He is an old and sagged man but age has not taken away his wits and his mind seems sharp as one of the young ones. I can’t help to get lost and baffeled by mystery when I read his face. For when you look at him you find yourself that it is not possible to only “look” and you find yourself discerning his features as if every little wrinkle and unshaven straw of hair has been part of something utterly important. Those important events that the normal mortals only dreams of.

“The young ones dream. The old ones regret they didn’t try harder. Only a few of us come to the realisation that we were just not meant to get into this intricate sphere of knowledge, which we in common tongue call magic.” Mr Heartrate pauses and gleams out the window from the cafe table, at which we are enjoying the intake of Mrs Waffles pancakes, and looks just like the professors we used to know at school. Only that Mr Heartrate has an air I’ve personally never seen in any professor. It comes naturally, then, that he is a professor in mystery. He continues after a quite long pause.

“But us few, I think sometimes…” he pauses again “Yes?” I promtly add to let him know that I am listening. “Ah forget that. Old man’s nonsense. Excuse my attention span, you tend to drift off to here and there in my age, you see. What was your question again?”

“No need to apologise Mr Heartrate. No need at all. What I, and our readers, were interested in to know was if you think we learn magic or if some are just “blessed” with the ability to make magic?”

“I see. There is a problem with that question. Do you know of Hem Barley?”. I confirmed I did not know. “Hem Barley was a wonder child, the story goes and people say. He grew up in Hinloc as the only child of very poor parents. The father worked in the field and his mother was like a domesticated cat. You know how it goes. She kept the old shack spotless, so clean even rats were repelled by it. Keeping a dirt floor clean is not an easy feat, but she managed and only Lord knows how. She loved Hem to the bones, some say, and always kept that motherly eye on him but she never let him play, afraid of ruining her daily cleaning. If you’d know how that shack of theirs looked like you would smile as I do. Terribly comical.” I nodded and indeed he had a smile close to laughter on his face. “But you see, when we are children we don’t want to sit still, and do this and that in order to not get that and the other. We want to play. Hem was no different, of course, and naturally his mother’s hygene neurosis got the better of him as well. What I have heard, the poor kid was always ill. Just minor things but there always seemed to be something wrong with him. Or maybe it was just his mother’s protective imagination. In any case. One night Mr and Mrs Barley woke up by a KABOOM and their shack was in flames. The mother protector immediately ran to the bed of Hem’s but did not find him there. Should it not had been for Mr Barley’s entire life of working in the field, Mrs barley would surely had burned in. He carried her out, with great force you’d imagine, and both were unharmed. Well outside Mr Barley stared helpless at his burning home while holding the mother in his bear arms. Hem was nowhere to be seen and because this all happened in the dry season it took only minutes for their shack to burn to the ground. The little possessions they once had were now gone. But Mr and Mrs had matters of the heart now: little Hem where gone.

It was not until a week later that they started hearing the first signs of their son. But at that point they disregarded them becuase they did not think those signs were of their little boy. You see, it was reported that some maniac, a pyromaniac to be precise, was rumaging the are burning down the woods. At that point Mr and Mrs where looking in the opposite direction, so to speak, you could guess they had had enough of things burning. The pyromanic had supposedly burnt down great areas of forest and people where of course baffeled. No idea, did they have of why or even how any idot could do such a thing. Another week later or so, a patrol, an angry mob you could imagine, searched the trails of the pyromaniac and at its end they found a boy. A skinny little bow with sooted skin and red eyes, lying on his back unconscious. It took a while, for them all to realise that this boy was not a victim but indeed the manic they were hunting. A great dilemma, they had to admit, and the boy was simply taken to the nearest village to be taken care of. After some days rest and caring tendance the boy woke up. He didn’t even have any energy left to complain, he just lied there with barely open eyes. Water was shoved down his throat and he soon recovered, however sligtly. The village elder took his responsibility and did what had to be done. Can you imagine? Accusing a little boy close to death for burning down an entire forest? The matters of the heart has never been easy. But as an elder he had to and to his relief the boy was not offended and did not get angry. The boy admitted it outright but what was strange to every man, except Hem probably, was completely confused by the boy’s unremorsive response. “I had to. I had to because I could” the boy said according to the tale and added with some pride “I burned it all down and it was masterful. Did you see the fire?” he asked the elder interrogating him “You must have seen the fire and I did it all. I thought the trees should burn and they did. Just like that they started to burn. They wanted to burn and I wanted them to burn”. The elder did not know what to say and neither did anyone else, for that matter. In the end though, little Hem was taken back to his mother and father who was crying with joy and relief, of course. This time around though, the mother kept an even sharper eye on her boy and it was not often at all that Hem Barley were given the slightest space without his mother. She was close at all times. Father Barley couldn’t really complain, for he didn’t want to see another home being burnt down. Well, so it goes, the story of Hem Barley”

