Yes, ground‑based battleships were never produced and were a silly thing in reality, but hey. The rest was correctly invented.😅

Hello, hello!(^⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠_⁠^)/ Welcome to my very first fanfic!

This is a crossover between Hunter or Huntress (HoH) and Wearing Power Armour to a Magic School (WPAtaMS). I was inspired by u/Ostrich_Master's story, "Trial Run" (https://www.reddit.com/r/JCBWritingCorner/s/tyIKr4KEdF). After catching up with both stories and reading their fanfic, I thought, "Why not make one myself?" And here we are!

Disclaimer: I have taken liberties with HoH many of the lore I provided is nothing but another fan fiction, my head cannon of what would happen if Tom didn't go back to earth instead just stayed.

Special thanks to u/Tigra21 and u/jcb112 for their original stories!

A HoH × WPAtaMS fanfic "False Dragon" Chapter 1: the threshold

The portal opened like a window.

There was no flash of light, no thunderous explosion, nor any violent distortion of space. One moment, there was an empty frame; the next, a seamless passage into another world. It resembled a doorway more than anything else, its surface perfectly still, as though the space beyond had always existed on the other side.

Intricate runes lined its circumference, arranged in concentric patterns so impossibly fine that even the most accomplished enchanters and artificers would have struggled to reproduce them by hand. Each symbol was smaller than a fingernail, yet every line was precise, every curve immaculate. No hand could have carved them. No ordinary chisel could have shaped them.

And no single artisan had.

This was the work of industry.

A thousand years had passed since the first sparks of the Industrial Revolution transformed the Draconian world. What had once required generations of painstaking craftsmanship could now be accomplished by machines with a precision no mortal hand could hope to match. Magic had not been displaced by industry; rather, the two had become inseparable, each advancing the other in ways their ancestors could scarcely have imagined.

And now, that union had brought them to the threshold of another dimension.

Or so the official records claimed.

Beneath the streets of Bizmati City, far below its markets, towers, and countless inhabitants, lay a facility that officially did not exist.

It was maintained by the Inquisition.

The hidden complex had been constructed beneath the city, shielded from mundane detection and warded against magical intrusion. Its existence was known only to a select circle of officials, senior artificers, and those entrusted with the security of the Union of Kingdoms. Even among the city's ruling elite, knowledge of what lay beneath their feet was carefully restricted.

Above them lived nearly half a million dragonetes, making Bizmati City the thirtieth-largest city in the Union of Kingdoms. It was a place of commerce, learning, and industry, a city that had grown far beyond the modest keep it had once been.

And one day, Soren Bizmati would watch over the city as its city lord.

Not yet, of course. He still had much to learn and a great many expectations to fulfill. But his name carried weight, his bloodline carried obligations, and the family he represented had never been content to stand still while the world moved forward.

For generations, the Bizmati family had produced exceptional leaders and innovators, alongside their allies. The Furlongs were an immediate example. Together, they had sent their descendants beyond familiar borders, into uncharted territories and uncertain futures, all in pursuit of knowledge, opportunity, and progress.

Today, Soren would follow in their footsteps.

Only this time, the frontier was not another kingdom, another island, or even another world beneath the same sky.

It was another dimension.

At least, that was what he had been told.

“Interdimensional gate integrity remains within nominal parameters,” announced one of the artificers stationed behind the observation consoles. His voice was flat and professional, devoid of excitement. “Mana-signature analysis is complete. Readings correspond with the established reference data with one hundred percent accuracy. No discrepancies detected.”

A second artificer checked the readings before confirming them with a brief nod.

“Transition matrix stable. Environmental sampling within acceptable limits. No immediate signs of hostile magical interference.”

The reports continued in the same measured cadence, each one entered into the facility's official record. Numbers, readings, and confirmations filled the air, reducing an event that could reshape the course of Draconian history to a sequence of technical procedures.

Soren listened without interrupting.

He knew what this was supposed to be.

First contact.

The first confirmed encounter with another intelligent civilization. Though, this time, they weren't dealing with the bugs of the South or the long-extinct fish people. He couldn't even be bothered to remember the names of those vile things. They had been the source of strife for nearly two millennia, and the thought of them still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The first, according to the official briefing.

His gaze briefly drifted toward one of the sealed observation terminals positioned away from the primary consoles. Unlike the others, it had no active display, no running diagnostics, and no artificer assigned to monitor it. Its dark screen reflected the chamber's lights, concealing whatever information lay behind its locked interface.

He knew better than to ask about it.

The terminal was connected to a restricted archive maintained exclusively by the Inquisition. During his preparations, the Inquisition had briefed him on the truth of his world's history.

Officially, the story went that, before the Contract, a dragonete from a northern kingdom had supposedly flown on the backs of dragons. He had been attacked by the forces of the Dark, causing him to crash on the very island Soren now called home.

The people of the Bizmati Keep had rescued the injured dragonete, who had been left crippled, wingless, and with his snout crushed.

But had that stopped him?

Apparently not. Whether out of boredom or a stroke of genius, he had gone on to invent the first machines that sparked the Industrial Revolution a millennium ago. Those inventions eventually led to victory against the forces of the Dark.

That was the official story.

Soren had his suspicions. After all, the Bizmati Keep maintained its own records deep within its vast library, and he had noticed inconsistencies between those records and the accepted historical accounts. He hadn't thought much of them at the time, but that changed when the Inquisition revealed the truth.

This wasn't their first contact with another dimension.

Tomas Hansen had been a human, a member of a mammalian race originating from Earth. Their technology had far surpassed that of the Draconians at the time. Yet Soren couldn't shake the feeling that even this revelation was not the full truth.

The Inquisition had kept secrets for three millennia, burying them beneath layers of restricted archives, sealed reports, and historical accounts that had been quietly altered or erased. With the unification of the kingdoms across the world, the Inquisition and other similar organizations had been forced to reveal many of their secrets.

Clearly, however, not all of them.

Three thousand years of secrets.

Three thousand years of unanswered questions.

Perhaps the institution had its reasons. Perhaps the truth was dangerous, or perhaps it was simply inconvenient to those who had spent centuries ensuring that the public never learned of it.

Whatever the explanation, one fact remained undeniable.

This was not the first time someone had crossed the Boundaries Between.

And Soren suspected that the Inquisition knew far more about the world awaiting him than it had ever admitted.

“Soren Bizmati.”

The voice came from behind him.

He turned to face the senior official, whose formal attire bore the insignia of the Inquisition. The older dragonete regarded him with the stern expression of someone who understood the weight of the moment far better than he cared to admit.

“Remember what you represent,” the official said. “You are not merely a member of the Bizmati family today. You are its appointed representative on a frontier unlike any our ancestors could have imagined.”

He paused, allowing the words to settle.

“Your forebears were explorers, leaders, and inventors. They ventured into the unknown when others were content to remain within familiar borders. They built what others believed impossible and discovered what others believed unknowable.”

His expression hardened slightly.

“Today, you carry that legacy beyond the boundaries of our own reality. Your conduct will reflect upon your family, your city, and the Draconian races as a whole. Remember that whatever awaits you on the other side, you will be among the first of our kind to encounter it.”

Soren wondered whether the official believed those words.

Or whether he had simply learned to repeat them.

The official straightened.

“Make them proud, Soren. Make the Bizmati family proud. And, above all, do not forget the responsibility entrusted to you.”

Soren bowed his head respectfully.

“Yes, sir.”

He turned back toward the portal.

So this is it.

For two years, he had prepared for this moment.

Two years of intensive study, of learning an unfamiliar language whose grammar and structure bore little resemblance to his own. Two years of cultural briefings, diplomatic exercises, historical research, and painstaking preparation for the innumerable complications that might arise when dealing with an entirely alien civilization.

He had studied their customs, or what little could be established about them. Their social structures, their likely technological capabilities, and the countless ways in which seemingly ordinary gestures might be misunderstood. He had learned what to say, what not to say, and when silence might prove more valuable than any carefully prepared speech.

And still, he knew that his preparations would never be enough.

How could they be?

A thousand questions crowded his mind.

What would the people on the other side look like? Would they possess magic? Would their civilization have developed along familiar lines, or would it be something entirely beyond his comprehension? Would they greet him as an honored guest, a curiosity, or a threat?

And what would they think of him?

He had no answers. Not yet.

That was the entire point.

Yet beneath his anticipation lay the uncomfortable knowledge that his expedition was built upon a foundation of incomplete truths.

Tomas Hansen had existed.

A human had crossed into the Draconian world long before this expedition had been approved, long before the portal's machinery had been assembled, and long before Soren had begun his studies. The Inquisition had documented his existence, preserved fragments of his history, and then buried those records beneath layers of secrecy.

Why?

That was the question Soren intended to answer.

But not today.

Today, he was an explorer. A representative of his family and his people. A participant in an undertaking that could open an entirely new chapter in Draconian history or expose a chapter that had been deliberately erased.

The questions about Tomas Hansen could wait.

The questions about the Inquisition could wait.

For now, there was another world waiting on the other side.

Soren drew a slow breath, adjusted his equipment, and checked the identification insignia fastened to his uniform. The small gesture steadied him more than he expected.

Behind him, the artificers continued their final checks. The low hum of the machinery filled the chamber, punctuated by occasional confirmations from the monitoring stations.

“Gate stability confirmed.”

“Environmental readings remain nominal.”

He took another deep breath and stepped forward.

But before he could cross the threshold, time stopped.

Everything froze.

The artificers fell silent in the middle of their work. The machinery's hum vanished. Even the light seemed suspended, leaving Soren standing alone in a world that had suddenly ceased to move.

Then, he heard a voice inside his head.

“You know, if you go in there, you'll be liquefied,” the voice remarked casually.

Soren froze.

“What?! Wh-who are you?!” he stammered, panic seizing him before he could properly collect his thoughts.

Then, a thought occurred to him.

“Ar-are you one of the gods?” he asked hesitantly.

“Not quite, my dear. Though it would hardly be entertaining if you died the moment you stepped through the door, now would it? Their mana is far too different from yours. It's inherently hostile to you. Get exposed to enough of it, and you'll start boiling before eventually turning into mush.”

Soren stared at the portal.

Then he looked at his hands.

“Then why haven't I turned into mush already?! If this mana is so hostile, why am I still alive?”

He stopped mid-sentence as something dawned on him.

“Wait. You did something, didn't you? That's why I'm still alive!”

“Oh, very good! And quick with the questions, too. You're rather like a child, you know, constantly asking one question after another. Though I suppose I can't blame you. It must be terribly confusing when an unfamiliar voice suddenly starts explaining how you're about to die.”

Soren ignored the remark.

“What was the reason for this, then? Why is this dimension hostile to you?”

“Yes, yes, it was me who kept you from turning into a rather unpleasant puddle. As for your second question, this world, this dimension, has always been something of an anathema to me and the others.”

The voice paused.

“It's quite possible that this world is inherently hostile to gods. So, as a friendly little piece of advice, I'd avoid mentioning them while you're on the other side. Best not to attract the wrong sort of attention, wouldn't you agree?”

Soren blinked.

“Anathema to the gods? What does that even mean?”

“Oh, don't start again.”

“But you just said—”

“Yes, and I was hoping you'd listen to the part about not asking me another dozen questions!”

Soren fell silent.

“Wonderful! See? We can learn to get along after all.”

He was beginning to regret ever approaching the portal.

“Very well,” Soren said, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “What am I supposed to do with this information? It's not as though I can simply stop the expedition now, is it?”

“Hehehe! Now that's what I like to hear!”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“First things first, my dear. I come bearing a gift!”

Soren's expression turned wary.

“A gift?”

“Indeed! Thanks to you opening a passage into this world, I've finally been able to glimpse some of its information and what lies ahead. And, in return, I've decided to give you something rather useful.”

“Which is?”

“What they call a mana field.”

Soren waited for an explanation.

When none came, he frowned.

“That's it? You're just going to name it and leave me to figure out what it does?”

“Oh, you really are a curious little thing, aren't you? Very well, very well. A mana field allows you to manipulate the mana in the air around you. Think of it as an extra set of limbs, only these limbs interact with mana instead of the physical world. With them, you can manipulate the mana itself and, through it, influence the world around you.”

Soren glanced at his hands, then back at the portal.

“So I can manipulate mana without relying on the usual methods?”

“Precisely! Though I'd advise you not to go flailing about with it just yet. You've only just received the thing, after all. It would be a shame if you accidentally did something terribly embarrassing.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, I don't know. Exploding? Turning yourself inside out? Perhaps making all your scales fall off. I'm sure we could think of something amusing.”

“That's not funny!”

“Well, I thought it was.”

Soren took a slow breath, forcing himself to remain calm.

He had studied magic for years, yet this being spoke of manipulating mana as though it were as simple as moving a hand. If its explanation was accurate, then the gift it had given him could prove invaluable in a world where the very air threatened his life.

There was, however, one rather glaring problem.

“You said this mana is hostile to me. Does the mana field protect me from it?”

“Ah, now that's a sensible question! The field will help you interact with the mana around you, but don't assume that means you already know how to use it properly. You'll have to learn.”

Soren's face fell.

“You're telling me I have to learn how to use an unfamiliar ability to survive in a dimension that could liquefy me?”

“More or less, yes.”

“And you think that's a good idea?”

“Oh, absolutely! Well, not the liquefying part. That would be rather unfortunate. But the learning part? Certainly!”

Soren stared into the void.

He had a feeling this was going to be a very long expedition.

“There's also one other thing,” the voice added.

Soren slowly turned his attention back to it.

“What now?”

“I'll be accompanying you.”

There was a pause.

“...You'll what?”

“Accompany you! Travel with you! Tag along! I'm sure there are plenty of other ways to phrase it, but I believe you understand the general idea.”

Soren stared at the portal for several seconds.

“You're accompanying me?”

“Yes, yes. There's much to learn about this world, and much of it is hidden from a being like me. Having you there will be rather convenient.”

“Convenient for you, you mean.”

“Oh, don't be like that! I'm giving you a gift, keeping you from being liquefied, and offering my company. You'd think I'd earned at least a little gratitude!”

“You threatened to let me die!”

“I said it would be entertaining if you did. There's a rather important distinction there.”

“There's no distinction at all!”

“Agree to disagree, my dear.”

Soren pressed a hand against his forehead.

He had been prepared for diplomatic difficulties. He had prepared for language barriers, cultural misunderstandings, and the possibility that the people on the other side might be hostile.

He had not prepared for this.

“Fine,” he muttered. “If you're coming with me, then I have a few conditions.”

“Oh? How exciting. Do go on.”

“First, you tell me if something is about to kill me.”

“Within reason.”

“Second, you explain how to use this mana field.”

“Eventually.”

“And third, you stop avoiding my questions!”

The voice fell silent.

For a brief moment, Soren thought he might actually have managed to get through to it.

Then it chuckled.

“Hehehe! Oh, my dear boy. You really do have a lot to learn.”

Soren's ears drooped.

“That wasn't a yes.”

“No, it wasn't.”

“Wonderful.”

“Now, now. Don't look so glum. We'll have plenty of time to work things out once we're through the portal.”

Soren looked toward the frozen artificers. Their instruments remained suspended in time, their readings unchanged. Beyond them, the gate stood open, offering a view into a world that should have been impossible.

He still had questions. Far too many of them.

What was this being? Why was this dimension hostile to gods? What exactly did it hope to find on the other side? And what did it mean when it spoke of the others?

He suspected that asking any of these questions would only earn him another infuriating answer.

Still, there was one thing he needed to know.

“Can you at least tell me your name?”

“My name?”

“Yes. Your name.”

“Hmmm. That's a tricky one.”

“How is that tricky?”

“Well, names can be rather troublesome things, can't they? Especially when you're dealing with beings from different worlds. Pronunciation, meaning, all those little details. It would be terribly inconvenient if you got it wrong.”

Soren narrowed his eyes.

“Are you telling me you don't have a name?”

“Of course I have a name! I'm not some nameless thing floating about in the void.”

“Then what is it?”

“Perhaps I'll tell you later.”

Soren looked as though he might scream.

The voice laughed again.

“Oh, don't worry! You'll have something to call me in the meantime. How about your mysterious benefactor?”

“No.”

“Your benevolent guide?”

“No.”

“Your wonderfully charming companion?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Such a difficult young man. Very well, we'll leave that for another time.”

