Author's Note: Hey everyone! Here is the Work in Progress for Chapter 178 I hope you guys enjoy! :D Similar to the past few WiPs, this is one is going to be an extra long one haha! :D
Etholin
Oi.
…
Etholin.
…
“WAKE UP YOU LETHARGIC LAYABOUT”
I jolted up.
My whole body tensing, flinching, as if anticipating a fall off of a phantom ledge.
THUD!
“Oh brother…”
However, instead of the nauseating sound of cracking ribs or the blunt WHUMP of soft flesh meeting an unfortunate end against hard rock, I merely found myself landing softly against thick carpet… and even thicker padding.
Confusion, disorientation, and an overwhelming sense of uncomfortable, hot, delirium immediately forced me back on my two feet, as I sprung up…
…
Only to be met face to face with a face I hadn’t expected to see, sequestered within a space I had no memory or recollection of ever entering, en route — by the sights of things — towards a place I had no expectation of ever revisiting.
“Why… why are we heading to the foundries?” I questioned, my mind mimicking a golem’s, asking questions which were not pertinent to the wider scope of the circumstances, but instead, the very surface of this logical fallacy.
“It’s workshop day, brother. Uncle Brescht has scheduled us for a visit to the stormlands, remember? To witness the metallurgical wonders of pattenor? I… don’t suppose that fall has caused some lapse in memory — or his eternal will forbid — judgement?” Larscillia questioned with equal measures concern and sibling condescension.
I shook my head, trying to grapple with the sudden and abrupt… shift in… however it was or whatever it was I was involved in before I was—
“Of course not.” I answered instinctively. “I… I merely need a moment to collect myself. It’s been a… long journey, has it not?”
“Scarcely.” The smaller pattenor shrugged, adjusting her britches and straightening her jacket, her expression very much reminiscent of a merchant in their element.
She never liked courtly decorum.
Or at least, what was expected of her status as the sole daughter in the family.
“It’s not as if we’ve taken the long way around, brother. You act as if you’ve gotten teleportation sickness, if not sea sickness.” She shook her head, regarding such notions with the seriousness they deserve. That being, none at all.
“Right, of course.” I instinctively went to check my timepiece… but somehow, decided against it. “Right then, let’s see our family’s jester-in-the-hole…” I spoke half to myself, and half to my sister, as our carriage finally crossed the threshold and into the fortress gates of the beating heart of pattenor power.
Or at least, one of many such hearts.
The attendants, dressed in sweat-drenched tunics and scant measures of fire-resistant enchantments, arrived with an extended palanquin between the four of them, ensuring that the rest of our journey into this frankly inhospitable and dreadful place would be one of some measure of comfort… even at the expense of their own.
A measure of sympathy was drawn from my otherwise delirious heart, as I made a mental note to question uncle about their treatment.
Larscilia paid the same mind, but urged me to enter our new mode of conveyance all the same, leaving the plush interiors of the carriage and into the decidedly less comfortable interiors of the palanquin.
Less balanced too… I thought to myself, as the trip up and into the monolithic structure before us was done with exceptionally poor handling.
Perhaps they were exhausted… I tried to justify the discomfort, as I instead attempted to focus on other matters ahead of us, most notably, the practically foreign construct that was the foundry.
It was so unlike everything else on the mainland.
Faces of exposed black-brickwork and dirty-brown grout dominated most of the otherwise undecorated and unpainted warehouse of a structure; the black clay native to the region making for an excellent construction material for the hellish conditions inside. Yet those elements were child’s play compared to the rest of this compound… as each of the five warehouse-like structures — jutting out into the open grounds of the compound — all connected and seemingly ‘began’ at the base of a mountain that soared high up into the skies.
I imagine there would be some beauty to be found about this place when witnessed from high above in an aethraship.
But that beauty was nowhere to be found here.
Just… monumentality, and the raw and unbridled effort expended in the production of something so innocuous.
