03-14-2021, 03:46 PM
Years ago an old friend and I tried to make a modern magic/military magic style campaign based partially on material/themes in IST, but with a huge amount of liberties taken with nomenclature and OC classes/powers etc. Most notably it was purely magic based and would have followed an elite magical special forces team in the UK. It never got anywhere because balancing it proved to be totally beyond us, but I stumbled on the only surviving piece of literature from it whilst cleaning up old USB drives, so I thought I'd post it here on the off chance someone might find it vaguely interesting. I was trying pretty hard to emulate Bob's style at the time, but in retrospect I think I butchered it a little. Hopefully it's not offensively bad, at least.
Designated Training Room 1-7
Pendragon Base
RPDC Garrison Holton Heath
Dorset, England
United Kingdom
23/03/XX
1100 Hours
As I entered the training room, I admit to being a little unimpressed.
Five recruits, two male, three female, and judging from their lack of reaction to the arrival of two superior officers, not a single set of decent eyes or ears to share between them. Whilst admittedly being stuck in the bowels of one of the most active military bases on the British mainland without so much as a cup of tea could be unnerving (as I knew from personal experience), the fact of the matter was these people were here for Selection, not a leisurely tour of the facilities. Expecting them to notice when two strangers enter into a room, especially two superior officers - one in full combat duty uniform no less - was not exactly a unreasonable ask.
As we waited in front of the door as it hissed to a close behind us, I noticed what had their attention. One of the recruits – a lanky blonde with a military crew-cut, was juggling with what looked like pyrokinesis, throwing at least five orbs of flame around himself in circular looping motions, in what was admittedly a stylish performance. Though whilst his artful arm motions and grin were all relaxed confidence, the rapid movement of his eyes betrayed his intense focus on his task.
Hmm. At least the fact he was able to maintain that many separate orbs of flame simultaneously lent credence to his control, if not necessarily his overall power level. Perhaps he hadn't gotten lost and stumbled into a military base randomly. I wondered if the others had any other parlor tricks at hand. I suppressed a snort at my thoughts. Silly question. Every single Para-utilitarian who had any kind of visible element to their manifestation ended up crafting a little trick or affectation eventually – If you didn't have something to fall back on to show off for the endless questions and scrutiny of the Mundanes, then you'd eventually go mad, or worse, end up saying or doing something both you and the source of your annoyance would come to regret. God knows how many times my wife or I have had to pull out some shiny lights or razzle-dazzle to satisfy the curiosity of awed relative or friends.
As the seconds passed with none of the group turning around and noticing us, I restrained a sigh, crossed my arms and glanced at the lieutenant to my left, raising an eyebrow behind my visor and gesturing at the group with my elbow.
Lt Singh was well familiar with the routine at this point, and promptly stood to attention, before bellowing out a crisp 'ATTEN-TION!' with drill sergeant efficiency and volume, her normally low contralto echoing like a gunshot in the closed underground room. If you don't expect to hear a women bellowing at you in the armed forces, then a day in the RPDC would soon deprive you of that notion. Para-utilitarians skew about 70/30 women to men, and the Mage Corps was no different.
There was a split second pause long enough to account for the mental exclamations of 'oh shit!'. Before the group hastily arranged themselves into a rough line and stood at attention.
I observed them waiting there in silence, with my arms crossed and no visible expression or orders for a ten-count, letting them sweat, before I let out a 'At ease.' My voice came out muffled slightly by my helmet, but I kept it on, letting them take in the full battle-ready gear I was wearing. Skin tight tactical articulated combat under-suit (thankfully the fabric was thick enough to maintain my dignity), armor-plated vest, leg and forearm guards, two holstered bio-capacitors in a grenade pouch around my right leg (the latest designs fit in the standard size grenade pouches beautifully), and two sheathed carbon steel combat knives (one at my waist, the other larger one on my left leg). And the full-face helmet with polarised completely opaque wide visor, built in gas-mask, camera, and a antenna in the back. All in shades of dark blue and dull black (except the helmet which was in my personal colours of silver and blue - the helmets are the only part of the uniform we’re allowed to individually customise colour-wise).
