I N T E R • A R M A • E N I M
S I L E N T • L E G E S
S I L E N T • L E G E S
Glade 1, 122 Age of Steel
An uncertain air had fallen over most of Kalzasi after the murder of the Shokaze and the evident kidnapping of his son and heir - along with his husband - at the day of the Prince's wedding. What was meant to have been a celebration of love and implicit defiance over oppressors had turned into horror, and none knew what the future held, other than war. They had not taken up their trade thinking that war would be their business, but they were forced to admit that now it was. On the day of the wedding, Avamande had been busy in the workshop, checking the last of the scrolls they had scribed before they were shipped off to the Sky Guard.
They had not left it since. Lyra had entrusted her employees with seeing to her various interests, vanishing in the wake of the chaos. While Avamande found this quite odd, they did not object to the sudden weight of responsibility thrust upon them, even with the news that they and Finn were to be responsible for her estate in her absence. While this did not require them to treat their office as their bedroom, the nature of the season made them feel that they had little better to do. Each scroll was checked to a maniacal degree, the reality of their use slamming home.
War had not been declared it, but it would. All knew it would. Zaichaer had not claimed responsibility for the atrocity, but all in Kalzasi knew it was. It was not a knowledge borne from facts and reason, but one that they felt deep inside of their bones. One that called for revenge, and stoked fear even in the most hardened of hearts. Even Avamande's. They had no great love for the so-called Jewel of the Northlands, they had stood aloof from its institutions and refused to don the robes of a Circle mage. If they had a home, it was wherever their parents roamed, and failing that, Sol'Valen. Kalzasi was simply where they had lived. Nothing more.
But even so. This was brazen beyond measure, and the capabilities that the invaders had displayed were horrific if they could used at scale. No where was safe until more was known about what they had done and how they had done it, for every element of Kalsazern security had failed. An airship had landed troops unopposed and unchallenged into the Palace of the First Wind itself, and every mage alive was scrambling to understand and defeat such a power - or replicate it. Yes, war was certain, and Zaichaer could not be permitted to succeed. While there were no true beacons of liberty in Karnor, Kalzasi both tolerated magic and asked little of its populace. It was an ideal home for research, far from oppression, or worse, arcane inclined governments which might demand finely honed secrets.
Kalzasi must stand, the logic was simple and demanding, so Avamande made to work to ensure it. They would do anything to ensure it. Even if that meant checking each scroll by hand for the fifth time for the slightest imperfection in the glyph. Even if it meant abandoning what scant home comforts they had acquired for themselves in their small apartment. Even if it meant having given up on their perfectly laundered coat and bundling it into a pillow, working the next day half-dressed and sore. They had drank little and ate less, working themselves to the breaking point to meet their Glade deadline for the shipment.
No one was surprised at the state they found each other in when the Sky Guard arrived at Ale'Ephirum to take receipt of the shop's wares. Avamande was still busy in the back as the others dealt with the paperwork and payment, the Hytori pointing the soldiers and porters to the designated boxes with an air that shifted between the stern and the absentminded. They had not slept much either, that much was clear. What standing army resided in the city had been immediately thrown into chaos with the death of the Shokaze, the high command thinking of little except locking down the palace until more was known or a competent authority granted them further orders. It was a recipe for disaster, and each and every person aware of the the severity of the situation they were in kept one eye on the horizon for Zaichaeri airships.
If they could sneak above the Palace itself, nowhere felt safe until some countermeasure was developed. Not for the first time, Avamande regretted the fact that their parents had prioritized Negation and Traversion over Semblance in their training, the mage forced to admit that they would be useless in that endeavor. But at least they had accomplished some good, and as the scrolls were taken away they could be confident that each one would work as expected and intended. Even as that was done they were busy, having rolled up the sleeves to their shirt as they busied themselves sketching out the outlines of their magics in charcoal as practice before the next order came in. They knew without a doubt that another order would come in.
Fate would not require them to wait long. After the lead Sky Guard officer had confirmed receipt of all agreed upon supplies, she handed a tightly bound scroll to one of Avamande's coworkers. Standard business, or at least as standard as it could given the situation, but what she said when letting go of the paper was anything but. "I trust that the Sky Guard can trust in the confidentiality of Ale'Ephirum, as ever."
"As ever," the other man replied, quite severely. Even the appearance of questioning the integrity of the workshop was an insult beyond belief to those who had helped build its reputation, and he kept an eye on the officer as he opened the scroll and began to read its contents. To little shock, it was another requisition, but it was left unsigned and the recipient unnamed. "And the Sky Guard will make the appropriate arrangements, as ever?" the shopkeeper continued.
"As ever," the officer finished, unphased by the exchange. Behind her, one of her lieutenants lifted what was quite obviously a bag of avens and set them down on the counter. "For your consideration," she said, before marching off with her soldiers and supplies in tow.
Remaining within Ale'Ephirum, the employees crowded around the counter to see what was being asked of them now. The scrolls were of an undeniably martial character, even moreso than what Avamande had worked in Frost. Almost all called for Elementalism, Kinetics, and somewhat surprisingly Masquerade - the latter ranging from minor incantations to hide a scouting party, to massive enchantments to obscure the movements of entire armies. But those were beyond them, and they turned their attention to what work that they could actually do.
Negation was always in high demand, but the vast majority of its needs had been met already - those that were in this batch of requests were far more creative. Wards tasked about light, sound, and even scent, to obscure a man beyond any mortal senses. Optimized for duration, and limited to a single man, these were high expense and high specialty scrolls, and Avamande elected to not consider what their users would do with them. Those that called for Traversion were less morally compromising, but perhaps more significant to the war effort as a whole. Any restraint about weaponizing Slipspace had flown away with Prince Talon, and scrolls of Phase were demanded in huge quantities for the elite of the Sky Guard.
Reviewing the requests, Avamande already began to think of what would be needed, shifting through their charcoal sketches for the correct glyphs. "When are they going to pick them up?" they asked, trying to gauge the delivery schedule. Obviously they would need as much as possible as soon as possible, but perhaps if they'd take time before returning to Ale'Ephirum to retrieve their latest order then the mage could get ahead of the curve and sleep in their own bed.
"Weekly," was the only reply, the shopkeeper too busy with the employees divvying up what parts of the order they would work on for elaboration.
"You can't be serious. That's impossible, there's no way to get this much done in a week," Avamande protested, the overworked Hytori finally beginning to wilt.
At first, the more senior employee let out an exasperated sigh, before they saw the expression on the mage's face. It was subtle, but it was bizarre to see any expression on it to begin with and so drew notice to itself. "No, not in a week. Weekly. A detachment will pick up what we have, when we have it, and ship it to the front. They aren't bothering with deadlines anymore, we don't have time for them anymore."
The relief that flooded through their body at the explanation was extreme, but was soured by the implications of the latter portion. "I see. My apologies. I will endeavor to maintain the same level of quality as deserving of Ale'Ephirum."
"Avamande," the stern shopkeeper said, looking the bedraggled Hytori up and down. "Go home."