So, I'm hanging at the level of the second floor of our local forge under the judgmental gazes of passersby. Levitating, in my shabbiest and oldest clothes so they don't get dirty under any circumstances. Working with a rag, scrubbing the wall. A bucket hangs nearby. Actually, I feel like a similar situation in an elven life has happened before. Right after arrival, within the first month, yep. The difference is that this time I did everything fully aware of the consequences of all the madness committed. And I regret nothing.
"A beautiful morning. Working with a rag. My ear hurts."
It seems a haiku isn't composed quite like that. However, it doesn't bother me much; on the contrary, there's an excellent reason for joy! If you exclude the red ear that hurts from the equation, everything went perfectly! The fact that I have to manually, without magic, scrub the wall with a rag is such a trifle, really! And the fact that there are many such walls changes nothing!
"It doesn't look like it's bothering you, DaVi," a voice rang out from below.
I turned to the blacksmith standing below, working magic over a workpiece. In the fresh air, under the canopy, the weather is good. The man laughed.
"You're not even trying to pretend you feel guilt. Considering you frankly overdid it. You could have been softer with your friends."
I snorted, continuing to work with the rag.
"This is the first successful experience of my golem-building. And a total success! The spider-mines did exactly what they were created for. And also the mobile dispensers—I got the first tools for my future workshop. And those four have only themselves to blame. So there!"
A second later I recoiled, discovering the blacksmith's wife in the window, listening to all this.
"DaVi, dear. So why did you decide that splattering your friends and several buildings with dung was a good idea?"
Straining my ear a bit—it hurts—I decided to tell the story anyway:
"Let's start with the fact that it wasn't splattering with dung; that's the entertainment of various human peasants. It was a test of jumping robot-bombs with a non-lethal payload. What else was I supposed to do if getting a dozen or two liters of paint in our town is difficult and expensive? I had to use available means. The farmers have a huge pile of that stuff. And I know how to use telekinesis."
By the way, telekinesis for scrubbing things is quite good. If you form the spell correctly, nothing crumbles or flies apart, which is convenient.
The elven woman, quite shapely (they don't complain about their figures here, especially considering physical labor is often absent), smiled broadly and tapped on the windowsill.
"I assume there's a very interesting story behind this. Will you share?"
I sighed, spreading my hands.
"I'm punished, so no sit-downs... Unless later, when I'm finished," she nodded understandingly, "and the story? Well, it started with... As you know, Lady Benessil, I lost my memory. And although my reflexes are fine, I just don't remember! Anyone or anything. Relatives, magic, trolls. Everything is like the first time for me."
"Poor girl," the elven woman sighed sympathetically, "I'm glad everything is working out for you."
I smiled. Not only the blacksmith and his wife were listening, but also the neighbors from the opposite side of the street. It's a remote area; this incident will be discussed for another six months. Even if they weren't elves, they'd discuss it.
"Thank you. So, I managed to restore part of my skills through practice. Mostly household magic. But problems arose with combat skills. And then my colleagues and brother decided that scaring me, forcing me to act on reflexes, was a good plan. It makes sense, but the methods..."
Yes, it really is difficult. The problem is that standard "casts" and the way they are ingrained in reflexes differ. Even the simplest things you adapt for yourself, for your Mana pool, for your way of "tugging the strings." Magic is a complex thing in general if you're not twelve. There are two approaches to magic: "magical science" and "faith in The Force."
In the first case, there are rigid laws, and the Mage, like a scientist, looks for patterns—those very magical laws by which everything works. And based on them, creates spells. But that's not our case.
"Faith in The Force" assumes that the Mage, by the power of their will and faith, imposes new rules on reality. From the simplest, like "there is a barrier here," and a Fireball, to temporary changes in the laws of the universe at that very point. The latter are tricks for Archmages and individuals close to them, but I hope to be in that league in the future. And here you need not only a Mana pool but also willpower and confidence.
And magic, Mana, is the power and resource that allows reality to be bent by the power of one's desire. Here, at the junction of ratio and faith, the problem arose. Frequent work with golems, charging them, allowed me to accept the rules of the game. To believe in them and in how they work. I feel magic constantly; the Master says it's because of my potential that I have high sensitivity. In any case, it works; I catch on to the work of materially changing things with magic on the fly.
