- [Jol] -

Jol stands at the helm of her weapon’s manufacturing plant. The air hums with the metallic scent of iron and the sharp tang of sizzling magic. Sparks fly like fireflies caught in a frenzy, illuminating the dimly lit workshop where manufacturers labor tirelessly. Ever since the counter-assault operation began, there hasn’t been as much as a single day off. It makes sense, but everyone is reaching the end of their reserves at this point, including her. She wipes her brow, the bright red of her hair catching the errant glints of light as she moves, her wings vibrating with suppressed energy. Duty pulls at her, an ever-present weight, as she inspects the newly forged heavy machine guns lining the assembly line. She used to be able to have fun and shoot these; however, she made the tactical mistake of having too much fun doing so. Pilot saw that she was developing an eye for the guns and made her apprentice under the late Uhrmacher to learn about mechanics. Now, she’s the most qualified person left to run the production of Kerzenzünder and other light firearms. She’ll never have fun again. She’s learned her lesson. The sounds of grinding gears and rhythmic hammering echo in her ears — a relentless symphony that holds the pulse of the war effort.

“Faster! We need those completed by sundown!” Jol orders, her voice threaded with urgency. Fairies dart past her, each one focused, sweat glistening under their iridescent wings, their hands moving with precision.

“Jol! We’ve got a holdup!” a familiar voice shouts from the far end of the plant. It’s Gareth, her lead technician, his face streaked with soot and his eyes wide in anxiety. He gestures to a cluster of fairies struggling to keep a massive machine gun from tipping over. A single, tired-looking human reaches over with one hand and grabs it. The fairies all sigh in relief. “There’s too much derivation on the rifling again,” he explains. “The lathe’s too hot.”

“Not again,” she mutters under her breath, biting back a wave of frustration that threatens to spiral out of control. "Well, go get the ice caster from storage! We don’t have time for this!” she snaps.

The other fairy salutes, flying off to drag an exhausted ice sorcerer out of storage, where he had been taking a desperately needed nap. The machinery gets too hot to produce accurate results at some point, with the plant running non-stop. It results in lower-quality productions, some of which are acceptable and others that are not. For things like emergency cooling that can’t be done by the water pipes running through the factory, they have magic. But, much like the magic once in her tiny little fairy heart, it is running dry. Each second feels like an eternity, each delay a new weight to bear in a world already buckling under strain. “Right! Let’s move, people! We’ll be done tomorrow!” Jol shouts, clapping her hands together, her wings flaring out behind her.

Gods she hopes that's really true. The thought of the war being over seems impossible. But it's what everyone is saying.

A line worker leans over, raising a hand. “Ma’am, if we’re done with the war tomorrow, then why do we need to make this many new machine guns?” he asks. Some of the men around him mutter in agreement.

Jol stands there with her hands on her hips, staring him down. “Because we might not actually be done tomorrow,” she replies, exhaustion swirling within her. “And I’m going to need these guns ready to force you back onto the line when you try to walk out, Vanlack,” she warns, pointing a finger at him. The man, who had picked up the machine gun before, sets it down on the conveyor with the other dozens that move down the line one after the other through a process of assembly that requires several stations and many workers, each responsible for adjusting a single component or addition. “Get moving, everyone!” she calls, her voice cutting through the ambient noise of hammers clanging and magic flaring, urgency thrumming in her tone. The first step begins at the forge, where molten steel cascades like liquid silver. A team of undead workers pours the glowing metal into intricately shaped molds. “Keep it flowing! Don’t let it cool too soon!” orders the fairy, flying around the factory floor as she monitors the pouring process with focused intensity. She doesn’t trust undead, even if they are ‘theirs’. She wipes sweat from her brow, watching with narrowed eyes as the metal fills the molds, glimmering and catching the light. Once the metal cools, the molds are shattered, and the unfinished parts are revealed — barrel, receiver, and trigger. The rest of the components are made in separate factories and delivered here for final assembly. Dark, sleek, and heavy, they glisten as they rest on the assembly line.

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Fairies fly over to transport the unworked pieces to the enchantment station. Vines twist down from the canopy above, creating a pulsing framework of life that encases the workbench, where another team awaits. The veins are off-shoots from the world tree that have been tapped into for their magical potential. Here, the air hums with concentrated magic as druids prepare to weave spells into the metal. Really, the process is no different than enchanting an old sword, like they used to do back in the old days. “Let’s layer this batch with a poison charm. We met our fire enchantment quota already,” Jol instructs, standing at the helm, her hands steady at her sides. With swift movements, the druids gather around, laying their hands upon the cold, unworked metal. They close their eyes, breathing deeply, channeling energy into the machine. Jol feels the vibrations in her fingertips as they intertwine with the raw pulse of magic, an electric force coursing through the air connecting them as they hold onto the vines around them, acting as conduits for the world tree’s power. As the charm settles, a shimmering field erupts around the gun for a brief flash, glistening like a thin layer of water over stone — flashes of color as the enchantments take root. The pieces are raw and unworked. There are still many steps to make something usable out of these chunks of metal, but they’ve found that enchantments hold through the construction process. It’s more efficient to enchant the metal now rather than later, as some enchantment magic can be pretty hard on the material of a fully manufactured weapon in comparison to if the same spell were applied in its base material state. There’s a lot of learning by doing in this field.

Jol flies over to a different station, where a team waits with rolls of ammunition. They work feverishly, meticulously constructing the bullet feed. The rhythmic clinks of metal on metal punctuate the air, lending a primitive yet deliberate cadence to the chaos surrounding them. The fairies flit about, threads of light and power weaving through their small hands as they twist bullets into place. The sight unfolds like a well-oiled mechanism. This is a bit of a shock, as most people had doubts about a fairy being able to manage a production facility of this scale, let alone one involving so many fairies in one place. They, as a species, aren’t really known for their patience and delicate work.

But war has a way of draining even the most energetic rays out of someone’s being. The fairy, hovering up near the factory ceiling, looks back over to the undead.

She hates them because, during times like these, she isn’t sure if she isn’t actually just one of them and doesn’t know it.

“Come on, let’s go!” she barks, clapping her hands as a groggy ice caster is dragged out of the closet he was napping in, swooping down toward him. “I have deadlines to meet!” snaps the fairy, helping drag him toward the red hot machinery.