Mercurius

[17:34] Porcelain whispers to Bruno pyr Aertas: Alas. Fate has woven us together, and I've decided to accept your invitation to have an item made, a fair exchange for a handful of favors I'm willing to carry out.
[17:34] Bruno pyr Aertas whispers to Porcelain: Come.
[17:35] Bruno pyr Aertas says, "Now, then."
[17:35] Bruno pyr Aertas says, "Display your possessions. Speak of your request."
[17:48] She's quick to snap to action, her one able arm unsheathing Elijah II's sword and posing it over his workbench. A soft huff escaping from behind the vertical ceramic guise of the mask, resonating once air clashes against its innerface.

"It's... incredibly uninspired, isn't it? Even when you look past the general quality it has, or the good spellgem it carries embedded." Just a silly samurai's weapon, no wonder he had lost to Marcel. He was booking it in his identity for confidence and edge, of which he had little to none.

Following this, bluesteel and orichalcum. Two tins of fairy powder, too. Those were valuable these days, elixirs were incredibly high on demand since Nethradin and Ogres became more present in the whereabouts of the academy.

"Our mainlands have something in common, fortunately. A more advanced scope for technology. I feel as if it could do us well here, I'm no alien to machinery." Naturally, she's clearly magnolian. Even carrying a faint consonant accent with every sentence.

"I want to use this as a platform. We reforge it into something that makes more sense coming from a time magic extraordinaire and a noble of the clockwork nation.

Like a grandfather's clock needle-blade, perchance? A magical chronometer at its hilt, something that helps beat chronomantic power into its swings.

Something that definitely screams time bandit, mh-hm!"

Shy is the compromise, she barely has anything of quality and interest to put behind the instrument to make. Maybe, she shouldn't have been so absent.

"Should it be feasible? Of course - I'll leave any corrections or creative liberties to the master..."
(Porcelain)
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[18:06] This was not the first time that Bruno was met with a peculiar request like this one. To reforge and improve upon the work of others was often a request when it came to his craft.

The high quality of the weapon was all it had going for itself; the identity carried by it was no other than a masquerade before those of true Sheng descent. Lingering upon the weapon the man's gaze seemed lost in thought. For eyes which carried evil so plainly to be so calm was eerie in nature to say the least.

"This weapon has no soul. No life. No identity. It is a tool, a crude and horribly utilized tool." He reiterates. His eyes finally shift towards Porcelain, carrying the same calm that had been displayed thus far.

"I have designed weapons which are meant to steal away power and utilize it for their own good. With a few tweaks to the method I believe I could feed something much, much greater into the weapon itself."

Time. To absorb one's vitality was more than possible with the right artifacts. Bruno's mind was already working upon it.

"As it is currently I can still improve it further, yet it will not be your ideal. For such you will require artifacts worth their weight. A proper clock to keep track of your timing would aid, but..."

The Aertas turned to face the young one directly.

"It would benefit most from something akin to Achlys' very essence. A greedy piece of the only Primordial which deserves respect. A man who spit not on those who refused his blessing, but grew curious as to their decision - entertained. Reaching him on your own would be akin to suicide, however. And without giving your loyalty out to him it is unlikely he would part with some... part of himself."

And that was when it all clicked in the man's mind. Sure, it would seem as if he introduced his offer with an extended, long-drawn monologue, yet the truth remained that Bruno finally surprised himself with his position above mankind, above humanity. It brought the hint of a smile upon his lips - how odd.

".. Yet, I can. For your loyalty has been given to me. It is only fair I bestow you with my blessing."

A small gesture is made towards the weapon.

"We may begin the work on this new piece of you right away if you desire, though it will require further tuning with the proper artifact."
(Bruno pyr Aertas)
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[18:32] The patron occultist's gaze lingers on the objects of interest with meditative impetus, no different than her, but perhaps more disconnected than the dancer. Immersed, maybe.

But his thoughts are no different than hers, though they do carry a fair bit more passionate artificing zeal and a lot more focus. That's a good thing, Porcelain has none of those traits, nor any talent for crafting. All she knows is some rune language from the academy, and that was the extent of it.

Then, as he makes his own observation and subverts her expectation of what the current ceiling for a weapon was, those two yellow dots at the tunnel end of the mask's eye sockets widen notably. At first, in scrutinizing, passive flare.

Then, in more obvious awe. Until finally, she's amazed proper. Achlys? An actual shard of the primordial entity?

