Metaworld Chronicles

For a Magister-tier practitioner of fiscal cultivation in London, the fact of the Tower allowing the Greys to leave the meeting to reconvene on a later date was tale-telling evidence the leadership was drunk on peace.

Gwen wasn't upset. After all, the same had applied to Sydney as well. Before the Mermen Tide, her home had been left alone to develop its enterprises for two decades without a major catastrophe. Henry Kilroy had never neglected the city's defences or its economic development, but in hindsight, her Master had failed the secret courts of the human heart.

On paper, the assumption was that the Militant Factions went to war with their urgency and disciplined adherence to duty and sacrifice during active campaigns.

Assuming all survived, the Greys transmuted the spoils into profit, ushering forth rapid reconstruction and investment, replenishing the Militant's reserve forces.

And somewhere in between, the neutral parties of the Middle Faction ensured that neither Faction grew bloated with ambition, keeping the political status of a Tower in flux.

In Auckland, that balance no longer existed, and from the looks of matters, the Greys had grown corpulent in recent years.

Gwen found the imbalance curious, for even in London, where the Duke of Norfolk himself was both the capstone officer of her Majesty's Royal Forces and the presumed voice of the Grey Faction, its members upheld a profound humility as state-sanctioned merchants. Comparatively, the Greys in Auckland wielded their HDMs like a gavel, bopping whoever dared to protest with the daring arrogance of landlord to lessees.

As an outsider looking in, Gwen could see the imbalance as clear as day, but for the residents who had passively allowed the matter to transpire? She only hoped the Tower Master and her Paladin weren't complicit.

Whatever the case, for Auckland to survive the Shoal while remaining in the black, she would need to deploy her unique position as a London Magister and a loathsome hand of the Shard.

At tea, she had proclaimed her duty to oversee every aspect of the war, including its logistics.

The Magisters had gone silent, and the Tower Master had exhaled what she hoped was a sigh of relief. Paladin Te did not protest either, meaning the suddenly stifling atmosphere had been left to simmer until the jubilation of victory at Wellington had entirely evaporated.

Then, in full public view and with the natural arrogance of a landed aristocrat, she had requested that a level in the Tower be made ready for her office, then demanded from Tower Master Hildenbrandt exclusive access to the Tower's sanctioned records.

"Absurd!"

"She can't do that! Can she?"

"We're a sovereign, federated state!" Protests had erupted like Clam-selling Mermen from the seashore. "Besides, she's from the Shard!"

"I see no reason we can't trust the Saviour of Wellington," Paladin Te Wherowhero had quailed the protest with a deep and resonating grunt. "Tower Master?"

"Magister Song is the sister of Lord Shultz." Esther Hildenbrandt had given a supporting verdict. "Lady Aria Ravenport has informed me that Gwen also has the support of the Duke of Norfolk and the Marchioness of Ely. Furthermore, Magister Song is the one who oversaw the Tonglv Canal in Shanghai and the restoration of the Kachin, Nagaland, Yangoon, and Manipur Frontiers. She turned around the failed finances of the Fire Sea at Shalkar, and she is also the mastermind behind the Isle of Dogs Redevelopment project…"

The Tower Master had filled the room with her projected aura as she spoke. Esther Hildenbrandt was no Henry Kilroy or Gunther Shultz, which dulled her presence in Gwen's eyes, but she was nonetheless an old Magister with decades of collated sorcery to back up her claims. As a renowned Abjurer and the teacher of Whetu, she possessed many merits others could not begin to match.

"… in my mind, none here can match her achievements in the field of civil service, nor her prowess as a War Mage. Besides, have you all forgotten Henry built this Tower? Why would his Apprentice mean us harm? As the Auckland Tower's executive, I ask that Magister Song take on the role of a provisional Assistant Administrator for the duration of her stay in Auckland. Is that a possibility, Magister Song?"

Gwen had done her best to feign humility.

"I am young and inexperienced," she confessed to a sea of blank and worried faces, pausing for effect. "So I must abstain…"

The faces grew hopeful.

"…from my faults… and listen to the counsel of Master Hildenbrandt. I can see from your hopeful faces that you've buckled this duty onto my back, so I will endure the load to lessen your burdens."

