Metaworld Chronicles

Shalkar.

The Refugee Quarter.

Unlike her contemporaries, Mila Kuznetsova stepped not from the buttock-bruising interior of cargo carriages pulled by Centaur auxiliaries but from the second seat of her daughter’s towering Strider.

When the chicken-walker Golem haughtily lowered its carriage, the Magus Enchanter joined her husband in a daze, still struggling to comprehend the stories told by Petra.

Now standing in the external square set up to process the arrival of the refugees, she could see with her own eyes that Petra’s tall tales were neither fiction nor exaggeration—but understatements.

Nonetheless, her rational self struggled to process her lying vision of a city of improbabilities built in an impossible oasis. As a resident of Yekaterinburg, she knew very well that south of the Urals lay the unforgiving Black Zones of the Centaurs. Beginning at the foot of the Urals and ending against the coast of the Fire Sea, no humans could inhabit that landscape without becoming swallowed by sand, Centaurs and despair.

And yet, in their approach to the city, she saw tall canals of transmuted stone carrying vast quantities of unclouded water into vast kilometres of fields in verdant grids. Orchids, some with trees as tall as municipal buildings, reeled from the burden of fruit as large as a man’s head. Corn, maize, and multi-coloured grains grew in sizes that seemed to her mythical, lining the arteries into the city’s boundaries.

As for the city itself—she could see that much of it was under construction, with its skyline inundated by a forest of mechanical cranes. Closer to its walls, she saw more Golems than existed in the Motherland’s capital: walking, crawling, meandering and climbing in, out and atop the rapidly fabricating structures.

Among the city’s avenues, trees impossibly expansive and mature for the city’s age lined the sandstone pavements, providing shade to the resting labourers below. And among those labourers, she saw something even more incredible.

Rat-kin, untold numbers of them, wore the clothes of modern man and ran amok on errands beside their human counterparts. Near what looked like a sewerage construction, Rat-men in yellow hats lazed beside their human co-workers while a Dwarven Golem transmuted the basalt beneath into workable earth. A row of a hundred Rat-kins, joined by a Dwarf and a dozen humans, sat on an overarching steel beam overhead, eating sandwiches from tin lunch boxes.

Elsewhere, less laborious folk, possibly office workers on break, drank coffees on stone benches or discussed plans over cafe tables, with Rat-kin in collared polos speaking to Mages in Common while waving magical implements in the air.

To Mila, who had lived in the imperial capital of Moscow and then Yekaterinburg, Shalkar’s interior was an insane sight, something like a fevered picture book from her girlhood. Within the Federation, the Great Purges after the Great War had seen all Demi-humans, Dwarves included, exorcised from the nation’s holdings to ensure the purity of the national census. This extreme attitude toward Demi-humans was also the core reason the Federation saw itself as opposed to the Central Powers of Europe, particularly the Mageocracy.

Her husband whistled, choosing not to express his thoughts.

“… This is quite a city,” Mila managed to croak out words of praise for her daughter. “You say the Regent is only twenty-one? Has she had many experiences building cities and managing diplomatic ties?”

“She initiated, planned out and created the Isle of Dogs with Norfolks and the Dwarves back in London,” Petra replied. “Its strange, but Gwen’s education opportunities had never stopped her from successful ventures. For that, we can only chalk it up to her being a multi-disciplinary prodigy.”

“I see…” Mila wondered when they would finally meet this Demi-God figure her daughter is convinced to be the second coming of the Nazarene. So this whole city is driven by the cult personality surrounding the Void Mage? That, in itself, was a danger.

Around Mila, unlike herself, the other refugees from Yekaterinburg were displaying mixed feelings about the controlled chaos. Along the way, she had been keeping a close eye on her colleagues from her elevated Strider.

Initially, when they had only seen Rat-kin labourers working in the orchids and the fields beside the gigantic agricultural machinery, their eyes had been filled with wonder and anticipation. On the way to the city, even the Horse Lords looked upon Petra and Richard with respect, and even the Thunder Dragon, who had visited them thrice, seemed to hold a special deference for the two Human Mages.

