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Wild Card 12
🕑 Added 2024-09-30 07:58:53 +0000 UTCBy evening, the chapterhouse blacksmith has already delivered several iron ingots to me, rough poured and slightly rusted; I can only assume that for his purposes, they're probably low quality enough that he won't much miss them. I don't particularly NEED high-quality iron or steel to start with, though, because I can make it higher quality with Alter Object. I take a moment to smear the iron bar onto a soot stain on the wall of my penitent's chamber, now workshop, to get a little bit of carbon on it, before casting the spell to convert the bottom quarter of the ingot into a solid shaped, double bladed stem razor with nine tenths percent carbon steel blades. It has no moving parts; it doesn't need them, given I can make overall changes to it that will sharpen it again as needed, so no need to replace blades or anything. I snap the newly made, solid state shaving razor off the remaining iron of the ingot.
Along with the iron ingots, Vanion saw fit to provide me with several surprisingly large chunks of rock whose interior is obsidian. I'm guessing it has to be local, which means that somewhere not too far from here must have been volcanically active at some point. I'm no geologist, of course, but I have a broad enough layman's knowledge of a wide variety of things just for being a writer - and my knowledge of some types of rock stems from a story I did years back about a guy who fell through time into the stone age and took up with a small tribe of hunter gatherer humans. Heh. I haven't thought about that story in a long time; feels almost childish now when I think about it.
Then again, here I am somewhere far more outlandish, with abilities more literally magical than college level knowledge was in that story, so who's to say? Reality, as they say, is stranger than fiction.
Altering the obsidian into clear, flat glass and layering it over the remaining iron ingots reformed into a flat, polished sheet gives me a serviceable mirror by which to shave, although I find myself wishing I had some nickel, chromium, and molybdenum to fabricate into stainless steel just to make the reflection a little brighter. Lye soap and cold water are an unpleasant accompaniment to the long neglected task of shaving my head, an act of self care that over the last year had somewhat fallen by the wayside back home. Much like exercise and proper diet.
As I carefully shave away my hairline to reveal smooth scalp, its regularity far more visually appealing than my male pattern baldness left to run rampant, it occurs to me that maybe, bit by bit, my letting myself go was some sort of surrender without looking to the slow march of time. Two years shy of fifty, a milestone in my mind for 'being old'. Was I just letting aches and pains win over fighting through them to claw and scrape for every bit of health and fitness I could? Maybe, maybe not, but I find some subtle aspect of my mood improving with each pass of the razor, of shearing off my hair and trimming my beard, taking the wildness out of it so I actually look like I give a god damn.
My wife is an angel for tolerating me through this slow devolution from a strong, self-confident man into a quiet, reclusive writer with no regard for his appearances. I owe her better if I ever make it back to her.
I only nick my scalp once, the usual place on the back left of my head where there's a tiny, lumpish scar from a dog that bit me when I was a kid. I don't remember the incident, but to hear my grandmother tell, the dog had my whole head in its mouth before it let go of me. The bite was apparently something of a warning to stop pulling its fur, and if that's true, then I damn well deserved it, and was lucky it wasn't worse. I use Healing Hands to close over the miniscule nick, and after dividing the mirror in two so I can get a good look at the back of my head, I nod in satisfaction.
Yeah. Yeah, this will work. And I need to wake up my old college discipline and regain some of my self-respect. Time to be more than just some potbellied, washed out, failed writer.
I get to work practicing with Faerie Fire.
Hours pass by in a monofocus obsession. Over, and over again, I call up Faerie Fire, testing my limits with it. Pushing myself to force it to last longer, to cast it a little faster, to inject shorthand, memorize whole mana patterns so I don't have to paint them by word and gesture. I try to change its shape, its size, its composition, I dabble with color, I try to invoke it just above, then when that proves possible, a few inches away from the candlewick I use to manifest it. Trying to wean my magic's insistence on the flame beginning and being tied to a fuel source. My mind knows it can be done, as I dance the flame away from the wick. The science nerd in me knows that I'm probably using the oxygen in the air as a fuel, somehow, but my burgeoning mage mind insists that this is a crutch, that I'm not truly invoking the flame free of all fuel just yet. But I'm becoming accustomed to it, my mind growing used to the idea that flame is not always of something flammable, that fire does not always have to give heat when it gives light, that I can choose what to leave unsullied, undamaged, and what to burn away. A bit at a time, the miniscule orb of gelatinous fire begins to expand its size by fractions of an inch.
