It was said that, in the beginning, the so-called "internet" was a pitiful thing: A redundant hodge-podge of data storage units and cheap text-based communications systems, interconnected by dull-witted "search engines" and supported with a combination of "hand-held," "lap-top," and "personal-home" devices. Such a feeble creation was accessed externally, lagged horribly if the traffic was high, and crashed as a matter of routine. In other words, it was buggy as hell and easily hacked.

The modern day Fusionweb was a whole other breed of beast altogether. It was lean, fast, and intelligent; a completely wireless telecommunications and information system that, while predominantly cloud-based, was not supported by endless banks of servers and private computers, but rather by the users' bodies themselves. Modern man was digitally enhanced: The nano-chelates "grown" alongside the developing brain not only served to let their user access the 'web directly, but also stored tremendous amounts of data without the assistance of peripheral technology. The efficiency of the system was awe-inspiring; the processing power and storage capacity of the Fusionweb grew exponentially with every subsequent generation of humanity. Hacking became dangerous, as would-be criminals were no longer breaking into someone's personal device, but technically invading their physical body. The degree of punishment for such crimes became draconian in response.

The 'web itself was partitioned into two major levels of interaction. The first, and by far the most common, was known as "AR" or "Augmented Reality." Through it a user could easily perform daily tasks necessary in the real world. One could go to work, shop for groceries, or attend a live baseball game. At the same time, the 'web could assist one's efforts by providing reminders of scheduled appointments, sketching out an ingredient list for a chosen recipe, or showing the batting average of a pinch hitter, all while supporting a live "teleconversation" with the user's long-distance friends, family, and coworkers. AR was highly versatile; most people never turned it off.

The second level of interaction was known as "Partial Dive Exploration," or "PDE." Through PDE the Fusionweb was experienced as a form of semi-virtual reality. The user would mostly disconnect his or her awareness of the real world and traverse the terrain of the 'web via a limited avatar, thus accessing information on a deeper level than one could normally recieve through AR. PDE was commonly utilized by those looking for simple entertainments with fewer chances of outside distractions; it was very popular in casual gaming circles.

The use of peripheral devices was not outmoded, however. Some forms of information, such as confidential medical (psychiatric...) records, items pertaining to national security, and patent-based data were too sensitive for public knowledge; these were stored in external hard drives with no access to the Fusionweb. Then, of course, there was true virtual reality; for all the advanced capabilities of a chelate-enhanced brain, a user on his or her own could not completely disassociate the mind from the physical stimuli of the real-world body. Doing so required the use of "Full Dive Gear," a combination of sensory deprivation tanks and neural load boosters designed to first mute, then override a user's awareness of the natural body in order to fully accept the experiences of the virtual avatar.

It could have been called "Anywhereville," a small-town USA collection of two- and three-storey buildings surrounded by numerous throughfares, side streets, and broad sidewalks, but the sky was both black as the abyss and yet burning bright with vast flowing rivers of raw information. The advertisements pasted to the buildings' walls were alive as they loudly hawked everything from the latest year-models of hover cars to the newest brands of hemmorhoid creams. The buildings themselves displayed odd shop signs such as "Boogie-5's Dance Craze Videos," "Feeling Down? 24/7 Auto-Diagnostic Here!," or "Just For Her: Fusionweb Buyers' Catalogue."

Craziest of all were the town's occupants. Classical space aliens rubbed shoulders with werewolves, giant mice on rollerskates played tag with a riderless bicycle, an elf-like woman in army fatigues laughed at a joke told by an old-school box television balanced atop a pair of slowly-spinning helicopter blades. A living painting walked on its own easel to a street corner then began shouting about the end of the world. A pair of trolls stomped up to the painting and told it to get a life, causing flames to leap up. A small crowd formed to watch the war, but most simply ignored the hubbub and went about their own business. This was PDE; this was the Fusionweb.

