(Author’s Note: Hey everyone! So there’s been a lot of revisions in this one, particularly in the ending and in the poem, as my editor did a lot of work in making the poem actually work and not sound terrible so everyone please give a round of applause to my editor for his poetry skills!! :D He even did it while being sick so I really need to give him credit for all of his hard work here!! There’s also been major revisions done to the ending as the previous one just felt a bit too… lacking, and I wanted a more condensed version that felt a bit more pertinent to the whole business discussion happening. There were also a few Fiswisk bits that got revised to improve the flow and the delivery of information! :D Aside from that, there’s the usual grammar and spelling edits! :D Also, as always, all of the edits are highlighted with an underline to better see what’s been revised! :D)
The Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts. Exhibition Hall. Grand Arcade. Central Thoroughfare. Prosperity Row. Local Time: 2225 Hours.
Deputy Chairman Prince Ferrian Fiswisk
This… was supposed to be another in an unbroken chain of repetitive cycles.
Mana-deficient!
A cycle my forebearers too had faced.
…
Enfeebling aquatic!
…
It was an inevitable reality.
Weakfielder!
…
Nullhander!
…
It was a… dressing down based solely on one’s physical shortcomings.
Blubbery buffoon!
Clumsy clod!
Dawdling dullard!
Or in the newrealmer’s case…
Auraless!
Commoner!
Manaless!
…
A shortcoming of incredibly far-reaching implications.
Whereas our first candidate was condemned for the encumbrances of our physical form, one adapted for life beneath the waves, and scarcely for land…
The earthrealmer was instead condemned for something far more enfeebling. A handicap far worse than what limits physicality could ever impose. Despite the most extreme physical shortcomings, magic always proved to be the great equalizer of sapients. The common denominator. The mechanism through which even the most encumbered of newrealms could lift themselves up and into the graces of civility, anatomy and physiology be damned.
But the newrealmer lacked even that.
She lacked the very fundamental tools that enabled civilization, and thus her only way out of her primitive newrealm status — magic.
She was… by all extents, impotent. A barren, desiccated floodplain forever in the grips of an eternal drought, incapable of ever bearing fruit.
She was a lost cause.
Her very presence here defied reason. Perhaps a result of a frantic, desperate effort from a people clamoring for aid, hoping for deliverance.
…
Yet they would find those calls answered by a reality expecting a people capable of sustained greatness, of unequivocal excellence.
I had expected little of her.
Even though my heart ached for a shared plight in fate’s cruel shortcomings — a shortcoming we eventually overcame through magic — I knew better than to hope for the impossible.
For without magic, she lacked the tools not merely to thrive, but to persist as a viable civilization.
Her kind, her culture, would be subject to the wilds as with any common animal.
Her armor, while antithetical to that notion, was no doubt the culmination of her people’s final refusal to fade softly into the night.
She likely arrived for assistance to those ends.
And the guild?
Well…
It would provide that aid for the price of social reciprocity.
Just as it had done so for all prior newrealm candidates that had walked through those doors.
…
Just as it had done so to our own first candidate, many, many millennia ago.
It was just as well that they spat it out,
That our kingdoms were primitive, meek, and put to rout.
Yet they sang sweet songs and hopeful tales,
Of our place beyond the frosted dales.
So sure we were and elated we became,
And with flippers open, we took our claim.
A bargain they said, A fair trade they state,
A deal to seal our deserving fate.
They offered us ships where our currents ran,
With windless sails we knew not how to span.
So when tools and maps were what we required,
They were happy to be our supplier.
And from those tools we found need of hands,
Eschewing useless fins, a reward so grand.
From clumsy paws fighting water and ice,
To mage’s fingers that now grasped our prize.
Yet remains that ancient ledger still,
Stored deep beneath the palace walls,
And while its ink has long-since swilled,
The terms as written forever bind us all.
We’d signed our own agreement in hopes of bettering our future.
We’d signed away decades, centuries, millennia, in the hopes of attaining similar heights to our peers and better fellows.
And we succeeded.
…
I’d hoped the same fate would befall the newrealmer.
I’d hoped for her sake and the sake of an entire feeble people that a deal could be struck despite the odds.
And yet…
The odds were defied… in ways I never could have ever imagined.
…
30 Minutes Ago
“My heart aches for the fate of your peer, Prince Havenbrock, Princess Dilani.” I offered.
