October 12th, 5AC

“-new tunnel will carve itself into the block as you build them, and the scrying functions should keep you updated on air quality, but you’ll need to plant a lot of oxyferns. They will also detect any living being bigger than a bowling ball and show them as red dots. Anything smaller than that is on you 'cause the mushroom and fungal spores overwhelm an unlimited life sensor.”

Timothy nodded in satisfaction. Looking at, if not the apple of his eye, then at least a peach. The runed quartz rectangle glowed softly, empty and clear except for a single smoky vertical shaft.

“Why Treeholm? Why not Rockatrice?” Zazu asked from three seats down. On the other side of both Regi and Da and that was still too close to the ass kisser for Timothy’s taste. He was a tall distinguished-looking man. Hair well threaded with gray above and through his neatly trimmed goatee. He was also a born bureaucrat. An empire-building, power-grasping pain in the ass with a propensity for forcing forms and paperwork on everyone around him.

Google knows why Da puts up with him. Just the same, and as much as Timothy enjoyed slapping the shit-bag down, it wasn’t an unreasonable question. Rockatrice was the threshold just out from Runehold, and a subsidiary of the same. Add in that Timothy wasn’t in the habit of just giving new discoveries away and the cretin had a point.

But not one that Timothy had to answer. Arthur spoke up from across the table, “Because Treeholm is about three times the size, trying to make the transition to full Hold status and for that goal, willing to volunteer most of the labor.”

“Sure, but giving out advanta-“

“Leave it, Zazu.” Da rumbled. “They’ve already put down the first tunnel, no point arguing it now. It’s not a shiny gift, as you seem to be assuming. It may not be a poisoned apple, but it's no fresh daisy either. Someone is going to have to find what doesn’t work, and fix it. And Treeholm and Paradise volunteered.”

And wasn’t that the truth? Timothy hid a smirk. He was good, not all-knowing. Something always went sideways.

A fact Lotse sitting across the table, giving Zazu the look, knew full well.

She raised an eloquent finger, waited a half beat for the room to still, which it did with remarkable speed. It was a mannerism Timothy’d tried to copy with little success. “You have tested this already, so I understand? It’s not quite the first brush at it?”

Timothy leaned forward, glancing at Arthur with a raised eyebrow, then getting a nod, spoke. “Yes and no. We’ve done several small side tests to make sure it won’t affect the Threshold or Hold wards. And we’ve done a very minor maze to make sure it doesn’t cause a road effect. But that leaves a great deal of room for issues.”

“The plan we’ve handed over describes setting up a single section of the maze, one a mile long, with an entrance to either side. Then pause and observe it for a while. Find out any possible issues before we go all in.”

Lotse nodded, though with a considerable degree of ambivalence. She wasn’t convinced, but she wasn’t against it either. Honestly, Timothy felt a bit bad about it. Treeholm was so desperate for a solution that they were pushing, hard, to accept any possible solution. With that kind of desperation, if Timothy didn’t care about his reputation, he could’ve sold them a leaky boat and no paddle.

Of course, he did care and worse, he owed her and her husband a significant favor. If this worked, it would zilch that and then some. He wasn’t about to hand over something crappy.

Regi watched her closely and must have come to the same conclusion. “Good enough for now. Thank you Spiritmother, for making the trip. We’ll have the block, the beacons and the cards wrapped, packaged and loaded for the morning riverboat.”

She gave a regal nod, looking directly at Timothy before speaking. “Thank you. On behalf of myself, my husband and at their request, the Cardea of Treeholm.”

Timothy raised an eyebrow in confusion even as he snagged, twisted and bound the - vulnerability? Magicly actionable obligation? He still had trouble describing it. But it was a sensation he knew well, and not one anyone made to a wizard of his caliber lightly.

He’d take the favor, sure, but it hadn’t worked yet. It was premature.

She read his reservations as easily and simply smiled that small knowing smile that meant he was about to get ripped off. “I’d take your maybe, Runes, over most people's certainty.” She waved down his incipient objection as she stood. “I realize there will be edges to smooth and dangers to be overcome, but you wouldn’t offer it if you didn’t believe it would work.” She gave him a second, speaking look, eyes smiling even if her mouth didn’t.

And if it does fail, you’re good for it, Timothy.

Hiding a sigh, Timothy inclined his head, feeling his agreement twisted and bound in turn. He didn’t contest it. It wasn’t the way he preferred to do business, but she’d neatly boxed him in. A compliment and a reasonable offering of thanks, judo’d into an obligation. After accepting payment up front and with his reputation in the crosshairs, he’d have to provide a good bit more support than he’d planned.

Well played.

Timothy shook his head, the room finally empty after another 20 min of small talk and a bit of planning cum networking. He couldn’t even consider it wasted time, despite his antipathy to the whole thing.

