Below is the start of a story I've been working on. It's based on an idea I had for a tabletop RPG game mechanic, but since I've never gotten to actually play a tabletop RPG with other people, a story is the best I can do for testing it out. I wrote all of this in a single caffeine-fueled burst of creativity, and haven't touched it since. I'm looking for some feedback on the general concept and general style.
Stochastimancer
It is a time of magic and mystery, where feudal lords horde the arcane talents of wizards and others with supernatural power or knowledge, seeking to expand their small empires ever onward past the horizon.
It was late on a moonless night. A short man dashed through the black forest, his cloak billowing behind him and snapping off twigs where it snagged. Hurdling over rock, the man landed shakily on a road that wound through the woods. He paused a moment to collect himself, struggling to read his map by starlight. Heaving an exasperated sigh, he checked up and down the road before cautiously waving his hand in a circle. As his hand moved, his fingers contorted through a sequence of carefully practiced gestures. Moments later, a handful of fireflies rose from nearby branches and began to swirl about above the man's map, affording a scant glow just enough to make out the markings. He mumbled to himself as he reviewed the landmarks and direction.
"If this is Gandfallow Forest, then this road ought to take me right to-"
He stopped short and held very still as night air was pierced by a wolf's howl, followed by a chorus in response. Cursing his short-sightedness, he ran off the road, up the embankment, and continued his sprint through the woods but now moving parallel to the nearby road.
Thomas was a cheerful fellow. All who met him would agree on this, though they may not agree if it was a pleasant trait or downright annoying. Most would also agree his name, Thomas Cheerson, seemed almost too on-the-nose. Thomas wasn't bothered, of course, for the same reason he could maintain such boundless enthusiasm for life: He had very little to care about. He had no relatives as far as he knew, few close friends, and even fewer possessions. He did not posses the noble status required to own land, nor the trappings of procedure and politics that it brought. The plain and simple truth was that Thomas was selfish, and that was perfectly fine because he only had himself.
A hunter by trade, Thomas spent the warm months wandering Gandfallow Forest in search of game and the cold months fishing through holes he'd cut in the ice. He had no house to speak of, besides a hide tent for his hunting season and a small cabin for his fishing season. All year round he'd sell his fresh game and dried fish to whoever'd buy it, and carve trinkets and weave stories in exchange for a warm bed at the inn now and then. It was a simple life, if a bit dull, though Thomas liked to think that was just the cost of living a happy, selfish life. On a dark, moonless night like tonight, however, sitting alone by the fire whittling a stick into some approximation of a fox, he couldn't help but wish for a bit of excitement. "But not enough to go searching for any," he reminded himself as he examined his artwork by the dancing firelight. He'd angled his knife wrong on the fox's tail, so now it was a... cat perhaps? Maybe a weasel. Or a stoat. With big ears. Kids love stoats and a with a bit of paint he could probably sell it in town for enough to get a room for the night.
Thomas' pondering came to an abrupt halt when he heard something moving through the undergrowth. It didn't sound very big, but it was closing in on him quickly. A panicked deer? He'd heard wolves in the distance a while earlier, but the sound was a single body crashing through the bushes. There had been rumors lately of shadowy beast stalking the forest, like some sort of dark magic incarnate. Thomas didn't think much of such rumors, but on a dark night like this it seemed reasonable to keep his knife ready anyhow.
The short man continued his sprint through the woods. He'd lost the wolves, but at the same time he'd lost track of the road and was now just running in the same direction hoping he's still going the right way. Clearing a thicket, he bounded up a short incline and felt his foot sink into a rabbit hole, ready to twist his ankle and stop his flight. As if by instinct, he waved his hand and his cloak snagged on a low branch, his momentum swinging him up and freeing his foot from the hole. He dove through a bush atop the incline, and discovered the incline ended with a short cliff on the other side. He sailed through the air and landed solidly on his head, collapsing in a heap beside a small campfire. Everything was spinning, but he held on to consciousness just long enough to see the blurry figure of a man brandishing a knife.
