NamelessThirteenth

Oh BTW I have been pressured to mention that this book is actually a joint effort with one of my friends at school. I was trying to troll him but he seems to have figured it out and now wants formal recognition. we take turns writing chapters, but I will not reveal who writes what so you can tell me if there is any difference, and which chapters are better. Thx for the support PS: his name is Th3Cr00k3dWard3n. if you see him anywhere tell him "NamelessThirteenth is a better writer than you". He'll understand.

Hello all, I will now post chapter three. Sorry i haven't been writing alot lately, I had assignments at school. Note that this chapter is from a different PoV and is a kinda different style. pls comment, and most importantly ask if you d ont understand anything. Chapter III: Manipulation and wine ¬¬ The silver coin rolled across the contours of Valentin’s hand. The coin was a Tower, the noble’s coin. Alone the Tower could pay a farmer’s wage for a year or so. Valentin carried the coin on his person everywhere he went, if it wasn’t being used to bribe a guard or impress a fellow he used it to practice his ill begotten skill. Both the habit and the coin helped him think. He was no stranger to vast amounts of gold or wealth in abundance but the power the white piece of metal had amused him. The idea of more Towers or Rooks did not drive Valentin or root his ambition, he was familiar with them. After all he was Exchequer to the Queen and Realm. Still rolling the coin, Valentin let his eyes drift about the council chamber. He ignored the intricately chiseled stone walls and pillars, he ignored the magnificent vista that the windows provided of eastern Dentra. This same view was consistent throughout the windows of the Palace, in which the council was situated. In the multicolored light shed by the sun through stained glass dome above his head Valentin fixated on his fellow council members. Two seats to the left of Valentin sat Lord Erskine Avanteglo, at the center of the circular table at which they all sat. His eyelids were shut, hiding his amber irises, his stone features were stern as always. The lines of his forehead, his crow’s feet and his jaw were as sharp as the day they were carved, showing his displeasure at being forced to wait. His hair was black and shaggy but his lower face as smooth as a babe’s. Valentin Faxworth could not but fear this man, the High Lord of Covarr, the man with the strongest independent militant force of the states of Cathagravi at his beck and call. Between Avanteglo and Faxworth, Lord Meric shuffled his notes and parchments. It was plain for all to see that the young man was extremely eager for the session to begin. Glowed would be too mild a term to describe the way his face radiated his honesty, trust worthiness…and naivety. Meric had not been chosen to be on the council for his wealth, cunning or power. He, in fact, had been chosen as an ethical counter balance for the less moral and ambitious of the council. Rumor had it that his state, Fyrdos, was only held together by the inhabitants unwavering loyalty to the handsome young man, rumors that Valentin was very skeptical about. To the left of Avanteglo the oak bench creaked in protest to the gelatinous weight of its occupant, Lord Aldous Abbernathy, Lord of Tel-Nakos, the largest merchant state of Cathagravi. Valentin fought not to visibly gag at the sight of the rich man’s expansive ‘fat flaps’ and his numerous chins. He was an off putting sight to say the least yet possibly the wealthiest man of his time and age. Sitting in the furthest point left, glorifying the One Beyond was the short High Priest Sagredo. The man was old and balding, and his white beard stretched to his navel. At a guess the man looked around one hundred and fifty years, but if the One Beyond said he predated creation Valentin would not have been surprised. Looking to his right Valentin saw the empty seat of Lord York. Then there was the man between Abbernathy and Sagredo. Eddin Graymoor, High Lord of Dominia, Lord of the Veil. Graymoor was the most famous entity after the Queen herself and his reputation was known along the whole of Cathagravi and the Iron lands. His tales were told and heard by thousands in taverns, inns markets and homes. He had unrivalled control over not only Dominia, but the entirety of the Veil. He braved the Thunder Ranges