Metaworld Chronicles

In her early twenties, Gwen had been extremely popular with middle-aged managers. Thankfully, the men that now came to see her were future employees and not suitors.

Even better, when the veterans of the Militant Faction arrived, Gwen was happy to discover that her candidates were of sound mind and skill, as opposed to the frayed folk found in Sydney's infamous slot machine farms.

It was a spectacular sight that instantly conjured the Chief Editor of the Sun Herald, who had assumed that a new protest was in the works. When his bleached blonde reporter asked questions like: "What foul grievances have Magister Song committed this time?" promising that "The Sun will be your voice!" The hopeful veterans were ready to drown the witch in the dockland's polluted waters before the Bunker's Dwarven sentries intervened.

Their anger was understandable; over the yesteryear, the collapse and subsequent restoration of the Veteran's Pension had left many Militant patrons greatly dissatisfied with the outcome. It wasn't so much that they had lost capital—rather, it was the case of their friends and families in the Grey and Middle Factions seeing their pension double due to investments in the IoDNC. The disgruntlement was further aggravated by veterans in the Norfolk Fund having boasted that their nest eggs were magnitudes larger than their peers.

Therefore, the news spread like wildfire when Thomas brokered her offer under House Lancaster's authority. The lower rank and files heeded the call, and a perfect cocktail of envy and greed grew their ambitions far beyond vague promises of loyalty.

Her unforeseen popularity empowered Gwen to warrant full-page spreads in the METRO, offering the same terms to civil employees looking to fortify their pensions. The same offer had also been delivered to the refugee camps. However, quantifying qualifications in the absence of degrees and documents made the discovery of "authentic" talent a long-term affair.

Nonetheless, she could relax a little, thanks to the influx of human bodies. As an upper-tier consultant, Gwen knew that a city's administration was not something a paper general like herself could handle.

She would be the Viceroy of the Mageocracy's authority—but the true actors of her municipality would be her Assistant City Managers, hand-reared by Walken and then delivered to Shalkar. She would also have to borrow a handful of experienced administrators from Gunther's Sydney Tower so that her city would have its triumvirate of Factions.

The Militants would handle communication, police, fire and rescue.

The Middle Faction would manage the permits, inspections, planning and developments.

And finally, the Greys would regulate general services, commerce, and trade.

She would head the Administration Bureau and, most importantly, keep a claw on the budget.

As for the city's auditing, she was thinking of handing over her Flights of Shadow Mages to Richard, creating a "Chief of Staff's Office" to oversee a cross-sectional evaluation of the various departments. Combined with the light of the London auditor's office, the shadowy use of the Manipuri Mages' unique talents and their Ruxin-inspired loyalty would leave no account unmolested.

As a pragmatist, Gwen welcomed corruption, theft and exploitation in constructing her new city. Such liberties were necessary to keep the gears of progress oiled and moving forward. That said, she would also make a public spectacle of those who overstep the boundaries of greed into willful destruction. For these men and women, be they Rat, Horse or Men, she possessed means to make them confess to every sin.

Sincerely, Gwen hoped she would never come to the use of that.

The reality, Gwen knew, was seldom so hopeful.

That was why she would have the city's mission statements contracted in bold black fonts. All participants would express consent and willingness to follow agreeable tenets of mutual profit before they embark upon the journey.

For those whose greed would not produce even an iota of public good—may Yog-Sothoth savour their souls.

Despite the promises of grandeur sold by Magister Song to the three Factions of the Commonwealth Mageocracy, London's refugee crisis continued to decay. By October's end, the House of Commons could no longer keep a lid on the simmering sentiments of the nation's citizens. At every level of society, from the Lords and Ladies sick of seeing the refugees to the common man fearful of having their work snatched up by itinerate labourers, all vagrants were relocated from the Mageocracy's capital.

Even the Isle of Dogs, singularly responsible for handling the majority of resettlements, had to shut down its charity operations as all non-Magically gifted refugees were exorcised from London proper into camps on the rural east coast. To Gwen's knowledge, the Tories' only charity was that the region was long pacified, with monsters few and far and the Magical Creatures long domesticated.

As for herself, the stress was giving her split ends.