With the rhythmic sound of rubber slapping on concrete and 'Stayin' Alive' by the Bee Gees for support, a brain in a jar with spindly "spaghetti-bot" arms and legs sauntered through the crowds wearing a pair of 1950's-era sunglasses (complete with a tag on a string saying "Becoz I'm Cool"), flip-flops (source of the slapping rubber), and headphones hanging down around the jar's narrow mechanical shoulders (from whence came the Bee Gees). No one saw where the brain came from. Most averted their attention; it's not like the brain was the weirdest thing walking the streets that day. The brain ignored them in turn; instead, it hopped out to the edge of the curb and put two of its tinker-toy fingers to the front of the jar.

The Bee Gees went silent just long enough for the headphones to give a loud whistle followed by "Hey, taxi!" The whistle was piercing, but the voice was cold and androgynously robotic. Regardless, in an instant an old and rusty Yellow Cab fishtailed around a nearby street corner like a getaway car with the cops on its tail, narrowly avoided side-swiping a party of bow tie-wearing penguins, lost control long enough to perform a rather artistic 360-degree spin, then ratcheted to a stop with four streaks of newly-blackened asphalt and the smell of burning tires.

The search engine, modelled to look like a stereotypical fat, balding, forty-something Italian man in a wife beater (and way too much back hair, to be honest), stuck his elbow out the driver's side window and looked down at the brain with a mixture of good humor, amusement, and a slight trace of boredom. "Where to, bruddah?"

The brain cracked open the back door of the taxi and leapt inside. Its headphones interrupted ABBA's 'Dancing Queen' long enough to say, "Wfw.Mystletayne_Electronics.org, cabbie, and make it snappy."

"Franklin Tesla Steinberg?" The fractal pattern behind the receptionist's desk of Mystletayne's PDE lobby tapped away at an early twentieth century typewriter and glared down at the brain in a manner both studiously dispassionate yet somehow disapproving. "Now is not yet the time for your appointment."

"I beg your pardon," the brain replied, "but I am only five minutes early." The lobby was suprisingly posh, even though it was merely for customers to figuratively cool their heels in; a study in fine woods and overstuffed furniture that no PDE user could fully appreciate.

"Irrelevant. You will wait the five minutes." The receptionist turned away from the brain and resumed its typing.

"Delta," the brain muttered matter-of-factly, "not your fault." Sometimes a Core Child suffered more than mere physical defects when the artificial womb failed. Delta-class Core Children could be trained in security protocols for individual civilian 'websites, and were good enough to be snatched up by the biggest names in the corporate world, but they had all the social aptitudes of early twenty-first century chat bots.

Precisely five minutes later, the brain was directed through a nondescript door beside the receptionist's desk... and entered a marvel. It was the Hanging Gardens of Babylon suspended in a bubble; a mountainous terraced ziggurat, choked with all the plant life of Earth, hovering in an airy sphere and surrounded on all sides by the deep blue sea. Thousands of birds sang from the garden's trees, monkeys leapt from branch to branch, and larger animals paced across the floors. Vast schools of fish darted outside the bubble in a parade of tropical colors. Dolphins cavorted close to the bubble's apex. Once, an enormous orca breached the wall of the bubble at tremendous speed, soared overhead like an airship, then burst back into the waters and swam away. An enormous octopus, the size of the ziggurat itself, observed the bubble from below with an evil gaze.

The brain was impressed. "Now, this is art."

"Mister Steinberg?" A new voice broke the brain's reverie with a start, as it came from what could only be described as a perfectly ordinary woman. Neither too young nor too old, too broad or too thin, attractive or ugly, she was just a plain woman in an equally plain black business suit. "I am NIC-12FN5-Beta. My friends and coworkers call me "Nice." The woman gave a slight, cordial bow. "As a fellow Core Child, I am here as your facilitator. This way, please." With that she began to lead the brain up the ziggurat's branching staircases towards the peak. "It is rare to hear of a Core Child with a proper name."

