That night, after we departed for Shujen, Doyle notified me of a storm brewing in the far north, beyond the Bodhi Tree. So, while Blude, Iris, Redd, and Sam slept soundly through the night, I looked through Mani's Eye. Though, not to gaze down on my friends or subordinates or to find the wicked or hopeful.
I scanned the Peninsula, if only to see the reaction from those who watched Mani's shards rise skyward. And not the reaction from all, but from those who, for whatever reason, thought heavily about Amun and the Champion.
The first was a man who stood tall and proud in the fields of the Vrurian Empire. The land was just south of Bakewia, but being the second-largest country in the land, there was no hope he'd notice me on my journey. And I wouldn't care to detour to him.
Not yet.
So I watched him. I listened to him mumble about the familiar magic in the air as he looked south towards an unmoving lightning storm rising to the sky's edge to embrace the pale rock in a blanket of midnight clouds; then mumbled to himself once more.
"What have you become, oh Storm Thief?"
Similarly, what appeared to be a child could be seen deep in the bogs of Brybs. This kid of bones wasn't looking up at the woven world, however, they were bending low to pick up a strange, blacker-than-black feather. Then, their faceless visage turned southward to watch the setting sun in silence.
On the contrary, I saw what appeared to be an elf of bronze skin admiring the sunset without even gazing upon it, instead gazing upon the violets and oranges and blues that added to the beauty of Mani from on high and feeling. Feeling and becoming one with the potent but contradictory energies swirling in a land called Bakewia far below.
They saw it in the houses and huts floating above the ground. And again even higher. High, where the once-lonely eye had new friends orbiting about it. A storm. A small sun, dimmed by a cloud of smoke. Balls of water and frost and other newly woven worlds.
And then they smiled, closed their eyes, and almost sang in a whisper. "I cannot wait until we meet, Devil of the Fae."
I wished I could say the same. But it seemed many others wished the same as well. Zeff Yurich, for example.
He stared longingly at the distant points on the horizon and the larger ones high above. So much so that I could remember and imagine him giving lectures about how those fantastic worlds took shape and what could be found in them.
So much so that I could regret not taking the chance with Doyle and Olga, and give him some assurance that it wasn't too late. But only after he surprised me with a mumble.
"Why couldn't 999 have been the last?"
I had no answer to his question. Not to say it was aimed at me. Nor were the inquires of an uncannily familiar drow lady looking over the shoulder of a younger male to see into the night.
How familiar she looked. And how similar the male dressed in ascetic rags looked to her. But that was the only similarity. He held a stoic gaze, though his eyes sent pleading words out into the night.
In turn, she sneered and hissed almost constantly, and darted her eyes around the dimming woods until she finally spat venom. "Is he of our house?"
It wasn't the drow male to respond, but Eiriol. "I am uncertain, Matron Etyl. But his likeness to Her cannot be mistaken."
"I am certain he is." The woman, Etyl, nodded regally as she mused. "Why would he not? It would only make sense for the Champion to be born from the two eldest Houses to walk these realms, would it not?"
The two others bowed low. "I can only agree."
I couldn't say for certain that I could. But I was certain of my preference not to deal with games of intrigue and deception.
Thankfully, however, it seemed I would only have to do so on one front, for the second potential front of intrigue was missing from the Kingdoms of Ligin. In the place of the supposed king of storms was an interesting face.
It was a young man who bore the same colors as dear Titus. Now, in Titus' absence, he was the Bodhi Tree's paladin instructor. And I could feel his anger, his frustration at being in the position, every time he thrust his hands towards the southern sky.
"They tell you no, so you quit and do it anyway?" the man threw his arms up in defeat and turned away, only to face about a moment later, wagging his finger towards the dense clouds impossibly far south. "Do you truly believe what you say? Or does peace leave you restless that much?"
"After next year," said the Storm, storming deeper in Nonus. But the look on the man's face made it seem as if he perceived it as a question. "The target will be unprotected then. If you will not join me then-"
"I will not be a part of your unjust quest! Or your death wish!" The man seethed. But the storm continued storming as if he hadn't even been interrupted.
"-I think it best we not see each other again."
"Wow." I laughed after returning to my senses. "First Caelarin* and now Titus. Looks like I'm making a name for myself."
***
The Owl.
***
Names. Fame. Power of any kind.
Like mortals, these abstract things were living entities. Birthed into existence from bodily flesh, they grow from triumph and failure alike. Eventually, they too die and become legends and tales in the minds of mortals until they are but untitled tomes stored in the forgotten annals of fate. Immortalized until the entropic forces of old weather even those timeless things to dust.
Such is the fate of all things.
Archie's Witch Hut was no different.
Under the Owl's gaze, however, the hands of entropy would be seen as great talons that left an inexplicable cloud of despair in its wake. And, with mortals being mortals; with the elves of Rhar, forever at odds with the fighting kingdoms of Kasia, the finger would be pointed at someone.
And so, with glee, the Owl sat in its nest with Pora Bora, watching the groups of rangers limp into the complex with slings and bandages and leave naught hours later with spry steps and packs filled with potions.
