Asheron's Fall: The Power of Ten, Book Six

“Huh. The layering is indeed similar to Soul Magic. You said this was run off Blood Magic, Lord Mick?” I asked him again, looking at the patterns closer, mentally moving them around and sideways. Ugh, nasty, cruel work, designed to siphon the power out directly, slowly, and painfully, all completely unnecessary, done by something that was feeding on such sensations as it made the jewel.

-Aye. Can’t be sure to who or what he were sacrificed, but definitely were no friend t’ the rest o’ us. Brigands an’ assassins using it fer cheap power. The magic were duplicated in other things later, without all the blood an’ agony involved.-

“A potential external focus for Soul Essence, if we can clean up the patterns. Won’t need the Tat or to know the Shaping. It’s… appropriate, wearing it over the heart. Normally you might find it on an Undershirt, or Breastplate, if at all. A useful alternative, if you’ve got Soul and not the means to employ it. Much more powerful than Soul Feats for direct use of Essence,” I murmured.

Most Isparians had real problems Shaping up Soul Essence, and had to rely on Tats. The Mick, for instance, had to get Tatted up by Kris to use Cloudstepping Sandals. It put a big limit on what exactly they could use, so they had to be careful about their choices. The various Soul Feats were nice, but they didn’t compare to the Shapings, or the Soul Tats which emulated them.

And given the number of people who could Soul Tat others on the island was exactly two, items were a much more viable means of employing such things, completely independent of punching chakra points!

“I seem to recall mention of some other spells and effects which increased Health and the like, but only as… drink or minor Tinker Buffs on objects?” I recalled carefully. “It means this could easily be a graduated effect…”

“The Dragon’s Heart is a huge Soak Buff,” Kris agreed. “Basically the equal of two Con points per Essence into it, as far as Soak goes.”

Or basically +1 Soak per Level, in layman’s terms. It was totally possible to get a huge amount of Soak out of the thing, if you just committed the Essence to it.

Another Buff. You only needed one Chakra point open to have an Essence Reserve and start building it, after all…

More toughness was a good thing for humanity here. “What was the bonus off this magic, if you recall, Lord Mick?”

-+30, as me fadin’ brains do remember. Weren’t nothing better than it, save for some temporary consumables, as it were.-

“Huh,” Kris noted, glancing at me. One point per Level, times up to five, was potentially up to +100 Soak, a considerable improvement… but for a single effect with no further investment, +30 was still pretty good, equal to the buff for +6 Con for a Ten.

Breaking Ten wasn’t really a problem for these people here.

“It’s going on the stack. I think we’re going to be able to use it for people who want a nice Soak buff,” I informed them both, dropping the Necklace in a pocket for closer study, disassembly, and realignment of usage.

We both felt the Mick flex as a silent wine-colored figure in browns and blacks came out of the brush by the river. He made no other motion, the scout clearly sent ahead to see if there was anyone else waiting for them, fronting for another raiding team on their endless flanking attempts.

It wasn’t going to end well for them, but they’d find that out soon enough.

--------

Kris was mostly alone when she sat down in the clearing, pulling out her Disk and perching on the edge. She didn’t bother to draw Quaver or anything, the picture of unruffled confidence as she waited for those watching and waiting to show themselves.

The Royal Scouts knew where the buried watchers were, having plenty of experience at that sort of thing themselves, and were all poised to spring into action if needed.

Imperial Princess and Warlord Kristie Rantha could take on a paramount straight up, and even if she couldn’t kill them, which she most likely could, she could run away laughing shamelessly.

And then come back in ten minutes, Health all restored, to resume the fight, if she truly wanted to kill them.

Thus, they weren’t particularly worried about her, knowing that her smooth skin was harder to get through than fine steel, and her hands were more dangerous than almost any weapons forged. If those calling for a meeting were stupid, they wouldn’t be alive to stay stupid very long.

At last there were some warning croaks in the distance, careful alerts to make sure she wasn’t surprised or anything when they finally approached, their gaits a mixture of hopping and striding that wasn’t all that good at covering long distances, but made for a wicked amount of agility in personal combat.

The burun chieftain and shaman paused at the edge of the clearing, studying her reaction like the hunters they were… and found her to be completely calm, collected, and unruffled, radiating a level of confidence and restrained lethality that impressed the pair of them. The calm remained even when she glanced at the towering forms of the hulking guruk behind them and just smirked knowingly, teeth showing it what was unmistakably a polite warning to keep their distance, or there was going to be some big trouble in little swamp town.

A grunt from the ruuk with the dark purple-blue skin was enough, the green-hued shaman saying nothing as he fiddled with the fetishes on his Staff and stared at the Isparian female more than a little nervously.

He was unable to discern anything about her magically, like she was invisible or a magical pit, swallowing up his spells, and that made him nervous.

Undeterred, the ruuk chieftain hopped forward, bouncing from foot to foot with ease and speed, showing off his strength and readiness to fight, if the other knew how to measure such things.

