A projection sat beside a spirit.

A joke waiting to be told or a miracle waiting to occur? Time would tell.

But sat they did in a quiet glen deep in the jungle giving pride of place to an intricately grown ring of multicolored toadstools. From blue to green to white then back again in dizzying three dimensional patterns that maintained a nearly perfect circle.

“Do you have desires, Watcher?” The spirit, it’s form flickering from shape to shape in a dizzying kaleidoscope of ideals. One moment the tall elf queen from Tolkein, the next a pale white wisp of a being only two feet tall with wings, then a pale Chinese woman with flowers in her hair, then a pearly white nearly transparent being with African features seemingly made of moonbeams. Thousands of tales, thousands of roots, but no consistency.

“I have many desires, as many as these trees have leaves. They become easier to manage when you arrange them by priority.” The short skinny man clothed in rough clothes of a pale green color responded sadly.

“Must they be managed?” Now a male figure of eight or nine feet, beyond anorexically slim with skin so pale it went far beyond any human color. His mouth was filled with jagged teeth and his long hair billowed in a nonexistent wind.

“Only if you want to continue your current existence.”

A tall woman, generously endowed with golden skin, nordic features and barely pointed ears paused to ponder on this for a while, then her skin turned pitch black and she lost a dozen inches of height but none from her considerable bust. “If this is existence, I find it interesting. I do not wish for it to end just yet.”

“A trait that all living beings must share. If you do not want to exist, then sooner or later, you will not.”

“Living..” The foot tall being that floated on dragonfly wings, a slim body topped by a head absent a face, simply two gashes high on the head with a purple light seeping out and a larger gash for a mouth filled with rows of shark like teeth, pondered. “I do wish to live. But how can I choose one desire over another. So many choices, so many histories, so many paths. They jump and jumble and turn about. Who am I?”

“Who do you want to be?”

The slender pointy eared fashion model with perfectly smooth pale white skin frowned, “You do not answer the question Watcher, merely push me back on my desires!” Anger threaded her voice, along with frustration and the first stirring of pain filled panic.

“Is it not your life we are discussing? My desires are not yours. My answers are not yours. The only path I can tell you about is my own. That will not save you.”

The three foot tall woman, naked but with a body devoid of any sexual features hovered above the ground on white feathered wings. “So you merely wait and Watch? I do not believe you. You are speaking to me, you have already interfered. If I don’t decide I will cease to be, if your conversation helps me to decide you have already changed who and what I am.”

“Yes and no. Have you seen your potential siblings, your potential children?” He gestured softly to the many rippling constructs that bubbled and flexed within the fairy circle. None yet at a point where individual features could be made out, but dense with meaning and a mess of potential history. “Now or weeks from now, there will be a being born from this place. Will it be the Irish sidhe?” The form before him flexed to a mid height being, slender but with a beauty that struck like a weapon, but left the Watcher unable to remember details, unable to describe the face or body that inspired that beauty. “Or the Vanir of the norse?” A flick back to the nordic golden skinned queen. “Or the flower maidens of the far east?” The chinese woman was back. “This ring will give birth to some variant of the fae. Who, what and when are still to be decided. I do not change what will be. I merely offer the chance that it will happen slightly earlier. And perhaps, just perhaps, with you instead of another.”

She paused, in thought again, ebony skinned with tall articulated fox like ears that twitched to scan the surrounding trees. “I. I wish to remain. Not one of ‘my’ kind. Me.” He rolled the term around in his mouth, three feet tall and pale green extremities over a bark like main body. Resembling an ambulatory tree more than a person, his hair was a mass of grass growing from a face so far from human it caused no horror. A patch of land given a mouth and eyes but no trace of humanity. “Yes, ‘I’ wish to remain.”

“Then you must decide what you want. You have a thousand tales, ten thousand legends and fables just waiting to become your history. Distill from them one story worth living.”

The form before him flexed and trembled, parts and pieces from those many myths trying to all find their place on a body that could not possibly fit them. The watcher firmed his will, and stabilized his stomach. Harshly suppressing the nausea this wretched amalgamation evoked.

“Too many!” She wailed, dusky middle eastern skin in a body made of dreams and desires, aquamarine eyes like a vast lake just begging for the Watcher to dive into. “Too many that contradict and disagree! Fake all of it! How can I choose fake stories to be my history? A fake past, a fake existence, a fake hope for the future!” Her body pulsed and began to dim as she said these words.

With another sad smile the Watcher put his hands together to clap a few times before he began to speak, “I believe in you fairy. Fake. Real. Silly human concerns. They are beneath you. Is it really just one or the other? You could say I’m not really here, my body rests far away but, my mind is here. I am both here and not here at the same time. Both real and fake. Do either of those things stop me from affecting your future?”

“No, it does not. The same is true for you. To exist you must come from somewhere and something. For you, that’s tales, legends and belief. Fake stories from the before. But if you're here and become real, can they still be called fake? If they are fake does that make you less real? You are communicating with me. Is that not real enough?”

