Metaworld Chronicles

Spring swept into Shalkar.

The region’s renewal was far from natural, as per the change of seasons. It was a compelled rejuvenation spurred by the will of beings beyond the comprehension of Shalkar’s surviving citizens.

Only a day ago, the autumn harvest had been in full swing, with Rats and men both, together with the aid of Combi-Golems, ploughing through endless fields of grain and canola as elsewhere, nimble fawns and mares of the Centaur tribe plucked figs and finger limes from bowers bent with fruit.

Then, across one devastating afternoon, Shalkar’s once lush and vibrant fields were mercilessly bombarded by orbs of meteoric magma, transforming the city’s surroundings into a desolate simulacrum of the Elemental Plane of Fire.

Yet twenty-four hours later, inexplicably, sheltered by the shade of a gargantuan Banyan Tree, sprouts of lush grass broke through the tortured soil, spreading so fast and vast that the city’s observers could not even dry their tears before all they beheld from the city’s ramparts transformed into greenery.

For those at the zenith of the World Tree, they knew it to be the blessing of Elven Druids with many millennia of experience, borrowing vitality from an immeasurably older source to transform the homestead of their newest sapling.

For the hopeful mortals below, they understood this miracle only as a mechanism of their Regent’s promise of paradise, a new city watched over by a tree so vast that its expanse exhausted their limited comprehension of arboreal dimensions.

And among the general chaos, Gwen Song, Regent of Shalkar, descended as a floating flower, her floral attire fluttering in the Astral Winds of distorted space swirling around Sufina’s trunk. As a pillar of the Axis Mundi, the tree’s presence bound the barrier between the material and immaterial. All of which were shunted into balance by its patron, a Serpent born from the Navel of the World.

The descent was not long, but it did give Gwen time to think.

A woman.

A tree.

A snake.

The tripartite principle of the Axis Mundi wormed its way through Gwen’s frontal lobe as she took in the full scope of what The Regent of Shalkar had sought to accomplish—and now achieved. Unlike Tryfan, the occupational assignments of her World Tree were more vague, for Sulfina was both Tree and Woman, while she was both Snake and Lady, and Almudj was older than Dragons. Was this what Tryfan had considered? Or were her circumstances more unique?

As she entered the middle canopy, a meek cry of “Ee-ee—!” resounded within her Astral Mind, its Empathic Link vibrating against her skull like a purring cat.

Gwen paused her descent. The space where they now passed was rich with motes of Elemental Lightning. Such pockets, Gwen suspected, were temporary until Sufina regained her faculties, at least enough to partition the World Tree’s access to the various Elemental Planes into proper faculties of Elemental Magic.

“EE-ee!” Her creature clawed its way from the Pocket Space of her Astral Body with a flourish. “EE-EE!”

Gwen couldn’t resist but pull her miniature Kirin into a hearty embrace, driving her face against the fluffy, scale-pattered fur that made up its mane.

“Alright, here’s your reward.” She materialised the Kirin Core from its pouch. Unlike the Ashen Queen’s crystal, the Lightning Core was a pale yellow stone with jagged dimensions, radiating a palpable nimbus of Elemental Lightning.

Once upon a time, the noble Kirin within would have lit up like a thundercloud and sought to strike her down for the insolence of observing its secrets. However, the prideful creature was long eroded by its years of imprisonment as a Draconic keepsake. In its present form, the Core was a mere memento of the continental conflicts fought by mystic creatures.

Her Familiar set the surrounding mana ablaze, growing its body until it stood heads and shoulders above Gwen. Ariel unhinged its jaws and swallowed the Core wholesale in a serpentine likeness, forcing the crystal into its furnace-like gullet.

“Such a greedy gut!” Gwen exclaimed while massaging the Kirin’s furry jowl. “You’re not going to get indigestion, I hope.”

Her Familiar did not remark further but lay down on the trunk like a cat at midday. In her mouth, she tasted the coppery energies circulating through Ariel, communicating its fatigue and a desire to sleep.

“Ee-ee…” her creature purred, coiling around itself with its fan-like tail.

