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Another interlude for later- pls help
🕑 Added 2025-10-06 22:05:48 +0000 UTCAUTHOR'S NOTE (Please Read):
I'm going insane trying to write the rest of Sanctuary.
It is what it is, I could try to apologize... but I know that it's no substitute for posting. I needed to write something that wasn't about the dungeon arc, so I wrote a little disconnected low-stakes chapter about a little piece of the Ringed City that we've not really zoomed in on yet.
I hope that this chapter is a fun read, and I promise that I'm working hard on finishing the Telchine's Garden arc.
The name of this chapter will probably be 'The Train runs on time...'
__________
Calix Marion-Dupont
‘The train runs on time... or the train runs you over.’
A deceptively innocuous saying, usually said in a jocular, disparaging manner.
I guess I didn’t take it seriously enough.
Calix Dupont flicked a cork at the inkwell at the end of his desk. It sadly didn’t fall over, splattering its contents across the report he was reviewing. He smoothed back his short and wavy black hair with the arm that wasn’t holding a wine bottle. His white shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a middling athletic physique, supported by an expensive gym membership and his desire not to look like every other middle-manager at the company.
That damn train.
Calix thought about his path to this very moment. It hadn’t been easy to move up the corporate ladder, but he’d managed. Calix had begged, borrowed, and stolen to move up from a middle-class Iron Ring tradie to a Bauxite Ring paper pusher, and he’d worked miracles to elevate himself further up to Silver Ring yes-man. He swung his comfortable office chair around, looking out his panoramic window and down into the luxury district of Argentum, the sterling ‘second place’ trophy of the Ringed City.
How long could I afford this place if this major screw-up finally gets me fired? Two months, maybe three?
He’d sooner jump from his high-rise than move back in with his folks.
Like they’d even have me… I don’t think Dad ever forgave me for firing Uncle Jim. But come on, who could be stupid enough to try to make away with a bulk order of Spellsteel? Jim should have set his eyes on an easier mark.
Calix would sooner set himself on fire with his dust-covered welding skill than return to a 9-5 at the machine shop.
Knowing what it’s like on the other side… those chumps don’t know what they’re missing. I bet Ronnie is still working second shift and saving to try to move out of his parents' place.
And, Calix would sooner kiss the sweaty, disheveled company president on his greasy mouth than admit that he was the one who messed up the logistics contract.
I guess I finally pissed ‘her’ off.
Calix sighed, annoyed with himself for having even thought about the mythical ‘sponsor’ of the Inter-Ring Express. Nobody put stock in the old industry-fueled tall tale, but it had certainly spread through the rank and file over the years.
Whenever the train claimed a new victim, the industry veterans would always make some laughable comment to the tune of “I guess she’s in a bad mood today”, or “You don’t want to get on her bad side.”
Calix chucked, visualizing a delicate feminine hand sealing his fate. If such a powerful figure existed, would she even pay close enough attention to the affairs of her business to care about a middling corporate body like him?
Probably not.
The Inter-Ring Express was a black hole for businesses like the one Calix worked for. It ran like clockwork, brooking no tolerance for the usual corporate indiscretions. There was simply no palms to grease (he had tried) to get any amount of leeway with the policies in place. Shipping manifests were to be flawless. Late cargo was simply left behind. Incomplete forms meant empty accounts. All of that and more, he’d learned through vigorous trial and error.
But Calix was not easily dissuaded. He had figured out how to get perfect manifests from his foremen by implementing harsh penalties for mismarked forms. He’d figured out how to get cargo mages to work overtime by talking to the local union rep and negotiating a rotating schedule through the high ‘XP’ Jobs. He’d managed to solidly defeat most of his logistical shortfalls, but the problem was that his company always demanded more.
More units. More lead time. More customer satisfaction.
The train just didn’t do ‘more’, though. The proverbial ghosts that ran the train were absolute in their unwillingness to yield any ground. No extra cargo. No extra time to load inconveniently sized cargo. No special treatment.
Calix had finally run out of new ways to stack more stuff on fewer pallets and was forced to try something stupid.
And he had paid dearly for it.
‘Notice of Transport License Suspension’ was written in big, bold, red letters across the report. Calix and his company had lost access to the logistical monopoly that had utterly dominated the Ringed City for aeons.
