Chapter Five: Tebro Confronts His Mentor

West of Home, Tebro worked in his uncle’s tower. Tebro knew he would inherit the tower in ten weeks, unless he pushed magic beyond all bounds of the previous centuries. The thought galled him. The goblin air had cleared his head, though, and given him an insight. The components of the spells, the words and gestures, might exhibit a structural similarity to the sphere invoked. Or perhaps some rule is involved, the shape of the lips and throat complementing the gestures, the breath with the mindset.
Diagrams of lips and lungs, lines and arrows over parchment superimposed on the square and phoenix, spilled over his desk or were gummed onto the stone walls. Boradi, the younger aide, entered with Tebro’s evening meal. He looked around at the charts.  “Master Tebro?”
“Yes? What do you want, Boradi?” Tebro’s voice was tired, but he kept his focus on a table of syllables which he was attempting to complete.
“There is news of Stone Harbor,” said the young aide.
“You mean from Stone Harbor, don’t you?” said Tebro.
“No, master. We have reports from scouts. Shortly after we left, the goblins…”
“Goblins?” Tebro turned in his seat, looking quizzically over his shoulder at Boradi.
“It is what the scout called the creatures. They sealed off the entrance to the mountains and set a guard on the valley and harbor.”
“Stop, Boradi.” Tebro turned back to his work and spoke to his young aide without facing him, “Did I not say that under no circumstances was I to be told the outcome of the attack?”
“Not exactly, master, you…”
“It is a distraction. I must not be distracted if I am to complete my work in time. Please, Boradi, your job is to keep distraction from me.”
“Yes, of course master Tebro.” Boradi again looked at the charts and diagrams as he entered the room with the dinner tray.
“Your esteemed uncle,” Boradi said hurriedly, “once found system in breaking the incantations into pieces as it seems you are attempting to do with the words themselves.”
Tebro said nothing, so the aide continued, “If I may be so bold as to suggest, perhaps he could find the system here. You should see him.” Boradi set the meal down on the table and cleared away the remains of the previous.
“Thank you, Boradi,” Tebro said tiredly, “that will be all.”
“Master Tebro…”
Tebro turned suddenly in his chair, his voice rose, lamplight glinted in his eyes, “Go away, Boradi!” Boradi turned and ran out of the room.
Tebro scratched at his arm. He felt pinpricks in his fingers, aftereffects of the gnome air. He looked back down at his chart. The regularity that had hovered on the edge of his consciousness was gone. He sighed as he went to his bed and sat on its edge, pulling off his boots. He lay back on the bed. Perhaps Boradi is right, he thought, it might take me years to work out the proper system, even with an apprentice… which I don’t have. If I go to Genro now, though, he will ask me to write his history, and I can’t do that. I have to stop his final death. I have to find a way to save his existence. He sat up and put his boots on again, gathered up the most complete of his new charts. I will just have to be firm. He left his study and started down the tower to the room where his uncle lay, weak in his last months.
Tebro listened at the door. He heard the sound of his uncle’s voice, but could not make out the words. He knocked. The sound stopped and seconds later the door was opened by Tebro’s older aide, Dor. Again Tebro felt regret that Dor had not displayed the capacity for apprenticeship.
“Master Tebro, please… please come in. Master Genro will be delighted.” Dor stood aside and beckoned Tebro in.
Genro was as tall as Tebro, and even more slender and especially frail in his decline. He was propped up with pillows into a reclined sitting position. His huge but neatly trimmed beard covered the top quarter of the blanket. He smiled broadly when he saw Tebro.
“My dear nephew… hello. It’s good to see you. I heard that you had some business at Home. How are your esteemed parents?” Genro’s voice was still strong, although not the powerful basso of his prime.
“I did not have the opportunity to see them, master Genro.”
“Ah, well, that is much what I had expected. Do please look them up next time you are there. My sister, she will be following me in a few short years, and your father not long after that.” Genro smiled again to take the sting out of his words. “Sit with me. Tell me about your work.”
Tebro launched into his theory, explained how the syllables of incantation were not random, that they reflected the gestures, and that careful study of both might lead to the construction of other spheres of magical influence. He attempted to show Genro his notes, but Genro gently pushed them aside.
“It’s no longer my concern, young Tebro.”
Not so young, Tebro thought, as he pictured himself old and helpless on the same bed.
“You will find an apprentice,” Genro said, “and together the two of you will find the system. Or together you will prove that there does not exist such a system. You were more help than you realize in the construction of the square and phoenix.” A twinkle came into Genro’s eye. “It might all be random, you know. We might be looking for order where there isn‘t any.”
Tebro looked at his uncle, speechless.
“Hah,” Genro laughed, “I suppose I am getting heretical in my old age.” He looked stern for once. “That’s my prerogative. I’m glad, in a way, that Dor is writing my history. You would pretty it up.”
Tebro was now speechless and hurt. Genro put out his hand and touched Tebro on the arm, smiled once again and said, “Wizards usually don’t have time for a family. I know that. I know that better than most. You might try though.” He sat back on the bed. “Let’s pick up where we left off, Dor. Tebro, you are welcome to stay, if you would like.”
Tebro found his voice, “No. No, uncle," Tebro paused, stood, and said, "I will not accept that this is inevitable. I will find the magic for the soul. I will not let you die!” It was Genro’s turn now to be speechless. His eyes widened as he looked at his nephew, who was now pacing the floor. Tebro punctuated his words with gestures in the air. “It is absurd that a person should be annihilated, that you should be annihilated, ashes thrown on the mountains!”
“Tebro, stop,” Genro pleaded, “my work is done, my history will pass onto my family, to you. I am tired, boy. Let me rest.”
Tebro had stopped pacing, a shiver shook his body. “You will see. You will get your drive back with your energy. I will make you young again. You’ll see!” Tebro left the room quickly, shut the door behind him, and ran up to his study to pour himself into the work.

