It Could Never Be Enough

For many Wizards, it can never be enough. The tower can never be tall enough, the tome thick enough, or the treasure horde deep enough. 

The great city sprawls across the valley of the river Warp and surrounding plains like an infected wound, ever spreading. Smoke billows from hovel and palace alike, blotting out an already grey sky. Roads, highways, and alleys snake their way between districts and neighborhoods, each nearly distinct enough to be their own city. More than three million souls of every race known inhabit this great hive, and the trade goods of a whole world flow through their hands. Every district has it's boss, ranging from neighborhood councils running a single borough to great dukes that claim entire quadrants.

They make their claims, certainly, but there is always someone to debate it. The debate can be with words or sterner things. That is the nature of Oath-upon-Warp. Even when it was a smaller town, it was chaos, shifting with the whims of the river. Now the river is channelized, and Old Town is hemmed in. It's a prestigious neighborhood, home to the Grand Duke, the great market, and the Wizard's Conclave.

Nobles may start their civil wars, but when Wizards fight, that is when the city cowers. 

The conclave has stood for a thousand years or so, founded to direct the Wizards into something productive as opposed to slinging fireballs at each other in the bazaar. It currently serves as a hub for magic users in the city, sometimes to be directed, sometime to be persuaded to put the wand down. The magic users of the city come from every corner of the world, ranging from hopefully apprentices, ancient minds lost in their tomes, to demon-bound warlocks. Some call rat infested hostels their homes, others have towers that loom over districts they claim as their own. 

So tell your tale. Will you serve the conclave, or do you have a darker path to carve?

----------------------------OOC---------------------------

Hello all. 

Those of you who have been around for awhile will recognize this as a traditional Strange Sandbox™. I have been rolling around in scummy urban fantasy lately and want to explore some thoughts I've had about it. You, dear reader, are more than welcome to join and flesh out the great city of Oath. 

For practical matters, I envision absolutely no limits on how strong or effective your characters can be. All fantasy races are appropriate. Magic is common in this world, and some are born with it, some learn it, and still others acquire it by cutting deals with supernatural benefactors. The wizard's conclave requires better conduct from it's members and persecutes those who turn their back on it. 

The Conclave is homed in a sprawling campus near the city center in Old Town. It contains libraries, courts, great meetings, and deals of all sorts. You may notice I have named or described no other districts. This is intentional, make your own as it suits your needs. 

Feel free to contact me with any questions. 

He was a small man, not more than five and a half feet tall. Hobnail boots clack on the weathered, wet cobblestones of the Old Town. The edges of his middling quality robes soak up more and more water as the sooty drizzle blankets the city. Long fingers emerge from the hem of his robes, and with a quick, rhythmic finger motion and a muttered syllable the rain ceases its siege of his cowl. The ashy drops deflect off a glass-like shield above his head. 

This Wizard, known as an up-and-comer in some darker circles, is Strange Underberg. Eldest son of a second rate merchant clan based out of a district known as Belowtown. Now he is drawn from his study to answer for himself. 

The rain falls harder now. Oath is no stranger to deluge or drizzle, and the only thing it changes in the city is a sharp upflow in the rive Warp, and a downturn in pedestrian's moods. 

The cobble stones give way to the great foundation blocks around the conclave's great hall. It is a great edifice of granite and silver that covered the better part of four city blocks, ringed around with spires occupied by the reigning council-wizards. The main entrance was a ceremonial affair of stone and steel, and could only be moved with the casting of a great spell. Strange made for a side door, dispelling his shield into a puff of acrid steam as he crossed the threshold. 

His appointment promised to be an unpleasant one. He pulled back his wet hood, revealing a younger Wizard, maybe in his forties, with aquiline features and a few fresh looking burns. He did not want to attend the conclave's summons, but without the chance to state his case, well, he'd be facing down paladins at his doorstep. 

He wound his way through the halls of the conclave, taking every upward stairway he encountered until at last he came to a great oaken door flanked with statues of the great casters or yore. On the left, of course, was Radagh the Unknowing, whom had learned so much magic he had forgotten all that he did not know. The right was Darrian Who Could Not Die, the most famous of the Conclave's enforcers who served for centuries until and incident with a Wizard Lord which would be later politely called "the disappearing". 

Strange didn't have time to reflect on lost heroes, and pushed the door open. Inside lay a great hemispherical table facing inwards at the door. Behind it was a window which let in a truly blinding amount of light. This illuminated the shapes of a half dozen be-robed figures. 

No sooner had the door latched behind him than came the call.

"Strange Underberg, Lesser Wizard, you stand accused of Casting with Ill Intent! What say you?"

The voice was like an angry tin whistle, and it seemed to take the very breath from Strange's lungs. 

    Malacai the Moldy. That's what they called him. It mattered not. He forgot his real name some centuries ago. Details like his name, where he was born, and how old he was seemed Irrelevant now. Keeping up his end of the contracts was all that mattered now.

    He didn't remember any real details from when he was younger, and mortal. It was so long ago, even the strongest of memories fade given enough time. What he did remember was having no real talent for magic. He did have a talent for paperwork, though.

    Gorbagash. That was the first. Malacia didn't remember the actual meeting, but with a snap of his fingers he could pull up the contract. His first taste of power. Of real magic. And all it cost was his soul once he died.

    Many hundreds of years and dozens of contracts later, Malacai was, effectively, immortal. Not that he COULDN'T die, but he himself didn't know what exactly it might take, as long as he didn't break his contracts.

    Of course, several of the demons, devils, djinn, and other beings he had dealings with would be glad to see him die. Preferably in the most painful way possible. Luckily they couldn't do anything themselves, and due to the various boons granted by his contracts, few others could actually kill him.

