Trading Aesthetic

... speakers must be in great aesthetic and technical condition, preferably with... my acceptance of the AVForums trading rules and agree to abide...

... speakers must be in great aesthetic and technical condition, preferably with... my acceptance of the AVForums trading rules and agree to abide...

... bio, craft some showcases, earn trading cards, and grab achievements. A... background +rep creative showcases +rep aesthetic setup +rep good taste in...

... bio, craft some showcases, earn trading cards, and grab achievements. A... background +rep creative showcases +rep aesthetic setup +rep good taste in...

... A code card for Pokémon Trading Card Game Live If you're... matter your opinion on the aesthetic, if you pull this golden ... deals expert on games, collectibles, trading card games, and more. You ...

... to latch onto a particular aesthetic and in the process made... clearly know this, and are trading on it. To quote the... be ashamed of themselves. Eighties aesthetic or not, it's 2026. Do...

First | Previous | Next Patreon | Official Subreddit | Series Wiki | Royal Road The Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts. Exhibition Hall. Grand Arcade. Central Thoroughfare. Prosperity Row. Local Time: 2120 Hours. Rostario The Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts… was neither Transgracian nor an Academy nor even a center solely dedicated to the magical arts. At least not for the true aspirants who saw past the theatre of life. The Academy was whatever you wanted it to be. A playground. A sandbox. A veritable blank slate through which fates were decided and futures were dictated. It was a place where fortunes were made and kingdoms were lost all in the span of a half-decade or sometimes even as short as a single night. It was the microcosm of all things Nexian, all things Adjacent, the greater Nexian-Adjacent axis condensed into a dish so immaculately curated that it was almost a parody of the system it purportedly uplifted. And it was within these conditions, ripe not only for academic excellence but also for personal excellence, that individual initiative was rewarded far beyond what the written curriculum could ever offer. Though its rewards were often subtle, scarcely were they openly acknowledged. Because at the end of the day… life was not dictated by a piece of parchment stating your academic merits. The people who seek such meritorious standings all see the forest for the trees in that sense. No. You would be remiss, if not completely wasteful, if your aims at Transgracia were limited to serving out your realm’s tributes and obligations without once leaving the lecture hall. You can be completely unremarkable in your academic journey… yet still achieve leagues beyond the greatest of aspirant battlemages and the most astute of bookish scholars. For within this world… was an ocean of opportunity. You just had to seize it and mold it, provided you had the eyes to see it in the first place. For there were two types of students at the Academy. Those who swam above the waters and those who remained ignorant of the world beyond its surface. Lord Qiv’Ratom was neither. The man was… studious, yes. Perhaps blindingly so. But he was also astute enough to understand the greater games at play. Yet it was… difficult to discern whether he saw it to its greatest extent or merely as an extension of the Academic playbox most found themselves lost within. It didn’t matter, however. The man was a good… sponsor of sorts. Far more stable and much wiser than Ping in any case. And indeed, to those so inclined to such fatalistic drivel, he was very much the textbook definition of the destined firsthand of the year group, so to speak; it was just obvious. Qiv was the King in White, whilst Ping… the Duke in Yellow. Entering the lord’s peer group and becoming his adjutant was simply the most obvious play. Especially considering the breadth of freedoms he offered and the trust he placed upon me, pairing both the name and prestige he’d built for our peer group with my many, many self-directed endeavors. It provided for the sturdy foundation needed for my lofty ambitions. Ambitions… which have since proved far more lofty from the onset just by casual observation and otherwise completely validated by Lord Etholin Esila’s poor, poor play at attaining what was my personal quest — the acquisition of Cadet Emma Booker. The newrealmer was a verdant, fertile garden ready to be cultivated, shaped, tilled, and trimmed to my desires. But I knew from what I’d observed of her that she was no typical beast and thus no simple animal to break. I thus needed… assurances, additional backers, allies with similar interests with which to participate on this open safari by my side. So while Qiv and Uven proceeded on their quests of Nexian fealty in the form of the Quest for the Everblooming Blossom, I too partook in my own quest. A quest not of peer group subterfuge… but post-Academy aspirations. I was to recruit like-minded… investors. To offer the newrealmer something that her minders, superiors, matriarchs, patriarchs, chiefs, or what-have-you could never, ever offer her. Money was one thing. Honor was another. All of which could be easily given by the rulers of a realm. But there was one thing they could not offer. One thing that they themselves coveted. Power. And it was with this in mind that I made my gambit. For it was clear the earthrealmer was well-off in her own right, prideful in her misguided ideals of honor and whatnot. But what could all that mean when faced with a throne offered on a silver platter? Or better yet… the promise of eternity through a lineage guaranteed by like-minded adjacencies. And so the conspiracy was set. “The newrealmer? Well… with how you have framed her, she does seem like a worthwhile venture. Let us discuss terms, and what exactly shall be formed from my fiscal backing.” I had investors ready to take the plunge. “Acknowledge her? Recognize her, even? Hmm… she is impressionable, young as we are, yet less experienced in matters of stately affairs. It should be easy pickings to influence her then. I shall do what I can, provided this gambit concludes in the manner you have laid out, Lord Rostarion.” I had political allies ready to back this gambit were it to proceed. “War materiel? That’s asking for a lot, Lord Rostarion… you better offer me something good in return. And I mean a long, long stake in this Adjacent venture.” I even had the backing of certain talents ready to lend the necessary tools for such an endeavor. All I needed was one more soul. One more aspirant. One more mouth to placate and silence to ensure my monopoly. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Lord Rostarion.” … And yet he was the only one to refuse. “It’s because you have aspirations of your own, don’t you, Lord Etholin Esila?” “I have my reasons.” “Those being?” “My own. Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do.” The merchant lord did not know what he had committed to. He did not realize the insults incurred over such a refusal. Moreover, he thought himself better, more capable of offering a single blundering offer in the face of a newrealmer that was anything but typical. As expected, he failed because of it. He treated the newrealmer like any other. That was his greatest folly. Because the earthrealmer was anything but the norm, no matter how you plotted her on a graph of deviation. She needed to be tackled with more… unorthodox means. Means more aggressive, more personable, with more resources than a single realm could muster. Means… attached to a desire that none could resist. An offer — both spoken and inferred — which she could not refuse. All behind an amicable, professional smile. “Cadet Emma Booker…” I began with a theatrical flare, twisting about on my cloud as I quickly gestured towards the abysmally boring sight-seer. With a puff of mist, I quickly transfigured it into a simple yet blunt sight-seer of my own design. “I offer you, personally… the world.” The world around us immediately melted, each droplet of shape and color representing the failures of the rontalisrealmer’s trite and uninspired presentations. The banal castles and worthless coffers were thus reforged into something entirely different. A trajectory that brought with it not the bland ramblings of trade or the reformations of fiscal policies and imbalances, the likes of which had little palpable impact aside from those visible on a scroll or ledger. No, what was quickly being forged, what was rapidly being formed in front of the earthrealmer, was a matter far more pertinent to those in the seats of power. Those who had dared to tempt fate, tempt reality itself, to propel themselves — and their best and brightest — into a completely unknown reality. These… were individuals who demanded results. And so results they shall receive. “Lord Esila offers you a purseman’s deal. A noble, indeed clever and intelligent offer, mind you. But a purseman’s deal all the same.” I began with a slow shake of my head. “While I offer you a statesman’s deal. A deal, which will turn this…” I gestured at the melty, drippy world around us — Etholin’s sight-seer world. A world which, admittedly, quite accurately depicted a newrealm at its zenith. “... into this.” The already miasmic shapes immediately hardened, first into brushstrokes, then eventually into impressionist splotches of color, lines, structures, and then suddenly… into a bustling