But matter—a cone of ice out of nothing—my brain refused to accept. Because it's not here, so why on earth would it appear? Imagination doesn't help; I can imagine the cone itself, but understanding how it appeared here doesn't work out; the laws don't bend, the spell doesn't happen, no matter how much power you pour in. A problem.
And these geniuses decided that if I want to have time to pass the exam, the process needs to be accelerated. To help a friend, so to speak. After all, all the necessary skills were ingrained even before my rebirth; it's basic defensive magic for my level. I just need to remember them, to believe. So that the mind doesn't interfere with the will. And how to achieve this?
They chose a radical method. Since my colleagues are all Mages, illusion is available to them. Including an illusion of trolls. A very plausible illusion of trolls. Clowns, you annoy me.
"In short, these humorists cast illusions of trolls on themselves, raised a dome around the training ground while I was there, and stepped out in a semicircle with foul smirks. To make it more natural."
I can confirm under oath: it was terrifying. A troll is a two-meter-tall slouching mountain of muscle with teeth the size of a finger and the eyes of a predator. And when that bastard smirks, it's scary, like looking into the eyes of a hungry tiger. Not to mention the difference in height and build; I felt like I was in that "girl and five black men" photo, and I don't want to be there! Plus there were four of them, and "brother" (I'm not talking to that bad elf anymore) swiped a mannequin's head off with a sword for atmosphere. The fact that the blade was elven, I didn't notice due to the excess of emotion. But the falling head—I definitely noticed that. And I was able to correctly understand the message.
"I wasn't in the mood for anything else once I realized the dome was up and I was trapped with them. Nowhere to run, I was about to be killed."
The blacksmith whistled.
"I sympathize. But as far as I know, you won."
Yeah. These creative types definitely achieved a result. Only I'd rather see them in a coffin; I'll be having nightmares about those trolls now. But I won't dwell on that in the story; I'll say it differently:
"In such a dangerous moment, I realized that faith is my shield, and I really didn't want them to get to me. I created a cone of ice. And instead of an icy field, as it should have been with normal application of the spell, the entire Arena and the inside of the dome went under a meter-thick layer of ice. It turned out to be a beautiful icy hemisphere; you could live inside it."
At that moment, I truly realized what a lot of Mana means. What the potential of a Servant is. Energy flowed around, expanding perception and allowing me to change the world around me, to obey my desire. There was a certain resistance, a reluctance to obey, and I pushed, demanding a result. And it worked! When I opened my eyes and realized there was ice under my feet, above me, and on all sides... It was wow! For a second, fear receded before the realization: wait, I can do this? Powerful. I want more!
As it turned out, I can do even more. The shockwave stripped the illusions off those geniuses; I, of course, recognized them and understood everything. Fear was replaced by rage, and I made myself an exit with a Fireball, melting a hole in the ice just in passing. How I didn't attack those idiots, I have no idea. But I really wanted to burn them for such jokes! But I'm not talking to these geniuses anymore! Though thanks for the magic; I managed to remember the feeling and repeat it stably from about the fifth try. Magic!
The neighbors and the blacksmith sighed and sympathized, but didn't detach.
"And then? The spider-mines? What was that?"
And then? Then I entrenched myself at home in a quiet rage and began to devise a terrible vengeance. I needed something simple but expressive. Something I could create with current resources, but at the same time, no one would decide I was using lethal force. Something small but dangerous, threatening.
Jumping spider-bombs! I'm not a mechanic yet, but I'm a Mage! A Mage who has a couple of educational clay golems. I just need to figure out exactly how to write the program for the new template, and you'll be laughing on the other side of your faces!
In short, for two weeks I walled myself up in The Library with breaks for work, food, and sleep. Various apologizing friends were sent packing. I had a train of thought; don't you dare distract me!
I needed the bomb to be able to walk, find a target, and explode upon contact with the target or upon damage. Everything except the last part isn't that hard to do; there are golem diagrams of various configurations in books, including four or six legs. But teaching a doll to explode is a problem. That's not in the textbook.
Of course, first came the practice.
"The dance of a wicked genius, on the pages of the work... This is war, without a doubt, defeat awaits the doomed! Hey!"
Mom smiled; she was generally worried that I'd start moping.
"Is everything alright, dear?"
I nodded.
"Yep. I have so many ideas, so many ideas!"
"Just don't blow up the city, okay?" I had to promise.