Between Elvia's operation leaving the city for Suffolk and her catching snatches of sleep between magical lessons and preparation audits, her sanity was growing threadbare. Yet, rather than fighting the local authorities or trying to bribe the administrators, she channelled her growing irritation into organising the legal logistics of the Commonwealth's displaced citizens. As Walken had advised, whatever feelings the capital might possess for the diaspora of their Frontier folk, the duties of dominion had to be demonstrated to its citizens and their critics looking from the outside.

Between her myriad errands, she took out a few hours to luncheon with the work-worn body of Magus Williams, the American Technomancer, a title that was as good as official nomenclature.

Gwen had read the man's report—or rather Gracie had—but the results were positive enough for her to want to hear it from the horse's mouth.

With a glazed and greedy look, the academic poured over the Ilias Leaf like a father over a sick child, tracing his fingers along every vein and node.

"We can make the photosynthetic Essence work." The NoM erudite turned the leaf repeatedly as if every flip offered new bouts of inspiration. "We can use Dwarven Runecraft to construct artificial thylakoids by forming micro-pillars of chloroplasts, but the framework still requires Essence to activate. Mana, or what we have of it, is far too rude an energy source."

"Please don't speak in tongues." Gwen dug into her beef Wellington. "In layman's terms, what does that mean?"

"We can make the conduits, but we don't have the fuel source," the American explained. "Magister Brown tells me you can produce Essence yourself as a Vessel? There are other Vessels as well—and I am sure the New World will have its share—but the energy you're looking for, Magister Song, is on a magnitude unimaginable to any individual, even Dragons."

"Would it be imaginable for a World Tree?" Gwen asked. She fondly thought of Sufina, who would probably wink at William, driving him wild with longing.

Williams gave her words some thought.

"I am sorry." The Technomancer's brows furrowed. "I don't have access to that branch of classified data."

Gwen's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. She had worked so often with so many others with knowledge on the subject matter for so long that she had forgotten that everything associated with the Hvítálfar was shrouded in mystique.

"But it IS possible to mimic the Ilias Leaf's design?" She asked. "On paper."

"I know we can, but it is neither cheap nor convenient," Williams had barely touched his food lest he spent a few minutes away from the priceless specimen. "We can reduce the size, cost and scale over time if you choose to industrialise the process, but for now, we're looking at something the size of a building."

"How big of a building?" Gwen asked.

"The exchange unit is at least the size of a hay barn." The man illustrated the size with his hands. "Excluding service buildings, parts storage, tooling sheds. The receiver unit will be barely man-portable—but that's beside the point. We have nothing to power the pair, even if we make it. The nodes cannot work with mana. For all we know, the whole thing will shatter, instantly vaporising the porter of the receiver unit. If the exchange unit blows up well, it could do real damage—"

"I see." Gwen acknowledged the future lawsuit. She took a bite and a sip. For Soho, the Beef Wellington was quite good.

"Well?" William met her eyes. "Do you still want to sink… HDMs into this?"

"I do." Gwen was already glad the idea was possible. "Essence-wise, I can spare a dozen cubes now and then, though these will be Essence mixed with my mana. The next stage would be exploring the possibility of utilising this type of hybrid fuel. Am I correct to assume you will be coming with us to Shalkar?"

"I am." the Magus nodded eagerly. "I've contacted a few interested parties from home as well. My colleagues from MIT also wish to see your work first-hand and speak to you regarding the communication network. As you are aware, high-sorcery Demi-humans are far and in between in the New World. The absence of the Hvítálfar and the rarity of Dökkálfar constitutes a significant gap in our access to ancient magic."

The man finally took a bite of his Beef Wellington. The American frowned. "What a waste of a perfect cut. Give me charcoal and good basting any day."

Gwen waited for the Bostonian to continue.

"Do you wish me to continue the work even in Shalkar?"

"I do," Gwen replied. "Working proofs of concept are an important part of my forecasts."

"You should take these blueprints to the Boston," Williams said seriously. "There are better scholars there than I. Since our nation's founding away from the Mageocracy, our Magisters have worked with workarounds so much that it's become an institution unto itself. What you've asked of me can become an amazing magitech, Magister Song, for Mages and NoMs everywhere. However, in London at least, I don't believe building a proof-of-concept model is possible."

Gwen raised a brow. "Not here in London? The heart of Spellcraft?"

"Not to disparage our cousins of the far green isle." William looked sheepish. "But did you notice that they're very… traditional?"

"Not at all," Gwen smiled sardonically. "But do go on."