    He was due to attend a hearing today. Some child named Strange had cast some spell or something. He would not make the hearing, though. A would be assassin had left him a pile of ash, again. When would they learn?

    Burning to ash hurts like hell, quite literally probably. But in a few days, he would be fine. Rebuilding his body from ash takes time though. Maybe a contract with an efreet could counter it? Something to look into later.

    For now, Malacai just sat in his study, regenerating and pondering who hired the assassin this time. It was becoming bothersome. It seemed he spent more time dying than living these last few decades. Being part of this conclave brought enemies. Maybe joining was a mistake. Oh well, the whole conclave would probably only last another millenia or so.

After a pause that betrayed fear, Strange gathered himself and stepped into the center of the room. He spoke, a voice melodious and measured. 

"I am known to cast certainly, but I cannot answer to such a charge. I have not knowingly Cast with Ill Intent. "

A robed figures looked amongst each other, their hoods and backlight prevented identification, but these wizards nearly shimmered with magic. 

"Ignorant and a liar. A poor combination. " said a deeper voice than the first. "You sell hexes of all kinds in Below-Town, and now word reaches us that a peddler has perished."

Strange licked his teeth. Someone wanted him taken down. Sure, he'd hexed the peddler for a few guilder. Sure, he'd died. But there was no way that fact would have gotten back to the conclave without a helping hand. Most of these mages had not seen a peddler this century, much less did they care what happened to little folk. He could feel them prying at his wards, dismantling them with as little effort as a child crashes through a sandcastle. 

There wasn't much point in lying. They could pull his tome apart and see his spells for themselves, he'd be dead if he attempted to stop them. 

"Ahh, yes. That." Strange began, grasping for words that seemed to be beyond his tongue. 

The tin whistle piped in. "Yes, that. Explain That."

"The spell was simply to lay him low with a head cold for a day or two, give him competitor some time to sort out some bazaar dispute. I did not foresee that he was already ill. " This was not quite a lie, as he'd been told that the peddler had been stabbed in that bazaar dispute the day before. 

"Did you not scry him?" Came a third voice, inquisitive and bored. 

"Magisters, I am a lesser wizard, I scry with a bowl and water, no great palantir or orb as you do. " Strange answered, not answering the question. Of course he didn't scry the fool, he had not cared in the slightest what happened the peddler. 

The council did not bother to cross examine Strange. They had heard things of this nature a thousand times before. They deliberated with silent speeches while Strange sweated and attempted to listen in. 

Five minutes passed, then ten. Fifteen approached, and Strange accepted his fate. He began mentally putting together the spells he'd cast when the guards came for him. He wouldn't make it, but he'd rather go out in a fireball than chained in cold iron. He'd never find out who put him in this bind, but he'd at least die with some dignity. 

"Lesser Wizard Strange. " The tinny voice filled the chamber. "You are found guilty, and sentenced to punitive service." 

Strange didn't know what to do with his face. He let the somatic components of spells leave his mind. 

"You can either pay reparations to peddler's family of fifty-thousand guilder and a fine to the conclave of one hundred thousand guilder." 

Strange knew what to do with his face now, his jaw dropped against his will. 

"Or, you may deliver to this conclave the Dark Wizard that has moved into the district of Northbank. The attendant will give you a file on this lost soul on your way out. The council gives you one month to accomplish whichever you prefer. If you will use your skills for violence, then you will at least use them for good. Dismissed, Underberg."

Belowtown was a district whose name had made sense in the distant past. It was founded in a marsh downstream from Old Town in times immemorial. It was both further downstream and below the old city in elevation. It had been started in a foul marsh to avoid Old Town's taxes, and had remained a hub of questionable trade ever since. The Underberg clan was named for their holdings in Belowtown, and it was here that Strange's meager town peaked just a story above the surrounding buildings. 

Here we find Strange, slouched in a scuffed wooden throne, head supported by his right hand while his left tapped on the paper covered tabletop before him. The attendant had indeed stuffed a file into his hands on the way out of the conclave. He had greedily taken in the words as soon as he'd made it home. The words suggested he better come up with more money than he had ever seen in his life if he didn't want to be converted into a different state of matter. 

Why was he even in this mess? Who'd dared to rat on him to the Conclave? A death sentence or debtor's prison for a peddler's life?

No, that was non-productive thought. He pushed it from his internal monologue with great effort, and turned his eyes to the documents. 

A measured hand spelled out the name Attila, and then suggested this was likely an alias. After this they painted a dim picture, dead paladins in Northbank, merchants shaken down, blocks declared off limits, a woodcut of a pile of ashy slime labeled "Exhibit A: Remains", and smuggled vials of unicorn blood found in the raid of a safe house. 

"Seems like someone stretching their wand, seeing what they can do." Strange muttered to himself as he flipped through the remaining papers and thoughts of revenge came back to his mind. 

He cast his eyes around the dim room, his cheap cauldron and flimsy staff caught his eyes for a moment. He could sell everything he owned and not come up with 150,000 guilder. He'd either bag this Wizard, or he'd be made an outlaw. 

He pulled a pointed hat with a few suspicious stains on it onto his head and stood up. There wasn't much to do but go to Northbank and see if he could figure something out. 

Daemon Del'Enthir sat by the banks of the Warp River. To a passer-by, they may think he was napping, perhaps lazing about. But a closer look at the small beads of sweat on his forehead would show the effort of his concentration, and the items he thumbed in his hand would show him as focusing on a spell. After a handful of minutes, Daemon gave a shout and the water in a twenty foot radius shimmered, wavered, then returned to the placid trickle past the bank.

