- [Schtill] -
Back home in the world tree city, the warehouse looms before Schtill. It’s a massive complex, having grown to insane scale when one considers its original state as barely more than a shack, with a wooden board as a lock. Bodies move around inside of it in all directions, moving cargo. The clatter of industry and the distant harmonies of magic punctuate the air. The elven woman stands there waiting, poised on the edge of an open loading dock, one of her hands on her hip and the other playing with the end of one of her nub ears. Clad in her standard uniform that hugs her frame, and beneath the shifting light of enchanted lanterns, the sharp angles and jagged peaks of her ever-tired are quite pronounced against her pale skin. Ever since the counter-operation began, she’s barely had any time to do anything but work. Between her management of civil matters and her guidance of the undergoing secret weapon project, her precious books even have had to take a back seat to sleep; otherwise, she just wouldn’t make it.
— Today is a matter of the former.
Each advisor from the council watches her closely, their gazes darting from her odd features to the impressive array of mechanical wonders crammed within the shadowed space.
The newly reconstructed warehouse is in full operation, and it’s her job to sell the idea of it to a few remaining resistant members of the council. Despite the clear evidence of all of Pilot’s ideas being the only thing that has saved any of them, there are still plenty of remaining minds who insist that the old way of doing things — even the most mundane things — were better. She needs to get them to shut up and march in line, hence the little tour today.
“Welcome, esteemed advisers!” Schtill’s voice rings out, the bold confidence interspersed with an undercurrent of exhausted tension. She’s battered her social anxiety into submission, but a little bit of it is quite resilient and tickles at her brain every time someone looks at her. “Thank you for stopping by,” says the elf, holding an arm behind her to the rows and rows of high metal shelves, stacked with cargo. “This new warehouse embodies the future of our people. Highly efficient, standardized, safe.” She gestures grandly, and the sound of her black boots striking the almost reflectively smooth concrete seems to ripple through the air, merging with the distant clamor of machinery and the hum of arcane energies lining the rafters. “Please, follow me, and I’ll show you what we’ve done.”
The advisers murmur amongst themselves, their robes rustling softly. Schtill knows their apprehension — the holdouts are not quick to embrace the strange blend of technology and magic that now supports their efforts against Tango. But she has something ready that’ll knock their socks off right here off the bat. The elf smirks to herself, dying inside only a little because she has to present an aura of showmanship to sell this. “Behold!” calls Schtill out, her voice echoing up to the high ceilings of the massive warehouse. The innovation of… wooden pallets!” she announces as if she were introducing a new king, her eyes glimmering with fervor. Her hand gestures out to a palette standing on the floor next to them, stacked to the brim with small caliber ammunition boxes and then wrapped in a stretchy chemical film that holds it all together. She snaps a finger to the side. A man in a small machine tips his hardhat and starts his forklift. He drives over to the crate, lifting it with the machine, and then driving back and around in a small demonstration. Schtill looks back to the murmuring advisors. “With their advent, we revolutionize our supply processes,” explains the elf. “No longer will our soldiers drag heavy crates upon their backs and in wheelbarrows. Anqas?” asks Schtill, pointing her hand over to the side. “Retired. Sent to the farms. We use forklifts now,” explains the elf.
— Actually, she might be pretty excited about this herself. She loves boring, mundane things. They’re her favorites.
As her explanation unfolds, magical sigils glimmer along the edges of the pallets, each heat-stamped with runes that pulse rhythmically like a heartbeat. Schtill leans closer, inviting the advisers to step forward to see and feel the magic woven into the wood. The wood, treated with spells of enhancement and resilience, hums with latent energy. “The war effort has escalated, gentlemen,” she insists, her voice tinged with urgency. “We are pressed on all fronts. Every moment wasted can cost lives. Yet with the wooden pallets, our operations are now more efficient on a new scale, maintaining a stable supply chain for our troops.” Schtill rises to her feet, folding her hands behind her back. “No delays. No interruptions. Cargo has been moving at a three-fold increase since this new introduction.”
