Metaworld Chronicles

Between Shalkar and Aktobe, a distance of almost three hundred kilometres, lies the vast, flat landscapes of the northern steppes. Dry, sloped and rolling like static tides of a sun-bleached sea, the immense grasslands traditionally played home to the dominant Demi-human race of central Asia—the Horse Lords.

For most of "Human" history, the Khanates' long reigns defined the region between the Ural Mountains and its southern descent into the Caspian Sea. Yet, the region was a Black Zone long before the emergence of the Fire Sea, being home to civilisations older than the written history of Humanity.

One such Demi-human race was now reliving the crisis of their ancestors.

The Kobold Tribes of the northern drifts were an indigenous tribe with homes split between the rolling rock-scapes of the lower Urals and the moonscape plains of the frosty Alga. In the Mageocracy's journals, the Human explorers had dubbed them "Dog-men" for their likeness to the mongrel breeds the shepherds employed, well adapted for harsh winters and bleak summers. Stout of limb, the Kobolds were noted for their perfect vision in low light, paired with scent glans capable of tracking prey over hundreds of kilometres. However, unlike the more uniform dimensions of Centaur physiology, Kobold tribes varied from the Halfling squats of the hill dwellers to the hunched-backed, long-necked tunnellers of the Murk, split into archetypal enclaves, rather a unified, communal "Yurt".

From the air, Richard observed the great, gull-winged spear formation of the Horse Lords as they enveloped their quarry. On paper, the expedition's Horsemen numbered only in the two hundreds, with only a quarter being the elite Jagun. However, Richard understood that even a single "Golden Rider" threatened a mundane Mageflight, much less the surrounded Kobolds.

It was just as well, then, that it wasn't Kobolds the Cherbi's men needed to battle.

What had appeared to be their initial roadblock had not come to do battle with the expedition—but were pursued by something with a mana taint as blasphemous as it was loathsome.

"KNEEL—KNEEL—KNEEL—!" The Jaguns barked, offering no mercy to the handful of Kobolds who did not stop but continued to sprint, pining them into the hard soil like furry moths on an exhibition board. As a tide, the cavalry overlept their prey, bypassing the passive Kobold columns.

"Wolves—!" Howls from Phaelera's brood pealed from the cloudless sky. "Foul Wolves!"

At his mental behest, Lea materialised closer to the ground, riding the wind beside the galloping Horse Lords and their wolf-like howls. Pilums, each as tall as a mare, leapt from saddle satchels into the hands of the masterful warriors, then made impossible arcs to meet a wall of gangrene flesh.

Christ! Richard grimaced as the stench traversed the headwind. Across the Northern Steppes, wolves were formidable foes, especially if gifted with Elemental Affinities. In Shalkar, where the Sand Wolves were plentiful, the alpha specimens could even traverse through soft sand and stone.

Their current foes, what seemed like a pack of several thousand, were as unnatural as they come, being possessed by Necromancy to such a degree that they were both living and dead, whole and unholy.

A wolf a Jagun had skewered utilised two heads, one large and natural, the other appearing just below the first, wearing the larger, slavering head like a helm. Others were also unique, possessing more legs than a wolf could need or having tumorous growths that erupted in vile explosions of noxious gas that drove the pack into a frenzy.

The two sides closed within seconds—but the Centaurs were far too cunning to engage the Plague Wolves. As shimmering shoals empowered by their tribal blood magic, they peeled from the incoming hammerhead of jaws and claws, staying just out of reach by barely a meter.

Unceasingly, even as they outflanked the wolves, the pilums continued their assault, skewering each monster with their weighted ends, slowing the advance of the roving fur tide.

As the Cherbi's elite Khesig Guards broke away, Richard grew immensely impressed by Khudu's time-honed battle tactics—for the Centaurs had bought themselves more space with the simple offering that is the Kobold's rear!

Ignoring Petra's gasp of horror, he marvelled at the sight of the Plague Wolves diving into the Kobolds like a black swell crashing against an edible sandcastle. While the rabid canines feasted on the weak and the meek, the rest of the Horse Lords moved into position, launching such a barrage of heavy pilums that the few Plague Wolves left could not harass the expedition.

