Private Tales One's True Test; One's True Purpose

[Tinker Smithe]

Graduation. That most anxious and exciting time for Dreadlord Initiates. All that time dedicated to missions and study and training. All of it for this singular event. To break forth from one's cocoon and emerge a full Dreadlord....

Tinker was unaware. Apathetic to the shared dream of his so called peers. Mere days away the most important event of his life and yet there he was in his workshop working away.... As always. Clay to be shaped. Metal to be forged. Wood worked. Leather molded. Heat filled the space in the way smoke wished it could instead of drifting up holes towards the sky. Form slowly being granted to the formless.

This was his world. The world he knew. The world he loved. Not that other one the others chittered about senselessly all the time. Minds empty of reason. Hears devoid of purpose. Wastes of resources better spent elsewhere on useful things. Latrines. Crates. Paper weights. Items that held some value instead of actually sapping it from all around them.

Graduation. Ruiner of purpose filled work. Wasteful break from the perpetual flow of progress. What good was pitting his peers against one another is who knew what activities when golems weren't being made because of it? The future held hostage by the past.

A knock on his workshop door. Another irrelevant sound to be ignored. In walked Proctor Atropa with a hurry unusual for their steps. Tinker looked to them. A movement of the Proctor's masked head to follow. The initiate immediately dropped what they were doing to follow.

Abandoned. This was how they would find the initiate's workshop the day of graduation. His supposed room abandoned years ago in favor of his work. All his tools and works gone. His personal articles and little companions nowhere to be found.

It was as if the initiate Tinker Smithe never existed in the first place....

 

[Tinker Smithe]

Old stone. Aged moss. Springs clear bubbling into cracked fountains blank sculptor filled. Ancient Anirian city broken by the elves during the first or perhaps second war. Abandoned. Forgotten. Scarred.

Tinker felt at home.

Atropa guided the young man into the city's heart. A stairwell going deep, deep, deep below. Darkness consuming the natural light quickly as existence spiraled down.

But light returned. Crystals grew from the walls. He stopped at the first of them. Fingers gently touching the smooth mineral. Faint warmth like that of a rubbed stone. They once had been held in a grove, a carved alcove, acting as a sconce or brazier high up on the wall. The crystals had been placed within then grown over and across the stone walls. Like a faintly glowing ivy.

"Dwarven glow stone." Atropa replied to the unasked question. Their expression a mystery behind the mask, but the tone of their voice hinted at amusement. The kind one might feel while watching a cat see their own reflection for the first time.

"No." Tinker responded as he pulled out a chisel from his belt of tools. "Wisp gem. Crystal candle. Anirian glow stone."

"Oh? So different from the kind dwarves use?" Atropa asked with curiosity and a nearly unnoticeable hint of annoyance.

The young man just nodded as he gently removed part of the glowing crystal from the wall. A faint shimmer went through the pieces like a wave of made of light upon the shore. The piece was pocketed and then the initiate followed the Proctor once more.

 

[Tinker Smithe]

Underground springs lined with gray moss, biofluorescent fungi, and pale red vines were scattered about the room or cavern at the end of the steps. Echoes of water flowing from their pools into streams seemingly absorbed into the dense stone. Tiny scratches from blind or nearly so critters as they ate and hunted amongst the underground flora.

And above it the booming thuds of boxes, crates, and chests being placed upon the stone floor.

Tinker gazed past Atropa at the hated noise. Soldiers were lowering down supplies with ropes from the high vaulted ceiling. Shafts built about the space to allow air to flow and act as a means of getting vital goods into the space. The same crystals that had lined the stairs covered large patches of the ceiling and upper walls providing a somewhat dim yet readily available level of light. Enough that one could easily fall asleep yet everything remain mostly visible.

He was in a special place. A cavern turned long ago into a sanctuary in case of a siege or elven occupation. Rooms for every manner of purpose. Places to store all necessary supplies. Places to sleep and eat. Places to create to his heart's desire....

The young man was drawn towards a sight he loved dearly. Smelters. Forges. Kilns. Everything he could possible need all sitting in the heart of the room so that the smoke might drift up and into the numerous shafts above.

Atropa watched him drift away like a lover possessed. Their stance amused once again.

"When the help is done you will have everything you need for your test. Your purpose."

Tinker's fingers softly caressed the top of one of the forges. "Purpose?"

"You will create an army of golem soldiers for Vel Anir. A mixture to fulfill multiple needs.... And the means for others to be able to control them not just yourself."

The young man looked over at the proctor. A curious gleam in his eyes. A slight frown on his face. "Can't make control device. Not possible."

"Figure it out. I believe in you. You are capable of more than you know."

A soldier walked up with a cage in hand containing a slug, hermit crab, and winged scorpion. Only the winged beast seemed bothered in any way as it kept threatening to escape and murder those who dared disturb it. The man said nervously glancing at the scorpion, "What do I do with these Sir?"

Atropa looked to the cage for a moment then seemed to get excited. "Ah yes! You may put them in his living quarters. Gently. That winged scorpion will kill everyone here if it gets out."

The soldier gulped and left to get the task over with as soon as possible for his own sanity. Tinker watched then gave Atropa a inquiring look.

"Your dolls, puppets, and golems are here as well. If they haven't been lowered down yet they will be soon. Why don't you set up your work space then your room first then you can wake them up?"

Tinker nodded. Already his hands were at work getting his tools out and to the right places. An ancient workshop to be brought back to life. Flames lost and forgotten rekindled. Their purpose restored.

A smile was upon his face.

 

[Tinker Smithe]

It was a blur. Organizing his workspace. Setting up his room. Awakening his creations. Releasing his companions. All of it a big blob of sameness in his memory that invoked feelings more than coherent images. Vague flashes of Atropa speaking then no one else but him existing in the space.