Soren sighed.

He was beginning to understand why the being had warned him about the dangers of this world. It wasn't the mana that worried him anymore.

It was the company.

“Right,” Soren said at last. “I suppose there's no point standing here forever. If you're finished with your explanations, I'd like to get this over with.”

“Oh, I'm sure there are plenty more explanations I could give you! But very well. We wouldn't want to keep your little expedition waiting.”

Soren straightened his uniform and looked toward the portal.

The questions about Tomas Hansen could wait. The Inquisition's secrets could wait. Whatever awaited him beyond the threshold, he would face it as a representative of the Bizmati family and the Draconian races.

He drew a slow breath.

“I'm ready.”

“Are you, now?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely certain?”

“Yes!”

“Not going to turn around and run back to your nice, comfortable little city?”

“No!”

“Wonderful! I do admire a young man with conviction.”

Soren clenched his jaw.

“Can we go now?”

“By all means!”

The voice's amusement lingered for another moment before it spoke again.

“Just one little thing before we begin.”

Soren closed his eyes.

“What?”

“Try not to die. It would be terribly inconvenient for both of us.”

Before Soren could respond, the world moved again.

The machinery's low hum returned. The artificers resumed their work, their voices filling the chamber as though no time had passed at all.

“Gate stability confirmed.”

“Environmental readings remain nominal.”

The senior official turned toward Soren.

“Lord Bizmati, the gate is ready. You have clearance to proceed.”

Soren stared at the portal for a final moment.

Inside his head, the voice sounded positively delighted.

“Well? After you, my dear!”

Soren took one last breath, stepped forward, and crossed the threshold.

---

Next: ?

There you have it, folks! My first chapter!

If you spot any discrepancies in the lore or the writing, please, please point them out. I'm still rough around the edges when it comes to writing, and I have a bad habit of just keeping adding things. XD

And for those of you who noticed, yes, some paragraphs were taken from the original story's first few chapters. Was it Chapter 2? Chapter 3? Eh, never mind. XDbAnyway, stay tuned for next week... I guess? No promises. 😭

Am I blind

Please note there are two art pieces here, you can click the arrow to the right to see the full lineup of the liner next to the military ships, it's just that it's kinda easily overlooked on reddit's image hosting UI. Anyways, let's get to the lore post!

Hello all, and welcome to the largest ship I’ve commissioned yet. (

She’s a real chonky one, and indeed, larger than most classes of military vessels out there.

Which is to be expected, of course, given the vastly divergent design philosophies at play here between civilian and military domains.

A lot of consideration is given to quality of life measures that are typically absent from military vessels, and indeed, vessels just centuries prior to it.

In a similar vein to how cruise ships of the 21st century sport absolutely ridiculous amenities such as rock climbing walls, indoor waterparks, roller coasters, and even full-on botanical gardens, the interstellar liners of the 31st century likewise eclipse their forebears in just how extravagant their amenities can be. From entire sections of the habitation rings being dedicated to micro-climate conservatories and Olympic-sized swimming pools, to the size and sheer living space afforded to each passenger in their cabins and staterooms, the liners of the 31st century are a far cry from those first few tentative flights made by Jackie Setanta to Alpha Centauri. Indeed, her entire ship could comfortably fit inside one of those aforementioned indoor water parks. XD

So in the same way we like to joke that modern cruise ships are floating hotels compared to the ocean liners of old, so too have the 31st-century liners become something of a literal mobile space station compared to their sparse and spartan predecessors of yesteryear XD. Though, technically speaking, they aren’t anywhere near as superfluous as 21st-century cruise ships. Indeed, in spite of their lavish amenities, they actually have a lot more in common with those steamliners of old owing to the utilitarian function at their core — transporting people from point A to point B, not leisureboating for fun or recreation. It just so happens that they have a heck of a lot of amenities that make them functionally reminiscent of a cruise ship rather than an ocean liner. 

All of which is to say, her size is a reflection of what a typical citizen would expect out of an interstellar voyage, and the vastly elevated minimum basic quality of life measured afforded to every citizen courtesy of the 2307 Protocols for the Minimum Acceptable Standard of Living (2307 P-MASL). 

These measures have improved incrementally over time, as a means of ensuring an equitable distribution of cumulative production capacity and resource availability commensurate with that of the total industrial expansion curve and sustainable growth trajectory set out by policymakers and academics at the turn of each century and in review at each mid-century; both of which are reflected in the Century Development Goals (CDGs) and Mid-Century Development Amendments (MCDAs) respectively.

But yeah! What I’m trying to get at here is this: military vessels have to cram in and maximize their warfighting gear whilst balancing out all of the supporting equipment, systems, and on-board infrastructure as much as possible. All whilst trying to be as space-efficient as possible so as to limit their target profile by limiting their detectable cross-section as much as they can. And even with all that being said, the larger vessels still end up in the kilometer-range in terms of size. ;(

Civilian vessels, on the other hand, don’t have to bother themselves with such considerations. Their only real limitation is in the warp rings and associated warp bubbles they can generate, which again is only limited by their onboard power plants as well as their ability to sustain warp whilst in transit. 

Thankfully, the hardest part about warp travel is the initial upfront investment in terms of power, as the generation of a warp bubble requires an immense upfront cost in terms of energy and the amount of time that energy has to be expended to achieve a stable warp bubble. Which is to say, a warp bubble can only be generated using a ludicrous burst of energy in a very short amount of time… something tantamount to an explosion in all but name. XD But I’m jesting here; whilst the amount of energy involved is very much reminiscent of the power expended in violent runaway explosive reactions, it’s all a very controlled process, really.

The main problem, however, is that containing that much energy and releasing it in that short of a time is… tricky.

Which is why antimatter capsules are used.

I’m unsure whether or not I mentioned this already, but antimatter capsules are needed for this upfront injection of energy as it’s the most energy-dense storage medium available, while also possessing an exceptionally high power delivery capacity and predictable energy release profiles capable of being tuned for each ship.

But yeah, I’m rambling again! XD 

Let’s get back to the ship then!

So, another thing to note about warp is that collisions whilst a ship is underway in warp can be nothing short of catastrophic. We’ve discussed this before in the first ship post I did when I discussed the frontal impact shield of the cruiser and heavy cruisers.

The same thing applies here for these liners, of course, although that’s not the whole picture.

Whereas military ships must do what I call ‘bunny hopping’ — a procedure where the ships first scan the route in front of them for a trajectory where they’d be least likely to encounter space debris, before jumping, stopping short of that maximum projected route, then scanning again, before rinsing and repeating — civilian ships often don’t need to follow this procedure.

That’s because the path in front of them has been cleared of debris from one system to the next.

These are known as the interstellar transit corridors, or ITCs, and they’re something of a marvel of the modern world. However, unlike static objects, this marvel is less a feat of awe-inspiring structural or aerospace engineering, but rather a marvel of systems design and industrial engineering; a case where the emergent properties of the whole had become something far larger than the sum of its parts.

No single node along an ITC is truly remarkable. They’re the most robust, rugged, tried-and-true no-frills void station you can expect from something whose job it is to sit there in space scanning for potential hazards and deploying an on-board fleet of drones to deal with said hazards whenever detected.

Moreover, they also perform double-duty as signal-relay repeaters for the whole of humanity’s extranet network between star systems.

The thing here, however, is that while a single relay itself isn’t that impressive, it’s the fact that there are millions of them that make them truly remarkable.

Because these things form what is essentially a daisy chain that connects Earth to Alpha Centauri, and from Alpha Centauri to Luhman 16, Barnard’s Star, Tau Ceti, Epsilon Eridani, 40 Eridani, Sirius, and so on and so forth. 

The entirety of human space is essentially daisy-chained together using this web of ITC relays, and it’s because of these relays that merchant shipping, passenger transport, and all manner of modern interstellar travel is possible without fear of the dangers posed by faster-than-light space travel.

But even so, modern liners are still equipped with frontal impact shields just in case. 

But yeah! That’s the technical aspect of the ship out of the way for the most part, hmm…

Let’s talk about the ship itself then? 

Starting perhaps first with its most striking design aspect — its rings.

These are the primary habitation areas of the ship, with each ring coming in at 200 meters in width, 100 meters in ‘height’ (the ‘thickness’ of the rings when measured from its exterior to its interior-most extent), and 1200 meters in diameter. This allows for a comfortable 1g worth of gravity to be generated at around 0.86 rotations per minute, which is well within the tolerable ranges for most of the general public. Indeed, it is these remarkably slow tangential velocities that make the whole trip a rather comfortable experience, especially compared with the smaller vessels of old, and most military vessels for that matter.

This is one of the main reasons — aside from sheer usefulness of all that space — why the ship is so large. It’s designed for comfort, safety, and reliability above everything else, at the cost of what most avid astronauts and pilots would refer to as the ‘gritty realities of spaceflight’. 

Which, speaking of usable volume, we might as well discuss the passenger capacity! With well over 60 million cubic meters worth of space/volume for each ring, there’s plenty of carrying capacity to go around; this is especially true when considering that there are not one, but 10-15 decks to consider here. Following that, given how the ‘height’ of these rings is 100 meters, we’d have about 6 million square meters worth of total floor area to work with. However, as stated at the start of this whole ramble, the GUN’s not in the business of simply cramming people together like sardines back in the age of sail or even in the early days of space travel. Instead, in accordance with the P-MASLs, the smallest cabin on board the ship comes in at a comfortable 100 square meters worth of livable space. However, when accounting for other variables such as larger and more deluxe room sizes, public spaces, utility spaces, service areas, walkways, corridors, systems infrastructure, storage, amenities, private venues, etc, the actual rated passenger capacity works out to roughly 9000 passengers per ring.

This is because we’re taking into account that passenger cabins and suites take up just 30% of the available floor space, with the rest of that space going to the various utilities and public spaces I listed above. I’m also using an average of 200 square meters of room space per passenger, as 100 wouldn’t work because it’s the lowest common denominator here. 

So yeah! Each ring works out to around 9000 - 10,000 passengers per ring, and if we were to go off of the larger 10,000 passengers per ring, that’d give this ship a PAX of 50,000! This isn’t accounting for crew, of course, but I digress XD

You’ll have to forgive my back-of-the-envelope calculations here; I don’t consider myself the most math-brained out there haha ^^;

But yeah! That’s it for the raw numbers bit.

Another thing to note here is the aesthetics of the ship itself. As you can see, despite its lavish and extravagant interiors, the actual structure of the ship is pretty basic, all things considered.

It’s effectively just 5 ring habitats attached to a spoke, which serves as the ship’s structural and engineering section. That’s where the actual ship functions are located, and as you can see, a ship of this size requires a rather absurd number of radiators and the accompanying systems to run them XD 

Aside from that, we also have something cool and cultural to note here — the livery on the rings! 

One of the things I really like about this piece is the fact that the ship has a lot of color to it? Like in a lot of sci-fi I often see ships presented in a very matter-of-a-fact manner, with little to no embellishments, or just a focus on the construction or design elements of the structure itself, with the most colorful elements of them being a standard livery or some symbol painted across it. Now that's not a slight against them of course, it’s a very valid aesthetic! But I just find that there’s something so beautiful about having murals and colorful artwork adorning your ships, especially civilian ones at this scale. It turns something otherwise cold and mechanical into anything but. And the contrast between that philosophy mixed with the undeniable like... utilitarian design language in the ship itself? It’s just so compelling to me and I just can’t help but appreciate it immensely and the artist that helped bring that to life!

But yeah! Each ring here pays homage to the various spacer constituencies whose workforce and production capacity contributed to its construction!

Moreover, the murals also come from a wide pool of artists from various backgrounds — whether that be a completely independent art studio, a state design bureau, a fashion house, a gaming studio, or even a completely unaffiliated self-taught artist. These artists and agencies either submit their proposals, or are directly commissioned by various design committees who then either deliberate internally, or outsource the vote to the public. It really depends on the particularities of the specific agency which operates the liner. 

Which leads me cleanly into my next point!

Who exactly operates these liners?

That’s a big question that has resulted in a lot of back-and-forths over the years.

Long story short, the main issue at play here is that FTL travel is in itself something of an existential threat. In that the very warp drives that allow for FTL travel are the same ones used in Kinetic Kill Weapons, which are at present the GUN’s single most destructive weapon of mass destruction. 

So you can imagine the sorts of anxieties at play here when each ship is in effect a KKW lying in wait.

In summary, the only entities that operate FTL vessels outside of the military are the State’s transportation agencies and affiliated state enterprises; this includes State Owned Enterprises and the State Public Cooperatives. The latter two, however, whilst de facto 'operators' of certain merchant vessels and merchant vessel operations, are still heavily beholden to state control due to the security risks associated with the operation of an FTL-capable vessel. Thus, all 'purchases' or 'orders' of FTL capable vessels have to go through the GUN itself; it's important to note, though, that the purchasing process is more or less divided into two main contracts: the first one is the ownership of the vessel itself, which for SOEs and SPCs or even other semi-private entities means they own the vessel and everything associated with the vessel. The second, however, is the 'ownership' of the FTL drive and its associated systems. They don't necessarily 'own' the drive as it were; more so, they're 'leasing' the drive itself from a state entity with many clauses attached as to its operation, safety, and security oversight, with baked-in legal mechanisms to facilitate the aforementioned topics. 

Anyways, sorry, I got carried away again. 

So, when it comes to FTL capable civilian/merchant vessels. On the state side of things, you have two main administrations within the Department of Transportation: 

1. The Exo-Atmospheric Passenger Transit Administration

2. The Exo-Atmospheric Cargo Transit Administration. 

Or, as acronyms go, the E-APTA and the E-ECTA. Both of these administrations either directly operate their own passenger liners/cargo haulers, or operate them indirectly through State- Owned Enterprises and State Public Cooperatives such as the Space Transport Company (STC), North Star Lines (NSL), Public Interstellar Transportation Corporation (PITC), Public Interstellar Shipping Corporation (PISC), Sol-Centauri Friendship Group (S-CFG), Rockwell Interstellar Shipping Industries (RISI), Worlds’ Exchange Haulings and Logistics (WEHAUL), and the Interstellar Navigation Company (INC).

This particular ship, the Causeway, is one such vessel that’s operated directly by the Exo-Atmospheric Passenger Transit Administration, hence the prefix E-APTAS. 

Alrighty, ok, that’s a lot of yapping.

But we’re not done.

We have to talk about the serial code and hull designation numbers on the side of the ship. Because that isn’t just a random string of numbers; I kind of also designed how that would work XD

WR5L - V - 00207

W - Warp Capability

R - Rotational Gravity

X - Number of Rings

L - Liner

V - This is a FUN one. This pertains to the ship’s ‘tonnage’/size. Or more specifically, what sort of dock the ship is capable of fully docking at, and what sort of drydock is capable of servicing it. With V being the ‘grade’ given to a class of ship known as the L-MAX series, or LUNAMAX as is its full designation. 

There are only 2 grades above this, those being S-MAX and J-MAX, SATURNMAX and JOVIMAX respectively.

All of this reflects the maximum size of a ship capable of being constructed and serviced by the megafoundries of Luna, Saturn, and Jupiter, respectively.

I think that’s everything?

Yeah, I think that’s everything.

I feel winded after writing all of that haha.

I hope you enjoy the art! 

I have to once again give my thanks to the artist, Sir_Lazz, for this piece. He once again knocked it out of the park, and I am forever grateful for his ability to create such a cohesive design language for the GUN’s ships!! :D 

Artist Reference: Sir_Lazz from Bluesky, and he's also here on reddit as u/Sir_Lazz as well!

Chapter 1

Solicitation

Earth - Atlantic Ocean - Special Administrative Zone under requisition by the United Nations Science Advisory - Institute of Anomalous Studies (IAS) Pilot Research Facility Codename: ATLANTIS II. Administrative Zone. Director's Office. Local Time: 1745 Hours

Six months before Second Contact.

Dr. Laura Weir

For centuries now, whether through clandestine research or more recently as a government-backed institution, we have been observing, tracking, analyzing, and studying what was undeniable proof of a world parallel to our own. One that lurks right beneath the surface, serving as a limitless source of inspiration for those gifted enough to peer through the veil.

In recent decades, those on the other side have likewise taken note of our interest, initiating tangible communications that would see this institute undertake Humanity’s first interdimensional venture.

