
Flush Out
A handful of salt across the ground. Anyone standing still and pretending not to be there stops being able to.
- 4 Piercing +0.40×Wits
- clears Invisible
All 229 of them, with AP, cooldown, range, targeting and the exact effects each one applies. Read out of data/abilities/.
Every ability the content layer loads, out of the twenty-five files in data/abilities/. Numbers are the authored ones — what a cast actually does once armour, height, flanking and school rank are applied is on the Combat page.









Abilities have no art of their own yet, so a row wears its school's glyph. The icon field in the data names one — ico_wrd_aimed_shot and the rest — and nothing has drawn them.

A handful of salt across the ground. Anyone standing still and pretending not to be there stops being able to.

Low, short, and twice. They will not be able to explain what happened either.

The first one is the only one that has to be quiet.

You stop being where the argument is.

A thrown needle, wet at the tip. It is not the needle that does it.

The smoke arrives first. You arrive inside it.

The second measure, for someone who has already had the first.

Poured where they will have to walk, an hour before they walk there.

Everything up to now was arranging this.

Enough smoke that the room has to guess, and you never have to.

You stop being something that can be moved.

You make yourself the only reasonable target, loudly and by name.

They committed. You were waiting.

You tell an ally to hold. They hold.

A short, unglamorous push that puts them where you want them.

Set your feet and widen. Until your next turn you take the hits meant for whoever is behind you.

You are suddenly between them and it. Nobody saw you move.

You say the words. Everyone within earshot stands a little straighter.

Nobody in this circle falls while you are still in it.

Back, all at once, and standing where the animal was.

It is not fast. It does not need to be fast.

Thorn growth erupts through the ground. It blocks nothing and kills nobody -- it simply makes the ground expensive, and it cuts what walks on it.

Not much of a wind. Enough of one, in the right place, at head height.

A wound is an interruption, not a fact. Standing in living ground makes the argument considerably easier to win.

The ground between you stops being a consideration.

Twice, low, and away again before the arm comes round.

You stop being in a hurry about anything.

Down onto four, and the distance to the far side of them halves.

Growth accelerated past what the body would have chosen for itself. It is not comfortable and it is not meant to be.

Up, and out of the argument entirely for a little while.

The growth closes. Anything already stripped of its physical armor is held where it stands -- and everything else simply notices the thorns.

A bloom of spores fills the air. Nothing sees through it, and nothing breathing in it stays healthy. Keep a torch well away from it.

All of the height, spent at once, on one person who was looking the other way.

Whatever it has hold of, it has hold of until it decides otherwise.

A stand of growth that was not there a moment ago, and intends to stay. It spreads while it holds, which is the whole point.

Cheap displacement. Does not knock down -- it only moves them, and off a ledge is still off a ledge.

A measured shot. Height advantage widens the wound.

A committed swing with whatever is in your main hand.

A lance of compressed flame. It punches through, then keeps burning where it lands -- ideal for lighting an oil slick you laid last turn.

Drags a line of ember across the ground between you and where you point. Denies a lane rather than killing outright.

Detonates the air over a patch of ground. Whatever is already burning there feeds it.

A slab of the floor, stood on its end.

The ground closes around the ankle and thinks about it.

A layer of the world, worn.

The ceiling was load-bearing. Was.

A ring of it, and everyone inside is somebody else's problem.

Slowly, from the feet, and then not slowly.

You take the floor away from underneath them.

All of it, downhill, at them.

It was here before the fight and it will be here afterwards.

You are not going anywhere and neither are they.

This ground is spoken for.

Nothing grows here and nothing burns here.

You put a hand on it and it stops.

Straightforward, and entirely sincere.

Whatever they were wearing, less of it.

Named, in front of everyone, and it sticks.

The verdict, delivered.

No element of any kind, for anyone, for a while.

Cuts poison and bleeding out of the blood.

Struck once, it agrees with everything metal in the room.

Goes off on impact. Finds any oil already down and takes it with it.

Restores vitality. Poured into someone at zero, it puts them back on their feet.

Thick and slow. Whatever is standing in it stops being sure-footed, and starts being flammable.

Sand that was struck by lightning, persuaded to do it again.

Burns green. Do not stand downwind of your own tactics.

Restores vitality. Poured into someone at zero, it puts them back on their feet.

Rebuilds an armour layer -- which also re-gates every hard control aimed at it.