"There's a certain… rigidity? Something baked into the formulae of the sorcery and the way it's taught here. Especially at the tertiary institutes, there's a reverence for the craft of the Demi-humans, whose theories they had inherited while neglecting Human potential. Likewise, there's a parallel rigidity regarding Mages and NoMs. If your Essence Repeater would work, would the Tower help or impede its implementation? I would guess the latter."

"Is that an official statement from Magus John C. Williams of MIT?" Gwen teased the man, making his cheeks bloom a dark scarlet. "I am a Magister of The Shard, you know? And a research fellow at Cambridge University."

"Tis the ramblings of a drunk." The American pointed a fork at the untouched red wine. "I am sure London has the capabilities to do what you wish, though the New World could do it faster, better, and at a fraction of the cost and complications. Our Magitech manufacturing is second to none, and you'll need far more than the Dwarves are willing to spare for the coverage you envision."

Gwen considered the man's limited hypothesis of what she had in mind. John was a good investment, though the man gave outlandish advice. Things might be harder in London, but here was her base. Here, she had tentacles across the Mageocracy's various estates. The New World might offer incredible opportunities, but she would have to pay a steep price to pinpoint the cost of business. If she were to build a base in the New World, it would manifest as a Direct Foreign Investment, a direct acquisition of a local Magitech firm.

The two exchanged more hypothesises. Luncheon ended, and William received orders to gather his research to be ready for transportation via the ISTC in a month or two.

As for the new Viceroy, she returned to her labours. For a freshly assigned demesne, the Shard would provide the lion's share of the budget through a bond. The volume of resources the Mageocracy dedicated to a Magister depended on their clout. The more a regent of the state loaned from the nation, the less profitable their venture became for their backers. Comparatively, the more profit a Magister sought for their Factional allies, the greater the resources they would have to pull from private pockets.

Success, meaning profitability, was a precarious balance designed to minimise the Mageocracy's budgetary burdens during periods of expansion, using the Mageocracy's political authorisation as a mediator between competing interests. According to Williams, the New World had done away with such restraints from the government, having corporatised the colonial process, leaving the reigns of power in the hands of the "people". Gwen could guess what the man meant by the "people", though she held little faith that these noble-minded folk Williams extolled were different from the nobles of the Mageocracy.

But that was for the future. In the present, Gwen had to organise inventory and conduct interviews. She also had her magic to learn, and in the spare moments after that, she would have to pick apart the cat's cradle that is Shalkar al-Jadeedah's multi-racial diplomacy.

Two months.

Her many labours were a good distraction while she waited for her milestones to arrive, one in the form of Golos, who should soon be ready, and the other in the womb of her Astral Body, within which Caliban stirred.

There was also the matter of Ariel's newest nourishments, assuming that the House of M was successful in its procurement. Even so, until she had a handle on Cali and Gogo, she could not afford also having her Lightning Familiar fall into Draconic slumber.

Hopefully, before a fresh calamity struck the construction of her shining city on the hill, all her deterrents would be ready.

The dreary days of October gave way to the frigid mornings of November, then invariably invited the unwelcome winter to ravage the Mageocracy's shivering holdings.

In the middle of December, following a solar eclipse that saw an upswell of Mermen incursions and a meteor shower that shook skies over Carrauntoohil and sent the Fomorians flooding into the foothills, a rare and unusual guest arrived at The Shard's VIP ISTC array.

Magus Slylth McAllister Morden, by invitation but not really, was met by his contemporaries from the Imperial College. As he materialised, the young Mage's patience was at an all-time low, for he had applied to visit The Shard in October, only to be held up by his duties in Suilven.

Another Mage of his influence and talent could have rescinded their participation in the Purge of the Fomori raids, but not so Slylth. As a part of his promise to Mother, he had certain duties which he had to fulfil, chief of which was the duty of his Clan and kind, the stabilisation of the Axis Mundi in Carrauntoohil.

Once the Fomori lay smoking and crispy on the hillside, Slylth waited until his mother returned to her slumber, then answered the affirmative invitation from London Imperial. His only concern had been the viability of the Glyph placed upon his Core for what mother had called his "live-action role-playing", though his safe arrival at Heathrow had disproven his paranoia.

