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Race: Saurian

Bloodline Powers: Strength, Rending, Emberbreath

Greater Mysteries: Fire (Noble) 3, Wind (Noble) 1

Lesser Mysteries: Heat 4, Oxygen 4, Embers 4, Pressure 4, Current/Flow 4

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The leather harness creaked, biting into the scales of Samazzar’s thighs and shoulders. He struggled to keep his eyes closed as he swayed gently in the morning breeze. It was hard for Sam not to worry about the pair of ropes connecting him to the wooden scaffolding jutting out from Master Pothas’ balcony. He’d double checked the ropes and their fastenings before putting the harness on, but still-

“Hit the bellows Brianna!” Pothas exclaimed cheerfully from behind Samazzar. “Remember to put some oomph into it, we need to make sure Sam is really moving.”

A gust of wind rushed over Samazzar’s scales, swinging him back and forth. He reached out with his senses, fighting back against the vertigo as a second servitor began to push the scaffolding.

Pace by pace, the wooden apparatus rolled along its metal tracks. The wheels squealed in protest as steel scraped against steel and Sam’s heart jumped into his throat. In his magical vision, the balcony dropped away from him. As far as Samazzar pushed with his ability to see the mystery of air, he couldn’t touch the grounds of the academy.

Behind him, the single wooden arm of the scaffold bent in a worrying arc. Sam licked his muzzle nervously. He wasn’t afraid of heights, but for all of Pothas’ genius as a spellcaster, Samazzar wasn’t sure about the man’s acumen as an engineer.

“Harder Brianna!” Pothas shouted, a whirl of high pressure air in Sam’s vision as the man stepped off the edge of the balcony floating to where the Saurian hung over the yawning expanse. “We want our scaled friend to blow back and forth, like a leaf dancing in a summer gale.”

The woman’s outline heaved as she threw herself into the bellows. Air rushed out of the contraption’s steel nozzle, hitting Sam in a damp gust that smelled vaguely of leather.

Once again, the harness creaked under his weight as he swung freely. Pothas floated slowly in a circle around him, air curled tightly around his limbs as he kept himself aloft through the combined force of magic and will.

“Feel it Sam,” the older man hissed. “You might have overcome pain to take your first faltering steps down the path of fire, but the mystery of air’s main stumbling block is a different primal concern. Fear.”

“Man might need air to survive,” he continued, hovering closer to Samazzar’s wildly rocking body. “Without oxygen our bodies stall and die, but almost everyone sane knows instinctively to avoid too much air.”

A wave of the man’s hand created an invisible wall of pressure in front of Samazzar. A half second later and he was forced into the windbank by another blast from the bellows. It felt like he was being forced into mud as the gust rushed over his scales and into Pothas’ magic.

“Falling can kill,” Pothas shouted, raising his voice to be heard over the creak and howl of the servitors at their work, “but air is so much more dangerous than that. It can carry heat or cold, disrupting your body’s balance. More than that, it can become a tempest.”

The air from the bellows multiplied. Suddenly Sam found himself at the heart of a windstorm, jerked back and forth to the extremes allowed by his harness as Pothas took control of their surroundings.

“The wind itself can kill,” Pothas yelled, barely audible over the unending roar of his magic. “Even without the aid of stones or debris, it can separate flesh from bone, wearing a person down into nothing more than a skeleton shining in the evening sun.”

“You must embrace that Sam,” he continued. “You are in a dangerous situation, outside of your control. Do not fight it. Abandon yourself to the wind’s embrace so that you might dance on its currents, buoyed by it rather than destroyed in a futile attempt to fight back.”

Samazzar felt his teeth jab into his gums as every muscle in his body tensed. The leather harness bit into the scales of his shoulder as the wind slammed him back and forth, head and tail snapping backward each time he reached the end of his tethers.

He exhaled, doing his best to ignore the tumult around him and. Eyes closed, Sam concentrated on his shoulders, willing the muscles to relax. The straps from the harness bit into his chest and neck, but he did everything he could to dismiss the pressure and pain from his mind. Sam moved his attention to his arms. He didn’t move them from where they were folded across his chest, but he forced the reluctant muscles to relax.

“You’re almost there my boy!” Pothas shouted once more. “Once you stop fighting the wind, the next step is to become the wind. The realization won’t come all at once, but that is your next step forward. Become the wind Sam!”

