Malcear Balfier: The Cookies of Justice

The most interesting thing to note about Gnollish weapons is their strange duality in being both rustedly dull and razor sharp. Malcear became an expert on this fact in the deepest bowels of the Ofalum Cold Iron Mines. Rothyde and his personal guard proved to be the biggest challenge his team had yet encountered. Needless to say the battle had been a close one, and tested the skills and endurance of each and every combatant. At one key moment Malcear had seen an opening to dispose of the goblin archers, freeing his allies of their burden, so he spun on his heels and ran to accomplish it. It was that moment when one of the two massive terrible Gnolls buried his axe into Mal's spine. He fell.

He could hear the sounds of battle still raging around him, but all he saw was blackness, and all he felt was pain. Darkness was strange to Malcear. He had never had a problem being able to make out images clearly even in the darkest night, but this blackness was like an iron veil. He could tell his eyes were open. No doubt rolled into the back of his head. His lips struggled to form words but just flapped like a dying fish as he yearned to call out to his allies.

Suddenly everything was brought to full light. It was jarring. He stood in an empty chamber, under some kind of spotlight. It's source seemed to be a bright white energy dancing around in the darkness above him. Something in the back of his mind told him it was Noreal. The chamber seemed to go on forever. He felt a chill and every breath seemed to echo outward eternally. Where was this bizarre place?

The lights shifted and from the darkness emerged a massive metal disc. It was polished brightly and into every facet was etched tiny runes. It slowly spun on both axes. Mal was baffled at what he was looking at. He stood there dwarfed by the giant rotating iron wheel. He focused on the markings and came to understand it was a circular map of Corlace. Every centimeter was a metal replica of each city, every tree, river, and mountain. Parts shifted and moved, as though time was passing quickly. There where fires burning in every corner. White to the north, red to the east, blue to the west, and dark black flames to the south. Soon they began to spread and the entire disc was covered in a roaring prismatic inferno. It crumbled away bit by bit. It seemed to be falling in pieces to the floor leaving only a small piece left floating in the air. It was too far to make out. It looked like a smaller version of the original, but perhaps it was a crown? For some reason the burning made the smell of warm chocolate cookies. That is what really pulled Malcear out of the vision. The flavor lingered on his tongue and slowly turned into a bitter acidic flavor that filled his whole body.

His eyes focused and he was brought back to the world of the living. There was a potion being poured down his throat.

The journal of Dethias: Of the nature of magic

Never were all graces given to any man.

The anxiety to do well, and the struggling of the mind too constrained and too intent upon its undertaking, bewilder, interrupt and impede the intent. As happens to water, which by force of pressure from its violence and abundance, cannot vent itself in an open sluice.

As was my experience with learning magic.

Some men… or women wield it better without preparation; that they owe more to good fortune than to diligence. They experience an inborn disposition which cannot sustain eager and laborious premeditation; if it does not move joyously and freely, it does nothing that is worth while.

I used to say of others that ‘they smell of the oil and lamp,’ because of a certain harshness and roughness which labor imparts to those in which it has a large share. But in studying further magic with Gasadrael I find that it demands not to be set in motion and spurred by the strong passions, like the sorcerers (for that impulsion would be too violent); it requires to be kindled and aroused by outward circumstances, immediate and accidental. If allowed to move by itself unshaped, it does but drag along and hang fire. Excitement is its life and is favorable to it. And yet it is willing and supplicant to focused intent, not unlike the precision with which I wield my knife. 

Perhaps there are undiscovered synergies in the two compliments that I endeavor to harness.

Symbol of Noreal Idea

Malcear Balfier: Hen in a Kennel

The pounding of equestrian hooves into the soft soil sent jolts throughout Malcear's frame. In one hand he gripped the reins under white knuckles. In the other he tried to hold his curved iron blade away from himself so he didn't accidentally cut his own leg off. Both legs clung tightly to the saddle prolonging what seemed like an inevitable spill to the ground at a high speed. The smell of forest, blood (mostly his own), and horses blended with the shouting and wind blowing against his face made him all but blind and deaf. He had no idea what he was doing.

It had been an ambush. No sooner had they passed the sad excuse for a wooden gate than deadly whistling crossbow bolts came raining down on them. They caught him completely off-guard. His first thought was how he let his allies down, having lead them into this trap, foolishly proud of his idea to avoid any bloodshed. Then he saw spears to the right and men running through the woods to the left. He had to act.

It had been chaos. He had swung his blade like an angry woodsman. All power, no finesse. When he called on the white fire it belched from his hands burning everything in its path, even some of the horses. He looked like a fool. A child wielding the powers of an ancient God, hunting rabbits with a catapult. The dwarf moved with an air of experience, slamming and chopping those around him like a tempest. The rogue-devil seemed to keep disappearing in one spot and reappearing in another with a new knife in his hand ready to strike a killing blow. The elf maiden was even casting spells in this chaos. That level of focus bewildered him. But he put on a face of confidence, and pretended he knew what he was doing. And that had lead him to this.

He had exchanged shots with one of the guards who had been hiding in the forest. His arrows hit more trees than enemy, but the man had fled regardless. Without thinking Malcear leaped back into his saddle and chased the man down before he got away to warn the town. That dark confusing little town full of mystery and lies. It seemed like everyone there wanted to take a bite out of him and his friends. That night in the inn he had felt like a hen in a kennel. Just waiting to be ripped apart.

His thoughts focused as another crossbow bolt ripped through his chain armor and dug into his breast. He almost spilled backwards out of the saddle, but his hand never let go of the reins. He could feel his heart beating against the shaft of the bolt. That was an odd feeling. He grit his teeth, tightened the grip on his blade and spurred the steed into a full gallop. Another bolt came whizzing at him as the running man spun deftly and fired, but Mal was serious now. He could feel the fires burning behind his eyes. He struck out with his blade and slapped the bolt off course. That act slowed the man down enough for Maclear to overtake him.

Mal didn't so much leap from the saddle as go flying out of it as he tugged his steed to a halt. He crashed down onto the man blade first. That was an idiot move. He felt his wounds ooze out more of his blood. Why was it cold? He was a tangle of arms and weapons with the man. They both got to their feet, and as Malcear raised his blade to ready for combat, the man turned and fled AGAIN. Malcear had been trained not to curse, but he came pretty close. Throwing his blade aside in frustration, and halting his movement (mostly giving in to the pain wracking his body) Mal lifted his open hand towards his near murderer, and cried out for Noreal. He begged her to make it all end. The fighting, the pain, the anxiety.

There was a flash of white light and when his vision returned, Mal saw that the man had fallen, in smolders. All he could do was fall to his knees, say a thankful murmur to the goddess of the North, and crawl on his hands and knees looking for the sword he threw aside.

It took all his strength to get back into the saddle and ride back to the others. They were wounded as well, but their antagonists had been felled. Mal wasn't sure if he looked as shaken and terrified as he was on the inside, but nobody seemed to notice regardless. He rolled up his sleeves, climbed out of the saddle, and began to chant the prayer of healing. Where would he be without his goddess?

Where indeed.