However, When the refugees saw the armed Rat-men with shock wands and in the city’s guards' blue-white uniforms, their attitudes grew less passionate. To be told, admonished, and God-forbid, commanded by servile Demi-humans, was a step too far for the sons and daughters of the Federation.

Such was the sentiment when Mila’s fellow refugees finally realised that the Humans living in Shalkar were not masters but equals. She felt the cold arrogance typical of her origins taking root in their cold gazes, their minds actively seeking the bitter waters of anger and envy. Shalkar is a Human city, conceived and built by the hands of a Human being. Why were these animals enjoying the same rights as Humans? Why were the Demi-humans wearing the same clothes, eating the same food, and working in the same spaces as the Mages? They traded and trafficked in the Motherland with the Demi-humans, but the capital was a Human domain! None would eat, drink or pray with the creatures that once called the Oblasts home.

But what Mila feared more than anything was the prosperity of this developing city, its youth and seemingly unworried citizenry… She could sense the gears turning in the heads of men like Sergey. It was an awareness she had learned as a girl-child, for a young woman possessing extraordinary comeliness must mature quickly or lose themselves completely.

And now, she saw in the eyes of her fellows from Yekaterinburg the same gaze Petra used to receive outside her all-girls school in Moscow. That was partially why she had sent Petra into the Tower, where she had hoped that men with better designs had plans for Petra to achieve greater things.

And now, her daughter had achieved great things.

Amazing things.

Unbelievable things.

But these things are also fragile, and prone to theft.

“Halt! And Welcome!!” came a booming voice from above.

A piebald Rat-kin, the most human-like of its kind Mila had seen, emerged from the wall gates adjacent to the refugee’s temporary shelter spaces. What was more daunting than the aura of command and authority the Rat-kin possessed was his uniform—something of an Officer’s garb in solemn navy with flourishes of dark gold, accentuated by a pair of what had to be Spellswords.

When the Rat-kin hailed the Khan’s Cherbi, Mila felt a jolt of disbelief as it and the Horse Lord performed what could only be the Human social ritual known as the “high-five and low-five”, after which it leapt almost six meters onto a rogue sandstone platform to address his audience.

“REFUGEES from Yekaterinburg!” The Rat-kin spoke Common effortlessly. “Welcome to Shalkar Al-Jadeedah, the dual city of our Regent, Magister Gwen Song, and our allies, the Dwarven Masters of Mimm Agaeth Kjangtoth! Your journey has been long, though I hope it has been uneventful…”

Having known Strun’s history from Petra, Mila knew the pride of the Rat-kin was well-deserved. Still, she could clearly see the disbelief on the faces of some of her comrades, especially when the Rat-kin began to lecture the values of equality and fresh starts and the boons of a clean slate. More unsettlingly, Harpies with vibrant plumage took up the corners of the square, their exquisite faces making their unblinking observation all the more intimidating.

“…Here in Shalkar, you will be given two choices. If you have relatives, homes, or a place to accept your old citizenship, our Shalkar will provide the necessary resources to return to those places! However, like many refugees before you and many more after, should you find yourselves no longer possessing a home—know that Shalkar is a place of gainful employment! Our Pale Pri—REGENT will consider your talents once registered in the boarding camps. You will be given positions suitable to your ability! Ergo, present yourself earnestly! If you align with our Mission Statement, you will have a new home. A new life in the heart of the fastest-growing trade hub in the world! A new city to interlink Europe and Asia!”

To hear these words from the mouth of a Diviner Commissar’s mouthpiece would be completely within the expectations of men and women of the Federation. However, to hear those inspirational words erupt from the fanged maw of a talking rat—Mila bit her lips.

She stole a quick look at the group huddled around Lieutenant Colonel Sergey Ivanov, consisting of the surviving high command, the Commissariat, and members of the inner Politburo. The men did not speak, but their body language spoke of barely suppressed insurrection, as though they had just witnessed a tap-dancing dog reciting the Federation’s sacred manifesto.

