Chapter: 712 Bonus - Myke, Amras, Tache, Jensen (Patreon)

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Myke loved his new job.

He didn’t have a fully defined role as of yet, though it was vaguely titled ‘Guest Stay Support’. Effectively, he bounced to wherever he was needed to both encourage the guests to stay as long as possible, and ensure that it was as pleasant as could be so they would come back.

He also acted as a bouncer when needed, taking rowdy guests to cool off in their rooms, or in the worst cases to ‘sealed’ suites for the remainder of their stay.

It was odd. Most places he’d worked wanted such guests gone as soon as possible, and this fancy place even had a magical get-the-rust-out-of-here circle, but management didn’t let them use it for that.

In fact, the one guy who had been truly awful, had actually been given a prolonged stay in a downgraded space as part of his recompense for damage done.

Myke knew that he would likely be told the reasoning if he asked, but truthfully, he didn’t care.

He liked what he did and had no interest in digging deeper.

His shoulder lifted up just a bit to catch the drunk haymaker thrown by a burly guest who didn’t know his own limits and was now unhappy at being cut off. The punch had been half-hearted, but from such a big fella, it could have laid out most of the other members of staff.

Still, the guest didn’t seem to have even noticed throwing it. “Now see here…” He swayed, his arm fell back to his side. “I paid for all I could drink.” He hiccupped and blinked a few times. “What was I… Oh!” He shook his head then nodded and smiled. “Right. So, I want what I paid for.”

Myke nodded congenially. “Of course, sir. You have been given all you can drink tonight.”

“No, that…” He pointed at the bartender, seeming unable to find the right word. “That person won’t give me another.”

Myke kept his professional smile in place. “That’s because your body can’t drink any more. It’s understandable. The drinks here are of the highest quality. It’s hard to remember how much alcohol there is in them.”

The guest stumbled a bit despite not having been moving.

Myke caught his shoulder, steading the man. 

The guest nodded in agreement, not even noticing the help. “Exactly. I like them. I want another.”

“Yes, sir. You can have many, many more. Tomorrow.” Myke shifted his features to reflect a feigned realization. “Sir! Have you ever had a mimosa?”

The man narrowed his eyes, mouth open to respond to the continued denial, but he was now caught off guard by the question. It took a full ten seconds before he straightened slightly and grunted. “I have not. No. No, I have not.”

Myke gave a surprised and excited smile. “Then you are in for a real treat. They’ll be available at breakfast tomorrow morning. Let’s get you to your room so you can be up bright and early and enjoy that spectacular drink.”

The man seemed to be trying to understand the flow of conversation.

Myke glanced at the metal band around his wrist. It already showed the guest’s room number, so he didn’t have to ask that.

“I think I’ll have one, now.”

Myke sighed, keeping his smile in place. “That isn’t possible. It’s time to sleep.”

The man glowered, and this time, the punch was quite intentional.

Myke caught the wrist with ease, his bracelet pulsing warm against his skin.

The guest’s eyes became vacant, and he slowly slumped to the side, allowing Myke to slip under his shoulder.

“There you go, sir. Let’s get you to your bed.”

The bartender gave him a grateful, humored smile, which Myke returned.

He really did love his job.

*

Amras walked through the groves of his people, their trunks still showing signs of the recent attack, their bark cracked and desecrated.

He ran his hand over one such wound, pulling power from the tree before changing it with his own concept and strength and injecting the amplified magic back into the verdant titan.

A soothing presence washed out around him, and the wound seemed to lessen before his eyes, drawing a smile to his lips.

It was a net-negative to him, magic wise, but he wasn’t performing the rites for power this night.

Overhead, a cool field of stars was occasionally visible through the leaves high above. He didn’t need their light, but he still enjoyed their beauty.

His skin cast a subtle glow on the surrounding foliage, though he knew that only he and his kin could see the illumination. Other races—even other elves—would often say that he and his had an otherworldly glow about them, but he’d yet to learn of one who could actually directly perceive the ultraviolet light that they emitted.

The trees, however, could both sense and absorb it in some manner, seeming to thrive in the presence of more of his kin.

He, himself, was an arborist, and he’d dedicated his life and his magic to these trees, these groves.

And the Black Legion had marred them.

A fiery anger rose up within the elf, and around him, the forest trembled in mirrored rage.

