Metaworld Chronicles

Chapter 544 - All that Glitters is not Gold

Manhattan.

The Empire Tower.

Eric Gilt, heir to the Empire, lounged on the fifth-sixth floor penthouse suite, riding out his growing case of insomnia.

“In June, the Regent purchased 87 per cent of Target Logistics’ outstanding debt at 100 basis points,” his personal assistant, Emily, read from a jade-shelled data-slate. “The Target Logistics then completed a 78 per cent acquisition of Trans-Nat Parcels.”

The image of a rotund merchant, the smiling CFO of the Dayton Dry Goods Holdings, flashed across Gilt’s frontal lobe. Before its purchase, Target Logistics barely made the top 50 on Empire’s list of competitors. Now, it firmly sat within the top 40. Under normal circumstances, the Waltons could squeeze their competitor by shorting its stock, thereby triggering a settlement event for Shalkar. Unfortunately, Shalkar has given Target Logistics preferential access to its exotic wholesale inventory, driving Target’s stock price to an all-time high. Conversely, lacking access to Shalkar’s exotic primary produce, Walton Agriculture’s stocks had languished, causing no end of friction between Gilt and his nest of gold goblins.

“In late June, she purchased 42 per cent of the Kroger Cooperative’s through stock swaps and credit loans,” Emily’s voice held her dismay at bay as the next data report appeared on the faux-ink displays of the Data slate. “In the same week, Kroger acquired Albert and Sons, extending its loan with Freddie Mac. It is worth noting that the Regent had already hedged Freddie through its May CDS exchange.”

Gilt swished a finger like a Mage conjuring a dispel, motioning his aide to move on. Already, Empire Tower’s intelligence department has entire rooms dedicated to ownership and co-ownership, credit default swaps and lines of credit orchestrated by the Shalkar Corporation. A few months into the Regent’s arrival, the criss-crossed finance was already at the complexity of upper-tier Mandalas.

“In early July, she insured 48 per cent of Archer Daniels. The principal purchaser, however, was a Dwarven investor, Deepholme. The state department initially forbade the sale on account of Archer Daniels being one of our more significant food processing partners, but they allowed the purchase under the Isle of Dogs Norfolk Conglomerate. Daniel’s stock price has since doubled.”

“So much for upholding America’s interests,” Gilt sipped his single-malt, the last of a batch that would never see its equal in the foreseeable future. “This is why we don’t trust those West Coast flakes.”

“In late July, she acquired 8 per cent of Ford Automotive, 4 per cent of which was swapped for Deere Corporation's outstanding debt. An additional 11 per cent of Deere was swapped through technological transfer. The same week, Deere finalised a contract with the Shalkar Corporation to produce Dwarven-designed Harvester Golems in the style of the units utilised by Shalkar. Their stock surged. The Regent then swapped 7 per cent of Deere for another 3 per cent in Ford. Thereafter, Ford was tapped as the primary producer of American Dyar Morkk carriages. Both have announced that they will not be working with Walton Wholefoods. Their stock…”

“What did the Waltons ever do to the Regent?” Gilt shook his head in wonder. “There’s more?”

“There is, Tower Master. Our external audit in mid-August shows that the Shalkar Corporation leveraged 287 million HDMS through the House of Sach, Stanley Morgan and the West Coast branch of the Bank of America. Facilitated by Salesforce, the Regent has become a major stakeholder in Medi-Cal, California Health, and the UCLA Health Corporation.”

“I see. How much of Unity do they now own by association?” Gilt could read the Regent’s receipts like an open book. The stocks of lesser corporations weren’t his forte, but he knew the ins and outs of his own empire like the back of his hand.

“Counter Intel reported 9.4 per cent,” Emily replied after a pause. “They are now the second largest holder behind Tower Master Eden Burke and the Burke Estate.”