According to mother dearest, London was the heart of the Mageocracy, and its security was second to none in the human world. Now that he was here, Slylth could only huff at the ignorance of the Humans. Presently, his combat potential as a Human Mage exceeded what his true but youthful body could accomplish. Even so, the chaos he could sow could be nothing short of catastrophic, especially as the Human Queen would not dare to take Slylth's life. Of course, Slylth would never do such a thing, for he had grown fond of these mortal beings with their interesting, fleeting lives. Nonetheless, the knowledge that he "could" ignite the city made Slylth's heart a little happy.

"Lord Morden." The Magister leading the contingent bowed deeply, drawing eyes from around the ISTC station. The attention was pleasing to Slylth, who nodded at the man and allowed the others to introduce themselves. "Welcome to London."

"I am welcomed," Slylth announced. Here in the Human city, he could almost smell the scent of the female that had preyed upon his mind for months. He even felt his Draconic heart quicken, for it could hardly wait.

"Shall we begin our tour with The Shard itself?" The Magister announced with a face full of smiles. "We have prepared a banquet as well, though I am sure an academic like yourself would be foremostly interested in The Shard's many projects. If Suilven could guide us on anything that may interest you, we would be honoured."

"You're far too humble," Slylth dismissed the man's obvious lies. "Though there is something you can help me with which will bring this Morden great joy."

The Magister and his colleagues stood to attention. By now, a crowd had gathered to witness the spectacle that was Slylth's casual regard for the azure-robed Magisters and Maguses. Slylth, who considered his human form the epitome of perfection, possessed no doubt his noble visage had ignited the curiosity of his onlookers.

"Ask, and you shall receive." The Magister laughed, clearing a path for Slylth. "Walk with us, Master Morden. Be literal in your desires."

Slylth held his patience for a second more before finally delivering the line he'd been waiting on for two months. "Then I shan't be a stranger, Magister Clyde. Bring me Gwen Song. I have an interest in her."

The Magister almost appeared to stumble before he restored himself. "Sorry? Master Morden, did you say Gwen Song?"

"Yes," Slylth affirmed his request. "She is a female favoured by Lord Ill—by the er… Frost Lord of the South Seat. You know her, surely? She is a Vessel. Bring her here to me."

The Mages footsteps slowly came to a halt. Looking at their expressions, the Magister and Maguses seemed as troubled as he was confused.

"Bring… Magister Song?" The man squinted. "To your lordship?"

"Yes." Slylth was growing a little annoyed. "Use teleportation if you must."

The men looked at one another.

"I don't think… anyone can do that except maybe Lord Ravenport or our most esteemed eternal rose of the House of Winsor," Magister Clyde explained. "I can put in a petition for your lordship, though I do not believe it will be heeded for some time."

Slylth felt a strange emptiness in his chest, like someone had scooped something out and tossed it away. "Why not?"

"She's not here in London," the Magister said. "Magister Song has long since left London for Shalkar, her new domain. To recall her would take a feat far beyond what we can manage at London Imperial—I fear it would have to be a true emergency."

Slylth felt like he was about to give Magister Clyde a true emergency.

"She's not here?" he repeated.

"Nor can we compel her if she was." The Magister's bewilderment was palpable. "Is something the matter?"

"Yes." it was all Slylth could do to keep the Glyph on his Dragon Heart stable. "I want her. I am going to Shalkar."

The Mages around him fell silent.

"Is that a problem?" Slylth demanded, his voice growing sulky. To have his prize snatched away by something as trivial as distance was beyond infuriating. His Flight spells were mediocre at best, and the velocity of his true body was likely unimpressive compared to their cousins of Lightning. "Where is Shalkar, anyhow? Is it near the Fire Sea?"

"Shalkar is... far. And there is also an issue." The Magister's tone stiffened. "Shalkar is a special operations zone overseen by Magister Song. Without her consent, a Mage of your prestige and calibre will be unable to set foot in her domain. We will do our best to grant you privileges befitting your station, Magus, but you're an esteemed guest—not one of The Shard's preeminent operatives… Umm...are you quite alright, Magus Morden?"

Slylth circulated his mana until his irate temper cooled. For a second, all he could see was flaming hellfire, volcanic eruptions, and his sleek red body tearing through those reflective buildings outside The Shard. The most difficult aspect of his self-control was to keep his Dragon Fear from leaking—an act of such supreme effort that his human physique almost peed.

"I NEED to be in Shalkar," he announced to his hosts, his face almost the colour of his scales. "Please, make it so."