Rebuilds an armour layer -- which also re-gates every hard control aimed at it.

A proper meal. Only between fights, and worth stopping for.

A proper meal. Only between fights, and worth stopping for.

Restores vitality. Poured into someone at zero, it puts them back on their feet.

Rebuilds an armour layer -- which also re-gates every hard control aimed at it.

Rebuilds an armour layer -- which also re-gates every hard control aimed at it.

Restores vitality. Poured into someone at zero, it puts them back on their feet.

A proper meal. Only between fights, and worth stopping for.

Soaks the ground and everyone on it. Wet things freeze, and wet things conduct.

Cracks open cold. Standing water becomes standing trouble.

Rebuilds an armour layer -- which also re-gates every hard control aimed at it.

Porous, light, and full of something that is not.

Calls one name back across. They arrive standing, and no better than that.

The long version of the same argument, and it wins by more.

For the ones still upright and no longer present. Cuts fear and charm, and gets the floored moving.

Fulgurite dust in brine. Charges anything already wet.

One turn of being somewhere else entirely.

Restores vitality. Poured into someone at zero, it puts them back on their feet.

Rebuilds an armour layer -- which also re-gates every hard control aimed at it.

Rebuilds an armour layer -- which also re-gates every hard control aimed at it.

Rebuilds an armour layer -- which also re-gates every hard control aimed at it.

A proper meal. Only between fights, and worth stopping for.

Marsh-drawn and patient. The pool does more than the throw.

The ledger is settled in the only currency it has ever accepted. Yours will do.

The tithe is taken from the part of them that was never anybody's business but the ground's.

One toll. It takes nothing off them that a living body was using.

Three of them, stood up together, and none of them standing up again afterwards.

Blood already spilled is blood already owed. It answers faster than the kind still in a body.

Eight tolls closed the account. This is a renegotiation.

Nothing dramatic. It simply stops mending as fast as it is coming apart.

Not raised. Kept. There is a great deal of difference and all of it is paperwork.

Every pool on the field remembers whose it was. Called all at once, it comes back the long way -- and brings company.

Death is a debt, and the Ledger keeps both columns. One name is called back across it -- once, loudly, and at a cost the caller does not name aloud.

They come down the terrace in order, which is the part nobody is ready for.

It takes. That is all it has to do today.

A dose small enough to be useful.

It has to go somewhere, and it is not staying here.

Whatever they were relying on, less of it.

The ground itself is the dose now.

It settles. It is patient. It is not going anywhere.

It has been working for several turns. This is the invoice.

Everyone who has been near anyone.

Whatever is going around, it is going around them.

You do not need to hit them. You need to hit the floor.

A small, cheap, entirely serious flame.

Thick, slow and patient. You are the light.

A line nobody sensible crosses.

Bright, sudden, and it leaves the ground hot.

Burn it back to bare ground and start again.

It follows you, and it does not go out.

All of it, on one of them.

Everything flammable within nine metres, at once.

You spend a turn you have not had yet.

You open your own arm and swing harder for it.

You are not finished. You have decided this.

They will not be going anywhere quickly.

One swing, everyone in front of it.

A pulling cut. It opens armour and skin in the same motion.

Everything within reach, twice, and the floor is red afterwards.

For something that is already finished and has not noticed.

Everything you have been putting off, at once.

A short distance, instantly, without crossing what is between.

They come to you, and they are not consulted.

You are behind them. This was not negotiated.

The wall stopped being relevant.

The distance was never the point.

Away, all of it, at speed.

A hole in the argument.

You take the surface out of the world entirely.

Everything within nine metres agrees on a new centre.

The least impressive thing in the codex, and the one you have copied out twice in case the first goes.

It was not yours. It is not yours now. It is simply, briefly, in your hand.

A copy of a copy of a hospital charm. Whatever it was for originally, it holds a body together.

A season, folded small, and then let go of.

Someone wrote this to be read once, at the end of something. It has been read four times.

Nine syllables in a hand nobody teaches any more. The paper browns as you say it.

It is written sideways in the margin of a ledger, in a hand that stops halfway through the last word.

Out, cleanly, before anyone decides to follow.

You work out where this one is going to be.

From behind, where the plates do not meet.

Cover the ground and the gap in one motion.

You let it come, and then you did not.

A handful of something unpleasant, and then nothing to aim at.