The effect was intimidating, quite intentionally so. A Pendragon in full combat gear looks like the bastard child of a three way pregnancy between a C.O.G Gear, a Titanfall Pilot, and a Mandalorian. Except the weapons and tech we carry are very real, and very deadly.
I remembered fondly how Captain Walcroft had scared the piss out of me and the other recruits during our selection, and made a point of always trying to do her justice, god rest her. As they nervously stood at rest and waited for whatever came next, I (without changing my stance or betraying any emotion in my tone) called to the woman at my left. 'Lieutenant, report.'
She responded, all efficiency and competence, her royal blue dress uniform and shining Lt bars and rank pins contrasting with my own comparatively much darker and infinitely more intimidating gear, raising up the tablet she'd kept under her arm and reading from it. 'Five recruits for initial competency review and training, with preliminary results depending on advancement to Selection, sir.'
I nodded, even though I was well familiar with the situation and the group's collective dossiers. But the point of this wasn't to learn things I was already familiar with, it was to unnerve the recruits with the theatrics of the routine. I was watching them intensely, trying to get a read on how they were reacting to the display we were putting on. I stretched out with my enhanced senses, studying each of them in turn, feeling the familiar warm surge of energy flow through my eyes towards them.
I got the various expected degrees of nervousness and worry from them all, with a few unique twists here and there. The Pyrokinetic had a expected but admirable spike of shame under the general tension, given his theatrics. The dark skinned young woman with cornrows was desperately trying to maintain a blank face over her internal neuroses over being here – her internal struggle was visible enough that her efforts to seem nonchalant were drawing more attention to her, not less. And the wiry young man with the shaved head had gone very professionally blank – he must be the former Marine, then.
'I see. C and M?' I asked, calling for their Classes and Manifestations, though again, I was already familiar. But point this time was to make it clear to them - and more importantly to each other, that we were well aware of just what they could all individually do.
The lieutenant obediently scrolled through her PDA and listed off the details. A Warlock (I was unfamiliar with the Patron, but context made it likely to be celestial), two Espers – both telekinetic, one stronger then the other, but the other having Pyrokinesis on top to offset the imbalance, a Paragon – in this case having enhanced strength and regeneration, and a Zoanthrope – a Bull. That explained the lack of enhanced senses that would have led him to notice our entrance, then. Bulls and Bovines in general were all muscle and stamina, not senses and speed. Three of them A level, one B+, and one A-. At first glance a set of High level para-utilitarians comparatively, but the Pendragons are the best of the best. We can and do refuse entry to A+ and even S class paras routinely. You need more then raw power to make it here, you need to have the rare combination of intelligence, discipline, tenacity and versatility to survive the worst possible situations.
God only know how I ever made it in.
But I suppose they couldn't afford to be picky back then. Humanity technically was - and more importantly still is - under attack. We need soldiers.
And the Pendragons are the last line of defense.
I nodded at Lt Singh and said 'Thank you lieutenant, dismissed.' She stood at attention, uttered a crisp 'Sir.' and retreated the way we'd came, heading through the door and upstairs toward the viewing room with its overlooking windows, to supervise the technicians recording and monitoring the training room and its occupants. I made a mental note to buy her something from the mess for that performance. Shani was an excellent adjutant on the rare occasions I roped her into it, but she was really too highly ranked to put up with it these days. I'd make her some biscuits and get her to pick a more lowly ranked successor we could train up for me to use for the required theatrics in the future, if need be.
