InterGuild sprang to life as the bell tower rang five in the morn. The campfires crackled back to life, the floating lights and runes and artificial lanterns roared in a magnificent attempt to ape the sun, to turn darkness to day. It was, for the most part, a fair shot. One could see where they were going, without the aid of a flashlight or a torch. Yet still, guildmembers carried them, or light spells, or other means of illumination. Just in case their meetings went into the shadows beyond the fairgrounds. Beyond the light's edge was the rest of the Flyleaf Forest, and any good, off-kilter guildfolk knew what the shadows meant.

Opportunity. Adventure.

In exploration, new meanings made.

Joseph got up with the bell tower's bellows, blinking the night out of his eyes and yawning. He stepped out of his tent blearily, watching with a muted interest as the rest of the guild awoke with him. Broon emerged out of his tent with a yawn, the large half-orc stretching and groaning. Ichabod stepped out of the Dreamer's Lament, having claimed the airship's bridge as his room, with a sharp glare at the others around him. He must have slept in his trenchcoat, the way he was unruffling it. Wakeling floated out of the ship a moment later, giving everyone a smile as she drifted out. Her arm followed a moment later.

“Right!” she said, and Joseph winced at the glass-sharp cry of her voice, “They've got showers nearby, if you need them. They're communal, so watch out. Myron? Myron!”

“Here,” Becenti appeared out of seemingly nowhere, in a set of drab red pajamas and (Joseph tried hard not to laugh, and saw Rosemary and Contort fail) a night cap, complete with a little fuzzball at the end.

“Right, Myron,” Wakeling said, “Who's on breakfast duty today?”

“That would be Ezel and Contort,” Becenti said.

“Good!” she turned. Ezel and Contort drew out from the small gathering, “There should be some eggs and hash in the storage aboard the Dreamer. Some vegetables, too. Wine, if it's one of those mornings, and it's always one of those mornings.”

With that, the guild sprang to life. Some, like Ichabod, immediately got to work. The cybernetic man pulled out a small notebook and sat down by the campfire Contort was setting up, sneering at him as he got to work on reviewing his notes for the day.

Joseph joined a few of the others and went to the communal showers. It was a large, marble domed building, and other guilds, other beings, were already there. Joseph showered, trying to ignore the fact that the shower next to him was inhabited by a massive pile of green goo, the slime mixing with the water and drifting into his stall. He tried to ignore, too, the way that his socks stuck to his legs as he pulled them on.

The walk back to the camp was a quiet affair. It was warm out, and the combined simmering of the various lights, along with the artificial heat from the Weatherfolk, reminded Joseph of warm summer days when his family would drive down to LA. His heart fell a bit as he remembered long runs on the beach, the sun climbing overhead, the song of waves on the shore.

None of this falsehood business, this desperate attempt to make this place like other planes. He could appreciate the night for what it was, and the treeline beckoning towards him, with its rows and shelves of books, was like something out of a strange dream. But everything else, the way the guilds tried to make this artificial dawn...

It didn't sit right.

Ah, well, the sooner he met with Meloche and his contact, the sooner he could get a lead for home.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, as they sat around a series of tables and campfires. They mostly paired off into individual groups, talking about their plans for the day.

“Right, Joseph,” Tek said, “We're going to be going right into it today. Professor Adesanya, my contact, is going to be hosting a small lecture, which we'll be attending, and then we'll be taking a look at the engine.”

“Right,” Joseph said, “How long do you think you'll need me?”

“That depends,” Tek said, “I'm hoping to spend as much of the day as I can with him, you see. The lecture is at nine in the morning, so you'll have the next few hours to do what you need to do.”

“I'm mostly just seeing if I'll be free at four,” Joseph said.

“Hmm,” Tek said, “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

“Yes, perhaps,” Tek said, “It depends.”

Joseph, despite himself, gritted his teeth.

“Depends on what?” he said.

“On how long it goes,” Tek said, “This is my first time looking at the engine, so it could be awhile.”

“Right,” Joseph said, “Alright, okay.”

