Chapter 2

4 years B.G.E

A rose-tinted sunset caresses the lush, green hills that lounge upon the Victorican horizon. Doyenne Avaline rests her aging fingers upon the bannister of the veranda. The railing upon which she rests is composed of stone, as is most of the Royal Clocktower. A conventionally odd look in the eyes of an Outsider, considering the rest of Victorica’s infrastructure is made up almost entirely of various sturdy metals and congenial gears. However, its true visual purpose serves as a divine representation of just how far Man and Maton have come. Avaline recalls the words of her grandfather, Alabaster Herringbone, who was once a privateer on the Aquadrome:

“…No, Ava, not us. The people before us. Our ancestors. They forged our lands. Forged ‘em.. wif nuffin’ but their own bare ‘ands, and the forbearance of the Great Tinkerer. They started wif the ground, and the coarse rock beneaf it. And now… well, look aroundja, littlun. Look to the sky. See that tower? What makes its great Clock tick? No one knows, ‘cept the Tinkerer himself. He did nuffin’ more than snap ‘is fingers. And Time was set into motion. And one day, you will be the one to oversee the ones who look up for its guidance. Thousands will look. They’ll look to ya, littlun…”

Avaline smiles.

“…will you be ready?”

A single silver tear steaks down the Doyenne’s face as she reaches and rubs her finger down the hilt of Alabaster’s bronze cutlass, his preferred weapon during his time on the water, passed down to Avaline. It is engraved with the image of a tentacled monster, one that her grandfather claimed to have met on the water. She misses him dearly, thinking of his kind, ocean-blue eyes, occasionally twinkling towards her as he told legend after legend of important historical figures that shaped the identity of her precious kingdom and its inhabitants. As poignant a leader her grandfather was, he still was a wayfarer at heart. The Aquadrome, a giant river lining the northern borders of Victorica, is one of the more well-kept and masterfully guarded assets of the land, and nearly all of the modern techniques employed for the purpose of its protection stem from Alabaster’s valor and strategic erudition.

The sun dips lower.

Avaline redirects her attention back to the sprawling conurbation of her vast kingdom. Pride, not as much for herself, but for her subjects, swells inside of her, empowered by the majesty, the beauty, of all of it, only accentuated by the ravishing pinkish-red sunset. With every tick of the Tinkerer’s clock behind her, the city tocks. A well-oiled machine, Victorica functions with flawless efficiency, every gear, cog, wheel, sprocket, and rivet operating in perfect harmony with one another. A dozen Colossi line the horizon, mammoth airships suspended by leather zeppelins. Directly below them, great plumes of steam erupt from hundreds of Shanties, cargo-toting steamboats that carve a subtle path through the otherwise tranquil surface of the Aquadrome. Merchants, artisans, tinkerers, and mechanicians dot the cobbled streets far below, as pedestrians narrowly sidestep lustrous iron Stagecoaches. To the far east, Widgets, giant manufacturing stations, house skilled Mechanicians, eager to claim yet another revolutionary discovery.

Avaline takes a deep breath, cherishing the serene land for which she has toiled, for decades, to bring to its current status. Her pride again swells.

But another feeling sparks within her inner being. It has nagged at her for many years. A small inkling of… of restlessness. Yes, that’s the word.

As Alabaster once was, Avaline is a fighter at her core. As Doyenne, she felt more fulfilled as a leader and protector of her people with an Outsider at the business end of her old Harquebus rifle, rather than a peace treaty sitting on her rusty desk within her throne room. She then heard the words of her father, Erasmus Herringbone, during her first time allowed in the Council Chamber during a meeting of faction leaders:

“Friends, councilpeople, nobles… it is indeed my humble observation, in concurrence with Councilmech Falla, that the pen is not simply mightier than that of the sword; it is an assurance of our humane sophistication we have worked so hard to achieve. It is, undoubtedly, the most vital symbol of our kingdom’s identity and age-old reputation. We have come far to set ourselves apart from the savage borderlands. Poised statecraft, rather than uncouth primitivism, is what will act as the engine to drive the prosperity of Victorica.”

Erasmus, along with Lead Zealot Wilken Falla, had cultivated an environment in which war was viewed as barbaric and only necessary when there was no other option. She loved her father dearly, admired him, and even idolized him in terms of his deftly proficient diplomacy. But he was often stagnant and much too hesitant in his leadership, which was not all his fault - during his reign, there was merely a single uprising among a small group of radical Men, disgruntled Widget workers who felt that they were being treated unfairly by an especially penurious Overseer. It was quickly quelled by the Ironclads Knights, however, with Erasmus being mostly uninvolved in the entire affair; he never truly got the chance to brandish a different, more dire side of his leadership.