He’d managed to get Lotse to commit to supplying the additional quartz they’d need when the project expanded. With their extensive investment in earth spirits, Paradise could better provide that sort of thing. They already provided three-quarters of the Union's metal with the same methods.

Da also agreed to find Timothy the workers needed to process it. He was still on the hook for training, but that was always a given.

Timothy leaned backward, sighing. He was also on the hook for making a great many more monitoring crystals. But that was only if it worked, and even then, it wouldn’t be for half a year or better.

Not a bad deal, all told. Even with Lotse’s maneuvering.

And between Da, Regi and a polished product, they’d likely get an even better deal down the road for each additional set. Though it likely wouldn’t be as great a deal for Timothy. Much as it annoyed Timothy at times, his brother and father were far more interested in influence. Coin was only as good as what you could spend it on, sure. But that was true for influence as well.

And unfortunately, it wasn’t Timothy who would get to spend it. Nor even Runehold for the most part. It was the Union that held these two worthy’s attentions.

He tapped his fingers on the table for a while, considering the problem. Then let it go. It wasn’t a small price to pay to live in a well-run hold, free from the minutia of government. But it wasn’t one he was unwilling to pay either.

Barely.

With a sigh, he stood and started walking. Passing through the halls and wards with the usual delays, pondering how or if he should push back a bit. It was one thing to be willing to pay, but it wasn’t healthy to let people, even family, rip you off. It led to long-term issues with respect that he didn’t want to deal with.

The thought, and the plans that slowly developed from it, kept him busy until he stepped into his ritual room.

It was ready. The celebration was in full swing below him, the moon was large and bright overhead and the weather was momentarily clear, giving a perfect view of it.

Perfect.

He gave the room a careful look, tracing the mana feeds from the outer gemstone-studded walls to the ring of short altars. Checking the web of crimson channels carved into the black slate floor for dust or inclusions. They were perfect. Precise and sharp.

With a snap of his fingers, flames roared to life beneath the three cauldrons, magically brought to a boil in a few seconds, they belched sweet-smelling steam upwards to coat the ceiling and run along carved crimson channels in its equally slate black surface. Feeding ever upwards to meet and mix with the six incense burners that also sputtered to life at the same snap.

The minor hallucinogenic turned the lines of guided steam into pulsing shifting images to pool above in a lake of dreams at the top center of the room. A reversed mirror hanging overhead.

Timothy took it all in. Happy, but not unaware of how ridiculous the entire situation was. The geometric shapes and figures lined in oddly shaped pictographic runes had a definite evil overlord cast to them. Black slate and crimson chalk. He’d picked both for symbolics and practicality. Few stones could keep as sharp an edge as slate. And none of the rest were nearly as affordable.

But the results had the vibe of some demon-summoning dude from a sword and bodice ripper. It didn't help that the altars were topped with an array of skulls, goblets of blood, poisons of various kinds and even a narcotic. Timothy snorted in amusement. Oh, what would a cop think if they walked into this room? His snort turned into a snicker.

He wasn’t planning on summoning any demons, but Timothy couldn’t deny the decidedly pagan air the place held.

Let's face it, I'd be ecstatic if the cop considered me a harmless neo-pagan instead of some murderous cultist!

But at least it did scream magic. That wasn’t a bad thing. Pomp and ambiance had its place in high magic. Of course, it was only a small portion of the total. The rest?

Work.

Long hard hours of it. Months planning it with dozens of possible ritual layouts that he'd slowly worked through debugging and optimizing. More months acquiring the various consumables and negotiating for the bits of spell work he wasn't an expert in. Then weeks setting up the ritual with all the little side jobs that required. Like a bit of Alchemy to create the chalks, and a bit of metal molding to shape the copper cauldrons.

When all of that was finally done, then it was time to spend several more days going over every piece, looking for mistakes. He’d found a few too! Then another couple days fixing them and rechecking. The demon summoner joke was becoming a bit too poignant at this point.

The circle work had to be perfect! Not because some poor excuse for a lawyer with red skin and horns was going to break out and murder him, but because a failed spell meant backlash and the larger the spell, the larger the backlash.

He'd never attempted a spell this large before and any major failures would fry his mind like a bagel wedged into a toaster and left on all day. He shied away from that particular memory rather quickly, but not before his nose curled up at the imaginary scent.

Even with all the error checking, there were going to be failures. Minor hopefully, but they would occur. That was life. Since he'd prefer it stayed life instead of death, he’d arranged and connected a truly ridiculous number of backups, shunts and full-on voodoo doll stand-ins.

All to handle what he hadn't been able to predict.

He might've gone a bit ham with them frankly. Six layers of cascading protections... it might be overkill. That didn't mean he was going to remove any. Nor to do any less in the future. Risks had to be managed and paired with appropriate rewards. A half day saved for his life wasn't a worthwhile trade. Of course, those half days did add up... He shook off the familiar temptation.

