Holy crap we broke $2m!! It's a Christmas miracle!! It's so exciting to be a part of this, we really can't wait to get you folks all the goodies in this crowdfunder. We wanted Year One to feel like Draw Steel was a real line of products, and it seems like people are really responding to that idea.
Not only are you folks the reason these products will now be real, and not just ideas we hatched in a fever dream, once these products release, they exist for everyone. We think the bulk of Draw Steel's audience is yet to discover the game and, when they do, they will be astonished to see all these cool adventures and options. This is just the beginning!
This post was not intended to act as a "Holy crap $2m!" post, I just thought some of y'all would get a kick out of some original Draw Steel fiction. This was originally posted on our Patreon but after living with it for a while, I polished it and wanted to share it with you folks. I realize not everyone engages with the fiction, that's sort of the fun of working on Draw Steel. Some folks want more rules, some more lore, and some people like the fiction! And we love working on all that stuff!
I wrote this just because I was inspired. Crack the Sun will have its own set of Iconic Heroes, the ones we use whenever we need to illustrate something, and I thought it was a great opportunity to base those heroes on the characters from our new classes and ancestries. So one of the "heroes" is our Iconic Summoner, Lord Uldric of Vašra. Hero needs quotes around it because, unlike the other Crack the Sun iconics, Lord Uldric is more of an anti-hero.
I have NO IDEA when or even if this moment will or could happen in Crack the Sun. I was just inspired. So this scene isn't "canon" although the things they're talking about are.
In this instance, no points are available for recognizing the inspiration....
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For the moment, the town belonged only to the dead.
And the dead belonged to him. Lord Uldric walked through the abandoned town as his servants scoured it for signs of life. He was in no hurry. He looked at the walls of the wooden buildings, the open windows with shutters. No glass, he noticed. Wooden buildings and no glass.
Wooden buildings were not uncommon in Sǎrda, but the people mostly made their buildings out of stone. Glass windows. His people’s towns and castles were nestled in the valleys of mountain peaks and foothills. Stone was abundant, trees somewhat less so.
Here was a whole town, dozens of buildings made of wood, wooden sidewalks. And he’d seen a dozen towns like this.
What must the elves think? He wondered. Then frowned. The elves? Either the folk who lived here had the power to take what they wanted, or not. What did it matter what anyone ‘thought?’
He shook his head, hoping to dislodge the unfamiliar thoughts.
His servants had thusfar found nothing, he wasn’t surprised. The girl they found in Wend was the exception. The fruit of the Bleeding Trees served their purpose with great effect. Occasionally one of his servants would bring him a small pit, the seed of the fruit. He would take the pit, inspect it, nod thoughtfully though there was nothing new to see.
There was no real way to explain to his servants that he needed no more samples like these. They could be instructed to alert him of signs of life, bring him anything unusual, but this was the limit of their understanding. He pocketed each seed, just to stop his servants from bringing him the same ones over and over.
As he walked down the dirt path between two buildings he approached the town’s main thoroughfare. He noticed the servants he could see on the main road were pointing. Skeletons standing silently still, one arm outstretched, one finger extended. All pointing in the same direction, pointing at the same thing.
He cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head in the direction they indicated. It seemed to be just around the corner of the building on his left.
Motivated only by a mild curiosity, seeing no cause for urgency, he walked around the corner, stepped up onto the wooden planks and under a wooden awning. He stood perhaps fifteen feet from his servants’ quarry.
The Acolyte of Lightning.
The powerful shadow elf examined one of Lord Uldric’s servants. He tilted his head left and right, careful not to touch the skeleton who pointed at him. He took a step sideways and the skeleton before him reoriented to continue pointing. All the skeletons on the main street did, though the effect was too minor to notice beyond a certain range.
The acolyte turned and saw him, straightening suddenly, drawing himself up to his full height. His black cloak seemed made of silk that billowed in an invisible breeze. But Lord Uldric knew this was no raiment of fabric. The cloak seemed to flow from the base of his neck down, the ends near the ground dissolving, a constant flow of shadow billowing out from it.