I returned my focus to the nervous quintet in front of me. 'My name is none of your concern. My rank is Captain. My Pendragon callsign is Temple. You will refer to me by that name, or Sir. Is that understood?' After getting the expected sir-yes-sir response at a mostly acceptable volume and enthusiasm, I turned and walked over to the weapons locker and imputed my code, opening the door with a metallic scrape and audible beep from the electronic locks. I ordered them to line up and handed them a set of standard gear and holsters to attach them to their comparatively bare fatigues. A pistol, two knives, a single flash-bang grenade and a med-kit. I watched impassively as they affixed the gear (gratifyingly they all checked the guns for ammo repeatedly and verified the safeties were on – after that time with the idiot kid from Liverpool my expectations in that regard were very low) and settled back into rest.
I stood in front of them and began to lecture in what my wife and her sisters refer to as my 'I'm a big scary officer' tone. 'You are here because somebody at some point in your career has felt or still feels you deserve a shot a joining the Royal Paranatural Defense Corps’s special forces. You have all served your individual postings admirably, and have records of competence and exemplary service – in some cases service above and beyond the call of duty.' I paused for a moment to let that sink in then continued. 'But as of right now, that means exactly fuck all.'
I started to pace back and forth in front of them. ‘I don't care if your Sarge though you were a good little trooper, I don't care if your local Mayor thinks you're a credit to your community, and I don't fucking care how good you think you are. I care about one thing and one thing only, soldiers. How quickly will you fucking die when I throw you into hell?'. I paused and looked over them, changing my voice to a deep growl. 'Because that is what the Pendragons do, every fucking day of the week. We go where normal soldiers can't, we fight the monsters that swat dozens of normal soldiers like flies. We crawl through the corpses of the best and brightest, and we slay the beasts that killed them effortlessly.' I paused in my pacing a whirled to face them, marching forward suddenly, causing a couple to flinch.
'We, dear children, are Her Majesty's absolute last line of defense in a world full of monsters, magic and god knows what other forces that are dedicated to the destruction and death of humanity. And by god, we take the 'last' part of that charge VERY seriously. And I have nothing but contempt for those who treat this job with anything less then the respect it deserves.' I let the silence carry for a moment, before continuing.
'The reason that the RPDC is the best paranatural military force in the world is not because of it size or the amount of para-utilitarians in it', I started, whilst inwardly thinking 'god knows we have an advantage in that regard though', 'but because we have the best training and collective talent and experience in the world. Part of being British, children. We have the most supernatural activity of any country despite our size. That means we have the most magic, resources and monsters to harvest and profit from, but also by far the biggest threats and dangers to face.' I paused and then reached up and unclipped the chin strap, and removed my helmet, making my features carefully blank in preparation for the inevitable reactions.
There were couple of audible sudden intakes of breath. The girl with the cornrows actually took a half-step back. Only the former Marine didn't flinch.
The scar is much better these days then it was at first, but it's still objectively pretty hideous. A thick, savage claw mark running from just under my left eye, down my left cheek to my jaw, with a pretty obvious chuck of flesh scooped out from my skin – it looks like somebody had stuck a red hot screwdriver in my face and dragged it down. The plastic surgeons honestly did an incredible job – I initially thought I'd have barely any face left on that side at all. And at least the intense puckered redness of the scar tissue had finally faded to a more natural skin tone. I'd made relative peace with it long ago, growing my hair long enough to partially cover it in public (thank god Mage Corps regulations are more forgiving then most), making people in the street less likely to react with fear. But using it like this, to emphasize the danger of life in the Pendragons, whilst absolutely a useful tool to make my point, still made me a little self-conscious, even after all these years. And the reactions I was getting didn't help - god knows how they’d react if they saw the veritable spiderweb of different scars I had elsewhere on my body.
Oh well. My wife still thinks I'm handsome.
'I know better then most what the Pendragons have to face. And believe me when I tell you, I have gotten out incredibly lucky compared to so many other brave men and women.' I let a degree of empathy return into my face, and lowered my voice from the military strictness I'd been using, to a more humane tone. 'Which is why I insist you believe me when I say, that nobody here will think less of you if you aren't completely sure this life is for you. We all know just qualifying for selection is itself an honor. You can continue to serve your country with honour in the general forces, and your nation and its people will be grateful of it.' I looked them all over, gauging the differing degrees of emotion and feeling visible on the faces of these young (so bloody young) recruits.