Effectively, they’ve neutered two out of the seven Towers that make up the Empire, Gilt pondered his rival’s game. Even with everything the Regent has demonstrated, he had no intent of ever letting go of the Gilt Corporation’s hold on the patents of John C Williams. Stocks were fluid, but infrastructure was, in investment terms, forever.

“Anymore bad news?” Gilt drained the glass. Anymore, and he would need to find another bottle. “How's the outbreak?”

The Undead Outbreak was bad for business. But it was only bad for certain sectors, such as… Waltons Agriculture and Poseidon Seafoods. As a diversified conglomerate, the Gilt Tower could more than make up the temporary shortfall through its militant, insurance and construction arms.

His aide took a troubled, trembling breath.

“Presently, the epicentre lies east of New Orleans, diminishing in threat until the Beast Tide reaches the defence perimeters sheltering Houston and Tampa. The Coast Guard reports extensive infestation in the region occupied by the Second Vel. However, Admiral Masterton has been taking advantage of the situation by organising the fourth fleet to drive the Undead Mer toward the Mexican coast. Together with the Texas Third Mechanised Mage Battalion, they’ve managed to break Neo Tenochtitlan’s northern defence line at Matamoros. Consequently, we’re seeing sharp surges in General Dynamics, Exxon-Chevron and Enterprise Partners. If all goes well, we’ll be seeing the first significant shift in the battle line since the spring offensive of 2012.”

“Glad to hear some good news. What of our friends in the West?”

“Obeying the same directive, the West Coast has been driving the infested Mer Shoals away from San Diego. But, as Congress denied them the support of the Third Fleet. They could not press their advantage in Baja California. The situation there is reported to be a stalemate, with Tenochtitlan’s forces and the Californian Guard calling for an unofficial cease-fire while the Mer-situation plays out.”

“Good. At least some things are going accordingly. What of their outbreaks?”

“The San Francisco Outbreak has been pacified since early August thanks to the Regent’s intervention. Pockets of infestation remain outside of the bay area, but nothing significant. Los Angeles has also reported a successful eradication of infestation within the city limits. The credit has been attributed to the Regent’s offering of free vaccines through Medi-Cal and UCLA’s public health branch. Her World Tree Elixir (™) has been proven to possess exceptional efficacy in mitigating early infestation and preventing re-infestation.”

“How un-American of our Regent. How did the public take it?”

“There’s been rapid developments,” his aide paused. “If you recall, Sir, Unity launched a smear campaign against the Regent’s administration of free healthcare, accusing her of using the vaccine to curry favour with the public. Their healthcare affiliates have also released statements doubting the vaccine’s effectiveness, as well as accusing the Regent of using Necromancy to Soul Tap individuals, and that the vaccine is a form of mind control.”

“The Regent counter-sued, I assume?” Gilt said. “She did purchase Ellison-Dunn for this specific situation.”

“Not exactly, sir. Without responding to the accusations, the UCLA declared that the vaccine isn’t free after all. It would remain free until the end of July, after which Shalkar Trade Consortium will charge 1 HDM per inoculation. After August, 10 HDMs. After that, by special appointment via networked insurance with hefty co-pays.”

The schadenfreude Gilt worked up evaporated at once. “You know, I’ve always wondered… Why is our Regent so good at grooming the public? Was she born with this knowledge? I was handpicked for Stuyvesant, became the youngest Magus in Princeton’s history, and was then awarded the title of Magister by Harvard. I helped my father run the conglomerate until his passing, became a Tower Master before I was thirty, then fought for a decade to congeal the East Coast into a single body of shared interest.”

Eric Gilt, leader of men, circulated his mana until his self-glazing made him feel better.

“The Regent came from nothing. Was Henry Kilroy that good at teaching his pupils?”

His aide did not and could not answer.