“Is everything alright, Joseph?” Tek asked.

“Yeah,” Joseph lied.

He remembered the timeframe that Meloche had laid out for him. Only two hours for the opportunity, and only for the first four days.

Tek could see Joseph's inner cringing, and leaned in.

“Please, Joseph,” he said, “I understand that you've your own business. I really do.”

“I know, Tek,” Joseph said.

“But this is a huge opportunity,” Tek said, “This isn't an idle hobby I'm looking at here. I needed to call in quite a few favors to even get a look at this thing. If this goes well, if the astrator hoffmani is sufficiently powerful, and if my modifications to the engine work correctly, it could revolutionize planar travel for thousands of years.”

There was an earnestness in the mound's voice. He was here for a reason, just as much as Joseph was. Joseph sighed.

“Alright,” he said, “But, please, I need to get to my guy from four to six in the afternoon.”

“Of course,” Tek said, “I assure you, I will make all the effort possible to wrap things up in that time. And thank you, Joseph.”

***

“Right,” Ichabod said. He scraped the rest of his meal into the fire – having only eaten half of the eggs, and none of the hash – and stood up. He and G-Wiz were sitting at the fire with Broon, who raised an eyebrow as the cybernetic man rose.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked G-Wiz.

“Yeah,” she said, “Yeah, I'm ready.”

She finished shoveling down the last of her meal, getting up. Ichabod was already casting off, walking out of the camp. G-Wiz followed a few steps behind.

Broon looked at the great clock tower. Six in the morning, now. A good time to be up, if he was honest. Back home, before he joined the guild, this would have been an agreeable time to hunt.

But, alas. His meeting with Glonthek wasn't going to happen until nine.

Ezel sat down across from him, taking up G-Wiz and Ichabod's seats. The half-orc looked at her. She was still yawning, nursing a cup of coffee, though she was ready for the day, in her usual affair of jeans and Fort Hope t-shirt, as well as a light jacket.

“So,” he said, “What's the plan for you?”

“I'm not sure,” Ezel said, “I was going to start by watching a fire dance being hosted by the Flaming Guerillas.”

“Didn't know they were still around,” Broon said.

“I didn't either,” Ezel said, “But I saw their false drake in the sky, had a banner advertising it.”

“At six in the morning?” Broon said.

“Seven, actually,” Ezel said, “The early drake gets the gold, right?”

“Right.”

Ezel looked at the half-orc, and could not help but smile at the way he was looking at her, a bit nervously, like a stray pup.

“Would you like to come along?” she asked.

“If it's not too much trouble!” Broon said, “I've got a meeting with Glonthek at nine, so I don't want to hurry you along.”

“Today's a leisurely one,” Ezel said, “I wouldn't mind a bit of a hurry.”

Broon smiled, and the two of them rose to leave the camp.

***

Rosemary watched as Shambling winced to life, the great mass of vine and flora pulling herself out of the ship. It was almost painful, the way she moved, in how she dragged herself forward. A breathing mask was tied over her two heads, and Rosemary felt the intense, wild aura of Wakeling's magic shudder around her like a mirage as she went, to hold as much of her home atmosphere as possible. XLS followed a bit behind, absently reading a few scientific papers.

There was a quiet sense of loneliness to her, as the rest of the guild got to work. And at only six in the morning! Already, they were leaving for their own little affairs. The only others who were still in the camp were Joseph and Tek, the former looking absolutely bored as Tek droned on and on about asses and a guy named Hoffman. Rosemary decided it was time for her to head out, as Joseph gave her a pleading look. But she knew how Tek was, and how she would probably miss her rendezvous with Sunala. She gave him an apologetic look, and skipped out.

Leaving Joseph alone, as Tek was unrolling one of the schematics for the engine.

***

“Dear God,” Becenti muttered, “Who do they think they are, the Romans?”