The brain traced a tinker-toy finger across the petal of an orchid as it obligingly followed the Beta-class. Betas are as smart as anyone else, the brain reminded itself, do not say anything foolish. "It is a name I chose for myself, and a matter of official record. My physical state aside, I am as human as a professional sportsman; I felt it necessary to reflect that with an actual name as opposed to a designation code."

Nice turned towards the brain and cocked her head to the side. "That is an interesting way of looking at it. Perhaps, one day, I shall do the same."

Yeah, you do that. "For my part, I am wondering why a regional system administrator would waste her time with a retiree? We Betas do not exactly have a great deal of free time outside of maintaining proper data flow within the Fusionweb."

"You are mistaken, Mister Steinberg, I am not an administrator for the Fusionweb." At last, the two Core Children reached the summit of the ziggurat, which revealed itself to be the seat of a spectacularly enormous oak tree surrounded by a waist-high and labyrinthine hedgerow of carefully-tended roses.

"Oh?"

"This ziggurat is my sole responsibility."

"-Huh?" Mystletayne Electronics is paying a Beta to maintain a single zone? How much money do they have?

"Please do not be surprised. It is significantly more complex than it appears, and is the cornerstone of the company."

Ah. "Then, this...?"

"Correct. This is the Omnicephalic Dive-In Network, or ODIN. To be precise, it is the outer shell concealing the ODIN's programming architecture." Nice held her hands out wide and slowly turned in place to encompass the entire zone. "Without it, none of the virtual worlds and entertainments offered by Mystletayne would be even one-third as encompassing and immersive as they are now. ODIN is the reason this corporation stands at the peak of the VR gaming industry."

"I see." The brain crossed its flexible arms and leaned back thoughtfully. "Then I suppose I'm in good hands."

Nice nodded, then indicated the oak tree. "In that case, shall we begin? What manner of virtual entertainment are you looking for? Do you have any taboos? Is there anything you feel you must experience? Oh, and please ensure your Full Dive protocols are active. I realize that Core Children have no need of sensory-deprivation equipment-"

The brain produced a red pass card from thin air and handed it over. "All my documentation is in order, and my gear is functioning at peak values. Do not be concerned. As to my preferences..." The brain tapped the jar it was in with a metal finger in the same way a man might thoughtfully tap his chin. "This is not merely a pleasure cruise; as you already know, I'm looking to retire my tired old mind to a virtual life on a permanent basis. I have no intention of logging out."

"Understood. VR retirement is popular among Betas. I understand that even a rare few Alphas go in for it."

The brain coughed mechanically. "Is, is that so? -Anyway, I have no preferences for cultural development levels. At the same time, I want the most complete world available so as not to break my immersion. I do not want to play around in a child's game, either. I am an adult, and I want to experience an adult's world. This does not mean I condone needlessly excessive behavior, however, so I am not interested in any dark or abusive fantasies. A world with game-based rules and operations is fine. I actually prefer constructive setups with readily-identifiable growth. Last, but not least, I do not want to spend my retirement closeted away from humanity, so a virtual world with the largest subscriber base possible would be preferable. If the AI's are easy to interact with, that is also fine. Do you have anything that fits those parameters?"

"Yes." Nice gently pressed the palm of her left hand against the rough bark of the oak's trunk. "Diamondback. It is the most popular Full-Dive VRMMORPG Mystletayne offers and, given both your advanced processing skills as a Beta and the amount of funding you are offering to the corporation in order to expand ODIN's systems, it will be child's play to tailor your experience to be compliant with your needs."

"Hmm." The brain tapped its jar again. "I sense a "but" coming."

Nice clasped her hands together apologetically. "An MMO is not a place to simply put down roots and lord over your surroundings. Regardless of our tailoring, you will start out weak and endure many challenges. Likewise, we cannot fully control the actions of other subscribers. You should beware those who actively seek out the "dark and abusive fantasies" you abhor. Finally, it is fine that you are unperturbed by advanced AI, but take care you do not overly identify with them. In the end they are still AI; you should not prioritize them over your fellow users." Overhead, the leaves of the oak sparkled with their own inner light. "That said, are you ready?"