A boot in the right place at the right moment.

You were there a moment ago. Everyone agrees on that much.

Three quick cuts, none of them worth much alone.

Calls a bolt onto a marked patch of ground. Unremarkable on dry stone. Devastating on standing water.

One target, then whatever is unlucky enough to be standing near them. Charged water carries it further than air does.

Three metres that nobody accounted for.

The weapon carries whatever you brought with you.

It goes on afterwards, to whoever is nearest.

Hit, leave, and be somewhere else when it lands.

It hits the plate and the mind at the same time.

Find the note the armour is holding and hold it back.

You arrive with the weather.

Both layers, at once, and neither of them ready.

Everyone in reach, in one continuous motion.

The floor is now part of the argument.

It goes where the water is, which is rarely where you pointed.

A small, precisely-timed interruption.

You take the charge out of them and put it in the ground.

Two directions, both of them bad.

You put more into it than it can hold.

Nothing works for a moment, and a moment is all it takes.

Every wet thing in the room, in order.

It has been building for a while. You simply stopped holding it.

Buys back a sliver of the turn. Never enough, always tempting.

Fold the distance between here and there. Costs the same whether you go two metres or twelve -- which is the entire point on a free-form AP budget.

Rebuilds both armour layers. Because control is gated on armour, this does not merely heal -- it makes them immune to being stunned again until it is stripped.

Closes wounds and smothers what is still burning on them. Does nothing for armour.

A single ringing note that lays ward over everyone standing near you.

A spike of black ice. Bites hardest into anything already soaked.

Boils the ground moisture around you into a blinding curtain. Breaks line of sight without breaking contact.

Launches a compressed globe of water hard enough to bruise through a ward and leave its target soaked.

Pulls a squall down over a patch of battlefield. Deals almost nothing on its own -- it is a setup, not a kill.

Flash-freezes standing water into a sheet of ice. Anything caught with its ward already stripped locks solid.

Not a miracle. A competent piece of work.

A spear of it, straight through.

You cannot hit what you cannot see, and neither can they.

Clean water where there was none. It will matter shortly.

It washes off. Most of it.

The floor stops being a floor and starts being a decision.

Steam is water that has stopped being polite.

Everything within reach stops moving, including the air.

It arrives all at once and takes them with it.

A slower song, for them.

You give away a turn you were going to spend badly.

Everyone moves further, and nobody notices they are tired.

Not encouragement. Instruction.

It gets into the plate and stays there.

One more, out of nowhere, and it changes the round.

All of it, spent, at the moment it matters.

The song everyone knows and nobody wants to hear.

Everyone, at once, and then quiet.

A clay head that breaks wet. Somebody else brings the fire.

It arrives cold and the ground argues about it afterwards.

You point. That is the whole of the command, and it has taken four years to make it that short.

What a hound does to prey: grip, and do not let go.

Slow, deliberate, and it goes exactly where you sent it.

One note off two fingers. It has been waiting somewhere out of sight since before the fight started.

Marsh-drawn, and it keeps indefinitely. Unfortunately.

Through the foot, into the ground.

Two of them, and neither of them is the good one. They work by there being two.

Not one arrow. Not aimed at one person.

A hooked line. Drags them off the high ground and into your reach -- position is the damage.

Thrown, not cast. Coats the ground and everyone on it. Does no damage whatsoever -- that is somebody else's job.

A plate-splitting overhead. The knockdown only lands once their physical armour is gone -- until then this is just a very good hit.

A wide sweep that opens armour and skin alike. Best swung into a crowd that has already been softened.

A fan of caustic spit. The pool it leaves keeps working after the turn ends.

Three committed swings instead of one. Each is worth less on its own; together they outrun anything you could do with the same points, and they leave the target bleeding.

Rips a strip of the floor upward and forward. Petrifies once the ward is stripped.

Two passes through everything in front of you. Half the weapon behind each pass, and twice as many chances for a surface to matter.

A pull on the rope. Nothing anyone would write down.

Most of the job. None of the reputation.

A well without a lining is a hole that is going to fall in.

You put a well where there was not one. It will not last, but neither will the fight.

Not thrown. Run, the way you would run a stream through a field.

The water comes up under them, and everything it touches remembers being touched.

Everything in the water discovers which way the water was going.

It was never yours. It was the village's, and the village is standing here.

You have been holding it back the whole fight. You stop.