#apologies for bad quality i took the photos in class like some idiot

[seethrough-junkie]

Very busy in class today

[jackofallworlds]

Of Blood and Brass: Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Exposition

The first thing that visitors noticed was the noise. To be perfectly clear, it was the change in noise. There was a hush, a wave of whispering like grass before the wind, a rumble of exclamation like the engine for the rumor mill being kick-started. Where there had been auditory chaos, an entropy of noise spread in all directions, there was an epicenter of looking, listening. Every stand-owner’s heart beat faster, every company man stood taller, every crier and hawker of wares shouted louder into the openness of sound and then, suddenly, quieted. As suddenly as it came, it went, right back into the chaos.

There were five of them. Five not-quite-right visitors. No entourage, no accountants attending, nobody. Only five.

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Deep in the HCEC’s Outer Pavilion, where hundreds of shopkeepers had set up stands in appropriated bazaar spots, someone in workman’s garb (simple, yet clean) wandered through, occasionally buying food and munching it idly, picking up odd trinkets and mechanisms, weighing tools and implements in a broad hand. There was an air of practical curiosity around the figure, a humble nobility in the appraisals.

Eventually, the sprawling exposition campus of Broadson’s Farming Manufactory saw that figure, far enough back from the stand to keep out of conversations, but close enough to clearly be interested. A broad, slow smile crept across the features of this working-class visitor, below eyes that took in every rivet and gear of the massive combines that sat smoking and gleaming in the Inner Garden, eyes that ravenously took in the shirtless laborers feeding the boilers that had been red-hot for hours. Sam Broadson got chills from those eyes. They had no place in a face like that.

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Tesibius’ voice took some getting used to. It was like children’s stories about river spirits talking; somehow, the random splatters and burbles of a stream were supposed to form recognizable words. Being encased in a closed system of glass tubes and brass bands, the Inquo’s voice was a combination of fluid moving through a brass organ somewhere deep within the system, and the odd settlings and gurglings of the water in general. Calling it a voice was really not doing it justice. He said things. People knew that he said things, and responded accordingly.

He was in favor. He still thought that, as a side trip, they could break into some hidden vault with unknown treasures (at least two pairs of eyes rolled, but you couldn’t tell with the Shaman’s mask). Whether that happened or not, this would represent access to a whole new biome, a place where alchemical and biological wonders would be in excessive abundance. That, in turn, would open doors to a serious alchemical monopoly.

The construct leaned forward, resting gentle clockwork appendages on the table’s varnished surface, careful not to leave the faintest mar.

Furthermore, the thought continued, surviving accounts of the Underdark described an organism that distilled and used ambient magical energy. Finding a third form of energy production besides chemo- and photo-synthesis would jumpstart sufficient research to make one despair of the endless questions. Among them, the construct noted seriously, was the creation of a biological construct to house the Inquo form, such as it was.

Tesibius smiled (or, at least, the board members knew he was doing that smiling thing, despite no outward physical changes). Who wouldn’t, on top of all that, not want to wonder at the marvelous craftsmanship of the Lady of Life in the presence of no less than dragons? Content with arguments placed on the table, the construct leaned back, fingers clicking softly in concert 

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A tall figure with fiery red hair strode through the HCEC. The spontaneous exposition and convention that had sprung up in the days following the out-of-the-blue article in the Courant interested that figure not at all. Wherever the red hair was seen, so were the piercing eyes, appraising machine shops, workbenches, craftsmen and artisans in the slightest glance, carrying a weight of sneering judgement the most haughty monarch could barely manage. Though hundreds, even thousands of visitors crowded every hall and corridor, this one stood out. You couldn’t help but try to impress those deadly eyes, and fail.

The impatient path was abruptly halted in front of the alchemical spread of Haven Haemonetics and Homunculi. A much shorter tiefling with his half-orc girlfriend ran right into the impeccably dressed figure, and the apology immediately offered died on his lips. Those eyes, up close, were like watching knives being made for the express purpose of a slow death. The tiefling just stopped moving, barely breathing for the fear, and his girlfriend ran away at a dead sprint that would have done her orc chieftan grandfather proud.

