of thing. He wasn't one of them. He never would be. They knew it and so did he.

The Wizard Blueraven was just passing through.

"How?" he raggedly asked himself at every other stride. When there was enough air in his lungs to form an actual sentence it became, "How is he hidden right there?"

The mechanics of it were simple enough: Just standard spatial distortion magic with some illusory spellcasting. But even with that, all it should've taken to have the local Clergy coming down on the place was a patrol through Inhuton by the police, or even just a Swaying Priest coming to look for converts, or even a Wizard looking to buy something barely legal for illegal prices. The Weather-Magi should've been able to smell the eldritch smoke coming off the tower on the wind.

Why didn't anyone know?

"I've got to find some way to circumvent the Word," Caden decided out loud, and almost immediately regretted it. Pain sparked off from the center of his skull to six inches past his eyes and ears; lightning blue wisps that burned and were gone so quickly they could only be seen in groups. He staggered. Couldn't quite bring himself to scream. Made it a few more steps and finally fell to his knees, feeling an emptiness in his stomach that reminded him of the chill that came with Necromancy.

A Wizard is only as good as his Word. Breaking a promise is tricky business, and it's hardly ever something you can consciously plan in advance.

Caden knelt there for a minute, then forced himself to stand against a street lamp. In the haze that followed, it finally registered that he was on the edge of Inhuton. He could tell because the urban sprawl was starting to give way to an oddly pleasant slice of tundra suburbia. The sign he leaned against marked an actual neighborhood, with houses and yards and fences and a clearly marked street that lead all the way back to Evernorth proper. Caden tucked his wand into a coat sleeve and stuffed his hands in his pockets. It didn't stop the shaking, but at least passers-by couldn't see it. He started walking again.

Stopped a few houses later at the sound of a voice that was as familiar as it wasn't. Older now than it had been, in spirit and in maturity if not in years. The sultry feel of it had been replaced by something gentle and sweet. The accent had changed a little; evolved with travel the way speech does.

A glance to the left turned into a blank stare. There were a million images dancing behind it, and not a damn one of them matched the reality of what the Wizard Blueraven saw.

Gone were the Akashiman-styled pants and the trimmed kimono shirt; none of the exposed midriff that caught his eye in the old days. No longer was her throat bare as if to challenge an attacker or seducer; there was a white scarf now. She actually wore a dress now, along with a heavy coat. Her hair wasn't stark white anymore either; just a black that actually matched her eyebrows. Her face was still all high cheekbones and perfect chin, bedroom eyes if you knew where to look, and her lips were as full as they'd ever been. Whatever weight she had gained in the past years, it looked good on her. Like it belonged there.

Stories practically hung in the air around her. Music thrummed in every laugh.

And a little girl with bright blonde hair ran circles around her.

Caden tried to say her name, but all he could get was a V that sounded more like a stuttering F. Listen closely though, and you might just hear the sound of a Wizard's wretched heart breaking into a million pieces.

Especially when the other shoe dropped as a rich, deep voice called from down the street, "Veshua! Justina!"

Caden looked to the source and saw an Elven man. If not for the pointed ears and the perfectly trimmed beard, he could've been Fingolfin. A few seconds later, the little girl ran up to him with shouts of Daddy! and Caden saw that her ears were pointed too. Everything didn't click into place so much as it all collapsed and the rubble just happened to fit together. A few seconds later, he heard Veshua identifying the man alternately as Nildinar and Husband and Love.

Something in the back of Caden's brain basically shut down at that point, and it's just as well. He looked away in time to miss it when his reason for living shared a kiss with what was very probably the son of a man who had just sworn him to inaction at swordpoint. He didn't run away this time.

He just walked, unnoticed by the happy little family that -- in some other time and place -- might have been his.