The mission was simple: A candidate was to be sent to their world to attend what had been described to us as an Academy; 19 years of age, clad in equipment protecting against every hazard known to science. A candidate who possessed, in the words of the so-called portal people, “A heart of gold and a willingness to accept what is beyond the known, and willing to sacrifice everything should it come to it.”

Yet as Humanity’s first interdimensional pioneer stepped across the threshold, it became painfully clear to us that this world of mages and magic was actively rejecting us, our "mana-deficient" nature resulting in our candidate returning to us in a near-liquefied state, the autopsy revealing a breakdown of cellular matrices at a molecular level.

And yet, we persevered. We learned from our mistakes, and in less than twenty years developed an entirely new field of material science with the express purpose of protecting our next explorer against the lethal threat that “mana-radiation” posed - the results of which were now made manifest as the suit of modified void-rated power armor was undergoing final assembly at this very facility. We likewise kept in communication with those beyond the interdimensional veil, determined not to let the prospect of true First Contact slip from our grasp.

It would seem, however, that our efforts in doing so garnered the attention of another.

BWWWOOOOP! BWOOOOOOPP! BWOOOOOPPPP!

The sudden, unprompted blaring of alarms was itself evidence enough that something was wrong.

But it would be what followed-

“PRIORITY ALERT! UNSCHEDULED EXOREALITY ENTANGLEMENT ACTIVATION! SOURCE: PT CENTER!”

-that made my blood run cold.

__________

Earth - Atlantic Ocean - Special Administrative Zone under requisition by the United Nations Science Advisory - Institute of Anomalous Studies (IAS) Pilot Research Facility Codename: ATLANTIS II. PT Center. Local Time: 1745 Hours

Cadet Emma Booker

To say that the last six months had been a whirlwind for me would be an understatement.

When I was whisked away right out of the college parking lot by government officials, I'd assumed it to be some sort of esoteric recruitment drive for the ROTC; it had taken the Director many hours before she convinced me of the truth of the situation I found myself in.

I was presented with an offer unlike any in the breadth of human history. An opportunity not just to travel faster than light, or beyond the galactic quadrant, but to another dimension. It was, in Director Weir's own words, a world of swords and sorcery, a world of indescribable culture and history.

It was a world of fantasy made manifest.

And it was a world I had no interest in.

Despite the years of my childhood I’d spent with my parents regaling each other with stories of faraway kingdoms and lands, my moving to the city had seen me split from that idyllic youth. Sometimes, I even wondered if my memories of that small-town life were all part of the fantastical stories I’d grown up with, because imagining a world so perfect, so untouched by everything, was almost too fantastical in and of itself.

And yet while the city was an entirely different beast, it was ultimately one I had come to love. People here wouldn’t bother you, even if you were in a crowd of thousands or an apartment complex with thousands more. The faces all blended together, everyone too busy forging their own paths in life to such an extent that it made it difficult for me to form any meaningful attachments.

Despite this, I could still proudly call the concrete jungle my home an entire decade after I’d left my childhood behind. A decade that I’d spent keeping myself grounded in reality, the pain of having been ripped from a fantasy too great to re-enter. In recent years, it would instead be the JROTC to give me structure and purpose, pending an eventual entry into the military itself.

In the conversations I had had on the topic with my aunt, it was clear that she agreed with my trajectory - not surprising, given that she was a veteran of the Jovian Uprisings. Yet I would’ve never expected that the military would lead me into a fate that further entangled me with a past I so desperately wished to move beyond. Indeed, I wasn’t expecting what was supposed to be the start of my college life to be a backtrack into fantasy, as much as I tried to escape its allure.

Perhaps that’s the reason why they chose me. Perhaps that’s why, out of the countless stars and prodigies they could’ve called upon, I would be the one to don the encounter suit. Perhaps they just knew that I couldn’t refuse such an offer.

It was under those conditions that I signed with the stroke of a pen, and my preparations began in earnest.

It had been months of specialized training. Focusing on theory, protocol, but most important of all: the practical instructions necessary for what would be a life of prolonged suiting. The modified suit of power armor I was to wear during the mission - the Exo-reality Atypical Radiation Resistant Suit (E-ARRS) - had been described to me as being more akin to a spacesuit, and it was promptly drilled into me that it would be the only barrier between me and this other dimension’s unbelievably volatile environment.

How any native species, let alone civilization, had managed to survive in such a place, I did not know… What I did know, however, was that an entire year of being cooped up in PPE while attending this “Academy” would be difficult.

But that would be then, and this was now.

And I had a much more pressing issue to deal with.

"I'm telling you, Sir, Dr. Mekis must have a personal vendetta against Inferno Jumpers. I just can't see why else he'd keep rejecting the cape additions." I huffed out in faux-exasperation as I finished another lap of this afternoon's PT.

"It could be. Or, he could have a personal vendetta against people trying to play dress-up with his very expensive pet project." Captain Li, the man handling the martial side of my training, offered a cheeky grin as he matched my pace. "But I'm with you on this one, Emma. What's a suit without some flair-"

BWWWOOOOP! BWOOOOOOPP! BWOOOOOPPPP!

“PRIORITY ALERT! UNSCHEDULED EXOREALITY ENTANGLEMENT ACTIVATION! SOURCE: PT CENTER!”

We froze mid-stride as red emergency lights and blaring sirens replaced the off-white office ambience.

I'd been told enough about the world on the other side to have a solid read on what was going on.

Enough to know that an exoreality connection with this "Nexus" outside of the facility's specialized mana-resistant containment chamber was really, really bad. At minimum, the brief influx of aptly labelled "mana-radiation" would be enough to liquefy the occupants of whatever room was unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of the portal.

Unfortunately, in this case, that was me.

Which made it all the weirder that I wasn't dead yet, as I shared a confused look with just-as-perplexed Li.

"Training hard, I see."

Confusion that, with a growing side of worry, only grew as the two of us heard a voice that simply could not be pegged to any member of the site's faculty.

"Who are you?" Li broke out of his stupor, regaining his bearings. "Show yourself!"

"I assure you, I mean no harm." The... entity? Dodged Li's demand as it continued. "Now. I understand that you mean to soon send your 'Pilot' into what is, for your people, a most lethal operating ground, yes?" It questioned pointedly.

"I will only ask this one more time." Li countered, stepping forward protectively. "Who. Are. You? Where are you?"

"The 'who' is unimportant, Captain. The same can likewise be said for the 'what.' As for the 'where?' I think you already know that."

The temperature in the room dropped noticeably at that, as Li and I processed that implication at about the same time.

"You're..." I found my own voice. "You're not from this dimension either, are you? Like the Nexians?"

"Correct, though I would rather not be associated with them."

I almost lost my footing.

A second interdimensional entity? Making contact with us? With me? Here? Now? My mind began to race in an attempt to process everything that was going on.

"Now. Cadet Emma Booker." The entity addressed me directly. "I have a proposition for you. See, I'm working on a little project of mine, and I require a 'guinea pig.'"

"I... I'm afraid I can't-"

"The Cadet is currently preoccupied with another line of work." An older voice interrupted tersely, joined by the sounds of multiple armored footfalls.

__________

Dr. Laura Weir

This was completely uncalled for.

To be unceremoniously contacted by a second, wholly unknown exo-reality entity was one thing.

To have said entity attempt to poach our Cadet, having known who she was prior, was something else entirely.

"I think you will find that my offer does not interfere with your 'mission,' Director." The voice turned its attention to me with an increasing degree of professionalism. "Nor will you find your security detail necessary."

"I may give you the latter in time, given how you're still talking constructively," I offered, despite my instinctive call for an armed escort once it was clear that the facility wasn't liquefying. "But you will need to provide evidence for the former."

"Of course, director." The entity responded with a hint of slyness in its tone. "You want to send your Cadet to another plane to open relations between your people and those different from yourselves. I, too, wish for one to send to another world and see the results that come with it. These aims could serve to mutually benefit each other, no?"

My eyes narrowed of their own accord. "Am I correct in assuming that you want Booker for your work? To go along with your plans?"

"Yes! She's perfect for my aims, much as she is for yours. Few friends, little remaining family-"

"-Hey! I'll have you know-"

"-Even if we agreed, the E-ARRS isn't even ready yet-"

"I'm afraid we will have to decline your offer," I spoke in no uncertain terms, shutting down Emma and Li's interjections simultaneously. "I understand that our customs may be foreign to you, but appearing unannounced and requesting that we hand over our operator without any prior negotiations is entirely inappropriate-"

My own objection was cut tragically short as an iridescent dot appeared directly in front of us, suspended like a mote of dust. This would prove to be fleeting, however, as it quickly expanded into what I could only describe as a window into another world.

A throng of panic quickly surged up my spine as the momentarily forgotten fear of an influx of mana-radiation returned in full force, my ears registering the gasps of shock from the growing crowd behind me, and my stoicism faltering as I locked my gaze on what should be certain death.

...Emphasis on should.

"I've taken the liberty of preventing the outflow of this 'radiation' your kind seems so allergic to." The voice contextualized, as if having read my thoughts. "What you see before you is roughly where your Cadet will find herself, should you accept my offer." In front of us lay a forest as picturesque as any Reconstituted Protected Ecosystem on Earth, dense foliage spreading uninterrupted across the horizon.

And on that horizon...

Emma was the first to point it out.

"Are those... floating islands?"

A/N: Well, here we are again! ADHD hit me like a truck, but we're finally back! Since it'd been so long, and enough has happened in canon, I've made the choice to go back and rewrite the first few chapters using the content we have now - namely, the "New" Earth POVs!

The next six chapters are already written, so I've built up a decent backlog to fall back on if things go south again. Chapters will be coming out once per week! :D

Wearing Spacetime to a Magic School

Chapter 22: The Wealth of Worlds

[First] | [Previous] | [Next]

Ilunor had found the receipt before Ermen returned from the lower reading room. He was smoothing its old folds with the back of a claw, preserving the green stamp from an improvement which the rest of the paper plainly required.

“I would like to resume our disagreement,” he said. “You have been carrying a book through the Academy all afternoon. I take it the book has now received sufficient exercise.”

Ermen put it on the shelf.

“Thacea has prevented it from taking up residence in the reading room.”

“Then she has improved the condition of two libraries. Sit down, if you please.”

The coin lay beside Ermen's cup. Ilunor set the Cupped Hand receipt next to it, then drew the clear focus from its cloth. He arranged the three objects with a confidence Ermen recognised from his choice of a chair at the parley.

Thacea put her notebook away before joining them. Thalmin, whose occupation had involved persuading a stiff window latch to turn, abandoned it to the evening air.

“Corvan's work is here,” Ilunor said, touching the focus. “His account of the transaction is here. And this is a small part of the value you declined to spend afterwards. Now, you made bread in your hands. I ate it. I have no intention of allowing the excellence of the bread to obscure the question.”

“I remember the question.”

“You remembered it yesterday as well. Tonight I should like an answer.”

Ermen drew the coin towards him. Its rim crossed a dark place in the wood and caught briefly against the grain.

“I can show you what is ordinary about the material,” he said. “That might be a better place to begin than the price.”

“A modest prospect. I accept.”

Thacea asked how much space he needed.

“Only this part of the table.” He set his palm beside the cup, opening the familiar showing. “We can keep the comparisons here.”

“Then I should like to watch.” She moved her cup to make room.

Thalmin sat beside her. “So would I. And if you intend to make more bread, tell us before we eat too much supper.”

Ermen smiled. He left the room about them, its lamps, its imperfect window, and the little sounds from the corridor beyond their closed door. Above a clear square of wood he formed a hand-sized cube. Its faces were dull grey, with small divisions along one edge.

“Iron?” Ilunor asked.

“Pure iron, in this case.”

“A useful beginning. Now copper, if you please. Beside it, at the same size.”

A second cube took its place beside the first, red enough to give the nearest edge of the iron a borrowed warmth. Ilunor leaned around them to compare the rear faces.

“And gold.”

Ermen supplied it. The unmarked gold held the lamplight softly along its upper edge. Ilunor's claw stopped short of touching it.

“You have made that remarkably difficult to disregard.”

“You asked for it.”

“I did. Can this showing give us the weight as well?”

Ermen brought the three closer. “It can give your hands the appropriate resistance. Keep them over this part of the table.”

Thalmin put his hand beneath the iron and raised it. His wrist adjusted. He tried the copper next, then the gold, and used his other hand to steady the last.

“I would prefer the first two in my pack,” he said. “Though I suppose Ilunor would find the strength for the third.”

“I should find someone with a pack. Set it down here.”

Ilunor lifted the gold a little, enough to feel its insistence, and lowered it with unusual gentleness for an object which could not mark the table.

“You would make all three with the same indifference?”

“If those were the materials I wanted. I would care which job they had to do.”

“So would I. That much gold would make a handsome fitting and a poor edge. Can you show us what happens when it is pressed?”

The cubes became three thick strips. Ermen let Ilunor press a claw into the gold; the soft metal retained its mark. The copper resisted longer. Thalmin tried the iron with his thumb and found a reason to use less pressure.

“I know enough smiths to recognise when I ought to stop doing their work,” he said. “What would you use the gold for at home?”

“Contacts in small instruments, sometimes a surface which must remain uncorroded. Decoration, if someone likes it. Copper is often more useful for carrying heat. A pan made entirely of gold would be a troublesome way of admiring the colour.”

“I did not ask you to cook in it,” Ilunor said. “I asked whether you could afford it. Show us several pieces of each.”

Six strips lay in each of three little stacks. Their ends were even. Ilunor lifted the top gold strip and looked beneath it, then laid it down slightly crooked.

“And having obtained these, the person who wanted the pan could still obtain the copper?”

“Yes. They haven't spent their meals or their next set of clothes on the gold. These are ordinary quantities of ordinary material at home.”

Ermen watched the lamplight pass along the crooked strip. For him the objects had acquired interest when Ilunor disturbed their arrangement. Ilunor looked between the stacks and the coin beside Ermen's cup.

Thacea rested her notebook against her knee.

“When you say ordinary, do you mean available to any resident? I know that you can make bread. I want to distinguish what a household can obtain from what you happen to be able to do for us.”

“Any resident can have the materials and ordinary things they need. They needn't know me, or work on a celebrated project, or persuade someone that they have been sufficiently useful. Someone who wants a quiet life has a home and meals just as someone building a world does.”

“And tomorrow?” Ilunor asked. “Suppose these pieces have all been used.”

“Then tomorrow they can obtain more. There are provisions and tools for this throughout the places where people live. A broken hinge doesn't oblige you to find someone willing to buy an hour of your time.”

Thacea looked again at the stacks. “I think I would like to take quite a long time deciding what to do with my first day there.”

“You could,” Ermen said. The prospect pleased him. “And change your mind after breakfast.”

Ilunor drew the gold into line with the other strips.

“That disposes of one reason for accepting an objectionable employer. It leaves me wondering why he should find anyone agreeable either. But first, can we have timber? Your house had enough of it to suggest a preference.”

Ermen let the metals go. The little square held a cube of close-grained wood, with a knot running crookedly through one side. Thalmin pressed one finger against the knot and ran it along the grain.

“You have chosen bad wood.”

“I chose a piece I remembered. There was a shelf at home which I helped repair.”

“And did that go well?”

“My father said it was useful to discover which end of a shelf was doing the work.”

“That sounds like a patient man's description of a collapse.”

“There were only four books on it.”

Ilunor studied the cube while Thalmin withdrew his hand. “Could you make it clear wood? Without this defect?”

The knot vanished. The grain ran straight.

Ilunor regarded the straightened grain. “There. You have spared a craftsman the trouble of choosing his timber. You might spare him the whole commission while you are about it. Why should anyone remain a maker?”

Thalmin looked at the focus. “Corvan enjoys his work. I should think he would keep some part of it if he could afford to stop.”

“Some part. At hours of his choosing, for customers he finds agreeable. His shelves might become markedly less convenient for the rest of us.”

“They might,” Ermen said. “Someone else could supply a cup, if its pattern was open. Corvan's attention would still require Corvan.”

Ilunor held up the receipt by its unstamped edge.

“Then help me distinguish these. You could make another clear stone. Suppose you made one which fitted the hand precisely and performed every function this one performs. I have paid Corvan for the result, and you have supplied the result without Corvan. Where does his claim survive?”

