Silas' return to Greyshott Applied Magick & Engineering, and the lifting of House DeMuer's "exile" on him, coincided (very deliberately, as it turned out) with his appointment as Minister of Magic to Governor Sheridan Driscol. Besides delivering a speech, for one week he neglected the office and put his other affairs in order: moving back into his apartment near the Marketplace and bolstering it against Denubae attack; renewing GAME's largest research and development contracts; and, most importantly of all to him at that time, relocating the efforts of the 'Friends of the Workshop,' the vigilante group tasked with hunting down and destroying the Denubae, back to the GAME workshop itself.
It took seven days until he realized that he had left no contact information with anyone, at least not officially — no way for concerned citizens to reach him about arcane matters they might want his attention or advice on, and no office to go to, either! So one evening, after careful planning and spell preparation, he and four gnomes with large black umbrellas went to a spot along a brick wall within sight of the Governor's office. It began with him tracing a tall arch with white chalk on the wall, but further work was obstructed from view by the now-open umbrellas.
In spite of the warnings he himself had issued, in spite of the simple fact that the magic-eating jackals still roamed the streets of RhyDin, and that while the herd had maybe thinned it was more cunning and certainly still hungry, the new Minister of Magic went to work erecting a portal right next to a busy street, seeming oblivious to the attention he drew...
* * *
Hunger. Far beyond the uncomfortable emptiness, beyond the pain of his body devouring itself, the sensation overwhelmed every part of him. He knew they were in danger now: there were pictures, visions pasted onto thin things that looked like him and the others like him. The pink and brown and black things looked at the pictures and knew what they were, and many showed less fear.
There were traps. Food, mah-jick, would be brought out on its own long after the sun fell, one of the fleshy upright beings dragging it alone, and when they swooped in to feed they were attacked. Hunters came, creatures without fear, and cut and smashed them with heavy things, and the things they called "hammers" especially. These people knew who they were and wanted them to come out and hunt, and sic hunters of their own on his kind.
The weakest of them were left to scavenging, and this one was old and weak. Injured in the place where they had feasted on small fleshy things in green fur with the bright lights and loud noises, and now he nosed through the trash for things that tasted good. This one tried not to be seen and slunk away when spotted, and for weeks he had suffered in the heat with little food.
The pack was strong, the leader wise, but this one was hungry. They did not fear the monsters anymore; maybe they did not know how to hunt them, and he would hunt and kill and eat....Four strange black furs, broad and thin and curved, stood in the way, but he smelled what he could not see. A man, the man they called "wizard," who had killed many and drawn so many of his kin to their doom. He had slunk away from the pack and now found the wizard looking away, creating food, unseeing and uncaring....This one would kill him and feast, and be fat and full, and teach them to fear again, and know no more hunger...
The beast could take it no longer. It lunged.
* * *
THWOCK!
The gnomes backed away and exclaimed in disgust while Master Greyshott merely winced, smiled to himself, and continued to work. The beast was skewered on the end of a great brassy spear driven partway through its skull, twitching and bleeding: no man or woman held the spear, but a stout suit of clockwork armor, without any arcana and only a mundane battery to power it. Gears clicked as it retracted its weapon, letting the creature drop, and then a gravely robotic voice said, "Sprayers engaging. Please step back."
Something began hissing inside of it, steam building, and Silas finished his spell and skirted out of the way in just enough time to avoid a soaking; like in the vegetable aisles in a Star's End grocery store, a cool mist of water sprayed out from a number of little holes in the suit of armor. Water coated the fallen Denubae, and eventually the stinking mass melted away.
"Have a nice day," the machine croaked automatically, and went upright again.
The dense cloud of mist cleared away in moments, revealing Silas' handiwork: a tall black wooden door with a brass knocker, with a little stained glass arch over top of it. Directly overhead, in English or Common, were the words "Silas Greyshott, Minister of Magick to Governor Sheridan Driscol," in spite of the way that it had been spelled in all previous press announcements, and contradictions in some of Silas' own writings. Then, fanning out all around it and following the shape of the doorway down to the cobblestone street, the message was repeated in the two-hundred-and-fifty-six most common languages for "metaphysically-inclined" visitors to RhyDin and the adjoining cross-realms centers. Some of the messages were quite small, and others (such as English, French, Russian, Drow, Dwarfish, Gnomish, and a few Elvish dialects) seemed to be the biggest. It did not help matters that packed in under and around each of the messages were the simple instructions,
Please knock four times to be admitted into the lobby.
Culturally appropriate substitutes were used in languages that did not have the word "lobby" or use it the same way. The largest goblin dialect they used simply called it "waiting area," while the second referred to it as a "pit of despair."
On either side of the door, but far enough away from the text, were the two sets of clockwork armor, stationary but hooked electrically into the doorway's various spells. Serious attempts to destroy them would be met with the same response given to the fallen Denubae; the water, too, as the Denubae was the only problem they seemed to really focus on from a security standpoint.
Upon four knocks, the door would then open into a small lobby/pit of despair, with a plain hardwood floor, a disgustingly ornate (and depressingly dusty) rug, several mismatched chairs, a pair of well-stocked bookshelves, and what at least appeared to be the ghost of a waif of a middle-aged woman behind a mahogany desk, bespectacled and engaged in a (wholly corporeal) trashy romance novel at any given time. Aloof and indifferent in appearance and attitude, she was still helpful and reliable, leaving messages, informing them when Silas would be available, and buzzing him in if he actually was available.