Of course, it wasn’t as if nobody had ever tried alternatives. The Obsidian walls that separated the rings were nearly impenetrable, requiring a truly mythic amount of power to even scratch. The skies overhead were subject to the whims of the spirits, and between the various flying and meteorological phenomena that plagued the coastline of the Grand Continent, maintaining a routine flying schedule was a fool’s errand. You could dig down into the soft earth below, as countless others had tried to do in the past, but the ground beneath the Ringed City was known for being host to countless ‘Old Highways’, labyrinthine tunnels that routinely slipped into pocket dimensions and places where reality blended with alternate planes of existence. It was said that you could walk through the old highways from Vitrium all the way to The Spire of the Art… if you had the time, knew the path, and could survive the trip.
Calix drained his glass down to the dregs. Without a second thought, he popped open another bottle of cheap wine. He never lost the taste for it, despite his fuller pockets.
So when they meant no ‘spatially-diminished’ cargo… they sure meant it. I knew that the sales rep was lying about his incredible shrinking boxes being undetectable from the outside. Maybe all these late nights have just made me lose my touch.
It had been a bad idea, anyway. One out of every fifty boxes, placed in the exact center of the balanced load, would have been packed in a box worth more than twice the gross yield of the product inside, at the ‘fantastic’ result of being able to fit thirteen percent more junk inside it. In theory, nobody would notice, and they’d slowly ramp up until the whole pallet was basically shoved in an explosively jam-packed package.
Calix flicked a thought at his communication skill. “Sarah, do you still have the contact info for that Spatial Archmage?”
“Ugh- Cal, you can’t be serious.”
“What, did I wake you up? It’s only midnight.” Calix replied.
“Some of us like to leave the comedy for office hours. What is this about? We can’t afford spatial mage rates, and you know it.” said the grumpy voice in his head.
“We’re gonna have to think of something. No-go on the train. The new transpo strategy finally put us on ‘her’ bad side…ugh. We can try to re-file, but I’d bet that it’s gonna take a few months just to get our first letter of refusal back. We’re screwed. I’m screwed.” Calix ranted.
“Uuuuuuuuuughhhhh. Okayyyyyy. What are our options here?” Sarah groggily replied.
“Spatial archmage. Armored convoy through the old paths under the esoteric rings. Some sort of flying device that can fly low enough to avoid the Wax Ring. A miraculous development in the tunneling efforts through the walls. I miss anything?”
“Completely relocate our production facility to the Bauxite Ring?”
“With what train?”
“Oh… right.”
“Come on, Sarah. I need something.” Calix sighed.
“What about asking around? Somebody has got to have an in with the Express people. We have connections.”
“Now who’s kidding? Nobody has an in with the train, and I mean nobody. Even the royals play nice. I think I’ve heard stories ‘bout the lich trading favors, but even if that’s a true story, it happened before my great-great-great-great granddad even moved to the city.”
“Oh… oh well. Well, have you thought of… apologizing?” She replied.
Calix laughed.
And laughed.
And slumped out of his chair laughing.
“Cal, you’re scaring me.”
“It’s- It’s just- you don’t get how funny that is. What do you want me to do? I could book a commuter ticket and sit there apologizing to an empty seat, because that’s just about the only thing on the train that would be willing to listen to an apology. The service staff is completely unrelated to the engineering team. The engineering team might as well not exist for how hard they are to contact, and the conductor is terrifying.” Calix drawled.
Another bottle opened.
“Well, it’s kind of crazy, but what about…”
“No. I don’t chase fairy tales. I was joking when I mentioned her earlier… and it wasn’t even a good joke.” Calix said, cutting off the insane theory before it could even begin to be said.
“If you’re about to have me submit a quote for services to an [Archmage], you’re already chasing fairy tales.” Sarah quipped.
“I dont- Nobody knows how to contact her, Sarah.” Calix took a swig. “And again, ‘she’ is probably not real.”
“I know… but still. We’re dead in the water here, Calix. Think about it. I’ll… do some digging into our other options, but I think we both know where this goes. I’ll be over with coffee in half an hour. Put the wine down.”
_____
Calix and Sarah hunched over a napkin scrawled with what could charitably be called urban myths at the best of times, or lunatic ravings at the worst.
Among the haze of rumors that surrounded the suspiciously innocuous agency, it was said that young and talented [Artificers] were lured into secretive mentorships with a master artisan, supposedly the enigmatic sponsor of the Inter-Ring Express… who never leaves the train.
The sponsor was also allegedly a woman, leading to the ephemeral use of the singular pronoun ‘she’ to reference her in hushed tones. At the very least, someone powerful associated with the train clandestinely ordered a variety of scent products. The express itself had a very pleasant-neutral odor, but very specifically not ‘Nightshade’s Promise’, a high-end perfume bought in bulk once upon a time, delivered in the dead of night to a remote satellite office of ‘Ring Union’, the official, yet simultaneously unofficial title of the eponymous “Inter-Ring Express Maintenance Group”.
