As of yet untitled

A familiar voice hissed over the intercom, waking the soldier from a restless sleep. “Lieutenant Cort, you are needed outside.” The automated door at the back of vehicle slid open. The weather had taken a turn for the worse as they’d traveled farther south, the steady flow of rain was somewhat inviting compared to the musky humidity of the transport. Cort may have been a soldier, but being cooped up for seven hours with fifteen men in the back of a class-2 transport was not terribly pleasant. As he stepped out into the rain, he closed his eyes and smelled the air, and all at once felt like vomiting. There was a sharp, acidic smell that left him gasping. In spite of the rain, the odor was offensive enough to bring a bit of bile to his throat. It was strange, yet disturbingly familiar.

The path in front of the transport was becoming very muddy, very fast. Though the transports were built to travel through rougher terrain, the mud could prove a fatal adversary in that particular part of the world. Huddled around a dark, steaming something, were his superior officers. Major Gregory Stanton, a short, frail looking man with curious green eyes and receding brown hair, wore a deep grimace as he gazed toward the blackened earth.

Colonel Quentin Harris was kneeling, inspecting something very closely, his black uniform contrasting heavily with his bright red hair. A sinking feeling was starting to build up in Cort’s gut. Whatever it was, it was a medical problem. Harris was probably the most competent field medic he had ever met, not to mention a first rate physician. The man was nearly a legend among the soldiers. During the Dreth War, Harris had single handedly saved an entire platoon who were lost in the Drethan Wilds, and earned himself a place at the top. The means by which he accomplished this are still under speculation and considered top-secret.

Lt. Colonel Speyer, normally a pleasant and exuberant woman with curiously large brown eyes and a smile that was a bit too wide for her face, was now as white as death. She was a promising young officer whose expertise lay in the realm of gun-play, but whatever it was that laid beneath her, was beyond her capacities.

“It’s got me all shaken up as well, Roy.” She regarded to the man standing next to her. “But I don’t think whoever did this is anywhere around here anymore.” Captain Roy Morrison, a rather large fellow with shortly cropped blonde hair, was looking in nearly every conceivable direction. His deep cognitive gaze shielding what Cort understood to be worry. Morrison’s massive bulk shifted as Cort came into view. Compared to Morrison, who was well over six feet, Cort looked like a child, standing only at a little over five feet. His hair was black and messy, his shaven chin adding to his boyish appearance.

“Come to join us, Lieutenant?” Cort had at first gotten the impression that Morrison didn’t like him, but soon realized that Morrison didn’t like anyone at all. He didn’t know very much about the man, save for the fact that he held the record for the most consecutive court-marshals without dismissal. Still, he seemed competent enough. As Cort got closer, the smell got worse. He felt as though his eyes were simply going to melt, and all he could do was thank god that it was raining.

He was silent as he stood in awe, his eyes held by the abomination that lay on the ground before him. It might have been human once, the face was recognizable as that of a woman, but the resemblance stopped there. Crumpled and lifeless, the figure that lay on the ground, festering in a pool of its own acidic blood, was like something out of a bad dream. The creature resembled a lizard, whose body was plagued with cancerous tumors. The arms were twisted and long, structured in anatomical impossibility. Its legs were terribly disfigured, one being twice the size of the other.

“What in god’s name?” Cort had covered his face with the bottom part of his mask, which did nothing save for muffle his voice.

“We were hoping you could tell us.” Remarked Harris. “You were requested because this looks to be something of magical design…some sort of transfiguration gone wrong…very wrong.” He stood up and took a shallow breath. “In my line of work, I’ve seen some strange animals, but this…there’s no way this is something that God created.” His voice was faint, both from age and from the smell.

“We should proceed with caution.”

Morrison moved closer, staring down at the mess that was once a woman. “I smell the Thorn. There are none in this area who practice magic anymore. It has to be them.” Thorn was a radical group of ex-scientists and fallen Dragoon who had dabbled a little too deeply into the realm of dark magic, from what Cort understood. Terrible things could happen when magic was involved, horrible perversions of God’s creations such as the one in the middle of the road.

“We need you to help this woman be at peace. I know it’s a lot to ask, Lieutenant…but she deserves better.” Cort knew what it was they were asking, he understood because he was one of the very few people in the world who could do it.