Chapter Four: The First Hero

Far to the north-west of the Channel Sea, deep in ancient woods are cities whose delicate, sky reaching towers testify to the fact that the builders, as well as having a highly developed aesthetic sensibility, have a lot of time on their hands. Living wood is coaxed out of trees huge enough to be towers in their own right and shaped into buttresses. These are joined without nail or peg, into hardened and varnished wood, which is in turn shaped with metal and stone. Looking at these structures, it is usually difficult to tell where the tree ends and the building begins. Simpler, and yet gracefully proportioned structures cluster around these duoliths.
The elves that live in these cities are long lived, subject to the same cycle of resurrection which rules all the races. Gracelessness and ignorance are the exception rather than the rule among these people, although gracefulness (in bodily dexterity, at least) and intelligence can be the attributes of monsters as well, as Oshayamora had seen.
Over the past six days, the creatures which had attacked her town, Woodhaven, had shown surprising cunning, and there was no doubt about their agility. They had scaled walls as if they were running over level ground, and they had outrun the elves that they chased down. They threw their bolas with exquisite skill. They were hideous, skin the color of ash and slime, fangs slightly protruding from their mouth. Their ears bore a resemblance to the pointed ears of her own race, which made Oshayamora shudder.
Oshayamora crouched in front of her young nephew. Her hands were bound behind her. She was an example of uncommon physical strength among her people, but she had tried the cords and knew she had no chance to break them. One of the monsters (who had said, “I am flayer,” indicating by gesture all of its kind, when it had been asked its name) had been brutally whipping the youth before Oshayamora had placed herself between the child and the whip.
“So, it does not like pain to the little one?” the flayer said with a sneer in its voice. (the fangs made it impossible to properly sneer with its face) “Perhaps it likes pain to itself more?” It brought the whip down in a wide sweep and the crack slashed a line from bare shoulder, across bare chest, to bare hip. Her clothes had been shredded over the past days by whip, knife, and sword. The flayers did not seem to notice clothing, they were naked themselves, but lacked any sexual characteristics, either primary or secondary. Another flayer approached with a whip, its tips were worked with tiny blades. One would bleed to death slowly under that whip.
“What about pain to the wrinkled one?” the second flayer said. It drew back the bladed whip, preparing to swing. At the last moment, Oshayamora threw herself into its path, protecting her grandfather. She twisted in the air, presenting her back and bound wrists. The whip tore wide gashes in her back, but missed the cords binding her wrists. Both of the flayers laughed as Oshayamora curled in pain, but she did not make a sound. For six days she had refused to cry out in pain. Unfortunately, this seemed to make her a challenge in the eyes of the flayers.
Laughing, dancing, one of the flayers said, “It likes the pain! It wants it! I gives, I gives!” slashing again with the whip.