alone to fight the Worker’s Militia during the Segmented Rebellion and destroyed them single handedly. He slew the scum of the Emerald thieves, all sixty of them, bare handed. He declined the offer to be King for his family. He was a warrior prophet from the realm of the One Beyond sent to eliminate evil. His sword Bane could slit the throat of a man in another state without leaving its scabbard. Naturally a majority of the tales were nothing but fables, but if there was a man who deserved such legends, it was Lord Eddin. He sat there, head propped on his intertwined hands, his grey eyes staring sharply into oblivion. His long greying hair was pushed back and his narrow face was set in a pensive expression, Valentin thought, so this is the man who set- Valentin’s thoughts were interrupted abruptly by the sound of opening doors, a willowy man bustled in through the doorway. Lord Belric York was sweating waterfalls and shaking nervously. He stood, bowed his head and mumbled an apology then scarpered for his seat. “Stop,” barked Avanteglo. York faced with the tone of command stopped. “How dare you delay our meeting with your tardiness? What could possibly exceed the priority of the matters of the realm?” Avanteglo yelled visibly holding back his anger. His amber eyes seemed to search Belric for weakness. “Apologies my Lord, the carriage broke down-” started Belric but Erskine interrupted him. “Silence! We have no need for your miserable excuses! Seat yourself and appreciate the fact you haven’t been voted off the council for lack of common decency to men and their time.” Nobody else spoke, they merely waited. York looked to be on the verge of tears as he sat down and he lowered his head shamefully. Valentin hid an amused smile behind the porcelain mask that was his expression. Belric was a hilariously easy mark. * The meeting was perfectly pointless. It went as such: Lord Graymoor sat silent and watchful. Lord Avanteglo dominated conversations and decisions laying the occasional stray insult on Lord York who still hung his head. Meric breathed dreams of justice and peace into them. Abbernathy, not subtle by the least, attempted to pass several motions which would have brought gold to his state. All were declined. Sagredo, much more cunning managed to assert his church and pass the motion to destroy some newly rising heretic mausoleums. Valentin, although he participated in conversation, was still watchful and attentive. He paid specific attention to the emotional state of Belric. If he was not appropriately shame faced and angry then Valentine would not be able to proceed with next step of the plan. Lord Abbernathy stood up as custom required. “Motion to supply Kian’Orr with 200 men.” Everybody in the room focused on Abbernathy. They all knew that he lusted for power and further riches. What end did the motion serve? Avanteglo fixed him with a stare, “Reason for motion?” “According to the reports from Kian’Orr, the border guard has been spread very thin to reinforce breaches,” his voice was nasally and he fidgeted, “and the loss of Kian’Orr would give the Iron a heavy advantage, trade between Covarr and Kian’Orr will halt. Isn’t that rather unfortunate for you, Lord Erskine?” Where Cover’s earth was poor in both metal and plant, Kian ‘Orr’s east side both mined gold and iron. They exchanged their plantation and metals with Covarr in exchange for advanced military training. If Kian’Orr were to fall, Covarr would be next. And that meant a crippling blow to a very powerful army. Avanteglo did not show his reaction, “And where should these soldiers be sent from?” Abbernathy seemed to have prepared his answer in advance, “From the Dockside. Fifty from Tel-Nakos, Fifty from Ro’Wyn, Fifty form Emarain and fifty from Ryklos.” When Avanteglo sat silent, Abbernathy said, “Motion placed,” effectively ending the explanation. A moment of silence passed. “Motion seconded,” said Avanteglo as he stood, “Vote in order. All in favor raise the right, all who wish to deny, raise the left.” That motion was a smart move on behalf of Abbernathy. It showed Avanteglo that he was loyal to him, at the same time it indebted Avanteglo to Abbernathy. By seconding the motion Erskine had all but accepted the gesture. Valentin toyed with the idea of opposing, but it was not a good idea to get on Erskine’s bad side and he did not want to see Kian’Orr fall. He raised his