The Artificer's Touch

[Falcon2001]

The workshop lay in ruins, semi-precious stones and half-finished machines scattered about the floor. In one corner, three large goons, all of whom were exuding an air of unfriendliness, surrounded a man with a pair of goggles perched on a shock of black hair..

 

“Listen, Caryon – we don’t want to make any trouble, see? The boss told you far in advance that he expected payment, and you haven’t paid.” One of the men said. The cornered man gripped a lead pipe in both hands and spit at the goon. “Go tell your boss I’ll have the money by next week, you thieving bastards, or I’ll take it out of you and your cronies in chunks and repay your boss in a much redder coin.” Caryon said, hefting the pipe. By no means a weak man, Caryon still looked miniscule compared to the hired thugs.

 

The bigger man shrugged, a movement that had much in common with an earthquake. “You know the deal, Caryon – each week it’s going to cost you more. You better pay or my boys and I’ll take your precious wench and have some real fun – “ Caryon leapt at him, swinging the pipe. The end of the lead pipe smashed into the man’s ribcage, connecting with a hollow sound followed by a sickening crunch. Caryon dove between the other two thugs and grabbed a round metal ball off of the floor.

 

“Now leave my home before I decide that a little remodeling wouldn’t be a bad idea.” Caryon said, hefting the grenade. The thugs glowered at him as they helped up their comrade, but they still left. Caryon lowered the pipe and his shoulders drooped wearily. A door opened in the back of the shop and a lithe girl with flaming hair ran up to him and into his open arms, crying. He soothed her, petting her hair. “There, there – they’re gone now, Ihlea. Everything will be fine.” She continued to cry for a few more minutes.

 

“But they’ll be back, Caryon.” She said eventually, looking at him with tearstained eyes. As he returned her gaze, he was once more amazed at her beauty. Her long red hair flowed like a fountain of fire, and her deep green eyes were the heart of a forest to him. He kissed her gently. “They will be back, but we’ll find a way to pay them back. I knew I never should have borrowed money from Lassinger.” They slowly separated then, holding each other at arms length.

 

“Oh well,” she said, chucking through her tears. “I have to say that they left it a fair sight cleaner than you have some days, Caryon Megeta.” He feigned surprise and hurt and swept her up into another kiss. “Come, dear – let’s clean up.”

 

 

 

A candle flickered on the desk as Caryon bent low over his latest creation. In one hand he held a tiny screwdriver – in the other, a pair of tweezers. So gently he seemed almost mechanical, he laid the last pinion in place and tightened the tiny screws holding it in place. He had been working on this for quite a while – a bird of steel and silver that would sing on command like the sweetest songbird. The singing had taken him a very long time to perfect, but now the tiny bird was perfect. He gently inserted the mana cell into the slot on the bird’s back, and it perked up.

 

“Sing.” He said, staring intently at the mechanical bird. It burst into sweet song, stopping every once in a while to preen silver feathers. He sighed gently.

 

“It will bring a good price, love.” Ihlea said from behind him, reaching arms around him. He sank back into her loving embrace, closing his eyes momentarily.

 

“Gods be willing, it will bring enough to pay Lassinger back.” Gods be willing Lassinger hasn’t upped the price more – the unspoken thought echoed silently in the room. Ihlea drew him up out of the chair and kissed him softly.

 

“It’s at least falsedawn by now, dear. You should get some sleep before you are too tired to work any more.” She said, hugging him close. He sighed, but followed her back to their sleeping chambers, where they quickly fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

 

 

 

Seldon Lassinger was not a man who enjoyed failure, and all three of his hired hands knew it even as they watched him receive their tale with an impassive stare. After the report had been finished there was a long silence.

 

“So, you failed to bring back the payment from Megeta?” Lassinger finally asked in a quiet voice.

 

“Yes, sir.” They all knew that it was best to be direct with the boss. Dodging around the point usually ended with one of them dodging around a much sharper, steel point.

 

Lassinger steepled his fingers, staring at them over thin, wiry hands. “You all know my position on failure, do you not?” They all nodded nervously.

 

Silence reigned.

 

“I will give you one last chance to redeem yourselves.” They were all mildly shocked, as Lassinger was not one to be soft or forgiving.

 

“T-thank you, boss-“ Lassinger cut them off with a harsh laugh. He leaned forward, his skeletal frame and white hair glistening in the torchlight.