"Just my luck" he slurred, before blacking out entirely.
When he came to his senses, a delicate pink dawn was breaking across the sky and birds were singing in the trees. His head ached something fierce, and he thought for a moment what the cost would be to soothe it.
"No" he thought to himself scoldingly, "it's not worth it. You'll manage."
Holding perfectly still, he opened his eyes and tried to appraise the situation. He wasn't bound or shackled, and besides his pounding headache and sore neck he seemed to be in one piece. He was still wearing his cloak, and beneath him he could feel a simple bed of leaves and grass covered by some animal's pelt. Something was missing, though, and he racked his throbbing mind to piece his thoughts together. His satchel! He couldn't feel his small cloth bag under his arm anymore. Cautiously, he opened his eyes. There was a tent above him, made from various other hides coarsely stitched together. Everything seemed still so he raised his head and looked around. Just beyond the tent's opening was a man sitting beside the ashen embers of a campfire, holding a stick and a knife, watching him closely without saying a word.
Thomas eyed the stranger closely, pausing his carving when the short man sat up and looked around. He was a short fellow, probably no taller than Thomas' elbow, and a bit gangly. After he'd knocked himself unconscious the night before, Thomas had made sure his neck wasn't broken, checked for injuries, and eventually moved him into the tent to recover. Thomas was no healer, but he did what he could to make the stranger comfortable. He considered himself a pretty good judge of people and he sensed no ill from the unfortunate dwarf.
"No, not an actual Dwarf." Thomas had concluded while watching the small man sleep off his injury. Dwarves had become pretty uncommon in this realm though few knew exactly why. Thomas certainly didn't. He'd heard tell of local nobles keeping Dwarf slaves as servants or even entertainment, but regardless the small man was no Dwarf. Though short enough, the stranger lacked the stout frame and bushy whiskers Dwarves were known for.
Whoever this stranger was, he had stories to tell. His cloak and clothing were coarse fabric of bland colors, but his feet were bare and covered with scars and scabs, with more scars around his ankles and wrists as if he'd spent a great deal of time in irons and chains. He didn't have the look of a criminal or ne'er-do-well, though. His face and eyes had a good-natured look to them, and his smooth hands suggested a gentle life. Thomas had found a small cloth bag slung under the stranger's arm and had taken the liberty of searching it for clues. There were no weapons or money to suggest a thief, but rather a ragged leather skullcap with the remains of filigree sewn along the edges and some exotic writing dyed into it, what looked like a fire-roasted rat half eaten, and a small medallion of dull copper with green rust inside the delicate linework. Thomas had a good idea of what these effects represented, but he hadn't yet decided if they properly belonged to the small man or if he'd obtained them by some other means.
"I've got some breakfast here, if you want it" Thomas said in an even tone. "You'll need it after that spill you had, and by the look of you it's been a while since you had a decent meal."
The small man rose to his feet, steadied himself, and staggered over to sit on a flat rock where a bowl was waiting for him. Thomas held eye contact with the stranger, and the stranger returned in like until he was seated and looked down to examine the food.
"My own recipe," Thomas beamed, "dried venison stew with dried fish, this weed that smells like pepper, and plenty of... whatever this yellow root is."
The stranger inhaled and poked it with the fork.
"It's perfectly good. I already had a bowl while you were sleeping. It's not poisoned or drugged, if that's what you're worried about."
The stranger's eye snapped back to Thomas, and held an appraising stare while he brought the first bite of meat to his mouth. After the first bite, however, Thomas could see the stranger's apprehensions dissolve as his hunger took sway and he began shoveling the stew down as fast as he could.
Thomas resumed his carving as the stranger ate, stopping a few minutes later to hand a second bowl of stew for his starving guest.
"I'm Thomas, in case you were wondering. Thomas Cheerson. And what should I call you?"
The stranger paused a moment.