No, no. That won’t do. He calmed himself and worked to weave his power outward, bringing the grove back into a state of peace and balance.

“You need to heal, my friends. Now is not the time for rage. Recover. Then, we will deal with those who dared harm you.”

Overhead, the leaves of dozens of trees shivered, filling the air with a musical rustling.

“I know.” He laid his hand against the trunk once more. “You will recover. The lessened magic is being addressed.”

He gave a half-smile at that. From what he’d heard, the gated humans were paying for the privilege of providing power to the arcane cities that were in need. He didn’t know how that worked, or why their erstwhile slaves and enemies would do such a thing, but he felt a growing gratitude alongside his.

He’d never had a human himself—his work didn’t lend itself to non-magical assistance—but he’d had many friends who had them through the years, and he felt their short lifespans made the whole notion… distasteful.

There was something to be said for having such a creature kept as help, but in the best cases, an elf would train the human properly and have a worthwhile servant, only to watch them die of old age while the elf continued on.

Amras didn’t think he could take the frustration and futility of having such time and effort required over and over. He was in the minority, however.

An arborist in the eastern grove had a whole family of humans, dozens in each generation, and she worked with each successive crop as they grew and kept them working up through the start of their dotage. She then provided for them in their final years in an almost constant churn.

Amras preferred his solitude, and he’d never particularly cared for humans.

Now though? They are helping as only they can. Maybe… He frowned, moving to the next tree. Maybe one might be worth the effort after all.

*

Tache whimpered as a too-hard hand struck him with an open palm-strike to his shoulder.

His body did not move as it should. His magic refused to respond as he was used to. He couldn’t feel his pack, his nose felt stuffed with wool, and this horrid ‘teacher’ wouldn’t let him adjust.

He spun, trying to right his senses and gain distance.

“Take your time. We’ve found this is more disorienting for beast-kin, likely due to how much your senses are normally enhanced by your natural magic.”

Her pretty words were a lie. She was here to torture him! He knew it to be true. The world was a lie, gray and dull and lifeless.

Like the unnatural opponent he faced. 

Like he would be when she was done with him.

“Breath, Tache. You’re going to be okay.”

He was panting, the suppression was… He blinked a few times. It was gone?

His nose filled with the scents of the sparring ring: sweat, sand, leather, and… desperation.

He knew the last was not only from him. He had stood outside the ring and jeered at his packmates as they’d gone in, cowering and whimpering before the white automaton, before Lea, daughter of the…

He shook himself, drawing his mind back from the brink of an internal spiral.

Lea smiled at him from more than ten feet away, giving him plenty of distance to let him recover himself. “Are you doing alright, Tache?”

Tache shook himself again, trying his best not to think about how much like those who had gone before he was acting. “I… I do not like that.”

That got a round of chuckles from those watching, those he was trying not to think about, those he’d shamed himself before.

“This is… This is what they will do to us in a fight?”

“Absolutely.” The woman’s voice was solid, powerful, sure, and he believed her.

He bared his teeth in a growl, hunching low and picking up his sparring blades once more. “Very well… Again.”

His most honored packmate had endured this three times.

Even as he howled and whimpered—striving to attack through the disorientation—Tache swore that he would endure four.

*

Jensen did not like being so disconnected from the Cycling Cities and his regular duties, even if he did know the reasons behind it. He even agreed with them, hence why he’d volunteered.

That still didn’t mean he liked the results. Even when defending a waning city, he was used to having the Archive at his fingertips. Now, in this place, it was forbidden.

That was fine. He could do things that he didn’t like.

Rust and ruin. He was willing to die to defend those he loved, and he wouldn’t like that either.

Yes, positive thinking, Jensen. Well done.

He ran across the plains, his magic sweeping around him like the wind, bending the grasses together and moving them as he needed, strengthening them enough to hold his weight and increase his speed and efficiency of running.

The effect of running atop the flimsy stalks, made it look like he was either incredibly light, or somehow incredibly skilled at balancing… or something. Mundane sight and assumptions were sometimes odd for him to consider after all these years.

Above and ahead of him Sineao rode the wind, looking like she was gliding through the water as she swept back and forth some three hundred feet up, eyes roving from horizon to horizon.