city worthy of midlands statehood. Townhouses and quaint towers were immediately replaced on all sides by high-rises that tickled the skies. The ground beneath us, once unruly cobblestone and mud-stained grout, now morphed into paved and smooth whitestone streets, each panel glowing, humming, all in response to the mono-treaders, golem-horses, and horseless carriages that glided across its paved surfaces stretching far towards a castle that itself had received more than its fair share of refurbishment. Gone were the primitive stone walls of mismatched colors and no care for aesthetic consideration. In its place sat an elegant monument to wealth and prosperity. Nine towers flanked an impressively large keep that dominated the city’s skyline, each positioned strategically along the star-shaped fortress’ walls that jutted into the natural ebbs and crevices of the hillside. The entire wall itself was seamless. There were no visible entrances. No drawbridges. Not even a passage for fresh water or waste. Instead, everything was self-contained. Everything was elegantly designed… to fit contemporary Nexian standards. I allowed the sights and sounds to momentarily overwhelm the newrealmer. Though not long enough that dead air would form in majesty’s wake. “What you see… is the inevitable result of the world I offer you.” I gestured with theatrical flair, shaking my hands as I did so. “Instead of coins in a coffer, or the correction of trade imbalances, I give you the tools to civilization itself. Because what use is trade when you lack the keys to power?” I posed abruptly, causing the newrealmer’s head to cock sideways, granting me entry into that most critical of junctions. “Curious? Well… allow me to pose you this question, Cadet Emma Booker. Are you familiar with the keys to industry? The means to production?” The newrealmer’s cocked head suddenly snapped straight, as if at attention, as if immediately grasping the implications of my words. She was a clever one. She had always been clever, in fact. This was why it was important to present her with the argument straight, front, and center. “Yes. I am well aware of it. Though I imagine your definition and my own differ in certain respects.” She spoke cryptically as if interrogating my point without giving up much of her own. “Then you should be aware of the dangers that decentralization — the drifting of the means to production from the crown to outside parties — poses to a fledgling kingdom.” I responded dourly. “My family and I have studied many a newrealm, Cadet Emma Booker. It is something of a pastime, interrogating the past, to better prepare for a future in eternia. It is within those studies that a troubling pattern emerges, one which repeats, or at least rhymes, across eras, across species, and even across dimensions. The pattern I speak of is the blight to absolute rule. A disease which emerges when a ruler or dynasty misplaces their keys to power, loses their grip on a kingdom’s industries, and ultimately leaves them but a vestigial figurehead. A soul, trapped within a body no longer abiding by its commands.” I laughed nervously, shaking my head as I did so. “Many might call me a heretic for making such blatant observations. Some would even call me a traitor to Status Eternia. But what I offer is the truth of the matter. That rule, absolute rule, under the auspices of benevolent providence, is neither guaranteed nor truly divine. It is, as His Eternal Majesty once stated himself, contingent on the very real, very palpable balance of powers.” I paused then gestured towards the roads or, more specifically, the pipes and infrastructure running beneath them. “Take the roads themselves, and a matter which seems so beneath any noble for that matter — sewerage. Enchanted mechanisms are capable of disposing of such filth, but which house is assigned such an abominable task? Or perhaps such tasks should be delegated to the guilds? The chosen ones? An army of them perhaps? Or maybe even commoners themselves. The same train of logic applies to any other element of civil infrastructure. Shall we rely on mere commoners for the erection and maintenance of grand aqueducts? The carving out of canals? Perhaps industry itself should be delegated to the hands of the manaless? At which point does a ruler lose his keys to power? Is it when his deputies decide to go their own way? Each controlling an aspect of the kingdom integral to his power? Or is it when the means of production itself is handed off and partitioned away to the guilds, companies, and houses of the common townsfolk?” I raised my hand then gestured to an unassuming building outside of the city. A simple manufactorium where mundane yet vital elements of contemporary society were assembled. “I offer you an answer, and a way out of this dilemma. I offer you licenses, tools, specialists, and plans to bring your realm out of this tenuous period in history marred by the rapid descent into power jockeying… and straight into the lap of crystallization. I offer you, Cadet Emma Booker, the modes of control which will, by its own overwhelming efficacy and efficiency, guarantee your ruling strata’s eternal grip on power. At which point, following its adoption, you will find that no corner of contemporary society shall exist without the explicit contribution of those of noble blood. For they will find that the streets that they walk upon, the buildings that they dwell within, and even the food and water which they rely on… all stem from the houses and lords born and groomed into such positions. This is what I mean when I offer you the world, Cadet Emma Booker. I give you the tools, by which to ensure your world — not just your coffers or trade policies — will be secured.” The air soon grew silent as my words were processed and tabulated behind those unflinching lenses. No doubt the newrealmer was taking her time to consider the offer at hand, the far more impactful offer, and one that would aid in the immediate uplift of her realm. Emma “You got all of that, EVI?” “Yes, Cadet Booker.” “Right, so, wow. Okay. Just… holy moly, two playbooks in less than an hour. We got financial domination and coercion on behalf of Etholin. And now we’re getting… economic reshuffling and oligarchic consolidation towards in-group party cadres, through a complete paradigm shift by means of seizing entire industrial sectors and apparatuses via the adoption of purely mana-driven mechanisms of industry. Potentially outcompeting all other modes of conventional industry and rendering them redundant and outclassed straight out of the gate. I mean, it was kind of obvious before, but having it spelled out like this is an excellent primary source for cataloguing and SOCSCI analysis. I’m gonna get so much hecking credit on so so sooooooo many papers for this. I can’t even begin to imagine my name appearing on every—” “That is, if you wish to provide such offerings to your current sovereign, Cadet Emma Booker…” The hamster suddenly pulled me out of my muted speech and analytical reverie. I clicked the mute button with a quick flick of my eyes before addressing the man of the hour. “What do you mean?” I attempted to clarify. “I did say I was offering all of this to you, personally, Cadet Emma Booker. Now, whether you wish to accept this offer as the official intermediary between yourself and your sovereign is another matter entirely. Because the option is open, to simply accept this deal, on the behalf of yourself, rather than as an arbitrator…” My eyes widened as I immediately caught his drift. I turned to the EVI then just as quickly nodded. “Elaborate.” And give me all of that sweet, sweet intel… Rostario “You were sent here, to work on the behalf of those with power, authority, and command over you. And now, two months after your fateful arrival, you have seen with your own eyes a world far larger than your own. You have witnessed sights few in your realm could ever even conceive of. You have experienced feats of magic, acts of splendor, and the motions of daily life otherwise once thought the exclusive domain of foolhardy dreamers. You have, in every sense of the word, touched paradise. And yet… you do not have the privilege of basking in its majesty. Not because of any lack of capacity, or even authority, but because of something far simpler, but no less insidious…” I paused, raising both of my hands up by my side. “Time. Your duty compels you to sacrifice time. Time which would otherwise be better spent exploring the beauties of the world, instead relegated to matters of academia, diplomacy, and whatever else this candidacy demands of you.” I paused, shaking my head with sympathetic fervor. “You will return year after year until, finally, you make a name for yourself as the first successful candidate of Earthrealm, ensuring your place in history, yes.” I nodded, framing these predictions as a foregone conclusion rather than a matter not yet set in stone. “But I ask you… what will become of you, Cadet Emma Booker?” “How will your leaders reward you? With lands? Titles? Honors? Statues? Perhaps a name to be lauded in the history books for eternia?” “I ask you… will that be sufficient repayment? For a life devoted for the good of your realm? Is that truly, in any sense of the word, fair?” I allowed that word to hang in the air for a moment. “Only you can be the judge of that, Cadet Emma Booker. Moreover, before you make your decision, I would like to show you the next aspect of