Suddenly Mr Heartrate has the air of someone drowning coming up to the surface or someone waking up from a terriffic sleep.

“So, magic is something some are born with then?” I ask our gentleman. “No. No. No. Magic is not something some are born with. It just happens that one person every eon or so that makes it impossible for us to be sure. Hem Barley was maybe five or six years old and he managed this devastating feat on his own. How on earth could that be? As I said, it’s only us old ones that knows a little bit of magic and we dream of doing things like what Hem Barley did. The differnce is that we study our entire lives, hoping to find that pussle piece that would give us that kind of power. We just don’t know, that’s all.”

We sit in silence for a while, sipping our coffe and pipe. But it is enough and I think I know what Laurence Heartrate means. Maybe I’ll ask him for another interview at a later time.

John Cravatt

The adventure can be followed here: http://www.obsidianportal.com/campaigns/the-prankster

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The goods were to be taken to the inspection house. A set of veteran traders, or lore masters as they would refer to themselves as, would now inspect the goods. A price would be set and Dolores would be handed a proportionate amount of coins. Coins she later would be able to trade for, goods that would be either or both functional or sentimental.

In her place waiting, a man at last came out with a purse of coins. She received it and opened it. Heavier than she thought, she found herself surprised. Positively surprised. She counted ten times the coins that she expected. The figurine was obviously more valuable than she thought. She has no memory of how it looked and would not be able to give any record of it from memory alone. Her curiosity disappeared.

Her soul was revived, as it always is when work actually pays off for profit. She immediately hoped on the greenhorn recurve bow she for long had yearned for. Yearned was accurate in the context, the item had indeed emanated an emotional bond between them. If Tormu was in a good mood she might afford some of his arrows to go with it. She did almost not dare to think the coming thought, but it was unstoppable. She might persuade him to learn her the craft and skills to produce the arrows herself. He had on no prior account revealed the materials of the arrows and on her mentioning the arrow head he had instantly, almost anticipatingly, switched subjects. At their next meeting he had allowed her to try the bow And the arrow. He produced a target putting it in medium range from the trading counter, lent her the bow and unwrapped one of the mysterious arrows and delivered it to her with both his hands. Her heart was in trance but as soon as she gripped the bow and had drawn the string she transferred the trance to her mind instead. With focused attention she softly let go of the bow string, breathing out the little air she had left, cocked her head and strained the arrow. She thought she could hear a note, perhaps several notes at once; a chord, as soon as she lay the arrow in its position. She drew the bow string to maximum force, quick enough for her to not produce fatigue in her physique. Eyes around her saw, not recognised, an artfully skilled draw and a coordination few are born with or can attain. She aimed for a second, no longer than a second and a half and she let go. The arrow produced the chord again, she thought, but then it went silent and her gaze became a cone with the arrows flight in the center. “Thump!”. The red dot on the target was pierced and the arrow was nowhere to be seen. Tormu ran past the target and came quickly back with the same arrow, wrapped it with care and put it away. He looked anticipatingly at Dolores who uttered “Straight through!”. Tormu nodded and reached for the bow. Dolores complied and handed it over, without hesitation. She had still a feeling that this bow and arrow was not for her, yet. She needed to earn it, she thought. A projectile set like this, finds its owner when it is ready. The owner was at that time not ready.