"We… can put in a request." Magister Clyde and the others did not appear to relax even as Slylth's aura dimmed. "And the final say… will need to be affirmed by Magister Song. However, meanwhile, there's plenty to do and see in London. Many in the college are anticipating your arrival as well. It has, after all, been decades since a demand had come from his lordship, the esteemed Magi of Suilven."

As the party exited into the snow-slathered exterior of The Shard, Slylth felt as though he had accidentally shunted himself into the realm of Lord Illaelitharian.

"How long?" Slylth croaked, unused to so much Elemental ice in the air. It was calming, though. At least there was the discomfort to chill his Dragon heart.

"We'll submit a request now." Magister Clyde immediately sent off two of his Magus-tier aides. "Though from what I've heard… Magister Song is a very busy woman.."

Magister Gwen Song, Viceroy of the Britannic Mageocracy, was pouring over zoning charts and proposed city designs when her aide-de-camp, Chief Officer Richard Huang, came in with a strange expression and a desire to interrupt the long meeting.

"I am very sorry," Gwen apologised to the table of esteemed personages she had gathered from London and beyond. Of her audience, half were Dwarves, shared between her Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth allies and the new Germanic Clans seeking to repopulate the city. The larger part of the enormous pavilion tent was occupied by Centaurs and their Şöpters war priestesses, all serving under Khudu, the Khan's Cherbi. Besides her, the Rat-men occupied the smallest quadrant, with each of the twelve Clans having dispatched their elders to support Strun. Finally, Gwen and the representatives of Humanity took up a sliver of the oval planning table. "Milords and eminences, please excuse me."

She left her PowerPoint(™) sorcery operation and squeezed past the Horse Lords. Once outside, Richard led her to the camp's forecourt.

"What's the news? Is Evee coming over for a stint?" She asked with anticipation. Christmas was soon upon them, and Elvia's Ordo would be having their carols concert to raise money for the refugee resettlement. She desperately wanted to be there to support Elvia and donate in person to raise the bar—but her duties here, like Walls of Force, were keeping her caged.

"Yeah-nah," Richard shot her down without mercy. "Golos wants to talk to you about something important. He says it is urgent."

The middle of the forecourt housed an enormous yurt, within which her Planar Ally made his abode. The front flap was left open, allowing Gwen direct access to the giant who rested within.

Golos, the scion of the Yinglong, now improved by the Frost Wyrm's gift, was no longer so brutish. His humanoid form was akin to Ruxin's favourite guise, though far inferior in regality. Her Wyvern—or, more accurately, new Dragon, paced endlessly over the velvety carpets provided by the Khan and gifted by the Khudu.

"Calamity! You're here," Golos approached, all three meters of him bristling with discomfort. Gogo's mien was now ruggedly handsome, with an aggressive masculinity that pleased Gwen's sense of aesthetics.

Gwen arrived by the former Thunder Wyvern's side. "Alright, I am here. What is it, Gogo?"

Golos took a deep breath. "I just received a vision from Father..."

"Christ." Her heart quickened. "Go on."

"Yeah. A Vision." Golo's expression remained strange. "So… you ready?"

"Ready for what?"

"The vision."

"Just say it," Gwen discerned a dark and unhappy suspicion. "I have work. And if this is a problem, we'll solve it."

"Alright." Golos' smouldering eyes sizzled. The Dragon-kin took a deep breath, then made the delivery. "Calamity… we'll soon have a new niece or nephew."

Gwen's frontal lobe flashed white. She scrolled through all the possibilities, eventually reaching the only conclusion. "HE DID IT? UNCLE finally did it? Ayxin's pregnant? Does Babulya know? HOLY SHIT, Richard! Uncle knocked up a Dragon!"

"Hahaha…" Richard shook his head. "Now that's the true measure of a man. How will Hai ever live up to that?"

Gwen's brain throbbed. Her uncle, the Dragon layer, was now a Dragon daddy.

Richard patted her shoulder. "Perhaps it's time… to call Uncle Jun and congratulate him, eh? Imagine, cousin, our youngest cousin, a Dragon-kin!"

Gwen agreed. She should call and congratulate them, maybe send them a pallet of the finest milk powder from Australia.

Still, looking at Golos, she had to agree with a certain something.

Now was a joyous occasion, so why were their hearts so agitated? If she were to go by instinct... the news almost felt like... the opening act... to some unknown, long-conceived calamity.