From their omniscient vantage point, the gods looked down on Stone Harbor, they looked down on the Ophidian capitol, now under siege, and they especially looked down on Woodhaven and Oshayamora. They had come to a decision.
We cannot reverse our decree. Something hinders us.
We must fight this hideousness, but we dare not manifest ourselves, lest we unmake our creation.
Therefore let us raise Heroes from those most worthy.
This one is particularly enduring. We shall give her the endurance and strength of the ancient oaks, which her race esteems.
And remove her bonds.

Oshayamora felt a strength flow through her, and realized, as she lay bleeding, that her limbs were no longer tied. The flayers were still dancing, and the one with the bladed whip was preparing to swing again. She twisted, taking the whip-strike on her shoulder. It stung as it had before, but her new endurance kept her wits clear. She grabbed the end of the whip and lunged at the flayer, sinking the blades into its neck. It choked and fell back. The other flayer removed the bola from its belt and stepped back for a throw.  Oshayamora’s fists, like pistons, tore into the face of the first flayer. She moved to position it between herself and the second flayer, who was beginning to twirl the bola. Having briefly rattled the first, she tore the crude but sharp short sword from the belt of her opponent.
Naked, but now armed, Oshayamora waded into her erstwhile captors. She sliced the bola cord in half as it flew, and approached the thrower. Blow and parry were exchanged. The injured one had run off as the other shouted, “Get more me, bigger me!” The flayer brought down his sword on Oshayamora’s left arm as she cut into the waist of the flayer. The wound oozed only a trickle of blood. The flayer seemed infuriated by this and pressed the attack harder, but pressing, left itself open to the slice and cut of the weapon wielded by Oshayamora. She cut several times deep into the belly of the flayer, without seeming to slow it. Hearing the shouts of approaching reinforcements, she ignored the hacking blows of the flayer and plunged her blade into the gash she had made and upward, twisting the blade in a stirring motion. The flayer grunted, fell, and finally was still.
Oshayamora turned to her grandfather and nephew, bound hand and foot and lying on the steps of the town shrine. For the past six days they had been repeatedly killed on these steps. “Thank you, granddaughter,” said Tathor, as Oshayamora cut his bonds, “we should leave now and move so as to be closer to a shrine in a city not taken by these beasts.” He struggled to his feet. His clothes still hung about him, although shredded from many cuts. His face was wrinkled with care and age, but in normal circumstances he was still hale and vigorous. He gathered up a discarded cloak that lay nearby and held it out to Oshayamora as she cut away her young nephew’s bonds. “Can you walk, Findecino?” she asked him as she fastened the robe about herself.
“Yes, I think so,” he said. He was young, slight and pale. There was a large hole in his shirt where the flayers had disemboweled him. He touched the frayed edge of the hole and winced at the memory. “We should get bows.”
“Then quickly,” said Tathor, taking the boy by the hand and running toward the nearest house in the opposite direction from the approaching sound of the flayers. Oshayamora stood outside the door while Tathor and Findecino searched the house. The flayers had just come into sight. She glanced in the door. Tathor came out, handing a beautifully wrought great sword to Oshayamora. He carried a longbow and a large quiver of arrows. Findecino followed him out, carrying a smaller bow. The three elves ran for the forest edge.
The flayers caught sight of them and followed swiftly. Twenty flayers made up the pursuit, and with them was a creature standing several feet taller. The larger creature lagged somewhat behind the swift pursuit of the flayers, but its sheer bulk of muscle and twisted face radiated menace. As the elves ran, Tathor and Findecino shot several arrows expertly into their pursuers.
“They are not stopped lightly,” Oshayamora said as they ran, “concentrate your fire.”
“Yes, fire. A good thought,” said Tathor. He swung the quiver around and searched through it, picking out a particularly fine arrow. “Kashtat-Kemetat,” he intoned. The arrow shone briefly with a fiery aura, which was absorbed into the arrow. Tathor stopped, turned, and fired. The arrow sunk into the nearest flayer, between the eyes, and burst into flame. The elves continued their run, not pausing to see the head of the flayer explode and the rest of the flayers pause briefly, puzzled, to examine the body.  Several of the flayers ripped strips of flesh off the corpse just before it dissolved into a black, oily mass, and stuffed the strips into their mouths as they continued the pursuit.
Findecino glanced over his shoulder. “I believe that bought us some time,” he said, as the three entered the deeper woods at the outskirts of the town.
They plunged into the wood, running, trying to lose their pursuers in the thick foliage. “What were those things, great grandfather?” Findecino asked after some time, “I have never heard of anything like them.”
“I do not know,” Tathor said, levelly, “I have never heard of, read about, dreamed, nor imagined such viciousness. Our philosophers have speculated on the perfection of good and evil. I believe we may have just experienced the perfection of evil.” He looked back, troubled, as the three of them crested a hillock and started downward, towards a stream.
“I hope you are right, grandfather,” said Oshayamora.
“Why do you say that, child?” Tathor gripped young trees for balance as he half ran, half slipped down the steep, leafy slope.  Ahead of them the forest spread, dense, trackless and green.
Oshayamora urged the others on to greater speed. “Because I wish never to meet worse.”

