The Binding Threads are a weapon and an implement infused with magical power that allows the wielder to root an opponent to the spot. Their use is often accompanied with a great roar. Some wielders make a point of striking the opponent with both the weapon and the implement (usually a rod) simultaneously when they employ its magic.

They are a popular choice with warrior-magicians who work with Imperial magistrates, as well as with a number of wardens and Dawnish war witches who especially appreciate the ability to keep a fast moving or fleeing opponent in place where they and their allies can get to it.


  • Form: Weapon. A pair consisting of a one-handed weapon and either a rod or a wand. You must be wielding both the weapon and the implement to use the set's magical properties.
  • Requirement: You must have both the ambidexterity and magician skills to bond to these items.
  • Effect: You may spend a hero point to call ENTANGLE when you hit with this weapon or implement. You cannot use this ability if you are wearing armour.
  • Materials: Crafting the Binding Threads requires seven measures of dragonbone, seven measures of ambergelt and three ingots of green iron. It takes one month to make a pair of these items.

Tassato was crowded, every street awash with revellers, and two brightly costumed actors were taking wine at a street table.

"So: your rod and blade lose their enchantment in...."

"A week. Made just after the festival last year. And yours?"

"Two months. And between us we have?"

"36 rings and two measures of ambergelt."

"Not the seven of ambergelt, and Prosperity knows how much dragonbone we need then?"

"No. Nor the three ingots of green iron..."

"That presents a problem..."


An apothecary's shop, some minutes later.

"My good man, we are but humble actors, who leaven our poor work with minor magics. The leader of our humble troupe was mortified when a critic accused us of wallowing in the third act of "The Captain, the Chamber and the Coin" Wallowing! Pride damn him! A little short of pace perhaps, but the needs of the magic... Hearing this, our director flew into such a fury, and sent us out into the busy street to fetch such fine materials as are required for a Mantle of the Mountebank."

"A what?"

"You have not heard of it? Why, the most useful of robes for such as ourselves! Once we fetch our wardrobe mistress the requisites she'll run one up in a month, and our Captain's penultimate speech will be a mere minute! Not the two he needs now... Why, the improvement to the scene will be immeasurable!"

"I have not. I'll check, but I have not..."

The apothecary turned and reached for a heavy book, the collected notes of years of study of the craft, and rumours and tales gathered from artisans across Empire.

"No, there's no mention of such a... Ah."

A sharp pain at his kidney, the trademan froze.

"Indeed... Robbery. We may not be actors, but our need is just as great as some crass ham caught butchering a classic. You'll excuse the affront, I hope?"

"Perhaps no masks to be worn in your shop in future? Or may I advise retaining the services of a bravo?" added the other, as he emptied the contents of small drawers, bowls and bags into a sack.

The door shook with three hammering blows as a long-haired woman in the hood of an Imperial thief-taker crashed in.

"Halt in the name of the Empire!"

"Really? Or will it be you who halts..." said one of the robbers as he took guard.

Thrust and parry, riposte and beat. Glassware crashed to the floor and tables of stock were over-turned as the two circled and probed. In a flurry of blows, the advantage of short blade and rod versus long sword in a confined space was clear. With a final balestra and lunge, the thief-taker's defences were pierced. She stood rooted to the spot, blood oozing from her shoulder.

"Murder is such a foul word, and its penalty so severe... But that's simply a scratch, and with a lead of ten heartbeats? I doubt you'll catch us..."

The other booted the back door of the shop, and the pair were away...

An alleyway, shortly afterwards

Panting a little, the pair removed their masks and stripped off their gaudy outer garments, revealing serviceable leathers underneath. Emptying the sack onto the alley-floor, one counted measures and ingots, while the other unfolded cloaks.

"Do you know, that feels better already. Back to our true selves. Time for a holiday, I believe. Some Company will be hiring, of a certainty. Shall we to a low tavern, the sort frequented by fighters and those who like to think of themselves as such?"

"To start a fight, and see who's watching?"


"The Cozido?"