[Caden Law]

1. A Wizard must have a Hat.
2. All Wizards inevitably gain a staff.
3. A Wizard is only as good as his word.
   Addendum: Vendetta sworn is vendetta pursued at all costs.
4. A Wizard never stops thinking.
   Addendum: No, not even when he's doing that.
5. A Wizard can never truly go home.

Some hours later, Caden sat down on a bench outside of a tavern in what passed for uptown Evernorth. He took out his Grimoire, opened it to a random page and carefully rewrote Rule #5. When he was done, he stared at the page for a few minutes and then wrote one sentence.

I think I understand now.

[Caden Law]

Twenty years ago, a young apprentice watched a duel between magi; Wizard against Warlock, human against wyrm, man against man. He was more naive back then, if you could call it that. His initiate's robes were still clean enough to wear in public without arrousing suspicion. His dagger wasn't quite stinking at the hilt from dried-in bloodstains. He only wore one ring, and he hadn't quite gotten the hang of speaking with his true Voice.

He was a murderer even then, mind you. But he was a curious one, looking up to his master with a sense of envy at the scope of the man's knowledge. "Why are they fighting?" he asked.

It was a long time before the older Warlock deigned to look at him. Long enough for the duel to end when he finally said, "You'll know someday."

[Caden Law]

His name is Anton Wyrmtongue, actually Icetongue but there are reasons for that. Physically speaking, he's a thinly built Wyrmian man of a little more than six feet, not counting the extra inches granted by his draconic crest. Chest's a bit broad for someone of his physique, and so are the shoulders. His skin is scaly and mostly purple with pale blue for the soft bits like palms or the underside of the jaw. Four fingers on each hand, probably three toes on each foot. No tail. Orange eyes with slit-pupils that tint green in the proper lighting. Speaks with what you might label an Atlantic English accent and a very deep voice, to say nothing of the magic Voice he gained around puberty. Anton is generally a man of fashion when possible, but now he's been reduced to a red robe with a black mantle, tight black suit underneath and thick boots that were, notably, not made from human skin.

Still bears a sword in those robes, among other things.

He hails from a future called N'Thayn'sal; a place where everything that could possibly go wrong in the world of Althanas did. Usually in the worst way you can think of, and sometimes even worse than that. He was a heavy-hitter and a power-player back then, in that dark and dreary place. A Warlock Lord native to Evernorth and the broader regions of Berevar and Sulgore's Axe, specialized in all things Infernal and combative. Hit close to the top of the hierarchy by virtue of slitting plenty of throats and tearing out even more souls. Had a whole coven of minions to his name back then -- lots of expendable soldiers, just enough initiates and a few (completely untrusted) lesser Warlocks in his servitude. He was on the Council, on his way up and gutting anyone who got in the way.

And then he went to a reagent shop and everything went to hell in a handbasket. Anton met a Wizard, fought the Wizard, and was dragged back in time by the Wizard. He left a great deal of his power behind, ended up stranded two or three years in the past relative to where we are now, and was subsequently left to fend for himself in the wilds of Salvar. Skills as a liar, murderer, thug and humanoid puppetmaster allowed him to rebuild some of his power -- he had three or so of his five Bonds restored by now -- but he couldn't seem to pull together a decent collection of servants. It all fell apart, over and over again.

Most recently because he encountered the Wizard again and was killed by him.

Technically.

(It bears mention that Wizards are merely paranoid and well prepared for almost all contingencies. Warlocks are so far past paranoia and preparedness that the words lose meaning to most of them; it's like comparing first grade essays with a published thesis paper by Stephen Hawking.)

Anton came back. The specifics of how are confusing. All that matters is that he came back. And after he came back, Anton wandered through some distressingly familiar crystal woods, looked upon his old home city and whispered a hoarse, Not yet. He returned to the woods, searching by memory until he found an old and mostly illegal trade route used by the Wyrmfolk to deal with local tribes of Orcs and other barbaric humanoids. From there it was just a matter of walking until there was a spear at his throat.