As her fingers tap the enchanted wood, she catches a glimpse of Lord Trevan, whose dour expression is obvious enough. It’s not like he’s trying to hide it. “Stable?” he scoffs, his tone heavy with disbelief. “This…” He looks at the palette, waving his fingers for a moment as he finds his words. “This decadence will weaken our men,” he explains, gesturing to the forklift driver. “The lifting is what made them strong enough to hold their swords,” he finishes, glaring around the warehouse. “While you play at novelty, we draw ever nearer to annihilation, Counselor Schtill.”
Schtill clenches her fists behind her back, the rush of annoyance bubbling beneath her carefully maintained facade of a friendly smile. She turns, confident that the ground before her is firm. “Food is what keeps men strong,” she counters, unclenching a hand and patting the raised palette. “And this development will bring it to them in masses. Never again are we going to witness a starving army or a siege failed because of a lack of provision, Lord Trevan,” she replies.
‘Lords’ and ‘ladies’ don’t actually exist anymore. Such noble titles have been delegated to the annals of history and are now fully meaningless in this new world of theirs. In the world tree city, people are given rank, position, and status based on their utility and contributions. But she’s pampering him to get him to cooperate. The man used to be a bigshot with his own lands and host. Now he’s just a standard government paper pusher like any other. Schtill shakes her head. “And we haven’t even begun with the novelty yet,” she smiles.
Without warning, a thunderous boom erupts from within the warehouse, rattling loose boards and sending a scurry of dust into the air. A crate — now levitating, surrounded by a spiral of azure light — soars swiftly across the room, landing neatly on a palette with a thump that sends sparks of magic dancing in the air as it lands.
Schtill folds her hands behind her back, walking on. “Thanks, Thomas,” she remarks, clapping the forklift driver on the side as she keeps going. Schtill looks back behind herself at the advisors, scurrying after her together in a tight huddle, as if they were a group of level one adventurers lost in a dragon’s den. “A team of wizards and sorcerers moves cargo around the clock,” she explains, looking up to the ceiling where crates fly by left and right. “Levitation magic allows us to make use of the vertical space offered to us here, keeping the floor clear.” She doesn’t stop, lifting a hand to the side. “Extremely monotonous tasks, such as loading homogeneous palettes, can be done via clockwork mechanical designs that we inherited from Uhrmacher,” explains the elf. Another clap of thunder rolls through the warehouse, followed by a chorus of awe as mechanical arms emerge from the shadows, each equipped with a shimmering crystal, deftly placing one heavy crate after another onto the pallets in a stiff repetitive motion that never deviates. Schtill catches glimpses of the dull horror etched in the advisors’ faces, morphing slowly into reluctant curiosity. The sound of crackling energy mingles with the clanging of metal, filling the air with mechanized chaos. “Magical technology is the future, gentleman,” explains Schtill, walking down the warehouse between the shelving with a focused gaze. “The world that we grew up is dead. The ash took it.” She refers to the works around them, gesturing. “This is who we are now, if we want to survive.”
“Counselor Schtill,” starts an older man, not a second after she finishes. “While we understand the necessity of change in these times, we believe that a change too… radical is more dangerous than it is beneficial.” The group stops, with her looking back at them. “The world has changed since just over a year ago, but I’m sure none of us agree that it was a change for the better,” he counters.
Schtill tilts her head, one of her hands playing with the tip of one of her ears as she thinks for a second. “But it has changed,” she reaffirms. “And we need to change with it just as radically if we don’t want to sink into blackwater.” She shakes her head. “I understand your hesitance,” adds Schtill, gesturing with a finger for them to follow her. “But I have one more thing to show you. Maybe it’ll make things feel a little more like home,” suggests the elf, walking down through a large open bay door, lined with striped warning patterns all around it. From the other side, a loud roar can be heard that is distinct from any of the whirring machinery around them.
As she enters the bay, she pauses, taking in the magnificent sight before them. The group comes to a standstill, muttering amongst themselves in not-so-quiet terms now.
A tamed hydra, its scales polished to a glistening emerald, navigates the vast space of the open cargo bay with a grace that belies its size. With four heads swaying rhythmically, it lifts crates in its dragon-like mouths via fabric straps wrapped around them, stacking them with meticulous care onto the waiting trucks that line the bay. Around each neck is a series of collars, and a woman runs around the monster’s legs, giving orders and commands to it with one hand, while the other arm is rubbing the top of a fifth head that is nuzzling against her side with a look of contentment on its sleek face.