Leaving the devil-spawn idiot behind, the figure strode into the Haemonetics sprawl. There were visits at every stand and bench, listening to lectures, testing the samples, measuring with deadly eyes the enhanced volunteers the company produced. No longer mired in the old accusations of necromancy, HHH was using alchemy to increase speed, strength, reflexes. In short, while their PR focused on labor abilities and medical applications, there was really only one thing that the visitor stayed at for longer than a minute; military applications. Super soldiers. Enhancement in a test tube.

Kan DerVeeldt, senior consulting alchemist for the HHH, saw those eyes change. It was the hunger, no longer judging but coveting, that made the cold sweat break out. There were bad memories of a particular gnome he associated with that look.

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While the construct Tesibius was making his points known, Irvin sat back and looked over the article again. He skimmed a few lines, and then his eyes unfocused. His breathing quickened. His fingers started counting, then just shaking. The very tips of his hair started to change color imperceptibly to an iridescence. Dragon blood and scale, a whole new class of reagants, sample collection, traps, products…

“I’ve decided.” The outburst cut through the pause after Tesibius stopped talking. “I want to go.” There was a short, awkward silence as the rest of the board waited for further explanation, watching the gnome’s hair turn an excited yellow. Just as a different voice was about to be raised, the pieces of Irvin’s thoughts came crashing together into the whole he was waiting for. “It goes like this. Farthington: you get an unreasonable new hold on the weapons market with that plant they just mentioned. Tesibus is already in; I want to go. Kai: you know you can't ignore the possibility of a totally unique and new adventure, and Shamus over there is outvoted no matter what he wants, whatever the hell he wants.”

The Shaman rested a pair of dull-colored fingers at the bridge of his mask’s nose as the alchemist strolled over to the construct and started a muttered conversation. A burned but recognizable tail (nobody wanted to know why, how, or when that tail was procured or turned into functional charcoal) was produced as charcoal as drawings and schematics began to flower on grubby paper. Completely oblivious to all but these plans, the gnome sat on the edge of the table at Tesibius’ hand, diving right into the ideas that came to mind like a wildfire.

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One moment, there was an empty space of floor. The next, there was an officer.

The uniform was not recognizable, but it was more than that. The way that the boots shone, the polish on the bronze buttons and low-profile medals, the featureless deep of the black and the brilliance of the red, all of it was secondary, costume, the frame. It was the eyes (it was always the eyes). Below a helmet that would have been as bright as chrome for lack of surface imperfections were it not jet-black, two killer’s eyes coldly inspected the vista before them. Those eyes had watched cities burn on their master’s command. They knew the screams of the dying. A bed of ice would be a comfort compared to the mercy in those eyes.

The position was perfect; in the main convention hall, the two primary armaments manufacturers had set up right next to each other, with rows of military products gleaming, ready for inspection. APCs, models of airships and carriers, mobile fortifications, gleaming guns, tickets to weapons tests later in the week. The officer could see attendants spot-polishing as necessary, demonstrating loading and unloading. From the occupied position, the military wealth of Haven was laid out and visible.

The officer stood there for two hours, perfectly still, merely watching.

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"What a wonderful opportunity for profiteering. What a wonderful chance to acquire spoils." The metal of the Shaman’s bones produces a series of clacks that brings the room to silence for a while. A sarcastic laugh rings out, tinged with the otherworldly quality of his strange lungs. "I do not doubt there are spoils to be found. Maybe we could get ourselves a barking dragon."

Casting aside the pretense of humor, he gently laid his beautiful tin mask on the table, revealing the protruding metal bones and unsettling glass eyes. The visible and colorless muscles settled into a neutral expression as he paced softly on the thick carpet.