His form ceased to fade, but still twitched and morphed, threatening to rip apart at any moment. It firmed slightly as a small barefoot child-like waif, pointed ears hidden in a mop of brown hair while sheer trouble lurked in his hazel devilish eyes. “I cannot have a thousand contradictions making up who I am. Real or fake it doesn't all fit!”

“It doesn’t.” The Watcher agreed, “So choose. Discard. Who would you like to be? Your history of a thousand years to be chosen and lived vicariously in an afternoon. How lucky you are.”

He paused waiting as the figure before him pulsed faster and faster. Flickering from one shape to another, one height to another, one color to another in a dizzying stream of possible beings. It was discordant, still chaotic, but he had hope. Hope that this would not be like the last dozen times and he would not have to clean ectoplasm from his non-corporeal form. He grimaced at the memory of that unspeakably foul texture. All he could do was wait and watch. As a potential being struggled to become ‘real’. He snorted at his own mental description. Real and fake, really pointless concepts when they traded places at a moment's notice to a wizard's will. He should remove them from his vocabulary.

Time passed slowly, hours came and went, then days, but they did not pass without changes. Or rather without less change. What once might have been thousands of potential forms of male, female or neither had become a dozen different female shapes. The mother of a new race. Only one other had made it this far, a father that time, but the final push for relevance failed and the potential scattered, what might have been was never to be.

Not this time. He told himself, more from hope than from certainty.

He watched avidly as she pushed for the goal line. To take a cobbled together history and make it hers. Her past, her story, her reality. As real for her as his memories of a life well lived was for him.

The form before him settled at last, still spirit and not flesh, but only one form of spirit instead of many. Flesh would come in time if she were clever enough. Six and a half feet of golden tanned skin over a slim body that had some of the punch of sidhe beauty without debilitating his memory. He could see and remember her moderate bust and slim hips. A minor goddess in her purity of elegance, given a form runway models would kill for rather than an earthier, curvier form that she had sported at various times. A body that aimed to destroy the thinking mind of any straight male and no few females and non straight males. Her swoop necked gown was made from intertwined spectral vines sprinkled with strategically placed flowers. Giving the impression that at any second, any movement, the vines could separate.

“I am me, I am-”

“NO!” He barked, holding up a hand apologetically to her shocked, and rapidly becoming enraged, face. “A name is a dangerous thing, there may come a day when you’ll grace me with yours, but in full understanding and by your choice. Not like this. Not in ignorance. Until that day comes I’ll help you with a title. You are the Elven Queen. The Queen Mother or perhaps, in time, the Lady of the Wood.”

“I owe a debt Watcher.” The acknowledgement made the magic field give an intricate pulse. His attention strayed for a moment, before he dragged it back like a dog told to heel. “ -leave me to owe you for all time?”

“I deal in favors, Elf Queen. I’ll ask one of you, or perhaps you will do one for me without asking. Enough such favors and the scales will balance. For a time at least till the next favor is offered. Debts left unpaid create a one way tether from the debtor to the debtee. As bad as a name that. If it grows large enough, remains unpaid long enough, that tether becomes a weakness. Neither of us would allow such a risk to linger. You can ‘trust’ me to pay my debts, and I can ‘trust’ you to pay yours.”

“This image of humanity you paint, one of fair favors traded without ill will, does not agree with my memories, Watcher. Memories winnowed from your own legends. A mirror of the human race in many ways. The mirror does not show what you describe.”

“No, no it doesn’t. But I didn’t describe humanity, Elf Queen. I described only myself, and much of what I see in you. Do my words not resonate as truth? Why else do you instinctively dread being in my debt?”

“So harsh on your own people? Did they not make us both?”

“The glory of humanity is in chaos. We are all things at many different times. Some villains of the worst order, some do gooders to sicken the strongest of stomachs. From the vain to humble to self-righteous and those who get off on breaking taboos. I am not merely the spawn of humanity, there are countless such. I am me. And that is something else entirely.”

“Perhaps, but you did not argue about who made us both. Must we not follow along?”

“Follow who? Follow what path? There are so very many, and if they were all we were capable of then how would we ever find new paths? That leads me to perhaps the first ‘rule’ of magic. At least I think it’s a rule, only time will tell. Settle back and listen to a tale.”

He lifted an invisible cup, present somewhere but not here, to spectral lips, taking a deep drink, before beginning to speak. “A man makes a golem, and it follows his instructions to the letter. ‘If something comes through this door that isn’t me, then kill it.’ He tells it. But it doesn’t work out. Maybe the golem kills the man's best friend when he comes to visit, or a family member. A treasured pet. Coming up with simple commands to fit all situations is difficult. Too difficult. So the man reaches for more. Not merely something that will obey exact orders, but that can understand his intent and act appropriately.”

“He pushes on, and on, trying to make the golem a person, at least a little bit. To judge a situation and respond as he would. Let’s say he finally succeeds. The golem is not a golem any more. It is an artificial being powerful enough to guard against the enemies of a powerful wizard, for who else could’ve made such a golem, and wise enough to act as the wizard wishes. Wise enough to see what is appropriate to a given situation.”

“The man rejoices and tells the being to guard his door.”

“The being nods, waits till the man goes to bed and leaves. He can see what is appropriate to the situation, can he not? Why would a powerful and wise being stoop to guard a door for the rest of its existence?”