As a citizen of Green-Away, he had to do normal rounds maintaining the hundreds, no, thousands of cantrips and enchantments that made the Green-Away famous. In a city of dinge and dirt, the Green-Away was a circle of cleanliness and natural health that couldn't be found elsewhere throughout the city. It was literally a circle, as the perpetual smog and smoke that hung over city broke like water on a deep stone, carving a circle of clear blue sky above the quadrant. The Green Lords, the founders and magical financiers who made the land profitable, were conveniently set up just upriver of Old Town. As such, they charged inordinate sums to the Old Magic of Old Town to give them clean and pure water. Hells, some weeks the water that passed through Old Town was scented with Rosemary or Lavender. 

Of course, little enough of the natural goods or money that went to the Green Lords went to small hedge mages such as himself. Most of the Green Lords were hundreds of years older than him, and had that long to establish their control, their realms of power, spheres of influence. But that didn't mean an entrepreneurial mind couldn't flourish.

"Finally. Now I can get to work." Daemon muttered as he finished blessing a copse of trees. He snuck back towards the Warp river, passing several docks and inlets before coming to a small and non-descript inlet hidden among a cluster of marshy trees. Following the inlet, Daemon came to his small haven. What had once been a dilapidated fisher's hut was now a cozy home, the pond at the end of the inlet serving as a nice breeding ground for the Watchful Graylings. Their scales were critical for a handful of regularly used potions, not to mention components in some significant and useful spells.

"Is that a sailor I hear? Come to dash himself upon the rocks for me?" A silken voice carried into the clearing. Daemon paused and turned to look towards the pond, seeing a pair of eyes peeping up at him out of the water.

"Opal, what a pleasant surprise." Daemon said, his tone indicating otherwise. He turned and saw a woman glide up and out of the water, lying on the small bank that ringed the clearing. 

"I've been looking for you Daemon. You've been noticeably vacant from meetings of the Lesser Lords. There were mutterings of expelling you at the last meeting." She said, arranging the raven hair that was plastered across her shoulders and chest, thick enough to be a covering in its own right.

"I'm sure your honeyed tongue persuaded them otherwise." Daemon said, approaching the siren. The story that had brought the pair together was long, sordid, dramatic, and something a bard might pay 50 guilders for the right to put into song. 

"This time. But they grow suspicious. There is precious little to distinguish myself and my sisters from common Lamia save our abilities. But suspicion alone is enough for some in a city such as this. I risk much for our little.... arrangement." She said, rolling over the final word.

"And it shall soon pay off. I go to find a buyer today for the Graylings. An aspiring alchemist in Northbank needs a refreshed stockpile to perfect a new and unique potion. Regardless, they are paying above market rate for fresh and healthy Graylings."

"Once you have gold in hand, I encourage you not to consider breaking our arrangement. The powers of the Magic Beasts has declined in years, but our Soul Song is undiminished. Do not tempt fate in this regard. Though I am rather fond of you, the Soul Song cares not."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Daemon said, dipping into the shack and returning with a satchel and mage's cloak. He took a brief glance at the fish, and, seeing nothing wrong with them, headed out of the small glade and towards Northbank.

    Malcai, at last renewed to his former....glory? Walked over to his wardrobe. He grabbed another of his stockpile of brown-grey robes and draped it over himself. 

    At a glance, Malacai did not look as old as he was. He did look old, just not as old as he was. He appeared to be a man in at most his early seventies. This made sense, as he was a young man of sixty four when he stopped aging. Having not lived the healthiest of lifestyles, though, he appeared just a few years older.

    Robe on and secured with a simple rope, he grabbed one of his many grey hats and threw it atop his head. It lacked the emblem designating him as a member of the conclave, but Malacai, frankly, didn't give an orc's ear. He joined for access to their library, and nothing more.

    "Well....I suppose I should let them know why I was absent. But I have more important matters to attend to. That conclave is full to the brim of overconfident, self serving, half baked wizards and witches anyway. They can all just polish my scrying orb."

    Grabbing his satchel and staff, Malacai stepped out of his tower and into the city proper. He was bored, and ready for a little excitement.

Lydia was the youngest daughter of an Old Town nobleman.  An elite family that had been well established in the region for generations.  At just eighteen, she had visited many parts of the world, attended the finest schools, socialized with royalty, and had been courted by several prestigious suitors.  But, her heart belonged to just one.  A rogue mage named Theodore, or Theo, for short.

He had been employed by her family as an apprentice to their elder mage, when he was just 14.  He was two years older than Lydia, but they became fast friends.  In the evenings they would play games together, and he would show her new skills he had learned.  Theo even attempted to teach Lydia some tricks.

The pair were inseparable, until Theo was accused of stealing some precious jewelry from Lydia's mother.  Lydia knew it couldn't be true, but the young man was caught with the items, wrapped in a purple velvet pouch, inside of his robes.

As he was beaten and exiled from their home and property, Lydia sobbed in her room.  "No, there is no way he would have done that!" she cried out.  She begged her father to be merciful, to allow Theo to remain, but to no avail.

Now, the boy she had grown to love was gone.  Somewhere, of which, she was uncertain.  

In her mind, she telepathically willed her thoughts to him.  "I will find you!  I know you are innocent!"  Her tears fell like ice to the floor, breaking upon the fine, marble tiles.

Some districts were hard to get into. Old Town generally required a legitimate purpose to be presented at the gate if you didn't want a paladin to box you across the ears with a mail gauntlet. 

Northbank was easy to get into. So easy that it almost seemed that things drained to it. Strange walked into it through a gate that stood wide, doorway propped open by loosened cobbles. No militia challenged Strange as he picked his way through the damp, pockmarked streets. 