A little smooth talking followed. "Of course I'm not an agent of the Church! I'm a Warlock for sky's sake!" he explained, relying on casual admission to keep the spear's blade from his throat.

It worked, just so you know. This is generally because the differences between Shamans, Wizards, Warlocks and so-on are usually more semantic than functional. Just because you protect your tribe, commune with spirits and hold a deep love of nature does not mean you are a Good Person. In the case of Shaman Redhide, who had associated with everyone from Warlocks to Centaurs to Wizards to Church Weather-Magi over the years, this admission was a good enough reason to draw his spear back and order his cohorts to stand down.

"What business do you have, Warlock?" one of the Orcs had asked, a big gray-skinned brute decked out in hunting leathers and holding an Alerian-made rifle like he knew exactly how to use it.

"I heard tell of a coven in Evernorth. I'm trying to find my way there, but I seem to be last right now..." Which worked mostly because it was true. "And you?"

Trading, as it turned out. Redhide and his merry band of marauders were actually serving as escorts to a convoy of Wyrm merchants visiting from Alerar and elsewhere. Anton managed to opt in from there, exploiting the inherent Warlock among the Broods to pass himself off as a wandering holy-man to his kin.

Which explains why, a little under a week later, you would find Anton leaned back against a wagon's wheel by a glittering blue fire, flanked on all sides by interested children and a fair maiden or three. Even a few of the Orcs had joined in to listen to him tell a story of his youth. The names were lies. The rest was true.

A Warlock and a Wizard fighting it out.

"And the funny part," Anton told them in the here and now as he stared up into the starry night sky. It was so different from the near-black one he had grown up seeing. There weren't even dead gods burning on the moon. "The funny part is that I still don't know what exactly compelled the to fight the way they did."

And I hope, he chose to leave unsaid, remembering the gleam of his mentor's eyes, I never have to find out.

[Caden Law]

Warlocks aren't supposed to feel nostalgic. It's one of the very first lessons taught to initiates, between getting a dagger and actually using it; but you never really learn it until after the blade cuts out your best friend's heart. Or after his cuts out your own. Nostalgia leads to hesitation leads to dying, in shortest terms. But for all of his intimate knowledge of the Warlock's unwritten code -- the Darwinistic set of rules and tricks that kept you alive when even your reflection in the mirror couldn't be trusted -- Anton could't help but feel a little pang in his stomach when he finally set foot upon the frosted cobbles of Evernorth.

It wasn't like he remembered. That just made it worse.

When Anton was a boy, Evernorth had already been Warlocked into submission. There was an Orc invasion in the months before today, back in N'Thayn'sal. They struck from the sky with ships and guns that were a rival to anything the Alerian Elves had ever brought to bear, in numbers that rendered any conventional opposition futile at best. The Weather-Magi tried, and so did their Church backers. They failed. They all failed, and most of them died, until at last Anton's old master gave the order to move. The coven declared itself openly, demons swept the streets and Evernorth was burning out of Orcish bondage within a day. Anton still remembered the savage smiles of his cohorts as the last few Aeromancers collapsed to their knees, bitterly weeping as they declared allegiance to the Warlocks.

Then came the towers, the expansions, the defenses...

There was no invasion here. In and of itself, this wasn't so bad.

"Looking a bit wistful there, Brother Wyrmtongue," one of the merchants said as the wagon Anton rode in turned a corner. They passed by a building that should've been an Arcanery, and then another that had been Anton's favorite whore house -- the one where he sent troublesome initiates to die. Just a book shop and a bakery now. There was even a silver-clad guardsman idling by, twirling a club and tipping his hat to a sweet little old lady.

Anton felt his stomach turn as he said, "It's not what I was expecting," though he didn't actually open his mouth to do it.

"You've never been here, have you?" the merchant asked.

"No," Anton lied. "I just expected the coven to have more of a say in things." This was true.

