The youngest boy of the Glora Clan was once the son of the Talmhaiocht Merchant House. His house was on the Bountiful Trade Federation’s High Council, at the head of the agriculture markets of all who were a part of the Federation’s wide scope. This group was a large, nomadic semi nation that created ties with and facilitated trade between the many Isles of Gods. Each member of the council was responsible for their piece of the Federation’s economy and trade deals. Tinkbrust Talmhaiocht, was the fourth child of the family, and not expected to take up the responsibilities of his house when it was time to pass it on. Tinkbrust began to follow his interests, reading and learning about the many islands and continents the Federation reached across, and their magical variations. The one he most loved to learn about, was Madra, the land of the All Mother, the true originator and mother to all things and nothings in the universe. And Her land was very much a testament to that.
Tinkbrust read dozens of series and encyclopedias on the Isle, because something about it was unique. All the major and minor manors of power found across the world, all could be found on this land, and all of it stemmed from the All Mother. She created, put into the laws of reality and magic that Wizards studied, and Artificers tried to break and bend. She was the land, the earth, the forces of nature and its powers that the Druids and Rangers drew upon themselves. She was known to make deals, trades and bargain with those of Her lands in exchange for power, as if She was but a simple demon or devil lord trading power for souls. She was the source of power, the largest and most worshiped religion on her isle, with a strict, unshakeable edict, that no organization of Her worshipers that borrowed Her power, or carried out her will, could forcefully convert another. The Clerics and Paladins who fell under her Domain couldn’t fight a holy war or political battle to expand their influence and believers. It was even frowned upon by the religion to be openly and heavily worship Her outside the official holidays. It was his plan, that when he discovered his life path and talents, he would travel to Madra and explore, most likely as a traveling merchant of some kind.
But life worked in funny ways, and Tinkbrust and his entire clan were betrayed by others in the Federation to install another in his clan’s place. The takeover was hostile but did not end in violence. The whole of the Clan was supposed to be shipped off in shame at failing to hold their position. It ended with nearly the entire clan drowning at the bottom of the oceans when their ship was attacked by sea monsters when within sight of the Isle of Madra. Tinkbrust survived by luck alone and was discovered washed up on the beach by a group of pirates. From there, the young gnome, traumatized and in fear of his life at every turn, found himself sold into the slave trade, and shipped up the Green Veins, and arriving at the markets in Barg’s Refuge.
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The youngest siblings of the Glora Clan were led by their eldest sister and dropped off at the Refuge’s prison where their clan head had blown open the cell to their eldest brother. The gnome boy looked around with a fair amount of nervousness. He was not a physical fighter and had heard about all the brutal things that could go on inside these thick sandstone walls. His sister, the halfling of similar age, walking around with a wooden sword slung across her back didn’t seem to notice, or be worried at all. But he knew that she was watching. She had an eye for her surroundings that only their patriarch could surpass.
“Sister, do you think Grandpa was violent with the guards? They seemed so scared of us, only the captain would look at us.” The boy asked as he pulled his spell book from a holster, flipping through its pages in search for his scribbles on runic enchantments.
“Granma jus’ scared ‘em is all.” The taller girl shrugged, having noticed it as well. “Ain’t any but Granny who has the money n’ power to do what she does. The Mayer still has t’ folla’ the law.” Her eyes tracked along the walls and cells that they passed. Some empty, some holding sobering fools from the nights before. “Ain’t even the guilds would blow down a cell door f’r a message like dat.”
The gnomish boy nodded, having found his desired page and observing the ruins inscribed along their path. He watched the alarm ruins trail into air ducts smaller than a few inches wide, he tracked the bricks chiseled with fine detailed link runes that combined with a central strengthening one running along the corner between the floor and walls.
“The Bruisers and the Licks might try and keep us from the markets if we do not present our strength. Limiting our earnings and thieving of magical items.” The boy rattled off his observations, theorizing about the reasons for maneuvering their leader must have considered. “This will also affect Brother’s fighting odds... Oh, oh that wouldn’t be good.”
“Yeah, da Counters will try and give us lower odds, or lower our cut.” The girl grumbled, her voice not carrying too far as a frown appeared on her lips. “Dat’s prob’ly why Granma did it. She wants t’ show we ain’t gonna tolerate this from Brother ‘gin... Bro, do ya think, think Granny will, will make me go instea’ him?” The girl’s voice dropped lower, to a whisper as the echoes of jeering and rabid betters roared through her head.
The gnome stopped and grabbed his sister’s hands, moving in front of her since he couldn’t move her larger frame himself. His eyes burned with the knowledge of what she heard, far better than what anyone else in their family could understand.