She wasn’t yet born when Eric had met Henry Kilroy. He did not recall much of the man himself, though his pubescent memory did vividly recall the Dryad. He had never contested Shultz or De Botton, but he did concede that they were no worse War Mages than he was as an entrepreneur. Perhaps, had the younger Eric recognised Kilroy for the ageless hermit the old Mage proved to be, he could have taken on some of the same tutelage.

“Miss Song has made no effort to contact me, Gilt Motors, or the affiliates of Empire Tower?” Gilt asked when his aide did not respond.

“No, Sir, nothing.” Emily, squirming in her pencil skirt as though a worm of worry was gnawing her intestines, replied with the tragic tone of a fund manager during an economic downturn.

“Very well.” Gilt considered the harsh reality that the Regent and he were both celestial suns competing for too small a piece of heaven “Contact Grand Counsellor Christoff. Tell them that the Latter Day Saint has the… unconditional backing of the Empire’s body against their heretical competitor.”

Shalkar.

The Shipyard.

In a desert drydock that was now the landscape itself, the commanders of Shalkar al-Jadeedah gathered to witness a miracle of the Pale Priestess' making.

“MANA SHIELDS ACTIVE,” came the blaring announcement in Dwarven. “LOCKDOWNS VERIFIED. CORES ONE TO SIX FIRING AT TWENTY PER CENT.”

On a private dais shared only with the Greybeard Engineseers responsible for the Regent’s magnus opus, Executive Officer Richard Huang, Marshal Lulan Li, Chief-Command Strun, Assistant Engineseer Petra Kuznetsova, Internal Security Chief Natalia Volkova, Envoy Sanari of Tryfan, and Executive Officer Charlene Ravenport watched a lattice of metal 987 meters in length from stern to bow, 348 meters from port to starboard, agonisingly defying the gravitational laws of the Prime Material.

Unlike a traditional Mage Tower, Shalkar was designed to be horizontal rather than vertical, resembling a classical broadsword. A significant part of the design principle was derived from the Dwarven battle barge converted for the Regent's expedition to the South Pole, while the literal shape of the “battleship Tower” was dictated by the natural constraints of its whalebone.

In journeymen’s terms, the Cores powering Shalkar belonged to an ancient Leviathan that had perished near the Fifth Vel. Ergo, many of its structural elements were naturally designed around a flat, horizontal, whale-like form that maximised the reflexive efficacy of its Core and dozens of sub-Cores.

As the Tower took its first infant steps, the backwash from its repulsors was enough to make depressions a kilometre wide in the landscape, as well as generate storm-surges of dust, lightning and debris that could easily strip flesh from bone.

“Engine Five, more throttle.”

“Engine Nine, cut power to forty per cent, yer conduits are getting fried.’

“Engine four, maintain power. Engine six, more thrust, adjust angle by three degrees.”

Richard listened to the rapid-fire Dwarven from Engineseer and Deepdowner Axehoff, understanding less than half of what his Ioun Stone managed to translate. In front of him and his administrative crew, glued to the Vox modules, was Petra and her new Apprentice, a Magi-tech Engineer plucked by Gwen from obscurity in the US.

What he did understand, however, was that once again, the Dwarves don’t disappoint when it comes to repaying debts.

The project was now three months ahead of schedule. That, and the woes of acquiring refined rare-earth metals from China and the US, had gone the way of the Dodo as soon as the heavy cargo lane between Shalkar and Deepholme was completed. Were the Dwarves stripping metal from the subterranean tiers of Deepholme and using it for Gwen’s Tower? Richard knew better than to ask, but he could clearly see that some of the joints were shaped to support dozens upon dozens of subfloors.

The skeleton ship tittered, then slipped, then stabilised as the quirks and outputs of each Engine-Core were calibrated and mapped by the Dwarven Engineseers sitting at the helm, manually controlled by dozens to hundreds of Humans, Ratkins and the occasional Centaur. They must be confident, Richard concluded, because if that thing came crashing down, every living being at the point of contact would perish so completely that the only thing to be salvaged from the wreck would be the Cores.

