Wearing Power Armor to a Magic School (138/?) WiP 1

Author’s Note: Hey everyone! Here is the Work in Progress for Chapter 137 I hope you guys enjoy! :D

His Eternal Majesty’s Remembrance Path… aka the Royal Road of Transgracia. The Night Town Bazaar. Local Time 2150 Hours.

Emma

Merriment. 

That’s the word.

That’s precisely what this whole town exuded. 

Whereas Elaseer did have its moments of rugged and untempered fantasy — most particularly in commoner town — this tent city was quite literally forged by it.

And for good reason too.

This… Night Town, as the locals called it, was sort of the best of all worlds when it came to the grittiness of medieval fantasy; both in the gritty and the fantasy. 

For starters, there wasn’t so much a clear-cut class divide that truly made the Nexus… the Nexus. 

The whole place was a settlement forged by necessity, its demographics consisted of those without access to the transportium, and those who serviced that sort of clientele. 

This naturally cut nobles from the equation, leading to a rougher, easier-going, looser and less restrictive sort of atmosphere that was not only contagious, but a breath of fresh air.

It felt like a heavy weight had been lifted from my chest and shoulders. 

It felt like I could finally breathe easier, without the constant looming presence of the Academy, and without the constant social pressures of Expectant Decorum tightening its grip around my very being. 

Indeed, the only divide that existed was the small yet present disparity that existed between the wealth of merchants. 

But even that wasn’t as pronounced as it was at Elaseer. 

Sure, there were those with plate armor rubbing shoulders with those wearing worn and faded tunics… but that was about as far as it went. 

If anything, there seemed to only be one big exception to this rule, and that was the grand and imposing tent positioned high at the top of the hill. 

Other than that? It was just… normalcy, or at least what was close enough to it, all around. 

Something that both I, and even Thalmin, seemed to appreciate. 

It gave me the first taste of that authentic Castles and Wyverns campaign that had been lacking for all this time.

This included the ever-dreaded sense of fleeting whimsy. The understanding that everything here and now, as great as it was and as fun as it was, simply wasn’t going to last; nor was it meant to last.

It was the same feeling you got during the middle of a convention weekend, a music festival, or during the climax of a great session of Castles and Wyverns — that bittersweet high where joy crashes into the quiet knowing that it’s all destined to end. 

Everything felt… ephemeral, transient, which was precisely the point and entirely why there was such an infectious mood of levity and mirth. 

People here looked like they were at the end of a journey… because in a sense they were. 

This wasn’t where home was, this wasn’t a complex settlement with all of its associated baggage.

No.

This was the very spirit of the traveler — or more specifically the traveler at his respite — condensed and distilled into the very essence of a single town.

An entire settlement made up of this spirit of levity.

But with that came the dread of impermanence. 

We’d wandered and stumbled upon many interesting sights here, and while it was both entertaining and exciting in equal measures, there was a strange and almost melancholic feeling when we left each stall.

Because we knew it wouldn’t last. Or rather, there was no guarantee they’d be there the next night.

This whole town was quite literally set up in hours, each and every night. With vendors and suppliers coming and going without planning, coordination, or anything resembling top-down organization.

This entire setup was spontaneous, and each night brought different sights and sounds.

Even the mainstays such as The Crab Cafe weren't guaranteed to stick around, always traveling towards better pastures and new horizons.

We were just lucky to be in its path on this particular night.

I took a deep breath as we entered yet another crossroads, poised to go down yet another high street.

Thalmin’s eyes were locked to stalls on our left, as all manner of wares — of dubious quality — were being hawked with varying degrees of intensity. 

“SWORDS SWORDS SWORDS SWORDS! ARMING SWORDS, PARRYING SWORDS, LONG SWORDS, SHORT SWORDS, GREAT SWORDS, NOT-SO-GREAT SWORDS, AND ONE-TIME-ENCHANTED SWORDS AVAILABLE NOW FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY!” A particularly excitable kobold yelled and yapped, clanging a tiny sword against a suitably tiny shield, generating a series of shallow yet sharp clangs that rang cacophonously throughout the entire market. 

This was set in stark contrast to proprietors who preferred the exact polar opposite tactics, as a lizardfolk with similar hooded brethren sat ominously behind a dark and dingy stall. “Pssst. Hey… we have… quality artifacts. The good stuff. Not that second-rate junk found in the back alley of a smith.” They somehow whispered out loud enough that we could hear. 

I didn’t know how that was possible.

Nor did I think it was in any way really doing any favors for their subtlety points.

However, what was clear was that their gear was considerably more… 

ALERT: LOCALIZED SURGE OF MANA-RADIATION DETECTED, 250% ABOVE BACKGROUND RADIATION LEVELS

… mana-rich than the ones hawked by the excitable kobold.

Thalmin, perhaps noticing my growing interest in these would-be black market arms dealers, quickly pulled up a privacy screen as we walked past them.

“The kobold is hawking third-rate throwaway scrap that most enchanters and smithies throw out. Meanwhile, the lizardfolk are probably hawking dead adventurers’ gear, or just as likely — stolen goods purloined from either the storefront or picked from a parked supply crate.” He spoke through a barely concealed grin of giddiness.

Something that I couldn’t help but to call him out for.

“Excited about the more illicit side of things now, are we, Prince Havenbrock?” I began with a chiding snicker. “You’re not really beating the mercenary allegations here, I must say.” 

The prince, clearly giving me a pass for that jab in exchange for his earlier torture of my grastronomic shortcomings, simply smiled in response. “All battles start at the procurement table, Emma. And as with war, one must be open to… unconventional tactics, even — and perhaps especially — when it comes to matters of supply and logistics.” 

“I take it this isn’t your first rodeo with these grey market types.” I questioned. 

“How was it you phrased it, Emma?” The lupinor pondered teasingly, tapping his chin with a single clawed finger. “Ah, yes… ‘I can neither confirm nor deny’.” He shot back with a toothy snout-to-snout grin.

I responded in the only way that was appropriate — by rolling my eyes.

Sadly, this didn’t really translate well to, well… any physical cue. So I had no choice but to vocalize it manually.

“I’ll have you know that if it wasn’t for the armor, you’d see my eyes to the very back of my head right now.” I responded cheekily. 

Though the response I got wasn’t at all what I expected, as Thalmin suddenly narrowed his gaze in a bout of suspicion.

“So you can roll your eyes… all the way to the back of your head, you say?” He asked with a sudden burst of interest that seemed to come out of nowhere.

“Erm, it’s a figure of—”

“You there!” A voice boomed from behind us, a familiar voice, at least as far as the EVI was concerned.

[B10 Lord Millias Tacten. Aliases: Millias the Resplendant]

I quickly turned to face the Vunerian, only to see that we weren’t the targets of interest as he sped past us with the rest of his group — a fully suited elf whose armor plates glowed with an iridescent fire, an avinor dressed in what I could only describe as renaissance mercenary armor, and a fire elemental. 

They were quick to speed-walk forwards, through the crowd, who all parted ways to reveal the father son duo we’d escorted here.