"What I am about to say is not going to be popular, but I must offer my perspective so that our group can function as it needs to. I am truly privileged to be in such good company as I seek my answers and ride my life into the infinite. I mean this. But, as I have said in the past, I cannot support profiteering. The Underdark is not a treasure trove; it is an unholy abscess. It may contain answers, knowledge—spoils, even—but we cannot forget that Khoriv fell into the maw of something great and terrible. The Underdark is a shadowy wyrm that writhes in its apparent stillness."

An escaped terrarium beetle, flipped onto its back, took a moment of the Shaman’s time, pausing to crouch silently and flip it over with his little finger, rising to continue his address.

"We see cause and effect, and we need cause and effect, but seeing this opportunity as either cause or effect is folly. The moral world is made of arcs and tendrils, though we perceive instances. I am eager to join any expedition so long as we fear the shadows and respect them as they thrash about."

No one cared to meet the glass eyes as they scanned the room, but the expressions of the other board members illustrated some lack of understanding, some concern, some worry.

"Fear not. I am eager to seek out any knowledge that may help me make sense of my condition, our condition, and something in me longs to delve into the Underdark. It feels right, though I have my worries. Let us respect the unknown, terrible, entropic dangers that await us."

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Sister Lai of the Order of the Silver Star knew her place. One of the most shunned religious orders in Haven (and that was saying a whole lot), they were one of the three groups which considered dragons to be not-bad. The heretics of the Ascendant Fire claimed that through eventual reincarnation, all stood a chance at becoming a dragon, and the apostates at the Silver Flame claimed that slavery under the dragons had been the only way to achieve righteousness. The Black Sorrow didn’t count, since they were equal opportunity death-cult evil-worshippers. The Silver Star, however, knew that because the dragons were not completely evil, they were capable of understanding right and wrong to a greater extent than small-minded mortals. They knew morality was a longer game, and though Sister Lai did not understand what that long game entailed, she trusted that a dragon could, perhaps, eventually explain it.

She had helped Mother Superior Foli set up the tiny corner stand after paying the convention manager the space rent. They had handed out a few dozen pamphlets, not counting the three that were shredded by angry members of the Silver Flame. It was a good day; there was less hate with the rumor of dragons around.

There was a moment when Mother Superior Foli and Sister Cho had left her alone to man the stand while they went and got food. A moment when a tall figure clad in a featureless white robe approached the stand, their face filled with a surprised curiosity, as if there was an unrecognizable but lovely smell in the air. Sister Lai had been surprised herself, for a moment; if the robe was so white, why wasn’t it more shiny and obvious? As the figure stopped before the stand, looking over the pamphlets and artwork, Sister Lai got a look at the eyes, filled with a sadness deeper than oceans, a mirth higher than clouds, a strength like cold stone. Their eyes met, and Sister Lai experienced a vertigo, double-vision, as she saw something impossible.

The figure left, and Sister Lai could only say to her fellow nuns, “It wasn’t white… it was silver!”

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Howard Armon Dalius Farthington rotated his ring, a broad steel band emblazoned with the symbol of his work, with mild unease as the Shaman finished talking and returned to his seat. Feeling that the time was right for his own intervention in the discussion, he cleared his throat, pulling the protruding coat of his pinstripe suit into better position around his expansive self.

"Gentlemen!" Howard leaned forward and laid his workman’s hands on the table in front of him, palms face-down, fingers splayed. "I must say, that I would like to hope that none of us would take our own mortality, nor the risk of foregoing enjoying any rewards from this little venture, quite so lightly! Indeed, my dear Shamus, I myself wouldn't underestimate the dangers posed in exploring the vast and unknown Underdark! No, not even if I had my trusty original Dailus Mark I with me!" Howard chuckled at his own joke and beamed at them all brightly. A faint groan of indeterminate origin issued from someone else, but the momentum was his.

"Oh no, no, no, no, no... such casualness won't do. No, it won't do at all." Howard spoke quickly and in a slightly chiding manner, as a father reclining would speak to a growing son. "But gentlemen," he said, resting one thick hand upon the Courant, "in all seriousness, I think that we absolutely must embark upon this quest. Fame, fortune, and knowledge are always useful in my book and I never turn down a chance to make either history or bank. But I think that prudent precautions are important and a level of preparation ought to be considered. Only one life to live, eh?" Howard smiled, nodding at the Shaman in respect.