He didn't remember Northbank being this way. Sure, it had always been what a realtor would call "up and coming" or 'a good investment opportunity", but now? Now Strange felt hungry eyes looked at him through sooted and broken windows, peering from houses that seemed to lean into the narrowing streets. Rats chittered in the gutters as Strange realized that none of the few people out on the streets would make eye contact with him, realized that all of the few open stores had bars across their windows and ward runes on the door frames.

Something was pulling Northbank down, something that seemed to draw any loose hope or guilder to it like a magnet. Crossing into a humble market square, Strange got an inkling. 

The gutters around the square glinted with occasional small vials. Strange made a sweeping motion towards one and whispered a power word. A jet of air blew the surrounding filth away from the vial and the short Wizard collected it with a gloved hand. It bore no label so he gave it a sniff. 

The smell came into his brain like a great crashing wave. He cast the vial back into the gutter. 

"Searchin' for your next hit, fiend? Need to feel that Tonic in your veins?" Came a voice from behind his cloak. Strange turned slowly, and was confronted by a crossbow bolt. It was a held into the air maybe three feet from his face. The crossbow was held by rogue, thin and hungry. His rat like features poked out from under the hood, just as the rusty arrow head hung forward. 

"Maybe." Strange said, making eye contact with the bolt rather than the man. 

"Gonna have a hard time makin' any purchases down in the Belly without your coin purse, turn out your pockets."

"Of course." Strange said he slowly reached his long fingers into the interior of his robe. No one with a brain ever had a wizard conceal his hands, at least not any wizard who knew even basic hexes. With a turn of speed, the little wizard flashed a few signs with his right hand into his robes. The crossbow shook in his vision and burst into the flames as the cheap steel that held it together melted away. 

The robber was smart enough to run. He knew that Wizards, though dangerous, were held to at least basic standards by the Conclave. There was no way a Wizard would hex him in the back. 

Strange was not interested in being fair, especially not to someone who had threatened his life. He outstretched a hand, and with a few whistling sounds and a flicking gesture, compelled a loose cobblestone to fly into the robber's back at blinding speed. There was a sickening crack as the man crumbled, his thin jerkin offering no real help. 

Strange rubbed at his chin with one hand thoughtfully, and set out towards the center of Northbank. 

"The belly...hmm..." he mused. There was no question that tonic had been magically, and he suspected its effects if consumed would be very alluring to people with nothing to lose. He'd never heard of a dark wizard making potions of such a nature, but he supposed it may be possible...

Finding the belly was easy as following Northbank's drains. No doubt it had once been a wetland on the banks of the Oath, now it was grand collection of cracked, wet pavers. Maybe on a good day it was market, currently it was a collection of souls with nothing left in their hearts but a lust for that Tonic, whatever it may be. 

As Strange came into the plaza, a trinket caught his eye. Posted upon the threshold was a winged helmet, secured to the wooden post by an iron nail. Strange knew the helmet well, the garb of a Paladin Enforcer, a mage hunter. He wasn't the first who'd been sent to catch this beast known as Attila, and he maybe wasn't as much of a warrior as those that had failed before him. 

He turned his baleful eyes back to the peasants who milled around the plaza. They waited for something, their eyes fixated on the pavers at their feet. Strange sidled over to a bench, pulled his hat low, and waited. He kept his eyes on his shoes, but a Wizard doesn't always need their eyes to see, it was a simple spell to change the puddle his boots rested in from stagnant water to a scrying pool. He watched over the whole plaza.

It took an hour, but eventually a cart creaked into the plaza. A figure entirely shrouded in filthy, damp robes drove a mule into the square. The peasant's did not crowd it, waiting for it to come to a full stop before approaching. Strange saw the glint of silver and gold, and these coins were dropped into the cartman's bandaged hands. He replaced the coin with small vials of glowing blue fluid at a leisurely pace. 

One peasant, with a bit more fire in his eyes, made a swipe for another's coin purse in the crowd. He shoved the loot into his pocket and started to run. He made it a half dozen strides before falling forward, green froth issuing from his gullet.

Strange grimaced. A nasty hex. He hadn't seen the cartman cast anything, maybe a remote hex? Was the cartman even a wizard, or a homunculus? A familiar? Attila?

The rest of the peasants didn't even look at the fallen man, though a few helped themselves to the coins and promptly exchanged them for vials of Tonic. Strange cast a spell of concealment over himself, drew a ward in the air to protect himself from scrying, and stood up as the cart started to roll out of the plaza.

He couldn't help but feel out of his depth, but what choice did he have? 

    Malacai stepped into the city. Turning around, he tapped his staff on the door six times. He never locked his door, it was his sincere hope some fool would try walking into his tower. He loved sweeping their dust back into the street in the afternoon.

   "Now...where to get a little excitement in this behemoth pile of a city..." he mused to himself

    Wandering the uneven cobblestones of Bolt Street, he kept a close eye on the various rouges and ruffians crowding the street. By now, most of them knew better than to try anything with the moldy wizard. On occasion, though, some fool upstart would try stealing his satchel or making a name for themselves by 'killing' him for the day. 

    There were no such fools today, unfortunately. Perhaps next time. For now, the wizard made his way to one of the many forks in the road. 

     "Whoever designed this district should be transmorgafied into a newt....oh right, he was....well, I hope he doesn't get better! Now lets see....third fork east if the tower....on a tuesday....during clear skies....so left would be to the city center, right would be to the ogre brothel."

    The wizard turned left and walked with a pep down the road. Soon, the buildings began to look dilapidated. The already uneven cobblestones became downright wild. The previously highly diverse crowd became almost entirely various goblinoids and orcish.

    "Godsdammit....it's the third Tuesday after a rainstorm....should have gone right."

     Well, Malacai had made his way out of the Morphing district, and straight into the Unicorn District. He remembered still when this district had actual unicorns in it, about two hundred years ago or so. Then some fool found out unicorn horns, when ground and properly enchanted, could be used to make a powder that slightly reduced hair loss in men. There were not many unicorns left now.