Golem-building is pure "easy to start, hard to become a master." Standard templates are in any textbook. You write a scroll according to the template (I had to practice), mold the body, pour in Mana, and the golem is ready. The Sunwell will compensate for any costs. But when you start digging into the settings, the real creativity begins.
For example, the simplest thing—walking. Moving limbs and not falling is a process that isn't so simple, but it's well-established. Your golem will walk. But for fencing, you need support; for shooting—recoil compensation. Leg work is important. And if you want to create a warrior-golem, you need to understand all this to teach the golem. The same applies to hands and other actions. And it would be good to know materials science, and be a blacksmith, and a potter, and a glassblower.
For example, I accidentally made a dispenser-golem. I just thought, why not attach a large syringe to a spider so the golem itself could drip what and how much is needed. I had to drop everything and go bow to the potter, learn about firing, and place an order for small work from him. In the end, the elf listened, informed me that he was also a glassblower, and made me five primitive large syringes. And then?
I had to go to the Master. He listened and asked:
"You do realize that most likely some of the mines will work incorrectly or foul part of the settlement? You'll be punished. I can't approve of this."
I just made big, pitiful eyes and asked:
"What if it's a dispenser-spider? For example, standard cakes for Mom, or something else that can be automated with a golem, so it approaches, pshhh, and runs on. I'll even make its clay body fired so it doesn't get anything dirty. I've made arrangements."
In short, this spider became my first practical work. Of course, closer to the capital there are such things, but we lacked such equipment here, and I was commissioned for six of them right away for different sizes and functions. For a little money, but still! Naturally, I made some for myself to apply lubricant too; it'll come in handy in Mechanics. With the Teacher's help, but I remembered the process. And I applied them to the bombs too. Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha. I will have my revenge; I am a Little Illidan with bombs, small but very cunning!
And also these mines, if you replace the sphere of liquid manure under pressure with a small Mana Bomb, can be used against trolls. After modification for new tasks, but it's possible! Or against Undead, using holy water under pressure. Or explosives. They don't turn out very powerful, but a Ghoul should find it very unpleasant. I'll need to test it; trolls have regeneration, which means you need to kill for sure, yes. That's also in the plans.
It has to start with bringing the project to a working state. And how lucky I am that I have four voluntary (their opinion doesn't concern me; they didn't ask me either) test subjects.
In short, the Master listened, said, "I warned you, don't think you'll wiggle out of punishment," and helped. I had to mold the bodies myself, learn to make the charging chamber, check the chassis so they moved normally and could jump—all by myself. In the end, after two weeks in The Library, almost as much time was spent on full debugging. I feel like an evil scientist. I always wanted to be an evil scientist. But only in pretend; I'm kind, really-really.
But the result! Small, they jump far, run fast. They turn poorly if they speed up, though; they just rush forward. But I managed that too; the mine explodes a meter from the target, dousing it with a semi-liquid aromatic composition! Boom and done. And since the clay isn't hardened, there's essentially no shrapnel damage. Purely reputational.
I know what you might be thinking. About paint. I thought of it too. Then I remembered we live in a village; where am I going to find paint for twenty mines and for what money would I buy it? But finding manure is no problem; we have farmers here. And magic will do the rest.
"Don't you think it's a bit, well, cruel?" the blacksmith's wife inquired. "They scared you, but your response... Didn't they come to apologize? I feel like friends don't act that way."
Well, that's complicated. They did come to apologize. I ignored them.
"They deserved it. And anyway, I was angry and experiencing a surge of creative inspiration. It worked!" under a frankly judgmental gaze, I added, "You won't understand. For me, all this is like the first time; I don't remember my past life. I saw 'trolls' for the first time in my life when they decided that right now was the best moment to cut my head off. I wasn't ready, and that's not the experience I wanted. I conveyed this fact to them and I regret nothing. And besides, it's a lot of practice in creating simple golems."
In confirmation, I showed the spider-golem sitting on my shoulder. Not a mine, just a simple one. What happened next in the story of revenge?
Well, and then, then the violence began. At dawn, the spiders were released into the world with orders to find and strike the target. I knew what they looked like, so I gave the spiders specific targets. The fact that some idiots might be in the city or even at home, I didn't consider. I enjoyed the sight of the scurrying mechanical army.
The blacksmith frankly burst out laughing.
"I saw it, I saw it. The clay rascals were running quite briskly along the walls, and when someone tried to skewer them on a blade, they exploded. And they didn't just jump head-on, but from the side. I, of course, disapprove, but it looked impressive."