They passed a statue of the city's founder, Ethereal Jeremiah, holding a spear aloft in one hand and his Book in the other. Anton remembered a sacrificial altar in its place; remembered using it a few times. "Give it time," the merchant said as the wagon passed it by. "Have you ever seen Inhuton?"

Anton lied, "No," and tried not to think about sleeping in a back alley as a child before his talents manifested, and before the coven declared itself. They passed by a similar alley in what passed for normal Evernorth, full of trash and a stray cat or two, but he remained silent.

This was the part that made it all hurt; that reminded him in an ironic way of how nostalgia was supposed to be avoided. Anton was an alien here in his own home town. He could feel and remember all he wanted, but his cover-story and the necessities that built it meant he couldn't actually show or speak about anything to anyone.

He sighed.

And as the wagon came to a crossroads, Anton stood up and said, "I think I'll make the rest of the journey alone."

The merchant looked him over. So did the orc riflemen riding beside them. "In that?"

Anton regarded his robe. It was one of the only things left that still marked him as a Warlock, at least to anyone familiar with the rituals and fashions. He shrugged out of it without any expression at all, folded it neatly and set it down in back of the wagon. "Consider it payment for carrying me this far," he said. "Good-bye."

Wyrmian culture is diverse. There are literally a million customs spread across the myriad Broods that occupy the known world of Althanas, and probably more for those Broods that've made it as far as Kelbiras. One of the only significant traditions that can be found in all of them is this: Warlocks are considered holy-men, to be respected and revered. When one gives you something, it's generally going to become a keepsake that you tell your grandchildren about. It was for this reason that the merchant said and did nothing to stop Anton, merely bowing his head low and clasping his hands as if in prayer.

Anton ignored the gesture. He made his way through the lead wagon and came out the back with a plain winter coat and a strap for his sword, disembarked in front of another wagon, turned sharply to the left and vanished down the nearest alley.

[Caden Law]

Caden woke early on the sixth day, well before his neice could come and poke him with her broomstick-turned-staff. He spent a few minutes staring up at the ceiling, then stood and got dressed. Dresden and Crina had been too hospitable to allow him to stay at an inn, even though he probably had more money in his coin purse than their entire family did in any bank or safety spot under the cupboard. The only payment they would accept was training for Lucretia and an honest assessment of her talents.

The kid had potential. Once Caden taught her the basics of Evocation she knew how to cast fire magicks almost instinctively, to the point that she didn't even need the invocations by the third day. Trying to steer her from there was difficult though, and what little training she had beforehand was practically a handicap.

And Caden kept running into another problem: He wasn't a teacher. Not a bad teacher, not a good teacher -- just not a teacher. He could jot down formulae and articulate all kinds of lunatic concepts, pass on experiences and all that, but he didn't have the patience or the know-how to make it stick. His training had almost always been variations on the theme of Try not to get yourself killed. That didn't translate too easily when trying to teach a little girl how to safely cast a fireball spell.

So he didn't feel bad about skipping out on her daily lesson for once. He'd probably be dead by tomorrow afternoon anyway, once the trial was over and the Sway's Judgement had been carried out. Ogden had stopped by once to inform him that the penalty wouldn't be that severe, but Caden was a magic user in a country known especially for its hatred and fear of them. The penalty was always that severe. The only thing keeping him from panic was a state of apathetic numbness.

Today was just a little bit more so: I'm going to die tomorrow, so why bother?

He still had the courtesy to leave a note on his way out; promises to come back and give a lesson later in the day or something like that. Caden wasn't even really thinking when he wrote it. He put on his coat, his Hat and his glasses, wandered out into the street and didn't look back.

