Interlude - The Noble Art

Around him, the city rose like a fever dream.

Rendered in miniature, the dream of Re-Estize was so much more beautiful than the real thing. He'd started with granite and white marble, for the base - both had been amusing distractions, charming in their own way, but then he'd moved on to Adamask, the only thing that felt right.

It had begun as a displacement activity, when he'd been working on the trigger. These days, he wasn't short on hands, and leaving them unoccupied always felt like a waste. While he'd worked on the central core of dense subatomic machinery, he'd been pulling thin wires from the gleaming black metal - Bending, twisting and occasionally breaking each, as he worked them into precise three-dimensional representations of the world around him.

His long, long experience with precision had taught him that he had no need to model the city itself; the intent was what mattered. They'd started as plain, spindle-like shapes, but grown increasingly more elaborate as they'd filled out - Now, gemstone slivers glinted in key locations, a tight array that made sense to his eyes alone.

By the time he was done with the trigger, he was done with the capital, too. The armor had taken far longer, but he'd never liked working with bone: You had to cut it and carve it, and the elaborate scrimshaw required had tried even his patience. Apoithakarah wanted to be worked, Scarletite was better in every way, but he'd tried to use them sparingly.

After all...

-He supposed that sooner or later, the others would wonder where all the gold had gone.

The dragon's horde had been a wonder to look upon. A hill of money, ancient gold and silver plate. Gem-encrusted everythings, chains and chalices, coins and coronets, jewels - cut and raw - spilling from the eyeless skulls of long-ago kings. It'd looked like the score of a lifetime, wealth beyond human avarice...

To the [Philosopher's Stone], it meant less than a hundred pounds of Prismatic Ore. That had been a shock; He'd honestly expected more. But he hadn't despaired - After all, the true treasure had been the Frost Dragons themselves.

He'd taken all twenty with him, whole or in part. By then, the Dwarves would've given anything to see the back of him, but he'd always been a man of his word; He'd paid them for what he could have seized, before he'd taken his leave.

Before he'd vanished into the darkness beyond the tunnels.

Hejinmal had disagreed, but he'd explained - Kindly, and at some length - he'd only guaranteed that he would be last. After all, the Judas steer went to the slaughter, too. The only question was when.

But the dragon had refused to see reason, and in the end he'd been forced to be firm with him. It was, after all, the principle of the thing.

Everything after that had been effortless.

When he'd emerged into the light of the first day, he'd almost forgotten what sunlight was like. For the longest time, he had watched the world change from rocky scrub to green fields, the clouds darkening and bursting up in the mountains with a roll of distant thunder.

Raining somewhere else maybe, but not here.

In the course of the long, long months that had followed, something had - with infinite slowness - come into focus, within the palace of his mind. He could sense it coming, more than see it.

All about him, even now, he could feel them gathering. Gathering against him, to take what he had built. What he had conceived.

What was his.

The true test was coming, because they'd felt his victory, and they wanted it all for their own.

This was where the next battle would be fought. Here, at the very heart of his strength.

He'd been badly wounded, during those first months in the mountains. The pain had been all-encompassing in its extremity - What he'd had to do to heal had been infinitely worse. It'd affected his ability to focus, left him far more hurt than anyone had suspected; Even when he'd made himself whole, the memory had never quite gone away.

And, of course, those around him could not be allowed to know. In their own way, they were as bad as the ones coming for him. Just as greedy.

Different motivations, same end.

He didn't fear it. He welcomed it.

This time, he would be ready.

Without the need to eat, sleep or eliminate, he could really apply himself - It was amazing what could be accomplished, once he set his mind to something. It'd taken him a while to get set up, but it'd been worth the effort: At long last, he'd found a place where he could simply…

-Be himself.

As he worked, he whistled.

[Oh, the shark has pretty teeth, dear-]

The nature of Prismatic Ore obviated the need for tools or workshop. The metal was more than malleable enough to shape with his hands alone; In fact, that was the only way it could be shaped.

[...and he shows them pearly white]

The star silver halo he'd fashioned had turned out unexpectedly well. With an impact cage of adamantite forming the exterior shell, it was almost three feet in diameter - Too large to be casually carried, handles or no, but sufficient for his purposes. Discreet panels of jade-green cavorite meant that the entire ensemble could float freely; Once attuned, it would follow at his heels like a faithful dog, if the need arose.

[Just a jack-knife has Macheath, dear-]

Within this halo, the subject was in no danger of harm. A direct impact with a stone wall would shatter the wall, not the cage, while the external screening and centering struts screwed into the subject's skull had enough flex to absorb the worst shocks.

Not that he would ever have done that - the subject was just too valuable.

[...and he keeps it out of sight.]

The subject slept. Magic provided for his needs, such as they were; Left intact, he might survive indefinitely. As long as there was a need for him, in fact.

Fine threads of orichalcum worked their way beneath his skin, like delicate traceries of circuitry - Enough for attunement, more than sufficient to grant access to his unique talent. If there was a weakness in the system, it was the silver-threaded, jeweled net that encircled the subject's brow, fastened over his lank, bowl-cut hair.

Still, every possible precaution had been taken, and the maker had done his very best.

His very best.

He considered this, as idle hands stirred his crimson panacea. The discovery of the serum had been a happy accident; He'd been trying to recreate a certain curative, and had accomplished much the opposite. Once the initial frustration had ebbed, he'd found a purpose for it - Even now, injectors drew the concoction into themselves, the volume of the ruby liquid shrinking by the moment.

All things considered, he took a certain pride in a simple fact: Nothing that he'd done to the subject was - strictly speaking - irreversible. After all, he owed the subject a debt of gratitude. Only through him had all this been possible.

Someday, perhaps, if he found himself in a sentimental mood, he might decide to rebuild the subject into a man.

It was possible.

But not likely.

Somewhere, in the world above, events were taking their course. Things had been set in motion, and a guiding hand was required.

It took him a moment to gather himself. All of himself, drawing together, coalescing. He allowed himself a brief span to admire the filigree of orichalcum inlaid into the backs of his hands, before he clothed himself in solidity once more.

The Vanisher looked upon his work, and saw that it was good. With exacting care, he tapped the cage, his words for the subject alone.

"Good night, Mister Bareare," he said.

The great adamant doors were triple-locked, but he had no need for the key.

He poured through the cracks like blood - dark and glossy, swelling and flowing - and whistled the Moritat all the way up.

NEXT: Before the Storm