This day, at which she had traded for the figurine, she felt different. She was worth the bow now. She had earned it. Not because of the coinage she had obtained, but because of the sustenance her soul had been fortuned with through her own adventures, her own living. As a lonesome nomadic ranger, she had had to be autonomous. “Proper autonomy” she told herself, but immediately refused the thought as she remembered what she had been taught when she was still dependant on her tribe.

“Acknowledge the world,

remember the nature,

be true to the trees,

respect the wolves,

be careful of the wind and protect from the sun when she’s in good spirits,

tread cautiously in the soil and smell even the clearest water before you taste it.

Complete independence is betrayal.”

The assurance of her worth was renewed after citing her peoples poem. She had still not betrayed herself and hubris was at bay, she in the desert.

With slightly increased pace her feet took her to Tormu. He was there and from the current distance he looked to be in a good mood. Her heart raced again. “Can I have a look at The bow again” she readily said with an excitement she was not able to hide. She had to stop trying to hide it, her excitement was too overpowering “Alright, I am overly excited today” She informed Tormu “I have more coins today” “I am sorry Dolores. No bow. Sold it last week!” her face lost all colour and her body obtained posture similar to that of a dying animal. “Just kidding! I have it right here” Tormu quickly responded. Dolores shone up again and a second after her eyes could have shot fire, if she would have such an ability. That passed as well and she retrieved the bow from Tormu’s hands. “You’ve got the Arrows as well?” She attempted to fake her angry eyes but failed and instead the two of them broke out in laughter. He unwrapped an arrow for her and guiltily handed it to her. “The target is up. Take your shot”. This time without testing the bow she placed the arrow, aimed and released. The shot was true. “Still 10 coins for the bow?” she asked keeping her look fixed at the bow limbs. “Still ten, and I give you an arrow with it. Just for you Dolores” She could hear the guilt in his voice being still there. Without her not having to do anything, the bad joke had played in her favour. She would now get the bow And an arrow. She managed to resist asking to be taught how to make them, she could not risk pushing her luck at this point. The bow and one arrow for 10 coins was a once in a life time opportunity and she would have to take it. “Deal” she affirmed and Tormu handed her the arrow in its wrappings while she handed him the 10 coins. “A pleasure to finally do business with you, Tormu” “It is mutual, Dolores” was the reply. Dolores carefully opened the arrows wrapping and found a folded note. Before she could inquire what the note was, she found, by unfolding, that it was a “recipe” for the singing arrows. She felt a kind of love towards Tormu. A love cousin to the loves she had felt before.

The World Market is a restricted and heavily guarded area where merchants of the world sell exotic goods. It is usually unique items they sell and the buyers are constantly there to see what is new on the market. The market is inconveniently located in the Yellow desert, above an underground sweet water lake.Participants who whish to buy need to bring items that are tradeable on the market, which can be seasonal and always occacional. The items brought are then exchanged for coins, World Market Coins, which can only be used inside the restricted area. This is due to that at exit from the area each contender need to be thoroughly examined and all left-over coins need to be returned.

You can find it here

In any case, I hope someone else than us can enjoy reading it, which is why I now decide to publish it.

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And so, it seemed to the civilians that they lived freely, as it were, together in a society that worked for each and everyone. This was also a virtue of their civilisation, at least in the minds of the inhabitants. For it was not acceptable to discriminate or to intentionally hurt others. Neither was it allowed to abuse others and most importantly, not to abuse the system. They had arranged for this of course, each and every day tending to the problems that arose. Laws were protecting the rightious and good citisens and the laws worked well. So well, in fact, that new laws were created all the time and the population welcomed it, as the laws really did kept the wheel spinning.

Roman Welsh was brought up in Porrheim. His parents never took him elsewhere and there was really little need for such travels as everything a man could desire really was available in Porrheim. His upbringing held good standards, Porrheim standards mind you, and in his adult life we was successful and was able to make a family all on his own together with his wife. They produced two healthy young children and loved them and cared for them as much as any other parents would.

