???
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.” Uncle carried on, summarizing my rote regurgitation on the subject. “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, watching as the very same ore was being poured en masse into an enchanted hopper on the foundry floor below.
“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, the point in which they would have been unable to continue, halted just short of 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. Harnessed, directed, and intentionally positioned between two opposed poles. One to draw the impurities, and the other, to attract the pure physioform aluminum. This is the only way you will be able to liberate physioform aluminum from its unwanted oxygen 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.
=====
The Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts. Exhibition Hall. Grand Arcade. Central Thoroughfare. Prosperity Row. Local Time: 2200 Hours.
Etholin
Delirium consumed me, as all pretenses of a world of familiarity melted away into the harsh and unforgiving landscape of a place I never wanted nor chose 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 acknowledged 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 rapidly shifting to apathy, their pool 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. “So this is aluminum?” I reiterated.
“Yes, Etholin.” Emma responded in that signature, practically insulting nonchalant cadence.
“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.
I attempted to assess the situation.
I needed to recover, pivot, and commit to some sort of a direction.
Rostario was no longer a threat, yes.
But this resolution had merely placed me back where I started, or more specifically, at the end of a gambit that I had fumbled.
A gambit… that had now been answered with Emma’s own burden of proof.
“How did… but aluminum, it… you have to extract it, tearing it from its burdensome ore.”
“Bauxite, yeah.” She nodded.
“Through a fastidious process of seemingly arbitrary esotericisms, drawing and separating, heating and treating it with spells and enchanted solutions just to get the white powdery substance that is—”
“Alumina, yes. You’re sort of beating around the bush with the exact process here, but I assume you’re trying to protect your own secrets too. I can tell what you’re getting at though. We call it the Bayer process.” She nodded, my eyes practically ready to pop straight out of my skull following that revelation.
This couldn’t be…
“But to liberate woven oxygen from aluminum, you need lightning.”
“Yes.”
“A constant stream of lightning.”
“Correct.”
“Of two poles, physically engrossed in the molten alumina.”
“Yup. Not difficult. We have a name for it too. The Hall-Heroult process.”
Not difficult?!
“And the enchantments to allow lightning to pass cleanly, to weaken the weaves and lower the temperatures for—”
“Oh. That. Huh. Fascinating. So you skipped cryolite for directly enchanting the alumina itself?” Emma questioned, cocking her head in the process.
It was at that point that I stopped talking, and my mind reached a fundamental impasse.
We… were talking about the same topic… were we not?
It was clear we were reaching the same conclusions, the same ends, the same goals, and the same material.
The processes were so close to matching!
And yet…
There was this impasse.
This… inability to rectify a bridge that seemed to fall short on both isles.
And yet we’d reached our destination.
How….
My mind raced back to both processes, before something else dawned upon me.
“You do not use enchantments for the first process as well?”
“No, just a bunch of heating and cooling and alchemical baths and whatnot.”
“Not a single enchantment to draw iron from the ore, or—”
“No, again, it’s just a bunch of various physical and alchemical processes. Some corrosive lye to separate… well… like I said, secret.”
I could practically hear the wink from underneath that expressionless helmet.
I could tell that she found this whole exchange — as she’d so casually put it — fascinating. Rather than completely reality shattering.
She…
She was a newrealmer.
Earthrealm was a newrealm…
Right?
How did they… in a manner seemingly divorced from enchantments and spells, discover a parallel path towards—
I paused.
Two more questions dawned on me.
“Emma.”
“Yes, Etholin?”
“So you’re claiming to do all of this without enchantments, spells, or use of mana… because your realm is quite deficient in it, correct?”
“Yes.”
“I see… well then… is your realm particularly stormy?”
Emma reeled back, cocking her head.
“I’m… sorry?”
“Is your realm host to a great deal of particularly lightning-prone climates?”
“Sort of? I mean, serious storms haven’t really been an issue since the weather cont— OH! Are you wondering how we get a reliable and consistent source of lightning for the Hall-Heroult process?”
“Yes, Emma.” I spoke, exasperated.
“We just generate it.”
…
…
You what?
“But you just said your realm is lacking in mana.” I clarified.
