The GAME Workshop -- 28 February, 2:11 a.m.
Usually Master Greyshott spent his late 'inventing' nights in strict solitude, doing his most productive work once every mind more reasonable than his own had gone home to have dinner and go to bed (as his was not a reasonable mind, however logical it might be). He made a mess of the GAME workshop all on his own, scorching complex summons into the walls and floors with his staff and leaving a trail of sloppy notes, and constantly followed by a trail of dynamic arcane equations that smelled "like potpourri... but off," as Scotty had once put it.
This night young Silas was stinking up the place, but he wasn't alone. Gnomes and dwarves from as far as Noirmont and even Arcebel had been assisting him since before the end of the regular shift that afternoon, bustling from room to room with cables, toolboxes, Carolus batteries, and arcane blueprints, and chuckling and cackling to one another at the rapidly growing madness of their employer.
It was perfectly normal for wizards to go mad from time to time, and was said by some that they were always at least a little mad. Obsession, insomnia and crazed muttering were the three most obvious signs, and these Silas was showing in spades. A band of leprechauns that he otherwise would not have given a second thought to had come into town for a St. Patrick's Day celebration of some kind -- and he really, honestly hadn't paid too much attention, until over lunch with some of his older and more confrontational colleagues it was revealed that the festival's organizers were asking after the arcanists for a way to ensure a warm and comfortable event out of doors while maintaining a "natural feel."
When one of them had referred to a solution being "as likely as realm-death," which itself had been Silas' most prominent theory in the halls of academia, the young wizard had gone into a design frenzy.
"...increase the output to the next tier... shorter pulses... but more, yes..."
Now, in the workshop's main room, six little brass-and-arcane-iron towers had been constructed, each of them bristling with wires. Silas was scribbling furiously in a large red tome, much of his hair standing up on end beneath his goggles from a series of electric shocks in the last several hours, eyes wide and bloodshot but intensely focused. As he shuffled forward in his boots, flannel pajama bottoms, simple white shirt and long green scarf, his helpers tugged a great deal of thick cables, toolboxes, stools, workbenches and other items out of his way before he could trip over any of them.
"...more power... so much more... yes, perfect... show them what can and can't be done... show them all..."
He finally blundered directly into Mr. Dargriff, the elderly Noirmont dwarf standing in front of him with only the smallest hint of concern in his faded blue eyes. "Master Greyshott... sir? Are we ready?"
"Um?" Silas took a moment to look around, startled as he realized just where he was within the workshop (or that he was at GAME at all). Then he nodded, decisively, and his eyes darted from piece to piece; in spite of his persistent shyness and his awkward, stumbling way, it was clear he was excited, and absolutely driven to succeed. "Ah... yes. I think, at long last... we may begin."
Silas cast aside his book and other plans and held out a hand for his staff, not realizing that he had reset its summon spell earlier that day for retooling, and still expecting it to arrive; soon enough one of the engineers dropped it into his hand, and the wizard proceeded forward into the middle of an emerging hexagon in the workshop, hemmed in by the six arcane-electrical towers. Cables were dragged and plugged in, the backup generator was prepared "just in case," and the master lever was thrown with a heavy clank.
Each of the towers began to hum, one by one, changing frequencies every other moment until they all seemed to synchronize with one another; runes glistened faintly on their iron surfaces, and Silas prepared himself. He had figured it out --
Warm, comfortable weather itself would be the easy part, compared to other types. The most difficult part was getting the towers to regulate the weather without perpetual spellcasting on his part, and the most difficult weather to create under these conditions? The kind that would put these devices to the test the very most?
A rainstorm. Maintaining the volatile relationship between air, water, and electricity without a mage actively casting a spell. He tightened his hands around his staff, and his eyes began to go white, and the helpers and engineers all around him began to cry out in protest and alarm as they figured out what he had planned.
Runes lit up in the air around him, taking shape from the vapors and glowing in sequence as he went through the spell, twisting the energies contained within the towers; the air around them crackled and rumbled, the smell of ozone grew almost overpowering, and suddenly the tower windows shattered in rapid succession. Bolts of electricity arced through, racing down chains, fortunately deflected away from many places near the ground by the workshop's many arcane safeguards but still finding their way to Silas, striking the knob of his staff with a deafening roar.
And then, the rain. It poured from thin air, materialized in the rafters and cascaded to the floor, spiraling down through several drains. Equipment shorted out, sparks showering down with the water, but the rubber-gloved workers enabled the backup generator, and the whole system stabilized once more. And Silas stood in the middle of it all, the lightning striking his staff, the rain pouring down around him in the middle of an enclosed room...