"Anton Elric" he mumbled before returning to his stew.
"Well it is a pleasure, Mr. Elric. A real pleasure. I don't get much company this deep in the forest. Speaking of which, what... ah... what exactly brings you out here?"
Anton paused again, this time staring intently at nothing in particular, as if weighing the question.
"I am... traveling, and a pack of wolves started chasing me. I suppose I had just lost them when I found your camp."
"I see," Thomas began cautiously, "and where might you be traveling to?"
"Pottsfield" Anton answered quickly. "Am I close? What direction is it in?"
"Pottsfield" Thomas repeated. "See, now here's the thing that's bothering me. Yes Pottsfield is just a day's walk down the road, at the edge of the forest. But the catch is that the other direction on that road just goes deeper into the forest and into the mountains, and there's nothing in those mountains except some old ruins. So how exactly did you get here?"
Anton stared at Thomas for a moment, and Thomas could almost see the man's imagination trying to cook up an alibi. His head was probably still clouded enough that Thomas had the advantage, but if this character was what Thomas thought he was, that advantage could be reversed at a moment's notice.
"I..." Anton's voice caught a moment. "I am from up North, and I got lost in the forest. I've been working my way South hoping to find the road on my map so I could find my way."
Thomas' features hardened and he stared at this Anton fellow long and hard, standing up and looming over the smaller man for a moment. If there was anything that could darken the spirits of Thomas Cheerson, it was a liar.
"Alright," Thomas said finally, "then explain these." He pulled the small bag out from inside a stump and emptied the contents on the ground. Anton grew pale.
Anton was frozen in place and could feel the blood drain from his face. His secret was found out. He'd barely managed to escape and before he had a chance to start fresh he was found out! Anyone else might think the whole situation was quite unfair, but Anton knew better. This was completely, horribly, agonizingly fair.
"I-I found those" Anton stammered in the most convincing voice he could "on a dried up old skeleton I found in the woods."
The hunter sat back down his rock and pulled out his knife.
"Don't take me for some backhills rube, magician. I don't know for sure what you are but I know these must belong to you. You're a wizard."
"I am no wizard!" Anton shot back.
Thomas reached down and snagged the medallion's chain on the end of his knife.
"You are a wizard, and a royally-sanctioned wizard in the employ of a noble house. That's what the amulet signifies, I've seen them before."
Thomas was right, of course. Anton knew the medallion would be easily recognized. The ornately carved copper, a detailed sculpture of three snakes biting each other's tails in a ring with a dragon curled in the center, was the symbol of office and authority for the wizard employed by the noble houses. He'd just hoped an isolated hunter might be ignorant enough to not recognize it.
"I am not a wizard" Anton repeated quietly, "not anymore."
Thomas swung the medallion to throw it into Anton's hands.
"And what's that supposed to mean? Wizards don't retire, and if you'd been stripped of status you wouldn't have the necklace and hat anymore."
Thomas paused to let him speak, but continued when he didn't offer any answers.
"So if you are not a wizard anymore what does that make you? A rogue magician? A runaway?"
Anton tried to keep up a stoic mask, but Anton's last speculation hit a nerve and he looked away.
"That's it, isn't it? You're a wizard on the run. Why?"
Anton inhaled deeply and let out a long sigh before fixing the hunter with a pleading gaze.
"Listen, does it really matter? If you really want to know what's important it's that I am-er-was in the employ of Lord Telroy."
Thomas blinked in shock.
"Of House Telroy?"
"That's the one," small man continued. "And by breaking my oath of service and fleeing, I have forfeited my office and no doubt incurred a rather significant bounty on my head. Half the kingdom, I'd wager."
Thomas could hardly believe the small man's claims.
"If you're so precious, why'd you leave?" Thomas scoffed, "Maybe you did get those things of a corpse someplace."
Anton rose to his feet "Believe what you like but that doesn't change the facts of the matter."
Thomas' blood ran cold.