“And I your sanity, Prince Fiswisk.” The avinor princess rebutted, garnering a look of utter perplexity from myself and a growing grin of knowing slyness from the lupinor.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The proof of burden you seek is one which shall challenge your preconceptions. It will defy your perspective on reality, your faith in the eternal rhythms of the patterns of newrealm concessions. I only warn you out of good faith, Prince Fiswisk. This, I implore you to consider.”
…
The princess was correct.
Her words were not ones of malice or misdirection or even a bluff born out of malevolence.
It was a genuine warning.
One that I now palpably felt as I stood amidst a gaggle of fellows, incapable of holding their own.
“But how?!”
“Yes, how?!”
“Indeed, HOW?!”
Yet their exclamations felt… banal, trite, and uninteresting, their repetitive loops forcing me to find refuge amidst the innocuous pile of metal, as I attempted to reconcile with the reality that sat before me.
There I stood, tall, proud, a product of millennia of sacrifice.
Yet in the face of these metals, these dead materials, I found myself feeling anything but.
Here, staring, glaring, sensing, and re-sensing, I saw the materials of a civilization at its zenith.
A people capable of forging wealth from the earth, untold riches from simple rock, in a manner otherwise impossible without magic.
Here, a mana-deficient candidate had stood her ground, pleading a case that defied all expectations.
She didn’t need the guild or its sponsors or any deal.
Because she already possessed it all.
…
Hollowness filled my heart.
An aching entered my soul.
I felt the yearning for millennia lost.
I felt my legs buckling from the weight of an untold number of Kings, Dukes, Lords, and Counts all prostrating themselves at the foot of our sponsors; their collective shame at lives unlived threatened to force me to my own knees.
We had done everything right.
We had followed the path.
We had arrived at its end.
We were now accomplished and storied!
A textbook example of a model newrealm!
And yet…
Here, this newrealmer stood, circumventing the cycle.
“Hah…”
What was I feeling?
Jealousy?
Rage?
Bitterness?
Resentment?
What was it that ate at my heart and soul?
…
“Prince Fiswisk? Did you have something to say?” A voice broke me out of my descent into self-inflicted madness. I turned only to return a smile.
Futility.
That’s what it was.
A sense of… futility. For all that time spent… against a newrealm that should have done the same… but didn’t.
“I was merely pondering to myself a few thoughts about the newrealmer, Lord Rilka.” I offered politely through a smile that was not my own.
The second-year pupil, our esteemed taskmaster, merely nodded, giving way for the bombastic voice of our dear chairman himself to take charge of the scene.
“Order! Order in the chambers!” The lion commanded, his mere aura causing all beneath him to settle into an orderly line — a captive audience.
Everyone except for me.
“Prince Fiswisk.” He promptly continued. “What do you make of this?”
The question was open-ended.
A given, considering the man himself more than likely lacked the same capability of bringing reason to the reality we were presented with.
I cleared my throat and straightened my posture.
“We stand at the precipice of a… philosopher’s dilemma.” I offered softly. “But as it stands in function and precedence? We face a situation scarcely different and no more novel than any other aberrations found in history’s wake.”
Brows were raised as the chairman himself had promptly discerned the trajectory of my impromptu speech.
“There have been newrealms that have too rejected the offers of prospective sponsors. Newrealms far too naive, foolish, or outright delusional to accept the aid of their betters and fellows. And while they are indeed few and far between, capable of being counted in one…” I paused, my mind racing back to that ancient epic, as the five-fingered hand at the end of what had once been blubbery flippers suddenly caused me to halt mid-sentence. “... hand. Thus, Cadet Emma Booker’s refusal at patronage, whilst unconventional, is not without historical precedence.”
A few nods and affirmative mumbles followed.
Yet all were eventually silenced by the return of a familiar, rather unfortunate rostarionrealmer.
“Permission to speak, esteemed councilmen?”
“Granted.” The chairman, to my surprise, acquiesced.
There was a knowing glance between the two.
As if some other relation was being pulled to an unknown end.
“What the honorable Deputy Chairman Prince Ferrian Fiswisk says is true.” He began with a flattering opening. “There truly is no danger to your stations or the guild’s reputation. Cadet Emma Booker’s refusal is but another aberrancy to be swept beneath the perpetuity of time and history.” He continued, before raising a single finger. “However, whilst this observation satisfies surface concerns, the philosopher's dilemma still remains…” He narrowed his eyes as he floated over to the pile of metals, settling alongside me. “What of this then, esteemed councilmen? What do each of you make of these… physical aberrations? Surely there must be some rational explanation, lest we willingly join the ranks of the ignoramus and the blind!”