“Very well, then,” she leaned in and kissed her furry monster on the forehead. “I’ll see you once you’re done, bud.” She wasn’t sure how long Ariel’s evolution would take, but it was just as well. Her next stop was with Lei-bup’s folk, and electrical creatures had limited viability in the underwater realm.

Within her Astral Body, the imposing shadow of Caliban stirred.

“You want to guard your friend?” She answered her Familiar. “But this isn’t a good place for you, Cali. You don’t agree with the Lightning.”

A faint protest of Shaa-Shaa— echoed through her mind, gradually growing silent until it was once more dormant.

“Don’t worry, you’ll see Ariel soon,” Gwen promised her slithering partner. Leaving her Kirin to mature, she stepped from the bower to resume her descent. With her Divination senses from training in Lightning and Force-based magic, she could perceive the germination of small Pocket Spaces where her World Tree tethered the Prime Material, evidence of why Tryfan had been an amalgamation of worlds within worlds.

The maturation of these “spatial” pockets, Gwen sensed, would take weeks and years—giving her a gradual release of real estate for the Mageocracy’s elites. What was additionally interesting to her was the lack of uniformity in the tree’s spatial fruits—with some as generous oval Planes and others as a string of spaces, like pods from a plantain bud. From what Sanari had said, there was even the possibility of the World Tree picking up fragments of drifting Pocket Dimensions from the Far Realms—creating the unusual prospect of “Dungeons” for the tree’s inhabitants.

But that would be a concern for another time.

Now, she must meet the men and women who had kept her city intact and offer them her most sincere thanks.

Without a Tower, Shalkar did not possess the means to teleport its select members to their desired destination.

Therefore, like a peasant, the Regent of Shalkar had to translocate herself in the general direction of the fallen Yekaterinburg until she came within view of the carnage that had reset her city.

Immediately, a travesty came into view.

“Garp! Oh my god—you poor thing…” Gwen felt her heart rend in two as the unmistakable body of Garp, her Afaa Al-Halak, enormous as a sand hill, lay writhing in the rapidly regrowing landscape. In its critically injured state, her Worm was surrounded by well-meaning members of Strun’s crew who serviced the divine beast, all covered in soot, blood and wormy excretions, prying off parts of burnt flesh so that new scales could grow.

As she landed, the hundreds of Rat-kin around the worm fell to their knees in fervent prayer, with a brave few skulking forth to kiss the hems of her floral-scented dress.

Gwen dismissed them, not wishing to be stern to her citizens, and directly proceeded to the part of Garp attempting to regrow the better part of a head.

“I am so sorry, buddy…” Gwen did not mind the gory gloop soaking the sleeves of her priceless Elven dress as she attempted to transfer renewing vitality into the worm. Curiously, when she tapped into the wellspring of her being—she found not only the swirling energies of Almudj, which felt like a hot summer’s day in the Outback, but something new and unexpected.

Another source of vitality had engendered, a golden presence as intimately known to her as her closest memories of Henry.

“Sufi—?” She couldn’t help but pronounce the sentiment out of reflex. She knew the golden presence, for it possessed the warmth and scent of honeyed mead tied to an elixir she had drank daily while training.

She called to it, but no voice, thought, or sentiment answered. Yet, the vital forces willingly rushed through her conduits into the Soul-Linked connection that tethered the Sand Worm to herself.

It was a drop—barely a notable plink in the scope of what Garp required to heal itself, but it was there, and it had opened Gwen’s mind to a new understanding of her position as the Priestess of the World Tree.

Such was the boon for one who sat at the branches of the Axis Mundi, a privilege which placed the Bloom in White above even her ageless brethren.

For a minute and more, Gwen stood shaken, impressed and horrified by the prospect of her new evolutionary existence. In a manner that, perhaps, only the likes of Sythinthimryr, Slylth and Golos could comprehend, she understood that her lifespan now existed outside of mortal frameworks. of time.

She was tied to the World Tree.

The World Tree was tied to the Prime Material.

Both ran parallel to the paradigm of the great river of time, forwardly flowing into the future, knowing no extinction until the world itself extinguished.