The prototypical capitalist then turned his attentions on Tesibius and Irvin. "And I just have to hear what you know about this thaumo-synthetic plant, my good Tesibius! And Irvin," Howard said, shifting his gaze towards the alchemist, "if you're in the business of learning more about dragons, just let me know! I have been eager to make some better connections in the Imperium for some time now.” He paused, speaking more to himself. “Real dragons! If I could only have access to some of their military-industrial technology and methods..."

Howard seemed lost in thought for a brief moment before shaking himself out of dreams of gears, steel, and profits. He then put the end of the rolled up newspaper to his chin, his brow furrowed. "Hmmm," he said before looking up and moving his eyes to the only member of the board yet to speak at the table. "You've been rather quiet Kai, what are your thoughts on the matter?"

Kai sat up straight, his reverie broken, his gaze now focused in the present. Since his turn reading the article, his mind had packed up a few important things already. A few small tomes, custom-bound down the street and prepared for loving decoration once their crisp, blank pages had been filled; writing utensils for the road (good, solid charcoal, not one of those ridiculous tail disasters); a small pack of necessities. His mind had already left the building with these items in tow and started traveling, for the moment the words "enter the Underdark" had crossed his retinas, the rest had been merely a symposium of little bright points of happiness. Reconstructing the tension. He shivered with delight as that phrase passes through his consciousness again now.

Ponderously, he said, "I can't recall the last time you bothered to ask my opinion, Howard." Kai does not mean this as a barb, of course. He is simply casually observing the length of time this has taken. It's generally clear they will not agree, but here lies a clear exception.

"I am for it, of course. I understand your concerns, Shaman, of course, but I am sure you know full well not one among us will not seek to pursue this opportunity. I have little doubt we will succeed in acquiring the privilege," he noted, not cockily, just matter-of-factly. "The chance to learn firsthand what has become of an entire society, an entire region lost to the records of history, in all this time isolated from the rest of the world -- what could possibly be more interesting? Sure, we could stay here and read about it someday. But as lovely as books can be as a source, there is absolutely nothing quite like seeing a thing with your own eyes and experiencing it with your own mind. And the fact that it comes with an adventure and so many other mysteries only adds to the case. Surely, we must go. Even were we certain to only find this writhing, unknowable, probably metaphorical wyrm of yours, still I would insist. Would we be true disciples of the Nomad if we planted our roots here and ceased to seek out the new and the unknown? Should the day come that I desire such a thing, I would renounce my path immediately."

He stood up, eager to begin his preparations. "I believe we are decided, then?"

There was a brief pause before the shaman raised his voice hesitantly. "The very notion of such an adventure gives us all pause, indeed." He clasped his hands, tendons clearly twitching, and began to speak cautiously: "A major point of concern is, I believe, the military inclinations of the dragons. If we allow them access to our technology, I fear the worst regarding how… creative they might get. That being said, a sort of performance or exposition may be one of our only ways into their inner sanctum.”

His hands moved, balancing in the air the ideas put forth. "I feel as if we have sufficient Nomadic ability, and technological, alchemical, financial prowess that we could use to show ourselves off not as able fighters but as… entertainment? A distraction. Of course, this would not be our true goal, although a troupe of performing artists is no less noble than any other institution of purpose. We could be... The Halcyon Troupe. Or Group, depending on our mission." He chuckled, a thin sound from such a throat as his.

"I say we dazzle them, confuse them, and keep things strictly superficial, strictly economic. They will doubtless inquire about my appearance, but careful costuming should take care of that. As for Tesibius... Do we want to reveal our mechanical man? I don't know if my ideas are making any sense, or if they are feasible, but perhaps they resonate with the group in some way?"