He'd tried to wargame out every conceivable problem. Then he'd doubled down and gone for the inconceivable! Then a few more generic protections that might work for things he hadn’t thought of.

“Murphy proofed.” He muttered under his breath. It was a significant expenditure of his precious time, but he really didn't want to be that bagel. Enough. He told himself, letting out a long slow breath and starting to step forward.

“Why do you insist on invoking me even as you fear me?” A soft voice inquired.

The hair on Timothy’s arms shot straight up while his heart attempted to do the same! He instinctively jerked around to face the voice. Not his brightest moment, with a foot already in the air to step forward his rapid turn moved him in a predictable direction. Down. Down towards the carefully made and even more carefully checked spiderweb of chalk-lined crevices.

Fuck! He forced himself to think, but he wasn't fast enough. Instinct, that idiot beast, moved his arms before his mind could assert itself, flailing to protect his face from the fall and descending towards those elegantly drafted lines in seemingly slow motion.

Then his mind caught up and with a pulse he froze. Motion wards were mostly there to protect him from others, but nothing said they couldn’t protect him from himself. He took a deep breath, then carefully levitated upwards and back onto his feet. He blessed his foresight for a moment. That particular ward was only meant to protect the lines from spilled coffee or a dropped tool.

The enchantment was unharmed...And he was thinking again instead of pointlessly reacting. A simple sweep of a motion enchantment collected the droplets of blood leaking from his nose, bruised by the sudden stop, but not broken, even as two defensive enchantments ballooned out protectively around him and he slipped his mind into the rooms control nodes with the grace and speed of incessant practice.

Activating and arming several particularly nasty offensive enchantments and wards on the tips of his fingers while sweeping the intruder with his will.

Fighting a wizard in his own tower? Whoever was here was in for a rude awakening… Although his ability to sneak up on Timothy might dispute that assumption.

It may have taken a second or two, outrageously, perhaps fatally long in most situations, but he was at last turned and prepared… for a spirit? There was a turbulent mass of intent floating up and down causally like a fishing bobber. Untethered to a physical manifestation.

Projection? He wondered for a moment, then discarded it. Getting a tethered consciousness through his wards was a tall order, and he was familiar enough with the concept to detect such a tether if it was there.

That left- Timothy gulped a bit, forcing down a half-remembered ghost story and a few half-plots from horror movies. They disappeared quickly, as they were none too clear to start with. Neither area was his cup of tea in the before.

Despite the slow-motion bobbing, it wasn’t terribly easy to spot. Despite glowing brightly with complexity and mana in the Field, there wasn’t anything there in the physical. Even in the Field, it wasn’t easy to focus on. Not because it was hiding, but because it blended in.

Chaotic and ever-shifting, just like the Field it stood in. One moment cloven-hoofed, horned and red-skinned (optional goatee, monocle and top hat included) the next solid black with three glowing vertical lines for eyes and a single clawed hand (call the Holy Diver) then slipping through a dizzying collage of mythological references, not all of them the apex of evil, but all having that certain flavor of punishment. A theme if you will. Directed chaos, he mused, was that an oxymoron?

“Ahh, and how might I call you?” Finding his tongue, and, as experience and legend insisted, his politeness.

“At least you didn't ask my name. My last contact was less… wise.” And that wasn't ominous... “But wise or no, I don’t have the habit of answering questions that the questioner already knows. You called me.”

Timothy stared blankly for a second or two, then had to force himself not to facepalm. It was freaking obvious. He could only plead shock and a painfully disrupted thought process. So much for no excuses.

“Murphy.” Shit. Well, he had been expecting something of the sort to happen… Just not yet and most fucking certainly not IN HIS FUCKING TOWER! Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Anger is the Timothy killer. The little stupid that inspires total idiocy. Or something like that.

“Indeed. But even without your oh-so-pleasant invitation, I likely would have shown up anyway. The intricacies of this work called out to me across the worlds and here I am. Ready and willing to see if you will pass the tests you've named after me. Or in failing them, to see some entertainment.”

“...That 's-” Timothy paused, reconsidering. “-that's not nearly as bad as I expected. You're not here for outright sabotage?” Timothy asked, somewhat skeptically.

“Sabotage? Some have made that claim. But not with any substance. My presence will, ahem, adjust some probabilities, but nothing that couldn't happen on its own. No, no, no. That would be entirely too obvious. And take quite a lot of work. No. I don't need to create new failure conditions, you humans are quite sufficiently talented at doing that on your own.”

“So much talent! I can't help but be here to observe. The umpire if you will to your efforts and the arbiter to your fears. Your fears...” It mused, “They are quite interesting. I expect a certain amount of dread. Tis only natural. The initial quaff was quite something, champion-like I might say, but it had no staying power. No zest.”