“...I thought they were all dead,” mutters a man from the group, staring at the towering hydra that is easily the size of a watchtower.
“Look at it go,” murmurs Garran, a nearby advisor, his voice low and almost reverent. “I never thought I would see the day.” His eyes are wide, reflecting the elegant movements of the hydra.
The soft crinkle of packaging and the gentle thud of crates hitting wood characterize the scene. Schtill observes from a distance. This, she thinks, is what progress looks like — a world fully reshaped by the innovations of war. The old ways and the new have come together into something truly fascinating. Schtill nods silently to the others, her gaze steady, absorbing the sight. Admiring the hydra's many heads, Schtill notes how each one seems to possess its own personality, much like the council itself. One is contemplative, gazing thoughtfully at the stacks; another behaves with unrestrained enthusiasm, eagerly nudging crates to their desired spots. The third snaps at the air playfully, while the last regards them all with a discerning, paranoid gaze. The fifth one, on its break, continues to soak in affection from the beastmaster, who is talking to it in baby-voiced gibberish as she pinches its dense, sword-repelling face.
Schtill’s lips curl slightly at the corners. She would hate for them to see it, but she’s smiling. “It’s the crown jewel of this operation,” she replies. “It works faster than any man can, or any team could, because of its strength and size.” She looks back toward ‘Lord’ Trevan. “We haven’t the old ways,” explains Schtill, watching his amazed expression as he watches the tamed hydra work. Such a thing would have been the envy of any king or great master of the old world. A prestige project, almost. Hydras, like dragons, are famously renowned for their deadliness and nigh-mythological status amongst the people. They are extremely rare, high-level monsters. “We found this one’s egg at the bottom of the lake,” explains Schtill. “When the valley broke and the mesa rose and the lake fractured, it must have become unburied,” she notes. “The caretaker herself helped us hatch it.” Schtill smiles. “My friends, you may be looking at the very last hydra in this world. The end of an era.”
As the hydra heaves another heavy crate, Schtill feels the vibrations of labor ripple through the floor. She tilts her head slightly as she listens to the impressed murmurs from behind her, a quiet smile tracing her lips. She knew this would win them over. These men are of the old world; it takes old-world tactics to win their hearts. The hydra is a powerful metaphor for their evolution — a creature once feared now integrated into the tapestry of their lives.
“Gentlemen,” starts Schtill, looking back at them as the hydra loads truck after truck in the background. “We live in a new world, and we only do so because of the changes we’ve given into,” explains the elf, her eyes wandering over them. “The counter-assault operation will be done soon, and it will be a success, and then we need to build something new.” She looks toward the open bay windows of the massive hall. “The world beyond the mesa is being restored. Grass has begun growing again in the ashlands. Within our time, we will see green hills and valleys once more.” The elf plays with her nub ear. “When people begin to leave the mesa to settle elsewhere after the war, to return to their old homes, will you confiscate their guns and their tools, or will you let them keep them to build greater things for the new, greater world?”
She doesn’t get an immediate response, but judging from their expressions as they watch the hydra work, snatching floating palettes out of the air and loading them onto trucks by the dozens every minute, they seem impressed enough that she’s confident she sold her spiel just right.
Turning her back to them, Schtill folds her hands behind her back and lets out a quiet sigh.
She has about ten minutes of quiet time, then she has to get back to the lab. Pilot needs her to finish their final weapon. It may be her most critical task of the war yet, if not her last.
----------------------------------------
- [Timarian] -
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Timarian stands in her cramped office, which is more of an elevated bunker than it is a room, looming over the heart of the ration factory floor. The evening sun filters through soot-streaked windows, casting long, slanting shadows that dance across the works below. The factory thrums with a relentless energy, a cacophony of grinding gears, hissing steam, and the rhythmic thump of alchemical fires that send sparks spiraling into the dim air, together with the smell of shortening-heavy bread. The scent of baking, a comfort tinged with desperation, melds with the sharper notes of metal and burned herbs, creating an atmosphere both homely and industrial. Dust motes float languidly in the pale light, drifting like embers caught in perpetual twilight.