The palanquin weaved through the maze-like interiors of the foundry, as each turn and every muffled conversation beyond our covered transport beckoned our collective curiosities. We parted the soft fabrics, if only momentarily, to be blasted with the heat of a thousand suns, witnessing the forges, the crucibles, until finally, we were urged off of the small enclave of the mainland and into the fires proper by uncle.
We found ourselves setting foot atop a large catwalk, a gangway that spanned the entire length of the foundry floor, but positioned high, high above the intolerably hot work happening down below.
Yet it was clear that this structure served its purpose.
We had a complete and uninhibited view of the foundry floor… and access to the manastreams which facilitated its function.
Indeed, I gasped as I saw Nexian-grade enchantments along many of the pillars holding the roof aloft, each of which were just as accessible by hand as it was by manafield, by whomever had access to this gangway.
“Alright you two, class has begun.” Came his heavy, stern voice, as we both excited about the same time… with Larscilia grinning in excitement as she was finally dressed for the occasion.
Uncle regarded both of us with a nod, before gesturing towards our current surroundings.
“I expect you have done your prerequisite reading?”
“Yes!” Larscilia beamed.
“Yes, Uncle.” I announced in ensuing order.
“Good, good… let’s take you through the whole process, and you can tell me how it’s done.”
We moved above it all, watching as I narrated the fundamentals of applied alchemy, the principles underpinning the material world separate and distinct from the ‘flighty’ and oftentimes unpredictable nature of light magic and pure magics.
“Just as there are fundamental manatypes, so too are there fundamental physioforms. The dead world, unattuned, and without spirit, can be just as malleable as the manastreams when one pays enough mind to see past the thinly-veiled surface.” Uncle paused, before reaching into a box held surprisingly still within the strong arms of a foundry worker.
He pulled out two objects, the first, a stone with a strong reddish tinge — the sole reason we were here today.
The second, was a sort of white brittle powder, held within a container lest it be swept away by a stray gust of wind.
“Which one of these is a fundamental physioform?” He questioned.
We both pointed to the latter, confident, knowing well that the former was why we were here today.
“Are you certain?” Uncle questioned firmly, but garnering nothing but a firm nod between the two of us.
“Incorrect.” He announced firmly.
“But uncle… the former is—”
“Also not a pure physioform, no. I was testing you. You both failed.” He retorted firmly, before settling both objects onto a tray held by yet another attendant.
“Explain to me the state of the former.” He pointed at the red ore.
“It’s an aggregate, Uncle.” We both spoke over each other, racing to be the first to answer. “A mixture of weaveforms of various impurities. Mixed physically, but not woven at its core.”
“Good.” Uncle nodded. “And this?” He shook the vial of white powder.
“That is…” We both paused, before turning to meet each others’ gazes. “That…” We cocked our heads, following each shake of the vial.
“That’s the extracted result is it not?” Larscillia questioned first, her eyes darting back and forth between the ore and the resulting white powder.
“It is. Yes.” Uncle nodded.
“But what you’re implying is that this isn’t its pure fundamental physioform?”
“The laws of logic and inference would imply as such.” Uncle nodded impatiently.
“And yet we see the entire process from ore to powder below us.” I gestured, watching, as both chosen ones and laborers alike toiled away under enchanted mechanisms and carefully-laid spells. All of which was overseen by our distant, aloof cousin.
“Indeed. However, unlike iron, the liberation of aluminum goes beyond this simple process.”
“Simple?!” We both exclaimed, garnering the first smirk from dear uncle.
“Yes. Simple. For you see, this is what separates master from the novice, the store clerk from the merchant, and the fledgling from the middling.” He announced with increasing vigor, gesturing for us to follow towards another section of the foundry. “Each fundamental physioform has its own esotericisms, presenting its own unique challenges in the liberation of itself from its weaveformed state. So as iron is to copper in the prerequisite skills, knowledge, infrastructure, and even demand of its use… so too is aluminum to iron in the exponential difficulties demanded for its liberation.” He paused, as we reached a room no larger than the previous… yet within its confines, I could feel the difference in manastreams.
There was a greater sense of… purpose to this room.