For beyond another black door at the end of the room was Silas' study in the corner of the GAME workshop all the way across town, linked to the lobby/pit of despair by an arcane trick.
With the door finished and the Denubae mess swept away, Silas and his co-workers proceeded through the black door in the brick wall near the Governor's office, passing through the controlled rift beyond into their workshop to return to their regular jobs.
It took seven days until he realized that he had left no contact information with anyone, at least not officially — no way for concerned citizens to reach him about arcane matters they might want his attention or advice on, and no office to go to, either! So one evening, after careful planning and spell preparation, he and four gnomes with large black umbrellas went to a spot along a brick wall within sight of the Governor's office. It began with him tracing a tall arch with white chalk on the wall, but further work was obstructed from view by the now-open umbrellas.
In spite of the warnings he himself had issued, in spite of the simple fact that the magic-eating jackals still roamed the streets of RhyDin, and that while the herd had maybe thinned it was more cunning and certainly still hungry, the new Minister of Magic went to work erecting a portal right next to a busy street, seeming oblivious to the attention he drew...
* * *
Hunger. Far beyond the uncomfortable emptiness, beyond the pain of his body devouring itself, the sensation overwhelmed every part of him. He knew they were in danger now: there were pictures, visions pasted onto thin things that looked like him and the others like him. The pink and brown and black things looked at the pictures and knew what they were, and many showed less fear.
There were traps. Food, mah-jick, would be brought out on its own long after the sun fell, one of the fleshy upright beings dragging it alone, and when they swooped in to feed they were attacked. Hunters came, creatures without fear, and cut and smashed them with heavy things, and the things they called "hammers" especially. These people knew who they were and wanted them to come out and hunt, and sic hunters of their own on his kind.
The weakest of them were left to scavenging, and this one was old and weak. Injured in the place where they had feasted on small fleshy things in green fur with the bright lights and loud noises, and now he nosed through the trash for things that tasted good. This one tried not to be seen and slunk away when spotted, and for weeks he had suffered in the heat with little food.
The pack was strong, the leader wise, but this one was hungry. They did not fear the monsters anymore; maybe they did not know how to hunt them, and he would hunt and kill and eat....Four strange black furs, broad and thin and curved, stood in the way, but he smelled what he could not see. A man, the man they called "wizard," who had killed many and drawn so many of his kin to their doom. He had slunk away from the pack and now found the wizard looking away, creating food, unseeing and uncaring....This one would kill him and feast, and be fat and full, and teach them to fear again, and know no more hunger...
The beast could take it no longer. It lunged.
* * *
THWOCK!
The gnomes backed away and exclaimed in disgust while Master Greyshott merely winced, smiled to himself, and continued to work. The beast was skewered on the end of a great brassy spear driven partway through its skull, twitching and bleeding: no man or woman held the spear, but a stout suit of clockwork armor, without any arcana and only a mundane battery to power it. Gears clicked as it retracted its weapon, letting the creature drop, and then a gravely robotic voice said, "Sprayers engaging. Please step back."
Something began hissing inside of it, steam building, and Silas finished his spell and skirted out of the way in just enough time to avoid a soaking; like in the vegetable aisles in a Star's End grocery store, a cool mist of water sprayed out from a number of little holes in the suit of armor. Water coated the fallen Denubae, and eventually the stinking mass melted away.
"Have a nice day," the machine croaked automatically, and went upright again.
The dense cloud of mist cleared away in moments, revealing Silas' handiwork: a tall black wooden door with a brass knocker, with a little stained glass arch over top of it. Directly overhead, in English or Common, were the words "Silas Greyshott, Minister of Magick to Governor Sheridan Driscol," in spite of the way that it had been spelled in all previous press announcements, and contradictions in some of Silas' own writings. Then, fanning out all around it and following the shape of the doorway down to the cobblestone street, the message was repeated in the two-hundred-and-fifty-six most common languages for "metaphysically-inclined" visitors to RhyDin and the adjoining cross-realms centers. Some of the messages were quite small, and others (such as English, French, Russian, Drow, Dwarfish, Gnomish, and a few Elvish dialects) seemed to be the biggest. It did not help matters that packed in under and around each of the messages were the simple instructions,
Please knock four times to be admitted into the lobby.
Culturally appropriate substitutes were used in languages that did not have the word "lobby" or use it the same way. The largest goblin dialect they used simply called it "waiting area," while the second referred to it as a "pit of despair."
On either side of the door, but far enough away from the text, were the two sets of clockwork armor, stationary but hooked electrically into the doorway's various spells. Serious attempts to destroy them would be met with the same response given to the fallen Denubae; the water, too, as the Denubae was the only problem they seemed to really focus on from a security standpoint.
Upon four knocks, the door would then open into a small lobby/pit of despair, with a plain hardwood floor, a disgustingly ornate (and depressingly dusty) rug, several mismatched chairs, a pair of well-stocked bookshelves, and what at least appeared to be the ghost of a waif of a middle-aged woman behind a mahogany desk, bespectacled and engaged in a (wholly corporeal) trashy romance novel at any given time. Aloof and indifferent in appearance and attitude, she was still helpful and reliable, leaving messages, informing them when Silas would be available, and buzzing him in if he actually was available.
For beyond another black door at the end of the room was Silas' study in the corner of the GAME workshop all the way across town, linked to the lobby/pit of despair by an arcane trick.
With the door finished and the Denubae mess swept away, Silas and his co-workers proceeded through the black door in the brick wall near the Governor's office, passing through the controlled rift beyond into their workshop to return to their regular jobs.