my offer. A supplementary package of good will. Collateral, as Lord Esila had put it. My own personal burden of proof to ease your mind and assuage your worries.” I gestured proudly to the shifting winds and melting canvas that was the sight-seer as we soon arrived in a completely barren field bereft of features but brimming with promises. “Let’s start with the aethraships, shall we?” I grinned widely as the sight-seer was moved in such a way that the grandeur and absolute majesty of these constructs were brought fully to bear. Gathered before us was a total of twenty of such vessels. The pinnacle of this offer, not because of the costs of the vessels themselves but for the logistics involved with maintaining their function in a mana-deficient setting. That was why I required the aid of backers. And that was the crux by which this entire sight would prove utterly impossible from the eyes of a newrealm which lacked not only the technical ability but also the raw mana required to make this viable. I began shifting our perspective, weaving us between their ranks. “Five sloops, Daring Class. Two decks, reinforced manasteel oak ribs, a fully enclosed stormglass navigation canopy, four directional aether sails complete with omnidirectional wind command seals and enchantments, each independently rigged for crossfield maneuvering… though you probably wouldn’t need that given the lack of turbulent manastreams in your realm.” I beamed proudly, rubbing the lower aspect of one of the ship’s two-tapered nacelles. “A full complement of crew, their enchanted ordnances included in this offer, of course.” I promptly added before shifting our sights further afield towards aethraships at higher altitudes. “Five brigs, Royal Oak Class. Forty enchanted crossfield emplacements, quadruple helical fin configuration, all built along a spine forged from twenty-times folded cold-steel.” I soon gestured to the arrow-like silhouette of the craft, approaching closer to reveal a completely seamless exterior as if constructed out of a single mass of timber. “Notice the smoothness, the curvature, the gentle lines, all of which were designed to prevent both enchanted strikes and even intermediate spellcasting. Egg-shell white… or was it whale-bone? Hmm… we can change that too, if you prefer.” I winked knowingly, ensuring that personal preference was likewise accounted for; the personal touch was always an overlooked aspect in such grand agreements. We soon shifted yet again, keeping to my promise, ensuring the offers were delivered fast, succinctly, and far less… meandering than Lord Etholin Esila’s rambles. “Finally… Ten frigates, The Eternal Light Class. Four hundred and thirty-seven feet from bowsprit to sterncastle. Seven decks, with an extra sub-deck for passenger berths… or… shall I say… berths for your men-at-arms. One hundred enchanted crossfield emplacements, her very presence will be enough to cause smaller vessels to shiver in her manafield presence. Ten nacelles, fully rigged with the accouterments expected of such a truly rated vessel. Her armor matches this, with enough forward plating to sail through any and all diplomatic objections.” I concluded, allowing the sheer size, scope, and scale to speak for themselves, especially with the quantities involved. However, as the music around us reached a crescendo, so too did my aspirations for all things martial. We quickly switched back to the verdant fields below us as I gestured to what looked to be entire armies’ worth of enchanted weapons… and the golems with which to field them. “Enough enchanted weapons of acceptable caliber, the same quality and rating as those you would find in the hands of the outer guardsmen. And yes… enough to field entire armies… twenty-five thousand enchanted polearms to be precise… with the manavials to sustain them in your… mana-deficient realm.” I nodded. “The same can be said about the trite matters of armor, shields, personal effects, and so on and so forth. I have an entire manifest should you care to see…” I offered the newrealmer an unnecessarily long roll of parchment, one which stretched and rolled all along the floor of the guild hall. The newrealmer, to her credit, studied it meticulously as I soon let out another chuckle. “Such gifts… can either be a great boon to your kingdom and sovereign, or… a great personal boon, should you see fit to accept it as such.” A few more seconds punctuated my final statement as the newrealmer quickly skimmed through the entirety of the manifest before turning towards me with those two glowing lenses. “Is that all?” I blinked. Her verbiage… hinted at a bluff, yet her tone of voice veered strongly towards a question of genuine intent. Either she was a master at tonal deception or she meant that question in earnest. “Yes.” I nodded, matching her earnest tone tit-for-tat. “Were you expecting more?” I quickly followed up, entertaining the possibility of a bluff. “Oh, not really, no. I understand how much effort it takes for a single realm to come up with the industrial infrastructure and logistical train — not to mention the technical expertise and the interdisciplinary pipeline required for that nightmare — before you’re able to even build one of these flying monstrosities.” She offered, plainly, simply, very much matching the intelligence I’d anticipated from her. And yet… her logical deduction did not seem to lead us anywhere. So I waited, allowing her to collect her thoughts and finish her statements. “I just wanted to quickly check, just for the record.” She concluded. I blinked again, this time cocking my head to match her previous bouts of confusion. “For what record, pray tell?” “For my personal logs and records. I expected you — a self-proclaimed history buff of all people — to understand the importance of maintaining an exhaustive and detailed record of critical events and significant milestones no?” I flinched but nodded all the same. “Indeed. Now, with the record set straight, was there anything you wished to—” “Clarify with you? Yeah, lots. In fact, let’s start with the dragon in the dungeon. Were you or were you not insinuating that I kept your offers in a personal capacity, and by extension, inferring that I should return to my home with foreign arms and support, with the intent to overthrow my government?” Ah. So she truly was that dense. Or perhaps simply far too loyal and brainwashed to be of much use. Very well… a pivot was in order. “I never explicitly stated as such, no.” I offered in kind. “It was simply an option which was open to interpretation, as many a realm in history has been presented with the same option… and were subsequently liberated of their tyrannical rulers by candidates just like you, who saw a better future for all under a new, benevolent rule.” I smiled warmly. “After all, not every newrealm is a beacon of hope and benevolent rule, Cadet Emma Booker. I know not much of yours, but I simply wished to… provide you with ample opportunity to act as liberator, as many have done in history.” I beamed brilliantly, smiling and puffing up both fur and tail for good measure. “Right.” Came the newrealmer’s response; a single word drenched entirely in disappointment. “And how many times has that happened on record?” That latter question came as a surprise. So much so that my facade almost cracked. “I know of at least a hundred individual incidents, Cadet Emma Booker.” I offered politely. “Then I’d love to read about them. How about you forward some reference material on them to my dorm. I’ll run through each of them in my own time.” I blinked. What was she doing? Why was she interrogating this aspect of this discourse? “It would be my pleasure to arrange that for you. However, I believe we should conclude current dealings before branching into accessory requests, should we not?” I offered, attempting to veer us back on course. “Oh, right, of course.” She nodded, raising a hand up in some form of an apology. “The answer’s no, by the way.” … … … I felt a twinge of something sharp running up and down my spine as if a bolt of lightning had pierced my very core. “I’m sorry?” I offered in return, maintaining the diplomat’s smile all the while. “The answer? To your whole offer? Every single bit of it? It’s a big no from me. Or rather, no, thank you. That might have been a more polite way of putting it.” She clarified as each and every sentence sent increasingly intense bouts of indignancy down my core. Was she that daft? Did she not understand what she was refusing? Just on the basis of… what? A sense of her pride being hamstrung because of the latter offer? A misplaced and disproportionately charged grievance based on an ego scorned? “Surely you must understand that such boons to your industries would be nothing but beneficial for your sovereign and your fellow countrymen?” I offered once more. “It won’t.” … “Excuse me?” “I know you missed most of Etholin’s spiel, so I’ll be blunt and succinct. We don’t want what you’re selling, because we don’t need it. Let’s start with the mana requirements. Do you honestly believe that for a ‘mana deficient’ realm, we’d be able to run even a single manufactorium without constant imports of mana from your realms, thus permanently indebting us and turning us into a veritable client state for all the good that a single manufactorium would do?” She spoke clearly, as if lecturing me. “That’s just the start of it, but more than that, what do you think a fleet of aethraships would do if it just