Most folks don’t truly appreciate the number of rules magic has.
They think it’s all fun and games, tossing fireballs at rats in your basement. Which, to be fair, can work. It’s also an excellent way to end up homeless, dead, or both. Occasionally in that order.
Spellcasters, as a group, are wildly diverse, but they do fall into two broad categories: Arcane and Divine. Divine casters have their own rules, paperwork, and existential strings attached. I’ll get to them elsewhere.
Psionics, however, are something else entirely.
Psionics are relatively new, or at least newly recognized, and largely misunderstood. Their power doesn’t come from the gods, nor does it draw from the Aether. It comes from willpower. Pure, stubborn, reality-bending will. Fascinating creatures, psions. Dangerous too. They deserve their own entry.
Arcane spellcasters technically come in two varieties: discovered and educated. The latter is a misnomer, an oversimplification. Most casters are educated eventually. Whether your teacher was a master wizard, a demon, a stolen spellbook, or the streets themselves depends entirely on how lucky—or unlucky—you were.
A discovered caster happens in one of two ways:
Either you realize you can cast magic innately, sorcerers, usually, or you discover you can read and activate spells from scrolls or books without exploding. Sometimes both. Occasionally neither.
In some cases, you’re sent to a magical institution to determine your aptitude. In others, you just survive long enough that someone notices.
In every case, the result is the same.
After you cast your first real spell, you will receive a visit from a representative of Eldaar.
They are polite.
They are professional.
They are not asking.
They will explain the rules. Boiled down, they are as follows:
You have been recognized as an arcane caster. Congratulations. Condolences.
You may continue to learn as you wish — in the field, as an apprentice, or in a classroom — provided you register as an arcane practitioner with Eldaar.
If you do not register, you may still practice magic so long as you never attempt to cast true magic. Think parlor tricks, cantrips, clever illusions.
Once you can cast true magic — say, a fireball — you have two options. I call them sub-clauses. The representative may not phrase them this bluntly.
a. You register. All is well.
b. You do not register. The moment you cast true magic, you place a bounty on your own head.
Mage-hunters are not something to trifle with. Fun fact: a surprising number of them are psionic. Draw your own conclusions.
You must return to Eldaar periodically. At least once every eighteen months for short-lived folk — humans, minotaurs, goblins. Longer-lived races are given more leeway. They tend to lose track of time. Eldaar does not.
I learned this rule the fun way.
I once left a party at Peng’s — a satyr renowned for throwing events best described as “ill-advised.” There I met a fascinating elf named Tu’var. We danced for days. Literally. A year later, I found myself nearby and decided to drop in. As expected, there was another party. Tu’var was still there. Asked where I’d gone. Said he’d requested my favorite song.
Silly elf. Must’ve thought I’d stepped out for a drink.
That, however, is where the true story begins.
Eldaar.
The seat of all things arcane in the mortal realm.
Eldaar is the last flying city in the world.
Its claim to fame is that when High Magic was censured, Eldaar alone did not plummet from the sky. This is true. It is also true that a ring of ancient sun dragons used their considerable might to keep it aloft.
Those same dragons now perch along Eldaar’s perimeter.
They are both a testament and a warning.
Act the fool, and you will leave Eldaar.
Either down a dragon’s throat — or over the edge.
Ah, Eldaar.
A marvel of elven, dwarven, and human magitech. Yes, I know it’s not a word. For you. It’s mine. It exists.
Dragons sheared the peak from a mountain in the Dragonspine range — black stone giving Eldaar its signature silhouette when viewed from below. They inverted it, then blasted the base smooth with dragonfire.
Dwarven gemsmiths inlaid the underside with a vast mosaic — diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, and amber — forming elemental rune-images that divide the city’s base into quadrants.
Crystals imported from the ice caps of Ael’Aduo were placed atop this mosaic. Elves did the rest.
They did not cut the crystal.
They did not chisel it.
They persuaded it.
Spire by spire. Dome by dome. In the city’s heart, they formed an immense auditorium.
The crystal has… properties.
First, no matter how hard I try, my hooves make almost no sound upon it.
Second — and this is important — sound behaves differently.