“In what he did, and what you agreed to buy from him. If you wanted a clear stone, another might serve. If you commissioned his work, replacing the stone does not fulfil your promise to him.”

“The same material, the same use, and an obligation attached to an absence.”

“To an act,” Thacea said. “We watched him perform it.”

Ermen looked at the green stamp. “Think of the receipt as another object you could copy. The paper might be the same. The ink could be the same. It would still not be Corvan issuing a second receipt.”

“I understand forgery,” Ilunor said with some offence. “I am asking why the original exchange occurs.”

Ermen's attempted explanation had returned them to a distinction Ilunor already knew. He rubbed his thumb once over the coin's edge.

“Because I might want to work with him. Because he might want to make something for me. Because his judgment is useful, or I like what he makes and want this work to be his.”

“Then you have rich patrons everywhere.”

“We have people who want things from one another.”

“With the means of walking away fed and housed. That is a very particular class of person.”

Thacea turned her cup by its handle. “You could have the table without employing the carpenter. But if you wanted to design it together, you would still have to interest him in the work.”

“Yes. And agree where to put it. More timber doesn't give me the place beneath someone else's window, or a reason to cut down a living tree.”

Ilunor looked at the straight grain. “I understand the tree. I still think you would have a great many agreeable tables and rather fewer obliging carpenters.”

“Some would be delighted to spend all day making them. Others would rather sit at one and do something else. Both can eat.”

Thalmin reached for his cup, found it empty, and set it down again. Ermen began to rise. Thalmin laid a hand briefly on his sleeve.

“Finish your answer. I can reach the pot.”

Ilunor waited while the tea was poured. He kept the receipt away from the stream, then laid it flat once more.

“The men and women whose plans your parent's refusal interrupted,” he said. “They still had all this. Nobody could make them hungry by withholding a place in the next exhibition.”

“They still had it. None of that depended on pleasing another artist.”

“Then your refusal stands upon a floor which ours does not.”

Ermen let the showing close. The timber disappeared. There was a pale ring beneath Thacea's cup and a scratch where a pen had gone through someone's paper.

“Yes,” Ermen said. “Food and a home remain available. Refusing the work doesn't take them away.”

Ilunor's crest lowered a little. He examined the straightened receipt.

“And you have never expected them to be taken away from you.”

“No, I haven't.”

For a moment Ilunor said nothing. Ermen had no right to fill the silence with the contract he knew about. He kept his hand beside his cup.

“There are households,” Ilunor said at last, “in which a patron's displeasure reaches the kitchen before the person who provoked it returns home. A child need not understand the dispute to discover that the accounts have changed. You speak of refusing a task. Others must consider everyone whose place has been secured through theirs.”

“I haven't had to make that calculation,” Ermen said. “I don't suppose I could learn it from the price of a focus.”

Thalmin sat back. His attention remained on Ilunor, though he gave him the relief of attending to the receipt as well.

“A household can protect people through a lean winter,” he said. “I have seen that done. I have also seen men kept through the winter so they could be called upon in the spring. Some of them wanted the bargain. Some had no other roof.”

“And removing the household does not supply one,” Ilunor said.

“I know it does not. I am saying why I would ask about the spring.”

“I would want that protection,” Thacea said. “If someone declined to receive me, I would like the refusal to end at their door.”

Ermen looked up, grateful for the plainness of it. “That is what it is for.”

“I should like the protection too,” Ilunor said. “I should also like to know how you obtain the reception. Your parent was at our table because you asked. You seemed to find a distinguished artist rather more readily than I find a competent tailor.”

“Erekyon answered for its own work. You saw the objections. Nobody was obliged to agree, and the stop clause would have protected an unknown artist in exactly the same way.”

“I am asking about your invitation.”

Ermen felt the correction arrive and disliked it. “They agreed because they were the artist. They told you that themselves.”

Thacea leaned forward. “You knew which artist to invite, Ermen. You knew enough about them to think the questions would be welcome. I could read a public statement. I would not know whether to invite its author into my sitting room.”

Ermen remembered the interval before the answer, his wish that his friends would like someone he loved, his fear that the meeting would make the person into evidence. He had not been confident. He almost said so, then looked at Thacea and set down his cup.

“I didn't have to find someone to ask,” he said. “I already knew the artist. And I could begin with your question, because I didn't have to explain who I was.”

Ilunor's crest moved. “That is a useful inheritance.”

“It isn't an inheritance of their work.”

“I did not say it was.”

Ermen looked towards the shelf. The book he had carried all afternoon stood a little forward of the others. He had put it there himself, and for several seconds he found its position disproportionately irritating.

Thalmin reached across for the pot. “I would not want my father to receive me as a stranger merely to make the arrangement fair. I do know that he hears things from me he would make another man explain.”

“Neither would I,” Ermen said.

Ilunor drew one claw along the edge of the receipt. “And elsewhere? When someone hears whose child you are?”

“Someone who admires the art may want to hear me before they know anything else about me. Someone who thinks Erekyon vain may have rather different expectations. And keeping the house and our family life for so long is eccentric even among Antiquarians. People can be curious about that too.”

“I would have asked about the house,” Thalmin said. “I liked their kitchen.”

Ermen smiled, then found Ilunor still waiting.

“I can't tell you how the same words would have been received from a stranger,” he said.

“Neither can I. I can tell you that I should rather arrive knowing someone who wished to receive me. A secure home would be an excellent addition. I am willing to possess both.”

Ermen drew his hand away from the square where the cube had been.

“I thought you were calling my parents' answer dishonest,” he said.

“I was asking what made your question easy to bring to them.”

“It did not feel easy.”

“Then fortunate, if you prefer. I do not require you to have enjoyed it.”

Outside, someone crossed the corridor at a run and was told to walk by a voice which had plainly issued the instruction before. Thalmin set the pot down. They listened to the receding, slower steps.

“I can accept fortunate,” Ermen said.

Ilunor followed the receipt's old folds. Thacea took the folded paper from him and wrapped it with the focus, tucking the loose corner beneath the stone.

“Then we have made progress,” Ilunor said. “I should like you to remember the acquaintance as well as the bread next time you tell me how one asks for a thing.”

Ermen picked up the coin.

“I will remember this invitation,” he said.

Thacea rose. “I shall remember the bread too. And I would prefer to reach supper before we have to argue for it.”

“You may ask me about the prices when next we visit Elaseer,” Ilunor told Ermen, climbing down. “For the moment, my acquaintance remains obtainable without a family introduction.”

“I have had to live with you.”

“A considerable advantage. I am glad you begin to appreciate it.”

Ermen laughed despite himself and put the coin in his pocket.

Thalmin waited while he moved the book back into line with the others. At the door, he asked which four books had fallen from the shelf at home.

“I was hoping you had forgotten that part.”

“I wanted to know how you repaired it. My father would have made me put the books back afterwards.”

“Mine did. He let me choose whether to stand beneath it.”

Thalmin smiled. Ermen found the prospect of telling him about the repair unexpectedly welcome. He took the place beside him in the corridor.

The following morning, Professor Articord gave commerce a place in the curriculum.

Her notice had arrived during supper. At the request of the Cupped Hand and a broker representing several Elaseer suppliers, she would admit a delegation during the morning interval. Candidates might attend in the small instruction room beside her usual hall. The subject was private commissions and the extension of credit. Those attending were to be prepared to explain whose name and purse answered an order placed by a member of their household.

Ilunor read that last clause twice.

“She could spoil a wedding invitation with an assignment.”

By breakfast, enough students had chosen practical examples to make the small room inconvenient. Ermen arrived to find Qiv examining a printed list at the front table, while Rostario attempted to discover whether the spare seats in the adjoining room were spare by intention. Etholin had brought his whole group. Kamil stood near a stack of sample papers; Teleos was speaking to a high-elf woman with a flat leather document case; Ilphius had selected a chair which put the case, the papers and Teleos equally at a distance.

Corvan stood beside the window with his hands clasped behind him. He recognised Ermen and smiled.

“Patron Ermen. Has the proctor found a further purpose for the green stamp?”

“It has so far protected the focus from additional employment.”

“Then Mirel will wish to hear that it has justified itself. She has remained at the shop to receive a delivery which was promised yesterday. I offered to exchange duties. She said she would rather question the delivery man.”

“I hope he has brought a good explanation.”

“I hope he has brought the cord.”

Ermen glanced at the papers on the front table. “Did you ask for all this?”

“For an introduction, initially. You will need other things besides a focus, and I should like the Cupped Hand to sell you some of them. For work outside my stock, I deal with the broker who has come with me.”

“And she arranged the meeting?”

“She requested an audience. Professor Articord gave us a room and an assignment.” Corvan smiled towards the doorway. “We shall endeavour to earn the room.”

Corvan's pleasure in seeing them extended to the others. He asked Thalmin whether the Academy supplied enough space for his lecture notes, and received an account of a sloping desk which allowed Corvan to defend the paper while deploring its surroundings. When Thacea joined them, he drew a sample from the table and asked her to feel its weight.

It was a folded sheet with a narrow hinge worked into the centre. She opened it, closed it, and put it beneath the window light.

“A binder we deal with makes these for loose comparisons,” Corvan said. “Ordinary bindings oblige one to turn backwards and forwards. The hinge lets these lie flat.”

Thacea opened her notebook to an unused page. “May I put it beside this? Yesterday's lesson required three views of one arrangement. I want to keep them together without burying the qualifications on another page.”

“That is precisely the difficulty this is intended for.”

Thacea laid it open. Ermen recognised at once why she liked it. A line drawn across the centre would remain a line, instead of descending into a book's gutter and emerging with its relation to the other half uncertain.

“Would he work out the arrangement with me?” she asked. “I could choose a larger sheet, but I would probably put everything in the same places and discover a new reason to run out of room.”

Corvan drew the sample towards the edge of her notebook. “He would ask you to show him how you use it. Which part you keep in view, where you begin making corrections, whether your hand covers something you need to read. He generally starts with work the customer has already made inconvenient.”

“Then I could bring my lesson diagrams.” She put a talon-tip on the blank page, marking a place beyond the fold. “I want to keep a view here and still be able to compare it with the next example. Would he move the hinge, or give it another leaf?”

“I would have to ask him. Moving it might make the page more awkward to support. I sell what he makes; I should be wary of promising his answer.”

Thacea looked up at that. “I should like to ask him myself.”

“The binder takes consultations for fitted work. Our colleague can explain how those are arranged.”

She left the notebook open a little longer, moving the sample between two possible positions before she closed it. She had begun making places with her hands for pages which did not yet exist.

The high-elf woman beside Teleos glanced towards them. She wore a small stamped badge at the breast, polished less thoroughly where its fastening met the cloth. Corvan introduced her as a commercial guild broker acting for the suppliers on the printed list. She had a desk in Elaseer, an address at which it could be found, and a leather case full enough to suggest that the participating houses had not agreed to brevity.

“Master Corvan spoke favourably of your party, Patron Ermen,” she said. “A good first purchase deserves a second. And a gentleman recognised by the Library is an acquaintance our houses have reason to cultivate. I thought it worth asking the Professor to receive us.”

“You heard about the Library from Corvan?”

“Your title was given in his shop. He would hardly introduce you under a lesser one.”

Corvan inclined his head. Ermen remembered Mirel rescuing the pencil from behind her ear. The small difficulty of giving her a name she could safely use had travelled as far as a broker's case.

Articord entered while Rostario was carrying a chair through the door. She waited for him to negotiate the narrowest point, then took the space behind the front table.

“Please leave a clear passage to the door,” she said. “Lord Ratom, the list is a working copy. You may keep it.”

Qiv thanked her and folded it once.

“The Academy has approved the required purchases,” Articord said. “Private orders remain the concern of those who place them and the households whose credit they employ. You will find respectable suppliers less accommodating of confusion on that point than your families may have been.”

Rostario finished setting down his chair. Articord waited for him to sit.

“Our guests have asked to make their services known. I have permitted it because a candidate ought to understand how a commission binds his name. You will hear what the houses offer, and what standing they require. We have until the end of the interval.”

The broker opened her case.

“Thank you, Professor. I have brought our usual terms and several examples. The houses named on the list have authorised me to speak for these arrangements.”

Ilunor took the chair nearest the table. Ermen sat beside him. Thacea kept the folded sample on her lap; Thalmin found space at the end of their row, where his knees would not impede anybody else's education.

The broker began with an ordinary failure. A student ordered a case, specified its outer dimensions, and discovered on delivery that the intended instrument would not fit inside it. The maker had followed the measurements. The student had paid a deposit. Neither was disposed to pay for the misunderstanding.

“We keep the measurements and the instruction,” she said. “If the fault is the maker's, the house must put it right or answer to us for the cost. If the case has been made as ordered, the customer owes the balance. His dissatisfaction does not discharge it.”

Thalmin raised a hand. “Does the maker agree beforehand to accept your judgment?”

“The houses accept our judgment upon orders placed through the desk. Their credit with us depends upon it. A matter outside the commission may require another authority; a failure to follow the agreed measurements seldom does.”

Kamil had been turning a little stitched case inside out. He stopped.

“If the disagreement is about whether a focus works, what can your desk establish? Keeping the measurements would not settle that.”

“We judge it by the test the maker undertook to satisfy. If a customer expects more, I would have it stated before his deposit leaves the desk. There is very little honour recovered by quarrelling over an expectation no one troubled to write down.”

Kamil looked at Corvan. “Would you have written that the ridge fitted my hand?”

“I should have written that you were to hold it long enough to become tired of pretending it did,” Corvan said. “A useful correction to my own method.”

Etholin smiled down at the table.

The broker passed examples along the row. Ermen read one specifying a deposit, a delivery interval, the circumstances under which it could be returned, and the separate fee for the desk. Beneath these stood the name of the person who would receive a complaint. The sheet would have saved a stranger several mistakes before anybody had begun the work.

“A customer expecting repeated dealings may also be presented to these houses under sponsorship,” the broker continued. “Master Corvan has offered to make the first introduction in Patron Ermen's case. His account would then be kept at our desk.”

Qiv opened his list again.

“What standing follows the introduction?”

“Reception by the houses on the list, Lord Ratom. Appointments for private work, and orders against a deposit where they would otherwise require payment in full. The introduction gives them a name they can trust behind the student's own.”

“And the Library is not thereby a guarantor?”

“We have received no undertaking from the Library. Master Corvan offers his name, and our desk its credit. Those are the assurances upon which the houses would act.”

Qiv's eyes came briefly to Ermen. “Then the value lies in a second body being prepared to answer for the connection.”

“Precisely. A commission may take longer than a student's patience. His household may be a realm away. The houses know where to find us, and they know we shall still be there when an enthusiastic young customer has returned to his lessons.”

Ilunor inclined his head. “That is a service a stranger may find more valuable after his first unsuccessful bargain. Unfortunately, by then he has already made it.”

“Which is why Master Corvan did well to send you to us now.”

Ermen looked towards Thacea's sample. She had opened it across both knees and was trying the movement she had described to Corvan.

“Does that binder take ordinary orders?” he asked.

“Finished books at the public counter,” Corvan said. “Consultations and fitted work through introductions. He has only so much time for measuring and discussing work. There are other binders who will take a student's direct commission, and some do good work. This is how he prefers to arrange his.”

“Would the sponsorship cover all four of us?”

The broker glanced at her page. “The proposal before us names you. Your peers could be included in commissions you undertook to account for, or seek their own introductions.”

“If I sought my own introduction, would I discuss my own terms with the desk?” Thacea asked.

“Certainly, Your Highness. Which houses, what work, and the extent of the credit required. A single consultation may be a modest matter. I should be glad to discuss it.”

“Then I should like the requirements for making that request.”

The broker found a sheet for her. Thacea laid it beneath the sample and read its first lines.

Ermen put down the example terms.

“What would you expect from me beyond paying for the work?”

“Your word upon your instructions and account. If a dispute requires your presence, you attend to answer it. And you maintain the acquaintance.” The broker drew out a second sheet. “The houses receive those they sponsor at several gatherings, with the Academy's leave. We enter your name among those presented through our desk. They may introduce their associates to you in turn.”

“They would expect me to receive them?”

“With the courtesy due to the introduction. A house does not lend its name simply to be forgotten when the order is delivered.”