The faces grew dour.

"Worry not, friends. I am sure everyone here has done their very best for Auckland!" Gwen had given the crowd her biggest, brightest, most effervescent smile. "Trust me, and we'll show you how we debit and credit in Cambridge! Rest assured, good folk, no waste will be left unaddressed!"

The applause that followed had been resounding, though any auditor could tell there was no heart.

Look at the grim faces behind the clapping palms meeting in prayer; Gwen wondered if anyone was dumb enough to have a go at her. Indeed, with enough HDMs as motivation, folks could be inspired to do anything. The same truth was valid for both this world and her old one.

And that was why Gwen now paced through an empty quadrant of the Sky Tower's sixty-fourth Pocket Space, organising workspaces with her team from Cambridge.

Looking at the Mages borrowed from the Cambridge and the Ravenports going about their familiar business, Gwen was beginning to deeply suspect either Charlene or the Duke had expected this to happen. Somehow, despite their diverse skillsets, her team of alumni all had experiences in public service, whether at the Shard or Oxbridge, and most were familiar with account keeping to boot. Still, she had requested additional aid, as they would need more men and women than that to sift through Auckland's receipts.

WEEEEEEEEE—EEEEM—

She was in the middle of setting up processing stations and drafting up additional personnel from London or Shanghai when a reverberating thrum travelled up the floor through her stilettos and gave her a mild migraine.

The Tower's Resonance Field was now active.

"Magister Song," Aria called from the window, beyond which the party from Cambridge afforded a clear and uninterrupted view of the Shoal further out to sea. "Another skirmish has begun."

Her team approached the floor to ceiling panes as one.

Two streams of the froth-laced sea were slowly hugging the sheltered bay of Auckland like the writhing underside of a giant squid.

When the tentacles came close to the Shielding Stations, a portion of the Mermen Tide disintegrated, boiling the blue sea until countless bodies floated to the top. At the same time, ripples of disturbed resonance flashed across invisible panes, spontaneously generating arcs of plasma to strike the bubbling surface.

As more and more floating carcasses piled on top of their predecessors, the hazy shielding grew warped until, some five or six minutes since Aria first drew her attention, the stations closest to the Mermen fizzled.

"Whoa-whoa-whoa," one of the Cambridge Mages muttered. "Is that normal? We don't see that back in London."

"They're just overloaded," Petra assured them. "It'll take a few hours for the core to cool—"

DING! The Message that bloomed beside Gwen and her combat team of Richard, Lulan and Petra was the red of catastrophe.

"Gogo, it's time for work. Let Dede know he's up." Gwen announced to the air, informing her frolicking Wyvern and duck from their temporary abode in Coromandel, some fifty kilometres from the incursion. With Golos away, it was up to Dede to keep the turtle honest, and though her duck was no match for the Demi-Dragon, it spoke in her stead, thus ensuring obedience. "Petra, can you check up on the stations and see what you can do?"

"Understood, Magister."

"And Aria, keep an eye on the Factioneers while we're gone." she laid out her orders. "Record everything. If anyone complains or dares refuse our request for receipts—or BURNS them—"

"Tell them to complain to Caliban in person." Aria gave her an affirming nod.

"… and tell them the Duke of Norfolk is always watching," Gwen appended her aide's conjecture. "Maybe gift them a small photo portrait of her majesty or something. Remind them that compliance and forgiveness go hand-in-hand, while each degree of obfuscation will only dig them deeper into bankruptcy… and worse. The Frontlines are always hungry for more Mages."

"Understood." Aria took notes. "Shall I pursue our staff requests from Shanghai and London?"

"See what London can offer first, then Shanghai." Gwen glossed over her workload for the coming months. "Double the pay and guarantee their safety. If they're wasting my time to help with an assault as lightweight as this, I feel we'll be reclaiming a lot more than we can spend."