Villains: Trolling And Griefing In Ironman Mode

  Every game has Trolls and Griefers.  Give them an open PvP system and they crawl out of the woodwork.  The Orison philosophy toward these is: give them an outlet and make them part of the player-driven drama in a special way.  It makes little sense for a player to go around randomly killing other players, and it is this that makes those people particularly annoying who, when confronted about their griefing say, "I'm role-playing a villain."  On the other hand, the Card-Carrying Villain is a recognized trope.  If the guy who just smacked you down for no reason is someone marked on your map by a red, flashy dot and surrounded with a black aura, well... you didn't run fast enough.
  So, how do these players go about collecting their Villain card.  Two things have to be done here in the design of the system.  First, make being a Villain irresistible to griefers.  Second, rig the system so that the Villain population naturally declines in the absence of players taking up the status of Villain.  It is similar to the concept of Rubber Band Systems.
  How to become a Villain:

• Level to somewhere in the late middle levels.  Early enough that natural griefers have something close to shoot for, but not so early that a player can make a Villain in a few days.
• Enter one of the dark temples.  There are four small temples, two medium, and one large.  These are circular mazes with rotating walls that open a door once every six hours real time.  Each temple has an inner and outer rotating wall.  The medium temples have an additional wall midway through, and the large temple has two walls one-third and two-thirds of the way through.  This means that it takes a minimum of six hours to traverse a small, twelve for a medium, and eighteen for the large.
• Touch the orb in the center of the temple.  The player is prompted that they are about to be severed from the wheel of life.  Proceed.  The player is now a Villain and has a resurrection stone of the level of the temple.

  What does it mean that the Villain is severed from the wheel of life?  It means that they don't res at temples like other players.  When a Villain dies, if they have a resurrection stone, then they become a ghost and can wander around without interacting until they activate the stone.  When they activate the stone, it is consumed and they return to life in that place.

• Small stone - lose a level of xp on res.
• Medium stone - lose no xp.
• Large stone - gain half a level of xp.