However—Before Mila could decide to warn her daughter to moderate the Rat-kin’s proposal, the ground began to shake.

As the refugees toppled and fell, an enormous concavity opened beneath Strun, revealing a creature's rotating maw so large and hideous that Mila’s chest constricted out of fear and disgust.

Like a living nightmare, a skyscraper sprouted until it towered above the new arrivals, while on its head stood the uniformed Rat-kin with its furry, piebald face, its arms crossed with oppressive authority.

“Newcomers, allow me to leave you with a final lesson,” the Rat-kin’s voice echoed across the courtyard. “Life is harsh in the Steppes, but it is fair. New friends and family of Shalkar Al-Jadeedah, remember this, and you shall prosper.”

While the refugees stared, the sandworm retreated into the earth with the Rat-kin, leaving no trace of its passage.

Heart-in-throat, Mila turned to her child.

“P-Petra.” She could hardly keep her heart from leaping at her throat. Such was the recollection of this all-consuming sandworm. Such was the intangible aura it sowed of death and destruction. “Where do we get registered?”

“Oh.” Petra took her hand. “No need. Richard will arrange an interviewer, so relax until after…”

Mila’s pale eyes scanned the milling, terrified refugees. Reluctantly, Sergey and his ilk were filing into line.

“…After lunch.” Petra’s laughter made her all the more flustered. “Come, Mama. You won’t believe what the Dwarves can brew with potatoes!”

“Name?”

Alexander “Fish” Fishenko, volunteering his free weekend to accrue Contribution Credits, gazed up at a face he recalled quite vividly. In truth, he wasn’t here for the credits; he was here to see who had survived Yekaterinburg to collect the necessary information to execute his plans.

The “refugee” in front of him was Lieutenant Colonel Sergey Ivanov, the eldest son of General Ivanov of Moscow Tower, one of the nation's rising stars—at least until his jurisdiction fell suddenly to ruin.

“Ivanov, Sergey,” the Colonel did not recognise him, which was within Fish’s expectations. He was just a teenage trainee at the Tower when they were visited by the then Captain Ivanov and his father, an utterly unassuming cadet undergoing the trials to become an agent of the Federation.

“What was your employment, Mister Ivanov?” Fish feigned disinterest, watching the man’s lips twitch, hovering his pen over the forms like a bored bureaucrat.

“Military.” Ivanov gestured to his lapels. “My rank is Lieutenant Colonel. I was one of the COs in command of Yekaterinburg’s garrison and commander of its Mage Flights. In Moscow Tower, I would hold the rank of Magister.”

Fish’s pen paused. He made sure to look shocked, just as those around him also stopped their processing to regard the Lt Colonel. For the old families of the Federation, such ranks were half merit, half nepotism, so officers who hadn’t survived a few Purges and a dozen wars were rarely taken seriously. Nonetheless, the title was impressive in Shalkar, where the only senior military advisors were Militants returning to pad their retirement funds.

“Do I have to repeat myself, Mister Fishenko?” Ivanov read Fish’s name tag.

“No, Sir.” Fish lowered his voice. “Sir, I cannot process someone of your rank and abilities. May I escort you to my supervisors?”

“You may.” The Lt Colonel finally seemed pleased by Fish’s deference. “Do it now.”

“Yessir!” Fish meekly signed and filled in the forms for the Colonel, pushed back his seat, and then guided the man down the corridor meant for unexpected VIPs. Along the way, a few checkpoints with Rat-kin NCOs questioned Fish’s intentions but lacked the authority to make the correct judgement. In this manner, with only minor impediments, they made their way toward the Central Security building. Subtly, Fish slowed his step until he was almost in lockstep with his superior.

“You are from Moscow, Sir?” he asked.

“I am.” Ivanov’s tone soured further. Perhaps the man was expecting fanfare and a red carpet—but Commander Strun had been very clear on the deliberate treatment of the refugees to foster upon them the reality of Shalkar’s aid as practical rather than charitable. “Your last name is not uncommon in the Motherland. Which Oblast do you hail from, Mister Fishenko…”

“I am a London boy, second generation.” Fish laughed, his accent true to his lies. “Is Moscow as cold as it is grand? My mother used to say there are countless pigeons in the city. Pigeons that do not fear the cold and forage for the smallest seed.”