right and saw the other council members had thought alike. “Vote complete, Unanimous in favor,” Erskine said, “Motion Passed. Messages will be sent to insure its application.” A few minutes of silence passed then the hour glass by Erskine finished. This showed an hour had passed and that the session was over. Another minute passed. When nobody motioned for an extension, Avanteglo stood up and formally said, “Council dismissed. Knowledge of all motions will be sent to the Ucia Det and appropriate actions will be passed. Your presence is required for the next council meeting a Span from now.” Erskine looked pointedly at York, “I pray we all arrive on time.” Belric’s face went red and Valentin’s internal grin widened. The six remaining councilmen stood up and began walking out. Not one acknowledged the other. As Valentin strolled out leisurely from the room, loosening his collar and unbuttoning his silk jacket he kept his eyes dutifully on Belric. He tracked him as he walked off into a side corridor. He still walked with his head hung low, shambling like a mannequin with cut strings. Valentin followed him, but not discretely. Rather Valentin made the stalking seem, to any outsider, like a walk in the Grasa de Graci. He wore his face in a contented mask and even whistled a content tune as he walked along. But his eyes never left Belric. While Valentin could, ever the actor, mask his face, attitude, accent and habits he could not mask his eyes. They were the beady eyes of a Nys scorpion waiting for the perfect moment to ruthlessly leap onto its prey and poison it with its multiple stingers. When one thought about it, Valentin was a scorpion by nature too, he was seven shades of skullduggery, betrayal and pain beneath a beautiful mask. The moment came. Valentin snapped into action and walked briskly to Belric, cornering him. The movement seemed innocent from the outside- just a man stopping to converse with another. It just about summed up his plan. “Belric, my friend,” he smoothly placed his hand on Belric’s shoulder. Even though he was taller than Valentin he was so stooped Valentin seemed a foot taller than him, “What would you s-” “Leave me be, Lord Faxworth,” his face was a shade of deep crimson, when it was evident that Valentin was going nowhere, he repeated himself, louder. “I said shove off! If you intend to lecture me on conduct and common human decency you know where to shove your condescending talks. You may not see me as it, my lord, but I am your equal. Give a man his peace and return to your master Erskine. You won’t intimidate me into my resignation off the council.” Valentin immediately retracted his hand, “Belric!” he said rolling into his words a tone of reproach and surprise, “Do you really think my loyalty so cheap that I would turn to Erskine’s side at the slimmest problem concerning you? You know I would never be such a bastardly fellow. I may be on the council but I’m not like the other subservient council members.” He frowned distastefully at this like he had bitten a bitter apple. Belric’s demeanor immediately transformed from aggressive to guarded then at ease, he sighed, “That’s exactly what they are, subservient scum if I ever saw some. Imagine the luck, the carriages axels snapped and I had to catch Erskine on a bad day. It’s the dammed carpentry these days I tell you. If I ever catch the man responsible for the carriage’s creation, I’ll chuck him in the iron maiden. You’re a good man Valentin but I’m afraid I must go.” Belric made as if to move but Valentin grabbed him by both shoulders. “No, no, no my friend. Trust me, when we find that man I’ll prepare the Brazen Bull while you stuff him inside. But right at this moment, you and I are going to go down to my quarters to have two goblets of Firewine. First you’ll pay for one, so that you may heal my wounded pride, and then I’ll buy you one so that you may drown your shame within it!” he smiled to let him know it was a joke. Belric wore a matching smile, “Of course!”, and they walked down the corridor, arms around each other. Friends, drink mates and colleagues. Or perhaps puppet and master. * Firewine truly lived up to its name. It was brewed so that the drinker’s throat and mouth burned like hell itself. He assumed that alchemical concoctions had a major part to play in its telltale quality, and this also explained while even the veterans of the taverns