    Nowadays, the unicorn district was more of a....red light district for the city. One of many, but this particular district catered to...certain tastes. Suffice it to say, if you hoped to go into politics, you avoided being caught in the unicorn district.

    "No thank you....not interested....excuse me...."

    Malacai made his way through the various ogresses, ogres, leather-clad drowesses, and chain wielding lizardfolk as he made his way east. At least this district had its streets set. East was east, west was west.

    "See you all next Saturday, far too busy today!" He yelled to the crowd once he reached the districts edge.

    Several in the crowd waved to the brown clad wizard as he waved back with a crooked smile. Malacai was called the moldy for more reasons than one. Having joined the conclave, he commanded a certain amount of respect in the city. Regardless, Malacai was more at home, and among friends, in the gutters of the city.

    Traveling further east, through a few more districts which became more and more exuberant and clean, Malacai finally stood at the base of the, in the old wizards humble opinion, gaudy and self-glorifying building that housed the conclave.

    With a snap of his fingers, a small bottle appeared in the wizards hand. Inside of the bottle was a tiny creature. The wizards familiar. It, without a moments hesitation, began to squeak at Malacai in a high pitched voice.

    "Agrakani tomul! Frigalka mordul tomul Malacai!"

    "Oh shut up Tim." The wizard retorted

    "Kabul Nogolo Tim! Kabul Zarikaminolai Eel Domocoranti Fraksheth XVII!" Tim screached

    "Not saying all that Tim. Open the door."

    With a disdainful grunt, the creature pointed to the giant doors.

    "Portal" it grumbled

    The giant doors began to open slowly. Malacai did not wait for the grand doors to open fully, instead slipping insode as soon as they opened enough for him to squeeze through.

    "Good work Tim. Just three-hundred and fifty-eight more days of service...unless you want to extend your contract?"

    "Agrakani! Agrakani tomul beelzegrub domicaz Malacai!"

    Malacai dropped the bottle, which shattered on the ground into black dust and red smoke.

    "Yeah yeah, good luck with that Tim. You'll have to wait in line."

Strange sat on a dirt bench, leaning back, raising his pipe to his lips for reassurance. He struck his finger like a match on the rough hewn wood of the benching, and stuck the now flaming tip into the kaolin bowl of his pipe. The comfort of pipeweed wrapped it's swaddling cloth around his nerves. 

The cart had led him to a dingy warehouse. He hadn't bothered to go in, it was clearly a staging ground. Dark Wizards didn't live in warehouses. A lower skill Wizard might make do with a grotto or dungeon, but not someone like this. No, someone that was slinging so much devilish brew that it was eating a whole district would have a tower. Warlocks, sorcerers, clerics, they didn't feel the call of a tower, but Wizards always did. Closer to the Aether? Farther from the mundanity of the streets? A big phallic symbol to make up for atrophied muscles? 

Strange thought of his little tower, and discard that line of thought. 

So it didn't take too much pondering to figure out the lay of the land. Someone like this Attila character would almost attract sadness, a sort of gravity well for misery and hopelessness.Not far from the warehouse rose a relatively small spire the color of obsidian with a veritable fog of dismay accumulating around the peak. 

Strange looked at this obvious beacon from his bench. This Attila was either confident or stupid to have no wards of concealment if the conclave was after him. The tower was very small for someone so confident, so maybe that caster just had a big cauldron and a small tome? 

Strange redoubled his protective enchantments, he prepared his spells of obliteration and affliction, he put on his paltry selection of enchanted jewels, a simple amulet on a silver chain, and he steeled himself. There wasn't much to do in Strange's mind but to go in headfirst and do what he did best, throw hexes indiscriminately. Subtlety was not his forte, illusion spells were just wasted reagents in a fight to the young wizard. 

So he hit the stones, and made for the black edifice that could only be Attila's tower. As he wound through Northbank towards it, the streets seemed to grown narrower, overgrown with black mold, and nearly lined with slumped forms of peasants whose thirst for the Tonic had overtaken their minds, reducing them to withered forms feeding the growing filth. A street that Strange suspect was dark and foggy every day of the year dead ended at the rusty iron doorway to the tower, flanked by unpleasant statues of slain dragons the size of cattle. 

Strange held up a hand and whispered "Forward the Dial" and lowered it as the gate fell apart into scale. He had felt no warding whatsoever, and in hindsight that should have meant something to him. He picked his way over the pieces and into the bottom floor of the tower. Lit with a few torches of a baleful blue fire, the foul light they gave illuminated several great statues of stone and clay that lined the walls of the circular room. They were carved with deep engravings, representing heavy muscles or antique armor. 

"Golem" Strange whispered to himself. Their carven eyes were dull and lifeless, they golem were not active. Strange did not relish the idea of being crushed into past by two dozen multi-ton guardians, so he let his luck remain good and tip-toed as best he could to the great staircase. The stairs were made of smooth slate, and clopped against his boots despite his best efforts. 

There stairway would clearly take him to the highest point of the tower and is circled upwards, occasionally presenting a small landing and a doorway. The first doorway stank of the Tonic, blue smoke flowing from beneath the door and dissipating down the stairs. Strange went straight past it, unwilling to interact with whatever alchemical reagents floated in that foul miasma. 

The next door was simple wood and the landing smelled of a woodsmoke. Strange tried the latch with a thin hand, it obligingly clinked and the door swung open on well oiled hinges. Inside? A fireplace, shelves of foreboding books, a great table surmounted with an orb of obsidian, and a heavily built upholstered armchair. Strange took one step through the doorway into what would be the rest of his life. 