There was no sound. The town was covered in a hush. This, Lord Uldric was used to. Birds objected to the presence of his servants. He wondered if the malevolent energies his opponent radiated might create the same effect.
The two men stood there, watching each other. The acolyte glancing at the skeletons. Neither man showing any fear, concern. Just curiosity. And something else, always under the surface. Readiness.
“Good afternoon,” the count said.
The acolyte didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge the greeting.
The count looked at the building on his left. He could see through the window. Empty tables, empty room. An inn.
“Have you eaten?” he asked, looking through the window.
“What?” the acolyte said.
Uldric turned his head to look at the acolyte again. He nodded toward the empty tavern.
“Why don’t we have lunch?”
The acolyte looked to the inn, then back to the count.
He seemed to be making some sort of calculation. Then he nodded once. He gestured to the double doors leading into the tavern. “After you.”
-----
As they sat across from each other at a round table, his servants prepared drinks. Placed glasses on the table, metal plates. A roast duck was set on a plate between them. The skeleton used tongs to grasp and hold the bird carcass. They knew not to touch food with their bare…hands.
Knives and forks were produced and deposited. The acolyte watched all this, a look of intense concentration on his face as he factored the power on display. There had to be over thirty such servants in the town.
A skeleton approached with a fluted bottle, it presented the brown glass container to its master.
Lord Uldric took the bottle and inspected it. “This appears to be…cider,” he said. “Very well,” he gave the bottle back to the skeleton, who opened it and poured them both drinks.
The acolyte picked up his glass, looked at it for a moment, then drank a sip. His eyebrows raised. “Fruit,” he said, with surprise and approval. He drank the rest.
He placed the glass down, and another skeleton dutifully refilled it. Then retreated a step, awaiting a function to perform.
“Control,” the acolyte said, watching the skeleton. “Perfect control.”
Another skeleton walked down the wooden steps from the floor above. Approached the table and held out another fruit pit. Lord Uldric held out his hand, and the skeleton dropped the pit into it.
“Thank you,” the count said, but did not look at the deathless.
He placed the pit on the table and slid it toward the Acolyte of Lightning. “Yours, I believe.”
The acolyte grinned, but otherwise ignored the sarcasm.
“Servants are natural for you,” he said. His voice deep and sonorous.
The count shrugged. “I was raised with them. Though not, obviously, these.”
“You are polite to them.”
The count nodded. “A habit. No reason to be rude.”
Even here, in the dim light that shone through the windows, the elf's face, his hands, were pale white on one side. Deep black on the other. The line between light and shadow stayed fixed in space even as the acolyte’s head turned, his hands moved. This close, it was obvious that what he was seeing was not the color of the elf’s skin. It was an effect of the light.
Lord Uldric was fascinated. He couldn’t think of any way to put words to his curiosity, so said nothing. He wanted to place his hand up, block the light that lit half the elf’s face, just to see what would happen. But he suspected he knew the answer. Nothing would happen. If anything could block that pale light, it would not be found in his world.
The count took a knife and fork and sliced off a sliver of duck. He placed it on his plate, then cut another. He offered it to the acolyte.
The acolyte shook his head, held up a hand politely. “My people do not eat animal flesh.” Realizing his dining partner had no context for this, he added; “As a custom, you understand.”
“A religious proscription?" The count asked, after chewing and swallowing.
The acolyte shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. A cultural more.” He shrugged and pulled his glass of cider closer. “I will content myself with the fruit drink.”
The count looked to the kitchen and, a few moments later, a skeleton came out with a wooden bowl. It approached the table, and placed the bowl on the table next to the plate of roast duck.
Fruit and vegetables. Peaches. And boiled, then roasted and seasoned, turnips.
The acolyte’s eyes went wide and he looked from the bowl, to the skeleton to the count. He skewered a turnip, held it up.