could not take more than three or four goblets consecutively. By this logic, Belric must have been blessed with an iron throat, for he had just downed his eighth goblet, and was drunk enough to prove it. It was at this point within the developments that Valentin had to apply the utmost care to what he said. While it was relatively easy to manipulate Belric, it was another matter entirely when sobriety was out of the equation. One word would cause Belric to dance a jig to Valentin’s tune, while another would cause the entire plan to fall into shambles. Caught in the drunken throes of Firewine, Belric was yelling, insulting Erskine, and cussing like a docksider, not necessarily in that order and sometimes all at the same time. He alternated between silence and colorful barrages of insults the likes of which Valentin had never heard. He could have sworn his ears bled, but if it were due to the loudness of the voice or the sheer profanity of the language, he could not tell. Valentin saw that the coast was clear, and that it was time for a bit of prodding. “Erskine really is a bastard isn’t he?” Belric nodded “well, how would you like to shame him like he shamed you?” Belric became instantly more attentive. Valentin whispered “when are you going to stop that house war between Extal and Litania?” these were two houses that owned a few pits in Deokistan. While they were not having an all-out war, they were having a bit of an argument. Lies were most believable when there were threads of truth within the complex web. “I heard that the collateral damage will be unprecedented! You really must stop them before they destroy Deokistan!” Belric looked confused, the limited mind of his held by drunkenness. “But you don’t have any powerful armies of your own, do you? My advice is to just make a motion to send some of Erskine’s to solve your problems.” Realization dawned on Belric the drunkard. Valentin continued. “Coincidentally, the Queen’s road is dangerous in these times of the year. And if Erskine’s men were to fail at their mission,” he made a slit throat gesture. “Then it wouldn’t be your fault, and Erskine will become a laughing stock in front of the council! Do you understand?” he spoke slowly, as if communicating to a toddler or a cripple. “Yes, yes,” Belric bared his teeth in anything but a smile. “I understand you perfectly, friend” They drank the rest of the night away. Or rather, Belric did, while Valentin continued to fund the flood of drinks until he dropped dead, asleep. When that happened, Valentin called in three servants, who placed the fallen lord upon a stretcher to take him to his quarters in the Palace, and called for an alchemist healer. This left Valentin alone, to ponder and revel in his victory. Every step of this plan had paid off more than was invested. His observations regarding Belric’s drinking habits and moods, the way he made brash decisions when backed into a corner. His observations about the small problem occurring within Deokistan. The fact that Erskine was strict, and the bloated little purse placed in the hands of a needy carpenter. There were all but small components of a larger plan; useless alone but, when combined, formed a deadly weapon. Of course, the amount of drinks that Belric had ingested ensured that Valentin’s face would be wiped from his memory. Only the seed of this endeavor would remain. This meant that, next week, a hundred of Erskine’s soldiers would be walking the road from Dentra to Deokistan, while sixty or seventy men wearing Belric’s colors would be waiting to ambush them. Phase one was complete, and the plan was in motion. Now it was part two. The part which was more delicate and intricate than the previous phase. The part wherein Valentin will enter the trade of money and blood. It was time for Valentin to contact the Senia Oratio.

Baldric is the main viewpoint in the novel, with a few others but from different areas and occupations. he is the main soldier perspective, and more will be written from his perspective later on. thx for the tips

woops who si frost then? from the way he has been mentioned he seems important

OMG YOUR THEORY FITS!!!! barndon said that theer is a shard that just wants to survive. this could be Frost, and thats why he can exist on the same system as Odium and not be detected! plus, you kinda expect Yolen to become dystopian after the shattering so it fits!!!!