Gwen felt her world turn head to heel.

She felt the rotation of the planet—though only figuratively.

Then she was back in her body—a body that was still arguably mortal against the usual maladies of injury and harm.

“Pale Priestess—!”

“Great Goddess—!”

“Priestess of the Pale Flower!”

The worshipful Rat-kins’ muttering murmurs made her skin crawl—suddenly, their expressions were no longer ridiculous enough to be passed off as jovial.

Besides her, the oozing body of Garp shuddered.

Gwen dodged as the worm rolled, uprooting the new plants to expose the glassy sand below. With each vibration, the worm sank, half-submerging itself to draw mana from the golden grains hidden beneath the surface's devastation. The Rat-kin also scattered in every direction, for the frequency in which the Sandworm vibrated could easily tear apart anything stubbornly clinging to its overlapping micro-scales.

Wincing, Gwen welcomed the painful abrasion on her arms, where her swollen flesh visibly mended, and the dress regrew its torn fibres.

The Rat-kin whispered furiously among themselves.

Feeling burdened, she materialised a cache of SPAM as a reward for the Rat-kin, then lifted herself back into the air.

A fair distance away, perhaps watching her performance, the fallen Tower still smouldered while the thumbnail-sized silhouettes in the air indicated the whereabouts of her Officer Corp.

Not wanting to force her allies to move to greet her, she Dimension Doored the last few kilometres to appear at eye-level in the spot where they discussed how to proceed with Shalkar’s latest acquisition.

“Regent—“ The men, women and Dragons gathered above the half-sunk carcass bowed their heads, some more genuinely than others.

Gwen scanned the crew she had brought into the desert to build her shining city on the hill.

The most notable individual was Richard, who was spotless in his blue-grey uniform designed for Shalkar’s militia. Richard wore his quiet smile like a mask, though she could sense the energies of excitement and expectation radiation from her cousin like Gunther’s aura.

Compared to Richard, the palpable pride of Golos, her long-time companion since Nagaland, could barely be hidden. With his feathers fluffed and blue-white arcs of electricity sparking off his wing tips, the dusty Thunder Dragon looked worse for wear but also more puffed than a peacock.

Hovering behind her family members was their Marshal's guilty, downcast body, unable to meet her eyes because of the misunderstood expectation of perfection. Gwen wanted to reach out and pull her friend into a long, comforting hug—but now wasn’t the time, for she had another partner to greet, one whose contribution was undeniable.

“Slylth.” Gwen drifted closer, her heart hot with gooey gladness.

“Gwen.” The Red Dragon stood proud, as he should.

Watching the Dragon’s polymorphed face, she felt an impulse driven by thankfulness and happiness.

In front of her was a young Dragon who had saved her investment, friends, and family.

And undeniably, prevented a million of her citizens from being homeless in a desert.

Thinking of her savings, Gwen’s chest swelled with a strange exultation. Though Slylth Alexander Morden extended a hand to be shaken, she pulled the young man close, wrapped her arm around his broad shoulders, and brought his frozen face beside hers.

Then, in an act she herself had not premeditated, she kissed the Red Dragon, planting her petal lips squarely on the man’s dry and dusty mouth before delivering a comparatively forgettable “Thank You.”

When finally the pair parted, Gwen felt suddenly flushed and hot, a fact reflected by the pink tinge that had snuck onto the floral blooms of her dress.

As for the Red Dragon, Slylth Alexander Morden fell six inches before his magic caught himself.

“Wow,” Richard remarked with a whistle. “That’s never happened before…”

Lulan looked thunderstruck, as did Golos.

“Well.” Gwen collected herself. “It’s not every day that someone lands a Meteor on a Tower and saves a city… leaving us with half a Tower…”

Seeing as no one answered her, the foursome waited while the Red Dragon thawed.

“Umm…” Slylth mumbled something under his breath. “Gwen, did you meet my mother?”

“I did.” Gwen thought of the regal shape sitting in her Sky Garden. “She’s very nice.”

“She is?” The juvenile Red Dragon was doing his best not to turn completely red. “I… er… I’ll go see her now.”