"Have you..." She begins to connect the dots at her own pace. If his explication made sense, undying loyalty to the son of Aschea was part of the rite needed to earn such goods. Bruno had access to them, if she'd heard right?

How? "... have you paid anything to him in exchange for this so called blessing?"

A pause, hesitation. Rare in her, very very rare. Yet palpably there - it's clear that she's begining to dabble with forces of higher echelons, out of comprehension and observation for her, for now.

No lack of compliance is made to the mention of loyalty. She'd agreed, she's willing. And usually, a lot more verbose when in pursuit of duplicity.

Soft, from the doll like figure, comes a nod. Fascination. Obsession.

"I'm ready to start."
(Porcelain)
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[18:41] "I refused the offer he made me."

Bruno's answer was one that may be even more shocking than the very mention of Aschea's son - of Azreal's son. His body shifted, turning around to face the weapon itself as a great level of care was put into holding it up, judging its weight with a single hand.

"I could not allow my path to be one made under his wing. He is a man I respect, yet he and I are meant to be equals. I believe my decision has brought his recognition; part of his own blessing was granted upon me after I had turned it down altogether."

The weapon finds itself twirled within his grasp before its set on the table once more. The blue mercury and the orichalcum are brought closer to it as the Aertas found himself getting into a certain... rhythm. A speed that was far more proper of the artificer he was. Both metals were tossed up in the air and subsequently shocked with incredibly heated lightning - forcing them to melt while remaining in suspension as if held by unseen strings. The fabric of the electromagnetic fields were being manipulated by the man in order to better mold the presented ores.

"Over time I delved deeper and deeper into the darkness I hold. Through experimentations and attempts to grow I found myself able to... tear a piece of myself. To split my very essence for those worthy of carrying a piece of me within their hands."

The explanation was short, brief, and it was unclear how the man exactly did it. All that mattered was that he was capable of doing it, was it not?

"You said you wished for this to look like the hands of a clock. Are you certain of such a design?"
(Bruno pyr Aertas)
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[18:58] Big.

Very, very, very big.

Rarely - extremely rarely - were men of this side of the world considered equal to primordials. As much as one would beat their head over it, and as history told itself, you could only think of a pair, at most. Within Esshar itself, only the name of the White Witch, in her last moments in wraithdom, could compare to the lowest echelon of their kind.

And here is Bruno, claiming he rejected the offer to pursue equity. To not only be remarkable among men, but to be similar to the higher force by his lonesome.

And similarly, it puts her own decisions in line. How she'd refused to sign the black book, how she'd exercised caution with the nethradin's calling card, the inch's worth of distance between her and every deal or association made and cut.

"I see. No, I sympathise." Brief, but earnest. Odd in her, too. Quickly afterwards, the Achyonite gets to work on the weapon by an unseen complementation of talents and skills. How he weaves his magic into the craft was unlike anything she'd seen up until now.

Needless to say, Charlie absolutely cannot compete. No matter how you saw it.

"A piece of yourself, you say?" Faint, dubious in her wake. She peers over his shoulder by standing on the tip of her high heels and stretching her delicate neck upwards.

"Which... part of yourself are you splitting?" Exercising caution, even, Porcelain inquires. The piece of a being was no small token to flaunt around in a blade, much less if you considered the magnitude of occultic power this one in particular borne.

"It would... function, I think. Unless you've a better idea.

You seem to have a way with those."
(Porcelain)
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[19:42] The question weighted upon his mind. Which part of his existence was best shared with a girl who's wit and tendencies were not unlike Bruno's own? He began thinking on a deeper level about the matter while his hands moved to work on the shape of the weapon itself. It was soon stripped of the patterns etched into the side of the blade. Superfluous details that attempt to portait a person which neither Elijah nor Porcelain was were torn away from the hilt - allowing for a greater freedom.

"It depends. Describe to me your lowest moment."

Perhaps by knowing more of the one he was helping it would aid him in coming with a conclusion of which memory he would part with - which bit of his essence would be torn apart for the sake of another.

In the meantime blue mercury wrapped around the blade, heating it up and allowing for the metals to meld together in an odd, tainted harmony. A shape more reminiscing of a clock's hand, yet blown up in size many times. One with an incredibly pointy end.

Orichalcum would be formed into a number of thin lines reminiscing of circuitry held within the bodies of humans, within Synthetic's wiring as well. Reaching all the way from the tip to the hilt where a circular shape was carved, a groove awaiting the clock of Porcelain's dreams.