The exchange took less than fifteen minutes. When Richard finally excused himself from Petra to present himself as Shalkar's spokesperson, there were no combat-capable Plague Wolves still unpinned. Additionally, over a thousand Kobolds had survived, while only a dozen Horse Lords had the bad luck to be bitten.

"Impressive work, Khudu," Richard commended the Centaur Commander. "A perfect operation."

"Not as impressive as that lumen-recording," Khudu remarked upon Gwen's actions in Tianjin, which Richard had liberally sown among the fighting men as entertainment. "Ah, to ride or die against Zodiam himself, with our Yurts against our backs and the hot wind singing our manes! Now, that would be a worthy death for an Orkok!"

Richard did not remark but nodded to feign understanding. "You'll get your chance, Khudu. There'll be fights to remember, I guarantee it."

The Cherbi twirled the heavy pilum in his hand. "These Dwarven armaments. Tell your Mistress we like them very much. We'll take as many as the short men can manufacture."

Richard gave the Horseman a thumbs up. Good quality iron and advanced metallurgy had always been limited in the Northern Steppes by its lack of access to materials and craftsmen—until the Dwarves came. With the sheer volume of deep iron being moved into the place for the reconstruction of the Citadel and the low-way, the scraps gathered by young apprentices were forged into weighted pilums—complete with runic imprints that made an activated implement exceedingly difficult to dislodge from the earth.

"I am glad to hear it," Richard drifted a little away and a bit closer to a still-slavering wolf. "Say Khudu, does this Necromancy feel familiar to you?"

The Cherbi wrinkled his nose. "Disease, like the ones from the rats."

"Indeed," Richard also recognised the distinctive mana signature. "Looks like a more active, less potent strain. Tell your men to keep away, in any case. We need to burn these with fire. If any of your men fall sick—I bought some of Gwen's Essence Maotai to cleanse their blood. Lea!"

A jet blast of whitewater, super pressurised by his Undine Spirit, was enough to erase the Plague Wolf almost entirely—albeit leaving a jet stream of necrotic particles in a sharp, long arc.

"Thank you, Lea…" Richard sighed. "Yes. Fire… that, or we will need to bury them all."

The Cherbi laughed, then directed them both to the head of the Kobold column. The Kobolds' leader was an interesting, grey-maned specimen dressed in plates of iron knitted against leather, sealed with intricate inlays of precious monster materials threaded into the stitching. From what Richard could see, it was a she, a Clan matriarch.

"Name and Clan." The Cherbi asked with a hand against his favourite new toy, a Dwarven-made Satchel of Storing, which he used to stow his weapons.

"Vortu Sorn, Daughter of Alkar Sorn of Alga, O Lord," the Kobold pressed her nose against the floor. "We seek refuge, great warrior of the plains. My people… are willing to serve."

Slavery and servitude. Richard sighed with appreciation. The golden rules of the Northern Steppes.

To live as Tasmüyiz for a generation or two to preserve the blood of a tribe is worth ten thousand dignities.

Richard watched his Horse Lord companion lift the head of the kneeling Dog Warrior with the tip of his prideful product from the Dwarven military-industrial complex under Shalkar.

The Kobold leader, for all her piercing blue eyes of defiance, was exhausted, worn, and on her toes.

Ready to fight—or flight? Richard wondered. Or perhaps, to die painlessly.

"Where is your Alpha?" Khudu asked, indicating for Richard. "Where is your Shaman?"

"Perished in the ambush," the Dog-woman answered. "I led the survivors from our warrens. We are all that is left of Hom Alga. There are more of our packs scattered to the…"

"Don't answer me, dog. You are the property of Master Richard and his Mistress now." Khudu appeared to lose interest even as he spoke. Leaving Richard and the newly parked Petra in her Strider, the Cherbi left to dress down his fellow warriors.

Gawked at by the Kobold survivors, Petra landed beside the Water Mage.

"Master… Richard…” The kneeling Kobold appeared less inclined to be subordinate to a humanoid creature not even as tall as itself. "The sons and daughters of Alga heed your words."