The "invasion" of Auckland lasted two days and would have consumed a week were it not for Gwen and the firepower, firepower, and firepower of Yue Bai. Supported by the Sky Tower, Gwen and two Flights of Auckland's Mages had taken up a Forward Operating Base on the northern Barrier Islands closest to the Shoal, which allowed them to create chaos in the flow of Mermen bodies cascading southward from both the east and west. Yue and her team had taken up the forts in Stony Batter on Waiheke, frying the Mermen as they crowded the shallows and made landfall en mass.

During the lulls, Gwen teleported back to the Tower to check on the progress of her auditing team, deeply suspecting that the Greys were using her work with the Shoal to keep her busy and away from the transaction records. Of course, she was far too wily to be easily distracted, which meant Golos, Ariel and Caliban were given the lion's share of her labours in reducing the advancing chattel to chowder.

The closeness of their areas of operation also meant that she could meet up with Whetu and Yue, who never seemed put off by the endless massacre of Mermen, and could down seafood by the tray at lunchtime without a single hint of hesitation. As a testament to her fortitude, the Fire Sorceress often showed up bearing crab legs and lobster claws the size of people.

When finally the Sky Tower's Diviners had announced that the Shoal retracted its tendrils, the city's defenders raised their burnt wands to the sky, exhaling ragged cheers of relief. Richard and Petra were exhausted, with Lulan fairing only a little better thanks to her unique style of mana cultivation. As for Gwen, the brimming vitality cramming her innards was more potent than drinking a dozen espresso shots.

Within the last fifty hours, she had seen both Auckland's glory and its failures. Doubtlessly, the city's morale was well-groomed by Master Hildebrandt, for its militia was paradoxically both hopeful and desperate.

And without a doubt, the militia manning her forward operating base was well supplied and provisioned. However, when she detoured to Yue's battle station, she saw a clear and unequal display of either favouritism, incompetence, or outright kleptocracy.

For instance, there were six "amplifiers-forts" on Waiheke, each housing a minimum of two platoons of men, forming a defensive line of fighting staff plus two squads of support personnel. However, the furtherer a Mage wandered from Yue's home base in Stony Batter, the scantier their equipment became.

For instance, Gwen's NoM militia squads utilised a random assortment of elemental wands. Additionally, for every tenth man, an Evoker acolyte manned a portable Spellsword array capable of laying down rapid-firing Scorching Rays. Likewise, her men and women wore magically-enhanced body armour, and their bandoliers carried crystal cartridges for their weapons AND healing, antidote, and fortitude potions.

When Gwen flew in to support the island's middle region, an inlet called Onetangi, she was shocked to find the militia fending off the Mermen at melee range, using roughly-built, elevated palisades to afford the reach of Shock Spears wielded by unarmored soldiers. It was the sort of thing she had only seen in rural Shanghai, with the local "people's militia" fighting the Frogmen, while here was the midst of a full-blown tide, with an active Tower overhead!

When she found their squad leader, an Abjurer Sergeant, the man readily complained that the Tower had left them inadequate resources—but understood the shortage to be endemic and, therefore, "such is life".

Gwen had left the man two crates of potions and a pair of her Lightning Hounds the size of horses, then Messaged Aria to affirm her findings.

"Magister Song," her aides' report was prompt and immediate. "You were right, and I've compiled some interesting data for your perusal. The manifests match, but the inventory outgoing shows symptoms of missing parts and plant equipment. There are also entire shipments on loan but never returned."

As Gwen suspected, something had begun to rot at Auckland's heart.

Someone far less skilful and ambitious than Eric Walken was playing silly bugger politics in this time of crisis, believing that NOW of all times was the ripest moment to loot supplies and canvass power.

Thankfully, due to her quick demoralisation of the Shoal's assault, she had several days to spare, which she spent organising her staff and putting them to the task at hand. Unlike the monotonous career of Frontier Mages, the overeducated Cambridge graduates were multi-talented and overtly arrogant, making them excellent at collecting information and coercing documents and records from Auckland's middle-level Maguses and Mages.

Gwen watched the filing chamber grow day by day, filling her shelves with rows of data slates and manuscripts. As for the mood in the Sky Tower, the hot topic very quickly shifted from the "Saviour from the Shard" to the "Imperialist Dog-botherer."

Not that Gwen particularly cared.