He nodded deferentially, in thanks to the count, who returned the deferential nod.
The two men ate for a moment. The count wasn’t particularly hungry and he suspected his opponent was eating mostly for show as well. To be polite. Each was showing the other; there was no violence on offer here. Like two swordsman unbuckling their scabbards and placing them on the ground. A truce.
The acolyte put his fork down and picked up his glass.
“Someone told me, you are a count,” he said.
Lord Uldric nodded. “Count of Vašra. A province in eastern Sǎrda.”
The acolyte shook his head. “I don’t know the place.” He jerked his head up suddenly as though a novel thought had occurred to him. “Is that a hereditary title?”
“Yes.”
The acolyte watched the count. “And this means…there are people…you rule.”
“Yes.”
“Well then how are you here?”
“I have lieutenants.”
“And you trust them?”
“Of course. Else they could not serve me.”
“They are loyal to you?”
The count shook his head. “To Vašra.”
The acolyte nodded. “This is better.”
The shadow elf placed his half-empty glass on the table, turned it slowly watching the sun’s light through the window glint off imperfections in the glass. “So,” he said, raising one eyebrow. “We are both far from home.”
“For different reasons.”
The acolyte raised a hand dismissively. “Reasons. What are reasons to you and I? We do as we will, others do what they can.”
This was a sentiment Lord Uldric had voiced on more than one occasion.
“You would kill my world,” he said, a slight edge in his voice. “I will stop you if I can.”
The acolyte shrugged. “Of course. How else should it be? We measure our worth by the power of those who oppose us.”
The count raised an eyebrow. “Then I must be worthy beyond measure.”
The acolyte smiled, and Lord Uldric noted the shadow elf’s demeanor could be very fair, when he wanted it to be. “No more worthy than I,” the acolyte said.
The count smiled. They toasted each other, or themselves.
-----
“You are from Equinox,” the count said, putting his knife and fork down.
The acolyte shrugged. “To you perhaps.”
“To me?”
The acolyte took a deep breath. “I am from Cel’esin Celaycin. That is my home. It is located in Equinox, yes. Do you think of yourself as ‘from Orden?’”
Lord Uldric nodded his understanding. Then after a moment, he said, “I have been to Equinox.”
“Ahh, then you are blessed. How did you find it?”
The count thought for a moment. “A savage world.”
The acolyte smiled. “To you perhaps. Violence can be a kind of beauty.”
“I did not say it did not suit me.”
The acolyte’s eyebrows raised in approval. “You must be my guest, then. Should you ever return. I would show you House Cel’asar’s great capital.”
“I would like that,” the count said.
The acolyte picked up a peach half. Sugar and cinnamon coated the exposed slice. He looked at it for a moment. Took a bite. Closed his eyes, chewed. Took a deep breath, savoring the desert. He swallowed.
“The children,” he said, using his fork to look through the bowl for something besides roast turnip. “In your care.” He looked at the count. “You play a dangerous game, risking their lives.”
The count shook his head. “I cannot account for them,” he said. “I know not exactly how I came by them. At every step I felt burdened by them, yet in every crisis they proved themselves many times over.”
“Would you…regret? If they were killed in your service?”
“I suppose it depends on how and why they died. Had you asked me a week ago the answer would be an unhesitating ‘no.’ But now? I suppose I would feel something.”
The acolyte nodded. “Then you must abandon your quest,” he suggested.
A smile curled at the edges of the count’s lips. “Neither of us will abandon our quests. You know that.”
The acolyte nodded, a similar smile playing about his lips. “You know my purpose,” he said. “But I do not know yours. What drove you to pierce the veil of death? Originally?”
“Originally?” The count wondered for a moment, as though he had never considered the question. “Knowledge,” he concluded.
The acolyte peered at Count Uldric. A long moment stretched between them. “No,” the acolyte said slowly, then shook his head and leaned back. “No, no mere archivist. No librarian. You say; you seek knowledge. I say, knowledge is a means to an end. What’s underneath? Who are you really? What knowledge, and why?”