“Maybe that’s why they drink on the job,” Natalia’s Silent Massage buzzed his Message Ioun, their frontal lobes briefly touching as her Mind Magic skimmed his surface thoughts.

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Richard snickered, but wondered if the thought would be so funny once the Tower was fully staffed.

Two thousand crew members for the Ship’s Company.

Six to eight hundred crew for Weapons, Medical and Land Logistics.

A contingent of eight Mage Flights and their support staff.

And then there's the troops.

On paper, Shalkar Tower had a carry capacity of one mixed-congress Legion, inclusive of just over a hundred Dwarven “Gevorgunr MKIII” Golems, two hundred Rat-kin Exterminators, and four thousand standing troops with a six-hundred-strong logistics staff.

If there ever came a day when Shalkar Tower gets Russianed…

“Fret not, Dick. The Sparrow Hawks are here, aren't we? If it ever happens that sacrificing the Tower becomes our only choice, then we are already dead.”

His partner’s promise was a little optimistic, but it did bring a smile to Richard’s lips. Besides them, Strun looked like a monk in a tantric trance, Lulan looked like she was seriously contemplating the possibility of fighting the Tower with a sword, and Petra looked like the sweat-drenched mother of a newborn after enduring a three-year-long labour.

“By the Nazarene. I can’t believe this is actually happening,” Charlene’s remark broke the clockwork droning of Dwarven announcements with her feminine thrill. “Gwen’s Tower, I mean. We’ve been talking about this since I met her in London, and now it's a physical, concrete flying

thing.”“Master Huang, we’re ready to test the primary armament.” Deepdowner Axehoff slid a few feet from his control station by willing his Clad backward. A true master of his craft, the Engineseer’s eyes were burning orbs of anticipation. “I think the lass will like this.”

What the Chief Engineseer meant was that if the ship remained in flight while its main Core drew enough power to fire the Leviathan Cannon at its intended capacity, then the final phase of the present phase was over, and Rune works such as defensive Mandalas, cladding, bulkheads and internal refits thrifted from the salvaged Ekaterinburg could proceed.

Unlike a traditional Tower, Shalkar’s horizontal “Shard” privileged Spellswords mounted as underside gunnery over a Meister-lead Tower sporting Super-Structural Mandalas and elite Mage Flights. Once completed, several hundred Spellswords with a staggered fire system would provide a sea of spellfire. Additionally, with two Fabricator Engines onboard, Shalkar’s only limit was fuel and material. Then there were the Tower’s true troop numbers, which involved Faith, Cores, and a Vel full of fanatics.

In Dwarven, Richard gave the go-ahead.

A layer of water vapour instantly smothered their Force Panes as the Leviathan Core increased its rotation, drinking deep from the HDM lattices stowed in a dozen locations as a contingency.

For almost a minute, every sound, even the roar of the levitation engines, grew muted as though the entire shipyard had inexplicably moved into the deep Vel. Mandalas in sets of three to five, each forming concentric rings of Runic power words around the skeleton ship’s exterior, added a second sun to Shalkar’s blinding midday.

Richard gave the final command, his personal sigil forming an arcing imprint upon the Fire Control module.

The atmosphere came instantly alive.

Their ears popped. Rain fell.

Rolling tides of mist shoot outward in every direction as foggy behemoths, consuming every structure half a dozen kilometres from the epicentre.

WHEEEEEE—

The Prime Material howled like a wounded beast, rending the fabric of space itself.

Besides him, Lea was suddenly thrown from her invisible vapour form, moaning until her liquid body turned into knotted currents, and his Master bid her hide in his Pocket realm.

Water, clarified and jet white, drawn from the deep Vel, arched across the ultramarine sky, moving so fast that the edge of the mana blast instantly vaporised into roaring thunder clouds ripe with rolling lightning.