“I feel insane. We’ve spent all morning chasing down urban legends.” Calix drawled.
“Shut up,” Sarah commanded. “It’s only 10 AM.”
Her blond hair was pulled into a high and tight ponytail that did wonders to distract from the massive, terrifying dark circles under her eyes. She held a pretty pink bottle up to the light with manic glee.
Calix looked at his coworker through bleary eyes.
I’ve decided. If we make it through this mess, I have got to ask her out to dinner.
Being the two low-born members of the board had made for an easy alliance at first, since they both came up around the same time. Sarah had had his back through some tough times, and he had tried his best to repay that loyalty in droves. What had initially formed as a strictly professional relationship had blossomed into fondness and later a flirtatious office banter, but he was certain of his feelings now more than ever. She could have thrown him under the bus, let him sink, so that she could use him as a stepping stone. This was his mistake, and she could have wriggled away from it with only a black spot on her record if she really wanted to.
“I’ll have to do something really nice for my grandma if this bat-shit crazy plan works.” Sarah sighed.
She lightly pressed on the atomizer, filling the room with the antique perfume’s dusky floral scent. ‘Nightshade’s Promise’ didn’t smell as much like ‘old lady perfume’ as Calix thought it would, but it certainly wasn’t a match to his preferences.
“So what is the game plan?” Calix asked. “We’re just supposed to write a heartfelt letter, and leave some expensive perfume that you had stashed away in your closet aboard the train and hope for the best?”
“No, of course not. You’re going to read the letter out loud to an empty seat.”
_____
Mattias Everwood
Tick Tick Tick Tick
The precise unwinding of his perfectly calibrated pocketwatch was the only sound allowed in the corridor.
Through arduous practice, now ingrained into muscle memory, his polished boots did not make any noise as they delicately trod along the flawless marble floors of her foyer.
After all, the magnificent machinery overhead was blessedly silent, so why should he disturb her peace?
He took a single beat to look above.
Perfectly suspended in the void far above his head was the Mobius Engine- the heart of the Inter-Ring Express. Thousands of balanced escapements redirected kinetic energy from what could only be described as a miraculous working of artifice, blending an unimaginable intellectual understanding of theoretical physics, masterful metallurgy using flawless materials each polished to a mirror finish, and an application of spatial magic that would make even the most cocksure [Archmage] weep jealous tears of blood. Routing portals redirected the motion of the engine to myriad purposes, from the ventilation subsystem that kept the sub-planar passageways habitable, to the defense arrays that were thankfully not frequently put to use outside of routine testing. It was a thing of truly awesome beauty.
Every detail was accounted for in this sanctuary of engineering. If not for the genius weave of silencing enchantments, the noise from the engine would have violently and concussively deafened everyone aboard.
Tick Tick Tick Tick.
If you paid close enough attention, though, there was a rhythm to it that you could feel, if not hear.
He focused back on the path in front of him.
With pride earned after decades of servitude, he managed to fight away the incessant beast of inadequacy that he still felt when he entered this space, even after all these years.
He reached the end of the hallway. A set of wooden double doors with brass hardware barred the path forward. He held his pocketwatch up to the escutcheon, and the brass mechanism slid back and shifted, rotating several times to reveal a small jewel faceted metronome set in the door that shone with enchantment.
Tick Tick Tick Tick went the metronome.
His pocketwatch matched the heartbeat of the train. The timing sequence that dictated every movement aboard the train was ingrained deeply into even the smallest of rituals of the staff aboard the train, at the whim of their magnificent benefactor.
The doors folded inward, their mechanisms drawing them flush to the wall to allow his passage without so much as a click.
He pressed forward into the central compartment, his steps synchronised unconsciously to the mechanical heartbeat. A further set of frosted crystal doors barred his path before they opened of their own accord, as he was expected. He walked inside the office.
The first thing that he always noticed was the smell.
Fresh cream, berries, and a hint of some kind of velvety smooth resinous benzoin. The smell differed depending on the day, but it was almost always pleasant.
The meticulously cultivated interior of the room betrayed the true nature of its sole occupant as a master of her environment. A plush cream-white rug was centered perfectly underneath a stately desk, which was lacquered in a complementary shade of lilac. Warm floral tones accentuated fine wooden details and engraved crystal mirrors throughout the comfortable room. Shelves of shiny crystal ornaments were free of any dust, and small keepsakes in display cabinets reflected the pleasant under-lighting to capture the eye.