To BridgeBoy: I haven't really thought about how the manifestations would look because the characters won't be travelling to the Riftplane anytime soon. Any ideas of how it would look or how to get there are much appreciated. Riftselves do not have a choice in the matter, because they are not sentient. Riftselves and sentience is a complex topic. The riftself of a human, regular object, or god doesn't think or have sentience on the Riftplane. However, it can gain sentience by being forced to enter the Physical Realm. At this point you can't Fetter it anyway, so its choice doesn't matter. Each fire hs its own Riftself. Basically, the Riftself of an object or person is created when that object is created in the Physical Realm, so when you light a fire, a new Riftself specifically for it is created, and when you put it out, the Riftself is destroyed. Now, your magic system sounds AWESOME. I don't know how you go about planning for your novels, stories or magic systems, but it doesnt matter if your magic system isn't complex. My questions are: What kind of things are asked for in a contract? Because if the contract is a physical thing, like go stab that guythen how could the soul do it after death? Does it gain a body, like a zombie or something? How many contracts can you have at once? I suggest here that for your plot the character could have more than one contract and is a powerful individual, so there is some sort of divine politics going on. How do you get a contract? Is it like the Words in Stormlight Archive?This is important. Also, how do you break it? If the gods (Im' gonna call them gods, seems best) can give contracts, then why cant they just kill the Oathbreaker? I would put an oath of nonintervention unless specifically asked here. I thought of a plot that just came to me. Maybe that Oathbreaker has made a very powerful contract which gave him lots of cool powers, but when he made it he was desperate and said that he would kill a king or something for it. the God/demoin/wizard actually wants to invade but cant because they cant directly interfere with humansn, and so the Oathbreaker becomes like a dark god's hand, unwillingly. Great work and amazing concept. If you want to further establish your magic I would suggest you read the Sanderson's Laws of Magic essays, which you can find on his website. Iread them and they are very useful and inspiring. Keep telling us about it, I am sure it will be something real huge !!!

the reason the magic systems are seperated from one anotehr os because they exist on different planets of the same universe. People on one planet can use Lifedust but have no idea whatsoever about the other types. I had the idea that the magic could be focused by hand gestures in a certain pattern, because it helps focus the mind rather than let it wander. I may put that limitation in, but there still are some characters that surpass it, but it is only one or two. btw you can find the story i am writing on here: thx for the help

IT IS AWESOME! I love the Hoid persona, but it is very different from what we see of him in the stories. It's like he's odd more and without limits, but on the novels he has an air of mystery and high philosophy, and is more snarky than funny. I STILL LOVE THE FANFIC tho keep posting please

Hello all. This is an excerpt from a novel I have been writing. it is titled The Black Symphony, and it is a magic-free fantasy novel about war and monarchy. On this topic I will continue to post excerpts if people want me to. Here is the first part. Please comment, ask and criticise. CHAPTER I: white's folly It was on a rainy night that five men sat within the decrepit tent on the small hill. Four around its rickety table sitting on its equally rickety stools and chairs, while the fifth sat in one of the tent’s dusty corners wiping and oiling an ornate crossbow. The men had dirty chipped glasses with them, a bottle of Red Bersabee, a lamp for company and were telling tales, albeit in low voices. “…and that’s why I’m in this bloody mess we call a war. No home in sight anymore, just a bastard blade through my gut or an arrow through my skull. That’s all our collective destinies are I’m afraid.” The soldier finished the tale and took a sip from his glass. His name was Pyter Vane but the men called him Hare. The nickname was on account of his famed sprint across the village plains during the battle of Three Tufts. “Hah, you, impaled on a bastard sword? That’ll be the day. Your name and heritage won’t make you the bother of a knight or Lord anytime soon Pyter, hah, Bastard Sword. We’ll all probably end up with some disease or other. It’s either that or as arrow fodder.” This cheery sentiment was courtesy of the man directly in front of Pyter, his name was Edmund, though he was called more often by his surname Black. It described both his outlook and sense of humor. “Quite a pleasant thought Ed, one would think you wouldn’t want to be here.” The remaining three men remained silent. The two seated by the table, named Baldric and Fredric, Snout and White respectively