Vetrean sat down heavily in his personal armchair, placed conspicuously on the ramparts, within one of the turrets. One of the surviving scouts from the scuffle hours earlier was reporting to him about the casualties of the recent battle.
“And what about the [Battle Strategist]?”
“Didn’t survive. Their death destroyed our morale, and the elite troop broke shortly after.”
The city [Strategist] leaned backwards, rubbing his eyes. The loss of a [Battle Strategist] would be a severe blow to their operations at the frontline, too chaotic for any other kind of tactician to survive. Vetrean was not strong, nor a warrior. His worth lay in his skull, not his muscle. If he personally tried to micromanage every squad at the front, he would be liable to be shot through by an arrow or mauled by a charging shields-person with a warhammer.
Their advance force had been utterly destroyed. No one had expected for the Hammer tribes to perform such a risky offensive. The Chappie forces had nearly won, even considering the sudden ambush, but the appearance of their King had tipped the scales so greatly that it went from a battle of attrition to a complete rout on their end. Only Hieft’s sense of chivalry had prevented them from slaughtering the retreating army.
So a number of mages and rangers had escaped, as well as a fraction of the shock troops intended for storming the enemy camp. They would have to be rehabilitated, refreshed, and prepared for the second wave, when the Hammer Tribes, likely high on their latest victory, would storm the city walls. The scouts had already told him about the strange metal exoskeleton that Hieft wore across his body; perhaps an artifact. It had to be, to enhance his battle prowess so much. It would explain his reckless aggression, whereas Hieft was usually careful and pragmatic.
Already the mages on standby in the Tower were reinforcing the walls with whatever constructs they had prepared for this very day. Their spire stored many useful trinkets, as well as functioning as a hub for the aspiring wizard in a significant area. Plus they had their pride to defend. No barbaric bandit would topple their tranquil tower without a fight.
So busy was the city, scrambling to train conscripts to man the ramparts and to hold the spear and shield that would soon be the only thing standing between their livelihoods and the expansionist, insatiable appetite that the Hammer Tribes possessed. Apprentice archers fired at targets, small squads of spearmen sparring in the dusty. Pikemen and shielders squared off against an outfit of swordsmen in a mock battle, on a small scale.
Perience stood among their ranks, lashing out with carefully placed slashes, knocking aside incoming pikes. With a partial [Charged Strike], he pushed back the shield wall with air pressure, destabilizing their footing long enough for him to slip past the sharp spears and break the shield formation with an [Overhead Slash].
The rest of his outfit did not follow up. They were, by far, much less skilled, and were easily repulsed by the superior pike shield wall combination. Without backup, he was quickly swarmed and forced to surrender to sheer numbers. A nearby referee awarded another point to the Defense team, placing the score at 6-1. The Assault team (Perience’s squad) only won once at the very beginning, since he was able to catch the shield wall off guard.
He sat on the bench, downing a whole cup of water in seconds. Training all day was very tiring, but if it was for the good of the city, he would push through it anyway. Perience could nearly imagine the flames of war and a city being sieged when someone tapped him on the shoulder. T’was Emis, hair freshly combed and belt laden with potions of worrying colors!
“I’m back. Did you miss me?”
“Not really, I just missed your potions.”
“But you cared about me, right? Maybe a little bit?”
“Yeah, yeah, just tell me where you been this whole time. Had to buy stopgap pots to hold me over while you were gone.”
“Didn’t you hear? We’re at war now, and the city knocked on my doors. Wanted me to enlist.”
“I thought you weren’t a fighting kinda guy anymore?”
Emis plopped himself down on the bench, vials clinking against each other. Multicolored liquids sloshed around, some changing gradients and others sparkling in the sunlight.
“Truth is, I’m not. But the Tower… they have some pretty good equipment in there if you know what I mean.”
“Good enough to get you to do something you hate?”
“Well, I don’t hate it. I just don’t really like doing it. And look- they have a disassembler! I can reverse engineer most potions just by putting it on a rack and tapping a few runes.”
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“...So? I thought you wanted to make new potions, not old ones that other people’ve already made.”
“Don’t you see the possibilities? By figuring out how other people make their potions, I can branch off the work they’ve already made! I can even mix and match ingredients to create new products; the possibilities are endless.”
“Sounds like an excuse to mess with the research equipment.”
“You call it messing with equipment, I call it the forefront of science.”
Emis deftly slid one of his tinctures from his toolbelt and handed it to Perience. The swordsman stared at the little glass bottle, then back at its owner. The orangish mixture radiated strength and power, instilling the holder with a sense of vigor.
“Potion of Brawn. Looks pretty normal, right? Go on, try it. It’s a cheaper formula I’ve developed, but never had the tools to make.”
Perience raised the concoction to his lips. Tangy. It burned a little, as if it were carbonated. Actually quite tasty. Other than the taste, he immediately began to feel buoyed, filled with energy. He felt like a man who had just woken up on a beautiful weekend to the sound of birds chirping feeling fresh and new. He grabbed his sword and swung it, hearing the melodious sound of his blade through the air. Then he tried throwing a spear at one of the archery targets.