'So I ask you very sincerely, to think it over. If you want to leave now, there is no judgment, no dishonor, and it doesn't mean you can't ever try again. Please be sure before you start down this path.' I watched them gravely, the intricate play of emotions on their faces, before asking softly, 'Any takers?'
Silence was the only response.
'You're either dedicated, ambitious, or just plain stupid.' I said, and let a dark grin curl onto my face, enjoying the sudden visible return of apprehension on their collective faces, before replacing my helmet on my head and continuing. 'And now children, we're going to find out which it is.'
I marched over to the left side of the cavernous training room, gesturing the recruits to follow me. 'The good lieutenant let us know all about your ranks and classes, but she neglected to mention me, didn't she?' I stopped about a meter before the large blank expanse of the left wall. Made of featureless gray reinforced concrete - except for the single digital screen displaying a 3D render of a complicated floor-plan/map - unknown to the soldiers around me, lifted directly from a now defunct MMORPG.
'Well for starters my level is S+.' I said, trying not to grin at the return performance of subtle gasps of disbelief. 'And as for my class? It's Wyrd.' I said, and let the statement hang for a second before continuing, 'But what manifestation does he have, I hear you ask? After all, Wyrd just means ‘can’t be cleanly placed into any other category’. Zoanthropes are were-beasts, or turn into animals. Paragons have superhuman physical or mental gifts. Espers are all psychic powers and telekinesis. Relicts have magic weapons or objects, Avatars draw powers from mythical creatures or beings. Warlocks make pacts with supernatural entities. Contrivers are mad scientists-cum-mad witches. Conduits are elemental manipulators. Incarnates are possessed by supernatural beings. The list goes on. But a Wyrd, their powers, strengths and what they can accomplish are defined intimately by their own particular personalities and foibles.’
I raised my right hand and concentrated, feeling a familiar pull of power flow through me, mystical energy from my heart and soul coalescing and taking visible shape in an old, familiar surge of energy.
A bright dot of white light surged forth from the screen, quickly increasing to a blinding flash of light that caused everyone but myself to flinch and close their eyes. I focused my power and pulled us all into the void of light, and with a familiar wrenching motion, despite not moving from the spot we were stood on, we travelled to – somewhere else.
A dark, cavernous and desolate dungeonscape. Black stone walls, with cages lining either side, passages that stretched off and around into intricate pathways, audible rattling chains and distant howls, and a noxious odor that hit us like a wet, fetid towel.
I gave them a moment to absorb where they had been transported to, before whirling around and beginning the briefing, meager as it was.
'You are tasked with exploring and delineating this dungeon. If there are any monsters or threats, engage and neutralize. If there are resources that can be harvested, do so and return them for identification and classification. You have five hours to explore the dungeon in its totality and return to this spot, and will be judged on your efficiency and conduct therein.' I stood to the side, trying not to let my wicked glee at the sheer dumbfounded look on their faces show in my body language. It was hardly their fault they didn't know what to expect from my powers.
Hell, when I put all those hours into fantasy, sci-fi and video games - dreaming of what it would be like to actually have the skills and powers of the characters and walk and fight in their worlds - I had no idea the knowledge would ever become useful in real life.
Let alone that I’d end up as a para-utilitarian with ability to make pocket dimensions based on them.
'Your time starts now.'
----------------
The main characters codename ‘Temple’ came from the fact he had a supernatural power over a 100ft/30meter radius around him (his ‘Sacred Ground’) that he could spawn and manipulate pocket realities in, but he had base them in a fictional or predesigned setting and could not break the inherent rules of the setting he based the realm on (though he would work hard to stretch or break his limits wherever he could). Kind of like a Danger Room in human form, with some more complex and and arcane idiosyncrasies. Some of his rejected code names included Sovereign (which was rejected as the UK already has a sovereign and she is emphatically his superior) and Dungeon Master (which has certain untoward implications among normies)
Anyway, you begin to see why it was an unbalanceable campaign.