“Looks to me like the streamer wasn’t very experienced at all.” That explanation was slightly more comforting than the first. The thought of someone deliberately doing this to another human being sent chills down his spine. “I’ll do what I can. Stand back, all of you.” Drawings took considerable effort, and if other people were too close to it, there was a good chance of serious injury, or more plausibly, death. Magic, in its raw form, could not be sustained outside of a biological host, so when he banished it back into the earth he had to be sure that bystanders were far enough away to not be harmed. The Earth, the great host, was the only thing that could take such a corruption and purify the magic to make it holy once more.

Cort closed his eyes and focused his mind on the gentle hum inside of him. His power had always been easy to reach; it was second-nature, almost like breathing or talking. Cort’s gift gave him the power of true sight, to see magic. Using this ability, he could see and almost feel the magic writhing around the corpse, a dark green mass of slithering light. The light was not pure though; there was a black spot within it, an unmistakable mark of failure. This, Cort knew, was why the transfiguration went wrong. Whoever streamed this spell was good, but had missed an important detail, one that had fatal consequences.

A sonorous ring filled the air as Cort drew his sword; the blade sang as it moved from the scabbard at his side, a faint white glow seemed to emanate from it. The Plasmium Edge was more than a weapon, it was an invaluable tool. Though it appeared to be nothing more than a thin blade of white steel attached to an ornate metallic grip, each one was crafted differently to suit the owner’s specific abilities. Cort’s sword was a sort of powerful medium through which he could draw magic without the nasty side-effects that would arise from doing it naturally. This spell though, was not one he would have to worry about as long he didn’t suffer some momentary lapse in ability, but there were other people around, and he didn’t particularly feel like putting up with any amount of pain, however small it was.

Extending his sword slightly above his waist, Cort began to visualize the mass lifting, he imagined the crude green light fading from its host and entangling itself around his weapon. There was a moment of silence for all of those who were viewing; Cort’s ears were being assaulted by nightmarish sounds. The connection had been successfully established.
Screams, moans, roars of hatred careened through his mind, and then, he could hear it, the spell’s voice. It was faint and whispery, almost serpentine. He could tell that it was trying to talk to him; spells were funny in that respect, they could sound desperate, almost human.

Cort, though, knew all too well the nature of magic. He knew that humans could manipulate it, but it could also manipulate them, for it was sentient. Those who used magic out of hate and spite, created something evil, something malevolent. Streaming magic was dangerous for beginners, controlling the emotion and energy put into a spell was the key to mastery. As life is a circle, so is the nature of magic, negative for negative, positive for positive. Those who abused magic became twisted and inhuman. The magic they created could only ever hurt and destroy. It was a tragic thing, but inevitable, for no coin is but of one side.

Cort’s talent, though, lay not in streaming magic, but banishing it. There were various names for what he was, such as ‘Returner,’ ‘Banisher,’ or the classical ‘Inritu.’ Cort developed a basic understanding and ability from his military training with streaming, but it was only to broaden his perspective and deepen his knowledge of his own power, which was going to be put into effect very soon.

The cancerous mass of the spell began to tremble; Cort’s sword was drawing the energy. There was a sudden pull, as if Cort were standing next to an unusually strong magnet. It was a common sensation for him, though much more amplified without the blade. Cort was using all of his strength to keep it from plunging directly into the corpse, which would ruin the entire procedure. He could see the first small strands leap into the blade; gradually the strands grew in size, until the whole spell had been absorbed by the sword. The voice of the spell was now very clear in Cort’s mind, and it was one of the most horrible things he had ever heard. Dark things sprouted from the negative energy produced by the streamer of a spell, Cort could tell that whoever had done this did it with great pleasure. He knew that there was something very wrong with him…no…her. The voice was that of a woman.

Cort glared into the blade, the once pure reflective metal was now tinted a dull green. He could see an image, hazy though it was. The face was feminine and pail, but he did not recognize who it was. The voice was getting louder, more commanding, deepening. In a sudden movement, Cort thrust his sword into the Earth, and then there was thunder. Though the others could not at first see the spell, they could feel the force of the banishing all around them. For them, it was as though they had been hit by a sudden gust of wind, for Cort, it was like trying to control a hurricane. After just a few seconds, the spell faded off into the planet, a desperate moan emanated from the ground beneath the sword.

