'Mage robes' – one of the most ridiculous ideas humankind has yet created. The concept of forming institutions so structured that they necessitate a dress code for an activity as innate as breathing is absurd. The notion that mana manipulation is some arcane knowledge to be hoarded away in tall ivory towers, or locked in dusty, rotting libraries beneath the earth, is laughable. Inefficiency breeds inefficiency, and this is a prime example.
This is not an idle thought; it has been thrust into the forefront of my mind upon re-entering the shop front and seeing the third soulless corpse of the day. This one, however, had the audacity to stain my floor with its ichor. My defenses were not so crude as to cut flesh – partially to avoid this very mess – yet forcibly pulling the control of an anima being, or Spindra as they were referred due to the braided spindles of their composition, from its host flesh did leave that vessel prone to falling in inconvenient places, be it sailing into a new tool of mine, or simply bashing its brains on my counter. Rarely does a lesson repeat itself so clearly in such a short time.
The vessel wore the colors of the local 'mage guild', a collection of self-congratulatory, religious conservative elders in glorified bath robes, flaunting an achievement as basic as an infant's first steps. The garish yellow and black color scheme served as a backdrop to a poorly stitched raven, adding insult to literal injury. At least Claire’s sudden shift to an easily portable form factor had multiplied my travel speed, cutting a three-day journey to that of half a day. I believe I had technically made it back through the door before midnight, but it was a close thing. Any longer and there may have been a persistent smell from this mess.
At least my defenses had done their job, rending and storing the lethally inquisitive guild initiate just as programmed. The so-called elders of their organization must have noticed the anomalous mana around my one-way windows and decided to enter via force, as evidenced by the messy hole in my shopfront’s wall. If I were not already past my tolerance for mess and inefficiency today, I would have to commend them for actually making it through, likely believing me an equally capricious hoarder of "arcane knowledge". Well, this may be the only instance in their miserable lives in which they would be correct, not that that helped this initiate any.
Having given enough time to this distraction, I drew my attention away from the garishly attired remains and towards the relative sanctuary of my workshop. Gliding back behind the counter with an air of practiced indifference, I brushed past the plain weapons, armors, and tools in racks and displays. Each object a decoration for the façade of this place. My domain does not truly begin until I am through the doors to the workshop proper, plain and unassuming to the casual observer. Stepping over the threshold, I let the familiar aroma of well-oiled machinery and heightened ambient mana seep into my senses, a soothing salve for the events of the day.
Beyond the cluttered workbenches and dormant machines used to mold the physical components of anima constructs, the true forge awaited. The doors, wrought of darkened steel and imbued with enchantments of containment and stability, loomed ahead. Here, beneath the austere and unyielding exterior, was where the true miracles of artifice came to life, coaxed into existence by the deft application of knowledge, precision, and a touch of raw, unfiltered anima.
Laying a hand on the cool metal, I gave a silent command, my anima resonating with the dormant energies within the door, stirring them to wakefulness. With a deep, satisfied and welcoming groan, the doors began to part, the crack between them glowing with the promise of the cool inferno within. This was the heart of my domain, the beating pulse of my craft, and it was time to rekindle its fires.
The rise and fall of the echoing creak marked my final steps towards its heart. There are several justifications for referring to this section of the building as the 'forge'. Firstly, there actually is a mundane forge here, as copious amounts of raw metal are melted and shaped for my purposes. Though, I would be lying if I claimed to be the primary wielder of these crafts. To the immediate left, directly opposite the physical forge, its smiths are lined up.
Spindras are both incredibly simple and infuriatingly finicky creatures, akin to how any parent might describe a young child. Their single desire in life is control, a desire I resonate with deeply. The problem arises due to their stark lack of strength in influencing the physical world. An infantile Spindra, such as those housed in the preserved crimson receptacles on the back wall, could not physically lift a feather. They, being true instinctive infants, can only exert enough physical presence to manipulate the smallest units of matter and biology. Adjusting the energy states of electrons, connecting pairs of neurons - this is the scale at which Spindras operate. But, as it turns out, that’s all the influence they initially need. Why lift a finger when you can instruct a complex network of muscle fibers to contract and do it for you? Or, in the case of our sleeping smiths, a similar synthetic musculature.
Beyond the constructs and their forge lie the true instruments of my craft. Ironically, they appear plain in comparison to the complex automaton and efficient blast furnace before them. Firstly, a simple, unadorned hammer rests atop an equally unpretentious anvil. Yet, it is austere only to those without my sight, as the hammer is inlaid with some of the most intricate works of anima enchantment in this entire structure. Operating on the same principles as my own being and body, this physical instrument can strike directly at anima. Additionally, it can do so with a precision and versatility far surpassing its physical properties, capable of directing unparalleled force to the most minute fibers of a Spindra.