[Caden Law]

Three days after he arrived in Evernorth, Anton woke up in the pre-dawn hour and snapped his fingers. Green flames lit up on every candlestick in the room, not a single one of which actually touched the wick or melted the wax. He sat up without having to go through any of the motions that most people do when they wake up: There was no scratching because his scales never itched. No stretching because he didn't get cramps. No open-mouthed yawning because the Wyrm respiratory system worked differently from that of a human or most other mammals and reptiles. He didn't even move any sheets or pillows around to get out of bed -- but this was more because he was a Warlock and therefore paranoid. Which explains why the sheets were rolled up neatly on the floor at the foot the foot of the bed and the pillow was propped against the window, holding the curtains shut and providing a convenient block to anyone trying to spy his sleeping form from the next floor up in the building across the street.

Anton stood up, already fully dressed with sheathed sword in hand and ready for the draw. He eased the holster into its spot, hidden on his belt by the overcoat, and then carefully checked each of his four rings to make sure they were all working properly: A nudge of willpower to each one, and sigils burnt orange or blue or green in response. He growled just above his breath, the Wyrm equivelent to a human Hmmm. Checked underneath the bed which was a lot harder than it sounds because Anton had never actually gotten down to the floor. Warlocks assassinate each other so regularly that it's considered business as usual in most circles, hardly worth batting an eye. And even when other Warlocks aren't trying to kill you, there's always the possibility of everything from magical law enforcement to demons to fairy tales with a bone to pick. Preferably yours.

Nothing lunged out at him from the shadows under the bed.

Anton still checked twice. Just to be sure. Then he flipped down to the floor and straightened up, snapping his fingers again to dispell the eldritch candles and bathe the room in total darkness once more. He exhaled a cool fog, relaxing ever so slightly in the still air of the Gargoyle's Hour. Breathed once, twice, three times. Closed his eyes. Calm.

Anton drew his sword and stabbed it straight through the door of the inn's rest room. He only stopped after the wood was splintering around the guard. He drew it out once, stabbed lower and then repeated the process all the way to the floor. Each attack was spaced out by three inches, and the whole trail took about twelve seconds to gouge out. He finally draw the sword out and stood up and away from the door, power gathering in a greenish-yellow blaze at the palm of his free hand. It did not cast enough light to even show the palm holding it. "Sloppy technique," he said without actually opening his mouth. "I've had Initiates try me better than that."

"And I've known Initiates to do a better job staying alive."

The door blew open. Anton scarcely had time to throw his fireball, only to watch something pale and red devour it wholesale from the inside out. He jumped back beneath a whistle of metal, struck blind and hit nothing but the flimsy wooden chair offered to the inn's guests. It jerked harshly on the impact, as if kicked up into it, and Anton instinctively ducked down and to the left. The whistle came within a tenth of an inch of taking one of his crests and he roared hurricane winds and blizzard chills in response: The nearest wall was covered in ice and almost collapsed in less time than it takes to blink.

And then one of his wards flared hard red and green as something the shape of a stylized ram's head crashed into it. Anton felt his feet leaving the floor and he turned with eldritch fire already built upon his left fingertips. A quick swing as he hit the pillow and the glass behind it; green-yellow fires whipped out and flayed the entire room, burning hot scars into everything they touched. But something was wrong, and Anton noticed it well before gravity kicked in: The only things the scars outlined were furniture and walls. Nothing out of place but the chair. Surrounded by broken glass and fluff from the shredding pillow, Anton backflipped and managed to sink the landing on his feet without slipping or sliding. He jolted upright and screamed, "VÉTER!" and the wind came. Except it wasn't quite wind so much as it was a violet tide of energy too transparent and inconsistent to resemble anything else. Anton swept his hand up and lowered his sword; the magic flowed upwards and came down with his swing, its path a rough mirror of his arm's motions. It slammed into the Inn where Anton had been staying and completely obliterated it: Raw force imploded the front and ice covered everything and everyone inside.

"Ogón."

