Unnamed - Apparatus Of Change

Available Power : 8

Authority : 6

Bind Insect (1, Command)

Fortify Space (2, Domain)

Distant Vision (2, Perceive)

Collect Plant (3, Shape)

See Commands (5, Perceive)

Bind Crop (4, Command)

Nobility : 4

Congeal Glimmer (1, Command)

See Domain (1, Perceive)

Claim Construction (2, Domain)

Stone Pylon (2, Shape)

Empathy : 4

Shift Water (1, Shape)

Imbue Mending (3, Civic)

Bind Willing Avian (1, Command)

Move Water (4, Shape)

Spirituality : 5

Shift Wood (1, Shape)

Small Promise (2, Domain)

Make Low Blade (2, War)

Congeal Mantra (1, Command)

Form Party (3, Civic)

Ingenuity : 4

Know Material (1, Perceive)

Form Wall (2, Shape)

Link Spellwork (3, Arcane)

Sever Command (4, War)

Tenacity : 4

Nudge Material (1, Shape)

Bolster Nourishment (2, Civic)

Drain Endurance (2, War)

-

Animosity : -

Amalgamate Human (3, Command)

I am, keenly, aware of the fact that this new life is new. I’ve mentioned before that I don’t truly feel like any of the people who’s memories I hold within me, and while that barrier between who I am and who I was is eroded with each new spell I etch into myself, I am a different person. Even if that person is simply a collection of everyone else; lives lived and memories made holding hands in an unbroken chain.

However, nothing has made me feel quite so much as a child, as an aging demoness dragging me out to a group meal and insisting I socialize.

To be completely fair, Seraha’s action is completely understandable, and I already agreed with her that I shouldn’t leave my true body sitting in the kitchen like I’m either ashamed of what I am or scared of our new guests. And I do want to meet the new additions to the fort. It’s just… I had only now begun to fall into the comfortable flow of action that is my work with my spells. And I’ve been rudely interrupted.

And yet, I find it difficult to hold it against her.

The gobs do not care about what I am. To them, the whole world is new, really. I remember being a gob in a past life, and I do recall my manifestation to the world. Everything so confusing and bright and strange, and yet, backed up by so much random information that can be acted upon perfectly. Right from the start. It is only now, in contrast to five.other lives, that I can see how strange it truly was. Well, six lives. But this one is actually close to the same.

What the gobs do care about is the food, and the size of the mostly empty dining hall, and also about the bold demon child who is currently inching closer and closer to them. I think they might also care about the growing lithe forms of the bees that are eagerly chewing through their bowl of fruit. Or the handful of oversized beetles that set the table and then retreated to the walls to lurk and listen for me.

But mostly the food.

They are all too thin, even for how young they are. And they are young; gobs are manifested as a kind of children, after all. But still, they haven’t been eating well, and they dig into the root hash that Seraha serves them with aplomb as they cast their eyes around the room.

Each of them has characteristic thick skin, like a tough hide with pebbled patches and splashes of dark greens and oranges licking like flames against the mostly brown color. They are wearing bits of scavenged clothing from around the fort, most of it given a quick stitch or cut by Dipan to bring it down to a size they can more easily use. They arrived mostly naked, and while most gobs aren’t manifested with any kind of nudity taboo, it still feels strange in a social context to leave them unarmored.

One of them, the one with a sharp nose and a twitch to their curious glances, carries at their side a broken knife. The one with lines of orange on their arms and neck, like a sunset in motion, has a spool of fishing line. And the quietest, smallest of them, wears a torn overcoat missing most of the sleeves that is far too big for them.

They’re all new, so none of them have yet grown into any of the things that define a gob later in life. Their final heights, extra eyes, sexes, and feathers or true scales, will all come in over the next couple years as they scramble to find their footing in a chaotic world. Just like any other species growing up, really, though perhaps with a few more options in the mix. Right now, it’s enough just that they have made it here safely.

I listen through my proxies as conversation flows through the room.

“So, what are they?” Malpa is asking Muelly in a quiet tone. “Never seen anything like them.”

“Kalip said the crystal called them gobs, but I don’t know either.” She replies, head bent over her plate. “They look like kids. But not… our kids?”