My monofocus breaks as I suddenly yawn, my concentration lapsing on the ball of fire bobbing in mid-air. The Faerie Fire flickers like a match that's burning out, and then all that remains of it is a wispy filiment of pale smoke that smells briefly of cinnamon for some reason.
I blink my eyes, looking around, not particularly surprised by the blurriness beyond a few feet in front of me; I've been almost exclusively looking at a semi bright light source from no more than about five feet for who knows how long. At least as bad for my eyes as staring at a phone screen for hours on end, probably worse given the fire's greater brightness and the deeper darkness of this windowless room in the heart of a militant religious order's stronghold.
It suddenly occurs to me that I'm a witch - and probably a heretic - in the heart of what seems to be an outpost of the local equivalent to the Knights Templar. Thankfully, they're a bit more tolerant, at least on the surface, than that particular institution from my world... !but as I am more or less bound to one of their order for a year, I can't help but be concerned about my prospects when my usefulness nears its end. Or am I just having a bout of paranoia precipitated by insufficient sleep? I yawn again, feeling the first hints of hunger.
Well, I could wander over to the cafeteria - wait, no, I think Vanion called it a refectory? - and see what's on offer for their night crew... but no. Discipline includes not indulging more than very rarely in food for enjoyment's sake, and in all honesty, I've probably done enough of that in the last few years to use up my allowances for the rest of my next two lives. I briefly consider the idea of a nice, hearty, fatty beef stew, or maybe some bacon and eggs, or even some fried chicken, before I force myself to shut that out of my head, and cast Goodberry instead. Three bananas appear in my hands; I tuck two into my Pocket spell, so they'll stay fresh, and start to peel the third.
I give the peel a tentative nibble, curious to see if the spell would stay true to the fruit. It doesn't. The peel isn't bitter the way a real banana peel would be, just a little fibrous and a bit starchy, and since I don't feel like hunting down a trash bin or compost pile or whatever right now, I just decide to eat the banana whole. Part of me reflects on the fact that if it weren't for me being from a world with triploid clonal bananas these would probably have seeds, although in keeping with the peel, they'd probably be either tasteless or mildly pleasant rather than getting in the way.
I open the door to my room, noting that a Pandion has been stationed outside it, and he starts to follow me as I walk down the hallway.
It's too much to hope for indoor plumbing, of course, and before I received my room I was already informed of the 'thunder mugs', basically chamber pots with fitted lids to keep the bad smells inside, which would be emptied into the latrines in the morning. Said latrines were dug on a regular basis out in the forest outside the chapterhouse, and everyone, even Vanion, took their turn to dig the holes when a new latrine was needed, which was apparently every couple of days or so. Said process began with pouring quicklime into the old hole, digging a new one, and using the dirt from that to pile over the previous latrine to be reclaimed by nature in due time. There's acres of forest out here and I imagine they probably don't go back to a previous site for years or more. To ensure new latrines don't break into recent ones, there's a planned path for where and when the next set of holes will go. It's all quite reasonable and organized.
I wonder if I can convince Vanion to expand my magic permissions enough to let me use magic to do the job when my turn comes around.
I find the room with the thundermugs, walking in just in time to hear the eponymous sound of one in use. There's no dividers between them, and there's no toilet paper. Instead, each member of the order has several lumps of rough cotton wadding that are soaked in soapy water after use and rinsed, requiring replacement every month or so. I did at least extract permission from Vanion to use Prestidigitation rather than one of these dreadful invitations to cholera and other disease, despite the fact that they apparently don't have a problem with either here. I couldn't guess if it's because they're all more or less immune to it, their version of soap is somehow antimicrobial, or cholera simply never evolved over here, but regardless of the reason I refuse to sink THAT far from what I deem acceptable standards of hygiene.
For that matter, I don't intend to bathe in a barrel any longer than it takes to convince Vanion to let me create a magic item that allows for a hot shower.