 

“Do not think me merciful, gentlemen, for if you fail me again I would advise you to kill yourselves in the quickest way possible – for though you may run to the farthest depths of hell, I will find you.” The last words were a sibilant hiss. “Now, let me explain your mission…”

 

 

 

Caryon awoke in the midst of the night in a cold sweat. Some unknown nightmare had driven him awake, and he sat bolt upright, his heart racing as if he had just run twenty leagues. He drew on a pair of trousers and stood, staring out the open window at the moon, high and full and round in the sky. Yawning widely, he wandered downstairs to see what he could find in their pantry to eat. Ihlea was an excellent barterer so they always had something to eat even when money was tight.

 

Halfway down the stairs, he heard a crash of glass behind him. He tried to turn, but something heavy hit him from behind and he fell headlong into a dark void.

 

He spun endlessly through the black, inky space, until he felt something touch his mind.

 

What would you give for power, Caryon Artificer? The voice asked in his mind, deep and dark, smelling of years immeasurable and secrets untold.

 

Who are you?

 

I am your God, Caryon Artificer. I have seen your future – you will bow before me and pay homage, and I will grant upon you the greatest gift I have ever given.

 

What is your name?

 

I am known by many names in many planes. I am banished, hidden, but I survive, I will always survive. You, Caryon, will herald my arrival one day. In some worlds I am known as Steelheart, The Overmachine, The Clockwork God…

 

I am Yawgmoth.

 

When the name was spoken, it was like a hundred broken trumpets sounding at once, the wailing and gnashing of teeth of millions of dying. The cacophony existed for mere moments, and then it was gone. Caryon drew back in horror and shock.

 

You are not my God.

 

I am, Caryon. You will come to me eventually – and then you will receive the greatest gift, but at the greatest price.

 

The voice withdrew, and the void disappeared, shocking Caryon into consciousness.

 

He knelt before an iron throne with a pale king residing on it. Caryon’s arms and legs were bound with leather bonds that chafed at his skin. He sweated as he raised his gaze to stare upon the man on the throne.

 

Seldon Lassinger gazed thoughtfully back at him. He was dressed in black silk from head to toe, contrasting with his corpselike skin. His long white hair completed the illusion – a corpse upon a stolen throne.

 

“Caryon Megeta, I am displeased.”

 

Caryon would have spat at him had he the saliva to do so, but his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. His head pounded like the sun upon the salt flats, and it was all he could do to think.

 

“Two months ago, you borrowed fifty crowns from me with the understanding that you would pay me back with interest within a week. Two weeks later, no money was forthcoming. I sent my associates to retrieve the money, thinking maybe that you had forgotten.” Lassinger’s voice was almost kind and gentle as he rose from his throne and paced about.

 

“They came back empty-handed with a message from you saying that you would have the money before the end of the week. When they returned, you only had sixty crowns to pay them with, from the seventy-five you then owed me from interest.”

 

“You’re a thief and a bloody liar, Lassinger – you said two crowns a week interest!” Caryon cried, lunging forward. A guard casually backhanded him. Caryon tasted blood as Lassinger went on as if there was no interruption.

 

“As of now you owe me the tidy sum of one hundred gold crowns, Caryon.” The pale man’s voice had grown thin as he continued speaking, and now he stood directly in front of Caryon. A thug pulled back on Caryon’s thick black hair, yanking his head up to stare right into Lassinger’s burning gaze.

 

“I am not a man to be trifled with, Caryon.”

 

He snapped his fingers and a man led a woman out in front of Caryon. Upon recognizing her, he surged forward, trying valiantly to rise up.

 

“Ihlea!” He screamed, muscles twisting in vain against dark leather.

Lassinger chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Your dear Ihlea was kind enough to join us today.”

 

Ihlea stared fearfully at the pale man as he turned towards her. “Lassinger, I swear to the nine gods that we’ll pay you back – we’ve just been low on business.” He slapped her, leaving a streak of blood from one of the rings he wore.

 

“Do I look like I run a charity here, you whore?” he asked, unperturbed. He turned back to Caryon, a look like ice on his chiseled features.

 

“Now, Caryon Megeta, now I want you to see what happens when you displease me.” He reached inside his doublet and withdrew a needle-thin dagger, spun, and thrust it into Ihlea’s tender throat.

 

Caryon screamed – but a guard kicked him in the face, filling his mouth with blood and causing him to cough. Ihlea slumped to the ground in a pool of blood.