sat around collecting dust and maintenance costs all owed to your trustees?” She continued, her frustrations growing with each and every word. “Finally, to get straight to the point, everything you're offering are pittances to what we already possess. Because as you might have missed from my refusal of Lord Esila’s offer — who, mind you, was polite enough to invite me without interrupting anything — we’ve already reached something of post-shackling ourselves.” That… That last line… It prompted me to smile. Not in any bout of humor-driven response, no. But just because of how ludicrous it was. “Cadet Emma Booker… I understand if my latter offer was in any way offensive or patronizing, but there is no need for overcorrection towards posturing. Let us reach a new equilibrium. Allow me to address the first two grievances you made note of. Because to touch on the latter… is to entertain hyperbole for hyperbole’s sake—” SLAM!!! “All rise for the return of the Deputy Chairman!” The council interjected, forcing the sight-seer closed and all eyes to focus on the decorated fourth-year. SLAM!!!! The door behind the deputy chairman quickly slammed shut as soon as he and Cadet Booker's peers crossed through the threshold, the latter two each holding and levitating a heavy sack. “I return… with the burden of proof.” Fiswisk spoke under a dire breath as he gestured for both of the newrealmer’s compatriots to bequeath the contents of their sacks. It was then— CLINK! CLANK! THUD! SLAM! —that I saw it. The truth to the newrealmer’s claims. My cloud disappeared into a fine mist, allowing me to approach the pile of ingots alongside Etholin on my own two feet. I stared at the pile of unassuming bars. Each of which ranged from grey to blue-grey to charcoal-grey to soft gray-white. They were all quite unassuming to the casual observer. Just piles of grey metal. Indeed, I could hazard to say that more than half of the year group would more than likely dismiss each and every ingot as nothing more than different purities of iron and steel. But not Etholin. Or Fiswisk. Or anyone else in this room for that matter. As we all stared blankly, some hands outstretched, if only to verify what we had all assumed from a distance. “Where… where did you get these?” I turned to the newrealmer. “Erm, from home?” “No! That’s not what I meant! I meant where did… how. How did you acquire these metals?” “We mined them. Oh, and we processed them, of course. That’s the most tricky part of the equation.” “Tricky?!” I exclaimed, shaking my head in the process before managing to calm down from the shock, or at least, hiding it behind a polite smile. “Let us dispense with the jests, Cadet Emma Booker. Such metals are only discovered and acquired following a great degree of advancement within the field of advanced magical metallurgy. How… how then were you — a newrealm — capable of procuring all of this?” “Secret!” The earthrealmer responded with a disgusting amount of pride, a patronizing, almost belittling tone of voice managing to come through with that one word alone. Etholin had since stepped forward as Emma and I bickered, and with a single hand, he grabbed hold of one of the ingots in question. “Emma?” “Yes, Etholin?” “Is this… aluminum?” “Yup!” “Oh.” The pattenor nodded, smiling politely in the process. “I see.” Following which, the merchant lord collapsed. First | Previous | Next (Author's Note: And there we have it! Rostario's gambit! One that he so deftly managed to pivot from if I might add haha. But yeah! I had a blast writing this chapter, as we got to see so many sides of the guild here, as well as the various ways newrealms are able to be inducted into the Nexian system, and ways that the Nexus and the Academy naturally pits realms against one another in this neverending cycle! :D I hope you guys like the chapter! :D) [If you guys want to help support me and these stories, here's my ko-fi ! And my Patreon for early chapter releases (Chapter 178, Chapter 179, and Chapter 180 of this story are already out on there!)] submitted by /u/Jcb112 to r/HFY [link] [comments]

First | Previous | Next Patreon | Official Subreddit | Series Wiki | Royal Road The Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts. Exhibition Hall. Grand Arcade. Central Thoroughfare. Prosperity Row. Local Time: 2045 Hours. Emma I blinked. Then I raised a finger. … But words refused to leave my mouth despite it already hanging wide open. I had thoughts. No. I had more than thoughts — opinions sharpened by memories of trade counsel briefs stretching all the way from the SOC-SCI departments and into Weir’s personal office. Trade had always been a matter of particular sensitivity. Yet no one could’ve accounted for this eventuality. Well they did*… but… the minutiae was inevitably lost when magic and its consequences were factored into the equation.* So I responded the only way I could. A means of preventing Etholin from pursuing a path with only one foregone conclusion. “Etholin.” I offered politely, warmly even. “I don’t believe this is the right path for both of our realms, at least not without explaining a few—” “Oh, indeed! How could I be so daft!” He interjected, his eyes darting momentarily towards the watchful gazes of the Merchant Guild’s upper-yearsmen before landing back on my lenses. “I’ve yet to actually explain the benefits, and the details of such an arrangement! Allow me~” He trailed off, but before I could interject with another offramp, the doors behind us abruptly slammed shut, and a book — a sight-seer — was promptly pulled from one of the merchant’s many pouches. The lights within the lobby quickly dimmed. Following which we were effortlessly whisked off to what I assumed to be his elevator pitch, one that landed us straight in the midst of a truly medieval landscape, or at least what stereotypical conventions of it often depicted. We found ourselves in a dirty, run-down town beneath a permanently overcast sky. A settlement consisting of stone and mortar buildings scarcely two stories tall overlooked cobblestone roads with open gutters overflowing with brown sludge consisting of god knows what. I could smell the scene despite it being purely visual. But that was only the start of the experience. Looking up, I saw barely a handful of tiled roofs interspersed between thatched roofing in various states of cleanliness, rot, and utter decay. The sight-seer quickly pushed us forward, away from the random street and towards the town square, where water flowed naturally and divided the entire town in half. There, we witnessed shadowy elven-form residents as they grabbed water by the bucketful and carted it off either by shoulder-slung yokes or in carts attached to various beasts of burden. Overlooking this entire scene was a castle. And not one of those fairytale castles either, no. It looked… functional, practical, but gave little consideration in the way of aesthetics or ornamentation, with only a conical wizard’s tower giving off the slightest bit of whimsy to this low-fantasy setting. But that wasn’t the focus it seemed. No. Instead, the merchant lord ushered us to the markets. Where stalls haphazardly lined what should have been a spacious main street, but whose presence had forced all traffic into a crowded shoulder-to-shoulder free-for-all, with horses and carts clogging the sea of faceless ghostly traffic and turning this hell into a complete nightmare. The merchant lord then quietly gestured at the stalls, pointing out their wares and speaking with the detached lilt of a documentarian. “While the typical Nexian perception of a newrealm may be that of mud huts and stick roofs, that anachronistic stereotype is far from accurate. Because as you see, for a realm to have managed the impossible — breaching the space between spaces — one would expect some level of sophistication commensurate with such a worthwhile achievement!” He offered in this sincere, genuinely uplifting tone of voice. Yet the sentiment he preached was anything but. “Here, we see a typical town in a newrealm. Not a city! But a town! A city may even possess a greater degree of sophistication!” He snapped his fingers, and the whole scene shifted. The streets were wider here. Paved somewhat but still carrying over the same grimy overtures from prior. Just… scaled up in size. The buildings here actually had facades for instance. Facades of plaster, paint, glazed mosaics. But facades all the same. Even the markets were larger, with wares and items far more varied than the town, complete with wispy elven-form citizens possessing a great degree more ornamentation and design on their otherwise nondescript tunics and robes. Etholin allowed us to take in the sights and sounds as he made sure to emphasize the grand castle at the end of this brick-and-cobble-paved road. An actual castle to write home about now, what with its tall spires, grand keeps, and even a drawbridge gate. “Yet all of this…” He continued wistfully. “... all the riches of the capital, overflowing with tributes from the furthest corners of your realm…” The scene switched rapidly between the stalls and storefronts, peering deep into grand bazaars and large indoor stores selling anything and everything from spices to weapons to armor to fabrics. “... can scarcely compare, nor compete, with the totality of interstitial trade. Indeed, when set against the full scale of Status Prospera, your newrealm becomes a drop in a practically endless ocean.” The scene paused. We