Whatever goods these kleptomaniacs had hidden in their bellies, in front of the Devourer—all shall regurgitate their share.

By the twelfth day since her arrival, the Shoal once more initiated an assault. That same morning, she received the news that her guest, the man with the Golden Blood, Lord Benedict Thomas of House Holland, had arrived to rouse morale on the "Front".

Of the lord and the fishes, Gwen chose the latter, venturing out into the bay to dissuade the Shoal's tentative tentacles from molesting Auckland's shores.

And so it was that the orange-haired heir of House Holland found the Devourer in the middle of a feeding frenzy, her Da-peng armour dripping with wasteful droplets of excess Void.

"Magister Song." The lordly ginger was alone, though Gwen had no doubt the man had bodyguards who could appear in a split second at the slightest sign of danger. "You look ravishing as always."

Gwen ceased conducting the carnage below and allowed Caliban to take over the swarm. "Lord Holland, how lovely to see you again. Lovely English weather we're having here in Auckland. Doesn't it make you feel right at home?"

As was the preference for Mermen attacks, the sky was densely overcast and threatening to pour. When the actual downpour occurred, it would induce the full weight of the Shoal's present attempt at breaching Auckland. Ergo, her job was to break the Shoal's momentum before that happened.

Gwen pulled back the cowl of her Da-peng garb to reveal her flushed face. The young lord's eyes lingered a little longer than he would have liked before moving to take her hand.

Now facing the lord, she offered a mid-air curtsy as instructed by Le Guevel. The young lord briefly passed his thin, bloodless lip over her gauntlet, concluding the exchange.

"Though I have longed for another meeting, Magister Song, I must confess that my interest this time is the Dragon Turtle," Benedict Thomas carefully chose his words. "That said, to support your efforts, you have my full authority as gifted by the crown."

Despite his elite upbringing, Thomas was curt, polite, and to the point, all points that scored well within Gwen's expectations of a good LinkedIn profile.

"Where are your men?" Gwen looked past the man to the space behind him. "The Lord of Holland doesn't travel solo, does he?"

"They're making sure of the rumours." The young Lord inclined his chin. "Your aide reported discrepancies and that the Greys are to blame? To undermine the military in an active war zone—that's a fatal offence. If true, I could skewer a few of the Greys on pikes, go home and still receive a medal."

"Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Gwen rectified the man's bias. "Of course, numbers don't lie. The Greys are doing very well, and the Militias with ties to the Grey Market have the least losses. Once we follow the paper trails to their natural conclusions—or missing filings, as it were—we'll know who to bring in for questioning."

Thomas gave her a smirk. "Lovely. By the by, I brought the men you requisitioned as well. Nineteen volunteers from the Isle of Dogs. Charlene said you needed them in a hurry, so I arranged priority transfer at Heathrow."

"That's very nice of you." Gwen paused mid-sentence as a jolt of vitality hit, making Thomas gulp. "—One second. I've caught something."

"As you were, Magister." Thomas retained his impeccable manners by drifting out of conversation range, just in case Gwen needed to shield up.

"GURRRWARRRR—RRRRGH—!" Some hundred meters from the talking pair, the sea erupted, vomiting forth an enormous manta ray half the width of the Sky Tower's circular flight deck. With a great flap of its hydrodynamic wings, the gargantuan manta took flight, making headway toward her general direction.

Thomas whistled.

SCHWIIIING—!

SCH—SCHWIIIING—!

Without prompts from Gwen, seven swords, each larger than Gwen herself, whistled past herself and the space between her and Thomas, momentarily lighting up their faces with the passage of weighted steel polished to a mirror shine.

The blades struck flesh some fifty meters away, burying themselves to the hilt in the meat of the advancing skyscraper.

The manta's combat prowess as a troop-carrying battering ram was formidable, but Gwen knew it was taking flight as an act of desperation. Already, there were no less than six Camry-sized lampreys attached to its fins and undersides, busily wearing down its vital regeneration to burrow past the cartilage and liquify the manta's delicious organs.

A second later, Metallic Sword Bursts erupted across the manta's flanks, causing its trajectory to falter, raining down gory chunks of stringy white meat.

