When the lad and lass separated from their embrace, they sat down and began to discuss their plan and options. It had to be soon, maybe even that day, before the slavers settled into the space and had a chance to take proper precautions. The lad confided his spells and cantrips that he could cast but was limited to those that didn’t require reagents. The lass listend and reached for the wood and scattered hay that made the padding and wagon the cage sat in. Her eyes closed tightly, focusing on something she had clear difficulties doing.

Slowly, two slivers of the wood, about half the length and thickness of wooden chopsticks, were in her hands. The tips thinned out and shaped into those of lockpicking tools. As the gnome watched in shock, the halfling looked away with a blush.

“My family, my kin, were a group with a greater connection ta nature than most other halflings... They were mostly druids and rangers, cultivatin’ and growin’ in nature as a part of it...”

The lad was impressed, recognizing the manifestation as an innate form of druidcraft spells. The lass explained more that her family, as they aged, would usually gain more powers. But she had always had a very poor connection, that barely allowed her to care for the berries their clan specialized in producing.

“Well, I do not know how hard the picking of the lock will be. I was only given knowledge on how to best prevent theft, not commit it...” He flushed, looking away as the slowly returning halfling rolled her eyes.

“It depends on how cheap they are.” She got up with a huff and went to press her ear to the cage lock, tapping it and scratching at the metal with the picks. “Mos’ locks, unless specially ordered, have basic protections against most street thieves...” Her eyes closed as she listened. She was not an expert, and only knew the basic principles of lock picking because her father complained about finding cookies or booze missing from his stash.

“This ain’t that though... It has a lot more than six like, ugh, what we had...” Her eyes seemed to fuzz for a moment, then she cleared it with a determined shake. “I... I don’ know if I can, but I will try.”

Her fingers began to tilt as the gnome sat down and began to think about what he could do. The tools worked, tiny, barely audible clicks came as the halfling tried to remember every trick or scrap of information she knew on lockpicking. Half remembered mentions of spool pins, serrated pins, false sets and many more terms for things she barely understood and had to guess about.

While the lad meditated, his mind was drawn back to the night of his tragedy. About the voices, the energies and the lights that guided him to his survival. About the deal he made as his lungs filled with salt water, and he was dragged below the waves. The powers it granted, the echos of his choice on his commitment to a path that was his only salvation in the moment.

The lights, the feeling of life that suffused those words that filled his waterlogged ears. The flashes of power and knowledge that called him like a siren’s song. And the minuscule echo that he had witnessed by the lass. The lad knew he had done something that night on the seas, but until that spark of nature and the All Mother that the lass carried, he had not connected it to who it was with.

The gnome focused as the world around him slowly disappeared. The only thing within his mind was the light of life and nature, and a desperate attempt to understand it. Water, lakes, seas, rivers and streams. He was most familiar with the elements of water, his body most aware of the life and death it can bring. As the wizard meditated, he began taking his first true step along the path he vowed to walk. His life and experience enabled him to grasp and touch the first truth of his path. The breadth, the scope, the very nature of spell craft and magic itself.

The halfling spent nearly two hours trying to get the lock to yield to her will. But her skills simply just weren’t enough. But she didn’t panic or grow frustrated by failure. She accepted it and turned to the gnome who she hoped had a better idea than her.

The lad, she discovered, had gone mad in her inattention, as he dragged the refuse bucket over to where she stood. She stepped aside and watched as the gnome held a determined, if green, look on his face. The rancid filth sloshed and spilled as he set it down and he took a step back and asked the lass to critique what he was about to do.

He stood, hands outstretched over the bucket, and began to make a noise. His throat croaked and babbled like the waves that lulled them to sleep each day this past month. The sounds were of nature yet felt forced and unnatural. His finger tips glowed with a soft green light, but nothing seemed to occur. Disapointed, but not defeated, he turned his determined look to the lass. And she realized what he had been trying to do.

“Druidic Spells... You were, were trying to use...” She rubbed her eyebrows, trying to recognize the components of it. “Shape... Shape water? But you can’t use that?” Her eyes drew back to his fingertips that did glow but produced no effect.

“I, I do not know if I will succeed at it, but I feel it. Your family was druidic. You must have seen some of their spells and magic. If I can mimic them, I might be able to cast it as well.” His eyes burned with desire, a natural passion for magic, that blended with his desire to escape with the halfling.

“... You said you were a wizard... But that mind spike spell is not... I-I can try and mimic what my family did... Just remember, I only watched it. I couldn’t do it.”