“Our kids?” Malpa’s voice is part smile, part unbridled terror. Every beetle within earshot twitches slightly as they overhear. I don’t fully understand how the beetles are becoming as smart as they are, but it is happening, and every one of them has learned from Oob and his insatiable love of gossip.

Muelly slaps the back of a furred hand against his shoulder. “Not our kids. I mean… children that look demon. Or human. They look so strange.”

The terror leaves Mapla’s face, only a smile remaining. “Lot of that going around lately.” He says peacefully as he spears some of the greens on his plate, briefly tilting sideways to bump his shoulder into the smaller woman sitting next to him, who gives him a surprised laugh.

I turn my attention away from their small private moment, and over to where Mela is talking to the gobs themselves. “-but you don’t have to?” She’s saying. Not asking, really, but with that tone that says that she doubts herself. Ask the beetles what they’ve been talking about, and get a quick impression of her trying to tell the gobs that they don’t have to work.

“But we need to.” One of them replies, confused.

“But you don’t!” Mela replies, becoming increasingly aggravated.

Kalip slips in, a motion that is so smooth I cannot imagine he didn’t practice it bringing him around to a seated position on the bench near them, plucking an excitedly squealing Zhoy up onto his lap as he does so. He’s taken the time to trade his armor for a simple tunic and skirt, and also to bathe, which I’m sure everyone appreciates after his several days in the Green. “Mela, what’s wrong?” He asks directly.

The young human woman frowns and crosses her arms. “They’re acting like slaves.” She complains. “Is this your fault?”

“Even if - Zhoy don’t poke people.” Kalip cuts himself off to chastise the small demon who is trying to get a feel for the skin texture of the gob nearest her with the orange patches on their skin. “Even if it were my fault, I wouldn’t tell you. But no, it’s not.” He pauses. “Also all of us have to work. I’m not sure what you’re confused about.”

“We should all be useful.” The orange gob nods, their mane of black hair poking through the collar of their new uniform shirt as they do so. Kalip gives them a professional nod, and then points at them to indicate agreement while making eye contact with Mela.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“That’s not… you know that’s different!” She exclaims.

If I may? I write on the table near them, asking a smaller bee to land at the header of my message and indicate my attention on the subject. The gobs stare curiously, one of them with food still in their curved fingers halfway to their mouth, while Kalip and Mela just accept my focus instantly. For young gobs, there is a connection to their manifesting tool that is close to a compulsion. The need to be seen as useful, to perform labor, has - I pause, and rewrite the word - had a number of theories regarding its nature. But the dominant one was that, as they are born out of abandoned tools, there is a deep fear of that same abandonment, that they must prove they are not worthy of. This fades later in life, usually. Well. Usually, when… they are part of healthy society.

Kalip reads slower than Mela does, and it doesn’t help that the kid he’s holding onto is trying to figure out if he’s ticklish. But eventually he looks up and glances over at Mela, then back at where my body is occupying a spot on a bench on the other end of the table. “You write like an Alatian history tutor.” He complains.

“I kinda like it.” Mela says. “No one ever knows this stuff. And since the empress consolidated all the libraries, there’s nothing to read.”

Wait, she what? I feel like this is important.

“I guess you wouldn’t have been around for it.” Kalip shrugs. “There was a decree a few years back to move all the valuable knowledge to where it could be easily protected, in the central royal library. Our squad was running escort for-“

“Protected.” Mela snorts. “You know what it was for!” She accuses him.

I actually, honestly, do not think Kalip understands what it was for. He gives her a blank look, not out of malice or obfuscation, but simply because he doesn’t know why she’s reacting. I think. I somewhat wish at this point that I had taken Hear Intent or perhaps Hear Plots. I almost have enough power to grab for it now, but that would be beyond petty. As it stands, it seems he honestly does not realize the implication.

Mela is upset because it means that there is no more access to education for people like her. I write. If the history texts are protected, that implies they are protected from someone. And she is one of those someones.

“That… doesn’t make sense.” Kalip states. “Anyone can get in if they pay a small membership fee.”

And travel to the capital. And, presumably, have their fee accepted in the first place. And even then, any problematic texts could simply be removed or restricted. I try to restrain the flourishes on my writing for Kalip’s sake. It is a method of control. Practiced over centuries. Mela is right to worry, because it works. Though… I suppose it may be moot now.