Speak in a whisper, and only those near you will hear it. Speak at a normal volume, and it carries as if you were addressing a crowd. In an emergency, simply yell.
Everyone will hear you.
Especially the dragons.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
It is here that you will find the seat of mortal magocracy. The headmasters of each school call Eldaar home. The largest academy of magic stands here. Draen Do’Gra — the Archmage — teaches here.
The ones who survive his tutelage are a force to be reckoned with.
Which brings us to the reason for my return to Eldaar.
Not that I wouldn’t come more often. I always find something — or someone — new to fascinate me when I visit. I can usually satisfy my curiosity before I’m asked to leave.
Usually by one of the dragons.
Oh, which reminds me: if there are not twelve sun dragons perched on the walls, then one , or more, is wandering the city in humanoid form. And they are not all music lovers. Still, they are quite knowledgeable.
The one who just passed informed me that the Aether Sphere was waiting on me.
It was not a request.
Sprinkled throughout the city are Aether Spheres. They are exactly what you think they are; pure magic, coalesced. While they are part of Eldaar’s defenses, though for the life of me I can’t get anyone to explain how, they are primarily used to monitor spellcasters across the world.
Imagine a floating globe of light the size of a tavern, etched with runes so old they’ve forgotten their own alphabets.
Now imagine it asking you questions in a calm, reasonable tone.
“Name.”
It pauses only slightly when I respond. “Chord, the Ivory Bard.”
“Chord, the Ivory Bard. Formerly Maureece Tuvok, of House Tuvok, Maelthas. Acknowledged.”
Rude.
“Species.”
Rude again. “Minotaur.”
“Acknowledged. Primary magical discipline.”
Inquisitive sort. No charm whatsoever. “Bardic, Section of Lore.”
“Incomplete.”
By the Pits’ itchy backside. “Bardic, Section of Lore.”
“Incomplete. Please update. Or place your hand for identification.”
Rude. And it didn’t even buy me dinner first. With nothing else to do, I place my hand on the warm sphere. The fur on my arm stands on end.
“Bardic. Section of Lore. Symphonic-enhanced. Enhancement source acknowledged.”
Well. That’s new.
“Secondary disciplines.”
Curious now, I leave my hand in place.
“None. Acknowledged.”
The energy fades. The sphere grows cold. I withdraw my hand.
“Current residence.”
I chuckle. “The world.”
“Nomadic. Acknowledged. Last known location: Eldaar.”
Shocking.
“Next of kin.”
“None that I’m aware of.”
“None known. None detected in the last year.”
I don’t think it was joking.
“Humor was not intended.”
And it can read my thoughts. Excellent.
“Please confirm whether you have acquired any new artifacts, pacts, curses, blessings, or unresolved metaphysical entanglements since your last registration.”
I glance down at Symphony.
“Shard of the Opus detected. Source of symphonic enhancement. Current status: incomplete.”
Incomplete.
I stare at the Sphere. Then down at Symphony. Its familiar pulsing is strangely quiet. Then back at the Sphere. It kaleidoscopic colors seem condescending.
In a flash I see the moments, from acquiring Note, and watching it grow from Chord to Symphony. Carrying it in places that explicitly deny artifacts in its presence. And I knew — suddenly, undeniably — that I was not its original owner. I didn’t know it belonged to an Opus.
Symphony, naturally, offers no comment.
Of course it doesn’t. It never does when it would be useful.
The Sphere, meanwhile, hums softly. I realize it hasn’t spoken in some time.
“So,” I say carefully, resting a hand on the hilt, “Symphony was once part of something greater…or was greater?
“Correct,” the Sphere replies. The way it says it suggests this is not new information.
Rude.
I narrow my eyes at Symphony. “We are going to have a conversation later.”
The blade remains silent. Which somehow feels intentional.
Now I’m not sure which bothers me more — that Symphony is incomplete…
or that Eldaar knows how it’s incomplete.
And isn’t telling me.
“Registration updated. Enjoy your day, Chord. Fate is watching. Registration required within eighteen months.”
“Excuse me?”
The sphere shimmers once, then dulls to a pale ivory. I can still feel the power humming inside it, but it no longer needs my attention.
Rude.
Charming place, Eldaar.
A Darkness Rising 