Through the dusty pane of her office window, the dwarven baker Timarian surveys the relentless motion of her workers, their forms moving with practiced efficiency amid the machinery. Day and night, the food processing factory never sleeps. She watches as they prepare the ingredients: slabs of meat thick with magically rich blood, crisp vegetables grown under the sheltering limbs of the world tree, and loaves of dark bread, their crusts crackling with knife-scored enchantments prior to baking designed to sustain and strengthen their longevity.
There are many separate work floors within the factory, each assigned to the production of a different component of the military’s standardized rations. Then it all comes together in the end in a hermetically sealed metal can. Dozens of cans of various content varieties are loaded into each box, and then each box is shipped to the logistics warehouse, where they’re processed for further transport. There are five different ration types produced here, not as many as she would like, as her baker’s heart wants to offer a little more variety of choice, but as many as are feasible given the economical constraints. Even with the fruitful nature of the world tree mesa, there is only so much they can produce in such short order. Jerkies, hard breads, dried fruit leathers, and such things work extremely well. But people will go crazy if this is all they ever get to eat, so there has been a lot of creativity involved in the packaging and creation process of the rations. Chocolate is a big hit, and that especially has to be rationed, as the fungal mixture she uses to create the ‘alternative’ chocolate — the only real source being Pilot’s regenerating plane — are from a mixture of mushrooms that simply take time to grow. Each ration only gets two squares, or about fifty grams.
A conveyor belt snakes through the factory, laden with raw ingredients fed into the gaping maws of many mixers. Emerald glows emanate from runic etchings on the mixers, infusing the foodstuffs with a glimmer of otherworldly power. The machinery has been infused with magic from the world tree. The electrical wiring has been interwoven with the roots of the magic dripping tree, feeding drips of it into the food itself directly as it makes contact with the metal. Near the cauldrons, workers stir viscous stews, the air above shimmering with ethereal vapors as magical reagents are added with care by trained alchemists, their properties essential for fortifying the body against the ravages of conflict.
Timarian’s gaze lands on one of her most skilled bakers, who stands near a heavy oven, its door framed with runes that pulse in rhythm with the flames. It wasn’t long ago when she herself was one of the last bakers in the world; now she’s trained several of them. The apprentice’s knife dances over the loaves, slicing in runic incantations that grow in intensity and complexity, binding the ambient magics of the world tree to the dough and increasing its shelf stability. The bread swells, a deep, almost musical hum emanating from within as it bakes, the arcane energy seeping into the very fiber of the loaves. To the side, a group of young apprentices struggle with sealing the rations, their fingers fumbling over the complex series of stacked metal cans that fall within one elongated rectangular metal container. Once filled, the containers are melted shut, and a ‘key’ is fastened to the side.
In order to open one, a loose slit of metal is inserted into the side of the key, which the user then turns and rotates along the body of the can, peeling open the metal strip and unsealing the ration.
She glances down at the ledger splayed open on her desk, with columns of figures and notes chronicling their output. Her fingers brush over the rough surface of the parchment, tracing the inked lines that represent pounds of meat, loaves of bread, and gallons of stew. They’re working hard. This pace isn’t sustainable for long, but for a few weeks they can keep it up. But there are no undead employed in her factory, for hygienic reasons. The people here need sleep and rest; she can only drive them this hard for so long. But until news comes from the counter assault, everyone — including her — are pulling shifts that never really end.
Content that her team is weathering the storm, Timarian allows her gaze to drift across the factory once more.
Back over a year ago, she was a baker, and then when this all began to regrow here in the city, she became a baker again. But she never thought that she would hang up her mitts and do what she’s doing now.
It’s a little loveless compared to her old craft, perhaps. But it’s a necessity. Love can come back when the war is over. Smiling faintly, the former baker Timarian steps back from the window.
----------------------------------------
- [Alchemist Schmidt] -
The alchemist’s laboratory buzzes like a hive of frantic bees, vibrant with the glimmer of magical enchantment bouncing off of glass vials and the pungent aroma of deeply herbal concoctions. Schmidt, an overworked alchemist, stands there doing his best not to pluck out the last of his hairs from the stress.