Richard did not mind the change in attitude. After all, fear and respect were earned. If they did not submit, he would kill them with kindness.

"In a few hours, our supply convoy will arrive," Richard announced to the rest of the refugees, ignoring the female. "There will be clean food and water, and you will all undergo a health check. For those of you willing to become temporary employees of the Isle of Dog Norfolk Conglomerate, we will provide meaningful labour, shelter, and sustenance. For those wishing to leave, that is also an option."

"The Isle…" Vurtu raised her head, her blue eyes wary and confused. "Of Kobolds?"

Richard felt embarrassed, for his Translation stone wasn't nearly as good as Gwen's wondrous inheritance from Henry Kilroy.

"And… food?" The Kobold masses were more suspicious than inquisitive. "Why?"

"For an equivalent exchange of labour and produce," Richard clarified, making the universal symbol of the balancing scales with his hands. "Our Mistress calls it gainful employment. You will have rights, and there are guarantees for your safety. From each according to their ability, to each according to their needs, you may trust me on this."

"She has this much power?" Vurtu looked to Petra for confirmation. How similar their eyes are, Richard pondered for a moment. Both with that icy, piercing blue that would make wondrous jewels. "Who is this Mistress?"

Richard cleared his throat. "She is Gwen Song, Regent of Shalkar, Magister of the Shard, The Devourer of Cities, the Pale Priestess of Many Millions."

With each pronouncement, he raised his voice, his visage amplified by Lea's light distortion.

The Kobolds stared at Richard, their mouths open, a few with their tongues out, panting.

"She is a Goddess?" The Kobold woman attempted to understand his words.

"Many would not deny it," Richard answered vaguely. "Many others fear her for it. But you, my pups, can find a new home under her long and sheltering shadow. So, will you come?"

"We shall! Great Richard! Please lead us to the Pale Mistress!" The Kobold leader's hesitation lasted only a few seconds, for the Horse Lords were already setting the Plague Wolves on fire. If these dogs had refused, Richard felt, he would have recommended that Khudu unburden their expedition of useless mouths.

"Good." Richard studied the supplication of the dogs for a moment more before helping the female to stand. "No need for formalities, as our Mistress often says. However, I do need to ask for an immediate service."

"Yes? Great Richard?"

Richard chuckled. "Just Richard, while we're in public. Tell me, Vurtu, have you seen other humans like me, with lighter-coloured fur and manes, fleeing from the north?"

The Kobold's expression changed. "We have, and they attacked us. Stole our food and supplies. They killed our Shaman and her daughter."

"How many were there?" Petra butted in from atop her Strider. "Mages? Or Civilians?"

"Pats, let the dog finish." Richard supposed the refugees must be in good spirits if they had the energy to spare. "We're looking for these Humans. Do you think you could lead us to them?"

The Kobold looked from Richard to Petra, unwilling to return to danger.

"If you help us," Richard offered a hand toward a meaty paw wrapped in bandages and hidden within a shredded gauntlet. "I'll take special care of your people here. If not, that's your choice. We don't force anyone to do anything here. It's all… free will. Or so Gwen advertises."

He allowed the assonance of "free" to linger a little longer than was comfortable.

"I'll help…" The Kobold offered her paw. "My scouts, we can take you to Orsk. That's where we were ambushed."

"How far?" Richard checked his mental map while Petra produced a physical one.

"Almost a hundred kilometres away, but the path is unobstructed. When did you see them?" Petra asked.

"Two moons ago. My people travel by night when it's… less dangerous. It was during the day that flying humans came."

Petra's traced a circle around the region of Orsk, somewhere within fifty kilometres. "If what she says is true, there has to be a group of Refugees there. More than one Mage Flight if they spared the men to forage."

"Many Undead?" Richard showed the Kobold Petra's map. "How often did you fight?"

"There are many, but all are scattered to harass travellers who seek refuge in the south. Each time, a few of us would be crippled. We… we had to leave behind those would would succumb to disease… and transform."

"Necrophage…" Richard nodded to Petra. "Same shit we saw with the Mermen and the Rat-kin, but obviously, the population here is much more scattered and the spaces less inter-connected than within the Shoals. We should send back a bird and inform Gwen."