 

Lassinger casually wiped the knife off on her shirt and then put it back in his doublet. He walked over to Caryon and squatted down next to the bound man.

 

“You will pay me back, or I’ll do the same to you.”

 

That said, he spun on his heel and walked back to his iron throne.

 

“Take him back to his workshop.”

 

Caryon stared stupidly at the corpse of his beloved as he was dragged away – his reason for living was gone. He struggled violently when they tried to drag him out of the room until the guard hit him again, and then the blessed darkness rolled back in again.

 

 

 

Caryon awoke in his bed, covered in blood. He woke feeling dead inside, dreading what he knew would await him when he rolled over to where Ihlea normally laid next to him. As he rose on unsteady feet, he saw the empty bed, and the deadness inside seemed to shriek. He walked numbly downstairs, everything seeming gray and dead.

 

As he reached the landing, he saw the mechanical bird he had built. It looked at him and burst into song. He was filled with rage at the bird’s joyous song – Don’t you know she’s DEAD, he wanted to scream at the silver bird. He raised his fist to smash it to bits-

 

-And stopped, dead. He was suddenly filled with awe at the little bird.

 

Flesh is weak, Caryon Artificer, the voice spoke again, low and soothing and calm as Caryon stood staring inanely at the bird. That’s why Ihlea died – the flesh is weak, but steel and stone and machinery is forever.

 

I want Ihlea back.

 

I do not have control over the dead, Caryon, but I can give you something better.

 

Vengeance. The thought filled Caryon.

 

The voice was pleased, and it soothed him, swarmed through his mind like tendrils of dark warmth. Yes, it said, sibilant and snake-like, Vengeance I have in overabundance. I will fill you with my power and you will have your revenge – but you must swear fealty to me, Caryon.

 

I swear it. He said it without a second thought, and Yawgmoth was pleased.

 

Excellent – then receive my gift.

 

It felt like a lightning bolt struck him, passed through all of his veins and exited out his mouth in a chilling scream. Every fiber of his being convulsed, and his mind twisted. A second later it was gone, and suddenly he could feel something all around him.

 

Mana, Caryon. Mana – the battery of the earth. You can use any kind to fuel your new power. You will use magic and your enemies will crumble before you.

 

He drew upon the power all around him, felt it fill him up. He laid a hand on the wooden banister and watched in numb surprise as the dark oak turned gray, then began to shine with the light of steel. It spread from him like a virus, changing the living into unliving. He drew his hand back, then a thought struck him. He reached out and picked up the singing bird gently, and then channeled his power into it, molding it with his mind to shape what he thought.

 

As he watched, it’s feathered lengthened and sharpened, it’s beak grew pointed and cruel, and it’s tiny claws sheared into fierce talons. When he withdrew his power a merciless bird of prey stood on his hand. He smiled grimly then.

 

I will build, then. For the glory of Yawgmoth.

 

The voice was pleased.

 

 

 

The two guards stared at the man walking toward them, heavily cloaked and striding purposefully. Most people avoided this place, or walked by quickly, feigning ignorance, but this one had a purpose.

 

“Halt, stranger!” called the first guard. The stranger stopped and drew back his hood, revealing steely eyes and a determined grimace.

 

“My name is Caryon Megeta. I am here to see Lassinger about a debt I owe him.”

 

The guards shrugged. “Go on through.” He said, opening the door. Caryon swept past him, his cloak flat and heavy.

 

The hallway to Lassinger’s throne room was lighted by torches, which reflected dully off of the gray-eyed man’s gaze as he walked down the corridor towards the door at the far end. When he reached the large double doors, he pushed them both open and continued walking forward.

 

“Seldon Lassinger, I have returned with your pay.” He said loudly. The doors swung shut behind him as he continued walking to stand before the steps to the throne. Lassinger stared down on him with an interested look.

 

“Well, well, Artificer – I am impressed. It has not even been a week yet since that unfortunate incident with your lover. I trust that there are no hard feelings.”

 

Caryon’s gaze was like stone. “No, Lassinger, none at all.”

 

“Where is my pay, Caryon?” Lassinger asked.

 

Caryon reached into his cloak and withdrew a heavy-looking purse. It jingled as he tossed it to himself. “One hundred gold crowns, Lassinger.” He heaved it to the pale man, who caught it expertly, grinning widely.