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And as a result of both years of near-perfect socioeconomic order and a culture that had gradually developed into one of pure pacifism, in the eyes of the Doyenne, the kingdom has become privileged and concerningly torpid. The ages and ages spent staving off siege after siege in order to bring Victorica to its current status has largely been forgotten by the common folk. The Ironclads, highly trained as they were, have not seen the field of battle in ages, the younger recruits having no real fighting experience at all. Avaline is certainly no warmonger, and always retains the idea of compromise, even in the face of inevitable armed conflict. That side of her father’s rhetoric she was and is able to agree with wholeheartedly. Additionally, she normally would not be concerned about the kingdom’s state in the slightest; after all, following so many years of peace, why fret?

But Avaline knows peace will not last forever.

The sun conceals itself behind the hills, darkening the land.

The Clocktower tolls, its bellows vibrating the balcony upon which the Doyenne stands. She watches as thousands of automated lights flicker on and illuminate the city below her, which continues to bustle. Two of her own light sources, newly-installed arc lamps, flank either side of the doorway leading back into her sanctum.

Thump. Tink. Thump. Tink.

Councilmech Wilken Falla emerges from the Clocktower. The eldest, wisest Maton in Victorica, leader of the Zealots of the Great Tinkerer, Keeper of the Hall of Records, and a trusted ally of Avaline. They may not see eye to eye on some policies (he also happened to be her father’s lifelong friend, and shared his philosophies concerning war), but the Doyenne knows of no one better to go to for guidance. As she observes him smiling at her, she notices his aging eye-bulbs are beginning to darken. He has witnessed full time periods of the kingdom come and go, wars begin and end, and Doyens be anointed and dethroned. His left leg has long since rusted away, and although he installed a new appendage, the operation has left him with a permanent limp. To counteract this hobbling, he utilizes a silver cane with a pointed edge and an iron head representing a mechanized tortoise. He has replaced his usual white Zealot robes and hood with a leisurely jacket and top hat. His tarnished monocle catches a twinkle of lamplight as he approaches the Doyenne.

“Care to explain the gigglemug, Master Falla?” Avaline quips. “I haven’t seen you this happy in quite a while.”

The Maton chuckles. “I am enthused by the fact that you asked me here, Doyenne. I haven’t left the Solarium in ages, madam. This is truly a treat.”

“Your appearance is nothing short of dashing, sirrah.”

Wilken tips his cap towards the Doyenne. With a sigh, he strolls over to the railing of the balcony, as both turn to take in the view.

“Our home never truly gets old, does it, madam?”

Avaline raises an eyebrow. “Well, p’raps not for me quite yet. But… don’t you ever get bored of it?”

Falla chuckles again, louder this time. “I adore every second. Every moment of peace is a blessing from the Great Tinkerer himself.”

For quite a while, the two nobles stand in silence, unspoken knowledge threatening to break the spell.

“You know why I called you here, Wilken,” Avaline’s tone takes a more personal approach.

Wilken’s smile fades as he bows his head slightly, a silent affirmation.

“Every night has been a torment. I am closer to the Great Tinkerer than ever before, and I am happy to be tormented for the rest of my days should he continue to honor me as his mouthpiece…” Wilken trails off before eventually continuing. “And in the midst of my arduous pursuits, my endeavors to decipher what He is trying to reveal to me, through this torment, have been ineffective. The symbols and images that flow through my mind every evening have made no cohesive sense. I… I thought… I thought I had failed Him, as I have so many times before…” his voice breaks.

Avaline puts a tender hand on his cool metal arm.

“But last night, Avaline…” he trails off once more.

“What is it, Wilken?” The Doyenne holds her breath.

“He… He gave me a vision. It was unlike anything I have ever experienced, madam. He spoke to me.”

Avaline turns toward him, shocked beyond words.

“Avaline, it’s… it is indeed what you have suspected. And it all makes perfect sense. The kingdom is not prepared for the dark shadow that will soon threaten us. Nor is it prepared…”

“For the Wielder,” Avaline breathes. “The Great Prophecy.”

Suddenly, a streak of blue light shoots across the dark sky. Wilken’s smile returns and his eye-bulbs brighten slightly as the faint whoosh of the object reverberates off of the walls of the Clocktower. The mesmerizing, ethereal light illuminates the faces of the two nobles , who watch it rapidly descend until it eventually disappears behind the dunes of the Brutal Wastes to the west.

“And so it begins,” the Maton whispers.

Avaline, retaining her gaze upon the dunes, grips the bannister tightly. The nagging restlessness within her has evaporated.

Action, she thinks. Finally.

“Master Falla?”

“Yes, madam?”

“Send for Captain Fordring.”