He had no time to react as a pallid hand surmounted with long, blackened finger nails extended over the armrest into his view. Strange had a brief moment to be surprised by the size of the gold rings and jewels which hung on those skeletal fingers before he heard the words.

A voice like a stormfront filled the room with a melodic incantation. 

"Chump CHILLA" 

Strange felt his wards be split and rent by the power of the spell. There was no counter spelling or dismissal of magic, the spell was simply so powerful that it drove his own magic before it and smote his feeble efforts. He protective amulet burst against his robe and fell to the floor as rimefrost coated him.

Strange was frozen inside his own robes, and moreso frozen in awe of the caster who would soon be killing him. 

Lydia's father had informed the staff they would be seeking a new apprentice to their senior mage.

"It is imperative we fortify our household defenses, as political figures are often targeted when those undesirables wage war."

"Undesirables," Lydia muttered with disgust at her father's words.  He had never supported those who possessed magic.  He treated them as sub-human, or other races, as less than.  

"Here, take these."  He thrust stacks of parchment at each staff person and told them to go into the town center and post announcements that they would be hiring Theo's replacement.

As Lydia cringed, she couldn't just sit by and not take action.  She always had to be escorted on excursions outside of the grounds, but she didn't want to wait, or be shadowed.  Grabbing her hooded cloak, she crept down to the basement, unnoticed, and left through the gardener's entrance.  "For every sign they post, I shall tear two down!"

The blackened fingernails gave a lazy spin in the air, and Strange moved with them. Levitated four feet off the ground, his frozen form drifted around the armchair, slowly bringing the contents into view. 

The figure was tall and lanky. Maybe at one time is had been more filled out, but now it was skin and bones. Layers of silk robes flowed over the seated figure. Jewels gleamed against snow white flesh that looked fresh from the crypt. They were mounted on gold rings and a series of heavy gold chains hanging around the sunken neck. The being's face was more pallid flesh sunk against bone, lips pulled back to reveal a mouth of gold teeth. Eyelids were long lost and no longer needed, the orbs were replaced with unblinking rubies, etched with the evil eye. 

Strange wanted to scream, maybe in fear, maybe a fireball, but his frozen lips and tongue did not obey. 

The lich kept it's hand raised, hovering Strange in the air while the rubies drank him in. The figure did not rise from its chair when it spoke, but it's voice still filled the entire room. 

"So I've killed enough Pallies for them to send a caster? Too much noble blood spilled?"

The index finger made a come-higher gesture, and Strange's Tome erupted from his robes and flew into the lich's lap. With it's offhand it pawed through the summation of his magical life. 

"Hmm." The lich mused, off hand now tapping teeth where a lip had been in contemplation. "Hexes, curses, afflictions....I see why the Conclave lawmen would want to send you after me. "

The lich rose from the armchair, magically pulling Strange down to eye level as the lich brought itself to it's full height. With a flick of it's ruby eyes, it dismissed the frost which held Strange's head. 

At once Strange cast. With a shout, he spat forth a pint of acid. The two were not even two feet apart and it still wasn't enough. With not even a a gesture, the lich slammed Strange's frozen form into the cold stone wall, his acid falling harmlessly to sizzle on the carpet. The lich telepathically slammed him again, then brought him back to eye level. 

"Well, you are a fighter at least." The lich's voice betrayed a hint of admiration. "You are defenseless, little wizard. If you do not wish for your soul to be torn out put ideas such as that from your mind. "

Strange assessed the situation. It took less than a second for him to agree with the Lich's appraisal of the situation. He nodded. 

"Good. Now, the conclave sent you to bring me back to them, yes? Kill me maybe?" 

Strange nodded. 

"And you agreed to this because...?"

Strange spoke "I was selling hexes and a man died. They wanted me to bring you or a mountain of guilder." There was no point in dressing up the issue. 

"That's what hexes are for. " The lich stated plainly. "Claim to speak for casters, but can't even hex. I don't understand mages of this era. Why don't you just kill this Conclave of fools?"

Strange looked up and down at his own situation and attempted a shrug. 

"Hmph, yes, I see your point. You can't even kill me. "

Strange nodded, somewhat unnecessarily. 

The lich walked away from the floating frozen wizard. It perused its library for a moment, contemplating. Eventually it spoke, not deigning to look at its new icy decoration. 

"Little wizard, I see the darkness in your heart, I see the spells in your tome. You know, you have realized, you will never be a conclave mage? You'd end up in the same situation again and again?"

Strange looked at his discarded tome sitting in the armchair. He had thought this. He did not speak, but he was rapidly realizing he didn't really need to.

"I am Attila. I have awoken into your era and found it no place for a true Wizard. I have chosen to enforce my will upon it, Little Wizard." Attila the lich spun on the heal and glared into the floating figure. Strange felt himself defrost just in time to crumple onto the floor with a resounding thud. As he picked himself up, Attila spoke. "I first must become rich, Capital R RICH. If you need a mountain of gold then our purposes align, and I have no interest in doing every part of it myself."

Strange looked into the ruby eyes. It clicked into place in his mind. This had been the lich's plan the whole time. He had been allowed the waltz into the tower, into Northbank, because every Great Wizard needs apprentices. 

    The inside of the Conclave's building was a maze to the unfamiliar. Malacai himself only knew his way around somewhat. He usually just used the libraries. Today, he walked right past the door to the law library and continued through the corridors to reach the office of his superior....well...the wizard who outranked him in the conclave. "Superior" was a stretch.

    "Moldy. Your a day late and a guulder short. You were assigned to be at the trial of....let me see..." the older looking, but truly much younger wizard shuffled through the piles of scrolls on his desk. 

    "Oh don't bother finding his name. Some uppity youngster. I'm certain you all wrung him dry for every guilder he had." Malacai said, interrupting the search.