It shook its… head? “Quite disappointing really. For fear to turn into simple curiosity, shall I call you George? I have an inkling that I'm going to see a great deal of you in the future. If you have one. I doubt you have nine lives.” Timothy bit his tongue to prevent a scathing reply. He was nothing like that idiot monkey and even less a blasted cat!

Nor was he like young Jimmy. It was true, his curiosity was well-developed. But he tempered it with common sense... common sense and a whole lot of firepower! Not that he would say so, it was nice to be underestimated. “Saying satisfaction brought it back would be cliche, no?”

“Quite.”

Bother that, pointless discussions were pointless. There were so many more interesting things to dive into. Like what exactly this- hmm, phantasm?- was. “If the details of who is off limits, can we move on to what?” Timothy paused, focusing his senses on the creature and feeling what was there, instead of just looking. Teasing out the bits and pieces of intent that were on display. So much more obvious than a normal human with their physical body getting in the way.

It likely made him a much more powerful caster too, Timothy mused, considering how much clearer his intent was, both to Timothy and to the magic field at large. When a spell was intent enforced on mana, that was an important consideration.

“Hmm...” He hummed absently, “-aspects of punishment, pain and disaster. But when I look deeper…” Images sprang fully formed into his mind. Too fast to see at first, but with practiced effort, he forced them to pause. A jumble of short skits snapped through like old 35mm film.

It wasn't memories. It was the first thought he discarded. It didn't have the right flavor. He'd dealt with enough Raven Tags to recognize that particular taste. No, these things hadn't happened. More like symbolic events an RPG might have at the start for character creation.

Indicators of the being's nature.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

And those indications were- odd. The punisher aspect was front and center waving its flag, but behind it was a being more amoral than malicious. Ready and willing to laugh at a man getting kicked in the balls, but unlikely to do the kicking. He would be there to see any large bit of trouble, but he wouldn't be the one striking the first spark. Harbinger, perhaps, but not provocateur.

Then again he didn't have to be. Humans were quite capable in those sorts of situations without help. No, hidden behind that trouble-making ball of chaos was a different kind of image. A once burnt hand flinching away from a flame. The four-cornered hat of education juxtaposed with a dunce hat. A set of red and angry-looking rapped knuckles on a polite, well-behaved young boy.

Despite his effort, he couldn't hang on to that last one to try to tease more out of it. He could force them into focus, but nothing he could do was stoping the inevitable progression of images. For every aspect he managed to pick out, every image or skit he thought he recognized, there were a dozen that slipped past him.

It was chaotic and headache-inducing. It was also familiar. Bits and pieces, here and there, they were all too human. Recognizably so, but put together in a decidedly inhuman way.

He snorted, that was a good reminder really. It might not be a being of soul-destroying evil, but the devil imagery wasn't there for cosplay! This wasn't any kind of care bear happy tree friend.

“Ahem!” A cleared throat brought him out of his focused fugue. The demonic, no Murphy’s, intent briefly pulsed towards his still-readied spells. Odd considering they were not physical things that could be pointed to, at least not yet. Yet ‘point’ he did. Fascinating!

“Are you going to use those or not? It’s a bit rude to just leave me and them hanging, hmm?”

Ah, yes. That was what those patterns were prepared for. Right! Deep breaths.

He took several more, thinking through his options, then regretfully moved through a series of gestures and a short chant. Abandoning a half-made spell was a good way to spend a day in bed with a massive headache. Or worse, that damn bagel came to mind again.

He settled the spells back into quiescence, ever ready to be called up again if the need arose. Still, stored was a great deal different than half manifest. Leaving the spells out and waiting went beyond cautious and into rude. Not to mention the danger of being startled. Standing around with a loaded gun aimed at someone... ya, no thanks. Besides, if he wasn't going to use them, and it was becoming apparent that wasn't going to happen, then there was no point hanging on to them and the portion of his attention they were reserving.

“Ah, there. All better.” Timothy muttered, a bit red-faced with embarrassment.

“....” It stared at him, he could almost feel the unspoken really? Impressive considering the current form didn’t have eyes (but it still had the monocle?). Intent was such a useful tool to those who mastered its subtleties… Subtleties, he began to pay attention to that ever-loquacious intent. “We are definitely going to see a lot of each other.” Murphy's tone was dry enough for the Sahara.

“Now then, if we've sorted that lot out, hows about we move on to the main event? I trust you've done your due diligence, so on with the show! I have a reward for you when it's all done, one way or the other. You will get the just deserts your precision and forethought entitle you to.”

That was... frightening. “I’m not sure what to say to that.” Not that ‘saying’ was required, Timothy suddenly realized. Murphy hadn’t ‘said’ a word since he arrived. Merely pressed his intent against Timothy and allowed Timothy’s own mind to interpret it. What did it say about him that he expected a demon to be snarky and speak with a high-class British accent? Never mind the psychobabble!