The truly sad story of Roman Welsh begins in his thirties. He was invited out on a hiking trip by some new friends he and his wife made during their pregnancy. It was a hiking trip destined to the mountains, the Yawning Cleft more precisely. For Roman this was exciting, he did not know why but he figured that because he had never really experienced anything outside Porrheim, save for exotic trinkets, food and literature imported into Porrheim, this was to be something of an adventure.

The group of friends set off by transportation on wheels at first, just to arrive in safety and to keep up to good anticipation of mountain hiking. As soon as they arrived at the feet of the Yawning Cleft they started trecking and their spirit was high. It was all new for Roman and he enjoyed it to the fullest, even the exotic leafes on the trees made his senses explode with admiration, and needless to say; there were many leaves in the Yawning Cleft.

Eventually the group arrived at something that was new to them all, not the object they say itself but the look of it. They had arrived at a well and the look of it was ancient. There were no other word to describe it. It had a inherent mystical feel to it and not long after they saw it they started to make up stories of what this well was used for when it a long time ago was used regularly. It was proposed by Roman’s travelling companion that Roman should go down into the well to see what was down there. After all this was an adventure. Roman saw nothing wrong with this and admittedly he was excited, almost aroused. But as it was is companions idea he could see no reason as to why he himself should take responsibility for what would happen down in the well so he immediately produced a note paper and a pen and started to write proficiently:

“I Shandor Ifelt, take full responsibility for all consequences and reactions that are produced in the event that Roman Welsh will descend down the Ancient Well located in the south east in the the Yawning Cleft.

Shandor Ifelt signs here after to agree with the terms of this agreement:________________”

Shandor, the travelling companion, saw no flaws with this contract. It was as regular as ever when you came from Porrheim. He signed it quickly and they shook hands. There after he fastened a rope in the roof of the ancient well for Roman to cling onto during his descent.

Roman stepped up on the rim of the well and looked down. It was completely black and the only sound coming from down there could only be described as silence. It smelled ancient, however that smells.

He took a steady grip around the rope and slowly transferred his feet from the rim to the rope. He held fast and started slowly to descend. He was better at it than he thought. However, after only a few meters down the well upon when he shouted up that he had not yet reached the bottom, his grip around the rope loosend and he fell. Shandor did not hear a sound from a landing, such as s thump, but when he shouted down to Roman, Roman never replied. Shandor was too scared to go down after him and instead he headed back with tears and emotional ache, to Porrheim to find help. For he was sure who was to be held responsible for this and when such responsibility is aquired, he thought, it is required that appropriate measures are taken.

The Ladybird of the Heavens is returning each High Summer on the exact same time, it has never failed to do so. What it is, however, or why it comes is unknown. Much due to the location of where the Ladybird of the Heavens descends. The Culminister Wastelands is a huge, perhaps gargantuan, piece of land made up of dry sand. It is so dry it does not even classify as a dessert. Because of this the place is never traversed and the life that inhabits the area, if there indeed is any life, is also unknown.

The Ladybird of the Heavens is, so, an unknown yet, or perhaps therefore, spectacular event. The event stretches over three days upon which it ascends to the heavens again, not to be seen for another year.

Since I started working again, as said before, there is little time to do some actual playing. So, to continue this passion I think I will put this project into a second phase.

The rule system for Seventh feels done and I don’t think it need any more tweeks. It fits the playstyle perfectly when playing over google docs. It is a free system where you act instead of asking what the rule is. At any rate the world of seventh can have different rule systems depending on what format it is played.

I play a lot of computer role playing games and when I compare them to the type of role playing done when we play seventh, I see a lot of differences. These differences, I think, is worth noting down and realise that the two requires different rule sets.

So, Phase II, as I elegantly call it, will be a rule set with a computer role playing game in mind.

The idea and wish that I have, and always have had in a way, is to make it complex and extensive, but at all points it needs to follow an underlying logic. If you understand that logic it should no difficulties getting to know the rest.

Now it is written and so the events will unravel.