“Perhaps she obtained it whilst in the Nexus!” A voice emerged, another second-year, who stepped forward from the line of councilmen with a sharp grin.
The rostarionrealmer narrowed his eyes at this as he picked up a platinum bar using a simple telekinetic spell.
“And what of these newrealm symbols?” He pointed at the various, highly detailed stamps running along the bar’s top.
“She could have simply added them after the purchase.” Lord Rilka offered, walking forward to support his fellow second-year fellow.
“An astute hypothesis.” The small rodent nodded before bringing the bar closer to his eyes, then handing the pair the item in question. “Except there exists a barely perceptible, impossibly small series of Earthrealm symbols stamped there as well. This includes a strange maze-like shape. A rune in all but name.”
My eyes widened at this. I raced to confirm his assertions…
And indeed…
He was right.
Beneath the large stamps, imperceptible to the naked eye, were the same symbols but with the addition of a strange… maze of sorts.
A rune in all but name… His words repeated in my mind.
“How then was this possible, hmm? For a newrealmer without the magics or optics for such a frivolous endeavor?” The critarealmer continued, as if attempting to rub salt into the wound of these two desperate second-years.
“With manaless means—?” One of them spoke, but just as quickly held his tongue.
It was impossible.
We were back at the philosopher’s dilemma.
Attempting to rectify an impossibility by acknowledging the impossibility as reality was simply an admission of madness.
There had to be a rational explanation!
“Perhaps her realm is simply abundant in easily accessible met—” Another voice emerged, a third-year at that.
Though the moment those words left his mouth, he knew how ill-fated such a thought was.
“I retract my statement ab initio.” He promptly stated, rendering those words stricken from the record.
“Perhaps…” The chairman himself spoke, his voice lingering in the air. “Perhaps… it was not of her doing?”
Silence enveloped the room, all eyes now firmly on the chairman’s brilliant orange eyes.
“What I might say may be heretical. Indeed, it may even strike a chord of sedition. But as we are dabbling in hypotheticals…” He emphasized that word, making sure to meet everyone’s gaze as he did so. “... perhaps we should consider the possibility that someone, or something else was responsible for these aberrant displays of wealth? Perhaps, in some conspiracy to spite us all, she acts merely as a mouthpiece or pawn to a greater foe? Perhaps we should simply consider the fact that this entire pretense… was deceitful from the onset?”
The expressions of everyone present suddenly darkened.
Indeed, even Rostario’s gaze narrowed as he and I both exchanged glances.
Whilst the rest of the crowd ruminated on what was in effect a simple and clean explanation, the crita and I were not so easily swayed.
But was I brave enough to challenge the chairman?
…
“If I may?” I broached softly, nervously, garnering a glance from the confident lion himself.
“Yes, Prince Ferrian Fiswisk? You have the floor.”
“Thank you, Chairman.” I bowed deeply. “I find such an explanation to be highly plausible, indeed, a stroke of calculated genius. However, I wish to take into account two pieces of evidence which might point us against such a conclusion.”
The room went quiet as the source of this whole debate leaned in closer to hear my dissenting views.
“The newrealmer described, albeit with deliberate and carefully guarded words, the fundamentals of drawing aluminum from bauxite.” I stated plainly, simply, before deliberately allowing for the chairman to interject, as was to be expected in this theatre of performative debate.
“But Prince Fiswisk… you forget… if this hypothetical patron was capable of offering her such physical boons. Surely it can offer her just enough knowledge with which to bluff!” He beamed.
Though sadly, I too had a counter to such a notion.
“This leads to my second piece of evidence, honored Chairman.” I bowed. “Rumors of the newrealmer’s… library card.”
I could see something shifting behind the Chairman’s eyes.
Indeed, I could see Rostario himself shifting atop his cloud.
“The rumors… are true, are they not, Lord Rostarion?” I offered the floor back to the crita, returning him to the center of this back-and-forth and placing the burden of truth onto his hands. “If I recall, you and the rest of the year group were there for this incident, no?”
The rodent, to his credit, never broke or flinched from his confident facade. “I was, yes.” He nodded, buying himself the precious seconds needed to formulate his response. “And indeed, the rumors are true. The newrealmer does indeed possess a library card.” As expected, a series of quiet mumbles erupted from the gathered council members. However, before any were able to come down from such a revelation, the man tossed the baton back to my court. “With all due respect, Prince Fiswisk, what was it you wished to infer from raising such a non sequitur of a point?”