“Nothing survives our winters.” Ivanov did not appear to notice the code for several seconds. Then he did, and their lockstep fell into disarray for several meters. “Your… mother’s memory must be muddled. How long has it been since she saw a Moscow winter?”

“Fourteen years since she last saw the Festival. She missed it dearly, though she is gone now.” Fish answered.

“I am sorry to hear that.” Ivanov’s face lost its flush as quickly as it had come on. “Do you still speak the Mother tongue, Fishenko?”

“Not since my mother passed,” Fish replied, completing the code. “I don’t remember enough of it to speak fluently.”

Ivanov patted him on the shoulder.

Further ahead, the towering basalt exterior of Central Security loomed above them. Fish made his case to the Centaurs guarding the entrance, who then moved aside to allow them entry into the building’s interior. Within, the central complex was still a mess of construction habited by Dwarves in Golem Suits working alongside uniformed human Mages, transmuting Enchantments and other magics into the building that would service the city’s policing needs. An aide guided the two through the foyer, passing an enormous, multi-level, open-plan office before they finally arrived at a set of double oak doors sitting flush upon gleaming guide rails.

The doors slid open, revealing the interior of yet another office space surrounded by filing cabinets and workstations, positioned in a semi-circle toward an enormous desk fit for an Ogre-sized humanoid.

Fish could guess who would be sitting behind that enormous table and also knew from rumours that the “thundering” leader of the Security Bureau usually roosted atop the Bunker at the city’s highest vantage point and not deep within the belly of its paperwork-laden warrens.

What instead caught his attention was the strange sight of a young man with flaming hair loitering around the record cabinets, flipping through data slates and files, mumbling to himself.

Unfortunately, his attention was diverted by another. Accosting the pair, the unassuming clerk exchanged forms with Fishenko and directed them toward the central desk.

“Colonel!” A voice called out from the oversized desk’s right, in a sunken pit that created a little private space of its own. “I had expected to see you here sooner. Did you actually line up with the proletariat? I am impressed that you’ve taken the values of our home to heart!"

Fishenko recognised the voice as belonging to one of the city’s most infamous administrators, the always smiling Master Richard Huang, cousin to the Regent, and by reputation someone far more unpredictable than a life-devouring Void Witch.

Behind the Water Mage floated his Spirit, the equally infamous Undine worshipped by the Rat-kin, an integral member of the city’s agricultural efforts.

“Magus Huang.” Ivanov lowered his chin in a mock bow. “I had expected that you would be here as well, though I had hoped we could speak more personally sooner.”

“Mister Fishenko, you may return to your duties.” The city’s administrator waved Fish goodbye. “I’ll take Ivan through the hoops. I hope you’ll stay, Colonel. We could use men like you in the days to come.”

“Shalkar is a majestic city, Magus Huang.” Ivanov gave Fish a nod, bidding him to leave. “May I sit? There is much to discuss. And I doubt that I shall remain a Lt Colonel after Yekaterinburg, so please address me informally.”

“Very well, Sergey.” The Water Mage produced two crystal glasses and a bottle inscribed with Dwarven Runes, his voice fading as Fish retreated. “I am glad you’ve come around. Come, sit. Let us discuss how we can put your talents to gainful employment…”

As Fish tidied his thoughts for future endeavours with Magister Ivanov, his mind naturally drifted toward an important question.

Where was their neglectful Regent, and what could she be up to?

Singapore Strait.

The island informally known as Abang.

Gwen Song, the Regent of Shalkar, had yet to return to her abode, for the Regent was confident that the regents she had left in charge would not burn her shinning city to the ground.

Her final errand was both bitter and sweet, for after leaving behind the Mermen Shoal, she had to fly a day and night southward to arrive at the epicentre of her past life—the island housing Henry and his ever-watching guardian.