“Remember what Dag said about the fighting pits. There are two kinds. He rules those of the rabid animals, who seek only the blood and cruelty of bloodshed and forced fighting. You, you are not that. You will never go back to those cages again. You are The Glora’se Juggernaut. And if you fight for coins, Grandpa promised it would be with the true warriors. Those who fight for glory and skill.”
The taller girl blushed a little, rubbing her eyes as she nodded vigorously. She knew that was what her Granny promised. And she knew that she wanted to fight in those rings, to show her strength, but the fear of the screams, the echoes for blood, the taste of sweat and broken bones would haunt her always. The boy knew why she cried. And she knew why he cried when the rain and storm clouds rolled over their dunes.
Taking some quick breaths, the two siblings separated, feeling awkward as they had a task to complete before the other duties they needed to perform. In another minute, they came across the wrecked chamber door.
The dark sandstone was cracked, the hinges dangling and bent inward. The door lay in a bent heap. While it had been standing still when the goblin and gnoll left, the heavy metal door’s own weight pulled it completely to the floor. The gnome looked it over, noting the small ruins meant to strengthen the hinge’s connection, which had allowed it to remain after its forceful opening. His skilled eyes traveled over and around the locking mechanism, noting the lack of magical warding. His sister noticed as well, giggling as she pulled a set of wooden pins from her bun that doubled as lockpicking tools.
“I guess I ain’t gonna be stuck here long if I’m ever locked up.”
The boy was surprised by the fact as well. Why had there not been a magical mechanism on the lock. It was the most important part of the door, and it's most targeted for escape. He stood up and went to the slots where the locking lugs slid into place in the wall. The gnome’s hand went over to his belt, scratching flakes from a small block of wood affixed there.
This was a belt he, his sister, and their older brother Spoke designed for his use. Instead of just organized components with vials and papers with pinches of material, the belt was lined with the mailable materials most common to his spells and cantrips as components. There was a soft wood that was dried and aged and easily flaked off with a manicured nail. There was charcoal that could be crumbled into a pinch. There was even a series of thin strands of pasta thick rods that could either be bent for shaping, or quickly bent and twisted to snap off. The metal rods were of differing varieties based off what he needed. And most fascinating of all, was that the boy had managed to incorporate the extraction or retrieval of the items based on their location into his sematic components for his spells. The bard brother also had one, but his was more along the lines of a performative drawing of a component than any true sematic need.
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This strange belt allowed him to create the small flakes of wood he needed with the same motion he needed to begin his casting. The two flakes were cast out above his head, and with a growl of rhythmic speech, they sparked and grew into two orbs of light. One sat above his sister’s head, and the other flew to hang just behind his right shoulder to provide him with light to see into the slots.
“By Madra’s Magnificent Mountains... That is ingenious. A true work of subterfuge and trickery.” The boy nodded in appreciation as his sister groaned, and without needing to be asked, he continued. “The lock isn’t magically enhanced, because they want you to try and pick it. The lugs and their holes are enchanted to detect when the lugs are and are not opened by a proper key. If the lugs slide out while the enchanted key isn’t in close enough proximity, it triggers a silent alarm, and creates a magical rod to replace the retracted metal ones. A magical spell that opens the lock, like what Brother can use, would open the lock, just like someone who managed to smuggle in lock picking tools. But, by doing so, trigger what is effectively a trap that prevents the door from opening as if you put a magical crossbar across it. I would never, could never, visibly determine that.”
“Woah... I bet that they also can turn it on or off too. So, the people who they really want to keep inside, can’t escape. Like, when the Ghosts get a member locked up, they might be able to escape instead of being paid off. But, if they catch the big boss or somethin’, they activate it so she can’t get out!” The halfling girl looked at the lock, a new respect for the city’s security on her face.
“Yes, exactly. And it has been an amazingly kept secret. I bet even Tanny doesn’t know about this.” The gnome boy looked at his sister who nodded in agreement. They agreed to tell her once their job was done.
The boy waves his sister back as he stands away from the door. He wishes to finish this business quickly and begins by creating a bonfire that erupts and envelops the underside of the bent metal door. His spell triggers, and the two wait until the door is nice and orange. Once it is ready, the halfling draws her wooden great sword from her back and utters a command phrase. In a moment, the once wholly wooden sword darkens and looks to shift in shadows, before reappearing as a normal metal sword. She braces the flat over the bend in the door and forces it down with incredible strength. The metal door flattens out to a more reasonable degree.