Like every other production facility in the world tree city, the room is a blend of technology and magical practices, a dark fusion of copper pipes and crystal vials that have been carefully designed to achieve an optimal state of productive capacity — higher than anything that could be achieved via just magic or technology alone. If the alchemists of the days of adventuring guilds and dungeon diving could see his lab, they’d be frothing at the mouth with jealousy. Giant electric boilers steam fiercely in the corners, their metallic surfaces gleaming under the flickering overhead tube lights. Skewers of glass clutter the tabletops, along with hastily scrawled notes and countless vials. Magical glyphs glow faintly on the walls, a protective ward that hums softly, shielding the lab from noises and quakes from the world outside. The ingredients in here are extremely delicate and volatile. Soldiers are positioned around the lab at all times to safeguard it. Nobody gets in or out without the proper paperwork.
Schmidt glances at the bubbling cauldrons, their contents churning with radiant energy — a vivid green.
“Add the essence of an orange mushroom,” he commands. A young assistant, slightly trembling, hurriedly measures out the shimmering liquid from a nearby shelf, fingers shaking as he works. Schmidt can see the fear etched deeply into the young man’s face. He’s terrified. Smiling, his hands folded, Schmidt leans in forward toward him. “Careful, Camden. You spill even a drop too much, and we’ll lose a day’s work,” he says, and it ought to be a cautious warning, but his tone is almost mockingly provocative, as if he were expecting and hoping the boy would do it.
“Y-yes, sir,” the assistant stutters, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple as he nods sharply and pours the potency into the massive cauldron. The mixture hisses and fizzes as it connects — a vivid eruption of colors that dances in the dim light, illuminating the farthest reaches of the laboratory.
The space is tightly packed with all manner of equipment — retorts of yellow and blue standing alongside ancient recipe tomes scavenged from the ashlands. Because of the apocalypse, the majority of knowledge has been lost. Endless generations of discoveries, recipes, and ideas — lost to the ashlands.
But some of it has prevailed, whether in the minds of the surviving alchemists or in the pages of the surviving books. It’s not a total loss, simply a majority one. But they have enough left to rebuild and regrow from here once this is all over.
“Mix it with the secondary batch,” he orders, the apprentice sighing in relief as the green potion begins to shift hues as it bubbles. The younger man pulls on a lever. The cauldron begins to drain, the boiling potion flowing through a glass and copper pipe into a secondary vessel that is already filled with the second half of the mixture that was prepared in advance. Hundreds of liters flow through at once, swirling in the secondary pot as it begins to mix.
In the old way of doing things, this separation of stages wouldn’t have been needed. However, mass production offers challenges in alchemy that had been unforeseen as these new methods were being fielded. He and the other alchemists of the world tree city had to work their way through them. For example, they are brewing healing potions right now. In the old days, it would have been enough to mix some various mushroom powders together in a kitchen pot, boil it, and bottle it. But with this amount of potion, doing so isn’t viable. There’s some unidentified element that presents itself at this level of scale that, if they begin the brewing process with all the ingredients together at once as they would have done in the old recipe, it fails to mix for reasons yet unknown.
However, if they separate the primary ingredients into different syrups, boil off the excess water, then let those combine, the process works. The potions end up thicker than the somewhat more watery old kind, but the healing effect is the same at the cost of palatability.
Thankfully, he is an alchemist, not a chef. Taste and the ability to stomach his potions are not his concern. They just need to work, and the chain of command sees it the same, especially after he marketed it to them as being intentional, saying the syrupy potions are much easier to transport with less water weight per unit.
It’s not a lie, just a — for him — happy side effect
----------------------------------------
- [Rat (Skitters)] -
Under the bustling heart of the city, a small figure dashes through the labyrinthine sewer tunnels. With slick fur and eyes shining with sewer-due. Skitters carries missives, strapped securely to his small, agile frame.
He is a rat, a servant of the Rat-Queen, who presides below the human city. Rats and humans are friends, as it has always been — even if the humans don’t realize it sometime. Now, the rats have been fully integrated into service into any way that they can be. He is one such example, a mail courier. Rats can’t carry a lot of things, but they can carry a few small things very quickly. A hundred rats or so make an ideal courier force for simple postage, if one doesn’t mind the letters getting a little gunky now and then. It’s very rare for them to fall into the sewer water — not unheard of, but rare enough that it’s deemed an acceptable risk overhead for the mail.