He shuddered and tried to think back over the demon's words. The just deserts he was entitled to, hmm? If he complained about it wasn’t that just admitting that he lacked confidence in his own work? Humility was one thing, cowardice another. He’d spent too much time and effort on this project to simply back out in fear of a demon's half-assed guilt trip.

It wasn't that he trusted a demonic entity that had appeared wholesale from nowhere, the very thought made him want to break into the kind of laughter that brought men in white coats around, but it hadn't been speaking. It had been emitting intent and as far as Timothy was aware it wasn't possible to lie that way. Intent was your will and meaning made manifest. Hard to manifest something that you didn't actually want. And if you could, how would you avoid doing so next time you tried to cast a spell? For that matter, without a physical form to mask his thoughts, his full intent was on display and Timothy hadn't caught so much as a whiff of malice. A large bit of schadenfreude, but that wasn't quite the same thing.

So be it. He flicked a few wards to life. Ignoring the amused indifference of his uninvited houseguest… or actually, he was invited after all...Dammit! Shaking his head, he triggered several more spells and wards. Fencing the spirit off in a corner, both to prevent mischief and to keep his uncontained intent from interacting with the coming spell work.

At least he hoped they would, he'd designed those particular wards to combat the spirit arts from Paradise. Just because they were friendly now didn't mean it would always be so and tall fences made good neighbors. He had no idea as to their effectiveness against Murphy, (considering some of the more mild forms should have prevented him from manifesting in the first place) but he didn’t have any better options.

That perversely set his mind at ease. If it was beyond his control anyway, and it was far too late to prepare for it, then what was there to worry about? The die was cast, and it was time to see if he’d sufficiently rigged the game.

With a few deep fortifying breaths, he tiptoed over the carefully inked (carved and filled really, but who was counting?) lines to a small clear ring prepared off to one side. The master's ring, the ring to control...ya no. Just the control point. The center of his vast web of enchantments, and he the spider... that wasn't any better. Damn, he needed to work on his PR. Later, time to focus.

Stepping over the last line, he forced himself to leave his hopes and fears on the outside. They were immaterial to the current task. Distractions that he could ill afford.

One last breath in, pause, then with his exhale his intent rushed out as well. Sliding through the line work, tracing the runes and embracing the theme carved into the walls and floor around him. He was the room, he was the spell.

It was time.

With the smallest trickle of will, he pushed over the first domino and there was no going back. He sat down loosely cross-legged (He still wasn't flexible enough for that lotus BS! Had to be hacks.) keeping his breathing even and measured as he watched the trickle turn into a roaring tide.

First was a rune lined circle built into the ceiling. A spectral simmering pot appeared at its center and expanded to encompass the room. Or at least most of it. The line work on the floor, vibrantly crimson against the black, stood out untouched. It was a massive image, but not a detailed one. It didn't need to be. Slow at first, but quickly gaining speed the ambient mana in the room slid into and was transformed by the image.

It wasn't possible to fully remove mana from an area. The more you removed, the faster the surroundings poured in. It was possible with a large enough draw to reduce the mana density, but that wasn't enough to prevent interference at this level of spellcraft. Thankfully there was an alternative. It wasn't possible to remove the mana, but it was possible to transform it. It just took a lot of work. The mana that was close in alignment made the transition in the first few seconds, but the farther away they were, symbolically, the more time it took. And effort. Still, after 10 minutes of simple deep breaths and concentrating, the room was his and nearly all the mana in it.

Good enough. With an effort of will, he redirected his now claimed mana through the lines along the outer walls, first the outer wall aspect spigots. Already arranged how he’d intended, he simply flipped them active. Beginning to draw in the specific mix he’d designed for, while preventing all others. He fed them from his spectral cauldron, creating the mana deficit to create a draw, and using up the unwanted mana to prevent the extras.

Moving from the opened spigots, he traced the pathways inward. Two dozen strands of meaning and intent that would channel and contain the incoming mana. Directing it along and through the correct passages, mixing it in the right proportions and passing it in time to the next ring. The altars.

Three distinct sets of them. Each with an overarching theme and a purpose. A purpose he gave name to, even as he refused to bend them completely to his will. True Self-Reflections, Testing, Lucid Dreams. He named them, and in doing so gave them a direction, but didn’t bother to fully enclose them in his will.

He hadn't gone through all the effort to collect the perfect specimens just to overwrite them now. Each piece, from the runed skulls holding a memory of their lives, to the scarlet mottled rocks of cinnabar, had their own complex meanings, and he would need to tease that meaning out.