    "No no. We tried. He was broke. He chose to go die fighting that troublemaker...who was it..." he shuffled more scrolls.

    "For the gods sakes Timbletor, stop it with the scrolls. Nobody cares. I missed the trial because yet another assassin came into MY tower. Does the conclave not offer any protection to It's members? I was burnt to ash!"

    "Well Moldy, we do of course. To our more important members. And really, even if you were a higher rank, you don't seem to stay dead for long. Why would we waste resources guarding someone who cannot die?"

     "More important? Listen here young man, I've been slinging fireballs since before your grandpa was a twinkle in...I've summoned demons that could....ACH! I am older than the rest of the conclave combined! What does a caster have to do to be 'important'?"

    "Important things, Moldy. We know your old, but what have you done with all these eons? You've twiddled it away in taverns and brothels. You've done no significant quests. Defeated no named monsters. Enchanted no artifacts. You know...if you simply revealed the secrets of your contracts to a few members of the conclave..."

    Malacai furrowed his brow. "I most certainly will not! If you want to live forever, you'll do it with necromancy or time magic like everyone else."

    Timbletor sighed and pushed his star shaped glasses up higher onto his nose. "Fine, fine. Your choice Mold. Here's a new assignment. To replace the one you skipped over. Bronze rank....lets see...ah! Perfect!"

    The paper pushing wizard pushed a paper toward Malacai.

    "It seems a tavern in the northbank is overrun by dire rats. Go clear them out. And DON'T destroy the tavern in the process."

    Malacai took the parchment and stuffed it into his satchel.

   "Destroy a tavern? I would never! That happened ONE time with a bauble shop and suddenly I'm a menace? What wizard worth his tome hasn't had a fireball go astray once or twice?"

It had taken Strange less than thirty seconds to see the merits of this path. The conclave wanted to hold him against the wall? Fine. He'd make their blood money in whatever way he had to, hell with their pretenses at morality. He had fallen to his knees before Attila. The lich's lipless mouth had contorted into a grin. 

A few yellowed parchments were produced from the Attila's library and stuffed into Strange's tome, and Attila had explained how things would be. 

The lich handed Strange a glass of wine dark and night. "You are my first servant in this era, Young Underberg. Prove yourself an earner and you will serve as my strong right hand."

Strange nodded and sipped. He did not need to say he wasn't sure where to start. 

"I am wringing every penny from Northbank already, not that there was enough to fill even this tower's paltry vault. You will go to the district to the west, some slum called Creek. Entice the merchants there to take up protection under our banner, take them for all you can. Spell slinging, a you were doing before, won't pay for real towers or forbidden tomes. Once you have a few fronts, we'll move in with the Tonic."

Strange gave a small smile. He knew Creek, a residential district with some trade in fabrics. It wasn't the kind of place where people often thought of protection, but that could be remedied. "Give me twenty vials of tonic. I think a few samples in the right places could....encourage merchants to seek protection. "

Attila took a glug of their own wine through yellow teeth. "Do as you will, just get results. One more thing, Underberg. "  Attila rummaged in a pocket of their own robes for a moment, and produced a heavy silver chain. The pallid fingers tossed it effortlessly to Strange. 

"You look broke, I won't stand for that, not in line with our brand. You will spend your first earnings on some decent robes. For now, this trinket will have to do. Now hit the street. "

Strange pulled the chain over his head, normally he'd tuck it into the robes, but that didn't seem appropriate to his new boss. He finished his glass, gave a small bow, and did as he was told. 

The streets of Northbank were still impressively grim, but he saw them in a different light now. His master need cash and the evil energy which could only come from misery bound such as this. He was either going to be killed or ride that ascent all the way to the top. There was now mistake that his career would never be the same. 

The border between Creek and Northbank may have been friendly before, but that was no longer the case. A wooden gate had been erected and the previously ceremonial wall reinforced with hastily erected stone and beams. The gate was guarded, only on the Creek side, by a few militia men with rusty halberds and crusty sallets. They, predictably, challenged Strange as he approached. 

"OI, Wizzard! State your business!" demanded the stupidest of their number. Strange made to lie, made to make excuses, maybe produce a little gold, things he would have done before to grease his way. 

Maybe he wasn't that person anymore....

Lydia gripped her cloak tightly around her chest, and pulled the hood down over her face, so it was in shadow.  Old Town's center marketplace was crowded with local merchants, peddlers, homeless, thieves, and mages.  It was a melting pot of races, shapes, cultures, all colliding in a common space.  It was loud, and felt quite chaotic, compared to the protected homestead that Lydia knew.  But there was a sense of rebellious liberation for having snuck out of the mansion, unseen.

No one really even noticed her, aside from a few hungry sellers starving for cash.  
"Can I interest you in some rare fruit, young lady?  It's guaranteed to put some hair on your chest!"

Lydia ignored them and kept pressing on, looking for posters advertising her father's planned hiring.  She also hoped she'd somehow bump into Theo, and could surprise him by revealing her identity.  But truth be told, she didn't even know if he remained in Old Town.  There were better opportunities in neighboring cities, and he could start fresh there, without the weight of accusation of being a thief over his head.

Sometimes she wished she had been born into a different, non-political family.  Sure, they had wealth, and power, to the full extent that Lydia was entirely unaware of, but with all of that came a jail like sentence of being imprisoned as a prim and proper 'lady' of their house.

Her father also wanted to marry her off to a prestigious nobleman that could further strengthen the bonds and ties of Old Town with other districts.  An arranged marriage wasn't uncommon, but it was something she was bitterly opposed to.  It certainly wouldn't be a suitor that she could ever love.  No, no one would have her heart but Theo.