"But if what you say is true, then why tell me? Unless you plan to kill me now."
Thomas stared at Anton, and the wizard stared back. After what seemed like an eternity, the black-cloaked man sat down again.
"Because... I can't use my powers anymore."
"You what?" Thomas stifled a laugh. "What, did you run out of wizard juice? Not so high and mighty now that you have to use your own two hands like us peasants."
"It's not that I am unable," Anton explained, clearly annoyed "it's that I... refuse to. The price is too high."
Now Thomas was just confused, but he paused a moment to regard the figure before him. He seemed genuine enough, and a waver in his voice betrayed a deep pain, though it could be that he was a marvelous actor. Wizards could be tricky like that. But still, Thomas found himself sympathizing with the strange man, who seemed to be even smaller now. Vulnerable, scared. Like a falcon with a broken wing. For a moment, Thomas weighed what he'd said. He knew a thing or two about wizards and magic, all of it second-hand from travelers and townsfolk who'd been on the receiving end of extortion, threats, and worse from such characters. The noble houses all plucked up all the wizards they could, as sanctioned by the king, and employed them in an official capacity as advisors. In practice, a lot of wizards had less advice to offer than brute strength and destructive power, summoning balls of fire or bringing trees to life to destroy the homes of those who failed to pay their taxes. Thomas had heard it said that these powers came with a physical cost, but wizards could train to endure it and learn to apply their abilities more efficiently. So what was different about this one? Thomas decided he'd interrogated the man enough, and was satisfied he wasn't a threat.
"Well if we're going to get to Pottsfield before dark. Put some dirt over the fire, and go rinse the dishes and pot in the stream over yonder" Thomas instructed as he started dismantling the tent. Now it was Anton who was confused.
"You'll help me?" he asked with hesitation.
"Not really," Thomas cheerfully dismissed without looking at the wizard, "It just happens that I'm on my way to Pottsfield too, and since I fed you the least you could do is carry some of my gear along the way."
Anton wasn't sure how to respond, so he gathered up his things and secreted his satchel back under his cloak before gathering up the cookware.
The two had made quick work packing up and picking their way back to the road. Anton wasn't keen walking the road, but hoped walking with someone would attract less attention to him. They had been walking for a while when Thomas finally broke the silence.
"So, if you don't mind terribly, could you explain why you can't use your magic, exactly?"
Anton frowned. He did mind, and he did mind rather terribly, but he knew there'd be no end to his guide's curiosity until he explained.
"Well, there are different kinds of wizards and different kinds of magic," Anton explained.
"I know that" Thomas stated bluntly. "I've seen wizards, and I've seen what they can do. It's not pretty."
"Yes, I suppose you've probably run afoul the destructive wizards the nobles use to... keep the peace" Anton said, wondering just what the state of public sentiment for wizards was outside the noble classes.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Thomas asked with a sideways glance.
"Uh... nothing at all. My point was that most people, especially in these rural areas, are likely to only encounter wizards like pyromancers, cryomancers, botonomancers, etcetera. You're much less likely to encounter the academic wizards, the psychomancers, mechanomancers, celestimancers, the list goes on."
Thomas nodded. "I know there are wizards who do things other than terrorize the common folk."
"Some people are born with magical potential, but most aren't. Those that are have to figure out exactly where their talents lie so they can be trained up into greater power. Some talents are extraordinarily rare, like the chronomancers who warp time itself, or in my case..."
Anton cast a wary glance around and lowered his voice, "Stochastimancers."
Thomas stopped dead in his tracks. "A stochastimancer!?" he blurted out in disbelief.
Anton pressed both hands against the hunter's mouth to quiet him.
"Keep your voice down, will you?"
Thomas was unfazed. "There's no way you're a stochastimancer. They're supposed to have died out. Some say they were never more than a myth."
"It's no myth," Anton explained "it's just that people of my talents tend to have very short and unpleasant careers."
