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[duane-sette]

How would Duane rate Quigley's, Rahm's, and Elka's wright skills on a scale of 1-10?

To me it seems a base and petty act to put that man Quigley on a stage and shine the professor’s light upon him. He has had precious little time to polish his pymary, and I too well understand the attitudes of the Academies towards the hethllot. Even the boys allowed proper schooling are given only a baseline of theory. It would not be sensible to offer more as they will never have need of it; never have the opportunity in life to write spellwork for pymarics or compose spells for Vits. Alderode wants hethllot who can hit hard! Creativity, ingenuity... these are traits for races who will have the years to exercise them; who will have years to perfect their craft.

So no, I will not judge Quigley.

At least not to his face.

He is very lazy and relies on pymarics overmuch. ‘Twould be no surprise to me if this were some influence of his artificer wife. He is sluggish and heavy with her trappings, like a whore bedecked in pearls. I see in him, too, an irreverence towards the khert. Almost a hatred. We must open ourselves to the world to understand the world, and we must understand the world in order to move it. Quigley has shut himself away from the world. I sense he resents every last breath that inflates his lungs.

Rahm, Rahm, Rahm. The Black Tongue fiend encountered in Ethelmik? Ach, another bomb-lobbing, ring-wearing mannequin, but he did move well for a man of advancing age. The most effective battlewright is one who moves well; who can dance and dodge around the lines. He will be as difficult to strike as a gyring First Ember. Black Tongues typically understand this, and we never engaged one lightly when I rode with the Lions.

You say “Elka” is a female Crescian constable? The female soldiers of Cresce are charming creatures. Oh, their pymary is doughty enough and at a distance they will sing as much damage as a man, but close that distance, and watch their eyes widen and lips curl as you overcrow them with your own right arm. Between the sexes, pymary is a great equaliser, but I have never met a female soldier who could physically best a male soldier. They have no place in battle.

Perhaps this “Elka” is a fine wright, but I am a finer one, and she beckons only her own death if she extends a hand towards me.

[duane-sette]

Sette - what's the most impressive thing you've ever nicked?

“When he were floppin’ about with his night madness one time I popped Dwayne’s skull-head off like a wine bottle stopper t’see if he were hoardin’ sem behind his eyes.”

Sette, I will be of exceptionally limited use to you truncated by a foot, and blind!

“I screwed it back on! There were only a mouse inside anyway."

I- well, that was my mouse, if you please!

“Sod you, I freed it from bone gaol and it scurried off t’better destinies! UGH, ya prolly had it secreted in there for midnight noshin’.”

...very little meat on a mouse.

“Ahaha, you thought about it!”

Dear heart, my imagination tacks to meat with alarming alacrity. Would that rutabaga satiated the nameless sucking thing inside me.

[duane-sette]

Duane. Who in your opinion was the greatest wright of all time?

My opinion echoes reality. The greatest wright ever to live was Sonum Ssael! Even the most rabid of Gefendur clergy will not dispute that. As a living man Sonum Ssael transformed the rudimentary pymary of the ancient Tains to the versatile system we to this day use in pursuits martial, medical, and aesthetic. Farmers and peacemakers, the Tains applied pymary towards crops and construction; towards the entertainment of their idle children and the worship of their heathen gods.

He sprang from that tradition, aye, but Sonum Ssael broke sharply from it. It was his novel spellcraft that helped Alderode’s first King defeat and unite the northern tribes. More meaningfully, it was his deep understanding of the khert that allowed him to escape his own destruction after his death, hunt out the gods, and lay them low.

And where would mankind be now without that sublime victory?

Ach, we must study God’s life and God’s death; the former arouses Inspiration in a searching man’s bosom; the latter gives his works an everlasting Meaning.

[duane-sette]

So Sette, Stock sure queered the deal good and proper, not doin' it the way your Da said to have it done. Still, your Da probably would have let it go had he got the job done. Course, he didn't, and he's paid now, but if he'd lived how buggered would he be, botching an operation that big?