Then she spotted the first sign.  She hurried over to it and ripped it from the post without thinking about all the others around her.  

"Hey!  What are you doing there?!  Leave those ads alone!" a nearby security guard yelled.  Lydia got scared, and ran into the shadows clutching the paper in her fist.

    Malacai stood at the gate, frustrated and bewildered.

    "Well who put this up now? Since when has there been a gate to Northbank?" He asked the guard.

    "Dunno. Been up for a while now. Just started a week ago meself." The guard responded lazily, spitting some sort of...tobacco? On the ground near Malacai's feet.

    "Well your about as useful as a cyclops with dirt in his eye. Just open the gods damned thing."

    "Well...I'm meant to ask you your business and..."

    "I am a wizard of the Conclave, and my business is none of yours! Are you denying me entry to a NON regaly gated sector of the city? Because if you are, I would advise you to check the Tuskhorn Accords, section 742, subsection J17.435, paragraph..."

    "Right right, I'll just put down 'business delivery'. Go on through." The guard interrupted as he stood aside and opened the gate.

    "Well...well fine then. Guards these days. In MY day...well...I don't remember my day, but I guarantee guards were more...guardy back then."

    Malacai scoffed and walked through. Northbank was....decidedly different than he recalled. Everything was very...dreary. Not that it was all pixie dust and divine light before, but everything seemed somehow sunken now. The sky was dimmer. The air was stagnant and stale. The few people wandering about were silent and dull. Then there was a new tower that wasn't there before.

   "A black tower huh? Probably some moody Warlock. Everything is always black and skulls with them. Oh well. Not my problem, not my job. Now..."

    He dug through his satchel and pulled out the now crumpled paper Timbleton had given him. Shaking it and smoothing it out in his knee, he brought it up to read where his job was.

    "Hmmm...The Raven's Fist? That is the stupidest....whatever. No matter. Northeast side, on Dipadelium Street."

    Shoving the paper back away, Malacai began making his way north. The sooner he finished his quest, the sooner he could get back to a REAL tavern, with a decent name and decent mead. Or ale. Or wine. Or spirits. Not the ghostly spirits, those were quite irksome. 

"My Business?" Strange said slyly. "What entitles you to know my business? I'm a Wizard, open the gate." 

The guard, a heavyset man leaning on a rusty spear rolled his eyes. "Just give me something I can write in the logbook." He said, annoyed. 

"Security, import-export, the usual." Strange rasped back. The guard appeared to consider violence for a moment, but his eyes went to the heavy silver chain that hung around Strange's neck. 

"Fine. Enjoy Creek."

The gate was opened quickly on it's new hinges. Strange went through without a look sideways. 

The heavy rolling and splashing of waterwheels in Creek's namesake always dominated the soundscape of the district. They powered mills and textile shops. The cobblestone streets were packed with three or four story buildings, shops on the ground level and one to ten families above, depending on expense and size. It was a working class district, familiar with trouble and a steady flow of commerce. 

Well there was a new business in town. 

No one would buy protection without trouble. The long term goal was to sling enough tonic here to get rich, but that would need fronts, and protection rackets would make that even more profitable. The only problem? There wasn't enough trouble. Strange walked through the streets for an hour or two. People went to work, occasional guards patrolled in front of guild halls, carts of goods came in and out, and things generally went smoothly. 

If he could get in a few fiends from Northbank that would be a good start, but getting them past the guards would be more trouble than it was worth. It would be better to get a local population going, so Strange followed his ears. Each factory built over Creek's creek creaked and groaned if its waterwheel was working. Finding a vacant one was as simple as finding a quiet one, and getting in was as simple a casting a force spell on a boarded door. 

Sure enough, Goblins scampered from the light. Strange gave these little fellows that would be his new friends a big, toothy smile. He produced a vial of the Tonic from his robes, and let the sapphire blue fluid twinkle in the light. "Which one of you wants to feel good for a change? Not hungry or scared? Strong as a big ogre? First one is free, after that, well, I'll need a few favors. "

And just like that, the great scrying orbs at the Guild of Realtors reported that property values in creek were decreasing. 

It was easy, very easy, to get some vagrant goblins on board. Ultimately, Strange was just paying them to do what they wanted to do anyways, breaking windows, stealing, the poor little guys wanted to do that anyways. They of course were afraid of the guards, but few militia in tin hats couldn't keep them too scared. This feeling could be encouraged with just a little effort. 

It took an hour, a little ink, a couple incantations, and a sheet of vellum. An hour crouching in the dark etching wards into the vellum, listening to the chatter of he new friends as the Tonic made them feel ways they hadn't felt in their whole lives. A few of the more inquisitive needed a light hex to discourage them from grabbing things they shouldn't, but that was to be expected. 

When the scroll was finished, Strange felt an ache of hesitation, a pang of trepidation. 

But this wasn't a course you could half-commit to. He'd never been terribly moral. As he surveyed the runes he muttered. "Conclave's fault really."

He took a walk. The people of Creek paid him no mind at all, just a wanna-wizard. 

He strolled down the market street and bought a small pie. He walked as he ate it, winding through he streets until he reached the district's militia post. He wiped his faced and hands with a handkerchief, tucked the scroll into it, and crumbled into into a ball. He tossed this into a wastebasket in front of the militia post and walked on. He did a lap of the district, eventually stopping on a bench a block down from the post. He waited for a few minutes, waited for a patrol ending their shift to get the to the door of the militia post. 

He pictured the ward in his mind and muttered the activation phrase. 

There was a hiss from the wastebasket, then a thunderous blast as the wastebasket exploded outwards in a gout of flame. The patrol didn't stand a chance. 

A line had been crossed. Strange tucked his hands into the pockets of his robes and strolled away.