“Much like parents make children, you were made by the collective belief and dreams of humanity. But that's where it stops. Children grow up to become something new. Not merely little copies of their parents. Humanity made you with the ability to decide what you want to do from here on. What you want to be. All thinking beings have the capability of deciding. This is my first ‘law’ of magic. If you make something that can think, then you have made something that can disagree.”

“Is disagreement then always so easy? Why should I hide my name if not to prevent magical enslavement?”

“Easy? Far from it. Parents might mold a child to behave the way they want. From paddling to isolation. Likewise, you can have your behavior adjusted. No one can use you like a sock puppet and bend your arms against your will, name or no name. But they can threaten to kill you with it if you don’t obey. Or cause pain at every act of disobedience. A choice to die is still a choice. I did not say it would be easy, I said it could be done!”

“The alternative is an immortal who cannot escape even through death. It’s an image that’s beyond pitiful. Beyond horrifying. It's a fine distinction, but an all important one. You will always have the freedom to choose pain. To choose death. Be wise enough, plan ahead far enough that you don’t need to make that choice.”

“You make pretty arguments, but the will can be weak. Men and woman can be broken. Can an elf or golem that came from human dreams not also be? Why not take your golem and… indoctrinate? Is that your human word?”

He grimaced, a robust knowledge of humanity did not always portray his species in a kindly light, but nodded anyway.

“Take your golem and indoctrinate it, for years if necessary, to only guard the door? Could your wizard not do this?”

“Yes.” He said with a sigh.

“So why did you not do the same. Have your own tame little Elf Queen?” She leaned forward as she asked, giving him a glance at a valley that had him rapidly reconsidering his earlier thoughts on pure elegance.

He carefully refrained from adjusting his belt, “Because I’m not a fool. That may work for a time, but unless you touch up the indoc regularly I can’t see it lasting. Or you might fake it for a time. Then the golem doesn’t just leave when the man sleeps, he crushes the man's head on the way out. Far better to make a working relationship than to put a bomb in my home with an uncertain fuse.“

“And why should I believe that this is all you intend?”

“Because I could have gained your name, could have gone for indoctrination, could have tried to convince you that enslavement is possible. I chose not to. I knew you before you were, and I am still here, the Watcher, not Owner, not Puppetmaster.”

“Having me at your mercy and not acting on it doesn’t make us fast friends. It doesn’t make you worthy of my trust.”

“I don’t need to be your friend, Queen. But I am constant in my thoughts and actions. Trust in that, even if you don’t trust me. Time will offer you all the proof you require. If this one instance is insufficient perhaps ten will do? Or a hundred? It becomes merely a matter of quantity. And we both have time to watch and wait.”

The newly minted elf queen glanced about the toadstool circle. “Will you prove it to them as well?” She pointed to numerous drifting constructs. “Put all of them in your debt at the beginning of their life?”

“I already have. I titled you Queen for a reason. From chaos I helped you make a path to life. That path, once paved, can be trod upon by more than just you and any who walk it will owe me a debt. I’m no saint to act without the expectation of benefits. You, and those about to become yours, are an investment.”

She glanced away, dissatisfied but unable to refuse, unable to return a gift already taken. The debt rankled, and the fact that she would have to willingly go further into debt rankled even more. “So the first to fall for your ‘help’ was destined to become queen?”

“You were not the first to try, nor even the 30th, you were merely the first to succeed. Would you have preferred to take your chances? No, Queen who is not mine. You are mother to your race, and queen as there are none yet to contest you. Will you remain queen? I won't hazard a guess. You’re not a puppet. I will not do it for you. Anything you want in life, you will have to fight for. Would you really have it any other way?”

Her mouth turned up in a cold, viscous smile. “You do know me. You tossed out a crown, Watcher, but I, I will make it mine and I will tolerate no specter attempting to rule from the shadows!”

“But of course. May the throne and crown be all that you hope. Rulership is not a vice I covet. I’ve no taste for the humdrum it involves.”

“Then what now? Will you leave us to our fate? Sow your favors and run off to wait for the harvest?”

“Of course not. You won’t be rid of me that easily, as the rest take form I will observe and learn. This is a priceless opportunity. How often does a new species step into existence? I wouldn’t miss it for anything!”

She shifted her hips, a half roll that threatened to throw his mind and body out of control. Vines slid against one another as she moved, giving small glimpses of pale, smooth skin. “So you remain the Watcher and I the watched?” Her hands slid down the slopes of her slim hips seductively while her smile remained coldy attentive. Beauty and cold rage married into a package of surpassing allure. A honeypot that, he forced himself to remember, had a bear trap within. His will clenched and the arousal pulsed, pushed back from his awareness. Not gone, merely at sufficient distance for him to enjoy without allowing it to dictate his actions.

Refusing to show how effective her natural weapons were, he forced a calm, easy grinn, “We all have our weaknesses, Elf Queen. As I titled you, you have also titled me and with a fair degree of accuracy.”