Jensen was the ‘muscle’ if they found anything, and Sineao would go for help. There was a communication station just about a dozen miles to the east, and she could signal them with relative speed. And all I have to do is hold position until help arrives.

Or he could stay hidden and let the rusting arcane constructions get away.

Yeah. That’s not happening. It was an odd thing to consider, as he ran across the plains. He was hunting things that had never done him or his any harm.

Sure, they were the ancient enemy of gated humanity, and their very nature required an enslaved human soul, but they’d chosen to attack others who used such souls as their first act.

Some parts of him wanted to give them a bow of thanks.

He huffed a laugh. Some parts of him were idiotic.

Word was that the arcanes were shifting away from vestige use, and if that was the case, he’d welcome them with open arms.

Everyone made mistakes, and while this was rather more than a broken vase, who would be served by insisting every arcane ‘suffered enough’ for the sins of their society? Wasn’t it better for them to leave it behind? And wouldn’t that change be better facilitated by open arms than a slap to the face?

Jensen smiled. Yes, yes it would be.

He was quite used to long days of mostly mindless work, and as such, he was equally used to chatting internally with himself. He and Sinaeo would talk in the evenings when she wasn’t dancing in the wind, but until then, he was his only companion.

Maybe I should find a familiar? It wasn’t a new thought, and if history repeated itself, the subject would occupy his mind for at least an hour until—

The world rippled, and Jensen dropped to his knees, folding backward as two swords slashed toward him, one passing barely above his horizontal torso and the other cutting through the grass where he might have dropped to avoid the first.

The weapons had come into Zeme first, but the black automata holding them were close behind.

Instinctively, Jensen twisted his body, popping his outer robe free. At the last moment, he jerked his left arm to the side, throwing the garment over one of the attacker’s heads.

Even as he did that, his right hand came to his stomach, slapping precisely into place, connecting his desired inscriptions in a flare of power.

He knew he had seconds before the anti-magical nature of the Black Legion would make his ranged attacks all but worthless. Still, he was fast enough, and the unencumbered of the pair that had attacked him was suddenly swarmed with grass, pulling it down and weaving into a surprisingly strong restraint.

The magics had just finished their work when he felt them be disrupted. That didn’t free that automaton though, as the grass itself was quite mundane.

Unfortunately, this fight couldn’t be won with magics alone.

Jensen pulled the spearhead from his ankle sheath with his right hand, his left thumb running down his side at an irregular—but entirely intentional—pace to trigger a series of workings.

The grass around them pulled together, weaving and compressing into a material both stronger and more flexible than wood.

He didn’t hesitate to activate one of his more limited workings, spending a rather expensive inscription to add both a base of material-based strength and durability to the shaft that affixed to the spearhead and grew to six feet in length.

Finally, he kipped up, rebounding on a wave of grass to thrust at the a third Legionnaire as it tried to surface.

The grass cut in the initial attack had yet to settle upon the ground.

Overhead, Sinaeo let loose a focused burst of sound pointed to the east. Without even looking Jensen knew that she’d have her hand clutched to her throat in the needed pattern.

A smile pulled at his lips. Help is on the way. That would wake the dead, if she aimed it at them.

The woman was already diving downward as the upland tiger fang that was the core of Jensen’s spear tore through a second automaton.

He felt the legionnaire’s odd field fighting the magics running through his soulbound weapon, but a mere footsoldier had no hope of disrupting that.

His Refined power danced with him, and he slew the things one by one as they tried to surface.

This wasn’t his first clash with these creations, and so he knew that the easy part was coming to an end.

Leather braids—each dangling a non-ferrous metal ball—slid out from their place around his belt, their soulbound nature now obvious as well. Sky-python leather to move and strike without care of gravity’s constraints and weights from a tungsten arbiter’s scavenged pieces to hit with more force than their small nature would normally allow.

The eight-fold defensive weapon had just finished freeing itself to hover like so many tails in his wake when the first Sergeant stepped forth.

The weights struck out, knocking the incoming attack to the side even as they slammed into the armored torso, slapping the automata back.

Jensen laughed, jumping and spinning over three more cuts, the Black Legionnaires arriving more quickly now that it was obvious they’d been spotted.

Just another day. Sineao would be at his side in moments, and then they’d really get to work.

Yes, Jensen wasn’t a fan of the endless searching, but finding?

He found that he liked that quite a bit.

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