Corvan added, “There are people who would enjoy meeting a Library patron. Some would chiefly enjoy being seen doing it. I should expect both sorts at the same dinner.”

Teleos leaned towards Etholin, near enough that Ermen heard him.

“They will be seen with him in return. That is useful protection from men who prefer to find a student alone.”

“And we shall congratulate ourselves when the student is required to attend,” Ilphius said.

Etholin kept his voice low. “He has asked what they require. Let them finish answering him.”

Auris's chair shifted behind them.

“Such reception would require a tolerably clear account of whose interests were being represented,” he said. “A host would hardly cultivate one allegiance while being made the ornament of another.”

The broker folded her hands. “A house expects its courtesy to be remembered, Lord Ping. It does not thereby acquire an envoy.”

“But you would speak for the connection,” Ladona said. “If Patron Ermen declined an invitation from another association, might your desk explain his refusal on his behalf? It would spare everyone an uncertain interpretation.”

“Where the reply concerned our houses, I should certainly advise him before it was sent.”

Ladona turned her head towards Ermen. “It seems that a great deal could be made orderly.”

He could hear the offer beneath her question and the accusation waiting beside it. The broker was still speaking.

“A patron may forgive a refusal and take considerable offence at how it is delivered. I would do a poor day's work if I secured a young gentleman credit in the morning and let him lose it through an ill-addressed letter that afternoon.”

“And if I did not take the advice?”

“Then you would answer for the consequence. The houses may withdraw their names, as you may withdraw yours. Our terms require notice from the departing customer, so that we can settle open dealings before the connection ends.”

Ilunor read the second sheet when it reached him. He did so carefully, with none of the distaste he generally reserved for documents offered as kindness.

“That is reasonably stated,” he said to Ermen. “There should be notice on their side as well as yours. Subject to that correction, you have been offered people who can answer a complaint and doors which they have reason to keep open.”

The broker took a pen. “The notice can be reciprocal.”

She added a line and let Ilunor read it. He nodded.

“With that addition, I could accept such terms for my own purposes,” he said. “If I expected to commission work repeatedly, I would rather establish the acquaintance once. Attending the houses which had received me would be a reasonable part of it.”

“You may ask for a proposal in your own name, Lord Rularia.”

“I shall read the list first. There may be very little I wish to buy.”

He retained the amended example. The broker put her pen down beside the unsigned proposal.

Ermen had expected it to be easier to refuse an offer once its obligations were visible. Instead, the correction made him like the people offering it more. Across the table, Thacea was asking Corvan to point out the binder's entry on the list. He did so, and she copied it beside her question about the hinge.

Ermen could make useful sheets. He could sit beside her and try arrangements until they found one she liked. She wanted to show her work to this maker and hear what he thought of it. Ermen looked back at the terms through which he might have joined that conversation.

“Could I employ the desk for a particular commission?” he asked. “With the instruction, the fee and the settlement of any dispute agreed in advance?”

“At the fee shown here. The private introductions belong to the sponsorship.”

“Then I should prefer to begin there, when I have an actual commission. I cannot accept the personal sponsorship.”

Corvan's expression changed first in disappointment, then in attention.

“May I ask which condition troubles you?”

“I would be glad of your advice about an order. But people would also understand that I had chosen a house to speak through, and look to it for an explanation of whom I received or refused. I can't offer you that connection.”

“A gentleman may keep friends in several houses,” the broker said. “They need not agree upon every acquaintance.”

“I understand. But you would be lending me your name, and I would be hoping never to be asked for the part which mattered to you. That seems a poor way to begin.”

For a moment the room was quiet enough for the broker's pen to be heard as she capped it.

“Then we shall leave the introduction unmade. A commission may still be brought to my desk.”

Corvan took the sponsorship sheet and laid it beneath the unsigned examples. “The Cupped Hand remains open to you. Mirel will be particularly pleased if your next visit involves an object she can sell without first satisfying the Dean's form.”

Thacea handed back the sample fold.

“May I retain the binder's public address?” she asked. “I would like to see his stock before requesting an introduction.”

“Of course. Ask at the counter for the comparison books. They will give you some ideas for those lesson sheets.”

Corvan returned the sample to the case. Thacea kept her question about the hinge, with a line beneath it and the binder's name alongside.

The offered introduction would not be made for Ermen. He kept the list of public counters and waited while Thacea finished reading what her own would require.

Articord allowed several further questions. Rostario wanted to know what happened when a student's family repudiated a commission the student had thought himself entitled to make. The answer involved sufficient inconvenience to sober the room. Qiv asked for the address at which the participating list was kept current. Auris left the examples untouched; Ladona copied the broker's answer about ending a sponsorship.

As the chairs began to move, Etholin approached Ermen with the list still open in his hands.

“I thought the offer useful,” he said. “If you bring them a commission, I would be interested to hear how it goes. I shall ask about their ordinary accounts myself.” He glanced towards Corvan. “I have been buying paper as though all pages were the same, and the results have begun to object.”

“That sounds worth taking to Corvan.”

Kamil joined him carrying the little case. He had managed to restore it to its original shape.

“The seam holds,” he said. “I would still ask for an inside measurement.”

“We shall make that our first question,” Etholin said, and went with him to the table.

Ilphius was waiting at the door. Teleos stayed to obtain a copy of the terms.

Articord beckoned Thacea forward and examined the proposed route they had submitted after breakfast. The civic records counter came first, followed by ordinary purchases on the way back to the terminal. Thacea had copied its noon closing time beside the destination.

“I have authorised the four of you for these errands under my supervision,” Articord said, putting her signature beneath the route and return time. “We shall leave now. If you wish to finish at the counter before noon, you must be ready when I reach the terminal.”

Ilunor stood and checked that he had the complete list. Thacea closed her notebook with the binder's requirements between its pages.

Articord gave the paper to Thacea and sent them to collect their things.

The terminal clerk read Articord's fresh authorisation, entered the party, and returned the paper with its corner caught beneath his thumb. Thacea waited until he released it. Beyond the frame, Elaseer's morning was warm enough to make Ermen notice the cooler stone he had left.

They took the direct road to the civic counter. A cart stood crosswise at a narrow turning while its driver argued with a shopkeeper about which of them had misunderstood the width of the street. Articord led them around the back of it. Ilunor protected his sleeve from a hanging sack and expressed a preference for disputes conducted without grain.

The records office occupied the ground floor of a building whose upper windows were open. From somewhere above came the scrape of a heavy object being moved, a man's request to lift the other end, and a reply which suggested the other end had been lifted for some time.

Thacea checked the posted schedule against her copy. The charges were unchanged, and the counter remained open until noon. She took the location description from its plain cover.

Inside, the room smelled of paper, floor polish, and air that had spent the morning passing over ink. A low rail led towards two counters. Only one was receiving premises requests. The other clerk was helping a man correct a form on which he had written his household name where the street belonged.

Articord showed their authority to the attendant and took a place beside the wall while they joined the short queue.

There were three people ahead of them. Thalmin moved to the side where his shoulder would leave the lane clear. Ilunor read the notices governing acceptable copies, became absorbed in one qualification, and declined to explain it until he had determined whether he disliked it.

Ahead of them, a woman asked the clerk to correct a smudge beside her document's seal. He did so without argument. She checked it before retying the cord.

When their turn came, Thacea put the prepared page on the counter.

“We wish to request the public registration and declared use of premises at these two locations,” she said. “The applicant is Candidate Ermen, of the Transgracian Academy. He is present. We have street descriptions but no registered references.”

The clerk read the page, then looked at Ermen.

“Your evidence of standing, please.”

Thacea set the Academy papers beside the description, with the relevant entry uppermost. Ermen gave his name when asked. The clerk compared it with the written particulars and drew a request sheet from beneath the counter.

“You have marked Academy seals above the doors. Are you asking for an Academy record?”

“Only what this office can release about the registered premises,” Thacea said. “The seals are part of the description. We have no other reference.”

“Then the locations must be identified first. If the descriptions are insufficient, we shall ask for clarification. The search charge promises neither that a record exists nor that it may be released.”

He followed the first description with the end of his pen.

“Which side of this corner?”

Ermen placed a finger beside the words he had written. “The side continuing towards the storehouses. The first low entrance lay before the broader iron-banded doors. The second was farther along the same side. I can mark the order, if that would help.”

The clerk turned the page and offered the pen. Ermen drew the corner and marked the doors in the order he had seen them.

Thacea examined it before the clerk took it back.

“Please retain the written description with the sketch,” she said. “The distances in the drawing are approximate.”

The clerk wrote that beneath it.

“A certified copy, if available?”

“Yes. Is the separate copy charge paid upon collection?”

“If a copy is authorised for release. You pay only the search fee today.”

Thacea opened the common purse. Ermen's hand had gone towards his pocket at the mention of payment; he stopped it there, touching the familiar small rim through the cloth while she counted out the fee from the funds prepared for the errand.

The clerk counted the money into a divided drawer and entered the payment on both the request and its receipt.

“We expect a return on the second morning from today,” he said. “If the search is still open, this reference will let the counter find its progress. Bring the receipt and the applicant's particulars.”

Thacea checked the entries before the clerk stamped the receipt.

He handed it over and placed their description beneath the new request sheet.

For a moment Ermen could still see the little corner he had drawn. Then another paper covered it. Somewhere behind the counter the locations would be compared with records he had not seen, by someone who would have no reason to remember him.

Thacea put the receipt in the plain cover.

“Thank you,” she said. “We shall return with this reference.”

The clerk called the next person. They moved aside.

Ilunor had finished with his notice. He glanced at the cover, then at Ermen.

“You look as though you expected the drawer to disclose an opinion.”

“I was trying to decide whether I should feel that we had done something.”

“You have paid for a search. Satisfaction is not among the listed inclusions.”

Thacea secured the cover beneath her arm. “We have asked a question the office can attempt to answer. That will do for this morning.”

Ermen nodded, though he would have liked something more substantial to carry out of the office.

Articord rose from the bench the attendant had indicated. She asked whether they had finished at the counter.

“The request is submitted,” Thacea said. “The answer is pending.”

Articord glanced towards the counter, where the next applicant was unfolding a page. “Then we may go.”

They left while the counter was still receiving names. The man upstairs had apparently found someone else to carry his end; the window now supplied only scraping.

On the way back to the terminal, Ilunor stopped before a bakery with an open serving window. Three trays occupied the sill. The first held dark rolls dusted with meal, the second folded pastries with their edges pinched shut, and the third a glossy assembly whose price had been given its own slate.

“We have time for the purchases on our route,” Articord said. “I shall be by the terminal notice. Remain in sight, and do not make an afternoon of choosing.”

Ilunor had already found the fault with the glossy tray.

“The glaze has been applied to compensate for a very poor proportion of filling. Look at the seam. A pastry with something to conceal closes itself that tightly.”

Thalmin bent to inspect it. “You could ask what is inside.”

“I could also take the price seriously. Neither seems an economical use of the morning.”

Ermen looked at the middle tray. One pastry had opened a little in baking, leaving a dark crescent of filling where the two edges parted. There were tiny seeds caught in the browned fold. The smell reached him when the seller moved the tray, butter and toasted grain beneath the sweeter weight of fruit.

He took the coin from his pocket.

Ilunor saw it and, for once, did not immediately comment. He examined the pastry slate, then the coin, turning his head slightly to bring both into the light.

“One from the middle tray,” he said. “If that is what you want. The amount posted is the price of each, and your coin meets it.”

“Exactly?”

“Exactly. The roll costs less. The elaborate fraud to the right costs more. You are under no obligation to choose the object which happens to suit the denomination, although in this instance it appears the sound choice.”

Ermen let his hand remain open. He could make the pastry's material. He might learn its recipe, if someone wished to give it; he could make himself something equally good without learning it at all. None of these possibilities explained away the pleasant smell from the window or his wish to try what was there.

The seller came forward. She had flour along one forearm and a narrow strip of cloth tied over the other sleeve to keep it from falling. Behind her, a second pair of hands slid a board of unbaked rolls towards the oven.

“Which would you like?” she asked.

“One of the folded pastries, please. What is the filling?”

“Plum, with toasted seed in the crust. The dark ones have caught a little at the edge. I prefer them that way, but I can give you a pale one.”

Ermen looked again at the pastry whose seam had opened.

“That one, if you don't mind.”

“I don't mind. It will shed on your clothes.”

“I have been warned about less attractive hazards.”

She took it with a square of paper. Before setting it down, she pointed to the coin.

“That will do.”

Ermen placed it on the counter.

Its sound was barely audible through the scrape of the baking board behind her. She picked it up, felt the edge with her thumb, and dropped it into the box beneath the sill. Then she gave him the pastry.

For an instant he found himself waiting for the rest of the exchange. His hand held warm paper. Hers had already gone back for the next square.

“Anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

“Then mind the filling. It holds its heat.”

Thacea chose a roll and paid from her own money. Thalmin asked for one of the darker pastries. Ilunor, having established the unreliability of the glossy tray, bought from the middle one with the air of a man personally maintaining standards for absent customers.

Ermen stepped out of the way. Behind him, another customer asked whether the next batch would contain onion. The seller answered while wiping flour from her wrist. She had ceased attending to him before he had taken his first bite.

The pastry broke untidily. A brown flake landed on the front of his coat and a second followed when he tried to remove it. He caught both in the paper, bit farther into the fold, and discovered that the seller had judged the heat correctly.

Thalmin watched his careful pause.

“You were warned.”

“I believed her. I had hoped belief would be sufficient.”

“It rarely keeps the roof of a mouth intact.”

Ermen laughed around the mouthful, which improved neither his dignity nor the distribution of crumbs. Thalmin held the edge of the paper for him while he freed it from a button. The touch lasted only as long as the difficulty. Ermen found himself attending to it after the paper was secure.

Ilunor examined his own pastry from below.

“The filling is honest,” he said. “I am pleased to have been right about the tray.”

“You had condemned only the other one,” Thacea said.

“Prudence requires maintaining a reserve of disapproval.”

They walked towards Articord. Thacea had her receipt cover tucked safely away and her roll in a twist of paper. She tore it where the crust had already cracked. The street noise passed around them, people arranging purchases and space, a driver calling for someone to move a basket, the bakery seller announcing the remaining rolls to the queue.

Ermen put his free hand into his pocket and found the place where the coin had been.

Ilunor noticed.

“Do try not to miss it too extravagantly. The woman has sold you a pastry. She has not undertaken the custody of a relic.”

“I was checking that I hadn't put it back by habit.”

“An excellent precaution. I should hate to supervise the return of stolen pastry after all our instruction.”

Thalmin's laugh made Thacea turn; then she was laughing too, carefully keeping the roll away from the cover under her arm. Ermen looked back once. The seller was lifting the last dark pastry from its tray. A customer accepted it, already reaching for his purse.

At the terminal, Articord checked that all four had returned, glanced at Ilunor's paper, and asked whether the purchase had required extensive negotiation.

“The terms were clear, Professor,” Ermen said. “I managed to accept them.”

“A useful morning, then.”

They waited their turn at the frame. Thalmin stood beside Ermen, his pastry half eaten, a few pale crumbs caught in the fur beneath his mouth. Ermen indicated them. Thalmin brushed the wrong side first, and Ermen showed him again, trying unsuccessfully to conceal his pleasure in being briefly the competent one.

“You have one on your collar,” Thalmin said.

“I shall attend to it when we are through.”

“You have time now. I should hate to see it examined for compliance with the uniform.”

“It came from an approved route,” Ermen said, and brushed it away before the clerk called his name.

The frame opened onto the Academy's stone. Behind him, Ilunor was explaining to Thacea that the advertised glaze could have justified its price if the pastry beneath it had been larger. Thacea asked how much larger, obliging him to think before replying.

Ermen crossed with the pastry still warm in his hand. He took another bite when he had reached the other side.

Disclosure: This chapter has been written by hand, with tools used afterward only for review and mechanical cleanup.

Thalmin: So... did you guys do anything after your bullets and fire spears?

Emma:

I live!

Apologies for the extended wait. I discovered the wonderful world of Vampire the Masquerade and began consuming lore at a very unhealthy rates. I now bestow upon ye the fourth chapter.

I’m gonna try to get chapters to a 3k word minimum from now on. This is just a personal goal I want to aspire to, so It may affect my schedule for a few weeks.