At least they aren't using communal sponges on sticks like the Romans. Then again, they don't have access to that kind of water infrastructure to build constant flow toilets, so they'd be worse than useless, but I digress. I finish emptying my bladder and give a single shake to dislodge the last few drops, before zipping my jeans and toeing the lid up to cover the chamber pot. It takes me a couple tries, but I think I acquit myself well for never having used one before today. Prestidigitation eliminates any trace of body sweat or other contaminants first from my hands, then the foot I nudged the chamber pot lid with. The whole while my Pandion escort impassively watched me, and presumably was silently judging my junk while I pissed. Well, whatever. I sigh and walk out of the room, followed along as I walk to the double doors that lead to the courtyard.
It's quite late. Whatever cloud cover there'd been in the middle of the night last night, the only haziness comes from a light fog that hasn't had time to settle in or thicken. As such, the nearly full moon overhead is ringed in refracted light, and the whole courtyard has taken on an etherial cast with an almost pearly glow. This is further complicating my already poor night vision, meaning I pretty much can't see shit beyond a dozen feet. Even so, I take the time to simply let the cool night air soak into me for a few minutes.
"What's your name?" I ask my stoic, silent escort without looking at him.
For a moment, I think he's not going to answer me, before he finally replies, "Sir Dalimar Atris."
"Nice to meet you, Sir Atris." I take a deep breath, feeling tired, but also restless. Anxiety at my uncertain future - at my uncertain present, for that matter - is robbing me of any real desire to lay down and sleep. "How long have you been a knight?"
"Fourteen years," he says shortly.
I hum in response. "A good life?"
"Beats farming turnips," he says with a light snort. "I hate turnips."
"They ever serve them here?" I ask, a small smile touching my lips.
"Occasionally. I time my devotional fasts for those days."
I chuckle. "They're good for you, though. They ward off scurvy, both roots and leaves are edible, lots of nutrients in them. They're good for the digestion, good for the bones too." I pause. "That said, I'd rather eat my shoes."
That pulls an unexpected laugh, a single short bark of it, from Sir Atris. "Just so," he says in amiable agreement.
"Have you eaten recently?" I ask, looking over at him.
"No. I haven't been relieved yet; Lord Vanion's orders are that you are to be watched over at all times."
The sociable energy we'd just started to build together falls away, and I sigh. "I'm guessing you're probably hungry?"
"I... would not find a bowl of hot stew to be amiss," he admits.
Hmm. Well, I suppose there's no harm in making the offer. I retrieve one of the bananas from my pocket, and hold it out to him. "Here. This should tide you over til tomorrow night or so."
I'm quite accustomed to bananas, as a modern American in the twenty first century. I'd almost forgotten that they were a tropical fruit, and an oddly shaped one, until I glance over at Sir Atris to see him staring openmouthed and slightly horrified at it. I clear my throat, getting his attention. "Uh, it's called a banana."
I wasn't quite expecting his response. "It looks like a penis."
I stare at the banana for a long second before I suddenly realize that there's no reason whatsoever to believe that widespread circumcision exists here. I guffaw, this time, and start laughing hard enough I begin to cough. I'm more or less incapacitated for a good thirty seconds, by the end of which I have tears rolling down my cheeks and my stomach aching. "Oh. OH, Loki is absolutely laughing his ass off at me right now."
Sir Atris seems partway between confusion and a wry, rueful amusement. "Er, your... banana?"
I shake my head and snicker. "Here. Ignore its resemblance. Just take a bite out of it."
Slowly, he takes the fruit from my hand, like he's not sure if he's being pranked right now. I nod at him reassuringly; he looks at it once more with evident dubiousness before taking a small bite off the tip. The lightly fibrous peel parts at a rip of his teeth, and he begins to slowly chew, his reluctance fading to surprise as he does so. "It's... sweet," he says after a few seconds. "Sticky, and sweet."
I nod. "They're a man made hybrid of an ancestral berry plant called plantain, which comes from the tropics. Popular food crop across my world."
"I can understand it," he says appreciatively, taking a larger bite this time. I turn my attention back to the sky as he rapidly finishes his fruit, making a slightly disappointed sound as he swallows the last of it. "... Ah, well. It was great while it lasted. Thank you, Anthon."
There it is again, that truncation of my name. "Don't worry about it. I'm keeping you from a regular eating schedule, the least I can do is try and make things a little easier on you."
