Wearing Power Armor to a Magic School (148/?) WiP 1

The Next Day

The Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts. The Grand Dining Hall. Local Time: 0730 Hours

Thacea

“The pair should be arriving soon, at this rate.” Ilunor announced casually, his head craned lackadaisically towards the grand windows overlooking Elaseer.

“Indeed.” I acknowledged.

“What do you suppose will happen once they succeed?”

“Once?” I shot back with mild surprise.

“Yes, once. Do you take me for a pessimist, princess?”

I paused, before cocking my head, narrowing my eyes in a wordless response that gave Ilunor all the answers he needed.

“Your grievances notwithstanding, I refer back to my initial question. Lest we dive into another introspective sojourn of my integrity or what-have-you.”

“Understadnable.” I nodded, as I merely leaned back against my seat. “I imagine not much will happen, in that the goal of this entire… adventure, is a mission of preventive intent. One meant to ensure that neither accidental incursions nor cataclysmic repercussions owing to the planned opening of Earthrealm’s portal occurs.”

“Yes, yes. And that’s all well and good… but what happens after that?” The Vunerian continued pushing, his hands doing something rare in this social context — they remained still, away from food and drink.

“Elaborate.” I urged.

“The earthrealmer is planning to send a message back, yes? A message that will announce her safe arrival and continued survival. But even if the content of these messages are as limiting in their density as she makes it out to be, what’s stopping her from adding pertinent details as to her experiences thus far?”

My eyes narrowed, as I too put down my cup of tea, both palms now finding themselves resting thoughtfully on my lap.

“You’re asking me to postulate how earthrealm will react to these details, yes?” I clarified, my gaze drilling into that of the Vunerian’s thoughtful stare.

“Yes.” 

“You are asking the impossible.”

“I beg your pardon—”

“We do not have enough… context for precisely how a state as enigmatic and decentralized such as Earthrealm would react.” 

“I’m not asking for specifics, princess.” Ilunor spoke with a tired sigh. “What I am asking for is general intent. From what we know, and from what we understand, which way will the winds blow once Emma relays all of the Nexus’ supposed ‘transgressions’? Because you know well she will not be sending any letters of positivity back whatsoever.”

“Perhaps. Though perhaps you’re simply seeing this from the Nexian perspective, Ilunor.” I concluded gracefully.

“Excuse me?”

“While Emma may not have much of anything positive to say on the part of the Nexus, I do imagine that she might balance that with a degree of optimism for those adjacent to it.” I clarified, eliciting a narrowing of the Vunerian’s pupils.

“You put too much faith in the earthrealmer.” He countered.

“I’m simply postulating based on the experiences we’ve shared thus far.” 

“While that may be so, this doesn’t detract from my point.”

“And what exactly is your point, Ilunor?”

“Trust. Not in Emma Booker herself, but the state she serves and the authorities she is beholden to. You misconstrue the emissary for the monarch. Or worse, the personal for the amalgamate. Because that is what they are, not a monarch with predictable aims and logical drives, but the discordant will of the screaming masses. That is what Emma Booker represents, and that will be the entity which will be reacting to whatever she relays back. And I highly doubt that a blanket sense of offense can be overruled by some personal anecdotes of optimism for those adjacent to its actions.” 

I leaned in close, my gaze burrowing into the Vunerian’s sockets. “So says the man who once confidently held in high regard, the very architect of his own demise.” 

I knew that was a low blow, and Ilunor’s reactions confirmed as much.

But… from my interactions with Emma and Thalmin, this was the preferred method of keeping the Vunerien’s Nexian tendencies in line.

“You of all people should know, Ilunor, that the predictable aims and logical drives of any Monarch, Lord, or Councilman, will always hold ill will towards me for what I am. Do you really think that argument would have any bearing on my personal inclinations?” 

And, just as unprecedented as this conversation began, so too did it end with a newfound expression I rarely saw in the noble’s eyes.

As thoughtfulness of a different sort, a far more wary sort, seemed to spoil his appetite for further followups.

At least, that’s what I thought at first.

Because following nearly twenty seconds of silence, did the Vunerian speak once more.

“I, for both of our sakes, hope your optimism bears fruit, for your sake. For you may see hollowness in their empty promises, as the giants of old.” He announced ominously, just as the call to classes ended our morning discussions. 

=====

The Nexus. The Royal Road of Transgracia. En Route to the North Rythian Forests. Local Time: 0900 Hours.

Emma

[‘QUEST’ Time Elapsed: 68 Hours. Time Remaining: 100 Hours]

We were about an hour out from the forests.

At which point, we finally met our first — and hopefully only — interaction on the otherwise empty and desolate roads.

And that latter sentiment wasn’t because of any ill will or frustration with this stranger, no.

He’d been exceptionally grateful and very polite as we repaired and replaced his broken-down cart’s wheel for him after all.

If anything, I’d have loved to invite him to the party as a sidekick with how he stole the show.

“Nono, I insist. A scratch for a scratch, a meal for a meal, a deal for a deal, and in this case…” He paused, barely stifling a laugh. “A wheel for a wheel?” He spoke with a barely restrained cackle, emerging from the labyrinthian maze of a cart to reveal… a wheel of cheese.

The little kobold looked so proud of himself for that pun too, as he held that red and orange delectable delight high above his head, his little arms shaking, as if about ready to give in at any moment.

This gave us little choice but to accept, if only to prevent a cartoonish death from manifesting before our eyes.

At which point… we fell for his trap.

His cheesy, gooey conversationalist pit of never-ending anecdotes.

Our host in question was what I could only describe as a mirror universe Ilunor. With scales of brown instead of blue, an outfit more eclectic than planned, and a mouth that never once spoke ill save for a questionable penchant for self-deprecating humor.

He brought us on tour through colorful depictions of far-off realms. From skyward spires, to swampy marshlands, to cosmopolitan metropolises, and finally to magma chambers of — as he called it — pits of fondue delight. 

“Those chambers were as troublesome as they sound, by the by. Because as nostalgic as they were and as homesick as they made me, their environment, by their very nature, forced me to purchase enchanted chests of constant cooling, if only to ensure my cargo did not preemptively fondue-ify! Speaking of which, have I told you exactly why I left the kobold mountains?” 

This definitely grabbed both of our attentions, as Thalmin leaned in for the proverbial tea and the literal crackers, while I kept all auditory sensors open for that juicy primary-source intel.

“The first time I was introduced to ‘room temperature foods,’ I was astounded. But it wasn’t the ice, nor iced creams, nor delectable confectionaries that did me in, nonono! It was cheese. I’d never had any texture but gooey and melty before, and from then on out, I made it my life’s purpose to seek out, uncover, and taste all of the wondrous textures of this delectable food!” He paused before reaching for something else in the back, revealing an ornate bottle of some mystery reddish liquid. “Furthermore, I was introduced to the wonders of cold wine. Cold! I felt like a blind man who, for the first time, was finally given sight!” He rambled and rambled, pouring Thalmin a chalice of wine, which he eagerly accepted.

The mercenary prince took a moment to swirl the fermented grape juice, sniffing it… only to recoil from it, and then immediately move in for another big sniff.

My eyes immediately narrowed, as a pit of distrust grew at that visceral reaction.

However, before I could even voice my suspicions, Thalmin did the unthinkable.

He let out a burst of mana, then immediately went in for a gulp.

Not a sip. Not a taste, but one big gulp.

His whole body winced at that however, as concern once more grew within me. “What is it, Thalmin?” I urged, my hand reaching for my medpack.

“It’s… it’s—” He struggled to form words, his voice hoarse, and his words interrupted by fitful coughs.