Designated Training Room 1-7
Pendragon Base
RPDC Garrison Holton Heath
Dorset, England
United Kingdom
23/03/XX
1100 Hours
As I entered the training room, I admit to being a little unimpressed.
Five recruits, two male, three female, and judging from their lack of reaction to the arrival of two superior officers, not a single set of decent eyes or ears to share between them. Whilst admittedly being stuck in the bowels of one of the most active military bases on the British mainland without so much as a cup of tea could be unnerving (as I knew from personal experience), the fact of the matter was these people were here for Selection, not a leisurely tour of the facilities. Expecting them to notice when two strangers enter into a room, especially two superior officers - one in full combat duty uniform no less - was not exactly a unreasonable ask.
As we waited in front of the door as it hissed to a close behind us, I noticed what had their attention. One of the recruits – a lanky blonde with a military crew-cut, was juggling with what looked like pyrokinesis, throwing at least five orbs of flame around himself in circular looping motions, in what was admittedly a stylish performance. Though whilst his artful arm motions and grin were all relaxed confidence, the rapid movement of his eyes betrayed his intense focus on his task.
Hmm. At least the fact he was able to maintain that many separate orbs of flame simultaneously lent credence to his control, if not necessarily his overall power level. Perhaps he hadn't gotten lost and stumbled into a military base randomly. I wondered if the others had any other parlor tricks at hand. I suppressed a snort at my thoughts. Silly question. Every single Para-utilitarian who had any kind of visible element to their manifestation ended up crafting a little trick or affectation eventually – If you didn't have something to fall back on to show off for the endless questions and scrutiny of the Mundanes, then you'd eventually go mad, or worse, end up saying or doing something both you and the source of your annoyance would come to regret. God knows how many times my wife or I have had to pull out some shiny lights or razzle-dazzle to satisfy the curiosity of awed relative or friends.
As the seconds passed with none of the group turning around and noticing us, I restrained a sigh, crossed my arms and glanced at the lieutenant to my left, raising an eyebrow behind my visor and gesturing at the group with my elbow.
Lt Singh was well familiar with the routine at this point, and promptly stood to attention, before bellowing out a crisp 'ATTEN-TION!' with drill sergeant efficiency and volume, her normally low contralto echoing like a gunshot in the closed underground room. If you don't expect to hear a women bellowing at you in the armed forces, then a day in the RPDC would soon deprive you of that notion. Para-utilitarians skew about 70/30 women to men, and the Mage Corps was no different.
There was a split second pause long enough to account for the mental exclamations of 'oh shit!'. Before the group hastily arranged themselves into a rough line and stood at attention.
I observed them waiting there in silence, with my arms crossed and no visible expression or orders for a ten-count, letting them sweat, before I let out a 'At ease.' My voice came out muffled slightly by my helmet, but I kept it on, letting them take in the full battle-ready gear I was wearing. Skin tight tactical articulated combat under-suit (thankfully the fabric was thick enough to maintain my dignity), armor-plated vest, leg and forearm guards, two holstered bio-capacitors in a grenade pouch around my right leg (the latest designs fit in the standard size grenade pouches beautifully), and two sheathed carbon steel combat knives (one at my waist, the other larger one on my left leg). And the full-face helmet with polarised completely opaque wide visor, built in gas-mask, camera, and a antenna in the back. All in shades of dark blue and dull black (except the helmet which was in my personal colours of silver and blue - the helmets are the only part of the uniform we’re allowed to individually customise colour-wise).
