It wasn’t until years later that Ezaryl had learned the truth of the One-week War, of the automaton that she now knew would come to be known as a tankman. The one used in the exhibition was an unfinished prototype, scarcely able to move under its own strength, let alone shatter a boulder with a punch. It had been an exhibition of strength, that much was true - it was merely the Sage’s own strength disguised as the machine’s.
Ezaryl kept strumming away, going through the motion of the song for no reason other than to help her focus. Repeating deeply-rooted muscle memory helped clear the mind of errant thoughts, to assuage meaningless anxieties.
“Then I came across an incredible sight of shimmering domes and spires, I stood in rapture standing on air, with hundreds like me besides… Welcome children you are chosen to start anew your race, the world below has been destroyed but you're safe within this place...”
Footsteps behind her. The jingling of chainmail, the clacking of plate shin-guards. The deep tenor belonging to one of her bodyguards resounded. She released the tension from her diaphragm, but kept strumming.
“Lady Krishorn, the preparations are complete,” he said. “The caravan is ready to sail.”
“Tell them I’ll be at the helm in twenty minutes,” she replied.
More jingling and clacking. She could hear him doing that incredibly stiff, small bow before he replied, “Of course.”
Moments later he was gone, and Ezaryl let out a sigh. “No reason to delay,” she told herself, standing up. Her instrument hung around her neck by braided red cord, its weight scarcely noticed.
The heiress took a short while to make herself more presentable. Plain, white robes gave way to a bespoke outfit tailored in its entirety from Fog-infused fabrics, for its design permitted no less.
It started at armored shin-guards tied together with red cord and sandals for footwear.
Next came parachute pants with sizable ventilation holes in the sides, paired with sufficiently sturdy and showy undergarments and held up by a corded red rope belt. The belt was amusingly the sturdiest part of the whole ensemble, perhaps because it bore the weight of not only Ezaryl’s dignity, but her sword as well. A traditional saber, with a sheath and handle of plain hardwood to contrast its lightning-etched blade. The weapon’s own concealed beauty also contrasted the rest of the outfit.
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The top was a minimalistic piece designed to generously showcase and accentuate the cleavage, with a red base and white cloud-styled print on the lower half. It had one long, loose sleeve for the left arm and an armored plate affixed to the left shoulder, while the right arm remained exposed for maximum maneuverability with a sword. After that it was a wide hat to keep the sun out of her eyes. Altogether, the getup was just a very expensive and fanciful way of keeping oneself cool in hot weather.
Piece by piece she got dressed, and with each piece she grew more thankful that mundane fabrics were long in the past. Each article was tailored to her specifically, and they still altered their shapes in subtle ways to compensate for deviation in her measurements, not to mention the utterly vital adhesion to her skin. With everything in place she strapped on her sword, taking it from its stand and slipping it into the red cord loops that held it in place.
Last of all, an old bamboo flute, which she hung around her neck. An heirloom older than the family name Krishorn. She didn’t know what it sounded like, and she hoped that it would remain so.
Minutes later she had made her way out of the estate and through the city’s limestone-cobbled streets, heading resolutely to the caravan staging grounds, worrying neither for provisions nor for luggage, knowing full well that both had already been taken care of. It still felt a little strange, having so many petty things done for her - her mother had done all in her considerable power to simulate a normal childhood, including the absence of manservants or servant golems. It hadn’t been until she neared adulthood that she was slowly exposed to her family’s mind-boggling wealth. Heiress though she was, Ezaryl never did feel included among her peers, and she wagered this was why. The inheritors-to-be of other merchant clans weren’t necessarily insufferable, they just… Tended towards it. Even those whose presence she found perfectly bearable had a strange air about them, like they took their elevated positions in life for granted.
She pitied them. They would never know how good it felt to drink at a tavern as one of the regular customers rather than an unwelcome rich kid, or haggle down a merchant who thought her out of touch with the prices of the common man’s wares. She couldn’t even befriend most of them in earnest, let alone forge any meaningful relationships that weren’t tied up in the politicking and pretentious intrigue. At least the bodies of immaculately-groomed merchant-nobles made for pretty boytoys.
They would never know the struggle of struggling against oneself in pursuit of true self-control, they would never know what it was to wield a blade outside duels where even the most grievous of injuries were treated at a moment’s notice. With their precious elixirs and opulently-decorated blades, forged by the hands of dead masters who had doubtlessly expected their works to be used by hands more worthy.
No, she didn’t just pity them. Ezaryl resented the stagnant opulence of her peers.
Year by year she progressed in the disciplines of her ancestors, leveraging the conveniences of the modern age in concert with tradition. The scars on her back were put there by a real lightning bolt, not some fulgurkineticist arc coils. With each passing year she watched her peers grow closer to the very western nobles that they so eagerly derided, hiring greater men than themselves to hunt down beasts of the steppe for their Azoth Stones, then hiring alchemists to purify these Azoths into as easy to consume a form as possible.