The work was methodical, yet the expertise with which he played was unlike anything else. From the blueprints of Lyndis' physical composition to the design of Insatiable, from the very tune-up he gave Final Answer: All of them were used in the creation of this weapon.
(Bruno pyr Aertas)
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[20:22] Whilst the chiefing artificer works out the tool itself, then tosses an order more than a suggestion at the masked figure, the reaction - initially, is one of doubt and wonder. She takes some insult to the fact, but it barely transcends surface level.

"Why...?" Though the mask is deedless, a brow quirks behind it. Bewilderedly, Porcelain fails to see the point in it, though by a lack of tugging, she does indulge him.

Sensibilziing herself, albeit for this instance in particular, she makes a compromise of conscience. Immersing herself in her own pool of thoughts, and sacrificing all semblance of a masquerade, Edingel Aevute claws deep and reaches for a repressed idea.

"It's early, too early." She tells, hushed, slow. "We're in the town of Velaria, close to the easternmost border. Esshar's mount Tarian peeks and glares down from a barrier of mountains. I, aged eleven, awake to what I think to be the sunrise.

The travelling performers, the Sinaldine troupe, had visited town and held a show the night before it."

A pause, she swallows hard. Swallows her gut, swallows her ire. A ball of saliva that drops to the floor of her stomach and carves a hole. One that anchors her to the miserable floorboards that support her nimble and meaningless weight.

The Aertas' grandfather clock, a memento - one Nero used to keep as a symbol of his conservative drive and mechanized, relentless resolve - it ticks slowly, in sync with the dismal pacing of the dancer's heartbeat.

"One of our own, after having read a man's fortune, is called a succubus, a witch, an ungodly presence.

She claims it's not so, tries to explain how our powers work. Our surname slips from her lips, our true bequest."

Another interval, her eyes have long since become lost. They've drifted apart from the project. A green aspect grows around her, faint. Purple voltage blinks around it in trance.

"Faces shift, they morph. It's like it's worse than hel itself.

She's kind, naive, meant no wrong with it.

But the stakes are up. They swing, they set the tent ablaze. I wake up to the mob's screaming, our strongmen out cold.

She, kind, naive, deedless. My sister is impaled in front of my eyes.

I run.

I run to the mountains.

I dread the cold, I know I'll die. But I have to cross the border.

I don't look back."
(Porcelain)
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[20:25] Porcelain says, "The memories are too vivid."
[20:25] Porcelain says, "It's simply how we relate to time itself."
[20:25] Porcelain says, "But I can't undo."
[20:42] A story as old as time itself was spoken forth within his abode. Naught but the sound of a ticking clock and of hot metal sizzling could be heard as the weapon was given form. A lightly blue hue could be seen in the metal's reflection, cut through by golden lines which were part of Bruno's very own style. The man's ears caught the story in full, and while sad he now knew exactly what to share with the young gypsy. His lips parted and a hushed voice escaped.

"I will grant unto you a time of my own, one that changed how my very sister saw me. For long had I kept my talents hidden for her sake. I knew how she felt towards both darkness and light. And yet, I pursued greater strength."

His hands moved upon the blade, hollowing out a small part below the groove in place for the hopeful stopwatch that would grant Porcelain the time of her life. A chamber, one linked with the Orichalcum lining that reachedthe hilt alongisde the hopeful groove.

For she would need a presence greedy enough, strong enough to draw forth from others and steal time itself from their being. Achlys' had been used for both Ryker's blade and his gun. Now was the time to usher forth a new era, a new vision towards a brighter tomorrow.

"Watch."

Bruno's right hand reached up to his head, palm gently pressing against his forehead as those red eyes of his went shut. Deeper. Deeper and deeper did he delve into his very own mind. The torturous feeling of grasping his very essence with dark tendrils carrying the pain within his heart was something he had to endure. For those loyal to him no pain mattered, so long as he lived on. So long as they evolved.

Cut from his very mind was a piece of his past, a memory of his battle against Katja while he and Ryker were pursuing a traitor to the Empire. This ill-feeling of looming defeat that had caused his heart to cant to the side was far, far stronger than the hopeful eyes Matryona laid upon him. Greed. A desire to win, to succeed even if it meant hurting others was produced, felt, and consumed. As occult energies shrouded him the now-Commander's heart sank, witnessing her very brother succumbing to the curse their grandmother had defeated.