He and Wakeling stood just at the edge of the grand building that was to house the Guildmasters' Moot. It was a loud structure, extravagant in the myriad designs that lined its walls, the images of the multiverse's history carved into the pillars, the way that the entire thing was shaded in hues of whites and grays and blacks, like a monochrome rainbow. It reminded Becenti vaguely of a Greco-Roman temple if a modern artist had been allowed to pick through each and every strip of stone and add a bit of flair.

“It's rather...” Wakeling said, “Fetching isn't exactly the right word, is it?”

“It's a lot,” Becenti said.

“It's always a lot,” Wakeling said, “Remember last year? With the hollowed out Goddess Hive?”

“God,” Becenti suppressed a shudder, “Don't remind me.”

Other guildmasters were arriving as well, giving similar conversations at the sight of the building, the way it curved and spiraled yet still held a vaguely square shape. Each individual guildmaster was as magnificent as the last. The biggest names in guildwork were coming here, the most insane, the most triumphant, the most powerful.

He found himself wringing his hands, something he hadn't done in a long time. Not since last year's InterGuild. Then, he noted, he had only begun this habit when he first attended the Guildmasters' Moot some twenty years before.

Some habits only sprang up when InterGuild began, and only ended with InterGuild's sunset.

***

Joseph and Tek left their camp at around eight, trailing along the paths, dodging past wagons of goods and other guildfolk. The mound went at a surprisingly brisk pace, to the point that Joseph sometimes had to jog to keep up. The seminar's location was in the Academy of the Unreal's annex building, a tall, square brickwork that looked like it had been carved straight from Oxford. A few random professors mulled about, some in business suits, one in an elaborate wizard's robe and hat. The Academy of the Unreal, Joseph learned, was just that: a school for the gifted, for students of the multiverse.

“Kids who have no place to go,” Tek said. He opened the door to let Joseph inside, and they walked on wood-creaking floors, darting down the halls, trying to find the lecture room the seminar would be held in.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Kids in the multiverse, you mean?” Joseph said.

“Hmm?” Tek turned, “Yes! Of course. Those without a family, who become nomads in the countless realities. Most of them are picked up by traveling professors, I hear. It gives them new opportunities, and the like.”

He rounded a corner.

“Ah! Here we are.”

And they went into the lecture room, a larger, circular space with rows upon rows of chairs that swirled upwards, all of them turned to face the speaker at the room's bottom. Joseph felt like he was in college again, as he and Tek went up the steps to take their seats.

Felt like college, save that Tek's chair magically grew in size and girth to support his larger form.

The speaker walked in right as the majority of the attendees took their seats. He was tall, dark-skinned, with swaying black robes and a calm demeanor. His voice was like silk as he spoke. Joseph settled in, and found that the professor's voice, along with the absolutely dull subject matter, was starting to put him to sleep...

***

Kathen was made to wear a uniform

It was an ugly, garish thing, a sheath of gray folded over him as though he were a Zaterran crepe, the symbol of Pagan Chorus badged to his chest in golden relief, a set of uncomfortable military dress boots wrapped around his feet and legs like twin snakes. Bluebell produced a brush, and got to work on taming his wild mane of hair, giving a low, quiet whistle in frustration as he pulled at bedraggled curls and painful knots.

“Should shave it,” he said, “Might do you good. Look like a real military man.”

“I'm not a soldier,” Kathen growled, wincing as a knot was pulled loose, “I keep my hair how I like it.”

“You look like a lion in a dress uniform,” Bluebell said.

“What's a lion?”

The dragonfolk stopped for a second, giving a quiet hiss. Then, he continued.

“Big cat. Big mane. You look like one, only with a stubby snout and a worse attitude.”

Kathen had to chuckle at that, before wincing again.

“That's enough, Bluebell,” Almogra said, “You tried your hardest.”

Bluebell drew back a snorting huff, slapping Kathen on the shoulder and stepping away.

“I don't envy you,” the dragonfolk said, “Hair like that, I feel as though I would suffocate in my sleep wrapped up in it.”