"Yes." There was no need for hesitation.

"Then place your hands against the Axis Mundi."

"Diamondback! The world's greatest game!"

"A bit sure of ourselves, are we not?"

Trumpets sounded, then a deeply moving musical score played in the background as animated scenes depicting fabulous locations, stirring battles, and rendered images of stupendously beautiful women scrolled across a lonely screen that shone in the middle of a vast, dark chasm. The pretentious voice returned. "The world of Corundum needs heroes!" More depictions of scantily-clad women, now interspersed with various knights in shining armor, appeared. A scene in which a random king bestowed a lordship on a worthy warrior flickered by. A magician calling down lightning on a horde of the undead whipped past. "The world of Corundum needs villains!" Even more women, now damn-near naked, sprawled in a lingering fashion. Occasionally pictures of cowled thieves and dark overlords on thrones of bone would appear. A screenshot of some barbarian throwing a village woman over his shoulder in front of a burning hut pranced through. "The world of-"

"That's enough." A tinker-toy hand on the end of a flexible hose swiped through the screen. The screen froze, shuddered a moment, imploded, then expanded again to reveal the word "Diamondback" in high-style calligraphy replete with gemstones and leaves stamped from precious metals. Light background music composed of wind instruments and a single lute echoed from nowhere in particular.

A basic prompt appeared below the title. or

"Right." A red card flew out of the darkness and merged with the screen in a flash of light. "All the info you need. None of it that you do not."

The screen shifted again.

A holographic console swam into view below the screen, and the tinker-toy hands reached towards it. Pausing only to interlace the fingers and crack the knuckles, the hands proceeded to type. "T-e-s-l-a, S-t-o-n-e. And... enter!"

With that the screen disappeared and the dark chasm erupted to life with the gurgle of flowing magma, the jets and roars born from columns of intense flame, and the metronomic din of a vast hammer striking an anvil the size of an aircraft carrier.

"Tesla Stone...! Come forward!" By far the majority of the cavern was composed of a tremendous and unaccountably deep sea of molten rock. Indeed, the only solid ground underfoot was a tremendous pillar of rough stone stretching upward towards a craggy ceiling infested with burned and dead stalactites. The walls... were simply too far away to be seen.

"I am here!" It was a new voice compared to what he used before, masculine and strong, but Tesla nevertheless awkwardly inched towards the edge of the pillar's flattened top and locked eyes with the individual who addressed him. It was hard not to be intimidated. His caller was, after all, a composite titan of raw metals and broken boulders moulded into a mosaic image of the consummate divine smith. A small, idle portion of Tesla's mind noted that both the titan and the cavern looked every bit as animated as the scenes from the earlier video, but he thoroughly squashed that thought in preference to staying focussed on the living mountain in front of him.

"Good. Thou art possibly but another glory hound of a Spark, but at least ye know to speak when spoken to. Far too many of thy kind break down before my gaze." Though the pillar had to be five hundred feet above the surface of the molten sea the gargantuan being slouched his way across the waist-deep magma, rested his elbows upon his anvil, and looked Tesla straight in the eye. "Know me, Spark. I am Virstauf, the Soai of Appearances and God of the Forge. It is here that I shall take thy measure, and craft thee a body with which to stride the surface of Corundum."

"Craft a body? But-" Tesla glanced at his own hands, then performed a double-take. His old avatar was gone; in its place was a crude, man-sized doll fashioned from clay.

"A spirit needs a temporary body with which to converse. Foolish Spark, I know not thine appearance within thy realm of origin, but such are the rules here." With a wave of an enormous hand a multitude of screens, seemingly bordered with superheated rock, popped up around the pillar and displayed dozens of different humanoid beings in variations of the spread-eagled "DaVinci's Vitruvian Man" pose. "Now, choose. Race, gender, age, proportion, features! Choose, and I will forge."