Selfish.

And yet, this selfishness, this greed, this need for victory was one that ultimately brought Katja's defeat, one that had solidified him as one of the greatest magi in all of Achyon in one fell swoop. It was... empowering. He had crushed his sister's heart, and it empowered him.

For those surrounding you are nothing more than stepping stones to tomorrow.

The very essence of this battle, this feeling, these decisions was ripped from Bruno pyr Aertas. A silver, horribly tainted piece of the man was physically pulled from his mind, held within his hand and surrounded by forces darker than the gypsy's innocent heart.

She hardly knew pain.

This piece of Bruno was soon pushed into the hollowed-out chamber within the hilt, sealed shut by a small piece of Mythril that formed into the sigil of the Aertas family.

Heavy breaths escaped the man as a terrible headache settled upon him, leading to his hand returning to his head.

This memory?

It was no longer his.
Never would he remember the look on Matryona's eyes on that fateful night.
(Bruno pyr Aertas)
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[21:36] Slow comes the thread from the man's very psyche, a silver bond that stretches, genuine and earnest, and begins to detach from his very pneuma. The pattern of shapes and stimuli, the very core of what Bruno experienced that fateful day, it's whole phantom - a thing to have made him strong once. Now, in turning vapid and distanced, he trades it for something else.

He swells in the act, even if the pain it brings can be seen from the outside. And once he finishes, and the time bestowed, through memory and perception engraved, she can only linger in silence, contemplating the very implications of what he had done.

He's interesting, she thinks - no, she concedes. Rare were the occasions in which Porcelain openly stated admiration for others. The few that were recipients to such an honor could be counted with the fingers of one hand.

Paused, loomed in silence, comes her brewed response. She's clever. Gifted, even. The dotsconnect themselves at a rapid and straightforward pace.

"You don't remember fighting and killing Viridian." The nature of the blessing turns much less obtuse to her. For now, she's been shed light on it, led by example.

"Your blessings..." She comes to understand it. "They're memories?" Whatever he had just tapped into is alien to her. Whatever he had syphoned from her brain and made hers in compromise, by virtue of cadence and lack of touch, is just as distant of a vision.

"They're memories? Is this not the first time you've done this?" A piece of the magnolian continues to come to terms with it. Fear? Admiration? Somewhere inbetween?

Crude.

Maybe, worthy of the woman she's meant to become.
(Porcelain)
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[21:37] Porcelain says, "unworthy*"
[21:48] His vision blurred, though he wouldn't speak of it to anyone. It took a clear toll on him to bestow a piece of himself to another. Magic from Hel itself, though it was used by a man willing to part with his past in order to bring about a greater future.

It was no wonder Achlys had his daughter paint murals of what he remembered.

Bruno stabilizes himself as best he can, turning towards Porcelain to finally offer a small nod. Step by step he regained his composure. It was a duty to those who remained loyal to him.

"It is not. And it will not be the last, either." He answers. Simple. Short. And to the point.

As time passed he slowly rose up to his feet properly.

"Have you thought of a name?"
(Bruno pyr Aertas)
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[21:56] Confirmation. Looks like her eyes and perceptions hadn't deceived her. And though it is terrified, it's a type of magic that - now - has proven to be of utmost use to Porcelain: So no retort or palpable reacto in made instead.

Vacant silence follows as he asks his question: For she'd not seen such an inquiry coming. In fact, she had not even thought that far ahead - part of her intent to have anything made was to see how Bruno operated. The sacrifical extent of his craft had thrown her off completely.

And now, that lack of a response speaks for her uncertainty.

"I haven't."

She finally compells.

"The memory is yours.

You get to baptize it, sir Bruno."
(Porcelain)
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[22:04] A few moments of silence passed before the weapon is reached for and presented before the masked one. The artificer was never one to properly name anything he made. It often resulted in disasters, horrifying names, and much, much more.

"Mercurius."

This was the best he could think of in that moment. It had to do.

The young one would certainly feel that memory once she took ahold of the weapon. Its extent. Its pull. Its maddening nature.
(Bruno pyr Aertas)
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[22:08] For an instant, she freezes up, as the name rings loosely familiar. Eventually however, Porcelain's head bobs up and down once in compliance and agreeance with the nomination given to the clockhand.

"Mercurius." She echoes, seemingly pleased with the title chosen.

Not fascinated, no. But she rarely is.

It would more than suffice.
(Porcelain)