Tesibius considered the idea. He was in favor either way, but in his consideration there were some minor problems. First, while he was capable of deception magics through his own powers, he was more a student of life magics and could not put up more than a simple defense. Second, any deception could be brushed aside by the legendary prowess of dragons. These were ancient creatures, steeped in lore and power, and the obscuring of form by a spirit less strong than they would go over poorly. Finally, and with emphasis, he really wanted to get in the good graces of the dragons, and not risk anything. There were some things they might not want to show the dragons, but why risk it? One thing the Shaman got right was the idea of entertainment; they should be dazzled, blown away by the work put on by the Foundation.

Howard nodded, starting his addition in the not-quite-silence after Tesibius stopped speaking (it was always strange not going off of auditory cues for conversation). “We must play to our strengths, which are many. Anything less and we risk the money, the fame, the opportunity, and I think we are all clear on how important this is. I believe we have significant preparation ahead of us; we should meet at the end of business today and go over our initial plans, start fitting them together.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them as over a fire, a wide and predatory grin fitting his features well.

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The Farthington Industries and the Transitive Anthropology Foundation separately applied for and got huge exposition spaces in the HCEC Main Convention Hall. Howard Farthington was a high-leverage sort of man, and despite the obvious complaint of “they’re basically the same thing, why do you need two you complete bastard” he was able to strong-arm the ad hoc exposition board into doing what he wanted. It was capital well spent.

The Farthington/TAF campus was, therefore, easily twice as large as the next biggest competitor (as it certainly was understood to be a competition). Half of the convention hall was filled with a tightly organized display of the absolute mastery of the combined organizations. Petrochemicals and alchemicals were produced in small and fiercely precise batches, overseen by Irvin and his immediate staff. A small weapons foundry, with the fastest assembly workers in the company, had been running the whole day, producing dozens of Mark I rifles every hour. Lecturers were drawn from the general research staff to describe the host of products and projects being developed within the massive facilities to the north of Haven proper. Kai himself was doing a lecture series describing the expeditions funded by the organizations in great detail, resplendent in his traveling gear, walking through his memories with the hundreds of available artifacts. The Shaman was part of a small, slightly disturbing, yet quite popular exhibit where he did calisthenics (with his mask on) while people watched. Howard was everywhere, gladhanding politicians and competitors alike, always watching for the dragons, always counting ticket sales.

Tesibius was manning the terrarium exhibits, his nature hidden from view with a small cloak of magic and flannel. Visitors came through regularly, more to enjoy the peace and quiet, to marvel at the biological curation, than to investigate. It was a quiet corner, and it was his. Tesibius was happy, for his work to be appreciated, and to walk among the humans. It had been a while.

Sometime in the late afternoon, he found himself alone among his plants and creatures. He did not tire in any normal sense, but it was nice to not worry about people touching fragile specimens. The construct wandered through his territory, taking note of any problems. His attention was so focused on his work that he almost ran into a visitor. Tesibius looked up to offer an apology, but stopped short. A question then rose in his mind, but was quieted almost immediately as the obvious answer prevented it.

The visitor was tall, not tall and thin, but off-scale tall. His clothes were woven from a fine golden flax, with threads of red woven in intricate patterns. He was completely bald with skin as dark as charcoal, which provided an exquisite contrast for the light green eyes that now curiously took in the construct’s appearance. Tesibius, however, saw something vastly different. To a spirit, the world looks far different than that seen by mortals.

He saw the years and the power. He saw the vast knowledge that he was measured against in that inscrutable mind. When a hand extended to touch him in the center of his ‘chest’, he expected a far different set of digits than the hand of flesh and bone. When a grin of surprise spread across the visitor’s face, he expected a far different set of teeth than the perfect pearly whites on display. A spirit’s double vision takes in what is, not just what is seen.

This visitor, this dragon, was practically twitching in excitement and curiosity. Tesibius knew (he knew) that he was completely unknown to this ancient mind, and currently unknowable. He felt that, perhaps, there was more than just economics behind the treaty. The two creatures from outside the mortal ken spent a few more minutes together before the dragon bowed, and left.

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“You what?”