This "script" is my pride. A spider, like any golem, will know how to do what the Mage teaches it. This seriously complicates the creation of soldier-golems; the Mage must understand how the doll will fight. Without this, even a relatively weak warrior will smash the golem on raw technique. Obviously, I have no combat knowledge. But I can come up with a few tricks to make life difficult. For example, forcing the mines to bypass the enemy, attacking from different sides.
"Alright, I'm done. Thanks!"
I finished the work and flew on, remembering the events of that day.
They came for my soul about an hour later. They pulled my ear, appealed to my conscience, threatened me with manual labor. But the news of how my mines made the pursued panic and fuss delighted me. That was it. It was a small but total victory. And I'm not ashamed at all.
In the end, as punishment, I got that very manual labor. To manually wash (levitation is allowed, the bucket too, but washing only with a rag) everything my mines fouled and another week of cleaning equipment in training. And also in the workshops. And only theory, no practical magic for the next month, and no golems either. No big deal; I'll still be working on scrolls and forming tasks for golems; I need to come up with a worker-golem that will use tools for me in the workshop. Those crawling dispensers proved themselves excellently.
And even now, washing the walls, I feel the scent of victory. The fact that it smells like shit doesn't interest me. These are my first successful golems of my own design! What possibilities this opens up!
When the professor came for my soul, I wasn't surprised at all.
"If you're here just to say you warned me, I remember."
The elven Mage shrugged.
"DaVi, I did indeed warn you. But you're thinking about the wrong thing. The Magister appreciated your creations, you know. He might not watch us from his tower, but that doesn't mean he doesn't listen to the news. Do I understand correctly that they can be scaled and converted into more dangerous versions? Please answer."
I... didn't deny it. Especially since the tone implied a direct answer to a direct question.
"With proper desire—yes. Replacing the payload with a Goblin or Mana Bomb is possible."
The Mage nodded, accepting the answer.
"Good. The Magister ordered me to ensure that this doesn't happen before you master the advanced course of Artifactоrics and safety procedures. And I intend to fulfill that requirement," his tone suddenly became serious, "we have a quiet place here, and no one needs students starting a war. Wanted to learn? Congratulations, you've attracted enough attention. And I will make sure you have plenty to do. And that nothing like this happens again."
It seems this elf heard the wisdom somewhere that a soldier should be exhausted. Or I don't know. My workload was increased. Good thing it's in interesting profiles.
"A golem is a multifunctional thing. An ordinary clay doll and a scroll in its mouth. But it is a creation of magic, which means it will have the meanings you put into it. A worker, a warrior, a living bomb, a scout, a dispenser. Something not too complex; golems are stupid and only repeat what the Mage taught them. They are incapable of learning, cannot accumulate experience. A specialist in their field will always be better than a golem. But this is a direct confrontation of quality and quantity."
"I understand, Master."
But not by golemancy alone. Theory of magic, combat spells, and runic language. And the rest of the time, theory and practice with the glassblower, potter, and blacksmith. I don't need to become a master; I need to understand how it works to build the appropriate equipment. Of course, later I'll have to switch to Mechanics, but while I have access to magic, I'll have to apply it.
This approach suited me more than enough, so I joined the work process with pleasure. I have absolutely no desire to talk to idiots. But to gain knowledge—yes. Unfortunately, while indulging in golems is pleasant, I need to devote more effort to Mechanics. When Silvermoon falls... Only they aren't in a hurry to give me the corresponding books, which is a bit worrying. I hope I have time.
Mana thirst is a pain. I can't even imagine how it will feel, but the fact is that elves are, to a certain extent, magical beings. Like a Mana Wyrm, but much cooler.
The problem isn't that I won't be able to cast spells; it will be a literal withdrawal. Which means I will need a Source of Magic. I shudder at the mere thought of being unable to think, starting to gobble up fel just to soothe the thirst. Considering I don't even roughly imagine what exactly awaits me. There's just an understanding that the problem will be almost more important than the others.
"Are you finished, young lady?"
I nodded.
"Yes, Master. Ready for practical lessons."
And no, practical lessons aren't throwing fireballs at targets, although drilling part of the standard spells into reflexes is absolutely necessary. Those same shields—say a troll is rushing at you with an axe. He's about to cut your head off. And you, on pure reflexes, shield-blink. And you're alive. This is important. Mages almost always have an advantage over warriors, but they've come up with a mass of tricks to close in and resolve the issue with one blow to the head. And so that these dirty tricks don't get you, you need to train your reflexes to have time to react.