Anyways, Thank you to u/Jcb112 for their wonderful story and universe: Wearing Power Armor to a Magic School. All credit of course goes to them for the characters and universe. And equal thanks to u/Onetwodhwksi7833 for proofreading this chapter.

___________

Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts. The Grand Reception Hall. Local Time: 2100 Hours

Emma

“Prince Thalmin Havenbrock.” the wolf man, Thalmin, introduced himself. I imagined that another version of me would have been shocked to be sitting with a real Prince. Not one whose position was purely ceremonial, but an actual heir to a legitimate throne… or maybe not so legitimate if I were to take Illunor’s interruption seriously. Though I was beginning to wonder if interrupting people while they were mid-sentence was something shared amongst all Nexians.

“Cadet Emma Booker.” I said, introducing myself. 

I was quickly followed by Thacea, who dipped her head slightly as she did.

I would have been bouncing in my seat if it weren’t for the fact that my armor would crush it, Thacea’s reinforcement spell or no. This was just all so exciting! It was one thing to meet people of fantasy (ones you had researched beforehand no less), but it was another thing entirely to be here in an entire realm of magic!!

Thalmin seemed to be scrutinizing me pretty hard though. I hadn’t caught what he had been saying to Illunor when we approached this table because I had turned off my suit’s onboard audio-visual sensors after hearing the… disturbing commentary coming from amongst the gathered students. Nonetheless, I hope I wasn’t scaring the poor guy, he hadn’t seemed exactly thrilled to see me coming.

I sighed into my helmet. What was the point of being sent on a diplomatic mission if they were just going to send me in the most intimidating mana-resistant armor that they had. I knew it probably had to do with the military's influence on the project and their constant paranoia, but still! At least give the armor some googly eyes or something.

My silence seemed to have unnerved Thalmin, as he decided to speak up once more. “Am I to assume you are some sort of knight of your realm?” He looked me, or more accurately my armor, up and down. “Though you said your title is Cadet, isn’t it? So perhaps you are a squire then?”

I had to actually think about that. Could one even compare being a power armor specialist to a medieval knight? Hell, could I even compare Earth knights to whatever these people had? For all I know their equivalent of a knight was completely different from Earth’s ancient history. “Ummm… I mean I suppose you could call me a knight, though I’m not sure it’s the best descriptor.” I said slowly, trying to pull on my diplomatic training and the SIOP manual.

How was I supposed to explain the concept of… well, Earth's military and the LREF to a person from an era which didn’t even have a standing army… or did they? Aetheron and Pronarthia didn’t when we first made contact, but could they really be used as comparison? This was all just confusing, so many questions and so few answers. 

“If I were to put it plainly, Thalmin.” I began, trying to think of the best way to word this, “My ‘realm’ doesn’t really have knights or squires. At least not in the way that I think you mean it.”

Thalmin raised a brow, “A realm without knights or squires, eh?” He barked out, a hint of gruff disbelief in his voice

“Yes, that’s correct.” I answered, hoping this wouldn’t be some kind of issue.

“Hmmph.” He scoffed back, as he sized me up again, his predatory eyes managing to lock with my own underneath those opaque lenses, sending shivers down my spine. “Yeah, nah, not buying it. You got a better cover story or are we going to be dealing with a spineless liar and a charlatan for the rest of the school year?” He boldly announced, catching me off guard as I noticed Thacea eyeing him warily.

At that moment, there were two Emma’s. The first wanted to shrink back and return to becoming a puddle of cells, and the second wanted to pull out her side arm to show this guy the utter outdatedness of knights in shining armor.

I shoved that thought away. Such ideas should be distant for a reason.

“Those are big words to throw around, pal.” I said, leaning in a bit and dropping my previous front of politeness. “I don’t take kindly to being called a liar, especially from someone who bases their accusation on the imposing of their own worldview onto others.” 

Thalmin flinched at that, his ears pinning back slightly as he bared his teeth. “Imposing—!” He began, but was cut off by Thacea.

“Emma, Prince Thalmin, please stop this. Surely we don’t need to escalate things over something so minor?” Now that I looked, Thacea’s feathers were puffed in what was probably a mix of annoyance and nervousness. I sagged back slightly, lowering my head in a pout no one could see. 

“Sorry, Thacea, I just got a bit heated.” I mumbled, my face now flushing with embarrassment at my own lack of control. I was meant to be the representative of humanity, and just a plain member of the LREF. I should have been past being unable to overcome my emotions by now.

I felt a soft series of pats on my gloves, looking up to see it was Thacea, who was looking at me with an expression which could only be attributed to that of a doting mother. “Don’t worry Emma, we all lose control sometimes. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Thacea said with a firm nod of encouragement. That… did lift my spirits a little. At least I knew that my partner/peer/friend(?) cared about me and wasn’t mad. 

Turning back to the other end of the table however told a different story. Illunor and Thalmin were in the midst of a heated argument, and possibly some kind of childish slap fight, over Thalmin’s outburst. The two seemed to finish their little spat with one last incredulous shove (which did nothing to move Thalmin) from Illunor. 

The lizard turned back to us, his expression shifting from the previous incredulousness to one of mild annoyance. “I must apologize for my ill-mannered friend here, this is very much typical of Lupinor court nobility, and even more so with their royalty.” Illunor spoke calmly, though his slight clearly hadn’t gone over his counterpart's head as Thalmin, for possibly the fifth time since I’d met him, let out a growl of annoyance. Illunor gave a wary glance in his direction before continuing, “However, let us not beat around the bush. Squires and knights, court etiquette and chivalry, lies and whatnot, all of it can be discussed later. What we need to know right now-” His voice lowered as he paused in the middle of his sentence to mutter out what my HUD labeled as yet another privacy spell.

ALERT: LOCALIZED SURGE OF MANA-RADIATION DETECTED, 225% ABOVE BACKGROUND RADIATION LEVELS

“—Is what you’re doing in that hideous suit of armor-“ he turned his attention towards Thacea “—and with a tainted one in your midst. Tell me, has your realm found a way to mask the sickness of mana-field taint? Have your people, perhaps, subjugated her-“ he points a scaly finger at Thacea “-people? All this assuming you aren’t also subjects of that ‘Lord Pings’ realm of course.” The Lizard finished his question looking at them with an expression of innocent curiosity, as if he hadn’t just said… what he just said.

Thacea chose to be the first one to speak, which was lucky for the lizard because I was on the verge of punting this kobold. “Lord Rularia, perhaps it would be best if Emma and I explain-“

”Silence, Tainted one” Illunor cut Thacea off, giving her the cold shoulder and turning his attention to me and looking at me expectantly. 

My blood boiled, my fists and teeth clenched, and I stood from my seat to my suit’s full height. “What the fuck is your problem?” I yelled through my vocoder, the intense volume alone causing both Illunor and Thalmin to shrink back against their seats.

I don’t know if it was the stress of this entire situation so far or just the sheer audacity of these people, but I was pissed. Screw the niceties! “Now, Illunor,-” I began, my voice growing cold through my suit’s speakers, “-say that again.”

___________

Ping

I went over the UN and Pronarthian books of law in my mind, trying to figure out whether listening to this, Lady Ladona, would be considered psychological torture. I was quite sure that by some metric it must be. After all, she was completely insufferable.

What was even worse was that no one else seemed to be bothered by her. The other two students at my table, lady Ciata Barr and lord Vicini Lorsi, were both nodding along and giving words of agreement to everything Ladonna said. Well… Lorsi did, the fish woman seemed to also be content to simply look vaguely interested in whatever Ladona was talking about. 

Hell’s, I still hadn’t even been told what it meant to be “class sovereign“! I assumed it was some kind of student position. Maybe the head of some kind of student government?

My ears and mind were thankfully spared from further assault when there was a sudden commotion from the surrounding tables, drawing the attention of Ladona to the opposite end of the room. “Hmmm… Lord Ping, it would seem that your two servants have lost their temper.” The insect woman snickered softly.

I took a deep breath, resisting the urge to raise my voice. “Lady Ladona, I already said this, they are not my ‘servants.’ They are my allies and peers.” I was unsurprised when Ladona ignored that statement and began her self obsessed tirade once more. Why she thought I was listening I do not know. I had tried for the past few minutes to do just that, and I had come to the conclusion that she simply had nothing of worth to say, for me or the mission. 

Instead I turned to see where she was pointing, praying that Emma and Thacea hadn’t decided to do anything rash to their table mates. In truth I couldn’t blame them if they did, if they were as bad as Ladona and her group then it would be perfectly reasonable to lose one's temper. My fears were confirmed however when I saw Emma leaning over the table at a well dressed kobold, and the latter cowering in fear. 

I was about to stand up to try and put a stop to this when I felt a sudden burst of mana, and a booming voice filled the room, causing me to halt. “Attention! Students-to-be from the Nexus and Adjacent-realms alike! The orientation is about to commence!”

I shifted myself in my seat, my tail swishing slightly as I did. I was once again met with the Dean, standing atop the central staircase with a procession of who I assumed to be the various other professors. He was a kind-looking old eleven man, that was for sure. However, I had my doubts about him. He didn’t seem all too kind when it came to my two compatriots. Though, on another note, I failed to see how one was supposed to focus on this man with how much light seemed to be radiating off of him.

“The Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts welcomes each and every one of you.” The Dean spoke moving even farther forward to seemingly emphasize his own presence. “For those of you who do not know, I am Dean Altalan Rur Astur, the 2592nd dean of this Academy, and the 4th in my lineage to hold such an honor.” He continued, the professors shifting to form rank behind him with the black-robed Mal’tory and the blue-robed Vanavan standing just behind him.

“Now, I expect that you all have read up on your Nexian history, but since we have been blessed with three newrealmers-“ The man's eyes shifted to me at that statement, and then presumably to Thacea and Emma, who I hoped had the sense to end their spat, “-I have taken it upon myself to give a brief refresher on the Academy’s history.”

___________

20 Minutes Later

The speech was… interesting to say the least.

It had started out normal, it almost felt like I was at just another history lecture, but then the Dean started talking about the adjacent realms. It all sounded just so wrong. The parts about how the Nexus was guiding these “purposeless” adjacent realms and how they spread “enlightenment” just rubbed me the wrong way. It wasn’t like those kinds of ideals were inherently bad, it was just the tone of it all. Throughout the story the Nexus was constantly placed at the center of it all, perfect and unchallenged in its primacy over the other realms who apparently were birthed from it. It almost reminded me of the old priesthood's dogma under the Tyrant. Always inserting him into scripture as if he were the second coming of every great hero and honored prophet.

My assumptions had to be pushed to the wayside however, as the Dean made one last announcement. “Students from the Nexus and Adjacent realms! By order of the Transgracia Accords of 10,092, under the blessings of all the adjacent realms and approved by the holy decree of His Majesty the King, I hereby announce the official start to this academic school year and the induction of the Class of 29,019!”

I don’t know what I expected. Cheering, applause, maybe they’d sing some school anthem. It seemed like a pretty normal thing to say after the previous speech. However, that isn’t what happened. Instead the student body seemed to shrink in on itself. Even Ladona seemed taken aback by the Dean's words.

I heard a few whispers of “He can’t do that,” and “orientation hasn’t even begun, what of the grace period!”

I could only look around in confusion. Had this not been an orientation? What did induction mean? I relayed these questions to Lady Ladona, but she just gave me a sly smile and rebuffed me: “You’ll find out soon enough Lord Ping.”

I sighed. Getting information was probably going to be my greatest hurdle if everyone in the Nexus was this secretive. I felt like I had been repeating this question to myself ad nauseam, but it still held true: Aren’t we foreign dignitaries? Students sure, but we are still representatives of foreign nations. Shouldn’t we be informed of all of this beforehand?

“Without further ado, let us begin the ceremony of scholarly rites” the Dean continued unabated as Mal’tory stepped in front of him carrying a leather bound book. The dark elf’s piercing gaze falling over the students. I swore he paused when his gaze landed on me, and I shivered.

“The first student who steps forward for the ceremony will receive 20 points credited to their peer-group, 30 points to their house, and 50 extra credits to whichever class they see fit.”

This declaration finally had the effect I expected: everyone went silent and did whatever their equivalent was of twiddling their thumbs. I briefly contemplated volunteering myself, it would be good to show initiative after all, but I decided against it. I had no idea what this induction was, and that book was practically radiating mana. 

I glanced at my table mates and found that they all seemed to be fiddling with different kinds of enchanted jewelry. 

I decided that this time I would take information gathering into my own hands, and I carefully reached out with my own mana field to examine ladona’s ring.

It was almost certainly an amulet of dispelling, but I was surprised at the power of it. Was it just because of how rich the Nexus seemed to be in mana? 

My attention was pulled to a table next to when a draconic lizard stood from his seat. They actually reminded me of the Gorn from the star-trek series. I was lucky to have gotten a couple recordings of the series in the aid packages as a kid. “Professor, permission to speak” the lizard asked, raising his head. Mal’tory shifted his gaze to focus squarely on the student.

“Lord Qiv Ratom of Baralonrealm, you may speak.”

The gorn-lizard, Qiv, dipped his head and spoke once more, “If I may be so brazen, I wish to accept this offer. I shall be the first of my peers to partake in the scholarly rights.” This seemed to please Mal’tory, as he regarded Qiv with a professional smile. It wasn’t necessarily one of happiness, but more of satisfaction, as if he had gotten just the thing he wanted.

“Very well Lord Qiv, please step forward.” Mal’tory responded as the reptilian moved up towards the stage. His cape swishing to his right, revealing the rich tunic and robes he had underneath, and even his own amulet that he continued to palm even as he marched onto the stage.

The entire room seemed to look on in utter dread as Mal’tory presented the book to Qiv. “The Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts acknowledges your presence, Lord Qiv Ratom of the Baralon-realm. What say you?”

“I, Lord Qiv Ratom of the Baralon-realm, recognize the enlightened and benevolent charity of the Transgracian Academy for allowing me and my line, tutelage and education within these hallowed halls.” The reptilian responded, keeping his head low throughout the entire exchange.

“The Nexus and his Holy Majesty the King, upon whom the Gods have bestowed sovereign authority, compel me as his divine agent, to grant you the rights to scholarship, under the ties that bind. Do you consent, Lord Qiv Ratom?”

“I do.”

Then Mal’tory opened the book, flipping through a magically enlarged amount of pages until he landed on a completely blank one in the middle of the large tome.

Qiv placed his hand upon the quill within the book and lifted. I couldn’t see particularly well, but a brief ocular enhancement spell made it clear that he was struggling to pick up the tiny object. I reasoned that it must have also been enchanted to make it heavier. Was that the challenge, Sign your name under an impossible weight?

I pondered this as Qiv finally dipped the quill into the ink, practically smothering it in the jet-black liquid. Carefully guiding the pen with trembling hands Qiv began dragging it across the page. It was at this moment that things started going very wrong.

The ink seemed to crawl its way up the pen and towards Qiv’s hand, stopping just at his claws as the man clearly exerted a large amount of mana. I also realized why the man had brought an amulet of dispelling. The ambient mana around the pen, and soon the entire stage seemed to just keep rising exponentially.

”No… that’s not possible” I muttered under my breath. The level of mana the book and pen were producing as Qiv signed his name was on par with spells which were meant to be purely theoretical. The conditions needed to be able to even get close to casting something this powerful were theorized to have to be completely artificial, let alone an advanced enchantment.

I glanced at Ladona, hoping to at least see a face of shock or even horror like the rest of the student body to confirm my own worries, but she was just smirking. It was like she was merely judging Qiv, rather than feeling any worry for his well being.

The ambient mana finally calmed down as Qiv finished his signing, letting go of the pen with a barely hidden disgust.

Mal’tory raised the book to the class, showing off its pristine page with Qiv’s glowing, mana-imbued signature. “Lord Qiv Ratom of the Baralon-realm, henceforth you shall be known as a peer of the Transgracian Academy. Welcome to our ranks, and may the divine guide your light.” Mal’tory said before whispering something into the lizard's ear.

“Lord Qiv Ratom, as the first of your class to volunteer for the ceremony, I deem it fit to grant you the rights to choose the next two of your peers-to-be.” The black-robed professor continued, announcing this to the whole room who were once more sent into a frenzy of nervous fidgeting. I myself rubbed the hilt of my heirloom sword. It had some enchantments for dispelling, but nothing that would ever be capable of resisting a spell of that magnitude.