A flicker of the unnerving, pale violet eyes assured both of them she did, and they could both almost feel her amusement radiating off her, assuring them it wasn’t intimidating in the slightest.

Still, she did rise to meet them, towering over both of what looked like frog or toad-men to other races with her simple, straight-legged build. The smaller ruuk were the faster, nimbler, and more intelligent of the bimodal burun race, with the towering, bulky guruk being dumber, stronger, and tougher, looking more like frog-headed apes or ogres in contrast to the ruuk, who looked like frogs with humanoid upper limbs walking upright.

The ruuk generally guided the race now, able to use magic and call on the power of their unknown deities and gods, where the guruk were simpler, magic-resistant brutes with more combat power, useful in fights and as laborers to help out their smaller kin, who guided them and took care of their basic needs. Once, the guruk had dominated their smaller kin, but that was no longer the case, especially with the deaths of the burun kings.

There was a third evolution of the race, the Kuruuk: the massive slug-like toad-kings of the race, their rulers and mightiest Casters. However, those were either dead, exiled back to Bur, or trapped in temple complexes after the Fall, as none were present in the Blackmire, and without them the guruk were soon dominated by the more numerous, organized, and smarter ruuk.

The burun were not natives of this world, hardly a surprise or very different from most of the species who lived here. The difference was that they’d come here of their own volition, as opposed to being brought or kidnapped here, as was the case with most other species.

No, they’d come to Dereth following the Falatacot, one of the factions of the Empyrean undead. Those they’d followed had colonized their homeworld long ago, chasing the burun out of their own hunting grounds, allying with their enemies, massacring them, and even force-evolving the moarsmen from a small predator native to their own world in order to hunt them down and keep their numbers contained.

The power of the Falatacot colonizers had waned when the stars shifted, their connection to their unknown Mythos benefactors fading, even as the burun seemed to be revitalized and had gone on a mad war to chase the undead off-worlders away after almost twenty thousand years of domination.

They had succeeded. The Falatacot had fled here, to Dereth, and, prompted by their god The Sleeping One, the burun had followed them to exact vengeance upon their hated enemies.

For a long time, the connection to their home world had endured, and the Falatacot had worked continuously to undermine them, kill them, and otherwise continue a shadow war with them, using the resources of that distant world as weapons to be employed in Dereth. There had been a lot of Isparian mercenaries who had helped the burun out during that time, and even Asheron had called them an ally, while the burun had alternately raided humanity or traded with them in irregular fashion.

The burun had also been an ally with the Hea and Gotrok at some point, but that had fallen through in rather dramatic, violent fashion. The burun had never been formal allies with humanity, but had not hesitated to use the adventurers of the Isparians or their allies to accomplish things that needed to be done, cold-bloodedly pragmatic about the whole matter.

It was also why they’d not raised a claw to help when the Fall came and the Isparians were set upon from all sides. The burun hadn’t joined in the resulting carnage against the Isparians, but they had opportunistically moved to capture more ground for themselves, and, when the Portal to their homeworld had lost its connection, they had turned to fortifying and defending it with a fanatic zeal and real skill.

There had been a lot of forces that had called the Blackmire Swamp their own, dominated by the mosswarts and the undead. Neither was a true power there now, although the mosswarts held on in the north, and the undead had small bases scattered here and there.

Likewise, the Hea and the Gotrok were no longer their allies, but neither species had any intention of living in a swamp, so they basically contained the frog-folk inside there, and let the undead and mosswarts fight them whenever it was required. Burun who ventured outside the swamp almost inevitably ran into Hea arrows or Gotrok boulders now, and so they kept to their swamp and an impassioned defense of it, having nowhere else to go and flee to.

And now the Isparians were back, with the magic they’d once used so freely again in evidence, strong and sure as they had not been during the Fall. The burun had come to a strong parley, wondering what manner of arrangements could be made with them.

Wild banderlings, monugas, and drudges weren’t as limited, nor even the Aun, who’d kept a respectful, distant contact with the burun even after the Fall. Thus, the burun had heard of our return through the wild tribes, made contact with the Aun through drum-speak, and now here they were.

Princess Kristie was perfectly aware of the image she exuded. The Isparians the burun had once met had been domineering presences with a love for violence and practically immortal, unkillable with the Deathstones working. That protection had eventually extended to the burun themselves, and the guruk in particular had always been eager to get into fights with Isparians.

The fact they seldom won those fights without ganging up on the Isparians had made them wary and respectful of the soft-hided aliens who resembled shorter, non-dead versions of their hated undead Falatacot enemies.

Kris was giving off those vibes from a generation ago, not the cool and careful edginess of the few Isparian scouts who’d rarely come up this far north. Arrogance, confidence, pride, competence, and a thirst for combat. The complete lack of fear as she looked upon the burun was impossible to ignore, and was certainly disquieting them, as subtle undulations in their hide and belly colors were so informing her.

She was dangerous, she was letting them know they weren’t that dangerous to her in turn, and not to waste her time.

“Greetings to Cheiftain Tmauruk, and congratulations on your new station. It was well-deserved for your service to your people.”