moved down street after street, avenue after avenue, through winding paths and twisting alleys, until we finally arrived at a harbor harboring what I could only describe as staple commodities. Grain stacked high in neat piles, filling entire warehouses from end to end. Woven fabrics and spun fibers that filled similar volumes, piled and stacked in such a way that you needed a spelunker to be able to squeeze through its gaps. We ran through countless more such sights before the perspective changed yet again, shifting outwards and upwards, positioning us high above the harbor, granting us a bird’s eye view. Finally, we saw at least ten of those warehouses highlighted, as it was clear Etholin was leading to something of a lesson on scale. Yet the scales being presented here… felt more like the stuff found in an ancient history lesson than anything resembling a figure as weighty or impactful as the growing background music was attempting to engender. “This is the typical domestic trade volume of some of a newrealm’s most staple products as taken from a single month outside of peak season, adjusted for the average and favorably accounting for low-end outliers.” Etholin paused, giving a moment for us to ‘marvel’ at the sights before continuing on seamlessly. “Meanwhile…” His grin grew wider as warehouses of the same size started to quite literally fall from the sky — like one of those amateurish ‘x for scale’ videos, where seemingly random items are drawn up for comparative scale. Soon enough, I saw where he was going with this. These summoned warehouses landed with deep cacophonous CRASHES into neat piles, creating a clear contrast between the ten or so ‘newrealm’ stacks and the hundreds piled high next to them, creating an illusion of a bar graph. “This is the typical interstitial trade volume between two adjacent realms of minor importance. As tabulated through the Nexian trade authorities, of course.” He turned to the invisible upper-yearsmen outside of the sight-seer, bowing in the process, before turning back to me. “However… this is only the start of things.” He spoke ominously before pulling us out towards the main street, down towards the castle itself, up its drawbridge, and deep down into its vaults and coffers. “Raw trade volume and staple commodities are one thing. Indeed, one could say it means absolutely nothing when compared to this next issue, Cadet Emma Booker. But I needed to show you the scale of the issues at play, before we address the greatest threat of them all.” He took a deep breath, opening the comically sized vault doors to reveal a room filled with a modest amount of gold, silver, and copper. The EVI was quick to guestimate the quantities on display. These were fundamental base elements we were talking about after all. So assuming the purities weren’t a variable, the same constants applied for volumetric analysis and extrapolation. “Ten thousand tons of silver.” I raised a brow. “And what… four thousand tons of gold?” I pondered, garnering the first genuine stutter from the merchant. “That… that’s precisely how much is being shown… how did you guess—” “I did some quick maths.” I responded slyly, even taking Thacea and Thalmin by momentary surprise yet again before their shock dissipated far quicker than the slack-jawed Etholin. They were used to the EVI’s quick-maths shenanigans after all. It took Etholin a few seconds longer to recover. Long enough that the awkward silence became momentarily deafening. Though, thankfully, that didn’t stop the merchant lord from completely losing his stride, as he cleared his throat with a nod of acknowledgement. “Impressive.” He bowed slightly. “Which makes what I am about to say next all the more jarring, I’m afraid.” He spoke apologetically. “Because all of the gold, and all of the silver you see before you—” “And the copper.” I added. “Yes, and the copper—” He corrected himself “—are worthless.” The room went silent again. This was probably where most newrealmers had their perspectives shattered, their worldviews destroyed, and their prospects at anything short of a fair and equal standing completely upended right then and there. However, both this reveal and its ensuing ramifications did little to phase me. The former was already hinted at courtesy of Ilunor’s reactions to the wealth cube after all. And the latter? Well… 16 Psyche would like to have a word with such a paltry sum. Or it would’ve if it wasn’t already mined out. So I stood steadfast, silently anticipating Etholin’s carefully worded and practiced playbook. “As you may have already observed, the Nexus deals only in attuned gold, Cadet Emma Booker. This is because the art of transmutation, now commonplace, has effectively turned the value of what was formerly scarce… into anything but. As a result, all newrealms must face the monumental task of overcoming two major obstacles. The first…” He paused, gesturing to the warehouses ‘outside.’ “A trade imbalance of disastrous proportions. For there is nothing a newrealm can offer that the greater adjacencies do not already possess, but inversely, there is everything that the greater adjacencies can offer, that a newrealm is in desperate demand of. The second—” He paused once more before gesturing towards the ‘worthless’ gold. “—is the medium through which such trades are conducted, as any local currency is to be penned as useless, and any ‘precious’ metal or material is also to be rendered just as worthless. Thus, a period of conversion must be observed, where a newrealm’s wealth is steadily converted into sums of equivalent value in attuned currency.” We were about to reach a crescendo, I could feel it. “This is where I would like to offer my services, Cadet Emma Booker.” The merchant lord bowed deeply, far deeper than ever before. “I am willing, if you see fit, to act as your realm’s fiduciary. I shall oversee your realm’s transition. I shall personally see to it that everything is raised from the level of a newrealm, to that of a respectable minor adjacency. I do not offer miracles, I do not promise that you will immediately rise to the ranks of the middling adjacencies, let alone the preferred adjacencies. However, I promise you that I will sculpt, mold, and shepherd your economy, your industries, your merchants and banks, into that of a respectable contemporary fellow.” The ferret practically beamed, placing his hands by his hips and puffing his chest out in pride. “And as a gesture of good faith… I am willing to match your realm’s current stores and holdings of gold and silver with my own.” … I felt the proverbial record coming to an abrupt screech. As even Thalmin and Thacea turned to each other in shock before once more meeting the pattenor’s eyes. “Your auricles do not deceive you, Cadet Emma Booker. I understand that such offers will inevitably raise doubts and suspicions. I know that you of all people are wise enough not to take an offer so flippantly, and especially without concessions and guarantees on the side of the proposing party. Therefore, as collateral for placing your realm’s finances into my guiding hand, I am willing to match the entirety of your gold and silver reserves in their attuned equivalents. Free of charge. Free of interest. To be returned without limits or stipulations, all signed in mutual agreement of such an exchange, of course.” He beamed. But instead of relief, satisfaction, or excitement forming behind my helmet, there was only pure and unadulterated dread. Not for me, of course, but for Etholin should this actually play out. Because despite not having the authority to okay it, the mere hypothetical thought was enough to send shivers down my spine. I could only imagine any rep from the corpo era would leap at this, grinning at the chance to reverse our roles and fortunes, sending the ignorant ferret into Status Debtia… or whatever lofty euphemism existed for such a fate. “Etholin.” I began calmly, politely. “Disregarding everything else so far, and just addressing your latter offer…” I continued as Etholin leaned in ever closer, as if expecting an excitable ‘Yes!’ from my speakers. “Trust me when I say this, but you really, really don’t want to do this.” The ferret’s features abruptly came to reflect my own, as it was clear that he too had reached a record-screeching halt in his carefully laid gambits. It didn’t take long for him to return to his senses, however, the natural trader within him processing my rebukement with poise before replying plainly and simply. “I apologize if I have been too… loquacious, Cadet Emma Booker. I will rephrase myself, in case my intent was lost in translation. What I offer is a complete one-to-one conversion. No debasement, no arbitrage, no unequal rates. A true exchange from dead to attuned. Without surcharge, fees, markup, commission, premiums, stamps or duties.” He prattled on. “This is my collateral, my gift to your realm, in exchange for your trust in accepting my services as fiduciary to Earthrealm’s trade and economic development.” He clarified, genuinely taken aback by an offer that I imagined most newrealms could simply not refuse. The ball was quickly thrown back to my court, with Etholin’s gaze maintaining a mix between genuine disbelief and a hint of desperation. “Etholin… discounting the fact that I do not have the vested authority required to ratify such a radical offer, I cannot under good conscience agree to terms so unfair and completely catastrophic to the proposing party.” I stated