 

“Well now, I believe our business is done with, then?”

 

“Not quite.” Caryon said.

 

Lassinger’s gaze grew slightly colder. “So you want another loan then?”

 

“No, Lassinger. This regards something you owe me.”

 

“What – begone with you. You can’t threaten me.” Lassinger was angry now.

 

“It’s not a threat, Lassinger – it’s a promise. You owe me your life, and now I’m here to collect.” Before any of the guards could react, he threw back his cloak with both arms, and a metallic swarm flew out. Twenty birds, like flying daggers, flew out. Each one had a cruel beak and malice in their beady black gemstone eyes. They converged on the guards, pecking at their throats and eyes, killing them slowly and painfully while Caryon looked on impassively. After they were done, they returned to circle above the Artificer’s head while he walked slowly towards the throne of the Thief King, Lassinger.

 

“You have no idea how grateful I am to you, Lassinger.” Caryon said in a gentle voice as he slowly ascended the stairs toward the terrified man. “If it weren’t for you, I would have never known the glory that is Yawgmoth.” Lassinger grew even more terrified at the mention of the banished God’s name, and he shrunk back in his throne even more.

 

Caryon ascended the last stair, towering over the once-proud lordling.

 

“Now I will share the glory with you, the greatest gift I can imagine.”

 

He gently reached out and grasped both of Lassinger’s arms and summoned the power. Lassinger shrieked shrilly as his flesh transformed to machine, veins and arteries molding into wires and joints into gears. “Do not worry, Lassinger – soon it will be over and you will belong to Yawgmoth.”

 

Lassinger screamed until the change finally reached his heart, and then he died, momentarily.

 

Mere moments later, his eyes re-opened, onyx now instead of flesh. He would forever belong to the glory of Yawgmoth.

 

Caryon smiled, and the birds circled with red stains on their deadly talons. His vengeance was now quenched, but he would carry the gift of Yawgmoth to every corner of this plane until his dark god could once more inherit the earth.

 

He walked out of the throne room, leaving the mechanical Lassinger behind – he was an imperfect machine and would soon break down, but not before experiencing the glory of living as a machine.

 

A new dawn broke outside, as the birds circled up into the sky to return to the Artificer’s house. Caryon smiled, as the voice inside his head whispered sweet promises to him.

 

All for the glory of Yawgmoth.

[Falcon2001]

I would appreciate any writing response I could get on it

[Gyrfalcon]

Pretty good story, Falcon. Are you planning to write another? *grins*

 

There's shades of Urza in this story- like Urza, Caryon is an excellent artificier, and I believe Urza created a mechanical songbird similar to Caryon's... (well, actually, I think it was Urza's assistant...)

 

Good story, though there's a question to be asked: is Caryon partially or fully a machine himself? After all, he should be able to convert himself into a machine.

[Falcon2001]

Caryon is kind of like Urza - The funny thing is the day AFTER I created Caryon's character, I read the Invasion M:tG book, giving me my first look at Urza - so in fact I didn't copy him ;; even though it does seem like I did, which disappoints me. >_>

 

Caryon isn't a machine himself - otherwise he wouldn't be able to have the Artificer's Touch - he needs to be alive for that.

 

Also, I don't remember Urza creating a songbird, but it wouldn't surprise me - though I do hate to seem like I'm copying him

 

Caryon is a very different character from my norm. I specifically didn't describe him a lot, which is my normal writing style, but it detracts from the story. Lassinger is actually more of my normal character - thin, pale and evil. Caryon is fairly well-built and tan, kind of a strange look for one of my characters, and I've always pictured him wearing a vest and some leather pants (his climate is very warm, no shirt under the vest) with a shock of black or brown hair and some goggles riding on his head.

 

Strange to write without Falcon, Cioden or William, but it's probably a good thing.

[Peredhil]

This is a stretch from your normal writing - you should stretch more often.

 

I liked it, it has some deft touches in it, that left me wanting more. Don't worry about duplicating another work if you didn't do it intentionally. There is little new in the writing world - what makes things fresh is HOW you write them.

 

This is fresh.

[Yui-chan]

I agree with Peredhil-san. Excellent writing, Falcon. It is not-too-deep in detail, yet also not too shallow, so you don't get the feeling that it's missing anything. Having never heard of Urza, I thought the concept was creative and well-executed. You used it well for the story and the sense of drama to it all.

 

Nice work!

~Yui