Vertigo whirled and screamed inside Samazzar’s skull, but he dismissed it. One by one, he worked his way down his own body, dismissing the tension from his limbs and letting himself flop freely in the growing storm.

His concerns dropped away. Sam wasn’t entirely sure when he stopped caring that he couldn’t feel the ground anymore. He wasn’t even sure when he ceased to notice how quickly the air was moving around him as he was flung about. Even the balcony and Pothas disappeared from his consciousness.

Time itself ceased to matter. For one moment, maybe it was a fraction of a second, maybe it was a half hour, everything faded into the background. All that existed was the swirl and pull of the wind as air pressure, pushed by the bellows and Pothas’ magic, built into waves and flowed past him.

Samazzar could almost taste it. Air skittered across his scales, crisp and fresh. Gusts blew past him smelling somehow of lavender and early spring. The wind whistled, as it rushed past the railing of the balcony, notes to some symphony that he couldn’t quite understand.

He could feel it. Something was there, just outside his reach, almost like a half remembered song. Samazzar could hum some of its melody, but the moment he reached the chorus, it cut off. No matter how much he wracked his memory, trying to find the pieces that were missing, the final notes remained just beyond his grasp.

It was maddening. Sam knew that he was moments away from an epiphany, the sort of understanding and realization that would signify a breakthrough in his magical knowledge, but no matter how he tried the bars of music kept stopping abruptly.

Then, the moment of realization ended. The wind died around Samazzar, and suddenly he realized where he was once again. Sam’s eyes flicked open, and his breath caught in his throat as his surroundings snapped into focus.

Almost a hundred paces below him, Academy students crowded the cobblestones, shielding their eyes and looking up at his dangling form. The harness gave a worrying creak as his momentum kept Sam swinging back and forth.

“Reel him in Bertrand,” Pothas said from behind him. Samazzar didn’t remember the magi landing on the balcony, but his instructor sounded happy, almost elated.

With a tortured groan and the shriek of steel on steel, the apparatus clutching Sam jerked into motion, slowly rolling backward. Thirty seconds later, a tall, exhausted looking man was pulling up a step stool to undo the metal clasps on Samazzar’s harness.

The saurian dropped to the marble of the balcony, his claws clicking against the white stone. He shook himself, wincing at the dull ache in all of his muscles before looking up to take in the rest of the balcony.

Brianna lay on the floor next to the bellows, blonde hair splayed around her and her chest heaving as she tried to recover from her heavy work. A couple paces to the left, Pathos leaned against a pillar, hands clasped together, a grin on his face and an excited gleam in his eyes. Behind the wind master, Rose stood as straight as a board, arms crossed in front of her chest, and the barest hint of a smile on her face.

“That was phenomenal Sam!” Pothas gushed, rushing over to the saurian and clapping him on the shoulder as soon as he had regained his balance. “I suspected that you were one of the Called, but that was something else. A moment of enlightenment in our first lesson. I swear by the mysteries themselves that I’ve seen nothing else like it.”

“Out of curiosity,” Rose cut in, her single eye inspecting Samazzar as she strode closer, “is that how you learn the mystery of fire as well? Do you go into a trance and find yourself growing closer to the mystery?”

Samazzar reached up to scratch the scales at the back of his neck, hissing as his sore arms screamed in protest. He shrugged, biting his lip to avoid crying out at the sudden spike of pain.

“I guess?” Sam said. “Isn’t that how it works for everyone? If you expose yourself to the mystery enough or put yourself in enough danger, everything just snaps into focus and suddenly the knowledge rushes into you.”

“No,” Pothas replied with a chuckle, his eyes twinkling. “I know people who have killed men trying to unlock the secrets of the called, hunting for some way to absorb a small fraction of the intuitive ability that your kind are born with. For the rest of us, there is only study. Years of study and experimentation as we slowly teach our bodies to truly understand the secrets of the universe.”

“To be called is a blessing,” Rose agreed. “I would not advertise it as some practitioners are jealous of the advantages that come with that blessing. From the sounds of things, you are called in both of your mysteries. I would absolutely not tell anyone outside your circle of trust. That is the sort of secret that could lead to violence, blackmail, and extortion.”

“Really?” Samazzar asked uncertainly. “Why would anyone care if I learn magic differently? It doesn’t affect their own efforts to study the mysteries.”