With care, he mentally touched the runes worked into the altars, tracing through them and checking the contents within. Then with a relieved nod, he triggered the extraction. Beginning the long slow process separating out what he needed. More haste was less speed. Timothy refused to rush, not just to prevent mistakes, but because this was a marathon, not a sprint. His will was much like a muscle. He could walk all day and then some. Or he could sprint for a few minutes. And he would. Sprint that is. Just not yet.

With more effort than he would have liked he forced himself not to watch everything like a hawk. That wasn’t sustainable. He was an observer of the process. Present and waiting. Interested and knowledgeable. Issues would come when they would. And he would deal with them then.

No need to rush things.

Then a terrible flavor graced his tongue. The containment frayed on the altar containing a chalice of his blood, the mana and symbolism inherent to such a sacrifice overpowering the base container and spilling aspected mana into the air, not into the lines prepared for it.

With a grimace, Timothy flexed his will, pouring a portion of his reserves into the altar's isolating circle. Forcing the leak closed even as the simmering spectral pot slowly converted the released mana and removed it from play.

Annoying, but not critical. He’d overfilled each altar for what he thought he’d need. More than enough to waste a bit here. He didn't like to tie part of his attention and reserves down this early, but it couldn't be helped. There were several backup isolation wards available, but he needed that blood-aspected mana to flow through the provided channels, not remain isolated!

Fuck. His backups weren't usable, and that left his will. That was always usable.

It was a minor draw and while the blood was magically potent, it was still his blood and fairly biddable.

He waited timelessly as the altars did their job and slowly concentrated the meaning and mana he would need. Then the moment was right and he bid the altars disgorge their contents. Mana from the dozens of altars bled out and began to fill the available connections. Not in a flood, but in a controlled flow that was carefully metered to let each stream join its compatriots at the correct levels. It wasn't just his own will that could overwrite their meaning if he wasn't careful.

If at any point the aspects about to mix were too different in strength, the stronger would devour the weaker. But that's why you planned things. Tested them ahead of time to see feed rates and relative potency. Had spent hours designing and redesigning the mixing points to ensure each set of aspects was purified by the collision, not destroyed.

Of course, after patting himself on the back for his foresight, a shunt failed, dumping triple the intended mana into the stream. For a moment, then the polluted flow was rejected, dumping upwards into the cauldron even as the flow cascaded into a backup channel.

Good.

The sieved, partially mixed and ready for more flow continued onward, the trickling streams united into a small river and poured into the three steaming copper cauldrons.

Timothy blew out a breath. So far so good. He made a note to check out the standing mana eddy where several dream aspects were joining. It was still working so he didn't mess with it, but it was an oddity. He took a moment to do a full search, letting his mind slip down the channels and over the used runes like an Otterfolk in the river delta. It was coming along nicely.

Then again, this was still the appetizer. The meat and potatoes were yet to come. Timothy discarded the food analogy quickly. It didn’t mesh with the Painting theme he was going for. He was still preparing his color pallet. Paintings, he mused, he wondered if this bit would stick around long enough for others to laugh at it. Like a stick figure bull on a cave wall.

How dare he presume to make fine art? Ask instead how he could aim for anything less! He might just be a cave painter, but if that was so then he'd be the best cave painter there was. He didn't lack the arrogance to try. And if derision came later, well fuck them. At least cave drawings had survived to be seen who knew how many years later.

He would be the ancestor of those future Michelangelos. There were worse things to be. If he gave his all then he had faith that the results would speak for themselves.

Enough, the steam coming off the first cauldron was starting to effervesce enthusiastically and the mana channels behind each was drying out as he closed off the altars, leaving them with the unwanted dregs. It was going to be a pain in the ass to safely dispose of all of that later, but there would be a later and it could deal with itself.

He pulsed his will, splitting a small thread to touch the other two cauldrons, and carefully observing the mixed meaning contained within each. They would need a good bit longer before they were ready. Excellent.

He redirected his will to the first cauldron again and slowly, carefully poured himself into its runes. This part was a bit fiddly. The mana puddled within was ripe with complex meanings but it was only partially his. Much of the mana was still from an outside source and he couldn't manipulate it nearly as precisely as he would need to. He had to claim the mana, but without losing that complexity.

A difficult task, but not impossible. Instead of transforming it, he thrust his consciousness inside and attempted to understand it. To sail through the bits and pieces of each beast, to live in an instant some small portion of their life and grasp, even if only to a small degree, how they interacted with each other and with the world around them. To acknowledge that they were but a test. Humanities test and as they were his test, then they were his to control.

Then he did it again for the Lucid Dreaming pallet as that cauldron became ready. Recognizing each aspect as a piece of a whole.

Then again with Truth of Self-reflection.

With a sigh, he half relaxed. A portion of his attention was still on each of the bubbling cauldrons, but with the rest he took the chance to relax. Forcefully adjusting his mental state to encourage recovery. As much as possible before the final push.