The notched spear whistled for a moment, striking the target with significant force, piercing through to the backside and landing on the ground behind it.
“This stuff’s terrific! I feel like I could do this for hours…”
“You kind of can, actually. It’s a full Potion of Brawn, not the cheap Lesser variants that you can just mass produce with cheap herbs. Lasts a few hours, the effect is stronger too.”
“When can I buy this?”
“Right now it's only for military use, and there's a tiny chance of side effects, so it’ll be longer before I can get them approved for commercial use.”
“...Side effects? What- what kind of side effects we talkin’ here?”
Emis turned away, pretending to check all the stuff he brought with him for defects or imperfections or any other sort of problem.
“Oh, y’know. Not anything serious. Maybe a little fatigue afterward, a bit of coughing, minor rashes…”
“Oh, that doesn’t sound so bad.”
“...sneezing, pain in the joints, burnout, pain in the chest, and muscle failure.”
“MUSCLE FAILURE? YOU GAVE ME AN UNTESTED POTION THAT COULD GIVE ME MUSCLE FAILURE?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’ve tested it with a ton of mice and stuff. Only one lost the ability to move, so I’d say that was a success!”
“WHY’D YOU MAKE ME DRINK SOMETHING THAT DANGEROUS?!”
“Look. I’m pretty sure it won’t cause muscle failure. To you. You’re decently leveled, right? You’re probably tougher than the average man. Pretty sure if I stabbed you with a dull dagger, it wouldn’t even break the skin. You’ll probably do just fine. Plus I got a handful of Lesser Healing Potions with me just for times like this.”
“When is the muscle failure gonna kick in. Just tell me.”
“About two hours in. If you’re unlucky.”
Perience made to reach out for one of the Lesser Healing Potions, then hesitated.
“You didn’t really test the healing potions either, did you?”
“Technically I am not legally obligated to disclose this information to anyone but the higher ups…”
The resulting brawl involved 23 soldiers in the city’s employ. Three required doses of Lesser Healing Potions to recover from their injuries. A new law would be passed soon as a result: alchemists may not disseminate untested potions without first informing the customer. It was all good, though: Perience did not have muscle failure.
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Foile woke up on a bright sunny morning to the smell of soup. Bright light streamed in through the little windows he had, playing upon the dust floating through the air. A terrific day, in all respects, barring his parents and the rumors he heard of upcoming war.
Heading to the mess hall, he passed by other kids, some tired and dragging their feet, and others charging down the hallway as if they had limitless energy. A few carried their blankets with them (they tend to call them blankies), and others owned patchwork teddy bears or other little dolls stitched together from cloth and filled with straw.
The mess hall itself was much more chaotic. Kids crowded around the front of the serving area instead of forming a line, although some tried. Groups of the little children ate together, or bothered others for fun. Occasionally someone would try to fling their soup with their spoon and get told off by the few adults that actually ran the place.
He did not really have friends, for he was considered strange even among all the other orphans that lived here. Today, he listened.
“Hey, didja hear? The big Misters and Misses said that there’s going to be a war…”
“I think I’m going to stay here for now. There’s a spider in my room.”
“Do you think someone will adopt us someday? The adults never tell me when!”
“Taking care of the kids is hard, but someone has to do it. It’s gonna get harder from here though, word on the street is there’s a robber stealing random stuff like swords, pots, pans, and even some of our crops…”
Bits and pieces here and there, and he kind-of-not-really understood what was going on. Really he just hoped to hear some good news, or a familiar name. Maybe there were other survivors, and he could reconnect and find out where everyone had fled to.
In his room, the nanos roved over a few miscellaneous items it had recovered from last night’s venture. Nothing particularly valuable, but extra data was always useful. There was not quite enough substance with which to construct more copies of itself, and it was much too small to dig efficiently. Even so, that was the only thing it could do. With a small radioisotope generator and time, it was the only real option.
This world was very strange, though. Strange symbols could be found in some drawers in higher class areas, where glowing runes kept food from spoiling and gems and jewelry were all the rage. Glowing amethysts and radiating sapphires decorated the rooms and clothes of the rich, filled with some unknown kind of energy. The slums were much worse, sporting none of these mechanics and possessing only the bare minimum in terms of technology.
Foile scarfed down what soup he had in spite of the heat (it was freshly made) and traced the steps back to where he knew the warden’s office was, which he had visited merely days before. Inside, the woman-whose-name-he-didn’t-know looked up from her papers to greet him with a warm smile.
“Hello, child. What are you here for? Is the food not to your liking? A problem with the other kids? Or do you simply want my company?”
He looked at the ground awkwardly, scuffing his shoes on the ground and glancing at the chairs against the wall and the magical light on the desk and generally not making eye contact.
“I- I want to learn how to fight.”
The warden-woman nearly choked on her glass of water.