Then, in the midst of a deadened sea, the tide was pierced by the Siren-like Message of Petra’s sultry countdown. “Impact in… three… two… one…”

The horizon erupted as a volcano of white water magma.

Multi-million metric tons of water landed every other second, excavating sand and earth, shattering rock and stone, sending a small mountain of earth across one district line into the next.

After the quake came the flood.

A tsunami of water flowed forth with the momentum of a glacier, forming a multi-kilometre-wide Void Swarm of blackwater that swallowed every conceivable thing in its path.

From execution to aftermath, the ordeal lasted almost half an hour.

For all the men and women craning their heads to see the result, there was nothing to see, and for the Diviners with their Clairvoyance up on high, the local map would need to be redrawn.

“How much?” Richard asked on his Regent’s behalf. “Was that better or worse than our estimate?”

“Using raw Elemental Water HDMs supplied by High Whip Lei-Bup,” an Engineseer ran the numbers on their data slates. “Rounded, that was about 219,000 Bank-Pressed, Commonwealth-Standard HDMs.”

The city’s Majordomo winced.

Shalkar produced an obscene number of HDMs, as did the Isle of Dogs Conglomerate, but this was literally pissing vault into the air.

“Damage?” He tipped his head at Axehoff, anticipating the worst. “Be frank, Master Deepdowner.”

“Yer asked for it, lad. Extensive stress fractures on the rear levitation brace. Assorted losses, from catastrophic to minor, from the inertia dampeners. Minor fractures on the mid-section superstructure. Whalebone is holding, the paint notwithstanding. Engineering says that the gyro-stabilisers have all overheated. We’ll need to re-scale and rebuild those.”

The euphoria from the successful weapons test lost some of its lustre. From the sounds of it, there was another half-million HDMs involved at the very least. The larger problem was that, once the ship was fully “Klad”, a similarly poorly stabilised shot from its Leviathan Canon may as well separate the ship’s Core systems from all of its rear bulkheads.

“Don’t yer worry, lad, we’ll sort her out,” Axehoff was far more optimistic. “She’s a beauty, she is. From her bridge, our Regent will hunt down the Sinneslukare, mimm-ears or nay.”

Yes. The Svartálfar. Richard mouthed the word he could not pronounce without magical aid. In the months his Regent had been forging a path in the new world, Deepholm had excavated, tamed, and then installed a Dyar Morkk transit loop around the entirety of southern Amazonia.

What they confirmed, to the surprise of exactly no one, was that the infected Dwarves had vanished exactly into the Murk beneath Cess’naśin, and that barring a localised war, there would be no access to Deepholm’s anthank-sjaer, the grudge-foe.

And this was why Shalkar’s Majordomo knew he had to equip his Regent with a bona fide, world-class Tower at the first opportunity.

Thanks to Natalia’s Sparrow Hawks, he could guess what woes would soon betide the world.

From the faux Dragons guarding their crystalline hoards in New York, to the living Phoenix atop Cerro Tláloc, to the Mistress of the Long Night in her continental Dungeon…

All would require a Leviathan’s delicate prod to move in the right direction.

San Francisco

Washington 2006

Contrary to the socialite mythology of the Regent who had thus far graced the front and back pages of USA TODAY, the LA Times, the Boston Globe and the New York Times, the true Regent of Shalkar was a chronic workaholic.

For others, three months was just enough time for the planning, building, and smooth running of a medium-sized restaurant, but it may as well be three years when ten thousand Dwarves, Rat-kin, NoMs and Mages worked together to make manifest the Regent’s blueprints.

A week after the Undead were cleansed from the parts of the city she was responsible for, Gwen waltzed into the Tenderloin like an old dog returning home for familiar business.

First came the soup kitchens, offering hearty Shalkarian degustation without conditions, doubling as a way to get her future employees registered and acquainted.

Between plates of kabobs, shawarma, pilaf and fruit, each participant was given a copy of the local METRO, which contained all the necessary information for gainful employment, generous wages, and, most importantly, socialist healthcare from the SFSC’s latest medical acquisitions.