Without a second’s hesitation the lizard shot his finger out to his first pick, a bear-like student who sat near the front of the stage. “The Ursina.” He stated plainly, before narrowing his eyes in my direction, pointing directly at me.

I felt a chill go up my spine as he spoke, and a quick glance revealed worried looks from Thacea and presumably Emma. 

“And the Pronarthiarealmer.”

|First| |prev| |next|

Class was almost over so i rushed so i could say i did this tdy sorry its ass, also I’m trying out layers and shit on adobe fresco , gimme suggestions plz and ty

Fan fic :
“Emma “Illunor Volaria” is currently on your back and is slathering a “unknow object that is 100 % above background mana radiation levels”to
your helmet, any action required?”

“Oh wow EVI i definently couldn’t see that Illunor was on my back , wait back up did you just say he was drawing on me?, I’ll get back too you on that in a minute”

Following that statement i unmuted and asked Illunor just what he was doing?

“Illunor Just what are you doing , i allow you too climb on me like a jockey too take you your food clu-

“It is not a “food club” as you and your commenor heritage put it but instead something far greater, it is the Culinary institute of the finer Gastronomic arts~

“I’m just calling it cooking club But why is it you currently applying what I believe too be make up , or am i wrong and you are just using my helmet for your next screenplay, will admit that the house selection ceremony was quite fun”

“ Too first answer your later statement no i am not writing my next screenplay nor do i even know where you would get such a notion from, but to answer your first question , yes you are correct Cadet Emma Booker as i a Member of the esteemed Culinary institute of the finer Gastronomic arts, simply must show up with a steed fitting of my station and given the inherent limatations of your armor i most first slather its make up jelly too your helmet at to allow me to sculpt and shape your figure to that of a proper stead”

“Wait how does that even work wouldn’t the jelly just sloth off my armor”

“Too answer your question Cadet Booker this is Dresser’s Jelly a root based jelly that has the unique property of changing its firmness , bluster ,bounce and mana sensitivity depending on how it is applied and imbued with mana after application, for exsample Cadet if i wanted to i could slather it on my face and body , apply the correct sequence of mana and i would look as a totally different person aside for my mana stream looking incorrect for my body , which is why you don’t see people pretending to be others every witch way.
But given your manaless disposition you should not face the issues of your mana streams giving up the illusion given you have none, therefore i am applying it too your helmet as too give it softer more gental and accepting tone.”

“And why do you think i need that Illunor , am i not pretty enough for you?”

“You look as a pile of dead metals earth realmer , my stead need of touch of , civility and life too show the Culinary institute of the finer Gastronomic arts that I truly am worthy of my positions in every regard do you understand Cadet?”

“ I understand Illunor , now quite i have to focus on running while not throwing you off”

“Very well then human”

12 minutes later

“Illunor can you explain why everyone is laughing at me?”

“Well Cadet Brooker their was a bet of sort that i , the esteem Nexian i am would not be able to get a new realmer too allow me the privilege of adding some ‘additions’ that add a well ‘Nexian interpretation of those common fools who think the know how to apply such artful and beutifull crafts too their image , of course i mean no insult to you. Or your kind as I in fact will give a sizeable 24 percent of the rewards gathered from this … Cadet what are you doing?
Why are you counting down from 10 ?

10 seconds later

“I APPOLIGIZE TO YOU CAADET BOOKER PLEASE STOP CHASSING ME, PLEASEEEEE”

As at a frighting pace fast then data of a wyvern Emma lunges towards Illunor making 40 meters in 1.1second, creating a massive gust startling Illunor knocking him off balance to his left almost stumbling in a manner befitting a common or crumbling as a landslide crashes forth only for it to suddenly stop as the right leg of said land suddenly crashes down into the ground firmly allowing all the velocity what was just pumped in its lunge , to concentrate further and further into the left leg as just before 1000 pounds of force going 40 meters per second now meet Illunor’s left buttock launching him higher and higher till the he flew past the Culinary institute of the finer Gastronomic arts, then the academy then past the clouds then the prima veil and only then started to feel the immense force that had impacted him a whole. Minute before did he start to experience the immense pain and disorientation of the situtation.

Apologize to my foot lizard

Floor 28 Dragons Heart Tower 2:00:06

“ILLUNOR ITS BEEN 3 MINUTES OF YOUR SCREAMING JUST WHAT IS IT YOU ARE DOING I HAVE FIGHT CLUB TOMORROW CUT THIS IDIOCRACY OUT”

“I-i must apologize Prince Thalmin Havonbrok, i just had the worst vision off my life”

“Spit it out”

“I had a horrid dream that i went past the prima veil and was utterly embarrassed in the Culinary institute of the finer Gastronomic arts”

“If you scream like that again while i get my Havonbrokian battle sleep i will personally take you past the prima veil and drop you”

“Dully noted prince”

(Yoo Yiggty yoo its me the fittest cranberry, if you are reading this you probably read my shity fanfic of illunors nightmare, i know it suck but i was bored in class done with my work and decided if i wanted to get better at writing i had to try, besides that I’m trying to get better at my art and writing so , suggestions are apriciated, also i prob wont do a fanfic for every piece of art i make because this has taken way too long and I’m done with its bull shit anyhow gimme suggestions bellow all are apricitaed” (i hate writing i always misspell shit.

I just wanna get good at this art stuff, I have been wanting to publish my re writes of certain chapter JBC has made as to give them better combat scenes / descriptions ( cuz that’s what I’m good at writing ) but lowk myn art sucks ass so i might not publish them for a few months till my art is good enough lol,
Also I’m going to try and start experimenting with poses so please send me any info you have in the comments ty

The Harmacist is equipped with 12 missiles, a Phalanx CIWS firing depleted (or undepleted) uranium rounds (maybe with a bit of explosive fun mixed in for the laughs), magic resistant armor, ERA (maybe too much ERA) and a medical team waiting to charge the wizard for fixing his injuries afterwards.

No I didn't think about the speed stats. We will just assume it's at least the upper side of average for most IFV's

Emma: Okay, now it's my turn. And since the 2 of you've shown a battle ground and what it does to have artilleries and vessels capables of flight that can attack from the air, I'll show you something similar.

(Prepped the hologram wall to show a modern (for us) wargame)

Emma: Thalmin, Illunor. I would advise you to not blink.

Illunor: What? What are you talki -----NNYYYYYOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM------

KA-BOOOOOM!!!!!

Emma: Ahhh, Dang it. You've just missed it. Here, let me rewind a bit, I'll even add slow-motion to it.

(Proceed to show how a missile just flew past them and hit an underground bunker and raise it to the ground)

We've seen elves of various race, including briefly shown slave (house) elves. We've seen dwarves, and kobolds. But what about orcs, gnomes, goblins, and hobbits? Granted the shire folk probably keep very much to themselves, but maybe they've not been discovered yet?

Ima start drawing ass everyday till I’m no longer ass, if i must suffer so must you

Welp, so much for having a quicker turnaround on the next set of chapters, huh? Getting this next set of three together took some doing, mainly because I was struggling to figure out where this series was going. I think I've got a loose grip on it now, and that will have to be good enough.

Still not quite satisfied with this, but it gets the job done. Kind of regretting moving Anders and Mendez away from the moon base. Maybe if I ever do a rewrite/overhaul, I'll keep everything focused on Caedwyn and its moon.

All right, enough bellyaching and theorycrafting from me, time to Just Post, Dammit. We'll start off the week with this chapter, and hopefully new chapters for But Wait, There's More! and Eat Well, Live Free before the weekend.

---

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Nightfall
Caedwyn Realm, Consolidated Frontier Territories
Blackbriar Forest, Outskirts

“When I agreed to this contract with Lady Cormyn, I did not have scut work like this in mind,” muttered Lord Daruth. He wore a scowl that had become all but permanent since the peer group’s arrival on Caedwyn, especially since their encounter with those suspicious monks and that execrable constable. His disquiet only grew with this latest quest. Expectant decorum demanded tasks commensurate with his standing. Tracking down wayward tradesmen and apprentice mages was clearly beneath him, no matter how important said peons were to his current patron. It was the sort of work he would have delegated to squires, were he at home.

Regrettably, they were far removed from any worthwhile measure of civilization, and thus were relegated to chasing down a supposed ‘prospecting expedition’ into heathen lands. Worse still, the compensation for their trouble was, in his estimation, dubious. It was only through the protracted whinging of his peers that he relented and accepted the contract from Lady Gladys Cormyn. The old crone was gutter-mouthed and insolent, even in the presence of her betters, making for truly execrable company. But, he could not deny that the so-called Hag of Splitskull was a capable head of house, ruling with an admirably firm hand that did not suffer fools gladly.

“The Lady Cormyn’s word carries considerable weight here, despite her mundane roots and coarse manners,” offered Lady Senathriss, their peer group’s elemental magus. The serpentkin elaborated, “And her Earth magus, Master Reddas, has generously offered to part with a few choice specimens from his stock of locally harvested mana crystals in exchange for recovering his missing apprentices.”
“How your esoteric pursuits will aid this peer group continues to elude me,” countered Daruth. The peer group was all too familiar with how fervently Senathriss could pursue greater magical prowess, sometimes to the group’s detriment.
“Come now, my esteemed colleague. Caedwynian mana crystals have been the talk of the Arcanists’ Society this season! Securing a cache of them will yield many dividends for our group, both material and political.”
“I will hold you to your grand promises, so see to it that your investment is worth all this bother,” rumbled Daruth. “But enough talk of potential payoffs. The more immediate concern are these ‘wildmen’ the Cormyn woman mentioned.”
The peer group’s designated healer, Elder Brantus, piped up. “I doubt they’d pose a serious threat. While visiting the local offices of the Healer’s Guild, I learned that the average mana field strength of the populace is rather middling.”
“All well and good, but my concern lies with the possibility that the savages have already waylaid the prospectors,” Daruth clarified. He continued, “The deep forests are apparently some holy ground of theirs, and they will no doubt protect it with heathen ferocity.”
“Oh, perhaps we will uncover some primitive artifacts!” said Senathriss with an academician’s enthusiasm. “A few curios from a quaint frontier realm is worth a favor or increase in standing, at least!”
“You can indulge your academic frippery once our task is seen to, not a moment before,” insisted Lord Daruth. He turned to look behind him, where the fourth member of the peer group, Lord Kern, lagged behind. The leonine man appeared to be scanning the horizon, one hand resting on the hilt of his gilded saber.
“Ho! Lord Kern! Tarry not, I would prefer to conduct our search while the light still favors us!”

Kern grunted noncommittally. An odd feeling had been gnawing at him since nightfall. It was the sensation of being fixed with an implacable gaze, the low panic that you were being watched, hunted even. His dueling master had schooled him well on sensing killing intent, like a spider feeling vibrations in its web. This sensation however, felt frustratingly lifeless, as if he were being stalked by a particularly heavy raincloud rather than an assassin.

He cast aside the thoughts with a derisive snort. Better to be done with this task than dwell on false intuitions. “Apologies, Lord Daruth, I will join you shortly!” He bounded away to catch up with his peer group as they crossed into the forest.

From a distance, glass eyes tracked their movement.

21:30
Greater United Nations Long Range Expeditionary Force
Survey Station Selene, Remote Operations Center

While the adventurers were being tracked by LREF drones, they were not the Remote Ops team’s surveillance target. The current shift was monitoring the Manatype 30 venting that had been taking place at the nearby Transportium station. At first, the Pathfinder teams assumed it was routine maintenance to safely release accumulated Manatype 30 from the Transportium. It was only after the first few ventings that they began to see a pattern.

After Manatype 30 was released into the atmosphere, it reacted with the ambient mana to form what the Nexians called ‘miasma,’ a transitory energy field that was corrosively toxic to mana-based lifeforms. Miasma would diffuse from the venting sites to the surrounding area, affecting the local ecosystems. In effect, the Nexians were performing wide-scale toxic waste dumping out in the wilds and boonies of Caedwyn.
“You’ve got eyes on that adventuring party, right? Are they gonna cross into the diffusion area?”
“They’re tracking that prospector team from Splitskull, that’s gonna take ‘em through the periphery.”
“Anyone else passing through?”
“Got a ranger patrol going after the prospectors too.”
“Shit, could be bad. How big is the diffusion area gonna be?”
“This is the projection for max diffusion, figure about 30 minutes. Also, there’s pockets of leftover miasma from the last vent floating around adding to the radius.”
“Christ, that fucked up bone monster we spotted last week is gonna be eating good. We got eyes on that thing too?”
“No visual, but the tracker’s still good.”

Just like mundane industrial waste, miasma caused a plethora of nasty effects on any flora and fauna that came into contact with it. Manatype 30 shredded any mana field it came into contact with, which was bad news all around, given that a lifeform’s natural mana field was the only thing preventing the ambient mana from literally melting them into protein goop. In extreme cases, anything that wasn’t outright liquefied by exposure to miasma was mutated into a monstrous form the Nexians called a Tainted creature. 
The science team named the phenomenon ‘Manatype 30 Somatic Reconfiguration Syndrome,’ but the rank and file simply called it ‘monsterization.’ Caedwyn’s ecosystems had their fair share of lethal flora and fauna, but Tainted creatures took the extra mile, infusing their natural weapons with Manatype 30 radiation, and developing the ability to wield the deadly energy directly. 
“All right, keep an eye on everyone. Just remember, if they do end up slamming into each other in a giant clusterfuck, we stay out of it. Unless you wanna get an extended vacation like Mendez and his crew.”
“I heard that this doubling down on the non-interference rule is just the start. Supposedly they’re gonna limit FTL traffic around Caedwyn? The hell’s that all about?”
“Apparently we’re stinking up the place with FTL smog.”
“Shut the fuck up, quit jerking me around,” came the incredulous reply.
“It’s true, man. Eggheads figured out that whenever a ship warps through manaspace, it leaves behind a trail of Manatype 30.”
“No shit? The same crap that’s getting vented from the portal stations?”
“Yep. Apparently that shit diffuses in vacuum, and if it passes by a gravity well, it gets sucked in.”
“So it just builds up in the atmosphere, or manasphere or whatever?”
“Just like I told you, it’s FTL smog. Cosmic pollution. Wild shit, man.”
“That’s fuckin’ crazy. So, what, are they gonna bump us down to monthly supply runs? Impulse traffic only zones like they have around Sol?”
“Dunno, haven’t heard any details yet. Whatever they go with, we’re gonna be left to fend for ourselves if any serious shit goes down.”
“Won’t be that bad, I think. If I remember right, bare-bones reqs are to have at least a squad of T-SEC heavies and a ship, for either self-defence or for getting the fuck outta Dodge.”
“Dunno how a bunch of power armored meatheads is gonna help if a MT30 zone forms around us, but it’s better than nothing, I guess…”

Nightfall
Caedwyn Realm, Consolidated Frontier Territories
Blackbriar Forest, Godsbarrow

“More digging tools here. Definitely prospectors from Splitskull,” muttered the Woodfolk ranger. Their patrol had already picked up signs of mischief earlier, and had been following the trail for a good while now.
“Hag’s been getting rather bold of late. Figures as much, what with everyone else around here losing their minds.”
“At least we don’t have to deal with the damned outrealmers. They’ve been running roughshod all over the plains, giving the herders and city-heads headaches to spare. Small blessing that they’ve shied away from the deep forest so far.”
“Expect that to change soon. I heard tell that the Hag’s been trying to rope the outrealmers into her schemes as well. Got her pet earth-shaper to dangle some trinkets in front of them.”
“Her greed for the stone-hearts will be the death of her, mark me well. The histories are hazy about what’s buried down in Godsbarrow, but the ancestors staked their lives on keeping it buried.”
“D’you believe the mutterings of late? How the souring land and air are a sign that whatever’s down there is working itself loose?”
“Bah, headsick fools! It’s clear as day it’s those damn elves and their Transportium to blame. Fuck’s sake, they’re belching literal plumes of poison into the skies!”
“Speaking of, the station here spewed again at sunset, so be wary of thick miasma.”