Just like that, the spell was gone. The acidic smell had dissipated as well, which was a great relief to Cort, who believed he just might have vomited after another minute. He looked once again at the ground, the body that had once been something terrible, had been returned to its original state. The woman could be at peace now, after of course, a proper burial.



“You awake?” The rough voice seemed slightly above the rumble of the transports engine, but no less menacing. Cort turned his head to face the man in the black uniform, the man who also carried a plasmium-edge. He’d always rested his eyes before going out into the field; it was his way of coping with the anxiety. Still, it beat having to stare at the inside of the transport for too long. It was nothing if not Spartan in appearance. The walls were a dull gray, lit only by a single window on the right hand side and the various technological devices toward the front. Even though he was surrounded by reinforced steel, he was still nervous. A lot of the men under his command gave him a hard time over it, but they were no less, if not more-so, worried. It was always a terrible risk, going out into the field, yet a necessary part of their job. Military life had been good to Cort; he’d spent most of his life in service to the State and hadn’t yet come to regret it.

“Yeah…” He turned his head to gaze out of the only window the transport had. The small, reinforced piece of glass was nearly opaque, but one could still faintly see the silhouettes of trees and such as they passed. “Just a little nervous I guess.” It was no lie, after what he’d seen on the road, he could only be nervous. But it was something he could deal with. The man in the black uniform was a newly appointed officer, the squad leader who was just under Cort. For some reason though, Cort couldn’t remember his name. The man had deep-set eyebrows and bright green eyes which seemed to shine. His chin was slightly pointed and nose was long and thin.

“Nervous? You?” There was an obvious tone of humor in the uniformed mans voice, which lead Cort to believe that he too was anxious. Cort’s eyes roamed over the plasmium-blade at the soldier’s side. It was not so much unlike his own, save for that Cort’s grip was slightly curved. Art was the only word that could describe the craftsmanship and delicate skill that went into the sabers creation. Each sword was different, specially crafted and built to match its wielder. The blades themselves were quite an enigma, as no one knew exactly who made them or how they were matched to their owners. It was a mark of skill and achievement, a symbol of authority and might, and the trademark weapon of the Imperial Dragoon. The badge on his right breast, twin dragons shaped as the symbol for infinity, was that of a 1st class soldier. Their uniforms were all the same, a large black overcoat with plain, loose clothes of the same color underneath.

“How long has it been since your coronation?” The man shifted a little, moving just a bit closer.

“Five months, four days and eight hours.”

“Not that long.” Cort could still remember the date of his coronation. It was the most important day of his life. Though it had only been six years, it seemed like an eternity had since passed. “And what’s your name?”

“Second Lieutenant R.J. Brannon.” Cort could tell that the kid was fresh from the Symposium. He answered the questions quickly, clearly, and in an even tone of voice. This was someone who was used to dealing with higher authority. “By the way…where exactly are we going?”

“A mining town in the north-west quarter, a place called Amar.”

“Mining town huh?” He sounded slightly disappointed.

“We had reason to believe that the Thorn set up a base in the vicinity, so a few months ago we sent out a team of officials to investigate. Officials in the outpost reported sightings of strange and…unnatural animals in the area. People were starting to disappear, and even more were exhibiting extremely violent behavior. We lost contact with the outpost two days ago.”

“And we’re going directly in.” There was a slight hint of sarcasm in his voice. “But I’m sure with you around their magic won’t even touch us.”

“What makes you say that?” Cort knew that gossip was an inevitability, still, it was kind of fun to hear what other people thought of him.

“I’ve heard rumors about you. The soldiers say that magic can’t hurt you, that you can destroy it.”

Cort sighed inwardly. People understood very little about what he did, they didn’t understand that there was so much more to it than simply destruction. He couldn’t blame them, though, he was but one of few. “Well, you’re partially correct. I’m no different physically than any other soldier. My ability though…well… that’s a little different. I can’t, as you said, ‘destroy’ it, but I can send it back to the earth, back to God. I know the basics of streaming, but never got any farther than the third circle.” There were nine circles of magical streaming, each circle possessing power of its own extremity.

Surprisingly, Brannon didn’t seem disappointed that Cort wasn’t as invincible as the others had made him out to be. “I figured that they were only rumors. But still…that’s something right there. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone being able to do that.”