The lass came up and grabbed the lad’s arms and hands in her own, and began a large, exaggerated magical waving and gestures. Her eyes held tightly closed as tears beaded in her eyes. Her aunts and uncles communing with nature around them, the glows and sounds they used to mimic the world they inhabited. And she did her best to mimic their passion, their movements, their desire and confidence in their sounds. Soon, the lad was mimicking her, and they started a strange dance. Going over and over, through the motions of druidic practices. As minutes and reps passed, a green and blue glow slowly formed on the fingertips of the gnome.

Over and over, the spark grew as he fell back into the sensations, the connections he had to water and nature. He knew the chill of the deep. The heavy weight in his lungs. The motion of constant sea waves. As he went through the mirrored movements more and more in time, rather than guided, by the halfling, he felt the spell condensed, solidify in his mind in a way that was different to his other cantrips, becoming more like the mental spike that was imparted upon his acceptance of the All Mother’s deal for life.

Slowly, the liquid of the refuse rose slowly from the bucket, winding up and around the metal bars and lock. Slowly filling it and every opening inside the lock. Once all the internal components were soaked, the excess fell back to the bucket and the remaining began to solidify and expand. Turning to ice and destroying the internal components that held the lock in a functioning state. There was a groan as the metal face of the lock strained and then popped off. The springs losing tension as the only thing holding the door closed now is a loose faceplate around the locking lug, preventing it from falling to the dirt like the rest of the components.

The two children stared in amazement at their success. Neither of them knew, or truly allowed themselves to hope this could work. They held each other in a manic hug, suppressing their squeals of excitement and pride.

“Come on, we gotta got ‘for someone notices.” The lass spoke up first, trying to calm the younger lad and keep them focused.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“Well, you’se two are a couple of clever chil’ren, ain’t ya?” A gravely voice, that sounded like slate and grit being powdered under a millstone echoed through the quiet wagon and courtyard. “It looks like, my’se boy, we’se have some runaways.”

The two looked towards the shadows of the courtyard, where a fabric ceiling lightly shaded a corner. And from it, two small goblins, one a sickly green and in a wide brim hat, the other a light grey and even shorter than the lad, stepped out, both sporting an impressed smile on their faces.

****************************

The younglings of the Glora Clan left the manhole cover to quickly grab some supplies from one of the many hidden caches of the clan in the city. It was barely a minute walk to the nearest one, and both put on a set of armor and gear that was appropriate. Even grabbing packs of useful gear for exploring and adventuring. The gnome needed only the extra gear, while the halfling needed a set of armor to wear. A set of modified plates that suffered just slightly in defense for the tradeoff of better stealth.

The two looked each other up and down. The girl stood proud and firm in her plates wrapped in dark fabrics. The wooden sword usually on her back, now the dark steel for battle. On each of her arms is affixed a shield. On her left is a magical shield emblazoned with an eye that seems to follow someone who looks at it. It expanded from a ring on that same hand. On her right arm, the black of the plate is replaced by that of a white mithril. From the shoulder down, there is an intricate layer of expanding plates. The remains of the tunic’s right arm she had been wearing before laying scattered at her feet from where the shield gauntlet emerged from her tattooed skin below. Her head and hair were hidden by an open-faced helm. She looked like a miss matched suit of armor meant for some spoiled child.

The boy stood, his frame much slimer and slenderer than his sister’s. The thick and tough robes he wore hung open. From it, he could pull his book, or from his reagent belt. And from it hung an additional pouch of his less commonly used reagents. The brown robes hung around a dark blue tunic and pants were meant to aid in stealth more than the desert travel clothes they had on before. His grin was wide and firm. Proud as they looked at each other in approval.

“That was much faster than anticipated. That armor was worth the investment.” The boy nodded to himself as his sister chuckled and flexed her left arm. “A third the time to put on, a fraction the time to take off, and twice the price to make...” His merchant minded upbringing made him shudder at the cost of this armor.

“Well, you, you’se can hush it, alright? You’se spent just as much, if not more on y’er spell lessons.” Again, the boy cringed before they both started to laugh.

They returned the cache to its hiding place and returned to the sewer entrance in less than twenty minutes from being kicked from the witch’s home. The juggernaut of plate lifted the cover and they both slid inside quickly. Climbing down the slime and grime coated rungs to the squelching stone below.

The stench was a mix of foul filth and stale air. Something they allowed themselves to react to very little visibly. Their noses scrunch, but neither mentioned it as they took in the stone tunnel. The fighter looked down and instantly noticed the subtly hidden trail of tracks that went through the mud in the direction Agatha mentioned.

“Less than two hours ago, witch was right.” She nodded as her brother withdrew a stick of faintly glowing chalk. Drawing a clear and obvious X and an arrow pointing away from their intended direction. “Not gonna add Cant to make it even more obvious?” She snorted when she saw his eyes roll in the minor reflection of the glowing chalk. “Come on then, we gotta move quick. We don’t know how long this trackin’ will take.”