Next, she backs away and the boy steps forward. With a swirl of hands and a hiss of words like the winds in the depths of winter, cold erupts from his hand and crashes against the burning metal. The color fades, but still radiates heat. Again, the boy shifts his stance, opening his robe to his water skin at his hip. With a few waves of his arms and the clicks of a babbling brook, the water pours freely from the skin, floating in a line over to the door and evenly lays across it, only a small amount boiling away before it suddenly freezes over, removing the last of the heat on the door.
The halfling runs over, carefully picking up the door and moving it into place in the door frame. The gnome follows behind and reaffixes the hinges and finalizes the remaining changing to the door to make it fit snuggly and perfectly into place with a half dozen uses of a mending spell. The young wizard removes a chisel from his pack and begins fixing the warped magical ruins that reinforce the iron’s strength. Correcting the flow of magic that passes from the wall and hinges, and into the door.
In less than an hour, the pair were leaving the prison, with proud smiles on their face, both completing their task that would have taken a true blacksmith and engraver at least a day's worth of work to fix in a mundane way and discovering a valuable piece of information.
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The gnoll of the Glora clan, the Clawed King of the Pit, stood “alone” one block away from her destination, leaning against a pole as the sun rose closer and closer to its noon peak. Former Dag was feeling weak, feeling exhausted by everything around her. She discovered this morning something that scared her. Her Ki, her source of energy and strength beyond her muscles and reflexes we slow, it was sluggish. It felt like the days she stepped down her chosen path of war and violence so many years ago, and she was discovering how to channel and manipulate her Ki. She felt her powers, her abilities that connected her through the Ki to her path, were broken, shattered. She knew why but didn’t want to face reality. She had betrayed her oath, her tradition of fighting, waring, and raging in the blood of her enemies, for the purpose of her clan, her family.
She was the claws, the front-line weapon of her clan that struck first and inspired fear in their enemies. But she had failed that oath. Betrayed it. Shattered it. Pissed and stomped her heel onto her words for a single evening of pleasure and lust. It angered her. Truthfully, it enraged her. Because it was no one's fault but her own.
Her eyes lowered, her mind slowing forcefully in a technique her instructors called meditation, but she thought of as focus. Her mental images and thoughts narrowed down into a fine point, focusing in on the flow of Ki inside her. Ki was the energy, or flavor of mana that flowed through all things as a constant. It was present in rocks, trees, fire, people, demons and even the gods. But few people had the discipline to hone their connection enough to be useful. Her kind of fighter, the battle monks, used it to increase their power and speed. But her original teacher, a traveling master hired by the Matriarch, didn’t fight. He used his abilities to connect with the world and elements around him, and then back into himself. He had sworn an oath of pacifism, something her very being, her very race and progenitor felt to be a weakness.
Her master was amused by the young gnoll’s confusion, especially as his view for the connection between ki and all things was put on display for her. She could still see the vision she had when he introduced her how to manipulate or see the connections of Ki. She was blinded, overwhelmed by the truth that sucker punched her in the guts. Especially when she saw the band of connection between herself, her then nameless sister Tanny, and Matriarch Glora. It was so beautiful, so enlightening, such a physical representation of their status as a family, a clan, that it was her inspiration to learn to see Ki for herself.
Her connection to Ki, her drive to truly see it, was rooted in a desire to see the representation of her relationships once again. For weeks, she trained and when she finally managed it, and saw her adoptive parent’s connection to her from a corner of the room, her sister watching over her as she had been so frustrated by her weeks of failure, she nearly cried.
The gnoll was snapped back from her daydreams when the front door to the warehouse she was staking out opened up, and goons wearing mostly solid brown outfits with muddled blue and purple arm bands shuffled inside. She took a deep breath and severed her focus on the Ki and memories inside her. She would need her focus on this coming fight, as it could easily result in her death in her state.
“... Mother, I will not disappoint you... again...” The gnoll stood up, and turned, strolling forward towards a battle she was not willing to lose.
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Elromior Tathviel stood beside his men as they went around setting up their operations. He was the local fence and protection gang for most small-time thieves not associated with the guilds or larger clans. Nearly all his men could do basic math and a tad of reading. Something he was proud of as a lower-level gang leader. The Bruisers were a force of strong-arming thugs, and their leader was a decent fighter in the underground fighting circuits, even if he wasn’t a top fighter.
Elromior stood at an average height, his slightly pointed half elf ears poking from between his greying locks. In his late 50s, he had started to notice his abilities failing him to a greater degree than even in his 40s. He would have to select his replacement soon but wasn’t sure which of his lug heads he called his men would fit. His eyes drifted over his men as they worked, but paused on the slowly opening front door. He frowned as a figure that towered over all but one of his men stepped inside from the noon sun.
“Elromior, heeh heeh, Elromior Tathviel, the Glora Clan challenges your position as gang leader.”