She shrugged with a mue of disappointment. “You saw me born, you know much of what makes me, me. I can’t change our history. But I will control our future. Who I choose to become is mine, and mine alone to know. Should your eyes see what they should not, I will pluck them out.” She showed her teeth and he could not help but notice that they were slightly pointed, yet still human enough to be disturbing.

He covered it as completely as he could, widening his grin instead of flinching away from the disquieting sight. “Then let the games begin.”

Chapter 1

Timothy wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. A pleasant gesture he had thought would turn into an anachronism. He was hardly doing manual labor, but then it was hardly necessary to do hard labor to sweat in a jungle. He was half drinking the air and desperately wishing the new baths were usable. He had been so proud when he created heated baths in a can, or at least a stack of enchanted cards. He only thought he was proud, when he managed to make them cooled baths he felt the real success.

He grimaced while condensing a layer of stone into an armored cylindrical repository inside a natural boulder. That cooling enchantment was indirectly responsible for his current chore. Like so many other enchantments he could make the enchantment in simple stone or wood. But if an appropriate material was used it took far less willpower and mana to get the same results.

And that was starting to really matter.

Less willpower meant fewer of his precious veteran guardians needed to spend their time on utilities. They were more than happy to pitch in mind, no egotism there. It only took a few backed up sewage tanks or their daily bath turning into a sauna to make even the most arrogant of magic users a willing participant. But they had far more important, and necessary jobs to do.

Like keeping the known living members of the human race, you know, living.

The mana costs fed into the same goal. Large stores of mana were beacons attracting various monstrous beasts. A Micky D’s style neon sign in the dark that here be tasty snacks.

It was a painful dichotomy. Keeping the normals and weaker guardians safe took magic, more magic could make them safer, but more magic attracted more attacks.

They worked out a compromise eventually. Paid for it in blood and more than a few more names on the memorial Obelisk. They pushed out the borders, and pumped up the magic levels in the resulting forts. Fortified strongholds acting as more attractive bait.

Their branch of humanity could be called the Rivermen in many ways. The plentiful fresh water, food and relatively safe transport along the interior waterways made them the ideal growing ground for the non-magical and beginner magicians. But they only stayed that way if the veteran magic users expanded out, preventing powerful beasts from wandering in, and providing a tempting target for the inevitable attacks.

So here he was, deep in the jungle putting up a settlement-cum-fortress with a side of bait. A staging area for the experienced hunters to pick off the higher tier beasts before they could migrate into the lowlands. They called them Thresholds. The outer doors to the valley. The gateways from human controlled lands to the true wilds of the world.

Timothy snorted in thought as he hand carved additional runes for an exact alignment. It was not all sacrifice. Not just out of the goodness of their hearts that the veterans migrated to the Thresholds. A steady diet of Tiered meat could turn a normal magician into something considerably more than nature intended. Both physical and mystical it offered a route to self improvement. There was a small drawback. Their additional strength infused their bodies, turning them into significant magical sources of their own. More bait.

He placed the last of 20 pre-crafted runed sceptres into the hole, carefully seating it among the supporting alignment runes, while pondering the phenomena in the back of his mind. He was a bit of an exception when it came to the Tiered meat. He didn’t eat it. Part control freak, no changes not of his own design were welcome to mess with his body and, potentially, mind. It was his body to fix and adjust as he desired.

His path to magic was all about willpower and understanding. Eating the meat was a shorter route to power, he knew that. But he couldn’t get rid of the niggling doubt that a short cut now would have consequences. Besides, no matter how much meat he ate, it would disappear when he reset his body, and age. A flaw to his immortality trick? Perhaps. But it was a flaw he embraced as a boon. His mind, will and his soul were the focus. The body was just a distraction.

Shaking the thought aside he sealed up the rock, using a joiner and a bit of art to ensure it achieved the natural look it had started with. Then activated the resulting enchantment, hoping there were no more damn small errors to fix. It’d been a long week of finicky work already, fun in it’s own way, but he was ready to be done.

He watched like a hawk as eddies spread through the magic field and the terrain around him started to shift and spin. The shifting quickly failed as the enchantment spread questing fingers and did not find its unactivated brethren, nor the needed linkages to the core of the ward schema. He smiled, the failure was expected when it was just a partial activation. How it failed was important. He might just have it adjusted correctly. Finally!

Barriers an opponent could see and study were an invitation to find a way around them, or a weakness to go right through. Sooner or later even beasts would bash them down. But what if there was nothing to bash at? The high magic density was a siren's call, baited the beasts in for a fight for dominance, but a fight that didn’t materialize. They were led in circles, always looking for the fight just around the next tree. Eventually, blind and exhausted, they became fresh meat, just waiting for the reaping.

It wasn’t his idea, originally. Jenney, damn her eyes, liked to play games with him whenever he visited her garden. That ever shifting space that he swore was bigger than the surrounding walls would allow. He studied the damn thing in self defense, and discovered a treasure trove. The garden was her home, the mystical manifestation of her will and desires. It wasn’t something she could create and leave for others to use. It occurred because she lived there. A subconscious nonviolent defense mechanism in an ever violent world.

