When Silas Greyshott, the firm's namesake and Master Mage, had warned Scotty about one of the workers handing him a wrench on his way in, he had not been exaggerating.

Noise complaints had long since forced GAME to sound-proof their walls and doors as much as possible with arcana and technology, and the only muffled sounds of activity grew to a complex and terrifying roar. Chains criss-crossed the tall 'garage' on the first floor, suspending various sorts of engines all over in a dangerous-looking web. It looked like they could easily have room for three engines close to the floor at one time, with iron ladders, staircases and scaffolding providing ever larger work-space.

But today they had to take a break from warp-ship development. They had to set aside work on their long-term, slower-paced contracts and their research projects and take on one lucrative and fast-paced job. It was the reason they had a huge flat-bed truck outside, and an absolutely enormous trade ship's engine dangling a foot from the garage's floor, and every available hand scrambling under and around it and even over it on ladders.

They were in the middle of subjecting it to a 'trial-surge,' an unorthodox method of identifying electrical problems and correcting them on the go. Sparks flew as Silas fed electricity into the arcane iron beast, blue arcs of light flashing bright reflections across his tinted goggles, and in spite of the enormous power and the occasional little arcs spiking out of people, no one seemed to be harmed by any of it -- runes glowed all over the floor, protecting the crazed 'mancers and brave mechanics.

"You!" said a dwarf with his long beard dyed bright orange and black, and thrust a wrench at Scotty. "Get those valves open -- stat!" he cried after him as he scurried off to sort out a split cable writhing dangerously across the floor. Whatever was happening to the engine, pressure was building: the steam that desperately wanted to escape could not.

"Great work, you cheeky bastard," the dwarf roared in Scotty's ears, clapped him on the arm, and shouted to all present, "Step back, lads! Let the master do 'is thing!"

The engine certainly sounded happier, and everyone working on it was entirely too happy to scurry out of the way now: Silas was the only one who didn't move on his feet at all, except to pivot and dig his back foot in...

Technically, the electric expression of the arcane energy he manipulated did not react to any of his physical movements. Certain mages tried to demonstrate this point in their practices by remaining completely still while they cast spells; however, there was no doubt of the "placebo effect" of the right motions. They helped the mages to focus, and given Silas' very young age for a 'mancer of any kind, everything but willing a 'pre-set' object to move involved fairly dramatic gestures.

He moved his hands and his staff as if he was spinning thread, though really it was closer to pulling reins. The enormous energy in the engine was drawn back out of it, and the lightning arcs began to arc around him in a dangerous tornado. Once it was under control (though it more closely resembled chaos), he let it pulse back into the engine --

Pistons moved, gears spun, several dozen little devices lit up, and the colossal iron heart proved it was once more ready to harbor life.

Applause and rowdy yells rang out in the room as the electricity died down. Silas barely had time to collect himself and tug his goggles loose as his co-workers crowded in and slapped him on the back and pushed at each other. They had been working long and difficult hours for a long time, and the successful completion of a lucrative project had them talking about bars. 'Happy hour at the Bunker!' seemed to be the consensus.

Silas' coworkers had inherited his absent-mindedness. It took them a while to notice that Scotty was a stranger, and once a handful of them were staring, Silas himself finally noticed:

"Oh! Um, ah... Mr. Scott, yes? So very glad you could make it! Sorry about the, um..." He gestured at the grinning mechanics, the piles of tools, the dangling engine, the general clutter around the shop and that they were so busy at work when he had arrived. "...Let's have a look around and talk about your future here, yes?"

Meanwhile, the heaviest among the dwarven workers were pulling on the chains situated around the room, maneuvering the massive engine into a more convenient position.

The chains disappeared somewhere in the tangle of one another as well as iron scaffolding and other engines and devices that needed work, such that the pulley system itself was difficult to discern -- however, when one of the chains began to move, it was often accompanied by a little shower of sparks from up high.

Silas Greyshott was a sort of natural conduit for arcane electrical energy, and as a result most of the machines at GAME ran off of electricity. "Well, ah... more or less what you saw right there," he said with a nervous laugh to Scotty's question as they walked, waving his hand as if to say 'your off-the-cuff work on that engine.' "What we expect of our apprentice mechanics... that you work on the clocks and engines and batteries and dynamos and revolvers that come in through the door, and that you work on smaller projects independently after a few demonstrations. Invention is, ah... I'd say not required, certainly not at what Mr. Jaster -- " Silas doesn't explain the reference -- "refers to as entry-level work, but we certainly encourage it, and if there's an idea you want to explore, just ask."

He put a hand up abruptly to make a point, and his goggles came loose from atop his head as a result: he straightened and adjusted them again as he continued, "No paperwork or forms, generally, for that... Just give someone over your head a shout, or bring it up at lunch or, um... something to that effect..." He glanced side to side, glanced again at one of the dwarves nearby who was snickering at the Master Mage's awkwardness, and smiled at Scotty. "We're, um, pretty laid-back. Makes for a better... on the whole more productive operation."

He'd been babbling long enough that he hadn't explained most of the tour, which was the offices and planning rooms and small workshops that occupied roughly half of the building, most of them upstairs from the garage. It seemed that GAME did a decent amount of gunsmithing, but what appeared to be several 'typewriter-styled' computers were scattered around one of the smaller workshops.

"...Oh, well... it, uh, looks like you've already seen the offices and private workshops and, um... yes. Okay." They stood at the edge of a ramp down into what was presumably the basement, with a sliding metal door large enough for a decent-sized cargo truck to pass through. Silas paused, drummed his fingers against his staff, then peered carefully at Scotty: "Have you engaged in any cross-realms travel since your arrival in RhyDin?"