Not that I intend to get on the front lines at all, but I don't think anyone's going to ask me. Constant vigilance and all that.
Naturally, I continue to refine equipment concepts. Only like this for now; they won't let me near materials or Artifactоrics at a normal level. They say it's too early. Mechanics... Where would elves get normal Mechanics? In a village. Technomagic, those same golems, there's plenty of that. But try to get Mechanics. And yes, I'm still forbidden from leaving the city without an escort. But after the incident with the "trolls," I even understand why. It's even interesting what human Paladins and orcs look like. They must be literal mountains of muscle. And Tauren? Curious; one day I'll study all of it. I want to know everything; I want to crawl all over Azeroth.
But that will be later; for now, it's study, hurl spells, study, and study some more. Unfortunately, for now, my limit is clay suicide spiders and dispenser-spiders. I won't reach iron golems for a long time yet, simply due to the price of materials. You can't get by with side jobs there.
There are obvious problems with money. We live in a village—an elven one, but effectively medieval. There is money here, but often an exchange of services and bartering of things for things is applied. Its own ecosystem, effectively cut off from everything happening further north. At the same time, there is access to the benefits of civilization because of magic. My mother is a confectioner, which allows her to supply our local Magister with treats, and allows me to create things from time to time. But if I want to have tools, to have materials, I need my own source of income...
Many projects. Tools, a lathe, transport, a workshop, I need to think about what exactly I want to create for protection against Mana thirst... Questions. Oh, and the annoying idiots.
"DaVi! Hey, wait up!"
I turned, looking at the familiar faces. Yes, they had been in the classroom all this time. No, I'm not going to spend more time on them than necessary. I still dream of those troll faces; I have motherfucking nightmares! I understand it sounds like nonsense. But when you're breathing into the navel of a mighty beast with teeth like your fingers, the kind they tell stories about eating elves. And there are four of them and there's simply nowhere to run because the barrier is up (so students don't fire off everywhere)... It's not a matter of politeness; trolls are dangerous. I for the life of me don't understand what effort it cost the Blood Elves to be in the same Horde with these guys. It's like hugging a tiger.
"Do you really think I'm interested in apologies?"
The guy sighed.
"I understand, but you wanted to restore your skills yourself! What other options were there?"
For example, for you to buzz off. All three of you! But I answered differently:
"Not doing stupid shit. I could have started throwing fireballs, idiot."
These three geniuses looked at each other.
"Listen, we really want to apologize."
I snorted.
"And I really don't want people pestering me. Today. Tomorrow. Ever. I like my inventions, I like mechanisms. And I don't like what happened. And you three are just annoying."
Really. The town is small; everyone knows everyone. And I don't want to constantly have problems with this. I want to work with spider-mines, help my mother in the confectionery, and learn design from her. I want to build things! This humor can just go to hell.
But it seems the professor disagrees. And when the lesson ended, he requested:
"DaVi, stay. The rest of you, out. And don't stand outside the doors, or I'll turn you into sheep."
I stayed, watching those... those people leave.
"Did you know what these geniuses were planning to do?"
The professor shrugged.
"No, especially since illusion is an advanced skill. A good illusion. But your results are indeed impressive. What is not impressive: the fact that you're closing yourself off from everyone. It's wrong; you're not a thousand years old and you're not an Archmage in Silvermoon to look down on everyone. Understand that."
I sighed. More lectures.
"I'm not interested. Elves are boring; mechanisms are better. More diverse, more interesting. I want to not just invent, but build many amazing things, Master."
The Teacher nodded.
"And that is wonderful. But you are too young to lock yourself alone in a tower, indulging in magic. Right now you are young; your time is a time of brightness. I don't judge you for the incident with the mines," he smirked, "I don't like it, but I understand it better than them. And I was obliged to punish you. What you did is the act of a young and bright artifactor or golem-builder. It is who you are, student; it's foolish to deny the obvious. We were all twenty once. You shouldn't act as if you're already in your second millennium. You should live a full, bright life. We have plenty of time. But that doesn't mean you can do whatever you please, ignoring the consequences."
I sighed.
"I promise to think about it, Master."
But I don't promise to do it. I really need to try harder. Arthas won't wait. No one will wait.
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