plainly, pulling the words straight from SIOP and causing Etholin to flinch not only in shock but also growing bafflement and confusion. “And were I to actually explain why…” I took a deep breath. “... you would find my reasoning for this refusal outlandish, if not entirely a work of fabrication. You’d think I was saying it just to get out of an uncomfortable deal. You’d think I was committing to fiction just to avoid conflict.” I continued, as more and more I saw Etholin’s gaze shifting to what I needed from him now more than ever — curiosity and a willingness to step beyond his comfort zone, if only to limit the effects that fundamental systemic incongruity would ultimately cause him. He took a deep breath, his eyes brimming with a confident fury. “Addressing your first point.” He began. “While you lack the authority — and perhaps the conviction to carry through regardless of said authority—” He uttered that latter part more as an aside, almost as a point of derision bordering on a dare. “—you still do possess a means of forwarding said offer to those with the authority, correct?” “Well, technically yes, but I doubt they’ll—” “Then we can pen the acceptance as conditional, and pending, rather than completely off the table.” Etholin interjected, his tone dominant, as he attempted to hide the growing insecurities bubbling just beneath the surface. “You’ll find that even if I do so, my superiors’ answers will inevitably mirror my own.” “For the reasons you vaguely allude to, I assume?” “Yes.” “Then test me.” He demanded bluntly, standing his ground more firmly than I’d ever seen him do before. “Let’s hear about these supposed reasons.” Perhaps the eyes and ears around us were enough of an incentive for him to grow a stronger spine. Perhaps the past month had led to some sort of growth within him. Regardless, I nodded in acknowledgement and quickly grabbed two items from my pouches. The first was the very item that had caused Ilunor’s sentiments to shift in one swift motion — the precious metals dispenser (PMD). And the second was an item that I knew Etholin of all people would appreciate the understated significance of. I kept the second close to my chest for now as I handed him the pez dispenser of wealth. The ferret merchant received the item with exceptional care, turning it, twisting it, as if more enamored with the simplicity of the device and the mechanism within it than the coins it clearly held. His slow, methodical approach stood at odds with Ilunor's far more… aggressive handling of it. Which was a breath of fresh air but also tested my patience; I almost offered to guide him through the simple mechanis— CHA-CHING! There it was. And of course, this was followed up by a burst of mana, what the EVI assumed — within a reasonable margin of error — was a detection spell. Once that was settled, he analyzed the copper coin closely, studying it in a manner far more precise and deliberate than the vunerian’s more playful approach of running each coin through his fingers. The perfect one-troy-ounce coin was inspected further with a monocle, as Etholin seemed to take in every detail of the starless GUN seal on one side before flipping to the other to see the missing fourteen stars. This divergence from Ilunor’s more passive observation continued, as Etholin actually began interrogating the text stamped on both sides bounding their respective seals. “Greater United Nations. Peace and Prosperity for All.” He read the translated High Nexian above the English verbatim before flipping the coin over to its opposite side. “Minted Under Special Order 7 fro 32. For exclusive use in diplomatic missions.” He raised a brow at that. “Why the need for novel issuance?” He questioned. To which my answer was swift and honest. “Because we don’t mint physical currency in a way that would convey intrinsic value anymore. Nor do we expect its value to inherently transfer to an entirely different dimension.” I surmised simply, avoiding and sidestepping the topic of an opt-in cashless society, USTU-transaction chips, and purely digital transactions… not to mention the Requisition Unit. “So for the purposes of this diplomatic mission, and generally all diplomatic missions for that matter, the idea was to mint a ‘currency’ based on the intrinsic value of the so-called ‘precious’ metals themselves.” Etholin latched on to each and every word, but his eyes grew wide at that latter, seemingly throwaway line. “So-called?” He clarified. At which point I knew I had to simply drop the bombshell. “We’ve achieved post-shackling, as you say in the Nexian vernacular.” I stated bluntly, garnering a pause, a look of disbelief, and a vigorous shake of the pattenor’s head all in rapid succession. “Precious metals are only still called that because of their relative scarcity to other metals, and as a holdover term. Hence why I prefaced it with ‘so-called.’” Etholin paused. His features shifted to what I feared to be a premature point of fundamental systemic incongruity. However, unlike Ilunor, if he did have any reservations, he kept it to himself. Instead, he chose to forge ahead, continuously pressing the PMD— CHA-CHING! CHA-CHING! CHA-CHING! —until finally, he noticed something. A physical mechanism that Ilunor had avoided but one that the pattenor was quick to exploit — a small knob allowing for the mechanical selection of the type of dispensed coin. CLICK! CHA-CHING! In one swift motion, he’d shifted from copper to silver. CLICK! CHA-CHING! And in another, he moved effortlessly to gold. Then finally— CLICK! CHA-CHING! —he moved to a certain element that had proven to be the final straw for the vunerian’s back. … The stillness in his features spoke leagues in my favor. The stiff, unpracticed, nearly stuttering motions as he lifted monocle to coin was enough to clue me into what was going on behind his eyes. Indeed, his hastening breath had sealed the deal on this whole exchange. And yet… … Silence still dominated the air. As this episode, this entire process, stood at odds with Ilunor’s far more visceral response. “Emma…” Etholin finally spoke as he blasted wave after wave of unknown spells at the coin. “Is this… platinum?” “Yes.” I answered immediately. “With a few trace metals added for integrity’s sake. But it is, for all intents and purposes of trade, pure.” “Ah.” Came the pattenor’s single syllable response. CHA-CHING! CHA-CHING! CHA-CHING! CHA-CHING! CHA-CHING! He continued wordlessly, fingers primed, constantly striking that button over— CHA-CHING! —and over— CHA-CHING! —and over again— CHA-CHING! —until finally— CLINK! —he ran out. He twisted his neck towards the coins, then my lenses, then back to the coins. It was now his turn to be slackjawed, though not in the way he probably expected. “Emma… this… did you… did your realm send you with the entirety of your platinum reser—” “There’s more where that came from, if you’re interested.” I interjected, completely sidestepping and then preempting the merchant lord with an answer to a question he’d inevitably ask. “A thousand kilos and some change.” That sole proclamation was enough to finally bring the outside world back into the confines of Etholin’s sight-seer. As murmurs from beyond the veil penetrated into our little corner of reality, the magical hologram started to fracture at the seams. “Impossible!” “Absurd!” “A complete bluff!” “A fabrication!” Indignant voices erupted from the alcove above, all of which were quickly hushed by an unseen figure. “Do you dare to bear the burden of proof, newrealmer?” A figure quickly entered our sight-seer — a sea lion realmer who, like many other seniors thus far, I hadn’t yet met. “Prince Ferrian Fiswisk. Deputy Chairman of the Merchant’s Guild.” He quickly added, though it was clear his name, titles, and the rest of the typical decorum’s song and dance were the last things on his mind at present. “Well met.” I nodded sharply. “And sure. I’m a diplomat of my word.” I nodded. “Though I should note that it’ll probably take a while given how far the dorms are from the exhibition ha—” “You are located in Dragon’s Heart Tower, correct?” He questioned. “Yes.” “Then it should take no more than five minutes.” “Wait what? How—” The man quickly pointed at his ring as if anticipating my response. “I am a member of the incumbent Class Sovereign’s peer group. This grants me certain express travel privileges within the Academy.” He clarified. “Now then, I am already encroaching on your dialogue as it is. I do not wish to set an unprofessional precedent, where possible. Who do you wish to elect to act as arbitrator in your stead, newrealmer?” I blinked. Then I instinctively turned to Thacea. “Princess Thacea Dilani, accompanied by Prince Thalmin Havenbrock.” I answered. “Though I assume you will simply act as an intermediary of travel, rather than an unprompted auditor into our private spaces?” “... As we have only just met, I will not hold such words of offense against you. Do know that I am not so brusque as to dismiss the noble right of privacy.” He shook his head back and forth in a fit of indignant theatrics. “I merely wish to see the burden of evidence. Your arbitrator will be the party responsible for meeting these conditions in whichever way they see fit.” I turned to Thacea, giving her a nod of approval. “Get him one of everything. And a lot of the… special bars.” Thacea raised a brow at this but nodded all the same, following Ferrian Fiskwisk out of the sight-seer and back into the busy