None of us know, after all, if the capital still stands. We don’t know how far the chaos reaches. I, personally, don’t even know how to find the capital on a map, and I’ve seen no evidence of cities in my searching with Distant Vision.

“As fun as it is to have you agree with me, this is getting off topic.” She complains. “Kalip can be wrong later. What about the working thing?”

“Yes, we would like to work!” One of the gobs perks up. “And… can you read that?” They ask the question with trepidation. Instantly flinching as they do so, like they’re worried about punishment.

Ah, they cannot read. I write to the humans. Could one of you translate? We will need to see if they are comfortable joining the children for lessons.

Mela reads it aloud, and then also sums up the rest of what I’d said for them, before adding to me, “But they are kids, aren’t they?”

“You’re a kid too, kid.” Kalip snorts.

“I’m an adult!” She says, in exactly the kind of whining voice that newly minted adults tend to use when challenged on their age. “You’re the one being a baby!” Mela leans over the gobs between them to point an accusatory finger at Kalip.

“Are you a baby?” Zhoy whispers to him.

Something about the small demon being so openly curious cracks Kalip’s stoic facade, and his face twitches into a tiny smile. “Yes.” He whispers back. “Don’t tell anyone though.”

I let Mela and Kalip talk past each other for a little longer, before I enlist their help again as a translator. First, because I wish to know the gob’s chosen names - Fisher, Sharpen, and Vestment - and second, because I need to reiterate something to them.

I made you a promise, when you made it here. I say. And I will keep to it. This place can be your home. But we do need everyone who can help to contribute. I realize though that the humans that found you before us were not kind, and I want to tell you that we will not act that way. You are not slaves, no matter what you were told.

Mela finishes reading, then snaps her head up to look in my direction. “Wait, what?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s why I came back with three gobs, not three gobs and three humans. They were treating them like truffle pigs.” Kalip understates the message slightly.

Fisher cuts in before the two humans get distracted again. “We can be useful?” They ask, and Sharpen perks up next to them.

Useful, yes. Also fed, rested, and cared for. It is the duty of a good tool to be well maintained.

Mela cuts herself off halfway through reading that last part aloud. “What the… what the tar is this?” She demands of me.

Ah. Apologies. It is an old gob saying, from the last era. It… perhaps does not translate well.

“No, it certainly doesn’t. Though I can think of a few sergeants who would have loved to have those words.” Kalip sighs almost wistfully. “Alright Zhoy, I need to get up now.” He says, moving to leave. Well, trying to anyway. The kid clings to him, like she’s decided he’s a climbing wall. Kalip just follows through on his threat, standing up off the bench, only to realize that the child is still attached to him. “Uh huh…” He says.

While he sorts that out, and the gobs talk among themselves in small, excited voices, I drift between different conversations. Different thoughts traded over a midday meal.

Yuea is fuming, but can’t do much about it, and is I think actually annoyed that the gobs don’t even acknowledge that I’m different, much less care. I’m going to have to talk to her at some point about Amalgamate Human, a conversation I dread, but did make a promise to have. Even if it wasn’t a magically enforced one, I will still hold to my word.

Seraha seems to love having more people to serve food to. The farmer, the cleric, and the singer all have memories that push their way to the fore, of elders in villages who were eager to cook for anyone they could. Whether it was family or visitors, the process of sharing food was one they smiled at. The farmer had been the old man cooking for passing travelers, at one point, and he had deeply understood the value of a hot meal on the road. Seraha’s guests will hopefully be here longer than a day or two, but she still slides more fried food onto their plates as the gobs eagerly have their first real meal since manifesting.

Dipan and Jahn are talking in low voices about plans to expand. They discuss how fast the recently sown crops are growing, what they can expect for the future, and how much land they’ll need to work to make a go of it. Jahn brings knowledge of food production to their chat; how much flour can feed how many people with simple bread, and what you’d need to make something more enjoyable. Dipan shows a surprisingly good grasp of math, running calculations of farm area and spoilage rates. Now, he does these calculations by carving into the table with a small knife, and I think that if Seraha sees him she might just bring her war spoon out again. But the casual vandalism is less impactful in a place where I can erase the marks with a thought.