silently chuckled. The older one in the corner who they called field-commander to face and Ulfur behind walls remained non vocal. “Don’t you find it strange,” said Baldric after a fashion, “That they’ve grouped all the men on what the Iron see as their border together?” There was a silence broken by someone muttering, “Oh look, the pig farmers got brains,” followed by… “Strange,” said Pyter, “My dear Snout. you seem to be unaware of the prejudices harbored by our superiors. The disdain and fear they harbor for us. No you bloody fool,” he continued in an altered tone, “It’s not strange by the least. They can’t have us half bred Cathagravi among the pure and uncorrupted. Our accents are partially Iron and god forbid catching. You’ve still got that damned naivety you arrived here with. There is no coincidence in the army. There is cruelty, death and interest. This is not the Iron men we deal with, there is no honor. So stomach it.” Yet again, the staple silence after short conversation trademark of the company inflicted itself to be broken by Fredrick, the man they called White. "A fine rant to be sure, Vane. Quite from the heart I believe. If you invested the emotion and care in that little speech into your character instead I dare say you would cease to be a half bred and would become three quarters Carthagrav. Don’t stare like that, do you think your name overshadows your upbringing. You’d be a bigger fool than I thought if you believe being born on our side of the borderland made you any less Iron. And you, pig farmer, don’t you ever associate me with you lot again. Next time you say anything about yourselves as a collective say us three, do not think of me as part of you.” With that Fredrick got up and walked into a separate tent. Hateful glances bore into his back, his little speech confirming the subject of Pyter’s ‘rant’ as true. “One day,” said Pyter. “Someday,” said Edmund. “What’s wrong with being a pig farmer?” said Baldric. “Baldric.” “Baldric.” “Baldric.” “Get up you bloody waste of space.” The voices finally roused Baldric. “What in the world is going on? Hare? Black?” “Orders, reconnaissance around Edward’s Mott, our mission and purpose here, soldier,” said the Commander, “Get into your armor.” “Aaaah fu-” “Oi Baldric get off your arse!” It was Edmund “I’m up,” replied Baldric, rubbed his eyes and, as Edmund so elegantly put it, got off his arse. The tent was small but they had managed to pile their equipment near arm’s reach. Every man had naturally slept by his sword. Baldric walked over to the pile which Edmund and Pyter stood by and slipped his slightly rusted mail over his aketon. “Where’s White?” he asked reaching for his cuisses, poleyns, fan-plates, greaves and sabatons, all articles of armor that a man of his financial state wouldn’t have owned had he not found the corpse of a dead Iron Knight three days before. The man had been naked but those pieces, a pin and the linen pants which sat on Baldric legs. Baldric had appropriately stripped him and with the help of the Commander, buried him. The man was short so the items fit Baldric perfectly. The pin he bore had been a noble houses insignia, a white rose with a bright yellow bud. The Commander hadn’t recognized it but they decided it was safer to bury the pin alongside the man. The grave marker had only read The Knight of The White Flower. “Disappeared, we didn’t find a trace. Good riddance I say- probably scarpered the little rust. Oh I say Snout don’t sleep in an aketon again,” said Edmund, “God knows the nights are warm and certainly not kind to your natural stench.” Baldric ignored the jibe and pressed on as he fastened the second sabaton and moved onto the greaves, “Are you sure? I mean he was well and truly a snot but I can’t imagine him ‘shaming his wonderful Cathagravi with a cowardly retreat’. He might be in trouble.” “Bugger him then,” laughed Pyter, “He wouldn’t go after you if that’s what you’re thinking of doing.” “Nothing of the sort Black. I’m not risking my neck for him if he’s scarpered as you say. But I suppose we’ll have to if we see him.” Said Baldric. “Heartless as usual,” said Pyter, “Remind me not to go missing.” Four men set off down the hill. All were clad in mail, aketons and breeches (but for Baldrick, who swapped the leather breeches for the iron armor), hidden beneath dark cloaks with swords by their sides. Concealed by trees and brush the company quietly moved through bush and underbrush stopping once at midday for refreshments continuing onwards towards their target. Silence was their preferred state as they crept through the Border’s lush environment listening to birds coo and the rustles of trees. A day they travelled as such. Stopping little. Eating little. Talking little and walking for long spreads of times, all the while each man thought - where was White? Edward’s Mot, named in honor of the then King Edward’s influx of mots, did not get around. Unlike Edward’s mots, the Mot wasn’t renewed every third day, and like most of the military camps turned villages made before the Molten Alliance around