“People are petty and small,” Rose said with a shrug. “For many, they do not study the mysteries for the sake of learning or self improvement. Instead, they learn magic simply so that they can attain wealth and societal standing. For them, a prodigy is a rival and an enemy rather than a fellow traveler to be admired.”

“Huh,” Sam said, frowning slightly. “That seems rather silly.”

“It is,” Pothas replied. “I’m not sure I would paint the situation in quite as dire of colors as Rose, but there is some truth to her words. Many people would prefer to tear their fellows down rather than focus on self improvement. It should not be the case, especially with the Patricians edicts.”

Samazzar cocked his head, scrunching his eyes at the older practitioner in an unspoken question.

“Vereton is surrounded by enemies, Sam,” Pothas said with a sigh. “From the barbarian tribes to the North to the larger kingdoms to the South, we are wedged into a narrow gap that seems to tighten every year. The Academy and the knights give Vereton the breathing room we need to survive despite this, but there is no room for infighting. We cannot afford to lose practitioners or soldiers to bloodshed and unsanctioned duels. All disputes are to be settled in open court, mediated by one of the Patrician’s deputies.”

“But my friends and I got into a tussle with some of the city’s soldiers two nights ago,” Samazzar began slowly, trying to sort out his thoughts as he spoke. “If the Patrician wants people to focus on outside threats, that doesn’t make sense.”

Pothas’ face screwed up into a frown, and he tossed a glance toward Rose. The taciturn woman’s slight smile had morphed into a tight line. She shook her head silently before replying.

“I’ve already looked into the situation Master. The troublemakers were Captain Jamise’s men, but Lieutenant Joosen diffused the situation.”

“Joosen.” Pothas rolled the word around in his mouth, as if trying it out. “I know that name from somewhere.”

“Five years ago,” Rose supplied. “He was a squire with enough talent to make it into the advanced practical classes. Didn’t have a knack for wind, but he ended up doing a one year apprenticeship with Master Branson.”

“Branson,” the Pothas said with a quick nod. “I think I remember the boy now. He was either an Earth or Metal practitioner. Nice kid, but he didn’t have the sort of social backing you’d expect for a knight-candidate. I’m glad he was able to find some success. The City needs more reasonable folks like him. We have enough people like Captain Jamise stirring up trouble that a counter-balance is more than welcome.”

Sam coughed, a wince flickering across his face as he tried to gain the two humans’ attention. Pothas looked back at him, confusion on his face.

“I honestly don’t know what any of this means,” Samazzar interjected, giving both of them a sheepish smile. “I don’t want to be involved in anyone’s fights, I just want to learn the mysteries and study draconic bloodlines.”

“Speaking of which,” he continued, a sly glint in his eyes, “I think I’ve recovered enough to resume my lessons. I have a salve that will ease the muscle strain, and then I’m ready for round two.”

“I appreciate the enthusiasm,” Pothas replied with a chuckle, patting him on the shoulder before turning and walking toward the door to his office. “But even if we repair your body, your mind is spent. You didn’t drop out of that trance because of a physical injury. I was watching you to make sure of that. The mind can only handle so much Sam, and you’re at your limit, at least for Wind. If you want to learn more today, go talk to your friend Tazzaera. I’m sure she’ll be happy to start you on fire or something.”

“Okay,” Samazzar replied, perking up. “That sounds like fun! When should I come back for my next lesson?”

Pothas glanced at Rose, and the woman withdrew a small notebook from one of her pockets. She licked her index finger before quickly flipping through the pages. Finally, she stopped, looking through the book for a minute before responding to Pothas’ unspoken question without looking up.

“You have an opening just after noon on Tuesday, Master Pothas, just after my lesson and a bit before Percival’s. That should give Sam time to recover.”

“Perfect,” the older man replied, opening the door to his study and stepping back inside the tower. “Bump Percival back an hour or so. I want to make sure that I have enough time with Sam.”

With a smile on his face Samazzar scampered inside, making his way to where he’d put his satchel. His muscles were still sore as he fished out the salve, but only a minute or so after applying the pungent grease to his scales, almost all of the pain was gone.

He hurried out of Pothas’ office and through the halls of the Academy, ignoring the wrinkled noses of other students and staff as he made his way toward Crone Tazzaera’s classroom. When he arrived, Sam quietly let himself in.