“Sure.” Gwen embraced the mirthful vision of her flustered junior Magi Morden. “We’ll be here when you return.”

Red Dragons were not known for their speed, so their companion was gone only after a length invocation sequence for Teleport, which Slylth fumbled twice.

“Well, that was cute.” Richard redirected her attention downward. “Perhaps now, you could address your Paladins?”

Gwen scoffed at her cousin’s hyperbole but was again reminded of what she had learned only moments prior. Indeed, below them and waiting patiently were the armoured bodies of her Rat-kin Exterminators, the “Honour Guard” which Strun had assembled in the likeness of the Khan’s Khesig.

She descended again, more conscious now of her floral divinity. Originally, the showmanship was designed to impress her audience of peers and the Press of the Mageocracy’s various outlets. In her present state, the living dress and its winking blossoms seemed very much on the nose, delivering a likeness she had not intended.

On the upward portion of the fallen tower, the surviving dozens of her Exterminators presented her with a mound of Undead trophies in the form of a skull pyramid a dozen stacks deep.

“My Regent—!” Strun knelt on one knee. “We have captured the Tower. As we speak, our Shadow-kins are Purging its internals of Undead filth.”

“BLOOD FOR THE PALE PRIESTESS!” The voices called out as one.

“Thank you, Strun, everyone,” she bid the rest to stand. “You have made me happy and proud, though I mourn those lost in the fray. Rest assured, my Rat-kin, your sacrifices will be remembered by all, not just me, but by the city and every generation thereafter.”

“Your words are too kind,” Strun stood after Gwen reinforced her will with a stern glare. “This is our willing service, Pale… Regent.”

Gwen sighed. “It’s alright, Strun. I know what you mean.”

The rest of the rats stood, their expressions impossible to read beneath the geometric plates of their sealed visor. Standing beside their gory edifice, it was only now that Gwen noted just how monstrously intimidating her Exterminators appeared.

“Mistress, we will require aid from the Bunker, particularly Sir Slylth and Magus Kuznetsova.” The Rat-kin fell into step beside her as Gwen walked around the armoured rats, examining their injuries while also taking in the gravity of the surreal reality that she had captured the larger half of a Tower. “There are many areas sealed by complex Mandalas in Pocket Spaces. We cannot brute-force the defensive wards for fear of destroying their storage.”

Gwen was more surprised that the destroyed Tower had so many redundancy systems. If so, Strung’s concern was good news. Very good news.

“Fret not, Strun,” she reached out and patted the Rat-kin’s flickering ears. “Come home now, and I shall show you the World Tree. You and your kin who are Soul-touched shall be its Guardians.”

DING! Before her “Paladin” could respond, an urgent Message turned her pale florets a bright crimson. Even as a goddess, there were limitations to the downtime her Divination Tower was willing to dispense before enquiries flooded in.

“Regent,” the voice of a senior aide came through the vox Glyph. “Lord Gunther’s party has returned to the Bunker. They’re seeking an audience with yourself and the Duke of Norfolk.”

Oof. Gwen felt the weight of their presence like an Atlas Stone. With an audience like that, some heavy-handed decisions would soon land in her lap.

“Very well,” she returned the Message. “Inform milords that I shall be with them shortly.”

“Yes. Regent!” The affirmation came, and the spell winked out.

Gwen studied her companions, realising with dismay that the only one capable of Teleport had already escaped.

“Once you get that thing up and running.” Richard cheekily struck a thumb toward the smouldering monolith below. “You can Teleport all you want anywhere around town.”

“That’s the plan,” Gwen strongly affirmed Richard’s projections of Shalkar’s next HDM-burning project. Unlike the Tree, this would not be a profitable venture for some time, but it was a necessary next step to ensure that a similar assault never occurred again.

Shalkar.

The Bunker.

Though she would have preferred to shed her stage makeup, the Regent valued the Tower Master and Duke's time more than the embarrassment of wearing a floral frock to a wartime meeting.

However, once reunited with her siblings, all thoughts of vanity vanished, and she found herself embraced in the fierce clasp of Yue and Alesia’s arms.