“Gotta wonder, I do, how buggered he already were! Da inserted him deep up Kasslyne’s arse cleft; stowed in that border town like a blunt ol’ ratsticker in a drawer of spoons; and why were that? Da said it were t’get him out the way, aye, but were that for sentimentality? Could be Da were scared Stock’d be competition, so Da wanted New Tawhoque quit’ve Stock ‘fore he tried for it and got good and thorough crashed. Betimes Da is soft as last autumn’s squash.

“Could be though Da judged Stock a barker or imbecilic or plain unfit for the duties of a Frummagem, and hid him in Ethelmik for that. To protect Stock? Or t’protect himself and us all from Stock’s rotten brain? I dunno.

“Any way ya figure it ‘twere a merciful act. Cockin’ up the Silver job tho’, that mighta be too far; too far out, too inta the rip current and the waterwitches’ betoothed twats. Da wouldn’t abide such swollen failitude.”

[duane-sette]

Sette, what is your absolute favourite memory of your father?

Sette: Sometimes I watch when the soldiers come in. The Sharteshanian soldiers as answer to the Beadmans and the King. They got a blood-darkness in their face, like they been sprayed so many times by the blokes they killed it don't wash off no more. They look at ya and ya know they're mebbe turnin' round and round behind their eyes how best t'separate your spirit from your skin.

Da is hard like that. Hard as a apple left out in the sun too long. He's blood-hard; blood-strong; but dried up and preserved so can't nawt touch him.

One time it mighta been that the Fingers

D.A.: Fingers?

Sette: Some bawlin' nursery school gang've coves as vex me time t'time for sore feelin's for how important I am. One time it mighta been they caught me unawares, doubled o'er doin' business with yawnin' Yerta

D.A.: Yawning Yerta?

Sette: Emptyin' me bowels, ya ignorant toff. They caught me out and jumped me and pummeled me 'til I couldn't walk a straight line. And worse, they took me most cherished bodkin, as Granny'd give me on me last birthday. They told all the town and I were shamed. They made up wicked lies about me and broke the blade in three pieces. I couldn't go to Da 'course 'cause he's hard and would laugh at me or tell me t'stop jawin' and get to the business of breakin' even and breakin' faces. I didn't have t'go to Da at all tho' for two days later he left a parcel of poison in me bed and there was all I needed t'make things right again.

D.A.: Don't tell me you poisoned these Finger fellows.

Sette: It weren't no lethal poison, but one've 'em went blind and the others were pukin' sick for a week! I lost me granny's knife but I got back me rogue's honour and that's worth a thousand-hundred knives. Da knew it and Da helped me do it and that's how I know forever that a rogue that for true TRIES will always have a place under Nary Frummagem. Lookit all he done for the least of us! Work always for Anadyne and her stoopid cousin and for Stockyard, settin' him up pretty in that town. Da is a great collector of talent but he takes care of it too, spit-polishes it and helps it be its best.

D.A.: You are not talent. You are his daughter.

Sette: Ay, that and a brass sem'll buy ya a pawful of lemon drops but you'll be hungry again an hour after.

D.A.: I didn’t like that story at all.

[duane-sette]

Greetings unto you, honored Rector. May I ask, whence came Ssael's prohibition on suicide? Did it only strike God as what was right, or was there some event that precipitated it?

D.A.: Ssael spoke with a fiery rancor against all the Twin Gods’ systems: Procreation, Decay, Sickness, Pain, Death. We must do what is reasonable to minimize exposure to these systems, for they debase us as Men. None of us can escape death, but leaping willfully towards it in surrender is as weak and thoughtless as allowing one’s corpse to fall to decay.

You must endure, good Ssaelit, in spite of all creeping eels and coiling evils. Live on until reality cuts you down, and do not truckle to despair. Every ill will be remembered and accounted for. Ssael has revealed the way.

[duane-sette]

Dear Duane, as a wright of many years' experience, have you any advice for a young and ambitious swordsman, seeking to make his way in the world, regarding facing pymary-wielding opponents?