“Correct. Which means we just have to make lightning ourselves. Besides, we’ve been doing so for a whole lot of other things, you wouldn’t believe how long it took us to finally move past boiling wa—” She stopped herself mid-sentence. “Ehhhhh, let’s just say that because we’re oh-so deficient in mana, practically possessing pittances of it even in comparison to the most mana-poor of adjacent realms… we’ve been forced to think outside the box.”
There it was again.
Another under-helmet wink.
Her words were drenched in this sense of excitement and pride, the likes of which would have not only been impossible, but the stuff of utter madness coming from a newrealmer within these hallowed halls.
This was where many a newrealm was sentenced to a begrudging climb to relevancy.
A room where so many fates had been bound, signed, chained, and gagged into submission.
This was where the power of adjacencies were made, and newer adjacencies were unfortunately made to be the pawn of such games.
And yet here Emma stood… a pile of impossible metals behind her, and the proclamations of parity in industrial competence emerging as effortlessly as words of superiority and confidence would from the mouth of a crownlands elf.
A part of me couldn’t help but to see that inside of her armor now.
Especially as I wordlessly stepped forward, closer still towards the pile of metals, and reached for another ingot.
I did so anyway, reaching down, grabbing what felt like another bar of steel.
…
Yet it was lighter.
Not as light as aluminum, but much lighter than iron or steel of comparable size and density.
Moreover, a quick detection spell was enough to tell me what it was.
At which point, I felt another lump forming in my throat, as I attempted to address the earthrealmer yet again.
“Emma.”
“Yes, Etholin?”
“Pray tell… is this… titanium?”
“Yes, Etholin.”
Umpf!
I felt the proverbial slam of a reality upturned concentrated straight into my frail chest.
It felt like a suckerpunch, a physical assault the likes of which I would be lucky to survive the brunt of.
“I see.” I attempted to smile, feigning the same polite expression Rostario seemed to be wearing currently.
I took another deep breath, grabbing yet another bar of bluish grey metal.
“Osmium?”
“Yup!”
THWACK!
Another gut-punch, another lung’s worth of air knocked out of my chest.
“Alright.” I nodded. “Mmmm… mmhmm.” I continued, moving onto the next bar.
“Ah, it's the neighbor on the chart of physioforms… iridium?”
“Yup! You know your stuff!”
THOWSH!
I was done.
I was ruined.
I moved to reach for another bar, only to recoil from it, shaking my head, and even my whole body at this point.
Instead… I elected to point.
“Tungsten?”
“Yes sir.”
THAWOOSH
“Platinum?”
“You betcha!”
THWACK!
“Beryllium?”
“Mmhmm!”
THWOCK!
That was enough.
She proved her point.
I proved my own point.
…
Except, for one that I’d drifted from.
“Emma?”
“Yes, Etholin?”
“Why… or rather, what exactly do you need so much aluminum for? What is the demand for such a troublesome metal?”
“Oh, LOTS of things! We can go on for days here but, keeping it just on the consumer goods side of things? We got pots, pans, kettles and baking trays. Spoons, forks, knives, ladles, and even the drawer they’re all kept in. Food containers, lunch boxes, spice tins, and oldschool choco-malt containers… I should actually show you Milotine if you’re not allergic to it, it’s in my diplomatic package but, I digress. You also got folding chairs, tables, shelving, bed frames, roofing, bracelets, glasses frames, suitcases, fishing reels, shutters, doors, gutters, disposable drink cans and aluminum foil—”
“Stop.” I commanded on instinct. “Disposable drink cans?”
“Yeah, like, carbonated beverages amidst many other things. Aluminum’s super useful for that because of its strength, lightness, ductility—”
“Nonono. You mentioned they were disposable. As in, people throw aluminum away? Casually? Without concern for its cost?”
“Oh, that. Yeah! I never really thought of it that way but, yeah. Besides, we have a robust recycling system that…”
The rest of Emma’s words blended into the background.
As I was instead fixated, completely and utterly, by that one, frankly outlandish claim.
And yet…
The evidence was there to support it.
I took another deep breath, steadying myself, attempting to draw myself out of the unintentional reverie I was being drawn into.