He deliberately let all but that small portion of his attention wander. First over the spells so far success. The bits and pieces that failed even as the other bits that worked better than expected.

Then he happened to look back at the floor towards the outside of the room and his mouth turned down at the corners for a brief moment, before shooting up into a grin so wide his cheeks hurt.

The once pristine glowing crimson lines were now blackened and burnt. Temporary structures that did well enough for their task, but were unable to handle the amount of mana pouring through them without damage. It was the ruin of weeks of work and yet, it was also the triumph of the same. They were damaged yes, but they stayed the course and didn't fail.

The damage was a scar. Proof of combat honorably waged.

It was beautiful.

A field for him to study, to see how his symbolic elements reacted in the face of such a massive tide of mana. And probably a floor that was permanently changed by it.

Of course, the other side of that coin was somewhat less pleasant to think about. If it wasn't proof of success, then it would just be a mess he'd have to clean up. Not to mention the devil of a time it'd take to reset the spell for a second try. Remold the floor? Not likely, he’d have to replace it entirely before retracing and cutting the lines, then gathering all the expensive components again... Timothy forced himself to quit itemizing the issues. Negativity wasn't his friend right now.

He carefully stretched his will, testing and judging how much he had left in him. Good enough. He was nicely warmed up, but not stressed.

It was time. The paint was mixed, and the mana claimed. With a pulse, he triggered the real enchantment. He would get no more breaks from here on out. Any pauses would introduce flaws, like a glass worker who moved too fast or too slow. Thinned out or beaded up, neither was tolerable.

His paint was prepared. It was time to dip his paintbrush. A web of mana flowed through the carved crimson diagram on the floor. It spread out into dozens of small threads from each cauldron, then a portion of the threads from each crisscrossed and mixed together with their neighbors. Three prime colors, and from them an entire color wheel of concepts and aspects all prepared and ready for his masterpiece.

Or at least almost ready. Timothy quickly snapped his attention over as the retaining wall on a mixing pool failed and the only partially mixed aspects boiled over and onwards, a splotch waiting to happen.

It could keep waiting, with a minor flex the flow was allowed to cascade into a backup pool. Designed more for metering than mixing, it nevertheless served the purpose just fine. The small losses in mana wouldn't cause any issues when he deliberately set this up to have some wiggle room.

He made a mental note to look into why the failure happened later, but couldn't spare the attention for more than that. That's why there were backups. His attention danced along the threads, pushing a bit here to go faster, manually mixing a bit that slipped through. A few runes devoured the mana he'd charged them with earlier than expected and he diverted some of the contained ambient mana from the ceiling circle to make up the lack.

Then the threads hit the end of the diagrams and poured up and into the braziers. With a flex of will the smoke twitched and shifted. No longer merely decorating the ceiling, but wafting outward in a cloud to encompass the Fan. The hallucinogenic, soporific smoke rippled and pulsed with the web of mana contained within it, three-dimensional now, rather than merely carved into the floor.

The smoke twisted and twined in the air. Elaborate shapes created and destroyed in mere moments. A hog here, a cat there. A host of beasts ran between smoke trees while a reflective moon beamed down a light that was anything but gentle. It obliterated self-deception even as it reflected and revealed truth. The smokey image grew in size and complexity with a speed and exacting precision that Timothy himself was not capable of.

That’s why he spent so long setting up all these enchantments to do it for him. He'd prepared an engraved plate, the paints for it. Now it was time to make a rubbing. Perhaps he wouldn't have the brushwork of a master here. But he'd make do. Months of planning and work all crammed into 2 minutes of frantic, will devouring spellwork.

Preparation was king! And it was flawless.

Nearly a thousand small pre-carved but not enchanted runes on the Fan’s frame lit up and began to drink in the smoke. Smoke that thickened until it became the paint he described it as and dyed the fan in shades from blue-violet to crimson. With a speed that would send an epileptic into fits the fan lit up and fluoresced from simple, if beautifully carved wood and feather into a fully engraved and brightly colored showpiece. Almost made him wonder if he had a peacock feather instead of an eagle.

With a nearly audible *crack* the smoke was gone and the liquid-seeming mana crystallized within the runes. Like gems grown precisely to fill those shapes. The resulting piece of art no longer looked like something man-made. Joints grew together as hide fasteners sank and grew along the wood like a layer of skin. Even the feather melded to the frame. No longer the showpiece and instead part of one cohesive, inseparable whole. An organic whole that looked grown, as if some mutant ent had feathers and a hide.

Google I love my work!

His head fell back on his neck as he rolled backward to lay spread-eagled on the floor. The air left his lungs in a long, drawn out shuddering breath. His mind ached slightly, the rigors of that last sprint leaving him hurt and empty. But with that pain, came euphoria, and it surpassed it in all respects!