D.A.: You simply must carry a First Material sword, my boy. I have seen cheeky young blades convinced they can forever dodge and dance around approaching spells but it only takes one misstep to lose your bones to a well-timed Leech. With a First Material sword in hand you will sever the line before the spell connects, and spend that much longer in your present skin.

I have often heard it preached that a battler cleave close to a wright to deny them the space to cast - but a contact spell is fantastically fast. A wright’s hand on your face can promptly liquefy it. I might suggest instead keeping an open field between yourself and your opponent. You will see their approaching attack and have the space to avoid or slice it from the line. Close in after they have completed the spell, quickly, and cut their throat so they cannot verbalize another command.

Wrights are not so fierce as some soldiers believe. We are constrained by the Aspects at hand and the state of the khert. Be brutal, be quick, and be bold. If you hesitate, they will take quick advantage, for a trained wright knows that confident action makes all the difference.

[duane-sette]

Forgive my ignorance Rector, but could you explain to a poor foreigner the difference in ranks and roles of a Motadwe, Amadwe, Shadwe etc. in the temple hierarchy?

D.A.: Ssaelism calls home two beautiful Temples: The Temple of Song in Durlyne, and the Temple of the Winds in eastern Tain. Each is led by a venerable Shadwe who is counseled by a pair of Amadwe and a group of eight Motadwe. The Shadwe lead the two Ssaelit armies, determine matters of doctrine, vet Vits candidates, offer succor and guidance to the Ssaelit population, and interface with Vits Council. In all these dealings they are guided by the Amadwe and Motadwe, each of them chosen from among the most esteemed of the Temple’s clergy and military. Traditionally one of the Amadwe is the standing general of the Temple’s forces and the other is the head of the Temple’s clergy, and typically one of them will be chosen to become the next Shadwe upon the event of the current leader’s passing.

[duane-sette]

Hello Sette. I was wondering - once you prove your worth and, eventually, inherit Da's place, what will you Duane's role?

Sette: He’ll lurk at me right hand like a tallsome and naked pirate’s parrot, yammerin’ in a senseless way but ever ready t’claw out your deadlights upon me mildest word.

[duane-sette]

Duane (and Sette, if she has owt to add): Both Jivi and Matty are familiar with and fond of turtle bacon but Sette had never heard of it. Is it not eaten in Sharteshane, or is it a fancier food than what she is used to? (She seems to eat a lot of sardines--which is fine; lots of omega 3 fatty acids, but don't you worry she's not getting enough greens in her diet? You ARE meant to be looking after her, you know.) Did Mikaela like turtle bacon?

D.A.: The giant land tortoises consumed in Cresce come largely from the country’s southern coast. I never once saw them in Sharteshane and certainly never in Alderode. We once confiscated a few barrels of it, salted and cured, from a Crescian supply line. I did not partake. Tortoises are not mentioned in Ssaelit scriptural edict against consumption of sealife, but their aquatic cousins the turtles are advisably avoided, and I felt no particular wish to dance around the distinction.

Sette: OMEGGERFREE FATTY ACID. Is that an attack spell?

[duane-sette]

Sette: Do you know how many years old you are? I understand you are a late Bloomer and so may not look your age.

Sette: Dwayne, I don’t WANNA get stabbed and mauled and deguttalated with all these queersome, noisesome questions by a lot of arse-eatin’, goat-lovin’ wankstains what couldn’t pour piss out a boot if the directions were printed on the heel! I ain’t havin’ no toe in this! Do it yourself!

D.A.: Perhaps it would best suit you to lark about with the hethllot boy. He seems quite taken with you. Did I hear him mention a tea party?

Sette: If I kill him will ya protect me flesh from his murdery pater?

D.A.: Naturally, but let us leave them intact until we’ve finished our ghastly taking advantage of their transportation. Ach, we are no sort of virtuous heroes, are we?

Sette: Heroism’s for culls. We’re BADMEN. Let’s have another lock pickin’ lesson.

D.A.: Perhaps a few of these questions first.

Sette: Only the ones fit for BADMEN!