With the Omni Orb, there was no waste in the time it took for her to locate Sufina’s grot, well disguised among the hundreds of islands with their man-eating ecosystems, deep within the reclassified Black Zone beyond the Batam Shielding Stations.

Gingerly, Gwen landed on the canopy, then levitated her way into the thick jungle until the entrance to the past was once more visible. Sensing her presence, the trees bowed, parting like an Elven Trellis Gate while laying down a soft carpet of ferns.

Since her last visit, the stakeholders have been consulted, permissions have been given, and the groundwork has been prepared. The timing of the promise was still a little premature, but the necessity of gaining Sufina’s aid grew with the size of her city. The construction of Shielding Stations within Shalkar would not be logistically feasible thanks to its many species of residents, implying a need for contingencies not padded with the corpses of her Militia.

“Sufi, I am home.” Gwen felt the fabric of reality distend and snap into place as her body penetrated the meniscus of reality into the Grot’s interior. As she made her way inside, the quasi-magical maze undid its twists and knots, robbing her of the opportunity to rethink her choices.

Barely a hundred meters in, she found Sufina exactly as she had left her, half lounged over the eternally preserved body of her Master, her doll-like body groggy with sleep.

“Welcome back, daughter.” Sufina’s bedroom voice was familiar and comforting. “Did you miss your mother and father while you were carving up the world?”

Gwen laughed out of habit. Moving closer to the casket, she ran a finger gently across the dustless facade of the living tomb housing Henry’s body. With each step, invisible weights piled upon her heart. She had thought the grief had passed and that she had moved on—but like the stasis of her Master’s body, the renewed woe assailing her organs spoke loudly of her failed catharsis.

There would only be one form of release, she suspected.

She had to find Sobel…

“You’ve grown more beautiful, though I do prefer your younger self,” Sufina interrupted her thoughts. “Have you a boyfriend yet? Or a girlfriend?”

“I’ve got better.” Gwen felt soothed by Sufina’s roleplaying. “I’ve got a city of my own.”

“I see. A very large possession to fill a very large void. How Gwen of you.” Sufina slowly rose from the casket. Embedded in place of where a heart should be, Gwen could see the tendrils entwined around Almudj’s Scale. “It took Henry far longer than yourself to acquire his first domain. He would be proud to know you’ve taken up his mantle.”

“Well, it's not exactly by choice. Did you know Spectre has set half the world on fire and drowned the other half?” Gwen sat beside the Dryad. Drowned by nostalgia, she held the creature’s wooden hands in her lap while waiting for her emotions to find their place. “I also had a run-in with Sobel. This time, face-to-face.”

“What has happened?” Sufina wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “You can confide in me.”

Gwen sighed as she gathered her thoughts. With as much rationality as she could muster, she relayed the sundering of Tianjin with Elvia and Percy’s involvement. When she finished, even Sufina’s false breasts were heaving with simulated emotion.

“… I am very sorry, daughter.” Sufina’s reward was a mugful of her Golden Mead, which Gwen part took with more recollection than effect. “Your brother has grown to be such a coil of poisonous ivy. I am just glad your Sobel isn’t Elvia. You were close, correct? But not that close. Maybe this is an opportunity. You can both clarify your feelings while you hunt Percy down. Until he’s dealt with, it doesn’t sound like you’ll be able to sit together in the same room for long.”

Gwen didn’t know what to say. In moments like these, she was reminded that The Dryad was simulating human emotions through Henry’s Empathic Link.

“Well, you’ve come to me for a reason.” The Dryad moved on. “For what it’s worth, I am here. How can I help our Henry’s child?”

“Sufi.” Gwen accepted that now was the time to make her case. “Shalkar is almost ready to receive you. I’ve consulted both the Dwarves, Elves and Almudj. There will be oppositions, but not enough to prevent what we have planned.”

“Truly?” Sufina’s expression was one of surprise. “So… soon?”