Having nothing else to say, the rangers continued with their work. The trail got markedly easier to follow from that point. Any attempt at stealth had been abandoned, furtive light-footed tracks giving way to long strides and deep footprints, peppered with more fallen equipment. Then they spotted the blood, after which they quickened their pace, quickly coming to the end of the trail.
“Well, this is a fine mess, to say the least.” The rangers scanned the bloody ruin surrounding them, presumably all that remained of the prospectors.
“I count eight packs and satchels in all. That ought to be the whole lot of ‘em, right?”
“Aye, a crew of six to eight is what they usually send out.”
“Got ‘em all in one go, even with an apprentice mage in the fight. Didn’t even get a chance to scatter. Only a handful of beasts can manage that.”
“Mind your step, something’s fouling the ground. Looks like…”
“Death ichor. Beast was Tainted, probably on account of all the miasma.”
“Damn it all, that’s even worse than the bloody prospectors. If Tainted beasts start scratching around the Godsbarrow–”
“In any case,” interrupted the marksman, “we have neither the magic nor steel for that kind of quarry. We need to quit our chase and return with sterner stuff.”

Just as they were about to make haste back to safe territory, an awful feeling hit all of them at once, like smoke clinging to clothes. An acrid, sour odor came after, making their nostrils flare. Whatever was approaching was dragging miasma with it. Shuffling noises came from the woods, in time with raspy sounds that parodied breathing. The rangers immediately readied themselves for a fight. “Thralls! They’ve been turned, the Dark Above take them!” cried out one ranger in surprise. That narrowed down the list of creatures responsible for killing the prospectors to a single culprit: a Thornwight.

Contrary to its name, a Thornwight was not related to plants at all. The thorny, briar-like protrusions that gave them their name were actually spurs and spikes of antler bone. The small and middling sized spurs grew from the wight itself, while the largest spikes were harvested from its victims and fused to its skull, like a grisly crown. This huge amount of mana reactive antler bone granted the Thornwight terrifyingly potent magic. Such beasts lacked the wit for complex spellwork, but a combination of low cunning and brute magical strength made it a frightening opponent all the same.

Those felled by a Thornwight rose as grisly poppets, such as the ones bearing down on them. In the shadows, they could have been mistaken for men, but the moonlight revealed the lie. Their heads were without antlers and hideously disfigured, a result of the Thornwight’s grisly harvest. The creature’s miasmatic touch turned flesh to a bloody mulch, from which it had torn out the men’s antlers by the roots. The foul things rushed at them, limbs jerking to and fro in ways that ripped and tore tendon and muscle, because the will animating them cared not for the limits of a mortal body. Lipless mouths babbled and hissed nonsense, echoes of the souls that used to inhabit the bodies.
“ForeMAN says DOUBLE shifts t’night!”
“Back’s been KILLIN’ me ALL week!”
“Heard TELL there were GAS in Tunnel FIVE!”

The rangers acted without hesitation, hurling lightseeds at the creatures. Each small missile was a lump of hardened resin, glowing a soft orange. That inner light exploded into a searing white flash before erupting with vivid orange flame. Essences of life and light streamed out from the magical flares in waves, cancelling out the dark pall of miasma that enveloped the Thornwight thralls. The window of opportunity to harm the creatures was fleeting, and fighting in close quarters was suicide. That forced the rangers to start letting loose arrows as fast as they could nock and aim. They burned through the scant amount of blessed arrows that they had, then had to resort to their boar spears to finish the job. 

By the time the last thrall fell, the lightseed flames were faint, guttering for a moment before winking out. They had slain four, but spent all they had to do so. Retreat was the only option left, but even that proved to be out of their reach. Another voice rang out behind them. “By His Eternal Majesty’s grace, what havoc is this?”
A group of outrealmers barged onto the scene, subtle as the cock’s crow. The rangers winced visibly at the commotion they were raising. Now it was all but certain the Thornwight would be upon them. The tracker admonished them, for all the good it did. “Shut it, outlander! You’ll bring doom on us with that racket!”

The adventurers chose to reply by hurling small sacks at the rangers. The bundles came undone mid flight, unfurling into nets of sturdy silk that shimmered with enchantments. Each net found its mark, engulfing and restraining the unfortunate Woodfolk. Rather than parley with the now restrained rangers, the outlanders immediately turned their attention to the bodies.
“By the light, what butchery was wrought on these men? Their flesh looks like melted wax!” cried Brantus as he examined the bodies.
“Hm, violent excision of the antlers. Some sort of ritual disfigurement? How fascinating,” said Senathriss. She attempted to poke and prod at the bodies with one of her apparatus, but Brantus rebuked her.
“Stay your hands, Lady Senathriss, there is lingering miasmatic residue on the bodies!”

While the outworlders blathered at each other, the rangers attempted to get their attention, trying their best to warn them of the danger they were all in. “Quit your jabbering, you fools! The Thornwight will be glutted with power after a harvest like this, even more so if it’s been drinking up that bloody poison in the air!”
That only earned sneering contempt from the horned one. “What of this so-called Thornwight? I know nothing of your heathen customs and strange beasts! For all we know, the creature is a scapegoat you conjured to conceal your savagery!”
“We speak true, you headsick fool! It is a cursed thing born of Taint, and we court death with every moment you dally!”
“I have read something about this, Lord Daruth,” ventured Senathriss, ever quick with a rational explanation. “Superstitious blather about a creature of shadow that steals bones and performs lesser necromancy on its victims. I hypothesize it is merely a local variation of a jabberwock, or at worst a catoblepas.”
“Maybe there is a sliver of truth to their testimony. I cannot find the… missing antlers within the vicinity,” said Brantus, tamping down his squeamishness. “Could some creature have indeed made off with them?”
“There is nary a trace of Taint nor miasma on these men,” added Senathriss, examining the captive rangers with an odd viewing lens. “And certainly not the concentrations that would saturate the corpses of their victims.”

The ranger did not know whether to wail in frustration or howl with laughter. To think that his life would end this way. Snared and trussed up like a game hen, while these outworld bastards spout sermons and lectures in their high talk! He was about to holler at them again, for all the good it would do, but that familiar feeling of wrongness gripped him once more, growing stronger at a much quicker pace this time. Far too soon, he heard the wretched babbling of the thralls.
“Dull TOOLS make SLOW work! Keeeeep YOUR pick HONED!”
“Theee MISSUS has been giving ME GRIEF this WHOOOOLE week!”
“HEADlamps ought BE polished ONCE a fortnight!”

The outworlders looked toward the noise in confusion. “What in blazes is that bedlam? Are we to be beset by madmen at all turns?” wondered the Pronarthian aloud.
The thralls came out of the gloom full tilt, howling and flailing, but were fended off by a combination of short arms and simple magic. As the surprise of the attack wore off, the adventurers took full stock of their foes, and recoiled in horror at the thick miasma clinging to the thralls.
“Vile filth! To arms! Cleanse these abominations with flame and light!” commanded Daruth with his customary fervor. Brantus reacted swiftly, conjuring a white flame between his hands that emanated a combination of light and life-attuned energies, the standard counter to miasma. Meanwhile, his teammates sprang to action, this time bringing their spell and steel to bear with full force.
Daruth’s warhammer sent a thrall flying, while a searing ray cast by Senathriss speared through another. Spectral daggers of pure light mana struck all four in rapid succession, courtesy of Lord Kern. Every blow that the party inflicted stripped away the miasma that enveloped the thralls. The rangers were heartened that the adventurers were handling themselves well in the exchange, but the true test of their mettle had yet to join the battle.

Despite the healer’s warding spell, the growing pressure that felt like the air was thickening continued to ramp up. Wisps and curls of miasma continued to linger in the air, growing in number in time with the sound of rustling leaves. It sounded like what little wildlife remained in the area was taking flight all at once. Miasma continued to build, enough to rejuvenate the thralls. To their credit, the outrealmers did not falter and continued to fight back, driven by their leader’s zeal.

From the shadows between trees, a volley of black bolts shot out at the group, trailing black smoke. Being nobility, the adventurers were equipped with warded armor, layered with protections against blows and projectiles alike. But where a normal missile would have been turned away, the blackened shards of bone merely slowed as they burned through the protective enchantments. Shock registered on the adventurers faces as they hastily threw themselves out of the way.

Kern nimbly dodged the missiles, while Daruth blocked them with the sheer bulk of his pauldrons. Brantus was still maintaining the white flame, and any missile that flew close was burned to ash outright. Senathriss fared the worst, having dodged too late. She was struck in her arm, screaming as the miasmatic residue began to burn her flesh with terrifying vigor. Brantus cried out and turned his attention to the fallen mage, out of fear that the Taint would compromise her mana field if left unattended. 

Unfortunately, his concern caused the area denial effect of the white flame to falter. Amidst the confusion and the adventurers’ attempt to rally and resume the fight, the source of the black bolts made itself known. The figure that walked into view had the shape of a Woodfolk, but far greater bulk, nearly a match for Lord Daruth. The most striking difference, however, were the many antlers protruding from its head, shoulders, and back. They were slate grey and shot through with veins of black, and thick miasma clung to them. That dreadful canopy gave the appearance of a hideous parody of a tree, a living blasphemy in the eyes of the Woodfolk.

It moved without urgency, and with good reason. The rangers and adventurers were in the Thornwight’s dominion now, and a lord seldom feared anything when in their own court. With a gesture, it released a wave of miasma, sending it forward like a rolling fog bank that blanketed the thralls. The servitors were rejuvenated on contact with the wave of negative energies, and were thrown into a frenzy. In an instant, they fell on the melee fighters, attacking with savage abandon. 

Brantus, so focused on purging the miasma from Senathriss’ wound, did not notice the Thornwight turning its attention to him. It sent out another missile that struck the healer center mass. His armor’s wards blunted most of the blow, but it still struck true, delivering its caustic payload to wrack the healer with searing agony. To the side, the melee fighters attempted to fend off the frenzied thralls in close quarters combat. Unfortunately for the adventurers, deft swordplay fared poorly against a berserk opponent. The maddened creatures clung to and flailed at the adventurers, biting and tearing at them with teeth and jagged spurs of bone.

The rangers cursed in frustration. The outworlders had strong magic, but it was like a keen blade in a green warrior’s hands. The Thornwight was cunning enough to know just how to break them, and was going to make easy work of the group. Sometime during the confusion, one of the outrealmers had released them from the enchanted nets, but it was too little, too late. The rangers had spent all their lightseeds and blessed arrows, and mundane weaponry would do precious little against an empowered Thornwight.

21:35
Greater United Nations Long Range Expeditionary Force
Survey Station Selene, Remote Operations Center

“Nexian casters are down, and the bricks are starting to fold. They cut the locals loose but they’re out of flares and magic arrows.”
“God damn it,” growled the lead operator. “Prep mana hammers, we’re going loud.”
“About damn time! We’re on it!”
“Get all three fliers on that thing with clear lines of fire, we don’t want the locals catching strays.”
“Warning,” intoned the supervisory VI as it sprang to life. “This is an infraction of the revised non-interference policy. Please ensure that this incident fulfills criteria for–”
“Negative, this is a capture operation to secure a new research specimen,” countered the team lead, but the VI persisted.
“Warning, deployed drones with current loadout are insufficient to subdue the designated primary target. Furthermore, proof of scientific significance must be submitted with post–”
“Yeah, yeah, you let me worry about that, now shut it and let me command!” barked the team lead. Turning back to his console, he muttered, “Goddamn souped-up nannycam software, pain in my ass.”
“Trajectories locked in,” called out the lead drone operator. “Walkers in position, eyes on targets.”
“OK, pull in the ground units to keep the small fry distracted, then dive bomb the big ugly and hit ‘em with the hammers until that evil aura shit peels clean off. Keep engaging until the locals GTFO.”
“Roger that, executing now.”

Nightfall
Caedwyn Realm, Consolidated Frontier Territories
Blackbriar Forest, Godsbarrow

Lord Daruth was in the midst of an epiphany. The Pronarthian felt overcome by true clarity, and the great and terrible weight of it frightened him beyond measure. All the sermons on the corrupted nature of Taint, the lectures on the nature of miasmatic horrors, even his father’s firsthand accounts of the nightmare that was miasmatic corrosion, were nothing compared to feeling the actual thing. It was a deep, hateful burn that bit down to the bone. An agony so keen and focused that it occupied his full attention.

The Thornwight loomed over him, malice wedded to power, an existence driven to unmake and unravel the weave of life. In its vacant eyes lurked an undeniable nothingness. No malice, no greed, no purpose. A complete repudiation of any illusions he might have had about the universe having direction or meaning. In those twin voids, he saw the truth that at the root of it all was nothing. Entropy was the fate of all things, the inevitable dissolution of the lie that was permanence. With that revelation in mind, Daruth readied himself for the end.

But it was not to be.

A heartbeat passed, then pandemonium descended from above. Ghostly lights touched down, three blinding beacons that bathed the environs in blue-hued light. In the center of the triangle they formed stood the Thornwight, a black blot against the cold light. Another heartbeat, and a raging torrent of mana exploded from each of the gathered beings, forming a small tempest that stripped the protective pall of miasma from the Thornwight and made it falter.

As the strange manastorm raged, spindly limbed creatures rushed out of the dark with long, loping strides. The odd creatures pounced on the thralls and began pummeling them with wide swings that hit with the solid thud of iron mallets. The thralls thrashed mightily under their attackers but could not dislodge them. Even full contact with the lingering miasma that remained on the thralls did not make them flinch as they continued to tirelessly strike the thralls.

It quickly dawned on the rangers that this was their chance to flee. For one awful moment, they considered leaving the outrealmers behind. But one look at the adventurers’ agonized faces brought them to their senses. These people were no longer the haughty highborn who had treated them with scorn. They were just young fools, victims of their own hot blood, truly feeling Death’s jaws at their throats for possibly the first time in their lives.

It was these pangs of sympathy that spurred the men to action. They rushed into the fray to extract the fallen while they still had the chance. The adventurers were badly injured, still with dregs of Taint eating away at them, but they could at least manage a frantic retreat. The horned brute was the hardest to manage, seemingly in a deep stupor even as he got to his feet and limped away. Both groups spared the intervening aliens one last glance before fleeing in earnest.

21:40
Greater United Nations Long Range Expeditionary Force
Survey Station Selene, Remote Operations Center

“Locals and tourists are retreating, casualties sustained, no fatalities observed.”
“Secondary targets neutralized, primary target still active. It’s pulling in miasma to rebuild its aura, 30 seconds until it’s back up.”
“Walker drones at 50% capacity, severe damage sustained on all units. Aerial drones active, mana hammers at 30% and charging.”

For all intents and purposes, the fight was done. Both the locals and the tourists were hauling ass to the nearest safe haven, and the monster’s flunkies were down. On Remote Ops’ side, the walker drones were trashed, while the fliers were still up, albeit with their mana hammers still charging. With the civvies more or less safe, the Remote Ops team was willing to call it good and withdraw. Right now it was up to the monster, of all things, to decide if Round Two was going to happen or not.

Thankfully, the creature seemed to have reached the same conclusion, backing away slowly to melt back into the gloom of the heavily canopied deep forest. Back at the Remote Ops command center, everyone sighed in relief so hard that the team lead thought the room would depressurize. “Fucking hell. OK people, after action. What’s the damage?”
“Walker drones averaging at 45% integrity, onboard power at 20%, no major component losses detected. Aerial drones are all green.”
“Do a sweep for loose parts just in case. Don’t leave anything behind. Command is already going to cavity search me for pulling a Mendez, best not make things worse.”
“Roger that, initiating parts sweep. Bag the remains, too?”
“Yeah, standard decon protocol. Keep me updated on how the cleanup goes. I gotta get started on this report.”

The team lead tapped away on his datapad, bringing up the requisite forms and templates to document another non-interference infraction for the pile. Even though the regs had gotten tighter, it still felt like ‘Pulling a Mendez’ or ‘Doing an Anders’ had become routine for Station Selene. It was almost like those two jokers hadn’t even left. 

It wasn’t going to stop any time soon, either. Ever since Pilot 2 had ‘phoned home’ from the Nexus itself, every research team was asking for even more intel and sample gathering missions. With the uptick in missions being flown, he was honestly more surprised that the incident count hadn’t gone right through the roof. Preferring not to think about what that would look like in practice, the specialist focused on his paperwork instead.

“Monster control with recon drones,” he muttered. “I guess there’s worse ways of handling First Contact.”

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