“My point, Lord Rostarion, is that if the library itself sees merit in the newrealmer, enough to bestow upon her a gold card during what I assume to be her first few visits—” I allowed those details to simmer in the air, causing a stir amongst the crowd, before continuing. “—then this means that the library sees fit to acknowledge her knowledge potential. Not merely as a limited pool of novel trivia to be wrung in a day or two, but a vast ocean requiring the proportionate time and investment to siphon and drain; a veritable ocean of knowledge commensurate with the honor and privilege of a gold card.”
The noble’s gaze shifted in its steadiness, not breaking, not flinching, but merely… hardening.
The same went for the Chairman, as he and Rostario locked eyes for one more brief moment.
“Is it not possible that the newrealmer merely traded the knowledge handed to her by this hypothetical greater power?” The chairman countered.
“And why exactly would such a power risk delegating away a task as pivotal as trade and relations with the library through a pawn?” I rebutted.
The man and I locked eyes before shifting immediately to Rostario.
At which point, we understood we’d reached the limits of this theatre of debate
“We are getting nowhere with hypotheticals.” We both spoke simultaneously.
“Whatever the case may be.” The chairman continued. “We are faced with two paths of admission.” He let out a sigh before moving to polish his timepiece. “Either we acknowledge the newrealmer’s… aberrant proclivities, and by extension, her realm’s inferred industrial potential, and in so doing, recognize the knowledge required to facilitate such fanciful notions. Or we acknowledge the existence of an enigmatic benefactor, one who provided her with the boons we see before us.”
I raised a hand, offering a… compromise that the man was clearly leading towards.
“Whatever form this narrative takes, the resultant ends remain the same.” I offered. “The newrealmer indeed possesses the means for such enigmatic wealth, which requires a shift in strategy, tactics, and the adoption of an entirely different playbook by which to approach her.”
A series of ‘hear hears’ sounded amidst the gathered councilmen, my words of mutual compromise even resonating with the chairman himself, who eventually nodded in a slow series of acknowledgements. “Hear, hear.” He concluded.
“Well then, dear fellows… with what playbook, and with what honors do we now address the candidate of earthrealm?” I offered plainly.
“If at all, that is.” The chairman promptly added, causing a visible schism to form amidst our ranks. A schism… that the crita eyed with analytical intent.
“I still believe that a seat on the council is not yet out of my reach. If I may offer a new angle of—”
SLAM!!
The double doors swung open, allowing the sounds of the busy streets to immediately flood in…
Standing at the top of the steps, eyes addled with momentary confusion — then sudden abashment — was a gaggle of four reptilians, each one more colorful than the next.
“Oh. So this isn’t the monster hunter club?” They each turned to one another as their leader, Lord… Gumigo was it, stood ignorant of his fellows’ crumbling strength, each one of his three subordinates struggling to hold up the head of some gruesome creature.
“No. This is not.” I spoke firmly. “Please leave.”
However, before any of us were capable of properly responding, a series of terrible roars filled the enclosed skies above the exhibition hall.
I moved to peer just beyond the door’s periphery, at which point I saw it.
A series of drakes flying haphazardly above, with the largest in particular being led by a blue Vunerian of all things.
I quickly walked back inside without interrogating the site further, ignoring the screams, hollers, and various cries from the outside, and sidestepping the colorful crocodile without a second’s hesitation.
However, before he could even manage another word, the guildmaster had taken it upon itself to slam those double doors telekinetically closed from afar.
A series of ‘ahhhhs!’, ‘ooompfhs!’, and ‘bleghs!’ from our unwanted interlopers were quick to follow.
=====
The Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts. Exhibition Hall. Grand Arcade. Central Thoroughfare. Prosperity Row. Private Conference Room No. 1: Yuletellia’s Corner. Local Time: 2225 Hours.
Etholin Esila
“The floor is yours, Cadet Emma Booker.” I nodded with intent, lowering myself atop a smaller seat, if only to pay the earthrealmer her respect and dues. “And my ears are yours.”
It was… clear that some level of social deference ought to be displayed at this point. I had, after all, allowed an acute desire for what I had seen as an opportunity of personal gain through mutual aid to come at the cost of transparency, sincerity, and that most coveted of merchant aspirations — long-term trust.
“So first off, I have to ask.” Emma began with an excited lilt to her voice. “Just so we’re on the same page, every club has its own little… entry exam, right? A right of passage, a trial, a candidacy, or what-have-you?”
“Correct.” I nodded.
“And just to be clear, the Merchant’s Guild's whole schtick is to facilitate patron-client, parent-subordinate, economic relationships between larger adjacencies and newrealms? Is that how it goes?”
