What Is The Magic System Like In 'Foundryside'?

The magic system in 'Foundryside' is called scriving, and it’s one of the most innovative takes on magic I’ve seen. Scriving works by convincing objects to behave differently than their physical nature allows. It’s like hacking reality—carving commands into objects that make them defy logic. For example, a wheel can be scrived to believe it’s rolling downhill even on flat ground, making a cart move without horses. The system has strict rules, though. Commands must be precise, or they fail catastrophically. The more complex the scriving, the more likely it is to unravel, sometimes with explosive results. What I love is how scriving mirrors coding—layers of logic that can be buggy or brilliant. The protagonist, Sancia, is a thief who can 'hear' scrived objects, giving her a unique edge in a world where entire cities run on this magic.

In 'Foundryside', scriving isn’t just magic—it’s a blend of linguistics, physics, and corporate espionage. The system revolves around sigils, which are like magical commands etched into objects. These sigils rewrite an object’s 'reality' temporarily. Imagine a sword that believes it’s heavier than a mountain when swung, or a lock that thinks it’s already open. The catch? The commands must align with the object’s original purpose, or they fail. A chair can’t suddenly fly, but it can be scrived to never break.

The power dynamics are fascinating. Four major merchant houses control scriving, treating it like intellectual property. They weaponize it—creating unbreakable walls, unstoppable soldiers, and even floating platforms. But there’s a darker layer: scriving drains a resource called 'lexicons,' ancient artifacts with pre-written commands. The more lexicons a house owns, the more powerful its scriving becomes. This creates a brutal monopoly where knowledge equals power, and theft of scriving designs sparks wars.

Sancia’s ability to interface directly with scriving adds a cyberpunk twist. She feels the magic as a 'voice' in objects, letting her debug faulty commands or exploit weaknesses. The climax reveals scriving’s terrifying potential—when layered commands start rewriting human minds, not just objects. It’s a system that starts as industrial revolution-era coding and escalates into something nearly Lovecraftian.

If you’re tired of generic elemental magic, 'Foundryside' delivers something fresh. Scriving feels like a mix of alchemy and hacking—magic as a corporate tool. The merchant houses use it to build impossible architectures, like gravity-defying towers or streets that clean themselves. But the magic has personality. Objects resist illogical commands; a scrived knife might 'argue' if told to cut through steel like butter.

What’s clever is the cost. Scriving isn’t infinite. It relies on lexicons—massive, ancient slabs inscribed with foundational commands. These are scarce, making scriving a resource to hoard. The system also has terrifying loopholes. Early on, a scrived carriage crashes because its command to 'always stay upright' didn’t account for ice. Later, we see scriving so advanced it alters human perception, making people ignore a door unless they know it exists.

The protagonist’s unique skill—hearing scriving as whispers—lets her cheat the system. She detects flaws in commands, like a hacker spotting backdoors. The finale reveals scriving’s origins tie into a lost civilization’s godlike tech, hinting that the magic is far older and weirder than anyone suspected. It’s a system that starts as quirky and ends up cosmic.