"I..." Tesla reached out towards the images, then stopped. He would only get one chance at this, and he could already tell that he didn't know enough. His arm dropped down to his side; it was time to gamble. "-No."

"No?"

"I have heard it said that a smith is just as much an artist as a painter or a sculptor. Would that also make you the God of the Arts? What artist produces his greatest works at the direction of another? I ask that you create my body yourself, guided by your own eye and hand."

Virstauf's steady eyes flickered a moment, his great earthen brows drawing downward. Then the god threw back his head in explosive peals of genuine mirth. Shockwaves of laughter rippled outward from the gargantua's body; the pillar shook like a spring sapling in the breeze. Tesla was nearly thrown off and into the burning sea below. "You! Thou art more than a mere Spark! Thou art a Stone, indeed!" Virstauf reached up into the dangling forest of dead rock and, with an ear-splitting snap, wrenched free a fey, crystalline ore that seemed to soak up the light of the flames and store it deep within. "I have been saving this for sixty thousand years, but have never felt the muse come upon me until this day! You watch, my boy, just ye watch! A God of the Smithing Arts!" For hours the mighty Virstauf hammered away at the fiery crystal, occasionally dipping it into the liquified rock below to raise its heat and occasionally scooping up molten material and adding it to the crystal to produce unheard-of alloys both within and without. As time went on the divine smith stored away his larger tools in eruptions of flame and drew forth smaller, more delicate instruments from thin air. All the while, he spoke to Tesla of the rules of Corundum. "The eldest imagery of this world's culture always borrows from the visage of fire. This is why you outworlders are known as "Sparks," and the natives as "Embers." Sparks pop up in a bright flash, then leave just as quickly; a year later, your kind reappear in another flash as though they had never left. Sparks are immortal. Thy death shall never be permanent. Embers are completely different. They burn long and slow, never leaving, but when they burn out they are out for good, reduced to so much ash on the wind."

"Poetic, but sad."

"'Tis not all bad. Those rare few Embers who put their faith in a Spark and choose to follow their path will gain a Spark's immortality, though their ressurection is dependent upon the goodwill of their benefactor."

"What about Sparks who never leave?"

"Hmm, they are so few they have no special moniker." Virstauf looked up from his work for a moment and squinted in Tesla's direction. "Perhaps I shall take to calling them "Stones."

"Behold! It is done!" Virstauf triumphantly raised his completed work in the palm of one great hand while firmly planting a fist against his hip. "All that remains is thy spiritual fusion with it." The Smithing God nodded happily at his creation as a broad smile stole across his craggy face.

"It is... distinctly impressive."

"That it is! I used the Ryujin, or Dragon Folk if you prefer, as the base for the design. Unlike ordinary Ryujin, however, whose variant subraces are all based on existing breeds of true dragons, this one is utterly unique! I call it: The Dream Eater."

"That sounds ominous."

"It is supposed to." Virstauf gently placed the finished design atop Tesla's pillar, then rubbed his hands together with a sound like an avalanche. "Go ahead. This body is now thine. Thou need but place thine hands upon it and will thyself into it. Ah, and one last thing. Most Ryujin are simple folk; only the highest of their kind speak in thy stilted manner. Simplify thy speech, or thou shalt be accused of "putting on airs."

"I shall -ahem- ...I'll try." Tesla pressed his crude clay hands against the chest of his new body and marvelled at the unbelievable skill of Virstauf's divine forging. A body to call my own. It wasn't human, but it was human enough; a man at the prime of his life fused with a dragon never seen before that day. With the physique of a warrior and the look of eagles, the Dream Eater would be the envy of all men and the secret desire of all women; he was anxious to lay claim to it. In an eyeblink Tesla's perspective shifted, and he found himself looking down at a pathetic lump of clay that was already drying out and flaking away in the heat. ...I cannot move. Why can't I move?