“Not always, no.” I corrected the earthrealmer. “Given the irregularity of newrealm induction, this prospect is one that is rare… but one that is guaranteed to grant entry into the guild.”
“Because of just how big and life-changing a newrealm deal is, right?”
“Correct, Emma.” I bowed curtly.
“Okay, so, if I’m understanding this correctly, any sort of deal is fair game for the whole merchant trial thing, correct?”
“As long as it is something of a business transaction or private enterprise, yes.” I acknowledged once more.
“That’s good.” The earthrealmer spoke with an undeniable slyness coloring her voice. “Because I’ve been waiting to broach this for ages now.” She knelt down to pick up my fallen pen, twirling it around between her fingers for good measure.
“What do you know of the stationery industry down in Elaseer, Etholin?” She questioned.
I perked up a brow before cradling my chin within a thoughtful hand.
“There are penmaker guilds, as there are paper and parchment guilds, alongside bookmaking guilds, so on and so forth.” I prattled on. “But I assume you would be focusing on the pen industry in particular?”
“Yes.” Emma nodded.
“I… know of suppliers, the penmaker guilds, and the stationery shops they work with. Indeed, I believe they receive their enchanted parts from a bespoke workshop or manufactorium somewhere within Elaseer or within Transgracia’s capital proper. These manufactoriums typically produce all sorts of basic enchantments and enchanted parts and pieces, to be later assembled and combined into functional pens for the market.” I continued, raising my hand and gesticulating as I did so.
“Which is to say everything’s tooled for parts that are enchanted to work. From the nib to the mouths, seals, rods, shrouds, knobs, and even the ink itself… enchantments and magic are considered to be ‘conventional’ solutions to ‘problems’ presented by unenchanted writing implements.” Emma began, her words seemingly drawn straight from a primary source. “At least, that’s what a stationery shopkeeper in town has told me.”
Ahh, I was right.
“That is… indeed correct, Emma.” I nodded, reaffirming her claims.
“This is why the idea of an unenchanted pen for cheap… is practically impossible. There isn’t even a basic tooling and manufacturing base for the simplest of fountain pens, let alone a ballpoint pen!” She exclaimed. “And when push comes to shove, the people who really need pens will just opt for the cheapest amidst the enchanted variety. Why innovate on something so far off from the research and development cycle — let alone mass deployment — when an enchanted solution is already right there? Why spend so much time starting from literal scratch, when all you can possibly develop within a reasonable timeframe and investment window is a lesser version of a product that’s already on shelves? The path of least resistance is just too entrenched, and way too ingrained and self-reinforcing for anyone to ever have the hope of disrupting!”
Emma abruptly halted as her twirling pen suddenly came to a stop with a series of admittedly satisfying clicks.
At which point, she reached for one of the many pieces of parchment on the conference table before us, placing it on a corkboard and then pinning it to its surface with a stray pin.
“Write on that.” She commanded, handing me the pen in question.
“I’m… I’m sorry?” I questioned back, cocking my head as I did so.
“You heard me — write. On that vertical sheet of paper.” She continued, alluding to something I wasn’t yet seeing.
I nodded all the same, accepting her pen and reaching for the paper in question.
“Was there something in particular that you wished for me to—”
“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. There we go. Just write, Etholin!” Emma urged further, as if unable to contain her excitement for what was to happen next.
My anticipation was bubbling by this point, threatening to spill over as I expected… something on the same radical level as her pile of impossible metals to abruptly manifest.
Perhaps the ink was now primed to glow following Emma’s constant shifting and fiddling with it?
Perhaps the written word would somehow morph into imagery?
Perhaps it would generate a moving sequence of images, a veritable sight-seer projected onto the paper itself?
A flurry of excitement overwhelmed me as I wrote each and every word in nigh-perfect calligraphy.
…
Only for nothing at all to happen.
I turned to Emma, both hands on my hips, before shaking my head.
“I… I don’t see what the purpose of that entire exercise even was, Emma. Was something supposed to happen? Was I meant to see something?”
“Perfection.”
“I’m… I’m sorry?”
“Perfection in simplicity, I should say.” She quickly added before gesturing to the board once more. “Do you see anything happening?”
“N-no? Was I supposed to?” I retorted.
“Nope. And that’s the beauty of it. Because answer me this, Etholin. Is this pen enchanted?”
“No.”
“Is it using enchanted ink?”
“No.”
“Has it in any way been through any magical processes?”