Through her Empathic Link, Gwen commanded Golos to stay put, wondering if Thomas the Steam Mage would act the gentlemen and put himself in harm's way to protect the "lady" on his lips.

Forty meters...

Thirty meters...

"Magister…" Thomas gave her a gentle cough and a look of consternation. "The creature isn't dead yet."

Apparently, she was no lady—and neither did Thomas feel like playing the gent.

With another flap of its giant wings, the manta issued forth a dozen jets of water from its underside, propelling it upward and forward with the momentum of an otherworldly spaceship. There was no howl, no pain-fuelled battle cry, just the sound of whirling water buffeting the air as the manta hoped to swallow the Mages whole.

"Golos!" At a distance of a dozen meters, Gwen gave the command.

Her Wyvern appeared at once, abandoning the distant rumble of a sonic boom behind it as it struck the manta perpendicular to its gills. The spectacle was artful ultraviolence, for no sooner had the Draconic ball lightning exploded in a crimson blot of pink impressionism did Golos' tail club concaved the building-sized manta's gut into a sudden "U", causing the creature's innards to erupt from its upper back like a burst water balloon.

Stepping slightly ahead of Gwen, Thomas twiddled his fingers, instantly manifesting a wall of turbulent air to swirl away the incoming shower of scarlet sea spray.

Now a limp blanket the size of a soccer field, the manta began its inevitable descent.

Side by side, Gwen and her guest watched her Wyvern fly away with what was presumedly the Core. A few moments later, the airborne troop carrier fell into the Shoal, slicing the roving tendril of Mermen troops in twain with a wall of water a dozen meters tall.

"Where were we?" The man offered no words of honeyed praise. "Oh yes, I've also brought the supplies Magister Mātaatua requested."

"You have my thanks."

"Might I ask a question?"

"Sure," Gwen said as she swept her mind over her array of Lampreys. The Shoal was in a panic, meaning without interruptions or the command of a higher-order Mermen, a rout should soon be in the works. "Shoot."

"Why are you helping us?" Thomas asked. "The Militants, I mean. I thought we were at odds."

"I am helping Auckland." Gwen met the man's eyes. "I am a Magister of Her Majesty's Commonwealth, am I not? Are you not the same?"

"I can't fault that answer." Thomas' smile grew wry. "But I can't help but feel you've laid a trap for us. You've cultivated an impressive reputation after the collapse of the Barlow Group. The old families are dredging the household coffers to put up the Northern Expedition."

"Ah, how is that going?" Gwen asked. "I know it's been less than a month, and you don't have to tell me if the information is privileged."

"It is. But you possess that privilege as a leading Magister of the Southern Expedition." Thomas appeared thoughtful. "I can tell you that the Breaker Carrier has already arrived on Greenland and that we've settled into the old fortifications there, the ones build before the Beast Tide."

"Any Fire Elementals?"

"There's always Fire Elementals," Thomas said. "But if you're talking about that rumour of Elementals attempting to change the composition of the Prime Material, then we're seeing some weight to your conjectures."

"That's not good news." Gwen was genuinely surprised the upper echelon of this world could be so accepting of something so unknown. Was it because of the Elves? Or was it that, in the absence of political culture wars, Climate Change could remain in its purest incarnation—an arithmetic chain of factual cause and effects? "I am happy someone's taking it seriously, though."

"Yes, the Expedition is taking the claim seriously," Thomas assured her. "How could we not? We were immediately attacked the moment we made landfall. The dense southern shrublands had been reduced to ash, so there was no possibility of an ambush—but we were still damn surprised to be suddenly swarmed by Ember Sprites in an arctic Black Zone!"

"They burned the trees?" Gwen felt her chest tighten. "All of it?"

"A lot of it. I am guessing they used the old woods to enrich the lack of Elemental Fire" Thomas confirmed her fears. "There was soot as far as the eye could see. Even the snow was black slush. I don't know how extensive the phenomenon was due to the smoke and smog obscuring reconnaissance, but it's safe to say at least our quadrant was entirely consumed. We were in the middle of launching Recon-in-Force when your Message arrived. I burned a Contingency Ring to return to London. Father prepared the supplies for Auckland, and now, here I am."