Clarity returned when eyes opened from sleep. Haze before. Mist now. The young man rose. Woke the fires of the forge. Ate. Fed companions. Began to work.

Hammer shaping metal against an ancient anvil. Different. Less straight. More curved. Smooth or perhaps smoother? Sensations were fresh. New. Vibrations in his form tingled in strange new ways. Refreshing.

Tinker felt energetic. Excited. As much as he missed his old workshop that had been his home since the one of his birth was left to rot, he felt the potential of this new one. A connection to the craft. A challenge to learn and grow. Feelings he never had back at the Academy. It was truly a waste. Inefficient. A place to entertain fools and make them feel wise. A drawer full of nails that were only good for being hammered into place. Overworked metal that became too brittle and lost all its value.

That was to be his fate if he stayed. But not here. His purpose was to be found. No distractions. No fools. No wastes of his time. He had a task. Create a new work. A way for others to direct his creations as he could. A mental link so that the puppets and dolls might direct organics finally. A reduction in fools.... Or was it enslavement by lesser beings?

Frozen he stood staring into burning coals. All that could go wrong if he allowed another to command his creations as if they weren't inferior to them. A very small handful like Evie might hold respect. Most would waste the opportunity and believe themselves greater than they were like that guy. Dangerous. Too dangerous....

Tinker continued his crafting. Atropa had given him an order. Danger was always present. Risks couldn't be avoided. They must be taken or no progress would ever take place. The Proctor knew what they were doing. They always had and understood reality. Golems were the future. Organics were flawed by design. His creations were not. They were perfection and would prove to be the example Vel Anir would follow.

 

[Tinker Smithe]

Time past. Always it past. No ability to track it. No desire to track it.

Tinker worked and worked and worked. Frustration grew as ideas did not. No revelation nor inspiration as to how the pitiful organics could commune with his perfect creations. No way for them to speak with them as he does. It was impossible. They lacked his gifts. His closeness with perfection. How could they ever dare dream of such an act? He only could by offering himself fully into their creation. His time. His skills. His essence others would foolishly label as magic. What would they give in tribute to the perfect beings to gain their trust, loyalty, and service?

Nothing....

More and more apparent it became. The number of dolls, puppets, and golems rose. None containing that difference from their older kin. His hands remained in motion and use. His mind as well. Nothing new. Nothing new. Nothing new....

Hammer struck tong instead of metal. The vibration denting his tool and harming his hand. A cut. Blood dripping. Cooling heated iron. Distraction. Organic weakness. Frown formed. Current work scrapped. Impurities would ruin the creation.

Tinker gently laid his tools down then went to his quarters. Spark flew to him. Began to clean the blood from his hand. Lesser minds would claim she fed upon him. They would be wrong. Blood was impure. One he could not survive without. Weakness of flesh. He let her get her fill then finished what she had started.

Blood....

Impurities always needed to be beat out of metal if it was low quality. Impurities sacrificed for perfection. He gave of himself so perfection might exist. He sacrificed....

Tinker stood up. An idea formed. Lesser beings could never provide an adequate sacrifice. They were beyond impure. They were tainted and corrupted. Organics were so blind that none of perfection would recognize them. But they might recognize him. He was impure. A body of flesh. But he held perfection in its proper place. They recognized him and his sacrifices for their creation. A connection born of sacrifice. His sacrifice. His impurities....

The young man looked down at his injured hand.

More would be required than his own impurities. Much more. The connection between him and them would be unbreakable with such a sacrifice. But it wouldn't be enough for those tainted and corrupt organics blindly seeking the truth and power of the perfected. They didn't and couldn't understand. They would never be acknowledged. A stronger connection to force open the eyes of the blind....

But what would do so?

Tinker stared at his hand. Frowning. Silent. Then he stood. Repair his tool. Fuel his furnace. Fuel his worthless organic body. Then back to work. Puzzle it out as he worked. A new piece in place. A beginning for his project. The end could be found. It would be found.

 

[Tinker Smithe]

Atropa had been gone for over three months. When they returned it was to a camp of soldiers seemingly under siege. Paranoid and sleep deprived. Jumping at the slightest sound. Something had transpired and the fewer number of people around was just another hint at this fact.

"Report captain. What foul fate has befallen your camp in my absence?" Atropa's tone was not pleased. It held a sharper edge than a poisoned blade and oozed more venom than one as well.

"Foul, cursed witchcraft if ever I've seen it." The captain said stepping forward. The veteran was missing an arm. "Rather be deep within the knife ear's territory than dealing with this damned place."

Atropa was not expecting that answer. "It is a ruin. What could possibly threaten you? Ghosts?" There was a hint of disgust at that last word.

"No ghosts. Those damned 'pets' of your man are constantly trying to devour us. If that scorpion doesn't get you the crab might. Slug doesn't eat people but trails are diseased and poisonous. Then there is those damned dolls. They just show up places and watch you. Sleeping. Eating. Shitting. They just sit there staring into your soul like they are judging you." The captain spat at the ground.

"They are judging us." One soldier that clearly had broken said to themself outloud. Another interjected towards any and all who would listen. "We deserve to be judged! Gods have mercy on us. Look at all the horrors we have brought onto others!"

A fight broke out over this philosophical difference. The captain scowled at the scene. "See what you have done to us?! You go down there and see the hell you brought on this place yourself if you want a report! Won't go and don't have time for it!"

The captain ran off to break up the fighting. No one dared approach Atropa after either out of some sense of fear as the caster of this curse upon them or because their minds had left the plane of sanity already.

Atropa observed for a bit then took off towards the workshop deep down below.

What had happened in the three months Tinker had been left alone?