“No.”
“Then tell me… how is a seemingly manaless pen, one so simple and exceedingly banal, capable of writing on a vertical surface without once smudging, dripping, or bleeding following the forces of leypull?”
…
Something inside me snapped.
My eyes immediately widened.
And my whole body was once more inexplicably drawn to the artifact I’d just had a hand in creating.
I leaned in close, grabbing my reading lenses to scry and analyze each and every penstroke.
…
It was as if I’d just written using a typical enchanted pen.
Each stroke was consistent, and every curve followed the motions of my hands without fail and without deviation.
Was it perfect?
No.
But that imperfection was due to my own hand, not the pen’s.
I inspected the paper further for bleed-through, for dripping and blotching, for any sign of the ink drawn downwards by the forces of leypull.
…
I found nothing.
At which point, I turned to Emma with an outstretched hand.
“Emma?”
“Yes, Etholin?”
“I see the vision now.” I announced plainly. “I… see why you have been, and I quote: waiting to broach this for ages.” I continued, as I reached my hand closer to her own. “And I wish to ‘join forces’ as you had once put it, together, in this union of private ventures.”
However, instead of immediately accepting my hand, the earthrealmer paused, merely nodding once in acknowledgement.
“I’m glad that you see the vision, Etholin. But before we move to shaking hands, let alone signing anything, let’s discuss some specifics of the deal, shall we?”
I retracted my hand and offered the pen back to Emma. “Let’s.”
…
Ten Minutes Later
“So… you’re sure about this?” Emma reeled back, completely taken aback by my admittedly generous offer.
“Yes, Emma. I… wished not to broach this outright, but by your actions on this night — your insistent refusal of my naive offers to match your realm’s dead metals with their attuned equivalents — you have directly saved me from a merchant’s demise. For that, I owe you a merchant’s debt.”
The earthrealmer paused upon hearing this, even letting out a long, drawn-out sigh in response. “Again with these Nexian debts… alright, I understand. So, just to be clear… you’re offering to cover all of the upfront costs in investment, including but not limited to: the acquisition of storefront property, refurbishment and renovation of storefront property, payroll for staff and employees, payment of all material goods for the production of all items sold, and all maintenance and/or servicing fees including all recurring fees for the first, and all subsequent stores henceforth following the business’ first sale?”
“Correct.” I nodded.
“This is an incredibly generous offer, Etholin.”
“It is, in fact, very much a fool’s offer on my part. But as I stated previously, I am acting in an attempt to repay my merchant’s debt, and in the hopes that this action may likewise prove sufficient in making amends commensurate with the damage to the trust incurred by my, and my peer group’s actions.”
The earthrealmer nodded, her silence speaking volumes to my final-stakes gambit — an attempt to effectively start anew.
“That’s… awfully thoughtful of you, Etholin. Dare I say it, you’ve gone above and beyond what I expected. And I mean that as a compliment.” She first acknowledged before diving back into the thick of things. “But at the risk of being too blunt, I’d like to wrap up talks, if that’s alright?”
“By all means, Emma.”
“So, the ownership situation. This is going to be a clear 50/50 split, correct?”
“A true partnership, yes.” I nodded. “All decisions are to be made jointly and unanimously. The business shall not be divided or sold into smaller stakes or stocks. The business may be converted to sole ownership if both parties agree, as arbitrated by a neutral third party. But for the purposes of our operations, we will be entering this as equals, Cadet Emma Booker. That much, I guarantee.” I nodded firmly. “Merchant’s honor.”
“I can work with that.” Emma nodded. “Though, we’re also going to have to discuss some practical concerns regarding this whole venture.”
“Go on?” I urged.
“The manufacturing equipment and certain production materials. The former will be entirely my prerogative. I have… a workshop in my dorm that I can use to create the simple machines required for manufacturing pens. Though I have to put a caveat here: the machine belongs to me, not the shop.”
I narrowed my gaze before crossing my arms.
“This pertains to your ownership of the intellectual property and rights to the pen in question, I assume?”
“Oh, no. I mean. Kinda? It’s more to do with the machinery itself than the pen patent, but both are pertinent topics in their own right.”
I resisted an urge to cross my arms, the earthrealmer’s carefree demeanor practically inviting the same degree of reciprocation, only prevented by years of careful practice in both social etiquette and decorum. “Then let us address them — the machines and means, as well as our just dues. Starting with the finalization of our venture’s division of responsibilities.” I smiled warmly. “Who, pray tell, do we both owe our dues for the creation of such a tool?”