Within the second week, the Clinics were up and running, operated by physicians from the Consortium drawn from the Isle of Dogs and across the Commonwealth, joined by the local hospitals. Equipped with state-of-the-art medical facilities purchased in bulk from Shanghai and Singapore, manned by technicians who had already done the same job for half a decade, and most importantly, an unlimited supply of diluted Golden Mead, the Potion-addled Undead of the Tenderloin was made a matter of choice.

For those who refused aid, the newly minted Captain McKenzi of the Tenderloin Station Police Department first offered kind advice, then a firm hand, and after that, the pleasure of traditional Pinkerton-style policing. Protests and counter-protests rallied back and forth, but no one could refuse a good pilaf.

Yet, all the commotions above were a distraction from what was going on below the city’s watchful eyes.

Above, with great theatre, week by week, blocks were sold and vacated, often with loudphones proclaiming the great fortunes of those who accepted the Regent’s buy-back. Two entire blocks were cleared this way to make way for the entry to the Geo-Front, which would house the central transit station for the Tenderloin Station. At a pace that broke all city records, the SFSC logo soon loomed over the Tenderloin, a squat rectangle in the Art Deco style of the Dwarfs, open on all four sides, with three tiers of staggered entryways to process passengers, cargo, and staff.

Below, the Dyar Morkk from The Tenderloin to the new Bunker at Washington 2006 was already completed, and the low way between San Francisco, Los Angeles, Cuzco, Arica and Deepholm was nearing minimal operational parameters.

As for the new San Francisco Geofront, Gwen had materialised a design that resembled an inverted Luxor pyramid. From the moment of a traveller’s entry through the mechanised platforms, an impossibly large vista opened American minds to the improbable wonder of Dwarven architecture. The centre of the pyramid housed the mana plate for the ley-node, an enormous cylinder that rose a hundred meters from flared base to tapered tip, tapping the mana veins to empower Teleportation Circles. Surrounding the central pylon were twenty storeys of terraces, offices, and commercial space, a dozen of which would be reserved for the sale of Shalkar’s limited-edition ultra-luxury goods. On each side, portals would split into four low-way thoroughfares, with four and two platforms running north to south and east to west, above which petite plazas would provide pedestrian access to commercial districts.

Simultaneously, juxtaposing the ease of her automated district gentrification was the continued effort of InterRepublic to build her personal “CEO Cult of Personality”, a must-have if she wished to devour the bigwigs of the West Coast. Thankfully, though she lacked the home ground of the lauded second-and third-generation merchant princes of the Americas, she made up for shallow roots with market saturation.

Her face appeared daily on billboards on every major avenue. She wore her signature heels in never-repeating designs to late-night talk shows, showed off limited-edition Elven frocks on red carpets, and took interview after interview from every major publication, whether hostile, friendly, or simply sceptical.

At the same time, burning HDMs like a Leviathan Cannon, Lorenzo worked to normalise the presence of her followers within a Humanist America.

The Dwarves, with their masculine aesthetics and Protestant work ethic, were readily accepted by a curious public, aided by the immense popularity of Dwarven beer and Dwarven tech with academic and engineering bodies. The Rat-kin were more challenging, though it helped that Strun’s piebald clan were fluffy and demure, and preferred the underground to the stench of San Francisco’s mana miasma. The Khan’s Centaurs had no desire to interact with the Union at all, and so Gwen brought only a few young volunteers, both stallions and mares, from Shalkar. These proved so popular with San Fran’s upper class that the Commonwealth diplomatic corps had to intervene before international incidents occurred. As for the Fifth Vel Mer, Gwen decided Lei-bup’s faithful was too precious for a sane world.

Then there were her Familiars.