"I'll arrange it." Petra retreated into her Strider. The sooner her secretarial work was done, Richard saw, the sooner they would find her potentially still-living parents.

"Very well," Richard performed as Gwen would and gave the Kobold a pat on the head. The dog flinched, thought to bite him, but ultimately endured the violation with patience.

Just as he thought to say something Gwen might spew to offset the faux pas, he heard the distant rumble of thunder.

The Kobolds looked up, confused as to the source of the cacophony.

In the next second, the enormous body of Golos zoomed overhead, momentarily blotting out the sun with his vast wingspan. As one, the Kobolds struck dirt. Their heads bowed in total and unquestioning supplication to a being greater than their imagination.

"G-GREAT DRAGON!" Vurtu cowered, this time wholeheartedly. "G—R-Richard. It has seen us! Are we doomed to be food after all?"

Richard regarded the dog with pity. After a moment, he offered her a hand and pulled up her unwilling body with a tug. "No. Don't worry about Gogo. He's a friend and a companion, and if you find us those humans, I promise he'll be fed and watered."

Shalkar.

While her companions sought out ways across the Black Zone, the Regent of the city sat in her office, studying an intricately detailed sand sculpture built by the Germanic Engineseers of the Citadel below.

"There are old segments of the Dyar Morkk here, and here—" Axehoff indicated with a Magitech variation of what Gwen saw was a laser pointer. "The Murk here, unfortunately, is thick with miasma. The reclamation will require aid from your Rat-kin troops, and if we do encounter strange Magical Beasties, the Guild requests a Purge from yer devouring worm."

"And beyond this stretch of the Murk is another Citadel?" Gwen traced her fingers to a less certain cavern made by the sand construct. "It's huge."

"The Mimm Agaeth Kjangtoth," Axehoff indicted to their present whereabouts. "Is, or was, a transport hub for the materials mined at this lost Citadel. Our records indicate that it was a Glang Agaeth Kjangtoth, the Citadel of Iron and Forges, used to produce the precious ingots used by the Fabricators."

"I see," Gwen understood where the man was coming from. "You did say it was good to find a localised source of ingots that doesn't involve the sellers from Bavaria."

The Engineseer pushed a data slate her way. "The Meister has crunched the statistics. If we tap into the Ural vein, costs fer ya city's raw materials will reduce by forty-two per cent. Transport reduction costs by thirty-seven per cent. Transmutation Mana efficiency will increase by twenty-six point two per cent. Ya ken?"

Gwen took a moment to scan the data out of respect, for she knew that Dwarves would sooner Soul Forge themselves into a Balefire than make a mockery of the sacred figures left to them by the Seven Ancestors.

"And to achieve these numbers…"

"Yer need to authorise an expedition into the Deep Murk. Too dangerous to build the Low Ways from Shalkar otherwise. Earth Wyrms, Hookie Horrors, Beasties from yer Planes of Ooze and Mud and whatnot. We won't risk it if…"

"…I am not equally committed. I read you, Ambassador." Gwen considered the Ambassador's proposal. The cleansing of the Murk from its less desirable inhabitants had always been on the table. As always, in creating a trade route network free from interference from Eastern Europe to North-Western China, time and cost must be measured against the profit motive.

The problem was time, her time.

So much of her work was now in the realm of delegations.

The refugees were delegated to Richard and Petra, with Golos as the guarantor of their judgment.

Shalkar's governance was delegated to Ollie and his team from London's elite universities, each with their agendas, balanced by the guileless Magister Edwards, with his final say also guaranteed by Golos.

The construction, which she oversaw, was entirely carried out by cooperation between her Isle of Dog civil engineers and the Dwarven delegation concurrently rebuilding their Citadel.

Shalkar's militia was split between Strun and Khudu, with Richard as an advisor and old Militant Faction veterans filling in for the ranks…

And the agriculture was in the domain of the Tasmüyiz, now restored to their individual Clans of Demi-humans, shepherded by an often absent Sanari.