"Apologies, my boy." Virstauf gently picked Tesla, trapped in his new body, up from the platform between an enormous thumb and forefinger, then sighed as the pillar crumbled away. "There is no physical escape from The Forge, and only one way to fully acclimate to thine new body." The Forge God gently set Tesla on his great anvil, then drew forth his largest hammer yet. "You must die once. One of the great temples we Soai established in Corundum's "Old World" shall resurrect thee upon the surface." The divine weapon lifted high over the anvil, then paused. "Farewell, little Stone. It was... entertaining."

A crushing force, fire and ice, and all awareness imploded into a single point that drifted lazily along a river of ambient light. There was no up or down, no left or right, but there was definitely a sense of going from here to there. Eventually a feeling of arrival welled up from within, a sensation like the surface of a still pool approached from beneath, and Tesla Stone resurrected with a bellow and a gout of lambent flame.

The fire leapt into the air and Tesla seemed to rise with it, his arm outstretched as he sat up with a jerk. For a moment confusion reigned over his mind, but it quickly gave way to a new curiosity. "Where...?"

It was clearly a religiously-oriented room. Icons, mixed with several lit candles, were propped up on gilded tables draped with fine silks, paintings with very important-looking fat people in robes crushing demonic centipedes with their holy awesomeness hung on spotless walls, an exquisitely-carved wooden angel (which more than likely would have been too top-heavy to fly properly in real life) dangled from steel wires anchored to the ceiling in a martial pose, and several fine urns filled to the brim with dried food (most likely votive offerings) sat in a red, four-point diamond pattern in the center of the polished floor. The only three things that seemed out of place was the rapidly-dissipating smell of smoke, the large and rough cut altar of darkened granite that dominated the rest of the floor, and Tesla himself who was still sitting atop that altar.

"No use overthinking it. First things first: Clothes, then a way out."

Naturally, it didn't happen that way. No sooner were the words spoken then one of the many side-doors creaked open and a young woman in priestly garb trudged in with a scrub brush and a bucket of water. At first glance she appeared to be a young initiate left to wash floors as penance for some minor infraction. "Ah..!" Of course, her purpose wasn't really relevant anymore once she caught sight of a naked Ryujin perched on one of the Temple's ancient holy artifacts.

At that moment, Tesla realized three very important things. First, that his previous assessment of the nature of Diamondback's VR graphics were a little off the mark. They were not just animated, they were literally anime. Some part of the back of his mind actually appreciated the quality of it; Whoever drew up the entire world had to be skilled beyond all compare, even if they were assisted by replication software. It looked 2-d, but the proportions were so perfect his depth perception had no issues. He could feel the three-dimensional nature of the space, and freely move around inside it without trouble.

"You could- ah, couldn't possibly help me out here, could you? I'm a little lost."

The second very important thing that Tesla realized was that he might just be a very big man, because when he jumped from the altar he found that he towered over the priestess by a respectable margin. Apparently this was a rather frightening prospect for a young woman, as she promptly dropped both bucket and brush, then shrieked at the top of her lungs.

"Um, I can explain?"

The third very important thing that Tesla realized was that young women do not react very well to naked men, regardless of their size; especially if that large man was not invited to become naked by the girl in question. Doubly so if, upon realizing the full extent of the situation, that man should happen to (completely outside of his own control, of course) inadvertently develop an erection.

"-sigh- ...I'm going to jail, aren't I?"

Naturally, Tesla didn't try to stop the woman once she screamed and ran out the door. After all he was a logical young man, especially as his previous career made it so necessary, and logic dictated that chasing a priestess around a holy temple while buck naked would lead to further misunderstandings he wanted absolutely no part of. Someone with higher authority would show up sooner or later and, until that happened, he figured he was better off employing the bucket she left behind for at least a little concealment while he took stock of his situation.