And from the violet ice and wind came a blaze of green and yellow, so bright it hurt to look at and yet it cast no light beyond its own edges. What was left of the Inn vanished in less than a minute, consumed from the outside in and the inside out. All that remained was a pitch black silhouette, slender in most ways and pointed where ears should've been visible. Anton sneered and switched his sword from hand to hand, the sigils of his right rings now burning green as he Spoke the Names and Worked his magic, "Zieg! Sadoh!"

Purple smoke vomited up out of the ground to either side of him, splitting open to reveal burning green holes in the cobblestones. They gaped and bled, and within them formed the likenesses of things that could've been dogs in some other nightmare and place. They were twice the size of any mere wolf, hunched brutishly at the shoulders and smooth-skinned like seaserpents should've been. Their eyes were vacant yellow and cruel, their mouths dsturbingly humanoid and full of sharp teeth, and they had fin-like protrusions instead of ears. Their drool was like ultraviolet napalm, and their growls were like death metal guitar riffs on a bad acid trip.

They were demons.

And when the silhouette finally opened its eyes to regard them, they were gone. The fires were gone. The street was gone. In everything's place was the hotel room, still positively soaking in darkness. Anton was still standing exactly where he had been before stabbing into the bathroom door. Before him was the silhouette, distance of less than three feet.

Its eyes burned like miniature suns, each one colored teal.

"I expected better, Banebram," Spoke the eyes' owner with intent, and the effect was instant. Anton crashed to his knees as surely as if someone had slammed a cinder block through his shoulders and down into his stomach, blood bubbling out between his teeth as he collapsed. He sword stabbed into the floor as he struggled to hold himself up, even while his arms and legs began to spasm as if from electric shock. His eyes began to bleed a few seconds later and, one by one, his wards and protective spellwork simply shut down. What remained was a desolate, fiery emptiness burning itself out in his gut, just a few inches behind the belly button. "Stand," and he did. "Disarm," and he was. Sword first, then the rings, then a small assortment of throwing knives from his sleeves and belt. "Sit."

Warlocks tend to guard their Sorcerous Names with a jealousy you simply don't find in other magical circles. It's one of the few hard, real differences between they and their magical kin. A Warlock invests his power, his security, his very soul into his Name. If you know it, and if you know how to use it, then there is literally no limit to the damage you can do or the options you have for inflicting it -- and there's almost nothing they can do to stop you.

"Master," Anton rasped, blood dribbling up from his throat as he said it. "How...?"

"Blindsighter's Cage Psicana," Raun Yenuial explained, "triggered the moment you set foot on the third floorboard," he pointed down, and Anton's eyes followed to the exact point where the spell had been waiting. Only now, in the dark and with Raun allowing him to see it, could he make out the sigil's pattern hidden in the grain of the wood. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice your arrival, Anton?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," he spat, finally having enough control to wipe his mouth afterward. "I didn't..."

"Expect me to contact you because you're a time-displaced abomination put here by your own incompetence and the ineffable whims of a mad god dead by your own era," Raun finished, coldly. Then he laughed and there was nothing glamourous about it. It wasn't light or musical like the laughter of Elves is supposed to be. It was hard and arrogant, like a tyrant king. "I knew two years ago, when you dropped into Berevar. I Saw the flow of Time ripple and bleed, and it was a beauty that no mortal language can explain. One thing I am curious about is whether or not you still have the Gifts such a passage would have left you."

"No," Anton answered reflexively. "My ability to tell time faded months ago. My ability to tell location gave out long before that." Raun nodded and Anton continued, "Every now and then they flicker back...but it's unprictable."

"The Gift of Awareness often is," Raun said. "Which reason are you here for?"

"...I don't know," Anton answered. It frightened him. More so than the power that his old master held over his life, his body, mind and soul, it terrified him.

Because it was the truth.

Anton had been struggling for two years to build a power base and establish himself here in Salvar, and he still didn't know why. The motive of it didn't seem to matter so he never even considered it.