Special potions, the Owl made sure to make for the rangers of Rhar and the rangers only. For it was they who refused a Witches hand to treat them of their wounds, instead preferring potions and salves brewed from the bounties of the earth.
For 14 days, they've been coming and going in increasingly larger groups. So eager, were they to spill goblin and orcish blood for what seemed like no other reason than existing in their forest. Or, specifically, for another orc or goblin killing someone they cared about and doing so in their forest. So willing they would be to commit genocide on the entire species for the simple crime of thriving in their niche.
Orcs were not the natural druids as Olga so wrongly claimed in her classroom. Orcs were the natural Berserkers. They were natural warmongers. Fighters. Cleansers of the culture that would push civilization towards a spread that saw no end.
The Owl did not believe that made them a scourge of the Mortal Plane. Rather, it was the Owl's theory that they existed to prevent such culture-born genocides from being enacted by the so-called 'good' species.
The Owl saw it firsthand across the Tri-Point. Everywhere, groups of orcs, humans, goblins, and elves could be seen marching. Turning to charge each other the moment a group who wore different colors were caught in their line of sight so they could fight to their dying breaths.
All, in the end, for the Owl to mark them for rescue.
All, in the end, for them to be offered a deal and taken below.
All, in the end, for Archie to hurry the fuck up with my data.
…
In the end, it took Archie two days to deliver the data to the still-unnamed benefactor.
Of course, that benefactor was the Owl. But he still had a deadline to keep, for the potions were starting to kick in and fingers were beginning to point. And yet, more and more rangers limped in and skipped out holding loudly clinking bags. More creatures of all types pleaded and begged for longer lives. And, best of all, more greedy witches came from across the lands for work or, in many cases, pretend to work.
In the tendays here, the nearly thousand witches Archie arrived with have doubled. When counting those being experimented on below, the number blew up to nearly ten thousand. Still an insignificant fraction of the greater population. But much more than the Owl needed all the same.
It was getting crowded. But the only new construction being done was underground. Deep underground, far below the experimentation wing. So far even the dwarves couldn't sense the tremors.
So far, and yet shallow enough to soon show Caelarin that his gifts had been received.
That, however, was for another time. On this day, Archie officially sent his data through. And though the Owl was the benefactor, the Owl had not been spending its time analyzing data.
The Owl, or what had been the Owl, had been stuck on industry duties last year and it would be some time before they were resumed. That was Amun's job now. And the Divine Engineer worked flawlessly in turning the data around to make new tech for Archie to test.
With the research on Class-Specific Implants and Augmentations complete, however, there was no need to send another shipment to Archie, giving the Owl some downtime to read through the findings while the cover-up spread across the lands.
It was quite interesting, to say the least.
In terms of classes, only artificers and bards could receive implants or augmentations from any of the various types of technology. Minus, of course, NecroTech.
The same was true for most of the martial classes. The exception was monks, being limited to using Divine Tech and Flesh Tech to augment their bodies. That said, no paladins were tested based on the account of them being uncommon in this region. And by the Owl's orders, no warlocks or clerics were experimented on either.
As expected, rangers and druids couldn't have any type of implant other than those made from ArborTech. But rather unexpectedly, was that rogues, wizards, and witches could use all types of implants besides NecroTech like artificers and bards, but so too could they use certain prosthetics as spellcasting aids in the right situation.
And if the theory held true, the same was true for sorcerers.
It was fascinating. But what was more fascinating was how the different species reacted to various tech.
Goblinoids, for instance, could have no implants or augmentations to the flesh. Due to some uniqueness of their physiology, they always had a severe reaction to artificial organs and the like. The effect was severe necrosis- or flesh rot.
The only thing that wouldn't rot their flesh was, of course, Divine Tech. But even then it was described as 'unstable.' What was stable, however, was any implant that replaced, augmented, or interacted with the skeletal structure of goblinoids alone.
Conversely, orcs could only accept implants that were associated with the flesh. Although, they weren't as remotely as prone to harsh rejections as the goblinoids, having a hearty genetic makeup. Their augments and implants of wood and stone could touch bone, but not replace it outright.
Or, as Amun described it. 'Arbor implants readily connect to the skeletal structure through a process similar to cold welding. Yet, fusion or outright replacement of bone cells seems impossible without the divine touch.'
It only got more interesting, for the few Goliaths were found to readily accept augments and implants made from metal or stone and in some cases, wood. No surprise there, but they also had a near-immunity to electricity, being stone-like beings. That, and their ability to absorb heat, gave them an affinity with immensely powerful cybernetics, be they natural or magical in nature.
Tabaxi, interestingly but also boorishly, was open to all implants or augments from any technology other than NecroTech, much like humans, dwarves, and halflings.
To no surprise, elves could only use MagiTech or Divine Tech. But tieflings. Though they could use FleshTech and MagiTech, Tieflings nearly needed a new subset of technology altogether. For, while they were carbon-based beings, their blood was described to be 'sulfuric in nature, with significant traces of electrum.'