Everything was working well—for now, but she knew with absolute certainty that Murphy's Law would visit her precarious balance in the coming months, for that was the nature of all projects of this scale and size. And when it did arrive, would her choices be the catalyst for catastrophe or repair?

As a seasoned manager, she had composed mental and physical risk calculations countless times with her inner circle, setting aside men and HDMs for the occasions as insurance—but still, she felt the project was falling behind.

To strangle Sobel, Spectre, the subverted Mermen, the Followers of Juche and their agents, she had to move laterally in ways her foes could not anticipate.

A network connecting her major interests.

A way to quickly move men and resources to the points of conflict.

And finally, to build enough of a global business presence that power players would openly pursue and disrupt Spectre for fear of losing out on the great boon of Human progress.

To do all of the above, she had to necessitate risks…

"Let's set a date once the Expedition returns," she confirmed her willingness with the Ambassador. "We'll know for sure what lies in the deep once the excavations reach the foothills of the Ural region."

"Three Himsegg faith cycles is my estimation," Axehoff informed her after a brief moment of mental calculation, inferring three rotations of Monday to Sunday. "We'll request more families from Bavaria to fill in our numbers here, as well as extra Golems for the reconstruction, assuming we arrive at this Glang Agaeth Kjangtoth."

"And I'll ready the Rat-kin and the Militia," Gwen nodded. "And free my timetable, of course."

The sand sculpture collapsed into its display pan. Gwen uncrossed her legs, fixed her pencil skirt, and stood with her head still bowed.

Her hand clasped the heavy leather gauntlets of the Engineseer, and the two shook on the expectation of an unbreakable agreement of trust.

Declining a round at the bar to celebrate, she parted from the delegation of bearded men and women, then made her way above ground, where her next appointment was already fifteen minutes due.

"Sorry I am late," Gwen waved with both hands as she passed the threshold, escorted by starry-eyed Rat-kin guards carrying Dwarven-made sonic wands. "Are we good to start?"

"We are, Magister."

The voice who answered her belonged to Magus Williams, the American Magitech engineer contracted by herself to work on integrating Spellcraft and Dwarven runecraft for her Low Way networks.

She had not anticipated the American to join them initially. However, once the man got to know a little of Slylth's pedigree, he had been barraging the Dragon-kin with stories from across the continent, as well as newly devised Spellcraft Glyphs and Sigils non-stop.

As a result, the two had become chums—though Gwen understood very well how one-sided William's perceived relationship with Slylth was in reality. Even a Dragon as young as Slylth would not categorically consider a Human, a NoM no less, to be a companion or friend. Thereby, the scene of John C. Williams simpering to the "Morden heir" was like a humanoid Golden Retriever hoping for affection from a charmed stranger.

"GWEN! You're here!" Slylth sidled up to her, not unlike an auburn-hued Labrador. "I did it! I remembered enough of my Master's lessons to create a Hexagramic Annulment Mandala. There were some Human-type issues with power, but Williams found some solutions through the Dwarves' runic networks.

Gwen nodded at the smiling Magus, then gave her Dragon-kin a slap of affirmation at the back. "Good job, Slylth."

The Dragon-kin gave her an enormous, self-satisfying grin.

Presently, she was in the furthest excavation from Shalkar, which would one day be where she hoped Sufina might find a home. The Dwarves had found a natural hollow here, an enormous cavern emptied of groundwater that could house a sheltered complex of government buildings.

In such a space, it was possible to construct the base plate of her Tower, for here was where the underground water naturally gathered, making it a natural ley-node of Terra's more desirable, benign energies.

In the above ground, an incredibly picturesque lake would play home to Sufina's secondary tree—assuming that's how things would work out, and mimic a watery home if Almudj's avatar wanted to sleep in its depth—as the serpent often had done in Lake Eyre.

In their present junction, however, the large cavern was used as a containment field. Over the last few days, Slylth and Williams, aided by Dwarven Masters and others, constructed an enormous Mandala for housing Gwen's latest and most precious loot.

An Ashen Kirin Core.

A bitter prize, one now seated on a settee of Mithril like a precious gem awaiting an eager bride-to-be, blocked from accessing the Elemental Plane of its creation. They had to take great care, for if what Slylth had proposed held—this was no common Kirin Core. Instead, she possessed the "Core" of the Ashen Kirin as a species, an origin Core from which a lineage may be repopulated.