The effect was intimidating, quite intentionally so. A Pendragon in full combat gear looks like the bastard child of a three way pregnancy between a C.O.G Gear, a Titanfall Pilot, and a Mandalorian. Except the weapons and tech we carry are very real, and very deadly.
I remembered fondly how Captain Walcroft had scared the piss out of me and the other recruits during our selection, and made a point of always trying to do her justice, god rest her. As they nervously stood at rest and waited for whatever came next, I (without changing my stance or betraying any emotion in my tone) called to the woman at my left. 'Lieutenant, report.'
She responded, all efficiency and competence, her royal blue dress uniform and shining Lt bars and rank pins contrasting with my own comparatively much darker and infinitely more intimidating gear, raising up the tablet she'd kept under her arm and reading from it. 'Five recruits for initial competency review and training, with preliminary results depending on advancement to Selection, sir.'
I nodded, even though I was well familiar with the situation and the group's collective dossiers. But the point of this wasn't to learn things I was already familiar with, it was to unnerve the recruits with the theatrics of the routine. I was watching them intensely, trying to get a read on how they were reacting to the display we were putting on. I stretched out with my enhanced senses, studying each of them in turn, feeling the familiar warm surge of energy flow through my eyes towards them.
I got the various expected degrees of nervousness and worry from them all, with a few unique twists here and there. The Pyrokinetic had a expected but admirable spike of shame under the general tension, given his theatrics. The dark skinned young woman with cornrows was desperately trying to maintain a blank face over her internal neuroses over being here – her internal struggle was visible enough that her efforts to seem nonchalant were drawing more attention to her, not less. And the wiry young man with the shaved head had gone very professionally blank – he must be the former Marine, then.
'I see. C and M?' I asked, calling for their Classes and Manifestations, though again, I was already familiar. But point this time was to make it clear to them - and more importantly to each other, that we were well aware of just what they could all individually do.
The lieutenant obediently scrolled through her PDA and listed off the details. A Warlock (I was unfamiliar with the Patron, but context made it likely to be celestial), two Espers – both telekinetic, one stronger then the other, but the other having Pyrokinesis on top to offset the imbalance, a Paragon – in this case having enhanced strength and regeneration, and a Zoanthrope – a Bull. That explained the lack of enhanced senses that would have led him to notice our entrance, then. Bulls and Bovines in general were all muscle and stamina, not senses and speed. Three of them A level, one B+, and one A-. At first glance a set of High level para-utilitarians comparatively, but the Pendragons are the best of the best. We can and do refuse entry to A+ and even S class paras routinely. You need more then raw power to make it here, you need to have the rare combination of intelligence, discipline, tenacity and versatility to survive the worst possible situations.
God only know how I ever made it in.
But I suppose they couldn't afford to be picky back then. Humanity technically was - and more importantly still is - under attack. We need soldiers.
And the Pendragons are the last line of defense.
I nodded at Lt Singh and said 'Thank you lieutenant, dismissed.' She stood at attention, uttered a crisp 'Sir.' and retreated the way we'd came, heading through the door and upstairs toward the viewing room with its overlooking windows, to supervise the technicians recording and monitoring the training room and its occupants. I made a mental note to buy her something from the mess for that performance. Shani was an excellent adjutant on the rare occasions I roped her into it, but she was really too highly ranked to put up with it these days. I'd make her some biscuits and get her to pick a more lowly ranked successor we could train up for me to use for the required theatrics in the future, if need be.
I returned my focus to the nervous quintet in front of me. 'My name is none of your concern. My rank is Captain. My Pendragon callsign is Temple. You will refer to me by that name, or Sir. Is that understood?' After getting the expected sir-yes-sir response at a mostly acceptable volume and enthusiasm, I turned and walked over to the weapons locker and imputed my code, opening the door with a metallic scrape and audible beep from the electronic locks. I ordered them to line up and handed them a set of standard gear and holsters to attach them to their comparatively bare fatigues. A pistol, two knives, a single flash-bang grenade and a med-kit. I watched impassively as they affixed the gear (gratifyingly they all checked the guns for ammo repeatedly and verified the safeties were on – after that time with the idiot kid from Liverpool my expectations in that regard were very low) and settled back into rest.