...laughing with a madman's glee.
Usually Master Greyshott spent his late 'inventing' nights in strict solitude, doing his most productive work once every mind more reasonable than his own had gone home to have dinner and go to bed (as his was not a reasonable mind, however logical it might be). He made a mess of the GAME workshop all on his own, scorching complex summons into the walls and floors with his staff and leaving a trail of sloppy notes, and constantly followed by a trail of dynamic arcane equations that smelled "like potpourri... but off," as Scotty had once put it.
This night young Silas was stinking up the place, but he wasn't alone. Gnomes and dwarves from as far as Noirmont and even Arcebel had been assisting him since before the end of the regular shift that afternoon, bustling from room to room with cables, toolboxes, Carolus batteries, and arcane blueprints, and chuckling and cackling to one another at the rapidly growing madness of their employer.
It was perfectly normal for wizards to go mad from time to time, and was said by some that they were always at least a little mad. Obsession, insomnia and crazed muttering were the three most obvious signs, and these Silas was showing in spades. A band of leprechauns that he otherwise would not have given a second thought to had come into town for a St. Patrick's Day celebration of some kind -- and he really, honestly hadn't paid too much attention, until over lunch with some of his older and more confrontational colleagues it was revealed that the festival's organizers were asking after the arcanists for a way to ensure a warm and comfortable event out of doors while maintaining a "natural feel."
When one of them had referred to a solution being "as likely as realm-death," which itself had been Silas' most prominent theory in the halls of academia, the young wizard had gone into a design frenzy.
"...increase the output to the next tier... shorter pulses... but more, yes..."
Now, in the workshop's main room, six little brass-and-arcane-iron towers had been constructed, each of them bristling with wires. Silas was scribbling furiously in a large red tome, much of his hair standing up on end beneath his goggles from a series of electric shocks in the last several hours, eyes wide and bloodshot but intensely focused. As he shuffled forward in his boots, flannel pajama bottoms, simple white shirt and long green scarf, his helpers tugged a great deal of thick cables, toolboxes, stools, workbenches and other items out of his way before he could trip over any of them.
"...more power... so much more... yes, perfect... show them what can and can't be done... show them all..."
He finally blundered directly into Mr. Dargriff, the elderly Noirmont dwarf standing in front of him with only the smallest hint of concern in his faded blue eyes. "Master Greyshott... sir? Are we ready?"
"Um?" Silas took a moment to look around, startled as he realized just where he was within the workshop (or that he was at GAME at all). Then he nodded, decisively, and his eyes darted from piece to piece; in spite of his persistent shyness and his awkward, stumbling way, it was clear he was excited, and absolutely driven to succeed. "Ah... yes. I think, at long last... we may begin."
Silas cast aside his book and other plans and held out a hand for his staff, not realizing that he had reset its summon spell earlier that day for retooling, and still expecting it to arrive; soon enough one of the engineers dropped it into his hand, and the wizard proceeded forward into the middle of an emerging hexagon in the workshop, hemmed in by the six arcane-electrical towers. Cables were dragged and plugged in, the backup generator was prepared "just in case," and the master lever was thrown with a heavy clank.
Each of the towers began to hum, one by one, changing frequencies every other moment until they all seemed to synchronize with one another; runes glistened faintly on their iron surfaces, and Silas prepared himself. He had figured it out --
Warm, comfortable weather itself would be the easy part, compared to other types. The most difficult part was getting the towers to regulate the weather without perpetual spellcasting on his part, and the most difficult weather to create under these conditions? The kind that would put these devices to the test the very most?
A rainstorm. Maintaining the volatile relationship between air, water, and electricity without a mage actively casting a spell. He tightened his hands around his staff, and his eyes began to go white, and the helpers and engineers all around him began to cry out in protest and alarm as they figured out what he had planned.
Runes lit up in the air around him, taking shape from the vapors and glowing in sequence as he went through the spell, twisting the energies contained within the towers; the air around them crackled and rumbled, the smell of ozone grew almost overpowering, and suddenly the tower windows shattered in rapid succession. Bolts of electricity arced through, racing down chains, fortunately deflected away from many places near the ground by the workshop's many arcane safeguards but still finding their way to Silas, striking the knob of his staff with a deafening roar.
And then, the rain. It poured from thin air, materialized in the rafters and cascaded to the floor, spiraling down through several drains. Equipment shorted out, sparks showering down with the water, but the rubber-gloved workers enabled the backup generator, and the whole system stabilized once more. And Silas stood in the middle of it all, the lightning striking his staff, the rain pouring down around him in the middle of an enclosed room...
...laughing with a madman's glee.