“Thank you all so much,” Gwen felt her role as Regent diminished by her role as a member of their extended family. “I don’t even know where to begin…”

“We didn’t do much. I am serious.” Gunther laughed. The Tower Master instinctively moved to give her a brotherly pat between her shoulder blades. “Besides, I came here precisely to give you a hand. If there’s someone you truly owe your thanks, it’s the Duke.”

Gwen parted from the women, straightened her dress, then bowed her head at the gaunt, severe figure of the Duke of Norfolk and her smiling daughter, Charlene Ravenport.

“If Lord Gunther says it, I will not deny it,” Mycroft Ravenport’s acute arrogance felt softer in the presence of her Brother-in-craft’s subduing radiance. “After all, I was merely a guest here. I have no obligations to help our Regent’s autonomous region, but I decided against inaction regardless.”

“Father!” Charlene appeared scandalised. “That’s not what we discussed!”

“But it’s true.” The old Duke, whose nose gave him a hawk-like visage, chuckled at Gwen’s expense. “Do you deny it, Regent?”

“I am very glad you chose to spare a smidgen of your limitless power.” Gwen bowed again, this time with a mocking curtsy. “Let us not consider that the Norfolk Fund has somewhere north of thirty million HDMs worth of stock held in the IoDNC’s Shalkar investments or that Charlene is a Senior Director of Operations for the city. That would just be ungrateful.”

“It would be.” Mycroft’s expression did not change. The Duke, Gwen garnered, possessed skin as thick as Burke’s Peerage. “Charlene manages the fund. My hands are clean of the matter.”

As if to punctuate the fact, the Duke drew a faint gesture in the air.

A second later, a spectral Raven materialised from the aether to land on his shoulder.

A thin Duke with an obsidian Raven, wearing all blacks. Gwen drank in the aesthetic of House Ravenport. How Edgar Allen Poe.

“A little bird told me,” the Duke said, his grey eyes twinkling. “You’ve given the Dragons an abode atop your new World Tree.”

Gwen glared at the Raven.

With a “Caw—!” the bird flew from the Duke to land on her bare shoulders, its claws scribbling for grip as they dug into her collarbone. “Caw—caw—!”

Reading the bird as she had often done in London, Gwen synthesised a dose of her new Essence.

“CAW—CAW—!” The Raven sipped in ecstasy, then began to furiously rub its head against the side of her cheek in a sycophantic display.

“Mori, return,” the Duke barked, clearly entered by the excessive avian affection.

“Caw—!” The Raven protested, then took off into the distance of the Bunker’s spacious atrium.

“Oh dear…” Charlene gave Gwen a troubled look. “Oh… dear…”

The Duke coughed to compose himself. “Regent, as I was saying. The Dragons have their abodes at the top of the World Tree, do they not?”

“Their children do.” Gwen decided to trouble the Duke no further. So far, Golos, Ruxin, and Slylth have all confirmed to occupy the upper canopy. “The Frost Wyrm has no children or emissaries, but we can speak to them through Tryfan. As for our Elven friends, I think Sanari is the best we’ll manage.”

“Then, in our capacity as the Lord Marshal of her Majesty’s Men at Arms, I would like to request an adjacent… space,” Mycroft cut straight to the chase, perhaps so that he could chase down his bird after. “What say you, Regent? It will be a branch office of the Department of Foreign Affairs, a liaison office, especially in service to our close allies in Tryfan and with the Red Queen.”

“I am not a hundred per cent sure how the canopy’s pocket spaces will mature, but I think we can spare that,” Gwen said. She saw no reason to refuse the Duke. In the future, she would also need to deal with the Mageocracy at home, and a branch office made negotiations easier to transmute than pulling strings back in London. “Consider it done as payment for your recent magnanimity.”

Mycroft tapped his daughter’s shoulder with his stave’s pommel. “Do you see this shamelessness, Charlene? That’s what you need and lack right now.”

“Hey!” Yue protested up instantly. “That’s our Regent!”

“Oi!” Alesia also spoke up in her defence.