"Well, ah... you'll see." Silas nodded and turned to the door, raising his hands, preparing for a spell -- he turned his head abruptly and added, "You ought to be fine, though."

There was a visible pause and a twinge of annoyance as Silas prepared to say the password, something Jaster had done with a pair of Aurk arcanists nearly a month ago and that the Master Mage had not bothered to reset since then. He moved his left hand in towards his chest, flourished with his right and said (preceded by a small sigh), "Open sesame."

The door groaned and rolled its way up, accompanied by another little flurry of sparks, and a different range of smells hit them first. The distinct biotic rot of a riverbed comingling with salt-water in the air... freshly cut timber and pitch, hot iron and smoke... and the sharp scent of ozone that came from powerful electrical and arcane currents. Through GAME's little brick wine cellar was the path into another world, up another ramp to the sight of massive pieces of ships being worked over by a few dozen specialists beside a river almost clogged with cargo-laden flatboats.

The sounds of construction and mechanical work made talking at anything less than a shout impossible, and the clamor wasn't from the shop alone. They were surrounded by the beginnings of a bustling town, buildings going up the length of the river as far as could be seen and creeping back into the hills. So far most of them were still hollow frames and simple foundations, dotted with bunkhouses with smoke pouring from the chimneys -- the whole landscape was lightly dusted with snow, yet construction continued through the winter because it had to.

These settlers, most of them refugees with a new chance at a good life, were building their new home, and the changing seasons weren't reason enough to slow down. Men and women worked in thick coats and scarves and gloves, while a number of half-elves and tall, slim beings with green skin and little tusks -- the Aurkindri -- fetched hot soup and coffee and warm loaves of bread for the workers. As Scotty and Silas stepped out of another large garage surrounded by workshops and a loading dock and onto a broad stone path, a shadow loomed over them from behind --

GAME, in this world, housed an astronomical clock in a tower eighty feet tall. The intricate hands and dials seemed to track cosmic cycles in three different solar systems... "...Rather proud of this work, ah..." Silas puffed up a little as he continued. "...convinced the Atren Council to grant me the privilege to assume the title of Master Mage... you see, it tracks the motion of metaphysically important bodies -- planets, some moons, the mother star and some lesser stars -- in RhyDin, Vrashne -- one of our neighbors here -- and, ah... Drasill."

Silas pursed his lips and clasped his hands behind his back, rocking a little on his feet as he admired his handiwork. "...Which reminds me. Welcome to the Isle of Teodin, in the Barony of Saint Aldwin, in the realm of Drasill."

"No no -- at least, I don't think so... GAME certainly isn't in the business of, er, colonies, and I don't think even DeMuer Exports has been explicitly involved in any of that. Let me see here..."

Silas ticked it all off on his fingers: it was still confusing, even for him! "The Baron Alain DeMuer is the nominal ruler (it's a, uh, a democracy, really) of the Barony of Saint Aldwin, the only state in the world of Drasill, which is economically driven by its access to a great many other worlds by way of stable and semi-stable rifts, some on land, most of them at sea, some naturally stable and others artificially anchored. Certainly it can't access nearly so many worlds as RhyDin... but enough to be competitive in the cross-realms banking and exports markets, as I understand it.

"DeMuer Exports is also owned by Mr. DeMuer, one of a number of companies involved in cross-realms trades in the Barony, and D.E. in turn owns us, G.A.M.E. And we keep very busy with both our RhyDinian and our Sinaldwinian," apparently meaning natives of the Barony, "customers. There's, ah..."

Silas paused and frowned thoughtfully, staring downriver. There was new construction as far as he could see, and still a number of temporary bunkhouses transitioning into proper homes and other facilities. "...the Barony's become a sort of haven for refugees... so there's always work to be done... a great deal of work." He was almost mumbling at this point.

Whatever the thoughtful mood was, though it seemed to be pride and sentiment for their work, it passed away, and Silas nearly dropped his staff in the process of clasping his hands decisively behind his back, and ended up in a rather awkward pose sort of half-leaning on his staff instead. "So, ah... I suppose the only question that remains, then, is... will you take the job?"

"Certainly," Silas nodded to his request about hours. "You, ah, might find taking fewer but longer shifts to be more productive... but we're flexible." He nodded again. "And whenever you feel you can make a change or need to, one way or the other... we can take care of that then, too. Ah... time? Oh yes... time."

Silas cleared his throat, then turned and pointed up at the clock face. "We were able to synchronize the celestial movements in multiple worlds as a result of metaspatial alignment... in short, closely linked realms often fall into patterns, called alignments, in which time passes similarly or exactly the same. And fortunately for us, Drasill is part of a larger family of alignments that overlaps with RhyDin as well. A RhyDinian minute is a Drasillian minute...

"...which will hopefully make the fact that I, ah, don't really have any idea how long you would spend on this side of the portal versus the RhyDin side... less significant," he added with a nervous little chuckle.

The Barony was rapidly becoming a wealthy land, but still fledgling and on the edge of a vast wilderness; there was much to build, discover, develop and tame, and as many struggles were looming as did over any civilization, that would make or break this nation. As generally far removed as Silas was from political affairs and really any affairs outside of his own academic interests, he shared, at least in part, Scotty's appreciation of this place.

"Well, then... ah... I'm very glad to have you," the bumbling young wizard managed, and smiled and offered his hand to Scotty for a firm shake. "Welcome to GAME -- it's good to have you on board."