The count did not deny the acolyte’s insight. He searched for the words.
“The knowledge…that would unlock the power…to right a wrong.”
“Ahh…revenge. This I understand. And who is this future corpse who walks about, heedless of the doom hurtling toward them?”
The count said nothing, just watched the acolyte.
After a moment, the acolyte’s eyes went wide and he sucked in air. “You!” he declared.
The count looked away. The acolyte stared at him with growing understanding.
“You would change the past. While I seek to change the future.”
“Have you considered,” the count asked. He paused trying to formulate his question. Unsure even who he was asking. The acolyte, or himself. “What you will do if you succeed. After?”
“After?”
“Yes, after. There was a time before you served Every Strike Of Lightning A Lover Betrayed. She has given you a purpose. What if you fulfill it? What if you remake this world in your world's image? Then what will you do?”
Are they both sat in silence. The count watched the acolyte. The acolyte looked at his food.
“I confess,” the shadow elf began. And he was finding his way through the answer just as the count had found his way through the question. “I find it difficult…impossible even, to imagine any future beyond that holy goal.”
“That's interesting,” the count said.
Now the acolyte looked at him. “Interesting?” The acolyte's gaze was penetrating. “Ah yes. Interesting. You have lived with your goals longer than I have with mine, but you also cannot see any future after achieving them.”
The count had avoided thinking about this, until now.
“Maybe the two of us require no future,” the acolyte said. “Maybe we each exist now only to serve a purpose. There is nothing else. We must succeed or die. At any cost.”
The count's eyes narrowed. “I would not destroy a world to attain my goals.”
The acolyte put down his fork. His eyes burned. “Do you know what it means to watch a god go mad? Your god? The source of all truth, knowledge. The foundation of everything you believe in?
“I imagine,” the count said, looking away, avoiding the acolyte’s gaze. “That it would be very difficult to avoid going mad yourself.”
The acolyte’s eyes unfocused, he stared into the distance. Trying to escape the implication, not for the first time. This was a reality he had considered.
“I know not what you did,” he said eventually. He watched the deathless attending their master. He turned back to the count. “But I say you must embrace it. There is no going back. The past is a dead country. It gives no sustenance, no nourishment. You must accept what you have done.”
“Only if I fail,” the count said.
The acolyte’s demeanor changed, softened. “You must know,” he said. “At the very most, only one of us can achieve our goals.”
The count said nothing.
The acolyte pushed his glass away. Leaned back in his chair. Looked at the skeletons standing around, waiting for a glass to refill. A way to be useful.
“I would do anything to save my world,” he whispered. The count knew; he was mostly talking to himself.
“Even if it means killing mine?” the count asked.
The shadow elf pulled himself out of his reverie. “If these were different worlds? If we led different lives? Perhaps we would be allies.”
“I think this likely.”
“But in these worlds, we must be enemies. We do not choose our circumstances. I was chosen by my god. I will not fail her. Let your world burn, if it must. Mine must live.”
The count sat there watching the acolyte. His face, stone.
“We do not choose our circumstances,” the count agreed. “But we choose how we react to them. So. You must know. If you persist? When next we meet? I will add your corpse to my catalog of servants.”
The acolyte, eyes locked with the count’s, slowly nodded his agreement.
“Perhaps,” he said, not breaking eye contact. “Perhaps. Or…,” he picked up his refilled glass.
“Or?” the count prompted.
The acolyte toasted his companion opponent.
“Or perhaps this is the last time we ever meet.”
Holding the glass mid toast, the acolyte’s formed dissolved to shadow, then the shadow dissipated, and the count was alone in the inn.
“This, I think…,” the count turned his head to look out the window into the empty street outside. He dismissed his servants. The ground absorbed them, leaving the town, the inn, empty. Leaving him truly alone.