“Trust me, when it's good, it's good,” Kathen said. He turned his attention to Almogra. The Coribaldi was in similar uniform, her brown hair tied back, the runes on her arm flaring a bit for effect, a little magical trick she used when she wanted to look intimidating. It worked, and even after all these years the way she looked down at Kathen made his spine quiver a bit.

“Some day, we will find a brush that works,” she said, “I do not know how Runie does it.”

“Magic, maybe,” Kathen said.

“Are you ready?”

“I am,” Kathen said.

“Good,” Almogra said, and the glare softened a bit, “Despite that mane of yours, you look nice.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” Kathen said, “Let's just get this over with.”

They moved off, walking across the bare field that had been allotted to Pagan Chorus. The rest of InterGuild was waking up around them, movement on the barest edges of the horizon, the bizarre and the disturbing blooming to life to sell goods, barter, argue, cast spells, celebrate their very existence. It was to be admired, Kathen noted, even if Pagan Chorus stood apart from most of the festivities. Almogra power-walked towards the edge of Pagan Chorus's camp, past the line that denoted their space, and onward past all of the other guildfolk. Kathen pushed and prodded others out of the way in an effort to keep up with her.

They made their way towards the building that Eldest Ark had created for the Guildmasters' Moot, a dizzying, yet impressive, temple-like place that reminded Kathen vaguely of the Towers of Artheron on Diad Prime. The way they swirled, the way each brick was its own hue of gray, the way that the entire place seemed designed to make one off-kilter. It was an artist's dream, and Kathen could not help but be impressed.

The inside of the building was a large, circular room, guildmasters and their right hands taking their places. Light shone from above, a false sun that floated at the roof's center, bright white and curling in place. Kathen stared up at it for a while.

“Reminds me of the Inner Sun on Londoa,” a ratchety voice said behind him.

Kathen turned to see an interesting sight. The voice's owner belonged to a floating head, as old as time itself, a smile on a web of wrinkles, her nose, once hooked, bent downwards by multiple breakages in the past. A single arm, pale and just as wrinkled as the head, floated beside her. Standing next to her was a man in a business suit, his graying black hair tied in a ponytail, the barest hint of tattoos hidden just beneath his sleeves. Sharp, hawk-like eyes stared at Kathen, slid down to the badge on his breast.

“Pagan Chorus,” he said, “I don't recognize you, however.”

“Ah, Shimmer,” Almogra drew up beside Kathen.

“I go by Becenti, nowadays,” the older man said.

“Almogra of the Gray-Dusk Skies!” the floating head sang, “By all my days remembered!”

“Vyde,” Almogra smiled, “I hope you're well.”

“As well as I can be,” Wakeling said, “Ignore Myron, here, he's a bit unimpressed with our host's choice of architecture.”

Unimpressed? Kathen gave Becenti an odd look. The older man returned it, narrowing his eyes.

“I see Valm has a new pet,” his voice was low.

Kathen glared at him. His hands balled into fists.

“Myron!” Wakeling said.

“Better a pup than an old dog,” Kathen spat.

“Kathen, sit down,” Almogra said, and her voice brooked no argument. Kathen glared at Becenti, moving to take a seat. He could still hear her talk to the two old bats, even over the din of the guildmasters.

“Forgive him,” Almogra said, “He is one of Valm's proteges.”

“A new model every decade,” Becenti drawled.

“Myron, sit down,” Wakeling said.

What did he mean by that? Kathen wondered. He could feel Merry pull around in his head, trying to get information on the older man.

“Ah,” she said, “Found him in the guild database. Myron Becenti. Shimmer. Metahuman, from the Amber Foundation.”

“One of those people, then,” Kathen said, “I think I've heard of him. Any idea why he's an ass?”

“Not sure,” Merry said, “But he's got to be a veteran of the Great War, considering how old he is.”

“And he's a metahuman,” Kathen said, “They've always got a chip on their shoulders, don't they?”

“You'd think they'd just take a chill,” Merry said, “Anyways, Amber Foundation's a mid-sized guild. Their guildmaster's got influence, though.”

“Really, we must sit down at some point and have a good, long talk,” Wakeling said to Almogra, “It's been ages!”