I know what I saw.

“There’s no way, we didn’t see it, him, her, whatever, at all-”

That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.

“No, good Tesibius, there honestly isn’t a way that happened. My man at the ticket booth saw no-one like that.”

Your man was wrong.

“How did you get so lucky? How? I must have seen half of the visitors to the expo, my throat will be sore for weeks, and I didn’t so much as catch a glance

Really?

“Really.”

Do you want tea for that?

“Actually, would you mind? I’m sure you’ve got something good.”

“Tea needs aside, I was kind of expecting someone to show up. I heard just before lunch from one of my old staff members who got poached by Haemonetics that a really weird guy, all red or whatever, rolled up and acted like he knew everything.”

“Who?”

“Who what?”

“Who got poached?”

“That kid, the uh, where’s he from, back country Arimicia, the hick. Wanted to study creature development for farming. We stay in touch.”

I liked him.

“We all did.”

“If this was a dragon, are we surprised that it moved in mysterious ways? It went where it wanted, saw what it wanted, and left. As the wind blows without source or home, so a dragon must fly… or move.”

“Honestly, that’s an entirely fair point.”

“Did you hear about the officer?”

“I saw him when I went out for some food. He stood like a stone of hate, like an engine of fury and death idling in the snow. I avoided him like the plague.”

I am even more glad I didn’t leave the terrariums.

“Seriously.”

“So what now?”

“I guess we wait? It all kind of went according to schedule, and a lot of other deals and business happened besides the dragons.”

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The sigil of the Imperium is straightforward and immediately recognizable. On a background of an context-appropriate color, a metallic circle is embossed, circumscribing a dragon displayed affronte with head to dexter. Banners of Saurian legions have text, mottos of their company, names of their origin districts, sometimes additional details. The diplomatic corps has the dragon passant in peacetime, perched overt in war with small humanoids in its claw.

A package had arrived at the foundation, with two letters. The first was from the attache to the Imperium embassy in Haven (an incredibly imposing Saurian by the name of Doriadus). Inside was a congratulatory letter with a request for an audience in three days’ time to discuss the second letter. The second letter, which Howard had resisted opening until the board had gathered, was contained in an envelope of unmatched paper quality. On its surface, a red-gold sigil, with the words De Imperium Draconis Nobilis in impossibly fine letters below. The silence was a physical presence in the boardroom as Howard solemnly opened the envelope and withdrew the letter.

By authority of the Golden Emperor, Protector of the Imperium, Flame of Bahamut, Mighty and Invulnerable:

In accordance with the Eighth Treaty of Haven, signed on Midsummer’s Day in this year of the Age of Fire:

By unanimous vote of the Council for Underdark Expedition Selection:

The submission by the Farthington Industries Company, and by extension the Transitive Anthropology Foundation, for exploration of the Underdark through the Coboldia Delve is probationally accepted. Further progression towards a successful bid will be fulfilled by more extensive presentation.

The five representatives of the Council will examine the board members of the Transitive Anthropology Foundation accordingly:

Tesibius, Inquo and construct of ancient make, by Cauraelus of the First Order.

The elf, shaman of indeterminate origin, by Ardurian of the Second Order.

Howard Armon Dalius Farthington, master of his industries, by Ordiadus of the Third Order.

Irvin Wildhair, artificer and alchemist, by Elodicius of the Fourth Order.

Kai Longstrider, adventurer and nomad, by Harodaius of the Fifth Order.

A representative will inform you of the additional details and examination criteria that you will need to meet in order to submit a complete bid for the exploration contract. A successful bid will result in a final interview with the Council, financial backing from the Imperium for preparation, and travel visas through the Neutral Zone and to the Delve.

Offer no less than all you have to show.

 <><><>

Three other companies received similar letters, the Courant quickly learned: Haven Haemonetics and Homunculi, the dwarven construction firm Kopatel, and an international team representing the HCEC itself. The dragons had made their offer to Haven’s (and the world’s) finest, and though generous things were being given, they were offered in a claw.