The Crone was in the middle of a lesson, her cane resting across her scaled knees as she watched over Takkla, Dussok and a gaggle of humans. In the center of the room, a bonfire roared below a bronze vent that transferred its smoke and fumes outside.

The two saurians looked comfortable, their eyes shut and legs crossed as they basked next to the fire, but the humans were not so lucky. All of them were sweating, and more than a couple were flushed or sporting bandages that were almost certainly soaked in some sort of alchemical healing substance.

Samazzar took a seat in the back of the room and closed his eyes. He reached out, touching the fire and running his mind over the leaping and dancing mystery. There was no way he was gaining as much from the experience as the students directly exposed to the flame, but at the same time, it had been a while since he had actually stopped to observe the fire in such a sedate setting.

Too much of his life was lived at a frenetic pace. Sam was always running headlong from one disaster to another, and his knowledge of the mysteries reflected that. The speed and formlessness of wind, the sudden destructive power of fire. They were areas of knowledge that he could throw himself into, risking claw and scale in order to make a new breakthrough.

Still, at some point he would need to slow down a little bit. Not all knowledge required him to almost die. More than that, if all Sam focused on was surviving extreme exposure to a mystery, his understanding of the magic would be limited. After all, it was hard to think about the dynamic between fuel, oxygen and flame when all of one's attention was occupied by preventing an inferno from boiling them inside their scales.

The gentle crackle of the fire filled the room, overwhelming the sharp uneven breaths of the struggling humans. Samazzar let the sound wash over him, tracing his mind’s eye over the edges of the flames, trying to imprint every minor spark and curl into his memory.

Then, far too soon, Crone Tazzaera called an end to the lesson. Sam unfolded himself, shifting his neck to either side to work out the lingering stiffness from sitting still for so long after the abuse he had taken during his wind magic lesson.

Human students filed out of the room, picking up bandages and small potion bottles laid out on Crone Tazzaera’s desk as they left. After her first lesson, the Crone had received complaints from other faculty members that her students were turning up at their next classes suffering from heat exhaustion. Rather than change her lessons, Tazzaera simply dipped into her class budget to produce remedies for the condition.

She had only been teaching for about two weeks, and already ‘the fire witch’ had a bit of a reputation. Her students progressed quickly, but none of them walked away from a class without some pain and discomfort.

He walked up to Tazzaera as the last of her traditional students left, leaving only the three Saurians. At some point, the old kobold had found a plush, fire resistant cushion, almost as thick as her torso, and plopped it atop the chair she sat on while teaching classes.

Tazzaera perched atop the pillow proudly, her weathered tail curled around her haunches, its tip tapping the fabric steadily in front of her. She nodded at Sam’s approach, shifting her hands slightly on the head of her new cane. He shot a quick grin back at the old woman.

“Little dragon,” she said, “I didn’t expect to see you so soon. I thought you had a lesson with Master Pothas today.”

“I did,” Samazzar replied, reaching up to scratch the scales at the back of his neck. “He hung me off the side of the building and put me in touch with the mystery of wind. Eventually he told me that I had absorbed everything I was going to, and sent me down here when I asked him to continue the lesson.”

Sam paused, a twinkle lighting up his eyes.

“Master Pothas said that you could finish my lessons for the day by starting me on fire. I can feel the next bottleneck in the mystery of fire, just beyond my claws every time I try and contemplate it. Maybe a little immolation is what I need to burst through.”

To Sam’s left, Dussok choked on something, breaking down into a coughing fit. Crone Tazzaera simply rolled her eyes.

“All enthusiasm and no sense,” the old kobold responded dryly. “I can see that your new body hasn’t changed your character.”

“That wasn’t a no,” Samazzar noted, a grin on his face as he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“It wasn’t,” Tazzaera replied. “But I have good news and bad news for you little dragon. The bad news is that I don’t have the alchemical ingredients on hand to push you through to another level in the noble mystery of fire.”

“The good news,” she continued, her faded muzzle breaking into a grin, “is that the ingredient I need is a flame garnet. My request for more flame garnets has been approved by the Academy, and a collection request will be circulated shortly. Your work scouting Redfern Vale after you finished gathering the scarabs wasn’t wasted.”

“Just remember, little dragon,” the kobold said sternly. “The lands beyond Redfern Vale are feral and dangerous, but they also have a number of rare monsters and natural wonders. You must be careful, but for the right person, it is a treasure hoard, just waiting for you to wrap your inquisitive little claws around it.”