If she had a choice, Gwen would have preferred to have no Core and a Brother, an unsullied Evee, and the bliss of her happy days with Sobel as a distant foe—but alas, all she had to show for her anguish was a priceless heart of a Draconic species from China's Dynastic past.

"Gwen, we're ready to begin." Slylth made a gentlemanly move to direct her to a cosy space in front of the Kirin Egg, where she might question whatever was left of its consciousness after days of brooding within Caliban's digestive juices.

If she so desired, Caliban could devour the thing—but the mere form of a Void Kirin wasn't nearly as precious as other avenues of discovery that lay within the ancient, subdued being.

"Thanks, Slylth," she moved as directed, motioning for the others in the cavern to leave. Within the Mandala, only herself and Slylth, possessed of Essences resistant to the Kirin's primal bloodline suppression, could hope to remain unaffected.

To her left and right, she released her Familiars.

Ariel transformed instantly, standing guard against the Kirin's malicious designs.

Caliban laid low, ready to swallow the egg again, depositing it into God knows what region of the void scape inside its astral intestines.

With hands invoking sorcery too fast for her eyes to follow, Slylth completed a dozen arcane incantations back to back, speaking in the tongue of his noble race.

The Mandala grew bright. A scent of Elemental Fire purer than anything Gwen had ever beheld filled the air with firefly embers. The momentary spectacle was enjoyable until the Kirin Core began to thrum, thrusting against the Elemental Fire with its necrotic energies of Elemental Ash.

A ring of runes formed around the tip of the jagged Core, bright with burning, locking the means by which the Kirin Egg manifested its dominion of the Prime Material. A second ring joined it, and then a third, binding the Kirin Egg like bands of a smouldering wine barrel, choking the emerging creature in its infancy.

Around the enormous chamber, the Dwarven Mandala thrummed, its pitch low and steady, drawing power from the great furnaces supplying raw mana to the rest of the city.

Dragon Fear rolled from Slylth like a tide. With a final word of power, a fourth band of fire materialised, suspending the Kirin Egg from its ability to draw mana from the surrounding landscape and thereby transform it into a roost.

Gwen closed her eyes, allowing her mind to relax. Like feelers from an inviting jellyfish, she let her thoughts extend via her Divination Glyph toward the Kirin Egg.

The vision from within came at once, latching desperately onto her tendrils of empathic telepathy.

She saw…

A great, lion-maned head with furs of smouldering ash and cinder made majestic by a pair of skyward antlers. She saw scales of shimmering bronze, polished by unimaginable heat, flowing across the Kirin's chest and limbs like liquid. With every step the Kirin took, it left an imprint of burning hooves in the air.

Below it, an oriental city stretched as far as her vision could see, filled with supplicants and sacrifices, citizens of the Kirin's domain, its source of Faith, power, and nourishment.

Not far from the Kirin, others of its kind, lesser beings of small girth and mane, females, adolescents and pups, stood stoic as statues in its imperial court.

Such was its enterprise, the existence of a ruler, a myth in the flesh, a Queen and Goddess of drought against the encroaching tide of oceanic Dragons seeking to usurp its domain.

But Gwen did not care for that.

Her mind pushed the enfeebled existence within to scour its memories for the day of its awakening, so fresh and vivid as to be unforgettable. She had only one chance to coerce the creature, for she was its dominator, and as a Dragon-kind, its submission was instinctual—at least until it realised the truth.

The answer came unwillingly, first as a surge of wilful counter-domination, then as she scalded the Kirin with the threat of Almudj, the sensations grew clarified.

While the two of their consciousnesses circle each other like a mongoose and a cobra, she caught a glimpse of darkness, of fear and loathing and hatred and anger compressed by the passage of millennia into a madness no mortal creature could begin to comprehend.

In the Murk of the Kirin's memories, she saw a shard of light, of an unexpected call to life, of the Core thrusting itself into the city that was once its temple, believing without doubt that the millions above were meant for its nourishment.