[duane-sette]

From the journals of Duane Adelier:

I well remember my first lesson in the crafting of pymaric constructs. I was barely thirteen and ablaze with an aspirant's enthusiasm, all but setting alight the walls of the University workshops - well, literally setting them alight betimes, but there is no growth without a degree of destruction, what? I drank insatiably of every lecture, spent sleepless nights diving deep into the University's archives to emerge red-eyed at dawn, blinking blearily like a befuddled drunkard awakening in a gaol cupboard. Inspired, I swore I would master this Art as no other Soud had since Sonum Ssael.

Pymaric constructs were the first subject to deflate that trembling bladder of naivete. They horrified me then and they do still give me pause. A spell is reasonable enough: a logical rearrangement of the Aspects of reality to the benefit of the caster. But a pymaric construct is a great compendium of spells coiled around each other, referencing their own abstractions like a solipsistic old man talking to himself in a pub. Ideally a well-written Compendium will function reliably, like a clockwork mechanism, but the conditions of reality and the khert are ever pressing upon it. When will the complexity of a construct's spellwork presume too violently upon the khert's tolerance for pymary and inspire a Correction? Or a burning cold conflagration? Even the most brilliant artifacter cannot account for every exigency of a dynamic system.

I understand Compendiums and constructs passing well. My own discomfort drove me to master them, and I have written, edited, and designed more than my share. But they are certainly not my calling.

I look around at this grand and ridiculous construct that has become my home this past week however, and ache with admiration for the woman who found them hers.

The hethllot boy loves to tell me of his mother, prattling on of her brilliance in a grandiloquent manner I cannot dismiss as filial prejudice, for here is the result of it, breathed to life. A woman built this behemoth! Not only the great girders and eldritch First flesh but the precise and unfaltering spellwork that makes them dance. A chalk-faced hethllot woman, frail, unassuming, barely more than a girl. It shames me. It unmans me to ruminate on my own reticence towards constructs and know that a woman threw herself unflinching - with all of our well-meaning societal restrictions against her - into the creation of this impossible, lumbering dream.

What would my Mikaila have thought of such a woman?

I think my Mikaila would have one day designed something even grander.

Perhaps Alderode's edict against women in the Pymaric Arts is the reason we have ever seemed to falter in our construct race against Cresce. Their Firelopers and Rockwalkers are things of wonder to us - monstrosities - and we despair of competing against them and fall instead to bettering our vliegeng and ground forces. We point to their access to plentiful First Materials, even cast aspersions on their relationship with mountainous, resource-rich Ulestry, but perhaps the cause is deeper.

Ah, what a questioning heretic I have become.

Would I have suggested such a thing if my life had continued along its merry course? Or would I have been cowed by the Council, by the ghers, driven to maintain the old order out of fear of our falling numbers in plague-haunted Fachlyne? Women are burdened by their own natural ability, forced into roles by their bodies that perhaps their further-reaching minds demand they surpass. This is another flaw in this Twins-damned world, a world carved from bone that splinters and pierces our hearts with every step.

Would my Mikaila have continued her own stubborn pursuit of her tacit casting or would she have been beaten down by the ghers and her role within it, sweetly suffocated in skirts and pretty things with the other lasses?

I will never know. And in truth I cannot say the future I would have preferred for her. Mayhap only the one that brought her happiness.

That is certainly all I wish for wee Sette Frummagem. I will kill her father if it will make her smile. I will stand at her side until she dismisses me or until this old skull cracks like an overripe unchaen. She'll sell this corpse to researchers then, and bless her for it if it eases her journey.

It is peaceful inside this construct. The boy calls it Uaid. It is dark and cool, but the damp is difficult to keep at bay. There is mold inside my skull. I should like to remove it, polish it clean on my cloak like the lens of a monocle, but it would not do to disturb my mortal companions. And I could not enjoy the sight of Quigley's horror while blind. I will endure.

Sette has been quiet since the strange night of the Silver Eel. Whether she is scheming or afraid I am not wise enough to say. It is nearly the Treenahinn holy day. I will find some gift for her to make her green eyes shine again.