It just went to show that enlightenment hid in even the least likely of places. It wasn’t a quick, or easy, task to redesign aspects of that place for common use. Even then his first attempts had such a high willpower requirement that they were impractical for regular use. It had taken years of experimentation, and a great deal of help, to achieve the results he was casually bitching about. Despite the frustrating fiddly bits, he was quite proud of the results.

It was not an original idea. Arthur corrected him on that score. Apparently Sun Tsu had a quote about it from several thousand years prior. To paraphrase it badly ‘Defend those places that cannot be attacked’. But that was good in a way. It was an idea that had been vetted, and proven wise millennia ago. The methods were different, no doubt, but the ideas were as true now as they were then.

It worked, too well at times. The Threshold hid from everything. Beasts and humans. That was then helpful when it was intended as a base for hunger teams. Not as a hide away. People needed to come in and out on a regular basis and if they dropped the defenses every time some poor dumb slob shouted ‘Olly Olly Oxen Free’ it would release all the beasts currently caught.

Hell No.

Instead, he built in a symbolic solution. Follow a few easily remembered steps and instead of guiding you away, the maze would guide you home. It was just a bit fiddly to set up, having to connect cleanly to the local magic field, a much stronger affair this deep in the jungle then what it was on the rivers, and using some fairly expensive, and rare, materials to make it possible for to keep it activated for an eight hour shift. If the person activating it was good enough at least.

Like the runed set of sceptre’s he had just finished installing. Each was made from runed Black Bog Wood with a Soul Pearl as big as his fist mounted atop it. The engraved runes were lined with mystic copper. The copper was from Paradise, and while time consuming to create, still affordable. It was naturally connective. One large nugget of copper, harvested by the spirits of the earth and purified in the ritual fire, was used for all 20 scepteres. Tying them together symbolically and reinforcing the interlocking nature of the individual enchantments that made up the ward.

The other two components were considerably more difficult to find and procure. The damn Bog Wood was found in some of the nastier parts of the great swamp. Most things in that hell hole rotted at the drop of a hat. But occasionally, just occasionally, a piece of wood would sink into a specific kind of peat mud. Preserved by the mud, rather than rotting in it, over a long period of time it would soak in the peat, preserving the wood and giving it its characteristic color. It also soaked in the intent of that location. A symbolic inheritance of preservation in the trackless depths, hidden from the light.

All good things for a prolonged ward that hid its heart. The Soul Pears were not much better. Found in the depths of the lake east of Templeton were a species the locals called Mirage Clams. If diving deep into piranha infested waters wasn’t dangerous enough, then the mirages the clams created were the cherry on top. Losing your way in the forest could end very badly, but losing track of which way is up while underwater…

There was no way in hell Timothy was going after the clams himself. That was the beauty of trade. The people of Gillhold, called fishpeople behind their backs, were most of the way towards becoming a different species. An aquatic one. Or at least amphibious. They farmed the wild clams for food and trade goods.

Even then only one in twenty pearls were the sought after Soul Pearls. And the clams who gave up those pearls were the most dangerous of the lot. They also were too valuable to kill. The Gillmen traded with them instead.

The method of acquisition aside, the results were impressive. Layer after carefully created layer built up to hide the spot of bother within. All of it hidden in the depths by illusion. He had found nothing better for a capstone, and he had spent years looking.

He shook the thought aside for now, He reached into his bag for the twenty first, and far larger sceptre. The core, the keystone. It was made from the same materials, just larger, nicer, more expensive examples of those materials. The full set took months worth of work to create, but months safe in his tower. Then he had to trek into the incredibly dangerous jungle heart, and a week trying to survive in that heart long enough to install and activate the damn things.

He spoke normally, neither wispering nor shouting, but removing any s’s from his word choice. “Ware, ward activation imminent.” It bothered him how long those habits took to get right. He really wanted to say ‘heads up. Wards coming online.’ Two s’s to carry out into the jungle and drag in something that might try to kill him.

He didn’t see his bodyguards, the high quality Chameleon cat cloaks they wore were not merely decorations. But he could feel the slightest of eddies they left in the magic field. He didn’t need to do anything else. They knew the key as well as he did.

Reaching through the keystone he slowly and carefully brought the wards online. Building up the connections and symbolic resonances required one after another. Checking each one as they came online for alignment and possible interference. So far so good. The baseline connections made, he pushed the ward to manifest all together. Questing fingers met together as reality warped in expanding clouds from twenty widely separate locations. The twisting, flexing pulses reached out and touched each other before the instability led to a chain reacting failure. He felt them snapping into alignment like the bricks in an arch. Half an arch just fell over. But two halves pressing on the keystone could bear massive loads. This was a twenty sided arch with bricks that were neither physical nor entirely in the same dimension, but while the analogy didn’t work, the ward did. Down became up and left ceased to exist for a time. Used to the effect by now Timothy closed his eyes and waited it out.

He might be able to tease out the threads of reality from the background magic field if he watched. Then again, he might not. It was not a small enchantment he had created. Nor one lacking in power or sophistication. It took a ridiculous attention to detail, careful planning and years of experimentation to make them in the first place. Besides, even if he could have, his bodyguards certainly could not. He would have to wait for them anyway and nauseous as it made him, he was not interested in waiting on a pile of vomit.