the Iron lands, had fallen to the age old woe of neglect. Once the wooden watch towers had warned the soldiers stationed of events of interest, but rain and the disinclination to create structures able to withstand water weathered them away to but a skeletal frame. The wall which surrounded the square village was rotting away, its many holes were either patched by cloth or not at all. Such was most of the outer defense of Edward’s Mot. The battlement’s platforms and walls were barely stable and the roofs of the village were patched with dry straw making them easy targets for anyone with a lit lamp. It was in fact villages such as this one that created the myth of the ever-fear inducing Deity of Terrible Architecture. Dry straw noticed Baldrick, the report by the surviving member of the last reconnaissance team had said the village had been eerily empty. Dry straw meant that someone had replaced the straw from the night before. “Stop!” whispered Baldrick pointing, “The village isn’t empty.” The company stopped a short way away from the village wall. “How do you know?” asked Pyter. “Dry straw on the roof of that building sticking out from above the wall, someone changed it recently,” said the Commander, “Well spotted Snout.” They proceeded with caution, sticking to the walls with their swords weapons drawn. Wolf and his falchion, Pyter and Edmund with their broadswords and Baldrick with a large dagger. Their shields, which had been strapped to their backs, now sat strapped on their arms, slightly raised as to block unexpected attacks without limiting visibility. Edging along the walls the men reached the village gate, a rusty metal giant further inspection found that the gate, which was more like a slab of solid iron connected to hinges, was locked or blockaded from the inside. “I say,” said Baldric, “It rather does smell here doesn’t it? What on earth could it be?” “I was actually going to ask that to, at first I thought it might be Baldrick, but even he doesn’t stick half as bad,” said Pyter. “Quiet. If I’m not mistaken that’s the smell of a rotting corpse, you, Edmund, you’re light. Stand on Baldrick’s shoulder and look over the fence,” ordered the Commander. Edmund obliged, clambering up Baldric he jumped off him grabbing hold of the walls edge and pulled his head over, he stayed like that for a minute then jumped down. But something was wrong. His face carried a horrified expression and his mouth was wide open in disbelief. “Ed, what’s wrong,” asked Baldric. Edmund was silent. “Ed?” “Ed?” “Edmund!” Edmund barely replied, voice shaking with visible strain, "They got Fredrick.” There was a silence, then the Commander said, “He’s dead too isn’t he?” Edmund nodded, “Impaled on a pike, the head is poking out of his neck,” he faltered then retched on the grass. “I counted twenty men. But there’s more, they’ve set a black smithing station and camps. I’d say at least a hundred.” “You can’t be serious.” “One hundred men?” “Yes, look I’ve been in camps before. Baldrick, this is your first deployment, and Hare, you were only dispatched on skirmishes three times. I know what I’m talking about, we need to send for help.” The Commander was quiet for a while, then he said, “Edmund, Pyter, set the tents in the grove. We’ll stay and survey. Baldrick, run back to the camp and tell them to send for reinforcements. Edmund, were they heavily armored?” Edmund nodded vigorously, “A few wore noble’s armor and I saw some heavy weapons- maces and the like. The Fir Border Camp holds seventy men and sixty-five fighters. We won’t be able to take the village back on our own.” “Baldrick, relay this information to the acting commanding officer on base. GO!” It had been seven days before when Baldrick and company had received orders to travel to the Fir with the Third Army’s Eighth Surveillance and peace keeping division. Seventy men not including Baldrick and Co with orders to insure Iron occupation would not filter into Cathagravi land. Such orders would not have been issued if not for the mysterious disappearance of three messengers dispatched to Edwards Mot a week before. Hand-picked because of their various talents displayed on field and during the eight-week Infantry training camp and six-week surveillance course in Baldrick’s case the group had been given orders to preform simple reconnaissance around the Fir lands and villages. Edwards Mot had been their final destination as the Commander had decided it would be more prudent to weed out lesser obstacles before any possible great confrontation. Other than an old supply route that had been long abandoned by the Iron there had been nothing of consequence for the Reconnaissance team to record. The trip to the camp was faster with Baldrick travelling alone. He didn’t stop unless he absolutely required it and stayed off tracks. The woes of war were yet to be introduced to the young man, the barracks only prepared a soldier for so much. His mind was preoccupied with his objective- relay the message and he felt at peace with the world as he walked through the sounds of nature.