I stood in front of them and began to lecture in what my wife and her sisters refer to as my 'I'm a big scary officer' tone. 'You are here because somebody at some point in your career has felt or still feels you deserve a shot a joining the Royal Paranatural Defense Corps’s special forces. You have all served your individual postings admirably, and have records of competence and exemplary service – in some cases service above and beyond the call of duty.' I paused for a moment to let that sink in then continued. 'But as of right now, that means exactly fuck all.'
I started to pace back and forth in front of them. ‘I don't care if your Sarge though you were a good little trooper, I don't care if your local Mayor thinks you're a credit to your community, and I don't fucking care how good you think you are. I care about one thing and one thing only, soldiers. How quickly will you fucking die when I throw you into hell?'. I paused and looked over them, changing my voice to a deep growl. 'Because that is what the Pendragons do, every fucking day of the week. We go where normal soldiers can't, we fight the monsters that swat dozens of normal soldiers like flies. We crawl through the corpses of the best and brightest, and we slay the beasts that killed them effortlessly.' I paused in my pacing a whirled to face them, marching forward suddenly, causing a couple to flinch.
'We, dear children, are Her Majesty's absolute last line of defense in a world full of monsters, magic and god knows what other forces that are dedicated to the destruction and death of humanity. And by god, we take the 'last' part of that charge VERY seriously. And I have nothing but contempt for those who treat this job with anything less then the respect it deserves.' I let the silence carry for a moment, before continuing.
'The reason that the RPDC is the best paranatural military force in the world is not because of it size or the amount of para-utilitarians in it', I started, whilst inwardly thinking 'god knows we have an advantage in that regard though', 'but because we have the best training and collective talent and experience in the world. Part of being British, children. We have the most supernatural activity of any country despite our size. That means we have the most magic, resources and monsters to harvest and profit from, but also by far the biggest threats and dangers to face.' I paused and then reached up and unclipped the chin strap, and removed my helmet, making my features carefully blank in preparation for the inevitable reactions.
There were couple of audible sudden intakes of breath. The girl with the cornrows actually took a half-step back. Only the former Marine didn't flinch.
The scar is much better these days then it was at first, but it's still objectively pretty hideous. A thick, savage claw mark running from just under my left eye, down my left cheek to my jaw, with a pretty obvious chuck of flesh scooped out from my skin – it looks like somebody had stuck a red hot screwdriver in my face and dragged it down. The plastic surgeons honestly did an incredible job – I initially thought I'd have barely any face left on that side at all. And at least the intense puckered redness of the scar tissue had finally faded to a more natural skin tone. I'd made relative peace with it long ago, growing my hair long enough to partially cover it in public (thank god Mage Corps regulations are more forgiving then most), making people in the street less likely to react with fear. But using it like this, to emphasize the danger of life in the Pendragons, whilst absolutely a useful tool to make my point, still made me a little self-conscious, even after all these years. And the reactions I was getting didn't help - god knows how they’d react if they saw the veritable spiderweb of different scars I had elsewhere on my body.
Oh well. My wife still thinks I'm handsome.
'I know better then most what the Pendragons have to face. And believe me when I tell you, I have gotten out incredibly lucky compared to so many other brave men and women.' I let a degree of empathy return into my face, and lowered my voice from the military strictness I'd been using, to a more humane tone. 'Which is why I insist you believe me when I say, that nobody here will think less of you if you aren't completely sure this life is for you. We all know just qualifying for selection is itself an honor. You can continue to serve your country with honour in the general forces, and your nation and its people will be grateful of it.' I looked them all over, gauging the differing degrees of emotion and feeling visible on the faces of these young (so bloody young) recruits.