I couldn't escape into my own head yet again.
Not when the world was offering me a golden opportunity served on a silver platter.
“... that reminds me. Why don’t you just use pinnacle transmutation, Etholin?”
I blinked, cocking my head as I did so.
“Pinnacle transmutation, whilst truly powerful and economically devastating, is almost exclusively the realm of Nexian control. Simply due to the intense mana requirements involved, the skill surrounding the craft, as well as the mana-based material catalysts required to facilitate it.” I explained bluntly, perhaps too bluntly, as I still attempted to reorient myself with… everything thus far. “Some adjacent realms are capable of it. But most are the preferred adjacencies.” I added, before another reality dawned upon me.
A realization, spawned from my own explanations.
I’d almost doomed myself and my family.
…
If these metals weren’t a bluff. If all was to be believed. If she truly was post-shackling. Then my offer of matching her gold and silver would have been…
…
…
…
I shuddered in place just thinking about it.
In fact, I could hear the spirits of my ancestors cursing me from beyond the grave for such a foolhardy exercise.
I could’ve doomed us all.
Yet Emma… had the restraint to withhold from such a favorable deal.
A fact that Rostario seemed to gather, as he now pushed for yet another gambit.
“I believe we’ve had enough of this back and forth lecture on the minutiae of alchemy. I humbly request for a recess so that we may—”
“Esteemed councilmen.” I interjected, standing tall, back straight, eyes locked and engaged with all members of the council.
I could see their growing impatience, their own uneasy gazes, as the only thing which prevented them from adjourning this whole inquest, were their own curiosities surrounding my exchanges with the earthrealmer.
Alas, there would only be one person who would be excused from our circle.
“I urge the council to return both floor and chamber from Lord Rostario Rostarion to myself, on the grounds of a failed bid for supplantation.”
Fiswisk raised a thick, blubbery brow, turning to meet the indignant expressions of a noble scorned, and my own renewed fire.
“Cadet Emma Booker. Do you concur?” He questioned bluntly, following protocol and decorum to a satisfying t.
“Yes. If anything…” She paused, turning her head downwards as if to personally seal the smaller man’s fate. “... I found his interruption, and his whole abrupt bid, to be both rude and in incredibly poor taste. I understand there may be fine nuances I am simply not privy to, but where I come from, you don’t just interrupt someone mid-conference, not especially with your own subversive agenda; undercutting the ‘competition’.”
I could see, even under that guise of a polite smile, Lord Rostarion’s ego being proverbially pummeled into nonexistence. Each word, and every syllable, landed blow after blow until the small, scheming creature was left as but a pile of bruised and battered fur by the end of it.
Of course, none of that actually physically transpired.
But I could tell, beneath that facade, and underneath that mask, were the makings of an ego scorned.
“Lord Esila.” Fiswisk announced, after no later than a few seconds of deliberation. “You have the floor.”
I bowed deeply, before once again turning towards Emma.
“Permission to temporarily adjourn for a private consultation with the proposed party?”
The council glared at each other, whispering behind a privacy screen, before nodding together.
“Permission granted.”
With that, another door opened, leading us to an adjacent room that I beckoned for Emma and her peers to enter.
After which, and following a soft click of the door, did I find myself suddenly falling to my knees with a strained and broken breath.
“Emma Booker… I am so sorry for all of this! And for—”
“Not telling me beforehand that this was a gambit for your entry into the merchant’s guild?” The lupinor interjected with a growl, coinciding with Emma’s own words as they both mirrored one another sentiments.
“Y-yes…” I responded meekly.
“Etholin… we’ve got to work on this. I know you meant well, but you need to cut it with the half-truths and half-measures.” The earthrealmer spoke under an exasperated breath. “So what now? Seeing as your whole currency reform and trade protectorate scheme is clearly not viable, what’s your next move?”
I paused, looking around me as I moved to stand once more, steadying myself on shaky legs, causing a pocketed item to fall flat to the marble floor with a soft clack!
I looked down at the pen, and so did Emma, as we eventually both locked eyes in a manner that beckoned the start of legends.
“I have an idea.” Emma spoke with her signature unrestrained glee.