  A Villain can enter one of the dark temples and make his way through to collect resurrection stones, but they can carry only two at once.  If a Villain dies with no resurrection stone, all their gold and equipment drop and their character is deleted.
  Any time a Villain dies, they drop a soul shard valuable for crafting based on their level.  They also drop the key to their residence in the Villain town, if they have one.  Yes, Villains have their own town, but it deserves a post all of its own.

Chapter Three: In Which a Pirate Offers to Help

After a long swim, Torroran climbed dripping out of the water and onto one of the docks. The shore crews looked at him askance. “Bastard pirates!” said one to another, quietly, “Why can’t the city do something about him?”
“Like what?” The sailor kept fairing line, playing it out on the dock in large lines packed against each other, never overlapping.
“Lock him up! That’s what.”
“Never work. He’s got his crew, don’t he. They’d have him out in a jiffy, one way or the other.”
“Then lock up the whole bloody crew.”
The sailor finished fairing the line, stood facing the younger man, “Yes, like what they did in Ba Morton.”
“Where?”
“Exactly. Every pirate ship on the sea and every fighting ship and man of The Black Isle… they didn’t leave a single stone on top of another. They raked the ashes flat. They even planted trees and grasses, so the city would be completely erased.” The old sailor sat on a box. “The way to get a pirate is to kill him at sea. Ships can’t carry a shrine, the crew pops back on shore. Take his ship. Without its ship, the crew breaks up, don’t it. Then nobody will sell to the captain, buy from the captain, he’s landlocked. Torroran’s going to have a hard time of it when he finally looses the Whitecap. Almost feel sorry for the bastard.”
“I don’t,” said the younger sailor.


Torroran walked through the market, strutting; his boot heels clicking on the cobblestones.  He had stopped by his safe house, making very sure that he had not been followed. He had changed his clothes for a dry pair of pantaloons, a vest, and boots. He’d filled a pouch with coins and was now entering a bar to celebrate his victory with nobody in particular.
“Round of drinks on me!” Torroran said as he swung open the door.
There was a general turn of heads toward Torroran, some attempt at a cheer from visitors to the city. Many shook their heads in disapproval, a few nodded their thanks. Torroran stepped briskly up to the bar, “Shot of Serpent’s Tears, Trony.”
Entronias, better known as ‘Trony’ or ’barkeep,’ poured the drink, “Caught another fish, have you? Who was it this time, Baskane?”
“Hiegler.”
The door swung open again.
“Well, speak the name of Brigid…,” Trony said. Hiegler was standing in the doorway, a bright new scar across his face, running ear to ear, just under the eyes.
Torroran whirled around, drawing one of his swords and smirking, “Hiegler! Three times this month, and now twice today. I would think you would be tired of dying by now.” The patrons of the bar variously drew their weapons or crouched lower in their seats, ready to flip tables into impromptu barricades.
“Drown it, Torroran! You really have no conception of what you have done.” Hiegler did not draw his weapon, he sighed. “Put your weapon down. Let’s have a drink and talk about it.”
“Well, when you put it like that,” said Torroran, attaching his blade to its accustomed place on his sash, “how can I refuse?” They walked to a booth. “Bottle of Tears and two glasses,” he said over his shoulder to Trony.
“So, you pay for the drinks and talk ‘til your heart’s content, Hiegler”
“Hmph."  They sat.  Hiegler sighed and looked over to the bar.  It was just past noon and several people were having a late lunch.  "Ever starved to death, Torroran?”  Hiegler asked.
“Can’t say that I have, why?”
“Terrible death,” said Hiegler as the drinks arrived. He poured the drinks into the tiny glasses and swallowed his at a gulp, “lingering, painful at times, affects the mind in a bad way.”
“Sure, but there’s farmland everywhere. You starve and its likely to be through stupidity, so you learn better next time and find some work for some food.” Torroran tossed back his drink.
“And if you can’t move?”
“You mean like in a prison... and can’t kill yourself to get out? Nobody would do that to a prisoner. Everyone would be on them at once. Pirates, military, everybody.”
“One would hope,” Hiegler said as he looked through the side of his empty glass, turning it this way and that. “So here’s the reality: the town of Stone Harbor, down along the east coast, has been surrounded by some sort of monster. Baskane called them Din, from some old myth. Anyway, they burned the crops and are capturing anyone trying to get out, flaying them alive, by some accounts. These dwarves are starving to death, coming back at the town shrine, and starving to death again... and again. These Din are torturing the townspeople. They are bringing hell to earth. So that shipment was going to be replacement for the crops, and the fighting men that your crew just put to shore were going to try to break the siege.
Torroran leaned back heavily in his seat, looked hard at Hiegler and poured himself another drink. He lifted the drink, smelled it, then put it back onto the table. “Where’d you hear this?”
“Baskane,” said Hiegler, “I’d wager my existence on his word.”
“And what’s he doing about the problem?”
“He’s a merchant, not a fighting man.”
“What about the military?” Torroran asked, “Surely they would step in.”
“Nobody with the power to move troops believes the reports. They’ve sent scouts, but those people are suffering now. It will take days, if not weeks, to get the military there.”
“Then yeah...  I'd guess we’ve got to do something. If we ride fast, we can go south of the capitol, along the coast, and catch the Whitecap at Mountain Pass.” He drank the shot of Tears. “No time to finish the bottle,” he stood up, “I’ll meet you at the stables south of the city. Be quick.” He left.  Heigler raised an eyebrow at Torroran's departing back, then he capped the bottle and tossed some coins on the table.