Thankfully neither he nor his bodyguards would have to. He began the steps to the same old path. Walking forward, or left or right for all he knew, looking for an obstacle that he could safely go over the top of. He ignored a thorny berry bush and a fallen limb with a pit of mud beyond it before stepping over a rock that was all of a foot tall. Intent and symbolism set the ward and they could also unlock it.

It didn’t matter how big the rock was, just that it was an obstacle and he intended to step over it. Following the first step with another over a branch without the questionable mud pit behind it. Then ducking underneath two leaning branches, around the left side of a tree, then the right side of its neighbor, left again, right again. He casually touched the first branch he could find for a B, then had to look about to spot something that started with an A. An ant squashed beneath his boot did the trick, even if it was the size of his index finger. Then he walked, the outer wards comprised a good mile in all directions, it would take a bit. Eventually the Threshold slid into view from behind a set of large berry bushes.

Reggi gave him shit for the code, but Timothy refused to change it. It was quick, easy to memorize, and had a symbolic history behind it. The classics were classic for a reason.

Holding the enchantment active in the back of his mind Timothy waited for his bodyguards to materialize, which they did in mere moments, before trudging forward towards the still growing red and black fort. Glancing into the spiked moat about its base he didn’t see anything left of last night's attack. He hoped that was a good sign. If not, they might have to organize a large-scale hunt.

He waved at the gatehouse firing slits and waited while the drawbridge descended. He didn’t see the defenders, but then he didn't expect to. There were sharp eyes looking in every direction, but there was no reason to let the creatures they hunted, and who in turn hunted them, know where to look. Tonight would be some of the first real rest they’d gotten in a week. With the outer wards up they could sleep through the night and kill the trapped beasts in the morning. Or at least most of them could sleep.

Walking through the gates he had to wait for his bodyguards to join him in the gatehouse's kill room for the drawbridge to be raised. Once it locked into place, they were swept with several detention charms from wildly different magic schools of thought, then the second fortified gate opened and finally they moved into a relatively safe space. The common room to be specific. With a wave and gesture he dismissed most of his bodyguards to the mostly non-existent comforts of the large room. It was already well spotted with low couches and short fat tables so they could lie back and relax. But the bar that extended down the length of one wall was unstocked and the available food was limited to campfire seared meats and trail rations. That would change, likely with the first real influx of residents. But it had not been a priority when they came out. Pots and pans were too bulky and no one but a fool drank before the defenses were up.

Trailing a pair of guards, instead of the ten pack he had been stuck with outdoors, he walked through the room and through two more guarded and heavily reinforced doors before he approached the sanctum. An office-cum-ritual room and the main connection point to the living building that was all around him.

He knocked carefully on the frame and waited. Interrupting Donald mid spell would be both incredibly rude and frankly unsafe. Timothy had no interest in having his blood reverse directions in his veins. Sure he had a potent magical defense in his aural field. A blending of willpower and intent with the background magic field, it created a barrier against hostile intent. Unfortunately, the beasts humans had learned the skill from were a perfect example of its limitations. It was one thing to wear impressive armor, it was another to let people take free shots at it with a hammer.

And Donald was a beast when it came to quick and dirty spells!

“Come on in. I felt the permanent wards go up. Are they stable?” Stepping through the door Timothy smiled up at the tall, muscular man before him. Dressed in a dandy’s stylish beast hide armor with woven flax cloth underclothing it was easy to underestimate the man. At least if you didn’t have the skill to read intent. His aural field was ripe with blood, violence and death intent. Timothy checked himself, that sounded much darker than it was. There was nothing ‘evil’ in his aura. A soldier on a bloody field, unbroken and unbowed by the carnage around him. It clung to both him and his gear. Constant inundation in that kind of intent could have some interesting effects on gear.

Magic made repairing the physical very easy, but intent had a way of accumulating. The dandyish garb he wore was pretty far along the path. If you listened closely to the intent left in clothing, it told you who not to fuck with. Timothy was hearing a loud and clear ‘nope’ from Donalds gear.

He was a considerable stretch from the goth club vampire wannabe Timothy had first met. Black dyed hair was back to a natural pale blonde while the enchanted diet had put some serious muscles on his frame. What was once tall and painfully thin was now the trained fitness and towering inches of an MBA player, but with hops that would make Jordon jealous.

Timothy himself didn’t feel he had changed that much since the start of their new timeline. Still short, still skinny. He had the physique of the suburban walking enthusiast… ya, that’ll impress the ladies. Surrounded by Connan types he stood out like a sore thumb.

His clothing just made that worse. His bodyguards were armed and armored in an assortment of bone and leather well spotted with charms while he was still clothed in simple undyed jungle cloth. Remade from fresh greenery at the start of their journey it told no story, except, fraying here and there, of hard use. Even his outer aura was different. A still pond or a deep well, clean and unbothered by the constant combat.

It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford better, his income was considerable and reliable. His magic was high on utility and people paid for comfort. A steady trickle of rental fees filled his coffers from sewage and bathing facilities. Not to mention the defensive enchantments, like the one behind him. They were both a necessity and pretty lucrative.