Ariel took only two months of publicity to become the most desired design on children’s lunch boxes. In its docile form, compressed to the size of a doe, the Kirin managed to combine the allure of a kitten’s soulful face, the friendliness of a Retriever, the regality of a young stag, and the exoticism of a national-treasure-tier koi. In its mana-charged combat form, her Lion of God was exactly that: a divine, radiant being of old, standing at the apex of the food chain, worshipped by dynasties. At every event Gwen attended, no matter the complicity or hostility, her hosts gushed and groaned over Ariel’s presence, repeating over and over to their stunned studio audience that this was the real deal.

Compared to Ariel, Caliban remained a hard sell, except to particular demographics of youth with a strong preference for black-based palettes. Unlike Ariel, whose radiant aura bathed the viewer like a hot spring, baseline Caliban’s vertigo-inducing existence turned NoMs into vomit-covered, boneless entities, while Mages fared better only through explicit concentration, making extended interviews almost impossible. Moreover, when a well-known Magus host on CBS declared that his body was ready to meet Caliban in its feminine form, Gwen proved, on live Lumen-vision, that the man was not.

Even with Force Shields, Blessings and Resistance Potions, the live audience simply lacked the psychological fortification to witness the body horror of Cali-worm mangling itself, goo and all, into birthing its Night Walker self. Not even the Elven cloak that had drawn gasps of desire from the audience was enough to sway them from the simple truth—that if they were to encounter such a Night Walker in the wild, under the control of a Juche General, then every single living being in the studio and the blocks beside it would perish, then rise as mindless, rotting slaves.

Beyond her Familiars, her familia was out and about, doing fruity things. For Tao, her growing cult status as a CEO made him both immensely popular among street-level artists and equally loathed. While Gwen believed that Tao had the talent, he was born a Fu-er-dai, and now he was a Mithril-spoon nepo-rapper.

Nonetheless, she felt a soft spot for the Peach and so contributed a new song that perfectly captured his current circumstances. A song about gangsters, paradise, prayer and streetlights.

Week after week, month on month, her routine continued with a gentle cadence.

The early morning was for administrative work.

Teas and Luncheons made for good interviews and shows.

The afternoon was spent on meeting stakeholders, conducting site inspections, and working on mergers and acquisitions.

The evening was for supper with Slylth and her cabinet, for reports from Shalkar and London, or for museum dinners and red-ribbon events.

Sleep, which she rarely needed now, was two to three hours of deep meditation.

On the weekend, she and Slylth kept their promise to show him the Human world. As twin jetstreams, they ventured from the metropolis to the tier II satellite cities. They picnicked at Lake Tahoe, ate with the locals at Lake Valley, and casually exterminated monster fish plaguing the Washo community. They visited Humboldt Forest, rode with the Numu tribes who fought the coyote-headed Koblolds. They uncovered the secret of the Serpent mounds and found the preserved bodies of Draconids murdered by Pilgrim Faith Magic.

Finally, on Gwen’s latest day trip to Death Valley, they had skirted the City of Sin to take in a nostalgic scene that made her homesick.

A desert biome. A valley of alternating snow and sun.

A plateau elevated by geography, but blessed by deep aquifers.

And most endearingly, Las Meadow was an impossible beacon of civilisation surrounded by harsh, unforgiving landscapes. The duo did not venture inward because Slylth would trigger the Shielding Mandala, and because the Latter Day Saints had a hard-on for Caliban and an enormous presence in Las Vegas. The latter was a nonsensical contradiction to Gwen until Count Hawthrone reminded her that America was where the New York Stock Exchange had a Mithril mural of the Nazarene and his Apostles on the pediment. Here, Gwen reminded herself, “All that Glitters is not Gold” was never penned by the Bard.

Nonetheless, with her head on a stiff shoulder, the nervous drone of Slylth nerding out over human history and the warm desert wind in her hair… she conceded that it was nice.

It was nice for now, because Gwen was more than aware that, invariably, catalysed by faith and fire, her peace would perish by human desire.