"And why's that?" Thomas asked as they continued walking. "You're lucky, right? Lucky on command, any time you like. Like having a big ol' spigot of luck you can open up and let flow until your problems are solved."
Anton bowed his head a moment, then stopped. He picked up a pebble of the road and continued walking.
"Let me show you something. Take this pebble and put it in your hand. I'll look away, and don't tell me which hand."
Thomas wasn't sure where this was going, but he fully intended to outsmart this wizard at his own game so he turned away and dropped the pebble into a pocket of his vest.
"Alright, now what?"
"Now," Anton said with a wave of his hands, "I will point to the hand with the pebble."
Without opening his eyes, Anton stabbed his hand out and pointed. To Thomas' surprise the man's finger wasn't pointing at either hand, but at his vest pocket.
"I'll admit, that's pretty nifty" Thomas conceded.
Just as Anton opened his eyes, his foot caught on a rock and he fell flat on his face.
Thomas started pulling him back to his feet, and watched as Anton spat out a rock and licked a chip that had appeared in one of his front teeth.
"See what I mean?" the wizard asked pointedly as they resumed walking.
Thomas wasn't sure what just happened, so he looked at the man in silence.
Anton sighed. "Magic doesn't give power without a cost, and that cost can neither be mitigated nor redirected. The destructive wizards suffer physical pain and exhaustion proportional to whatever they do. The academic wizards lose a memory for every bit of information they divine through magical intervention. The creative wizards lose coordination of their own limbs and digits the more they rely on their powers to craft and construct. Stochastimancers, suffer misfortune equal to the luck they produce."
Thomas nodded, the horror of the wizard's lot in life becoming apparent.
"So when you were working for the nobles..." he began.
"...I was the most potent good-luck charm imaginable." Anton finished.
"The Lord Telroy had me present for every tournament, diplomatic meeting, hunt, or any other occasion where he wanted to bet, bluff, or blindly charge forward with the confidence that I'd make everything work out in his favor. If he failed, it'd mean whippings for me."
Thomas thought of the scars he'd seen on the small man, and wondered just how many times Lord Telroy had been unlucky.
"So you left" he concluded.
"Tried to leave," Anton corrected. "His Nobility the Lord Furthorp Telroy The Sixth does not accept resignation letters. Worse, it occurred to him that I didn't need to be physically present to suit his needs, so after a couple escape attempts I was furnished with a personal cell in his dungeon, shackled and guarded at all times. It was a furnished cell with a real bed and I had my things in it, but it was still a prison and I was still in chains. A messenger would visit periodically to read Lord Telroy's commands and describe how he needs his fortunes adjusted, and I would suffer the penalties. I went deaf in one ear, broke several bones when bricks would randomly fall out of the dungeon's ceiling, and once developed and extremely irritating itch that I couldn't quite scratch until I finally escaped."
"And exactly how did you manage that?" Thomas wondered aloud.
Anton smiled a moment as he relived the events.
"My guards had the great luck to be granted a day off thanks to a minor clerical error. It was small amount of good fortune, since their commander set them straight only minutes later. I also had the good luck for one of my shackles to come loose on its own, a defective lock that worked itself loose I suppose, and I was able to get loose on my own from there."
"And the cost of all that... uh, good luck?" Thomas prompted.
"The dungeon commander had the foresight to scatter broken glass on the floors, the guards spotted me as I ran, and my bloody footprints made it that much easier to follow me. That was three days ago, and I've been running ever since."
Thomas's curiosity seemed satisfied for the time being, and Anton didn't feel like reliving any more. The two continued to walk a while in silence.
Thomas wasn't sure of what to make of all this. A fugitive stochastimancer, a daring tale of misfortune and escape, and now... what?
"Why Pottsfield?" He asked after a long while.
Anton gave a shrug. "No specific reason. It looked far enough on the map that I could hide there, and I hoped I could lose any guards in the forest."
Thomas nodded, as good of reasons as any.