He grunts, then pauses. "Huh. It didn't seem like it while I was eating it, but..."
"But?" I prompt after a second of silence.
"It was a lot more satisfying than I thought it would be," he finishes.
"It's created by a spell called Goodberry," I explain. "One such fruit can feed a man for a full day and heals wounds. It also doesn't promote overeating or poor nutrition, which are indulgences I've exercised far too often in the last ten or so years of my life." I slap my belly for emphasis.
Diplomatically, he chooses to avoid commentary. "Thank you again," he says instead. "Although I would think perhaps such things should be reserved for the injured, if they can heal? Magics which promote healing are rare and difficult."
I shrug. I'm starting to feel the chill of the night settle in. "Not for me. For whatever reason, it turns out my magic doesn't work the same way as what the, ah, Styrics use."
No words pass between us for a while. I'm just about to turn to go back inside, when he suddenly asks, "What's your home like?"
I take a moment to think about it before answering. "I live in a reasonably good sized city. Counting the whole metropolitan area there's a population of about two million, last I'd read," I reply.
I suppose part of me expects shock, disbelief, and a general state of being impressed from the man. Instead, he silently absorbs the information for about ten seconds. "That's a lot of people," he says finally. "Where do they all... fit?"
"We're pretty spread out in the valley; I think it's something like twenty or so square miles, but I'm not too sure about it exactly. We've got a different technology and infrastructure setup than you do here." The moon has definitely moved a little since the last time I looked up, in relation to the shadowy walls above us. "Necessary utilities are managed and distributed to residents. Water, sewer access, electricity, garbage disposal and so forth. Transportation infrastructure includes city buses that run along routes at regular intervals and provide affordable transportation for people who don't own their own cars. Work tends to be centralized in business districts. Commercial transport brings goods from where they're produced to all over the country. Food, clothing, furniture, entertainment products. Information technology facilitates the flow of everything alongside bulk transportation and rapid shipping." I stop talking, thinking about the sheer enormity of what modern technology enables. Of how it's vital to the continued operation of not just my city or even my nation, but for the continued existence of the world as we know it. "It's weird how you can take incredible things for granted until you really think of their scale and what they actually do."
"Your home sounds... a little frightening," Sir Atris says, like he's trying to fill the silence.
"Parts of it were, I suppose. I miss it, though. Seeing this world... wild, dangerous. I think I didn't appreciate how safe we were until I came here."
"... Safe?"
"Back home, my wife and I have lived in the same house for twenty two years. The whole time, the only crime we've had happen to us is someone who snuck into our backyard once in the middle of the night to steal a bicycle. Which is a muscle powered transport device."
"A dear loss?"
"No. Didn't even impact us meaningfully. It wasn't even being used. Only times I ever saw police on our street were for domestic disturbance, when people in the same house were arguing loud enough to bother the neighbors." I sigh, halfway to yawning. "We weren't particularly well off by comparison to most. We weren't in bad debt. We were comfortable. Other than when I was practicing martial arts, I don't think I personally witnessed more than two or three acts of violence against anyone in that twenty-two year span."
"Really? So few deaths?"
"No deaths at all by violence. Some minor injuries from fist fights, that's all. Bruises, a few knocked out teeth."
"Truly? My brothers did more than that to me in a summer when we were simply roughhousing."
I nod. "As I said. Safe. Do you know, almost nobody carries weapons there except police officers? We have the right to, enshrined by law, but it's seen as odd at best by many."
"I don't know of any place so secure in Eosia," Sir Atris remarks.
I shrug. "Different world. There's too many people back home for that kind of wildness here. Order would break down. Secure from each other, yes, but different dangers exist."
"It still sounds like a fine place. Almost like a fairy tale. A place so peaceful there's no need to carry weapons."
"..." I debate the idea of telling him what we regard as weapons, before dismissing the idea as pointless and probably unkind. "I think I'm ready to go back inside," I say.
The two of us walk back inside, turning from the main hall down the right hand corridor that leads first to the stairs down, then into the penitents' hall. I open my door, and walk in, Sir Atris remaining outside. "Thanks for the chat." All business again, Sir Atris nods once and leans back against the far wall.
I shut the door and lay down on the cot. I don't remember closing my eyes, much less falling asleep.