With more ease than she had anticipated, Gwen pushed away her feelings, leaving behind the cold logic of reason. “Now is an opportunity, I think, to capitalise on the distractions occupying the old stakeholders of the world. While there's famine, trade disruptions, regional wars and civil strife… We can begin to nurture our World Tree by taking advantage of this crisis. Once established, so long as Shalkar remains central to trade, no particular power broker will be able to spare resources to deal with us—”

“I see.” The Dryad pondered her words.

Gwen waited with patience. The original proposal came from the Dryad. If Sufina no longer wished to be a part of it, she would find another partner.

Sufina’s affirmation came a split-second later.

Slowly, with the delicacy of a surgeon, the Dryad raised a hand toward her heart, where slow sprouting tendrils wrapped around Almudj’s Scale until finally, something akin to a seed pod the size of a coconut migrated into the palm of her hand.

Fighting the shock of their suddenly evolving circumstance, Gwen fumbled with her clothing until she produced the Drudic Satchel, her evergreen storage for magical plants.

Sufina moaned. Her wooden exterior audibly groaned as its fibres struggled to revitalise the damage caused by the visible exhaustion. The jade leaves overhead abruptly changed to autumn—sending a swirl of flaming leaves to turn the summer grot into an amber room.

Then, just as quickly, those same leaves lost their vibrancy, embracing rot and decay before landing on the dry moss floor.

As one sensitive to life and vitality, Gwen felt the grot’s waning life force. The Essence in her conduits raced, stimulated by the enormous volumes of living mana stowed within the seed pod housing Almudj’s scale, resonating with the endearing energies contained therein.

When Sufina looked up again, her youthful mien was marked by old bark. The only thing that remained unchanged was Henry’s casket and its precious cargo.

With reverence and care, Gwen slipped the seedpod into her Ilias Leaf, where the powers of a true World Tree would nurture the immense Essences stowed within both scale and seed.

“Sufi…”

“It will pass,” the Dryad assured her. “I’ll manage.”

“This seed…”

“Place the seed where you wish the new tree to tap into the ley-line. Water it with Essence from the Old One.” Sufina’s voice was no longer echoing throughout the grot. They now spoke face to face through her mock vocal cords.

“What will happen to this place?” Gwen touched a hand to the casket. “Will it be moved?”

The Dryad shook her head. “I will remain here, but the better part of me will be reborn in Shalkar.”

“You’re not… coming?” Gwen struggled to understand the revelation. “We can move Master’s body, surely?”

“I shall be with you… but not exactly as I am,” Sufina’s voice regained some of her vitality. The bark peeled away, revealing new, greener growth. “Here is our tomb, daughter. The part of me that was Henry’s will remain here. It’s where Henry found me, where I had taken root—To leave this place, this grot—would cost… more than I am willing to give.”

Gwen fell silent.

She didn’t like leaving her Master’s legacy on an unknown island off the Singapore Strait, but she could respect the Dryad’s sentiment. Where else had she seen such a display of fierce, selfless loyalty? Of devotion so wholesomely disturbing that it would span the stretch of knowable eternity?

She thought of Elvia… but found only the face of Percy’s grimacing growl.

“Fret not.” Sufina’s bell-like laughter lightened the mood. “There will be a connection when the new tree is strong enough. My two selves will find each other through the immaterial world, and there will be a path. Henry will slumber here with me, and we will watch over you and your shinning city together.”

Gwen slipped the Ilias Leaf back into the pouch sewn into her outfit’s interior. Nestled within the astral space of the leaf, there was no bulge to prove the presence of her cargo. Yet, she felt the radiance of her first gift from Almudj, and now Sufina, as poignantly as a piece of her flesh.

“Thank you, Sufi,” she spoke from the deepest recesses of her heart, her voice a living thing escaping from her contorted diaphragm. “For everything.”

Sufina leaned forward, touching her forehead to Gwen’s.

Gwen understood that there was nothing more to be said.

Woman and Dryad sat side by side against the morbid bed of their slumbering father, mentor and teacher, savouring snippets of memories from a simpler time. When their mutual recollections concluded, one would leave for the future—and the other shall entomb the past.