So I am going to try my hand at writing a fantasy, I have had ideas bouncing around in my head so long its getting painful. the setting and overall story line is mostly clear to me, but there are two things i am hoping someone will help me with. Firstly, i need someone to give me comments on my magic system I created a magic system which is kinda universal, then i adapted it to different applications. Basically, there is an alternate universe (called the Riftplane) wherein things called Riftselfs reside, they are the manifestation of a physical object or person on the Physical Plane. Links can be forged between them and the mage to produce certain effects. the first and the most complex system is Fettering, used by one of my civilisations. in their world there are Arcs (a fancy word for elements) that can be controlled. the mage creates a connection (Fettering) between his physical self, his Riftself, the Riftself of the Arc. because this type of connection is more complex than the others, it requires two things: a sharp mind, and certain knowledge. The mage must know the NAME of the Arc they want to control. a name here isn't actually a name, it is more of an understanding. the amount of understanding you have influences the abilities you can do. More on this in another topic. Another system is the song system, where the mage Fetters himself to the Riftself of an object through a song. The ability can't be changed, so you sing a song and it does a function that cant be changed. this magic feeds off emotion and doesn't need strength of mind. the last is a manipulation of dust, called Lifedust. The Dust is located all over the planet, and can only be used after a mage Fetters his Riftself to its Riftself. this kind of connection, existing only on the Riftplane, passes after a time. once a connection has been placed, the Dustmage can control this Dust however he wants. Note: Lifedust can also be used in alloys or chemical compounds, producing interesting effects. More about this later. Note 2: all this info isn't going to be in the story at the beginning, but will be explained by scholars toward the end. the second thing I hope to do is release some of my novel onto the forums, so people can give me feedback. It is free of magiuc, and is set in a Venetian-English setting, amidst a war with hostile forces. if you want me to release some of my novel please tell me, along with any comments or questions you have on my magic systems.

i dont know, but ive always felt that teh Tranquline Halls was the Rosharan interpretationof life on Yolen before the Shattering, but this is only a hunch. i feel this way because Brandon said that al the books are conjoined by a creation myth that is interpreted differetly from place to place. i also imagined the afterlife in the Cosmere to be a universal concept, kind of like Investiture or Shards are a universal concept but given different names does anyone else share my hunch?

i think that what you should do with thsi backstory is to hide it from the reader. try to extrapolate the kind of emotions that the cahracter would feel, her behaviour, from her backstory, and make the wy she behaves what you actually show. then reveal her backstory through her interaction with other characters or with flashbacks. think of Kaladin in Stormlight. what makes him such a good character is the way he behaves, how he refuses to hold a Shardblade, how he feels protective. then , revealing his backstory helped the reader understand him better, and also creates a feeling of i want to know more about him.

does a Duraluminmind make you a ninja? if filling the mind mean sthat you lose connections to other people, does that mean that filling it will make you an instant ninja, without anybody knowing you, with no connections to anybody? and nobody will recognise you? this would be very useful if you are being chased and need to disappear quickly. What do you guys think???

Duralumin in Feruchemy is actually very useful. When filling it, you lose connections to other people. Does that mean that if you tap it you becomne an instant ninja? And if you are caught by police for example, can you fill it so the officer does'nt know you anymore?