The city breathes with the pulse of life. Overhead, the night sky is a patchwork of stormy gray, periodically split by the jagged veins of lightning that crack. The humans say that the weather in this world and the spirit world seem to be connected — an interesting insight, but above his pay-grade to worry about. He is just meant to deliver mail, yes-yes. The weather is the queen’s alone to think about.
Skitters pops his head out of a storm drain, watching the street for a chance to make a move. Even now, this late at night, it’s busy. The city never sleeps.
The air is a tumult of scents — roasted meats from open market stalls mingling with the acrid burn of nearby forges, and under it all, the faint copper tang of blood from distant factories. He sees an opening. Skitters jumps out of the drain and weaves through an intricate dance of feet and wheels as he scoots between the crowd and several trucks that roll down the street.
Skitters darts through the city, his sharp eyes constantly scanning for threats and paths of least resistance. There. He slips beneath a parked truck, its massive wheels a towering wall of rubber that blocks out the sky for a rat his size. He breathes, scanning the area for a new opening. It’s dangerous for a rat in a place like this. People are so busy and in such a hurry that he could easily be crushed under a boot, let alone a truck. But the streets are the fastest way to move around outside of the sewers. The queen has deemed it an acceptable risk for them, so he has faith in her belief that their potentially getting squished serves her greater cause.
His whiskers twitch at the smell of food from a stall nearby, just next to the truck he’s beneath. His beady eyes stare, and the rat’s stomach growls, but he fights the urge to stop, pushing onward through the marketplace. Maybe if he does a really good job, the queen will yell at him to do an even better job tomorrow!
He threads his way through the legs of an oblivious crowd, a perilous maze of crushing boots and swishing cloaks. The occasional footstep lands near his tail, but he’s quick enough to dart out of the way of the lumbering shadows. The rat moves with the precision of a thief in the night, each motion calculated to avoid detection or disaster. It’s actually not that hard. In a way, it’s just like pretending a hawk is circling over head and you need to cross a field to get to the other side without getting eaten. But in this case, the hawk never leaves. Death is everywhere.
Suddenly, a sound cuts through the din — a high-pitched whistle, shortly followed by an explosion of colorful light. An explosive, laced with magical sparkles, burst overhead — likely some errant misfire. The crowd's attention shifts momentarily upwards, faces illuminated by the bright spectacle. Seizing this distraction, Skitters makes his move, darting from the dense pack of bystanders and into the cover of a nearby alley. The walls are damp with nighttime moisture, and the air is thick with the scent of moldy garbage. It would be perfect if it wasn’t so dangerous. This is the territory of the beast. Skitters' whiskers twitch apprehensively. He knows the risks, but the quiet alley offers a necessary breather, and it will cut almost a minute from his route.
The rat doesn’t slow his scurry at all, as a cautious man would want to do in dangerous territory. No, a rat’s drive is to go even faster. The faster he gets out, the faster he returns back to the dangerous zone of the street from the extremely dangerous zone of the alley.
From behind a rusty bin, a pair of yellow eyes gleam menacingly.
A feral cat, sleek and hungry, slinks forward, tail twitching. The beast. Its eyes lock onto Skitters, black pits of calculated hunger. They both stop, staring each other down for a second. The rat's heartbeat quickens as adrenaline surges into its guts.
There’s no time for hesitation.
With a sudden burst of speed, he diverts and runs up a stack of empty crates by the wall, finding a foothold in the stacked garbage. He squeaks, reaching the end and jumping for his life. The rat flies through the air, the letters still strapped to his back, barely escaping the swipe of a clawed paw as a screaming monster slices just past him, a sharp cut running along the end of his tail.
He thuds, rolling almost gracelessly with a crash landing down on the ground below and scoots through a grate back down into the sewers, coming out of another drain a minute later.
That was close.
A few moments more and the rat runs up to a postal delivery center, a very tired-looking girl with gloves leaning over to untie the letters from his back, grabbing them by the corner as if they were poisoned, and then sends him back on his way with a wordless waving away with her fingers as she drops the letters into a bin.
He runs past another three rats who run in just after him, each of them carrying some form of parcel, some ration delivery forms, and logistics papers, and one of them has a corked, red potion meant to be sent off to a quality approval laboratory. The humans might be working hard too, but the city runs on rats.