The children, most of whom have already finished their food with the ravenous hunger of kids who might not have thought they’d ever get a real meal again, race around the meal hall under the watchful eyes of the bees they have following them, as well as the adults. Small shouts and laughs begin to fill the air, and while I cannot actually feel the thermal texture of the room, I get the impression of warmth from the scene.

All but one child. Sivs still sits as the rest of his young friends flee, a look on his face like he’s trying to force himself to be the more mature adult that he isn’t quite yet. I ask the bee on his shoulder to hop to the table, and write a message between a pair of cleared plates. You can play, too, you know. I say.

His face scrunches up as he tries to puzzle through the letters, sounding out the words that he had minimal experience reading. When he thinks he has it, he shakes his head and whispers to me, “I’m not a kid anymore.” He doesn’t sound angry, exactly. But he also doesn’t sound particularly proud of it.

I do understand, though. It can be hard, to be forced to act in a way where survival of yourself and others hinges on your actions, and then to suddenly be told that things are safe. That you can go back to being a kid. Sivs, especially, shows signs of it; I know he sequesters food in his pockets and under his bed, and I know he’s done the same with at least one knife. You aren’t, no. I write. But adults can play too. Or maybe… make sure the little ones don’t get into too much trouble?

“…what about them?” Sivs asks slowly after he I help him with a few of the words, carving small images into the table when he asks about them to help him learn faster. He’s talking about the gobs, who a few of the other kids, both human and demon, are lurking near and curiously staring at. “Are they… monsters or something?”

Just people. I write. Stuck halfway between child and adult for now, you might say.

His face twists as he reads, and then turns into a childish scowl in my direction. “You’re being obvious.” He says the word like he stole it from an adult, and is very smug that he has a growing vocabulary.

Yes. I write. You know, it’s a hot day; perhaps what they need is someone to explain the rules of water tag to them? Of all my spells, Shift Water and Move Water get perhaps the least use, which means that they are constantly full of that empty liquid that fuels them, ready to be cast upon the world. Water tag is a game I play with the kids, when I have time, that is exactly what it sounds like. Simple, and refreshing on a burning summer day. Yuea approves of it especially, since I made the mistake of telling her it was a source of power through the exercise of the magic. Everyone else approves because it leaves the children grinning and only slightly soggy.

And despite Sivs seeing through my thin veneer of political machinations, he still moves rather quickly to invite the new half-children to join them for a game.

“For someone who’s terrified of everyone, you sure are social today.” Yuea’s voice isn’t directed at anyone in particular, but in the emptying dining hall, it’s not hard to tell who she’s talking to. My beetles pick up her words, and direct my attention her way.

I’m not… I stop writing. Does Yuea think I’m terrified of people? Was… were you trying to be friendly earlier? I ask her. Dragging me away from prying eyes?

“And look at the bruises I got for my effort.” I don’t actually have any eyes on Yuea directly, so I don’t know if she’s showing off whatever non-injuries Seraha inflicted on her or not. “Sorry.” She says the word like it’s alien to her. And then moves on without consideration. Which makes me wonder if Yuea has never apologized for anything in her life. “So, what now?”

If it weren’t for the fact that Form Party kills people if I link them to me, I would use it now just so Yuea could hear me sigh deeply. But we all have burdens to carry, I suppose. I took your advice, and have chosen Stone Pylon. I write, trying to put the words near her head so she doesn’t have to stop leaning back in the chair someone dragged in here for her. It allows me to replicate my magics, and I believe it can be given instructions. All I need to make more is usable stone.

Yuea coughs loudly as her breath catches. It takes her long enough to recover that I worry I might need to get Mela to bring a soothing tonic to her. “Ahhhhh.” She gasps out eventually, holding a hand to her chest. “…getting old…” she mutters near-silently, before looking back up. “You can’t just say things like that without warning.” Yuea glares at me. “But also… how much stone do you need? Does quality matter? Cutting? Is there a limit to this? The things we could do…”

All good questions. I agree. Which I could answer. If we, perhaps, had some stone.

“I’ll see what I can do.” She smiles.