'So I ask you very sincerely, to think it over. If you want to leave now, there is no judgment, no dishonor, and it doesn't mean you can't ever try again. Please be sure before you start down this path.' I watched them gravely, the intricate play of emotions on their faces, before asking softly, 'Any takers?'
Silence was the only response.
'You're either dedicated, ambitious, or just plain stupid.' I said, and let a dark grin curl onto my face, enjoying the sudden visible return of apprehension on their collective faces, before replacing my helmet on my head and continuing. 'And now children, we're going to find out which it is.'
I marched over to the left side of the cavernous training room, gesturing the recruits to follow me. 'The good lieutenant let us know all about your ranks and classes, but she neglected to mention me, didn't she?' I stopped about a meter before the large blank expanse of the left wall. Made of featureless gray reinforced concrete - except for the single digital screen displaying a 3D render of a complicated floor-plan/map - unknown to the soldiers around me, lifted directly from a now defunct MMORPG.
'Well for starters my level is S+.' I said, trying not to grin at the return performance of subtle gasps of disbelief. 'And as for my class? It's Wyrd.' I said, and let the statement hang for a second before continuing, 'But what manifestation does he have, I hear you ask? After all, Wyrd just means ‘can’t be cleanly placed into any other category’. Zoanthropes are were-beasts, or turn into animals. Paragons have superhuman physical or mental gifts. Espers are all psychic powers and telekinesis. Relicts have magic weapons or objects, Avatars draw powers from mythical creatures or beings. Warlocks make pacts with supernatural entities. Contrivers are mad scientists-cum-mad witches. Conduits are elemental manipulators. Incarnates are possessed by supernatural beings. The list goes on. But a Wyrd, their powers, strengths and what they can accomplish are defined intimately by their own particular personalities and foibles.’
I raised my right hand and concentrated, feeling a familiar pull of power flow through me, mystical energy from my heart and soul coalescing and taking visible shape in an old, familiar surge of energy.
A bright dot of white light surged forth from the screen, quickly increasing to a blinding flash of light that caused everyone but myself to flinch and close their eyes. I focused my power and pulled us all into the void of light, and with a familiar wrenching motion, despite not moving from the spot we were stood on, we travelled to – somewhere else.
A dark, cavernous and desolate dungeonscape. Black stone walls, with cages lining either side, passages that stretched off and around into intricate pathways, audible rattling chains and distant howls, and a noxious odor that hit us like a wet, fetid towel.
I gave them a moment to absorb where they had been transported to, before whirling around and beginning the briefing, meager as it was.
'You are tasked with exploring and delineating this dungeon. If there are any monsters or threats, engage and neutralize. If there are resources that can be harvested, do so and return them for identification and classification. You have five hours to explore the dungeon in its totality and return to this spot, and will be judged on your efficiency and conduct therein.' I stood to the side, trying not to let my wicked glee at the sheer dumbfounded look on their faces show in my body language. It was hardly their fault they didn't know what to expect from my powers.
Hell, when I put all those hours into fantasy, sci-fi and video games - dreaming of what it would be like to actually have the skills and powers of the characters and walk and fight in their worlds - I had no idea the knowledge would ever become useful in real life.
Let alone that I’d end up as a para-utilitarian with ability to make pocket dimensions based on them.
'Your time starts now.'
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The main characters codename ‘Temple’ came from the fact he had a supernatural power over a 100ft/30meter radius around him (his ‘Sacred Ground’) that he could spawn and manipulate pocket realities in, but he had base them in a fictional or predesigned setting and could not break the inherent rules of the setting he based the realm on (though he would work hard to stretch or break his limits wherever he could). Kind of like a Danger Room in human form, with some more complex and and arcane idiosyncrasies. Some of his rejected code names included Sovereign (which was rejected as the UK already has a sovereign and she is emphatically his superior) and Dungeon Master (which has certain untoward implications among normies)
Anyway, you begin to see why it was an unbalanceable campaign.