streets beyond those triple-volume doors. I turned back to Etholin the instant the trio cleared our sightline, seeing the merchant lord just… standing there. Still as a deer in headlights. “You showed me a world, a hypothetical newrealm forged by the rule of averages.” I paused then gestured around us. “I’m assuming that this is what you assume Earthrealm to be like, correct?” “Yes.” Etholin nodded. “You should know then, simply by our acquisition of platinum, that your preconceptions are just a bit off.” “I…” “But that’s only our primary economic sector we’re talking about here. Maybe secondary too if you count smelting and minting. But this second item should firmly clue you in to our capacity in the latter.” I continued as I offered him the instrument to both of our futures. The merchant lord cocked his head but received the innocuous item graciously all the same. “A… pen?” He questioned, garnering a simple nod as I even offered him a notepad. A gesture that also gave him increasing pause for concern. So after a moment taken to return the PMD and its coins back to me, he began inspecting this ‘new’ toy, inspecting it with bursts of mana radiation, studying its plastic exterior, before finally— CLICK! Deploying its little ballpoint tip. “A… coilspring?” He managed out under an increasingly suspicious breath. “Your… coin purse also possessed such a mechanism, if I’m not mistaken…” CLICK! … CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! “There is a spring in there, yeah. A simple mechanism, streamlined for mass production.” I spoke casually, that latter line managing to capture the merchant’s attention as much as the mention of platinum did. “This… isn’t a bespoke piece? Like your armor?” “Etholin.” I took a deep breath in. “My armor might be bespoke in certain aspects, but only because of its modifications. You’ll find that most soldiers from my realm are issued something similar, if not more deadly than what I’m wearing.” He stopped. And once again he found himself running straight into the wall of fundamental systemic incongruity. It took a moment for him to compose himself, before finally— CLICK! —he was ready to continue. “And the inkwell?” He questioned but received only a simple ‘go on’ gesture from me as my sole response. So with a shrug, he began writing. At which point, I could see his eyes narrow before dilating in the matter of a few seconds. He began furiously scribbling at that point. Writing, sketching, and going to town with the provided paper. Eventually he moved to the notepad, attempting to scrawl, scribble, and doodle all in rapid succession before finally moving to inspect the ballpoint tip, his eyes ending up dangerously close to its pointy end. “Where are the enchantments, Cadet Emma Booker?” He questioned desperately. “You know as well as I, and the rest of the year group, that Earthrealm is… deficient in mana, Etholin. Ergo, we can’t just waste enchantments on something so trivial as a pen, now can we?” I spoke under a toothy grin, skirting past the gag order and iterating off of the ‘publically acceptable’ narrative. “We did this all without magic. No spells. No enchantments.” “And not bespoke either?” He questioned skeptically, his hands carefully toying with its exterior — twisting and torquing it — before its seamless unibody construction gave way to two unscrewed pieces. His critical features soon gave way to abashment as he sheepishly met my gaze once more. This time out of worry for potentially breaking the strange artifact. “No, not bespoke. You’ll see how simple it is now that you’ve twisted it open, go on.” I urged, and he continued twisting, then finally dropping the few contents within onto an open palm. Etholin Those words echoed in my mind. They taunted me with every passing second. Their implications… worming, twisting, and prying open all that I knew and all that I could fathom. All… at the foot of these innocuous-shaped pieces of… ivory? No, they were too… lightweight, airy almost, to be ivory. They weren't carved either. Or were they? How could they have carved something so intricately, so precisely? Were they molded? Shaped? Compressed? Grown into form? What even was this material? Why couldn’t I fathom what material this was? The spells showed nothing. No origin, no tells, no signs or symptoms of production in any capacity as I understood it. That was the case for everything, at least. Save for the one item that, at the very least, retained some semblance of normalcy. The coilspring. But even then… its presence here was alarming. Not in its existence alone, of course. Some newrealms were most certainly advanced enough to possess such mechanisms, after all. … But they were all reserved for specialized equipment. Tools for the wealthy, toys for the privileged, and objects of novelty for the upper echelons. Emma’s claims stood contrary to this. No. Worse than that. Her assertions stood contrary to what should have been possible. Mass production… without manufactoriums? With mana-deficient, or completely manaless means? For springs?! What for? Just for pens? It wouldn’t be economically feasible— … Unless it was destined for more than pens. If not that, then what? Suspensions for vehicles perhaps? Locks? Clocks? Traps? Clamps? Primitive siege-engine mechanisms? Surely that couldn’t imply mass production? Surely those were specialized enough to be relegated to guilds and smithies? Why would they be needed for mass production? Unless… Unless… This was just a piece of a grander puzzle I wasn’t seeing. It was at that point, after absent mindedly squeezing that tiny spring, that it finally ‘clicked.’ What if this was a part of a grander puzzle? A small piece within an intricate web. As intricate and complex as the manufactorium and logistics of a typical supply chain? But that would make Earthrealm far more capable, far more advanced, far more sophisticated than even a burgeoning minor adjacency. That… that couldn’t be. Not when magic was scarce and its use even scarcer. The mud huts and stick roof theory should have applied stronger in that case. But the inverse was true. I saw it. I was seeing it. I was touching it… But what if Emma was lying? What if she was bluffing? That would be the obvious explanation to all of this! And yet… She’d dared to call her bluff with the deputy chairman. … My mind edged towards the cliff face of uncertainty. My efforts, my gambit, all holding on by a thread. I’d even absent-mindedly reassembled the entire pen back together, taking a few tries before finally screwing it back into place. CLICK! I began testing the writing implement once more. … It worked perfectly. And its assembly, even in my soft and untempered hands, was beyond child’s play. If each item could be produced in their own manufactorium, by their own mechanisms, then assembled elsewh— What if it was mass produced? What if— “Etholin? You okay there, friend?” Emma finally offered, pulling me out of my reverie, as I attempted to formulate something in response. “I am, thank you. I… I’m just… I was just pondering, what materials comprise—” CLINK CLINK CLINK! The ringing of glass bells prematurely ended that train of thought. I expected the return of the deputy chairman, of the avinor, or perhaps the lupinor. Instead, a thick cloud made its way into the confines of my sight-seer, and with it an unexpected guest. “Esteemed councilmen and chairs! I incur the right of the prospective fellow!” Lord Rostario Rostarion proclaimed, garnering a few murmurs from the council before a conclusion was met uncharacteristically quickly. “Motion sustained.” Following which the rodent smirked as he hovered high above both me and my potential client. “Lord Etholin Esila has had his chance. Indeed, I respect my peer for his persistence! But alas, the time has come for competition to enter the fold.” He spoke in that orator’s cadence as he made the gambit I had started. We both awaited in painful silence before the council made their final decision. “We acknowledge Lord Rostario Rostarion’s bid for guild membership, and sustain his motions for this newrealm deal. Lord Rostario Rostarion, you may proceed. Lord Etholin Esila, please await the return of the Deputy Chairman.” I let out a frustrated sigh, especially as that opportunistic creature entered the fray — now fully recognized — bringing both gift baskets and musical ensembles to the negotiation table. “Cadet Emma Booker…” He began in that sing-song voice. “I offer you, personally… the world.” First | Previous | Next (Author's Note: I'm so happy with this chapter and I can't wait to hear what you guys think of it! :D I put a lot of effort into this because the whole merchant's guild section is just filled with a lot of lore bits as well as character moments for Etholin and Rostario! :D There's also the return of the wealth cube that I established all the way back in a previous chapter too haha. That's also going to be fun! :D I hope you guys like the chapter! : D) (Author's Note 2: Hey everyone! I also posted art references of Qiv's peer group including Rostario Rostarion himself! You can check it out over here: Qiv's Peer Group :D) [If you guys want to help support me and these stories, here's my ko-fi ! And my Patreon for early chapter releases (Chapter 177, Chapter 178, and Chapter 179 of this story are already out on there!)] submitted by /u/Jcb112 to r/HFY [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/Special_Karl to r/ImaginaryTechnology [link] [comments]