And between that, the death thrust and the darkness, she saw a young man with one hand extended, touching the egg, muttering to himself, his expression one of undisguised ambition.

The Kirin Egg wasn't… aware of Percy? Gwen felt the queasy stir of an alarm inside her. Was its emergence reactive and unanticipated? Air sirens erupted in her brain. If so, what the hell was compelling Percy, if at all? When her grandmother had given up Percy's half of the amulet, it had become eerily inert, just as Jun's half had lost all of its potency. All of her family members had been unanimous in that Percy had inadvertently awakened the Kirin inside his heirloom amulet, which reasonably would have led the boy to exercise power beyond his understanding.

So why isn't the Kirin Egg tempting her brother?

Or had Caliban stripped it of selective memories?

As she probed it further, she noted that other than its egotistical, murderous disregard for "lower" life, this ancient Kirin was wholly acting out of spite, arrogance and instinct, not plots and schemes.

Her fingers grew numb as unhappy realisations filled her soul with dread.

Was her brother the principal architect of his failures?

Was that why Elvia tried to sacrifice herself like a little fool?

How little did Elvia trust her to do the right thing?

"Gwen, that's enough." The voice of Slylth came as a thunderclap from outside her sphere of thoughts. "You're not trained in Divination proper to sustain the link, and you're not… one of the Yinglong's kin."

Gwen allowed herself to slip from the Kirin's glare. What Slylth had meant was that the Kirin had submitted to the Dragon-kind headed by the Yinglong and its ocean-faring folk. While Slylth himself was a true scion of the ancient Reds and herself a proxy of an even older being—it wasn't they who held existential dominion over the vanquished Kirin tribes of northern China.

With a word, she broke off the tenebrous Empathic Link. Her answer was incomplete, but she knew the vision to be true, at least as true as her brother's guilt.

Now, she had more questions. If not for the Kirin... what force had gifted Percy with so much unnatural knowledge?

How did Percy even find the Kirin nest when the Communists did not know its existence?

"On to our next state of affairs," Gwen said coldly, her tone dangerously agitated. "Let us recover some of our resources. I want to see what can be done with the Core, even if we sell it."

Slylth appeared relieved that she could pull back her mind without complications. He tried to touch her face, though a raised brow from Gwen was enough to make the young man keep his digits to his sides.

"Or so you say. Will you be using one of Master Kilroy's Necromancy hybrids?" The Red Dragon youth asked. "I've read about them from Master's journals."

"Soul Fire," Gwen invoked the first syllabic clause as proof, lowering the temperature of the room instantly. "And Soul Tap, assuming it can be controlled."

"No. No Spirits like the Dragon Turtle. No chance you'll be able to dominate it as a non-member of the Yinglong's Clan. Even if Ariel has some borrowed Essence, you and I know it's far from the real article." Slylth explained. "Besides, if you use Soul Tap—you'll risk your sanity by pitting the Old One against the Kirin matriarch and letting them battle it out in your Astral Body. With luck, I am sure you'll only be brain-dead. More likely, you shall combust into a prismatic spray of raw, uncontrolled Essence."

"Thanks for the heads up." Gwen took solace in the morbid humour. Having a Morden with perfect Draconic memory while exploring unknown avenues of Spellcraft was as useful as she expected. "So we burn it down."

"It will take some time…" Slylth informed her. "We attack the Kirin Soul. Then we rest while the Mandala constrains it. Then, we repeat the process until it is wholly... extinguished. After that, you should have a Core that can be used for… alternative purposes."

"Too small for a Structural Tower Core, too big for anything other than a Golem—and too dangerous to leave as is," Gwen recalled their earlier conversation. "And there's little that can be done with Elemental Ash of this potency… what a crock. Sure we can't feed it to Ariel?"

"EE-ee!" Ariel whinied. It did not like the mana flowing from the Kirin Core at all.

"No. The Elemental composition is final," Slylth gave Ariel's head a sorrowful pat. "I know what you're thinking, little one, but those are the Planar rules of existence that defy even Morden's authority over the Primary Elements."

"Shaa! Shaa!" Caliban offered its services.