“I will see if there's time in our schedule,” Almogra said, “I am afraid it's all politics for me this InterGuild.”

“Of course, of course,” Wakeling said, “Well, I suppose we should sit down. I'll see you after today's meeting?”

“If I have the time,” Almogra said, “I will see you soon, Vyde.”

“And you, Almogra.”

The two Amber Foundation drew off. Almogra sat down beside Kathen.

“Guy's an ass,” Kathen said.

“He and the Prime Voice have history,” Almogra said.

“What? Valm spit in his eye?”

But Almogra did not give answer. She simply waited, taking a deep breath, and stared ahead.

***

“A new model every year?” Wakeling said, “Really, Myron?”

“It's true,” Becenti said. He was simmering down as he took a seat. Wakeling floated over hers, giving him a sideways look, “He gets one every so often, builds them up. Puts them into various high positions in the Federation government, or in the military, or some other place where he can pull strings. It happened with Kristandi, it's happened with others.”

“He's just a boy,” Wakeling said.

“He starts them off young,” Becenti said, “I wouldn't be surprised if he raised the boy himself.”

“It's an opportunity for the younger generations,” Wakeling said, “We should all be so lucky. Now, enough.”

Becenti crossed his arms, taking a deep breath. He stared ahead as the rest of the guildmasters streamed in.

“Fine,” he said, “Very well. Let's get on with it.”

Wakeling gave him another look, then let him be.

***

“Joseph,” Tek said, “Joseph, wake up.”

“Hmm?”

“The lecture's over now.”

“Oh,” Joseph said, “Right.”

He smeared away the last of his bleariness with a wipe of his hand, leaning back onto his chair. Tek had let him drift off, and there was something akin to amusement dancing in the mound's voice as he spoke.

“I know that this isn't really your forte, Joseph,” Tek said, “But thank you for coming, nonetheless.”

“You need me for your engine, I'm here for your engine,” Joseph said.

“I know,” Tek said, “Nonetheless, you've let me drag you to this lecture. It was highly invigorating! If you knew what Professor Adesanya was talking about. So, thank you.”

Joseph wasn't sure what to say. But he didn't have to say anything, as a moment later Tek rose up.

“Now,” he said, “Let's go down to meet the good professor.”

He made his ways down the steps, Joseph following a bit behind. Most of the other guildfolk were leaving now, streaming out the doors on either side of the lecture hall. A few – a businessman with a single eye set in his forehead, a woman in drab blue robes with a wooden arm, and a human-sized snail with a translucent, iridescent shell – lingered, speaking to Professor Adesanya. The lecturer turned a bit as his eyes slid to Tek, the robes rippling like waves as he strode to take the mound's hand.

“Good to see you, Teknogan,” he said. He had the equivalent of a Xhosa accent.

“And you, Professor,” Tek said.

“Please, just call me Adesanya,” the magician smiled, “And this is our energy man, hm?”

“'Sup,” Joseph said.

“This is Joseph,” Tek said, “The metahuman.”

“Good, good,” Adesanya said, “Now, the engine is in my lab.”

He turned to the people he had just been speaking to.

“We'll need to pick this up at another time,” he said, “I've got an engine to pick at.”

The others nodded, giving quick goodbyes and heading out the door. Adesanya clapped his hands together.

“Right,” he said, “If you'll follow me, please.”

He guided them upstairs, down a few hallways, and into his personal laboratory. The entire time, he kept up a stream of conversation with Tek, the two of them going on and on about the engine and its inner sciences.

“My theory,” Professor Adesanya said, “Is that the astrator hoffmani is a bit of the multiverse given sentience, life from the in-between place, if you will, and that's what allows it to mimic the same energies observed when one enters an Inter-Dimensional Point of Entry.”

“A what?” Joseph asked.

“A Traveling Point, in layman's terms,” Adesanya said, “Tek, you’ve seen the creature more than me. What are your thoughts on it?”