a little hard to describe from people outside inland california, but it's a little bit of "redneck" (lifted trucks in suburban sprawl), iraq-era marine, oakley sunglasses, and anything dickies- the baggier the better. a buzz cut- almost to the skin but not quite, a bigass tribal tattoo on his right bicep; and at least one dirtbike that he'd claim he takes out to the dunes every weekend. the kind of guy that dropped out of trade school and enlisted because he thought halo 3 kicked ass and didn't want to deal with the fact his girlfriend dropped him for a guy who watches twilight. he probably owns staind's entire discography on CD, and has his truck radio permanently tuned into the los angeles angels game broadcasting station. reeks of cigarettes, but wears a cologne that you'll never smell again. i remember being around guys like this when I was growing up so very vividly, and sometimes you'll see a guy like this around today who has this same style (although now it's evolved into pit vipers and blown-out hair). it's something a little seperate from all the 2000's aesthetics that people try to generalize- because it blends all the different styles popular across the US at the time and puts a weird douchey californian desert spin on it. i pulled these images from pinterest, but i don't think they fully represent what i'm talking about. if you know, you know. submitted by /u/evergreen0707 to r/Y2K [link] [comments]

Several years have passed since COVID began, but honestly, life never really returned to normal for me. The pandemic hit during my early twenties, between 21 and 24, and I genuinely feel like it altered the trajectory of my personality, mental health, and outlook on life. Before 2020, I was energetic, optimistic, social, and excited for the future. I felt emotionally alive. I could picture a future for myself and actually felt connected to the world around me. Looking back at photos and videos from before COVID almost feels surreal now because that version of me feels like a completely different person. During lockdown, I was trapped in a deeply toxic and controlling relationship. Isolation intensified everything. Being cut off from normal life created this unhealthy dependency that I can only describe as a mix of Stockholm syndrome and the sunk-cost fallacy. The smaller my world became, the harder it felt to leave, even while knowing it was destroying me psychologically. Then when the world finally reopened, it was like my nervous system completely collapsed. I started experiencing severe panic attacks with intense air hunger, derealization, chest tightness, and a constant sense of impending doom, especially while driving. It took years just to get partially functional again, and even now I still don’t feel “normal.” My attention span is worse. My memory feels fragmented. I struggle to focus deeply on anything anymore. Sometimes it feels like my brain never fully recovered from years of chronic stress and overstimulation. But beyond my personal issues, something about society itself feels fundamentally different now. I used to romanticize adulthood. I wanted to travel, build relationships, experience life, maybe eventually have a family. Now I feel strangely detached from all of it. Part of that is trauma, but part of it honestly feels cultural. Everything feels expensive, unstable, performative, and emotionally hollow. Dating feels commodified. Third spaces have disappeared. Everyone is isolated, yet somehow constantly perceived online at the same time. I don’t even know what this new culture is anymore. It feels like we traded individuality for algorithms and trends. Influencer culture dominates everything. People become famous not because they’re talented, insightful, or interesting, but because they fit a certain aesthetic or know how to market themselves online. Conversations feel flatter. Attention spans are fried. Nobody seems to deeply engage with art, ideas, music, philosophy, or even each other anymore. Everything gets flattened into short-form content and recycled talking points. Even travel feels different now. Places that once had distinct identities increasingly feel curated for Instagram and tourism to the point of becoming artificial versions of themselves. So much of the physical world feels synthetic now too: fast fashion made of plastic, cheaply made products, chain stores everywhere, endless advertising, endless scrolling. Sometimes it feels like we’re living inside a giant algorithm instead of a culture. And when I go out in public, the atmosphere feels… off. People look exhausted. Defeated. Hypervigilant. Like everyone is quietly operating in survival mode. Social interactions feel more guarded and self-conscious, almost like people are constantly monitoring themselves out of fear of judgment, conflict, or being recorded. There’s this underlying tension everywhere that I don’t remember existing before. I also feel like culture itself has stagnated. Trends recycle every few months. Music, fashion, media, even personalities online all feel increasingly homogenized. Everyone talks the same, references the same things, consumes the same content, develops the same opinions. It’s hard to describe, but the world feels simultaneously hyperconnected and deeply soulless. I look at who I was before COVID and genuinely grieve that person sometimes. Not because life was perfect, but because I felt more alive, more hopeful, more capable of imagining a future. I’m curious if anyone else feels this way. Do you feel like you ever truly “snapped back” after the pandemic years, or do you feel like you became a completely different person afterward? How do you feel about the way people interact now, the constant media cycle, influencer culture, the disappearance of community, and this overall feeling that society is emotionally exhausted and stuck? I’d genuinely like to hear other people’s experiences because sometimes this all feels difficult to articulate. Edit: I’m not a defeatist. I still push forward. I finished college, I work, I have hobbies, and I’m actively trying to date and build friendships. Still, there’s this persistent, low-level depression underneath it all for some reason. If you’re happy with the status quo and feel like you’ve 'made it,' I’m genuinely happy for you. Just a thought. Reflections after reading the comments: I’ve read through a lot of the comments and genuinely appreciate the solidarity, perspectives, and shared experiences people opened up about. It’s strangely comforting knowing so many others feel this same disconnect from the world we used to know. I do think there are multiple factors behind it. And yes, I understand why so many people are suspicious about the COVID era in general. Between the gain of function whistleblower claims surrounding Fauci, the fact he received a pre pardon, the censorship that happened during that period, and the sudden explosion of hyper addictive short form content right as billions of people were isolated indoors, I don’t think people are crazy for questioning things or feeling like something larger shifted culturally and psychologically. Even the whole “Great Reset” conversation, whether people agree with it fully or not, reflects a real feeling many people have that society accelerated into something colder, more digital, more disconnected, and more consumption driven after 2020. At the same time, I don’t think living entirely in paranoia or doom helps either. At this point, all we can really do is try to reconnect with real life again. Be involved in local communities, spend more time offline, reduce constant tech consumption, prioritize mental health, and rebuild actual human connection where we can. For me personally, one small thing that’s helped calm my nervous system has been listening to Wayne Dyer talks/audio tapes at night. His voice is very soothing and he gives very grounding advice. And lastly, I also want to acknowledge the people dealing with long COVID and lasting health issues. A lot of you shared stories about disabilities, brain fog, chronic fatigue, panic symptoms, and feeling abandoned afterward. You are not forgotten, and I think your experiences are very real. submitted by /u/MaterialPineapple207 to r/Adulting [link] [comments]

​ I don’t think PLUR is dead. I think a lot of people just learned the aesthetic of rave culture before they learned the manners. Like yeah, wear the fit, bring the fan, trade kandi, film a few seconds, go hard, have your main character moment. I love all of that. But also: Say excuse me when you move through the crowd. Don’t shove your way to the rail 5 minutes before the headliner and act shocked when people are annoyed. If you’re in the front, bring some energy or at least be aware of the people behind you. Don’t use someone’s body as a barricade. Fan people, don’t clack the fan next to someone’s ear for 20 minutes. Check on the person who looks like they’re having a bad time. Make room when someone needs to get out. Wear earplugs. Future you is not built different. The best crowds I’ve ever been in weren’t the ones with the craziest production or biggest lineup. They were the ones where everyone understood the unspoken agreement: we’re all here to lose ourselves a little, but not at the expense of everyone around us. I’m curious what everyone else thinks. What’s one piece of dancefloor etiquette you wish every new raver learned before their first show? submitted by /u/pattebrisee to r/aves [link] [comments]