Gwen felt a ping of envy. Burning a Contingency Ring to avoid the week-long travel? When could she amass enough materials to exercise the Steam Mage's sense of priorities? Still, the picture the man painted for her wasn't looking very nice for the scenario she had in mind. From her Planar knowledge classes, she knew with absolute certainty that changing the elemental composition of a Prime Material region required a disproportional volume of mana on a scale unimaginable even to Elemental Monarchs. However, what if the heralds of the Fire Sea only wanted to crinkle the status quo? What shockwaves could a tsunami of such a scale engender? Would they even know, or were they merely poking the bear to see if it would swipe at the cages, gambling that it would break loose?

"Did you find the Hvítálfar grove?" Gwen asked, recalling her final briefing before she left. "The one Tryfan dubbed the Frost Tree of Lhîweth."

"No luck, not even close," Thomas spoke while admiring the carnage below. "Considering the resistance we are experiencing, even if we bulldoze forward with the Centurion MKIIs, it'll take weeks."

"You have Aerial Battle Wings with you, don't you? They can't fly out and check how things are faring at the tree?"

"Battle Mages don't make Forward Operating Bases or account for logistics for the eight thousand men and women surviving in a Black Zone," Thomas retorted with the tone of an instructor. "Even with aid from the Order of St George and the Knights of the Garter, we're having trouble mopping up the Undead."

Her heart grew still. "There's what now?"

"Undead Mermen." Thomas raised a brow. "They crawl forth from the slush and soot and ambush our patrols. That's the reason why we're thinking of pushing through a corridor with walking barrages. You weren't told?"

"I wasn't privy to that detail." Gwen thought of Erebus and Antarctica. She had at least five months before the converted Battle Barge assigned to the Southern Expedition could make its way to New Zealand. If so, what did that mean for the Planar balance there? What if the changes in Antarctica weren't the actions of natural forces but malicious actors? Would her Dwarves, the Mages from Manipur, and the troops assigned by the Shard be enough to deal with the Undead? Unlike Thomas' Northern Expedition, her's was a fact-finding mission. Even with her forces and the Raven Guards onboard, their expedition was two and a half thousand souls.

"I am sure Charlene will make provisions. If she mentions the Undead, the Ordo Garter can be very generous in mobilising the Purifiers of the Chalice."

Gwen could only nod.

The South Pole, the unknown aftermath of a major volcanic eruption, suspicions of Spectre, the Great Tree of Illhîweth, and now the Undead...

Her plate was feeling a little too full.

Beside her, Thomas alternated between studying her contemplative face and the raging battle below.

"The Mermen are routed," the man said after a while. "Between been eaten by your Void beasts and the Mermen-you-know, I'd prefer the latter."

"Caliban, Ariel, Gogo, pursue and scatter, hunt down the ones on the shore," Gwen gave audible commands for the benefit of her guest. "If you run into any trouble, immediately retreat inland."

Gwen mulled over the logistics of maximising her forces for when Charlene arrived on the carrier.

While Thomas loudly marvelled at the autonomy of her creatures. The aftermath took just over an hour, which was enough time for Thomas' men to clean up the Mermen that had made landfall and rejoin their Major-ranked noble.

"Alright, thanks for waiting, Thomas," Gwen announced the conclusion of her operation, gathering Lulan and Richard to her side before finally addressing the patient Benedict Thomas of House Holland. "Let's go see that Turtle of yours."

The taming of a Wildland "Spirit" was no easy feat.

For pedestrian creatures, a Mage could slaughter enough of them until the higher powers of arithmetic deemed them worthy of a Spirit-imbued Core. It was the most common manner by which Mages acquired Spirits, though such a tried and true method had a significant imperfection.

The shattered Spirit would possess little to no Ego.

Of course, common Mages, especially those in the Frontier, preferred such a Spirit, for Spirits without a robust Ego were obedient, pliant, and cheap.