Her brother groaned in a familiar anticipation for humiliation, as she knelt and held her arms back. The wizard didn’t utter a word as he questioned his life choices while climbing onto his sister’s wide back. With one last check that they were ready, the halfling placed one hand on the floor, before uncoiling and springing forward like a crossbow bolt, dashing quickly down the sewer tunnel. Her brother grabbed onto her neck, while marking every few hundred meters or so with his glowing chalk.

****************************

Roran Dahn and Hayle, the Scar, the two youngest councilors for the Black Hands sat together, staring at a beaker as fluid slowly dripped down into it. Roran, a mostly metal warforge, let their eyes track back over their equipment. The spiraling glass, the tubes, burning lamps and lit burners, the distilling components and reagents laid out on tables around them in a perfected way that only could be accomplished by constructs. Their thin arms and dexterous hands designed for the accuracy no flesh could accomplish, snapped out and stopped up the beaker as a single, deathly green drop fell in. Replacing it in the same way with another beaker as the next drop of green slowly condensed.

Hayle, a human woman, knew this was her turn for action. She stood up from the crate she sat on and began laying out empty vials that would hold two to five drops of the distilled poison, depending on the potency. Her toned and firm muscles worked with precision and direction. She took the two beakers that were filled with purified water and a single drop. She had to act quickly. Taking them, she swirled it as she pulled down the testing strips of flesh. With a quick flick, a scalpel was dipped into a beaker and drawn over the meat. Leaving a hiss and slowly expanding wound behind. She didn’t allow herself pleasure as she took the second beaker and did the same. Allowing her proud smirk to fill her lips when the second had the same level of intensity as the first.

“How many, assistant?” The warforge called out in a tinny and willowy voice that sounded to Hayle like what she imagined an animated pan flute would sound like.

“Well, if the strength remains till the end? Two drops a vial will start eating through warg’s hide no problem.” Her casual tone was a sharp contrast to the alchemist’s as they continued their work. Filling vials with two drops before adding two ounces of purified water.

The human took the vials and placed them in a spinning contraption, meant to quickly agitate and mix the concentrate. This continued for nearly an hour, as hundreds of vials were filled with poison. Where every fifty, the human would test to ensure the potency was up to their standard. The construct did not move or deviate beyond acknowledging the results from their assistant. They worked with a robotic and repetitive motion, catching the drops and then with a stoppered tub, filled the vial with the exact amount of water needed.

When the poison drip finally runs dry, they are left with over six hundred vials of necrotic poison that their subordinates will be able to apply to their weapons. Once it is done, Roran would begin cleaning and disassembling the lab. It would be unusable for anything else, even for more poison, until this task was done.

“Ror, was the old hag’s revisions really that profound?” Hayle asked as she moved the boxes lined with soft fabrics and hay to be picked up by their subordinates and taken to the surface.

“Lady Agatha is extremely knowledgeable.” Their hands never slowed as their voice echoed in the mostly quiet lab. “First, you did not need any lung protection as her additions recondensed the fumes. Second, the efficacy of this is equal to my greatest small batch tests. Those only provided five vials at a time. The first attempt is one hundred times more productive. With more practice a refining, I am mostly confident in a fifty percent increase on top of that. Projecting a total production of one and a half to two thousand with appropriate supplies in a single day of work.”

The human smirked in satisfaction, knowing their positions would be on the rise once the elder members saw their contribution to the guild. This new formulation could rival the achievement of gaining the sewer entrance depending on how many lives are lost. And with their newest creation, it could be an opportunity for the grunts to see the fruits of their councilmen’s efforts, boosting their popularity and position.

As the work was finishing up, Hayle opened the door to the laboratory and yelled for their henchmen to gather and carry some of the boxes. She saw her men were gathered around a table, playing dice and cards while two looked down the sewer tunnel, watching the game more than being on the lookout.

She watched the men turn to her and the two at the tunnel entrance have two figures rush at them from an alcove. A sharpened wooden cane and a hand axe swung out quickly and without mercy, the glowing point of the cane pierced through the throat of the guard on the left and furthest from his companions, while the hand axe burrowed into the skull of the man and was left there. A light crossbow was pulled from his hip and then fired into the spine of a man standing from the table. His orcish form spasmed and fell heavily, crushing the table under him as the others scatter. A bolt of flame sprung from the tip of the cane still impaled in the throat of guildmember, slamming into and consuming the upper half of the unlucky man in char as he fell with a silent scream to the floor, dead.

The heavy door to the laboratory was slammed shut as the warforge turned from his final pieces of work. An attack from somewhere had befallen them. And they were powerful enough to slay four men in less than a hands worth of seconds. The out there would buy them time as the two council members nodded silently to each other.

The first battle of the Black Glory War began.