Gwen considered the Core, as well as her Draconic-aide's words. Such a rare Core. Like a blood diamond too precious to sell on the cheap, too controversial to be put into a crown.

"Hmm, I have a good idea." Gwen thought aloud.

"No. That's not going to work. Suppose your Dryad makes use of the ley line. It will perish when she attempts to draw mana from the Core. Don't be daft, Gwen." Slylth appeared to think he knew her well enough to read her mind. In response, Gwen could only scoff at the young Dragon's naivety.

"Nothing like that," Gwen refuted Slylth's hypothesis. "What do you say to bartering this for a Lightning Dragon Core?"

Slylth's golden eyes blinked. "I am sorry?"

"Once we sanitise the insane Kirin," Gwen saw the possibility bloom in her mind like a flower. "What if I put it up for auction with Ruxin and the House of M?"

"There is no possibility that a similar tier of Dragon Core would exist in human hands," Slylth scoffed at her suggestion. "Our kind would hunt the offending party down and reduce their city to cinders, then find their associates, and reduce their cities to ash, then find…"

"Yes, alright, good." Gwen battered away the spluttering Dragon with a hand. "Listen up, Alex—Golos got his break from Illaelitharian. For that quest, we got the lead from Tyfanevius to go and save them. Do you get my drift? Quod erat demonstrandum, your old folks probably have access to a cache, one that could be up for some quid pro quo."

Slylth stared as her lips dropped names like bombs, his eyes suddenly wide with possibilities.

"Those are the holy relics of those who ascended into the Unformed Land!" The Red Dragon-kin protested. "They're sacred!"

"I am pretty sure most of the oldies perished before they managed to hit draconic Rapture," Gwen recalled her Master's notes on Dragons. "The Dragon Wars, you know? When the earth was young and all that, hundreds of thousands of Dragon-kind in every flavour, fighting for real estate on the Prime Material."

"No." The Red Dragon shook his head. "None would risk the anger and the admonition from Kin."

Twin streams of mocking air issued from her small pink nostrils.

"Should I ask your Mother for another opinion?" Gwen did not like the disagreeing Dragon as much as she enjoyed the company of the agreeable one. "Maybe mighty Sythinthimryr has a useless nephew with the right Elemental composition tucked away on a shelf…"

The young Dragon's protest lost some of its vigour. From his guileless face, Gwen guessed that, indeed, there probably were spare parts Sythinthimryr kept around for precisely that purpose. After all, as Golos demonstrated, Dragons grew stronger through age, dominion, and… usurpation. Sythinthimryr did not become the master of Carrauntoohil through a democratic election.

"Any who…" she turned her attention back to the Kirin Core just as another thought struck her. "May as well get this fire started while we discuss how to proceed."

Her mind was made up.

Gunther had told her that if these immortal being wanted to make use of her as a proxy, it was only right that she made demands that brought credit to the debt sheets. If the Dragons proved to be prudes, she could approach Sanari—or perhaps Solana herself, to make a case for exchanging this rare and unusual object for a lesser but more useful one.

For her Tryfan stay, she should also bring Slylth with her. The Dragon was here to see the world, and so long as he remained useful, she would satisfy his curiosities. Besides, the fellow had promised to teach her an improved variant of Morden's Blade free of charge, and she wasn't about to let that opportunity slip.

Besides her, the student of Morden produced a data-slate and a conjured stylus of fiery mana.

Gwen invoked the legacy her Master had left behind, felt the Void Mana in her veins turn her blood to ice, and raised a delicate, blue-burning hand.

Constrained by the power of a Citadel's Balefire Furnaces and magics Draconic and Human, the Kirin Core raged against its cage, howling at the Essence eroding power in the palm of its assailant.

"I don't know if this will hurt…" Gwen said to the Kirin Core, thinking of those its emergence would have consumed had it awoken in Tianjin. Among that number, or so Elvia had said, would have been her Uncle Jun, Ayxin's sanity, her unborn cousin, her grandparents, cousins and more.

Should she feel pity for this rare and ancient being?

Perhaps the old Gwen would have.

As for herself, she could only consider its release to be an act of undeserved mercy.