"Therein lies the problem," Raun mumbled, though not at all kindly. "You always were a thoughtless brute. An excellent planner but lousy in the short-term and in the overall execution. What you have right now is an opportunity," and there was a feeling of hands on his shoulders and chin, and even fingers prying into his eyes. It all pulled his vision up, until he locked gazes with the Seering eyes of his old master. "You are the only man in all the world who has, with true certainty, lived tomorrow. Do you know what that means?"

"...I want to go home," Anton whimpered.

"You'll never be able to do that." His heart sank. "The world of N'Thayn'sal has already been destroyed, its possibilities unraveled and its track removed from our own. There may yet be commonalities between our Tomorrow and your Yesterday, but it will never be the same. Do you understand?"

"Yes," and it hurt to say. Even if the stars were dead, the world was collapsing in slow motion, and the carrion armies of the Reaper Queen and the Forgotten Ones all struck daily into the borders of Warlocked Salvar, it was still Anton's home. And he would never, ever return to it.

"Do you know why?"

"No."

"The Wizard Blueraven," Raun said with a smile. "The very same man that brought you here."

Anton's blood began to chill.

"He came back with knowledge of tomorrow too: A guidebook to the creation of N'Thayn'sal, apocalypse by apocalypse. And he's been working to undo its birth since the moment he returned to this era, and he's succeeding at it."

"Why are you telling me this?" Anton asked, baring his teeth without moving his jaw. Frost clouded around his nostrils and Raun smiled in kind.

"To motivate you," he said. "I said it before, Anton: You have a unique opportunity in all the world. Blueraven goes by a book. You actually lived it. He seeks to prevent the end of the world, but you...you can profit from it. Grow in power, in knowledge, in strength. Just think of what you could do."

And he did.

And the Warlock Banebram liked it.

"So," he asked, looking to his old master. "What's in it for you?"

The answer was a sickly smile that spoke of screaming women, crying children and dead men who could not rest. It was more demonic than anything Anton could summon up on his best day. It was the kind of smile you can give only when you have absolute control over someone and don't care whether they know it or not. "Power of a sort," Raun finally said. "A throne behind curtains, secure. The loathesome tyrant's beloved right hand, ruling with a velvet touch and an iron grip."

Anton couldn't bring himself to sneer. But he sure as hell tried.

"I know," Raun sighed. "But what can you do, Anton?"

"Nothing," he answered, and this too was truth.

"Exactly. Now walk the streets until you find the cafe. You will know the one. You are free to act on your own from there." Raun nodded.

And Anton was back in bed. The pillow, the sheets, the chair; he could see everything and none of it had changed. He never actually moved, and now it was dawn.

And the closer he looked at the ceiling, the more he could see Salvic ants jostling along a path that looked awfully similar to the sigil used for Blindsighter's Cage Psicana.

"Son of a bitch..."

[Caden Law]

Anton left not too long after his encounter (if you could call it that) with Raun. He tipped the inn's morning shift with a few gold on his way to the door, then stepped out into the brisk morning air with his hands secure in his pockets and his rings hidden accordingly. Evernorth was a place run by Wizards of a Clerical sort, and they didn't take too kindly to artifacts of black magic being displayed openly. He did what he could to blend in, which wasn't a lot. Like most cities proper in Salvar, Evernorth was predominantly human and the non-human populations were pigeonholed by how close society considered them to humanity: Elves were closest for obvious reasons, followed by Dwarves, and then everyone else was effectively cordoned off in a little rat-trap ghetto called Inhuton.

Anton chanced through the place once in the walkabout of his old stomping grounds. The distortion magicks were in effect, but even if everything went exactly as planned there wouldn't be so much as an arcane shack for the next two years, nevermind the council's mile high towers. He saw plenty of faces he recognized though. His thirty-second kill, for instance, which was memorable simply because it had been the first time anyone was actually able to fight back. His first lay, who was nowhere near as attractive as the nostalgia goggles made her. An Orc fish-vendor that Anton fondly remembered gutting in the middle of the street for trying to protest the Warlocks' authority. He even saw himself, running along with blood on his hands and a fevered grin on his face; fresh off some kill that Anton couldn't quite remember and trailed by another initiate that he was probably going to murder before the end of the week.