Tek cleared his throat. Adjusted his glasses. He seemed nervous as he produced the Aparkeater from a pack. It glowed faintly in his jar like a cobalt will-o-the-wisp.

“From what I've observed,” he said, “ the astrator hoffmani exhibits biological functions in line with most elementals of its categorizations and species. The proto-atoms are something interesting, however. Here, let me show you...”

The laboratory was long, with various magical and mundane devices on tables that lined the wall. Adesanya strode forward and picked up goggles for the three of them, and Joseph strapped his on. Tek laid the Sparkeater’s jar on the table as Adesanya grabbed a microscope.

“There's the engine, Joseph,” Tek said, giving a quick point at the back wall.

As the mound and Adesanya got to work coaxing the Sparkeater out of the jar, Joseph turned. The engine was near-exactly to Tek's schematics, a bronze and metal box with pipes running along it like bulging veins. He stepped forward to consider it while Tek and Adesanya excitedly poked and prodded at the Sparkeater.

“...Neat,” he said.

He had no idea what to make of it. It was just a crate of pipes, to him.

***

The day wore on. The morning melted away, bringing a much faster-paced afternoon. Tek and Adesanya had Joseph waiting for much of the day as they studied the Sparkeater, going over its exact specifications, putting it under the microscope. The professor magicked a whiteboard out of thin air, drawing out a diagram of the Sparkeater's anatomy. It was only after lunch that they got to work with putting the damn thing in the engine.

“Now, Joseph,” Tek said, “Now the preliminary parts of the real work begins.”

Joseph let out a relieved huff, pulling himself to his feet after lying on a table. At Tek’s urging, he began streaming out a line of electricity, arcing it into the Sparkeater. The elemental drank it, the entire engine block glowing to life in sharp, azure blues. Adesanya and Tek looked at it, both of them visibly unimpressed save for Adesanya murmuring “Interesting.”

They scribbled down their observations. Adesanya made a couple adjustments to the whiteboard’s diagram.

He was told to do it again.

And again.

Tek and Adesanya took notes, talked about the engine, made adjustments to the design, bantered about subjects that were so far above Joseph's head they were birds in the sky.

He was made to do it again.

Lightning arced. The air smelled of ozone. More notes were taken. The Professor and the mound argued a bit about the exact mathematics required to power the engine.

“Once more, Joseph,” Tek said.

He did so, leading to another series of measurements and grunts of either approval or displeasure, a bit more debate. Adesanya, with a flick of his finger, magically turned one of the pipes around.

“Again, Joseph.”

Joseph, after another gout of electricity, looked at the clock.

Four in the afternoon.

“Hey, guys,” he said, “Are we almost good?”

“Not quite,” Tek said.

“Tek, it's four.”

The mound stopped, and glanced at the clock. He adjusted his glasses as he stared at it.

“Oh! Oh, dear. Oh...”

He glanced at the engine. Then back to Joseph.

“Please,” he said, “Joseph, we're in the middle of a breakthrough.”

Joseph felt his insides wince. Felt his soul rumble in protest.

“I really gotta...”

“Tek,” Adesanya said, “I think I got it.”

Tek turned.

“We weren't taking into account the variables for how much the astrator hoffmani was ingesting each second. The amount is different each time. Which means the pulses are variable, which means we have to adjust the converters.”

“You've done the math...?”

“Doing it now,” Adesanya said. He looked at Joseph, “Please, sir. If we get this breakthrough...”

They looked at him, Tek almost pleading. Joseph sighed.

“Alright,” he said, “I'll... I'll go tomorrow, then.”

The first day of InterGuild drew to a close. Joseph and Tek returned back to camp well after dinner, sitting down at the campfire. Joseph felt exhausted, his soul now resting in his stomach and already asleep after being called forth, again and again, for hours.

“Tek,” Joseph said, “I only have a few days to get this done.”

“I know, Joseph,” Tek said, a bit dismissively. He had become fully absorbed in his work.

He'd better, Joseph thought. And then, from the more angry part of him, the part that still needled and snarled and overtook his normal thoughts: Tomorrow, no matter what.