Higher-order Mages, especially Conjurers, harkened after the Holy Grail of Spirits with unblemished Egos. These were far more difficult to obtain, for no Elemental worth the trouble of befriending would prefer existential symbiosis over simple extinction. And if one added additional prefixes like "Draconic", even London's Magisters would grow desperate for the opportunity.

Therefore, Richard had devised that House Holland could not help but take up the offer and owe her a debt that arguably would take enormous endeavours to repay.

"This is Zippy," Gwen introduced the monstrous Dragon-faced alligator snapping turtle of the South Sea with a casual gesture. "Zitusphyr was what the Turtle Prince called him, but I think Zippy suits him fine."

Thomas flew around the turtle, tracing a spiral path as he inspected the goods. When he returned to her side, the man took a suspicious gander at Dede and then tossed the duck an enormous, fist-sized block of raw HDM. "He's beautiful."

"Damned, right." Gwen made a move, feigning a slap on the turtle's top shell, feeling every inch like Mario trying to hawk Bowser Jr at a slave sale. "This bad boy can fit so many Steam Bombs inside his Spirit. You'll be Purging Greenland of the Undead in no time."

"This is the human?" Zitusphyr raised a tired eye to regard the young Lord Holland. It radiated Dragon Fear, not that Gwen and her companions cared for it. "A mortal?"

"I art no mere Mortal," Thomas introduced himself in acceptable Draconic. "Our House has a pact with thine cousins of Elemental Fire, so I am no stranger to thy traditions or thine kind."

Oh-ho? Gwen glanced at the man. Now that's a juicy bit of information. Did that mean the Hollands had an alliance with Sythinthimryr? The ancient Red with her nest of kin in Carrauntoohil, the natural circuit breaker for the Wild Hunt's yearly adventures? If so, what kind of Pact? A defence one? A Vessel? Whatever the case, it made sense that the noble families of the Mageocracy had those connections; else, Evee and herself would be true anomalies worthy of dissection.

Zitusphyr wasn't the most intelligent of Dragon-kin Gwen'd seen, but even so, the creature tilted its head with scepticism. "You would challenge this one for the Rite? For life or extinction?" The turtle growled.

"For dominion and obedience," Thomas affirmed the turtle's question. "Thou art mine now, young Zitusphyr—but let us not forsake the old ways. We shall entertain a contest with our Astral Souls. Should I yield or perish, Magister Song here shall free thee from bondage to return to thy kin. Should this mere mortal best thee—thou wilt yield to me and be my shield and companion until mine end of days."

The Dragon turtle turned to regard Gwen's posse of menacing Mages and magical creatures. "The human speaks true?"

So you want freedom. After all, Gwen held back from mocking the prideful turtle. "Yes. I will allow—WHOA!!!"

SNAP!

A sonic clap from the Dragon Turtle's suddenly distended tail struck Thomas—or more accurately, a Steam Clone with the likeness of the Holland heir, exploding the mirage in a burst of pale mist.

Gwen felt bedazzled, both by the speed of Thomas' Dimension Door, which was a Specialist variation that left behind life-like visages in Steam—and at Zitusphyr's low, animal cunning. If it was herself, she would have bought into the belief of Draconic honour and may have even taken a hit, assuming Zippy had the gonads to sucker-punch an Old One's Vessel.

The re-materialising Thomas was not only unharmed but armoured and helmeted.

"A low-blow, dear beast," the Mage's body began to bleed streams of Elemental Steam as he spoke, his silhouette growing more obscured with every word. "Come, Zitusphyr! I'll tame you if it's the last thing I do!"

As to what followed, Gwen held little interest.

Her trade was done, her favour was called, the supplies were delivered, and what Thomas did with the turtle was wholly his business.

As she drifted serenely from the unfolding war zone of Elemental Steam, Dragon Breathes and ricochetting shards of "Force" from Thomas' Signature Magic, her mind once more turned to the Tower's affairs.

Richard re-materialised beside her, and Lulan Misty Stepped into view.

"Gwen." Lulu licked her lips at the action below.

"Are we returning to the Tower?" her cousin asked.

"Yes," Gwen affirmed Richard's suspicions. "Now that Lord Holland is here to shoulder the heat... it's time to balance the accounts."