Quickly, Gunther redirected his wife and her Apprentice elsewhere so that Gwen could close her deal and call it a day.

“Ah, the liberty of the Frontiers…” The Duke sighed. “Onto our next matter. Lord Shultz, may I request your presence as well?”

Gunther returned to the circle. “I am here.”

“Good.” Mycroft gestured for Gwen to come closer before weaving some form of aural shelter into place. “Regent, you now possess the better half of a Tower. Yekaterinburg isn’t the latest, but its Magi has maintained it like an only child. My question is, do you intend to keep it?”

“I do,” Gwen answered. “We’ll salvage what we can of its inventory. Most importantly, we need to use the superstructure. I intend to repair that and pair it with my… systems.”

“That’s a good cost-saving measure,” Gunther nodded sagely, likely considering the cost of re-constructing Sydney’s Tower. “You’re missing a Core, though. I shot the old one, remember? It's irreparable. A Tower the size of Yekaterinburg will need a significant Core as a replacement.”

“I know. But you never know if one may fall into my lap.” Gwen winked at the two older men. “Do we have any particular requirements?”

“Size and density matters the most,” Gunther informed her. “Element-wise, Prime Elements are what you need, as they’re the most plentiful when drawn from the ley.”

“But that’s not why we want to speak to you,” Ravenport interrupted their sibling’s banter. “Lord Shultz, shall I inform her or yourself?”

“You’re the better-equipped advisor by far,” Gunther conceded his position to the Duke.

“Regent,” Mycroft did not deny it. “I know you’re keen on the Tower, but it does come with many caveats. Are you aware of them?”

“Cost, damage, repair and certification?” Gwen answered with all she knew. “And politics, once we throw our weight around…”

“That’s correct and naive, but no,” Mycroft’s grey eyes were like steel. “Who do you think this carcass of a Tower belongs to?”

“Me?” Gwen answered. “It’s my spoil…”

“You’d think so,” Mycroft snorted. “Some might say it belongs to Yekaterinburg.”

“That’s absurd,” Gwen spat. “Yekaterinburg isn’t even a state! The Urals isn’t even a Frontier anymore.”

“Says who?” Mycroft chuckled. “Moscow? They never made a statement.”

“It was driven by a rogue Magi into my land! My protectorate!” Gwen felt incredulous. “So, I can invade a foreign country with an armada and then demand that they return my property when my fleet is sunk?! Not to mention, this isn’t even Moscow’s ship!”

“I know that,” Mycroft said. “Lord Shultz knows that. But…”

Gwen growled. She gets it. She understood.

Ravenport inferred that common sense did not apply when so many HDMs were at stake.

“What do you suggest?” She asked.

“My take.” Gunther’s radiant attitude was always comforting. “Is that you dig that Tower out and start using it as you will. Do they want it back? Sure… send another Tower, and call me when they do. You could probably use one for defence, one for offence…”

“I’d like that,” Gwen said, hooking an arm around Gunther’s bulging biceps. I like that a lot.”

Opposite, Mycroft’s eyebrows twitched. “Please, Lord Shultz. I would like a full night’s sleep for the foreseeable future. This is a conflict of interest. Let’s not make it into the opening of another continental conflict.”

“Mycroft, the rules of spoils aren’t international law…” Gunther said to the Duke. But they are the law of the land… the one constant in the Frontier. Without them, there’ll be bureaucratic anarchy.”

Ravenport kneaded his brows, clearly not looking forward to his future. “You are certain that you will keep Yekaterinburg Tower, then?”

“It’s already mine,” Gwen felt her possessive instincts stir like Draconic Essence. “Let’s make that clear with a press conference.”

“I also don’t think we should relent on this opportunity, Father,” Charlene assured her patron. A Tower will allow us to expand and not just defend. With Gwen’s connection to the Dwarves, I am sure this won’t be anything that Mageocracy can currently field. The threats of Undead to the northeast and Beast Tides from the southwest…”

The Duke stood unconvinced but was helpless.