At the desk sat a smiling woman, her striking light-purple irises set upon Mattias. Today, she wore a pristine white dress with a purple bow tying back her white hair. Her face was that of a thirty-year-old woman, but the intensity of her gaze gave her away as being much older.
“Take a seat, dear.” The woman kindly said.
“You are too kind, Madam. I would hate to take up an undue amount of your time.” Mattias responded.
“Oh, pish-posh. None of that now. You’ll have time for a biscuit.” She said.
And so he did. She knew his schedule and had the tray of delicacies angled toward him so that the rectangular frosted tart that he had looked forward to was squarely set in front of him.
Amazing how she still made him feel like a little boy.
“Thank you, my lady.” Mattias smiled.
He wasn’t known for being a particularly smily man. In fact, most who knew Mattias Everwood would probably describe him as a ‘Hardass’. The steely eyes and perfectly manicured handlebar moustache of the fearsome conductor of the Inter-Ring express struck a humorous contrast to the man who sat gingerly in an oversized armchair, nibbling on a strawberry-jam-filled tart in the secret office of his mentor.
“Look!” squealed the old woman.
She turned around a framed mirror on her desk, touching a finger to it to shift its image.
A haggard-looking man was reading off a piece of parchment under the urging of an equally tired blonde woman. From the looks of the seating, they were in first-class compartment 1B, and had a familiar pink bottle placed on the table in between them. Sound began to play from the mirror.
“-Apologize for ever presuming that we could get away with-” read the sad man through the mirror.
“I already read the whole thing over his shoulder. It’s cute. I’m touched, and all that.” She said dismissively.
She focused the image with a flick of silvery magic to zoom in on the bottle.
His mentor’s mirror magic had always struck him as an odd fascination, but he couldn’t argue that she had a master’s touch with it, like her many other talents. She once claimed to have had a great teacher, but who would have taught her? She had been at the heart of the inter-ring express for aeons, never meeting those who weren't sworn to absolute secrecy about her very existence.
“It’s the last bottle from batch 405! I don’t know how it escaped my notice for all this time… but I can finally be free of the scourge that is ‘Nightshade’s Promise’. I will never be at risk of smelling that god-awful perfume ever again!” His mentor ranted.
“If I may be so bold… I don’t think it was that bad. Certainly not as bad as you think it was.” Mattias said in between bites.
She turned to him with a withering glare, but he knew from experience that she wasn’t actually upset.
“It smells like a bouquet of violets slapped on top of unwashed ballet flats and cheap castile soap. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever made, and trust me, I’ve made some awful things. I will be happy to see it permanently removed from this reality.” She said.
She waved a hand, and the bottle on the table in the reflection flew through the mirror and into her hand, shocking the two at the table in the image who were frantically looking around.
“Go let them know that I forgive them. Standard secrecy pact, and all that. His only crime is that he spent more time trying to get one over on us than he should have spent looking for a new job. That half-cocked shipping company is going under in the next three years. If you’re going to try and cheat your customers, you need to do it in a way that doesn’t leave as clear a paper trail. I learned that the hard way. You know what? Be a dear and tell both of them to submit a resume to Gladys in the east-copper office. We could use some new logistics technicians.” She commanded.
Mattias finished his tart, gently dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief.
“At your command, my lady.” He said.
She stopped him with a glance. “You look like you have a question.”
“I wouldn’t be so bold as to presume-”
“Just out with it. I have a perfume bottle to throw into the incinerator.”
“Why… show mercy? People like these two are a dime a dozen. Apologies haven’t moved you before.” Mattias replied.
“Happenstance, mostly. An old friend once told me that ‘Kindness is the privilege of the strong’, and while I’ll never claim to be as virtuous as he is… I like to take the odd opportunity to show a bit of restraint. They had the fortune of bringing me something I was looking for, so why not?”
Mattias didn’t dare say that he had seen her topple dynasties and extinguish upstarts from the shadows for minor slights against the Express. In many ways, she was the train, and the train was her. Mattias chose to sagely nod his head and go about the task she had set before him. He dismissed himself, turning for the exit.
He quickly looked to the side before he opened the door, stealing a glance at the object of his continual fascination.
On a mannequin’s head near the door, the one out-of-place detail in the whole room stood out like a sore thumb.
A black top hat.
In all of his years knowing her, she’d never once worn a hat… but she’d also never given anybody her name, so who could truly deign to know the machinations of her incredible mind?
Sometimes it’s best not to ask.
Comments
RTSKnight
Sounds like the hiding place of one A. Hart.