No, euphoria wasn't big enough. It was more than that. The sudden joy of success after so much work and so much worry. The relaxation of tensions he didn't know he had and the joy of proving, if only to himself, that the world was indeed his bitch.

In that moment of release, things suddenly made sense that had only been fractured concepts. The way the mana flows moved, flexed and joined back together proved some theories and disproved others. Forcing a realignment of his understanding even as doors unimagined opened to present new directions. A full host of new experiments and possible lines of inquiry inscribed themselves in his head.

Inspiration. In its truest form. He let the lines and lists make themselves, unwilling to jog the elbow of success.

But at last, the flow began to wane. The insights were recorded, locked tight in his mind palace. Fruits best enjoyed at his leisure. And in the future.

In the now, he focused on the results of this ritual.

Reaching out, he let his will roll over, but not into the piece. His grin nearly split his face.

What was before a collection of nascent spirit, vessel and mana was now one being. A living being. It wasn't awake yet, but that would come. He could feel its burgeoning intellect stirring in a lake of dreams. Oh yes, it would wake up. And soon!

What would wake up was still a question, but there was no more if.

And if magic wasn't always biddable, especially intelligent mana, then that was a worry for a different day. Timothy carefully didn’t let himself think otherwise. Not at this proto stage. There would be time enough later, and if the mind that awoke wasn’t interested in the role he’d designed for it, well that was fine too.

Expensive to source another will, but he’d do it. In a heartbeat. An unwilling mind, embittered or enraged. He wasn’t about to risk the future of the Holds on that. No, he’d find his unhappy spirit a new home if it wanted. Perhaps not as impressive as the present, but if it wanted freedom more, he’d give it.

Either way, if it was happy or had to be replaced, the casting of the spell was already a reward itself. Oh, what he’d gained already…

He laughed softly still spread out on the floor. This was his time. For a few moments at least he could glory in making the fundamental force of the universe his bitch.

Nirvana.

“Ahem, do I need to leave you for some private time?”

Shock and annoyance bled into his awareness. It wasn't fair to interrupt him at a time like this. Ass. “...Yes. Yes you should.”

Soft laughter echoed in his ears.

He sighed, the moment was ruined anyway. “Do you have something for me then? Because I just made this enchantment my bitch.” In his head, a different tune was playing. ♪I done told you once you son of a bitch, I'm the best that's ever been♪

The sarcasm in his voice raised tingling goosebumps up and down Timothy's back. “Congratulations, I give you a fan, one just dripping with magic.”

“...No, I gave me that.”

“True. Congratulations, you didn’t fail?”

“That’s it?”

“Almost.”

“After all that BS about just deserts, that’s it?”

More seriously, “Come now, don’t be a prat. I gave you two fantastic gifts. You are just too preoccupied to see them.“

“You…”

His intent surged forward, interrupting Timothy’s half-formed complaint.

“I give you the certainty that you completed your spell on your own. No luck was involved. Or at least no good luck. Your precision and skill were both at an adequate level and if there were a few rough spots that you hadn’t noticed before, why, now you have. You're welcome. Just think of what would happen years from now when you attempt something much more complicated. Where those small, missed mistakes could lead?”

Timothy shut his mouth with a snap. That. That wasn't half bad actually.

With a small grin the demon stared down at him, then in a sing-song voice continued “So, one more time, ♪Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste♪. I'm here to punish the sloppy and help the deserving to improve. Won't you guess my name?”

Timothy snorted, but the snort broke into a deep rolling laugh. “Ya, that's about right Murphy. But I don't think you've been around for a long, long years yet.”

“Who can say? I may not have had form or voice, but I was there in your old world too, I remember it as well or better than you. Who's to say who's old and who's young.”

“That's a bit pompous don't you think? Very self-serving logic. Almost existentialist.”

“Well, I came from the minds of you humans, and my communication is filtered through your expectations. If I’m a pompous asshole, who’s fault is that?”

Touche. Timothy sighed, closing his eyes and tried to let it go. It wasn't what he expected, but on a second consideration, he wasn't unhappy with this ‘reward.’ The confidence to move forward in the face of bad luck. To force all possible errors to the surface now, where they could be found and fixed. The knowledge that his foundation was as solid as could be. That was worth quite a bit actually.

It hurt, but Timothy was not a bitch. He would not deny an incurred obligation. He forced out, “Thank you.” His jaw muscles were tight enough to bounce a coin off of in saying it. But worse was the battle with his ego to force himself to accept it. No one likes things being done ‘for their own good.’ Even more so when it actually is for their own good.

He glanced up and snorted. Murphy was gone. Definitely a cool guy moment. Set off a bomb and didn't stick around to watch. All that after Timothy'd forced himself into a moment of maturity. A moment that had been bound as well. He’d suffer to pay that back someday.

But not today.

He snorted, laughing at himself this time. Ahh, what a tangled web we weave when we self-deceive.