“The Foreign Office will keep you forewarned,” Mycroft nodded imperceptibly. “We will leave Mori here with Charlene, as discussed, to oversee aspects of Shalkar’s development. The office will notify you of developments with our eastern neighbours through the Ravens. Remember, Regent, a Branch Office… next to Tryfan and our Draconic friends.”

“Your sister, Yue and I all need to return to Sydney. But, I will keep a few feelers out as well,” Gunther assured her. “This is a good thing you’ve created here, sister. If that kleptocracy wants to try something…”

Gunther’s radiance, Gwen noted, could feel very sharp as well.

“Then it is settled!” the Regent of Shalkar extended both hands in invitation. “Now, who wants to take a long, relaxing stroll… through my World Tree?

Shalkar.

The general health of the landscape was restored, but that didn’t mean Shalkar was spared from attrition. With the autumn harvest utterly erased, the city shifted into a spontaneous outburst of reconstruction, demonstrating to the remaining visitors the depth of its tenacity. Many guests who had originally arrived to witness a once-in-a-lifetime spectacle also remained, now keenly interested in the underside of Shalkar, the Dwarven Citadel, and its negotiable offerings of Magi-tech.

In the newly converted arena, an impromptu convention took place. Nobles, industrialists, corporatists and more gathered in the World Tree Consortium’s unfinished space, heedless of its lack of furnishing to inspect its wondrous offerings of personal magical items and military defence solutions. Having received their blessings from both the Regent of Shalkar and the Deepdowners of Bavaria, Forge Master Axehoff sat on a virtual mountain of promised HDMs and precious metals from Mithril to Orichalcum as Human nations made eager bids for Golems and components created in Shalkar’s thundering giga-forge.

In the fields, Rat-men and Centaurs alike broke the new ground, parting its lush growth of dew-laden grass to create enormous bales of preserved stock-feed. Besides the labourers, construction Golems excavated the collapsed barns and sheds while slow-roving Fabricator Engines re-laid the devastated roads that once formed the city’s transit artery.

Outside the general bustle, another region of Shalkar now housed the busiest district apart from the Bunker itself.

The new area was called The DOCK.

Of course, even after a localised cataclysm, Shalkar possessed no body of water other than the spotty oasis. The cheeky moniker was because the Dwarves had excavated the entirety of the space underneath the fallen Tower and were now cannibalising its components.

In the latest drafts drawn by master artisans from both Cambridge and the Dwarven Kjangtoth of Vethr Hjodlik and even a rare Master Engineseer arrived from Umgor èron Varèkan, the Citadel of Enlightenment; the Tower was to be reforged into a dagger-like, horizontal shape, mimicking an inverted naval vessel.

Unlike a traditional Tower, whose design was pre-ordained by Henry Kilroy’s time at the stave-shaped Greyhawk Citadel in Suilven, many of the new Tower’s designs were framed around its multi-racial crew.

Teleportation Circles, while perfect for translocating lifeless matter, had quirks when transporting living beings. When the subjects then graduated from the biomechanics of life to the intricacies of complex Magi-tech, the equilibriums of distance and energy took a hammer to the face. By the Master Engineseer’s calculations, if Shalkar wished to field the Dwarven Golems via Teleportation, the application of Runic Spellcraft must reach a new stratum of integration. Hence, mechanical means of mass deployment were designed, with yet-affirmed solutions ranging from siege pods to separable bulkheads that unpacked into fortified bases.

Likewise, the trench works catering for the horizontal design offered greater ergonomics for her Demi-human crewmen. In her Tower, the Rat-kin and an extensive warren of pocket spaces throughout the lower decks would form the bulk of her “naval” militia. For these troops, Strun had suggested that their Regent perform the same Rite of Blessing as she had imposed upon her earliest supplicants, for these families would live and die in the bowels of the Tower, exercising unquestionable loyalty to the Pale Priestess.

With every progression now tied to the tyranny of time, Gwen could only wait for her tree to settle and for Slylth’s mother to come and go, even as elsewhere, a marketing campaign was sending the IoDNC’s stocks to the moon.

What remained, and what she must now perform, was her promise with her High Priest of the Door and the Key.