“I am one of few with the gift for it. How about you? What’s you’re area of expertise?”

“Me? I can excite the molecules of any particular object and use the energy of the friction to cause combustion.”

“So you make things blow up, huh?”

“To put it simply, yes.”

Cort had met many people with many strange powers, but this was the first time he had met someone who could cause explosions at will.
Early understanding of the force called “magic” was laughable by the standards of Cort’s day, as there was quite a bit of catalogued information on the subject in the Central Library, though not much of it was actually very useful to the general public. Still, that which was known in earlier times was only the general principles which served as the foundation for the Dragoon Laws. The Old Masters only knew enough about it to enhance their physical prowess. It served them, nonetheless, very well indeed.

“Have you ever fought these “Thorn” fellows before?”

“I ran into one a few years back…” He hated recalling the story…but telling it seemed to make him feel better after each time. “I had just been assigned to the southern quarter, at an outpost town called Ahbad. It was supposed to be a routine four-year stint. It only lasted a few months. I got to know the townspeople fairly well. At first it was a little awkward, but after a month they had accepted me as an authority figure. Not one exciting thing happened in that town, save for local gossip and drama, until one night in early summer.

“They had never had reason to call upon me before. Their lives were simple and fruitful; nothing ever happened that would require the attention of a Dragoon, and I liked it that way. The village was peaceful and small, barely larger than a city-block of Central. The people were kind and considerate for the most part, almost always willing to lend a hand when you needed it. Crime was at a low, save for the occasional horse thief, and there was growing support of magic, which also made it a little easier. The village itself was built around two main roads which connected with each other in the middle, at a place called “Darik’s Square,” which was named after the founder. The weather though, was slightly on the chilly side.

‘Classically, my first day was of course the worst of the lot, but only because it was raining. I had arrived that morning via Class 4 Transport, and had gotten my office set up before midday. I met my deputies shortly thereafter, and the secretary who would work the front desk. My deputies were two men of somewhat…unorthodox methods. Trae had a rapier wit, always quick with a joke, and was far better at paperwork than either I or my secretary could boast of being. Heath, my second deputy, was a marksman by nature and by trade. They say magic manifests itself in different and unique ways. The way he shot…there was definitely a bit of magic there. At his side he wore two old revolvers that had apparently belonged to a long-dead relative. His draw was fast…real fast.

My secretary abhorred guns, and would give him as hard a time as she could to make him put them away. Gale was a shy girl, a woman barely in her twenties who had taken up working for the previous Dragoon in order to support her infant son. The father died of exposure to heavy metals in a mine shortly after the birth of their son. Central asked me if I wanted to re-staff, but I figured most of them were hardworking people and deserved to keep their jobs. I couldn’t have been more pleased with them. It was a leisurely job as it had been peaceful for over a decade, something for which I’m sure they were grateful.


"One night though, I received a knock at my door at a most uncomfortable hour. I opened the door of my office and was knocked unconscious. A bright, yellow haze was the first thing I saw upon awakening. My gasps for breath were unfulfilled, precious oxygen replaced with a dry, venomous cloud of smoke. There was not a soul in sight; thankfully the building was empty, save for me. Tumbling, burning, coughing, I crawled out of the burning wreck that was the outpost and took my first deep breaths of fresh air, my life had flashed before my very eyes. And with that, came the memory of my training, and that kept me calm.

‘My vision was still blurry, my mind still hazy. It all came back to me in a flash, as if a broken mirror had been put back together in a matter of moments. My head ached from the force of the blow. I did not get a good look at my assailant; I only knew that I was dizzy, burned, and a little scared. It was after all, my first mission. After collecting myself, I trudged around the corner of the main road

‘There in the middle of the road stood a group of rough looking men. “Woke up did you…no matter.” Said a smaller one. “We had the itch to try you out, but the Doctor said otherwise.” My vision had once again become clear, and I could see that they were nothing more than petty thugs. “Lucky for us you have a hard head.”

“Lucky…” I growled. Instinct, as you well know is the determining factor in every fight. For the Dragoon, instinct is a most important weapon. They were armed only with rudimentary clubs, and as they circled me, I knew that they were doomed. Even though I was outnumbered, they would fall before and beg my mercy.