Not that the previous room lacked it, but with so many enchantments and spells all active concurrently, the entire process just blended into the background as did any foundry worth its weight in attuned gold.
This room, however…
There was a purpose to it.
A direction that felt entirely dissimilar to all other forms of metal extraction or processing that I’d witnessed prior.
I could feel a spell that simply did not belong, an enchantment that was more at home in specialized alchemical workshops than a foundry of this scale.
I could sense the lightning in the air.
Or more specifically, the runes, spells, and enchantments primarily focused on channeling the stormlands’ raging tempers towards these ends.
“A primitive tribe may smelt copper.” Uncle began with a growing chuckle.
“A fledgling kingdom may smelt iron.” He continued.
“But only realms of gifted acumen can claim mastery over aluminum.” The man announced with an open maniacal grin plastered across his visage.
“For you see, the powder was only the first half of this process. It is what lesser realms would have been able to liberate through their limited means, and remained confounded at, in its inability to liberate it to its fundamental purity.”
He gestured to one of the many furnaces, towards a moving, massive implement, scored, carved, and inscribed with spells and runic energies all devoted to one simple end — lightning.
This massive implement was quickly plunged into the glowing crucible, performing whatever alchemical miracles were needed to tear aluminum from its weaveformed prison.
“For that, you need to harness lightning itself. A continuous, constant, unabated flow of lightning. This is the only way you will be able to liberate physioform aluminum from its unwanted binds. This, young heirs, is what you will one day inherit. More specifically you, Larscillia.”
I saw Larscillia’s pupils growing into saucers at that proclamation, as I couldn’t help but to grin at this whole turn of events.
This was where she belonged.
She never enjoyed a single ball or social gathering, after all.
“Oh, and Etholin, your father wanted me to hand you this.” Uncle handed me a ledger, one locked away with several seals and enchantments.
I quickly grabbed hold of the book, undoing its magical seals, to reveal…
…
Gibberish.
I blinked.
Then… the reality of the situation dawned on me.
Words were illegible in the land of the sleeping…
“Oh.” I smiled, turning to my ‘sister’, and the rest of the employees, attendants, and chosen ones gathered around me. “This is a dream.” I proclaimed proudly.
At which point, and after a moment of ‘confusion’ on the part of my vivid apparitions, did I find myself once more jolting upwards.
Delirium consumed me, as all pretenses of a world of familiarity melted away into the harsh and unforgiving landscape of a place I didn’t even want nor choose to be in.
“Lord Esila, are you quite alright?” I heard Lord Fiswisk’s genuine question of concern, followed closely by the earthrealmer’s voice. “Etholin! Are you okay?”
I nodded groggily, nervously, as I attempted to get back on my own two feet, nursing my throbbing head in the process.
“I… I’m quite alright, thank you.” I nodded to each and every person gathered around me, meeting their gazes, reciprocating their extensions of courtly decorum, as I attempted to expound on my… experiences.
“I had the most dreadful of dreams, it was as if I was transported back to my formative years; sequestered within my grueling practical education. Quite fitting, really, given how we are all too in a center of learning.” I paused, realizing that the looks of sympathy and concern were well and quickly shifting to apathy, their well of courteous, theatrical compassion, quickly drying up following my self-admitted proclamations of good health. “But I digress, where was I in my presenta—”
My eyes landed on the pile of dead metals once more.
And the memories of the past few moments prior to my departure into my memories, returned with the force of a copper merchant scorned.
“Ah.” I smiled nervously, before plodding my way away from the earthrealmer’s hands, and back towards the innocuous bar of silver grey metal. “This is aluminum?” I reiterated.
“Yes, Etholin.”
“Of course.” I nodded. “So this too is a dream.” I concluded, before once more finding the edges of my vision fading into black… only to be shaken back into consciousness by an impatient Fiswisk.
“Lord Etholin, unless you wish to forfeit your place in the trials, you will remain awake.”
This, beyond all else, forced me back to the world of the waking, the world of reality… and a world that had just completely changed every fundamental assumption I ever held on the wealth of kingdoms.