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Adjacent to the hammer and anvil, nestled parallel to the mundane forge, lies in stark contrast to the blocky furnace another instrument, its spindly shape mimicking the delicate weavings of a Spindra's anima. To call both a forge would seem to void the word of all known meaning. A spectacle to behold, it is a wonder of artifice and ingenuity, its tendrils intricately crafted to echo the gossamer fibers of Spindras themselves. An uninitiated onlooker might think this contraption a mere curiosity, an odd artifact of whimsy. But in truth, it is an instrument of precision and necessity. The sprawl of its tendrils, each no thicker than a spider's silk, creates an expanse of surface area unparalleled in its vastness. This sprawling surface is crucial, playing host to an incalculable number of intricate anima etchings, each a testament to my craft.
In the unseen world of anima, the spindly instrument, my Anamastrum, shimmers with a multitude of ethereal tendrils for each physical fiber. Each one carries the abilities of anima manipulation, a silent testament to my skill and purpose. It is an uncountable-tendrilled art piece in this light, so intricately designed, it teeters on the brink of impossibility. To my eyes, it is nothing short of beautiful, a mesmerizing display of complexity and detail. It encapsulates my purpose, a tangible symbol of my passion and my craft. This Anamastrum, this Soul Forge, is mine.
This exquisite tool is tasked with the delicate process of anima deconstruction. It unwinds the Spindra into an unshaped raw form known as a 'blank', a canvas to be imprinted on physical matter to act as an artificial imitation of a true Spindra. However, referring to it as a 'blank' can be somewhat misleading. Although the Anamastrum neutralizes the anima's structure, memories, and individual characteristics, each 'blank' retains a faint imprint of its former existence, a ghostly echo that forever marks its origin.
Yet, it is fed the anima of non-sapient beasts only. The anima of these mindless creatures, devoid of intellect, offer up a raw and untamed resource to the Anamastrum's voracious appetite. These beings are lost causes in the grand scheme of existence, their primitive consciousnesses akin to untouched clay in the cosmic pottery. They gain purpose through sacrifice, serving a cause far grander than their natural existence. Using the anima of true Spindras, beings capable of higher thought and self-awareness, would be unthinkable, a desecration of their inherent dignity and potential. It would be in direct conflict with my purpose, my belief, and my mission.
I find this environment, alien though it may be to most, reassuring, comforting. I show no signs of relief as another might, continuing my expedient path from the door to the back wall of the chamber. While passing by, I casually toss the desiccated Spindra of the slaughtered monster to the Anamastrum. Like a many-armed cephalopod pouncing on unsuspecting prey, it ensnares it, beginning its work. It would have seen a better yield if preserved more thoroughly than lingering in my grasp, but my first priority is being removed from my satchel as we speak.
With care, I remove Claire in her crimson container as I open the reinforced glass pane covering a half-dozen more. They are lined up like a sleeping menagerie of infant beings before me. The quiet hum of a sophisticated preservation enchantment sputters, then is rekindled as the glass is replaced in as little time as I can confidently manage. A new member joins the assembly and the weight leaves my shoulders. This will be sufficient to extend the undegraded lifespan of the biomass for years to come if it proves necessary.
As the enclosure containing Claire melds seamlessly with the others, the second new vial of the day directly above that which I have just inserted reminds me of additional matters to attend. I turn my attention to the these less pressing tasks immediately. To my left, the ‘smiths’ lay dormant, though they can perform many tasks beyond the shaping of raw metals.
Awakening the nearest, a construct I frequently allocate to maintenance and menial tasks, I mentally guide it through a set of instructions. Its anima stirs, echoing my command in a shimmering cascade of understanding. The spindles within its sleek humanoid head begin robotically manipulating the ‘brain’ of the construct, a specialized input terminal in which movement decisions reduce to the minute adjustments of individual electrons. It then ambles towards the shop, its every movement precise and deliberate, much like a more traditional and well-oiled machine. Its main task is clear - to dispose of the corpse and cleanse my shop of the distasteful remnants of the encounter.
Meanwhile, I begin my own work, immersing myself in the ever-so-complex world of anima, where chaos is tamed into order and raw potential is refined into a symphony of creation.
Spindra are truly fragile beings deserving of their moniker. A sapient being such as my briefly present assistant cannot be simply shunted into any automaton. Even minor discrepancies between a typical Spindra’s self-conception and its physical vessel can cause nightmarish results. A misplaced limb here, slightly off body proportions there, even subtly different facial features can throw the poor things into an existential tailspin of dysmorphia.
However, the reason for Claire’s selection and my disproportionate effort in her attainment again shines through. Her structure, her very essence is that I have not seen in any human before her. She is like a gas, seemingly happy to fill any shape or size of role life throws at her, or at least able to maintain a coherent and undisturbed sense of self through it all. The exact implications for my craft and their limits must be tested, but I do not believe she will sit dormant for long.
The intrusion of the guild member and the ensuing mess was an unexpected disturbance, but now, it is nothing more than another notch in the budding timeline of this place. All is set back on course, and the rhythm of my craft resumes, undisturbed and unerring.