Let's see, the other games I guest-passed through all had those, so let's give it a shot. "Status." An image obligingly unfolded in his field of vision like an opening book. In fact it was a book, a thick and heavy grimoire covered in what looked like the knobby hide of an alligator and embossed with the steel silhouette of a dragon's head. The pages were vellum and, though they were yellowed with apparent age, were thin and flexible as fresh paper. The information contained within unfortunately broke the immersion of a magical flying book, as it was set up in an interactive screen format. Nevertheless, the book had opened itself up in an obliging manner to what was undoubtedly the two most important pages for any player. On the right-hand page was a miniature version of himself, again with the "Vitruvian Man" pose. It was naked, of course, and surrounded by several empty indicator boxes that no doubt meant he had absolutely nothing equipped. Tesla found he could rotate the image in all directions, and took the time to appreciate his own form. The Dream Eater was clearly man-like, but reinforced with natural armor plating in strategic locations. An impressive pair of horns curved up from the sides of his head, and his ears were replaced by simple, short, rounded spikes. The hands and feet were clawed, but still had human dexterity. There were no wings but he did have a thick, reptilian tail capped on the end by a rather frighteningly impressive hammer head. In fact, it looked a lot like a smaller version of the colossal weapon Virstauf crushed him to bits with.

As for the more human parts of his body- Hmm, caucasian. Blonde, blue eyes, broad shoulders, well-muscled. I look like that one old barbarian hero toy Hasbro used to make. Definitely the updated version; not the one from the 1980's. Take that and mix it with a silver-steel dragon... and you get me, I guess?

The left-hand side was obviously the status page, but Tesla ran out of time to peruse it. The many side doors of the nave he stood in slammed open all at once, and a small flood of armed men poured through to surround him with practiced military precision. They were humans of all types: Short, tall, bearded, clean-shaven, dark skinned and light, but they were in good health, their armor was well-used but well-tended leather, and they wielded their bronze short swords and bucklers in a smart fashion meant for combat in tight spaces.

The book slipped obligingly outside of Tesla's field of vision. The dragon's-head silhouette on the book's cover glowed momentarily, causing small screens to pop up next to each soldier with the simple statement of and a level notation averaging somewhere between eight and twelve. One guard marked at by his screen, but otherwise indistinguishable from the rest, nodded to his compatriots and called out in a leather-lunged voice. "Clear, Captain!"

"Text book entry, men! You do me proud. Do try not to move, Ryujin, and please keep your hands where we can see them. I'd hate to have to order a cleanup of blood in this sanctified hall." The new speaker that entered the nave was slender, tall, and obviously confident. The book helpfully tagged him as and ; he wore his iron armor and long sword like he held a long familiarity with them.

"I hope one's enough," Tesla raised his right hand slowly into the air, "the other's needed for the bucket."

The great northern continent of Anthracite was an icy hell of a landmass, the majority of which lay buried beneath Corundum's arctic ice cap. Still, enough of Anthracite stretched southward that a few segments of the continent actually reached the planet's northernmost temperate zones. The largest of these segments was known as the Wolf's Tail Peninsula, and it was home to the only major kingdom found on the continent. Their founding king, Augustinian Diatom the First, planted his flag on the shores of Iceridge Bay during the first mighty Age of Exploration when he discovered the nearby Lonely Mountain was overflowing with hot springs. Since that time the city, then eventually the kingdom, of Diatom expanded into the Wolf's Tail to take advantage of the land's rich natural resources. The hardy subjects of Diatom grew strong on a diet of ice bears and frost fruit, then grew rich from the sale of iron, copper, and gold. It wasn't bad at all for a land that squeezed Spring, Summer, and Fall into six months out of the year and gave the rest to Winter.

Of course, where the intelligent races of Corundum go the Temple of the Soai must follow; thus the diocese of the nearest occupied lands, an elven island republic five hundred miles to the southeast across the Hemlock Ocean, regularly dispatched laypriests and full clerics to Diatom in order to nurture the faith. Eventually, the central archdiocese of the faith recognized the works of the missionaries in Diatom and granted them permission to establish their own ecclesiarchal colors, whereupon they became the Diocese of Wolf's Tail.