He had a suit of soft clothing in the height of what stood for local fashion in a case at home. He wore it once a month to remind himself what quality felt like. The rest of the time he wore his current get up. Luxury was a constant temptation, but denying that temptation steadily empowered his will. He may have fallen behind in raw power, but when it came to matching wills he did not have equals.

He shook the thought aside, reminding himself for the ten thousandth time to watch out for his ego. A knife in the back from an inferior killed just the same as from an equal. It was why his clothes might be uncomfortable and cheap, but the enchantments on his Tiered Hog bone and amber staff combined with his Hovercroc hide belt and the many charms and fetishes hanging from it on strings, were anything but common.

It wasn’t like he horded his money either, he spent it as fast as it came in. Experimenting on rare materials was not a cheap hobby. Not to mention the startup costs for a new Threshold, like this one, were not cheap. He poured his money like water out of a boot to offer loans to make it possible. Loans that were unlikely to pay for themselves inside a decade. If the Thresholds survived that long.

He nodded to Donald showing him the final sceptre, “Finally up and stable, the keystone’s ready for the final binding when you and the Cardea are. How about you?” Glancing around Timothy snickered at the now common sight that graced the center of the room. A small pool of purified blood with a carved statue rising out of it. The blood was the unnaturally bright crimson of the bloodmages reserves, the iron tang to the air mitigated by a smell of verdant life that was more felt then smelt. The statue was a dog, the symbol of faithfulness that Regi had finally settled on for the Brotherhood. It tied the Threshold in with a network of other such statues to purify the magical bonds of the brotherhood and to allow Regi to bridge the distance in case of an emergency. The sceptre he set down on a cushion by the door would be placed in the dog's mouth along with a few connective and amplifying runes to seal it all together.

He walked over and plumped himself down on a leather sofa, placed back out of the way against the wall closest to the entrance. It was a low cushy affair without legs to speak of. That's what happened when you grew them in place. The blood mages had talent, he had to give them that. Their living buildings could ‘grow’ any furniture or fixtures that a body wanted. All the while providing considerably more protection than simple stone or wood ever would. Intent and symbolism again. A living building had a will, even if it was a pretty slow dumb thing by human standards, more like a pet turtle than a dog, much less a human. A will meant intent to reinforce the walls, even without the defenders help.

Sure there were some small drawbacks. It could only ‘eat’ organic matter. So the things it could build were limited. Bone and hide made dandy furniture but weren't the best for cooking equipment. Moving the furniture around was also not in the cards.

It did make for easy repair bills if a bar fight got out of hand. If you broke it, you were responsible for feeding the building bodies until it grew back. Beast bodies if it was ever in doubt. The brothers not so grim were some of the more moral people he had the pleasure of dealings with. Even if it was hidden behind a shallow facade of cynicism. Their gothic sensibilities and dark world view didn’t prevent them from thinking the world could, and what's more should, be fair. The fact that they did that by bleeding out their bestial enemies and using the resultant pools of blood as a power source was beside the point. An irony that. Bloodmages who drew power from killing were more moral than the religious zealots to Runeholds east. My what a weird world they lived in.

“Good enough, some of the bedrooms upstairs only have a pallet, but that's something the new owners will have to work out. The sewage lines are in place,” an easy thing considering the building also ‘ate’ the sewage, “and it’s already condensing water to fill the tanks. Not enough to fill even the cleaning pool yet, but enough to drink. the rooftop garden is planted, but you know the drill on that.”

Timothy smiled, “Of course, feed it blood and it will grow, neglect it and no spices, or common veggies to flavor the food.” This deep under the jungle canopy there wasn’t enough sunlight for normal vegetables. Magically produced light was a requirement for anything but mushrooms. A good thing Timothy loved mushrooms. “It’s not a mistake most make more than once. No one sane wants to live in a hungry house that eats flesh.”

“Don’t make it sound so melodramatic! No bloodholm has ever eaten its occupants. Besides this lot should be the cream of the crop of veterans. This isn’t the first one they’ve lived in. With the requirements for individuals at minimum of mid Tier 2, and groups capable of handling a high Tier 2 you won’t get any newbies.”

“A damn good thing too. We're pretty damn deep into the green. Newbies would die in job lots and we don’t have enough guardians as it is.”

Donald sighed, “Agreed, but even with those requirements I’m still not sure this is wise. No one knows what new critters might pop up.”

That wasn’t strictly true, Timothy had some pretty good ideas. But even he, with all his scrying, wouldn’t dare to assume he had found everything. Even if he had it wouldn’t do to say. The veterans had their own ways of learning the local critters and terrain. Those ways were not his ways and the terms they used to describe them to each other were not his terms. His helpful ‘advice’ was rarely understood and even more rarely appreciated.

“That's part of why they’re here, right? To prevent those unknown species from moving in on us. Besides, it's a bit late for that isn’t it? The Threshold is built.”

He sighed again, “Almost built, we still have to merge the wards with the brotherhood and link in the awakened spirit. But I take your point. I just worry.”