He smiled to Inhuton, fond and somber and stone sober at the same time.

Then he moved on.

[Caden Law]

So it is that we come now to a little cafe on the edge of Evernorth, not too far removed from Her Swayed Grace's Sanctioned Scholast Arcana. The details of the place are utterly irrelevant. Just know that it's a rarity aong Salvic coffee houses: It has an outdoor area, usually reserved for the times when the weather is more cooperative in Spring and Summer. Within that outdoor area, you'll find tables and chairs. Sitting at one of those tables and in one of those chairs, you'll find a Wizard hunched over a book, his Hat standing on the table and a pencil being worn to the nub. He was writing down what could very well become his last will and testament. Nothing focuses the mind quite like the imminent prospect of death.

Except maybe for what he heard next.

"I'm beginning to think that the saying is true, Wizard Blueraven." He stopped writing. It was so sudden you could actually hear lead scraping to a halt. "There's no-one who can understand you quite like your worst enemy."

Caden looked up from his grimoire.

Anton regarded him impassively.

Snow melted in a thin line between them. Not too far away, birds squawked and tried to break free of their cages. A stray cat scampered across the street and ran like hell, and a more disciplined horse still threatened to break its reins and follow suit.

"I thought you were dead," Caden noted, his voice still and calm and thoughtful. He'd been careless to take his Hat off, or have a weapon undrawn or a spell unprepared. He didn't even have any spare power summoned up in advance.

"Suojella's Flashfire Ward," Anton replied. "Probably." And then he very calmly, deliberately, and unapologetically pulled up a chair and put his feet on the table. "Truth is, I wear so many protective magicks that I've lost track of which one might have allowed me to return. All I know is that my strategy of putting...resurrection points all over the countryside, actually paid off. At least something went well these past two years."

"I'll do better next time," Caden said, outwardly in control and inwardly cringing in abject terror. "So help me, I'll do beter next time."

Anton actually smiled. He looked tired. "Maybe you will. But...have you ever actually thought about it?"

"About what?" Caden asked.

"This," Anton motioned, and then shrugged. "Us, even. You and I are, to my knowledge, the only people in this world who have ever travelled through time."

"And I don't care to repeat the experience."

"Neither do I."

They both nodded. It was one gesture short of attempted murder.

"But have you ever wondered...why are we at each other's throats, when we could do so much more at each other's side?"

Caden stared at him.

"Why would we work together?" he asked. "You're a monster."

"And you're worse," Anton replied. "I can smell the Taint on you, Wizard. I can see the blood on your hands. You've washed it off, oh yes. Plenty of times. You've scrubbed them raw in rivers and spent hours trying to find enlightenment beneath waterfalls. You've written a thousand pages of reasons, and not a damn one of them is real."

"You're wrong."

"Am I?" Anton asked. "Am I really?"

He pulled his feet from the table and leaned forward. Caden closed his grimoire and traced runes onto its cover, just out of Anton's sight.

"Look me in the eye, Blueraven. Look me in the eye and tell me you have a reason for anything you've done."

Caden did.

Caden did.

Caden...

"...did..."

"Eh?"

"I did have a reason," he said without blinking.

"...ah," Anton replied, comprehension dawning. Caden was a Wizard, after all. By definition, morality was right out the window. That left only one option for a motive strong enough to do the things that Anton knew him capable of. And now it was gone.

They were the same.

For this one instant, Anton knew, they were exactly the same.

"Yeah," Caden said. "Ah."

Anton leaned back, growling his approximation of hmm. Caden looked at him, waiting for the right instant to trigger his spell. "Maybe we can help each other..."

This is how conspiracies are born.