Bishop Karaktacus Lott was the current head of the diocese. He was a heavyset, but no-nonsense man who wore simple homespun robes and slept in a meditation cell no larger or better adorned than that offered to the average lay-brother just starting on the Temple's path. He was bald as an egg but sported a thick gray beard that was so full it completely concealed his face from the nose down. The people of Diatom called him "Grandfather Lott," and the diocese adhered to his blistering work ethic as thoroughly as the packed High Temple of Diatom adhered to his beatific and uplifting sermons.

"You are sure of this?" The first of July was the first day of Winter. As was his wont, Bishop Lott had holed himself up in the original bishop's dusty old study at the top of the northern tower of the High Temple in search of inspiration for his Wintertide sermon. An interruption from his chamberlain was the last thing he suspected, as were the contents of the report now spread across his rickety old desk.

"Yes, Your Eminence." The chamberlain bowed slightly, then straightened his silken robes and adjusted a pair of spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. "The Sisterhood of Aurora's Caul remains completely silent; there has been no word back from the investigation team in over a month."

Lott sighed and rubbed the top of his head. "We have to assume the convent has been compromised in some fashion. Could be orcs, goblins... possibly even a monstrosity." The bishop focussed back on his chamberlain and arched an eyebrow. "We'll need military force, this time. Who do we have available?"

"Unfortunately none. His Majesty the King has borrowed most of our troop strength and all of our cataphract corps for the annual cleansing of the monstrosities collecting at the northern border near the Broken Mountains. Even if we could order them back now it would take months to navigate the passes back to the city of Diatom, refit, then march north all the way to the Kraken Gulf."

Lott struck his desktop with the flat of his palm. "Has he no strength to spare? I wasn't aware he had requisitioned that much of our forces!"

"If you would recall, the provinces surrounding the tin mines stirred up trouble earlier in the year; the counts in the region were demanding tolls from the army in order to march through their lands to the Broken Mountains. King August was forced to split off three entire divisions to suppress their foolishness. As I understand it, the fighting still hasn't settled down."

"Hmph." Lott tapped a finger against the desk thoughtfully, then looked up again. "Mercenaries?"

"Mercenaries in a convent? Surely you jest."

"Under ordinary circumstances I would agree, but Aurora's Caul is most likely a ruin that needs to be cleansed rather than a sanctum to be protected."

"Nnnnn." The chamberlain bit at his lip, then crossed his arms. "If I may, Your Eminence, I believe I have a compromise."

Bishop Lott reached down into the report and fished free a single page. "You mean the prisoner? Now you are the one telling jokes. I admit that both the circumstances regarding the arrival of this "Tesla Stone" and his frank answers to questioning are indicative of a newly-risen Spark. However, I find the boy's lack of experience to be astonishing given his apparent age. Even our missing investigative team could have made sport of him, but you want to send him off on a mission they couldn't handle?"

"He is a Spark, after all; according to all the old documents we have on the subject, even new Sparks grow at a ridiculous rate. I have no doubt he will have exceeded the capability of our missing team by the time he arrives at the convent."

"I don't like it. He hasn't even acquired his first Job Class yet!" Lott forestalled his chamberlain's reply with a wave of his hand. "I know. I know. A single Spark can turn the tide of a war, but only if they live long enough to grow that powerful. If his life on this world is nothing but a string of useless deaths then he could one day refuse to return. Can I be blamed for wanting to nurture that kind of power for the benefit of Diatom?"

"The teachings claim that Sparks gain little through training, but rather by doing, Your Eminence. Let us free him, equip him, set an appointment with the Reagan Stone, then offer him a reward when he returns. Then we can send him off to Aurora's Caul." The chamberlain held out his hands with a shrug. "Who knows? By the time he gets back he may be grateful for his treatment, and ready to swear his service for the greater glory of Diatom."