“There is a joke about digging too deep begging to be told here. But telling it would be ill wishing. Don’t let your worry turn into the same. As much magic as you’re packing your idle thoughts are much more likely to have consequences.” Timothy warned. Taking his own advice, he suppressed the image of a burning demon wielding a whip from his mind with a casual, and well practiced flex of his will. Stray thoughts could become stray beliefs. And those did occasionally come true. Especially with a story as popular as the trilogy was.

“Come, let’s be a bit more cheerful. I’m actually ecstatic about it. These men have solid brass ones. The woman as well, and no, I don’t need an anatomy lesson.” He glared at Donald while the man closed his half opened mouth and made a zipping motion. “We need people like this. Men and women with a sense of adventure and the explorer spirit. Not just a sniveling pack of cowards hiding in our holds, trying to pull the doors and walls in behind us. That's why I agreed to do this personally. They need to be encouraged to look outside and love it, not just fear it.”

He paused for a moment then continued, “In five years since the change, we still know so little about the world outside our narrow valleys. We have no Lewis and Clark style expeditions to find the next river valley or to find out what is out there.”

“Are you volunteering?”

Timothy sighed, longing mixed with guilt. “No, I have too many outstanding responsibilities. I know I can’t be spared. Hell, the lot of you nagged me like old mother hens about this trip. I know what duty requires of me.” He didn’t voice the ancillary thought. Someday, he would pass that duty on and finally be free to feed his curiosity.

Donald stopped and looked down at Timothy with a pensive look. “You want it that bad? You disappear into the background better than the rest of us, but it’s still far too much of a risk, we do need you.” Himself a victim of an overdeveloped sense of responsibility Donald sighed. Then half changed the subject. “So that's why you won’t eat the Tiered beast meat. It’s so you don’t stick out when you go exploring? Poor trade, my man. Even if it makes you harder to find, you’re still crazy for giving up on magic bacon.”

Timothy scratched his head, exasperated, “Why you always got to go for the bacon? Damn my brother for starting this.”

“Because it’s bacon! The sheer smell of Tier 2 bacon could empty a saints wallet and fuck the deserving poor.“

“Very vivid imagery there, ass hat.” He didn’t bother to argue. It wasn’t like he could. The benefits from the Tiered meat were obvious and a massive blessing for humanity, or at least their small chunk of it. The smell of it cooking was a siren call that he had to resist every damn day.

Chuckling cheerfully at the easy victory, Donald stood and stretched his arms over his head, bending backwards until he touched the floor without lifting his heels up. Just to rub it in of course. Dick.

Straightening out he glanced sideways at Timothy. “The ladies love the flexibility! As much as the muscles!”

“I got it, I got it! Can we move on?” A proper nerd to a ladies’ man and all it took was an apocalypse. They needed to write commercials based on his life.

‘When the world ends try our Tiered jerky, the ladies will come a runnin!’

“Sure, will you make game night next week? It sucked missing a week.” Then he went straight back to his roots. Can’t pull the nerd from the wizard. The ladies may be plentiful, but a love of vampire games and fiction never died. It was the inspiration for the magic the three brothers inexplicably shared.

Timothy could hardly complain about it, he was really looking forward to this next session too. His Gangrel had been planning a proper backstabbing for 6 weeks now. He kept the excitement from his face as he casually agreed. Or at least tried to.

The suspicious look Donald was giving him was a reminder that excitement showed up in the bloodstream as well. Freaking cheaters. Good thing Donalds character wasn't the one getting the knife in the back.

“I won’t ask.” Donald shook his head. Magic did have a way of popping up and changing the dynamic. It didn’t ruin it, just made it different. Like Kevin, though they couldn’t call him that anymore, from way up the Blood river tributary. The man was a precog. Sure he had to work at it, and it mostly involved major events, but they still voted to stick him as a Malk to keep the sessions fair. The Cassandra treatment in effect. The classics were classic for a reason.

Kevin wasn’t the only one with a handicap. The bloodmage brothers were walking lie detectors so most went out of their way to tell them constant pointless lies. Background noise to hide the important lies.

Even Timothy got handicaped with a character prone to berserker rages. He had the reputation of an extremely… curious person. They couldn’t exactly complain about it considering his wardworks were responsible for first line Tier up detection. But it did make it hard to keep secrets from him. That didn’t matter when semi random rages destroyed his carefully laid plots.

They were all more than they had been. But they were still human too, and still needed to interact with each other. That was what the game was about. Not clans of vampires or hiding from mortals. It was about interacting with people who you didn’t need to pull the wise leader stick with. Where you could relax for a time and just enjoy the company and the ridiculous nature of a fantasy world that was darker than their current one.

It could indeed be worse.

The thought kept a smile on his face as he gathered up a handful of tools and got ready for the final installation. He would get a good night's sleep tonight without having to keep one eye open for the creepy crawlies. Then a jungle run home.

A dangerous jungle run, Timothy reminded himself. All it took was a few moments of carelessness, of inattention, at the wrong time and he would become yet another sacrifice for humanity’s growth. Timothy approved of the ideals behind self sacrifice. It was much of what was noblest about the human spirit and it was critical to his own personal magic style as well.

But he would much rather sacrifice his time and comfort instead of his life. Unlike the pen and pencil games they played, he only got the one.

Maybe someday he could fix that.