PvP: Who Can I Kill, And When?

  It is the best of mechanics, it is the worst of mechanics.  Testing one's mettle against a truly tough opponent is a rush, (and so is, for some, smacking down a helpless newb) but getting beat down unexpectedly, when you are in the middle of trying to accomplish something stinks like week old fish entrails.  Striking the balance is difficult, but I think that a rather open and broad stance toward PvP is critical for many of the other systems of Orison.

  One example: assassination.  What use is that shiny prestige poison if you cannot attack a politician with a dagger soaked in it?  Sure, attacking a politician with this sort of poison could be an exception to the normal PvP rules, but what about the politician who wants to use guards to beat down anyone who approaches them in a suspicious way?  I suppose 'guarding a politician' could be a thing in the PvP system, which would trigger another exception, but why not incorporate all this behavior into the base rule of the system?

  One way this has been done is with 'factions.'  A character is in a faction (which could be a guild)  which can be at war with any number of other factions.  The most successful implementation of this system is, in my opinion, EVE Online.  Done badly, this system is very restrictive and actually reduces PvP to pre-set border battlefields that go back and forth, giving one faction or other bonuses.  Guild Wars took this concept to an extreme.

  Another example is trade.  Theft and piracy make for a good story for those on the winning side, and revenge makes a good story for those on the losing side.  This means fairly open PvP out in the areas between towns.

  Instead of making a long list of who can attack who, where and when, I'm going to make a short list of the conditions under which a player cannot be attacked.

• A player under a certain low level cannot be attacked unless they attack first (and cannot carry trade goods in any case).  The exception is that a Villain can attack players of any level.
• A player may not attack a member of his own party.

  That's it as far as conditions go, now for the consequences.

• If one player initiates combat, inside the borders of a political unit (PU), with a player other than a Villain or someone marked as Criminal in that political unit, the initiating player loses prestige in that PU.
• NPC guards might get involved.  This depends on the settings put in place by either the PU leader, or the player to which the leader delegates the position of sheriff/captain/general. (collectively known as 'warchief' WC)
• A player that initiates a combat which would result in loss of prestige (whether or not the player actually has that prestige to lose) is reported to the leader or WC of the PU.  The leader or WC may then mark the player as a criminal.  (The leader or WC can mark anyone as a criminal at any time, but the system prompts them about these players.)

  Only Villains gain experience for killing another player with the exception that any player (even a Villain) gains experience from killing a Villain.
  One other thing.  Whenever a player dies, a fraction of their gold is lootable from their corpse, and there is a chance that one or more pieces of their equipment also drop.