A Flash in the Pan

[Mirtok 2853]

~ Helena 1765 ~

 

The gentle hum of commerce and industry could be heard by those within the formidable red Bastille, a singular ruby from the greater collection of jewels that was the Helena skyline. The soldiers of the Imperial State Army had been called to hear words from their Arch-Chancellor, amongst the great hall where images of former victories were proudly displayed. A small scope into the past, eras of great men and great conflicts. Though most that now wore the iconic Helena reds knew little of true combat. As the martial congregation formed into a cohesive element, strictly herded by the hawkish officers of his Imperial Majesty, the great hall fell ever quieter as discipline took over. The comrades of the ISA stood diligently in silence, awaiting the subject of the formation's call.

 

His Excellency, Simon Basrid, a man of incredible triumph in his own right would be escorted by a stalwart 4th Brigadier from the lobby- the temperate air and warming light from the outside would flood into the hall momentarily. Though despite the sudden introduction of various sensory inputs, the soldiers remained motionless.

 

General Alren DeNurem stood at the head of the formation awaiting Simon’s arrival, he would render a crisp salute followed by a simple nod to signal that the floor was his to speak to.

 

“Thank you all for this impressive showing, the reds of the Imperial State Army are a true testament to the strength of Man. I shall be brief and candid with you- I see little need to speak around the subject of the day. From the valiant work of your comrades in the 4th Brigade during the Athera expedition, at the behest of the Emperor, we have within our Imperial possession relics of a greater, more violent past. These relics in their time had inspired great fear or pride, depending on which end one stood from them. However, despite their historical prevalence in some of Humanity's most iconic moments, the knowledge with which to wield them has tragically been lost to the ages. It seems that this particular aspect of the Tapestry of Man has been tarnished. His Imperial Majesty's interest at this time is for such to be rectified. I look to no finer group of brilliance, dedication, and loyalty than what is before me at this moment. This project is one of grave importance, for those who wield the unnerving power of old so too possess the means for everlasting peace. The true duty of the soldier is to pursue peace at all costs. I leave the specifics of this project in the capable hands of General DeNurem. May God look favorably on Oren.”

 

With his final words being uttered, the Arch-Chancellor -at one time a military man himself- would issue the formation a salute. In total unison, the soldiers of the Imperial State Army would immediately return the courtesy, holding their flattened palms near their brow all the way until the doors of the great hall slammed shut in the wake of the departing ex-soldier. 

 

General Alren DeNurem would stand momentarily in silence, contemplating the coming course of action. There was an immense sense of pressure due from the unknowns of such a project. Much was left to be discovered, examined, tested, and refined. This was something that the previous iterations of the Imperial State Army did not have to overcome- they simply did their duty and fought for the Empire. But as the world around them grew more and more sophisticated, so too did the responsibilities of his comrades and the ISA as a whole. After a quick twill on his mustache, the snowy General would speak.

 

“No truer test of concept than this could come at the onset of the 5th Brigades conception. Though I anticipate the part our grenadiers may play to be great, I will look to each and every one of you to contribute. The entire regiment will be summoned in some way to handle various aspects of what is to come, we must not falter in our preparedness. I shall have the Captains join me in my office following dismissal. For the rest of you, stand by for orders. Dismissed!”

 

Once more the drilled and disciplined ranks of the Imperial State Army would render a salute as a singular unit before falling out of the formation one by one. Before too long, the great hall was empty once more, save the General and his cadre of capable Captains. Though the excitement from the project at hand did much to the stimulate the imagination of the soldiers- the murmur of inquisitive conversation between comrades could be heard in the lobby and halls of the Bastille. Without a word exchanged, the leaders of the first regiment moved in the direction of the Generals office to discuss further details of what will be required by each brigade.
 

[Mirtok 2853]

~ The Generals Office 1765 ~

 

Much had been learned from the expeditions to Athera, as Alren would continue to understand from the multiple reports compiled by his comrades in the 4th Brigade. What proved to be even more interesting were the items physically extracted from the lost lands and given refuge in the modern world of Arcas. Apart from wonder of the physical cannons themselves, ranging in multiple calibers from the humble flack throwers to the behemoth bombard- a truly comical display of fiery vanity- these casted heaps of metal were completely useless. For the fuel of brimstone laden fear, the essence of these weapons' great power, was completely unknown to the General.

 

It was said the Emperor himself was in possession of a small sample of the fabled material. A milled together combination of elements that when introduced to flame would immediately ignite and propel an object towards a path of least resistance. Much of the science involved was admittedly mysterious to Alren, however the remnant works of long dead scholars would hopefully fill in the gaps. If work towards discerning the makeup of this weapon was ever to find its footing, he would need to get his hands on that sample. 

 

As the General brooded over a myriad of different books sourced from the Imperial library, an astute Ensign would carefully arrange a cup of coffee at the end of Alren’s desk. Catching his attention as the cup would make a slight clatter as it settled on its saucer, General DeNurem would snap his gaze onto the young man.

 

“Send word to the Novellen that I would wish a private audience with his Imperial Majesty . . . to discuss the project.” He would pinch the delicate ceramic handle of the vessel containing the aromatic brew, bringing it to his lips.

 

The Ensign would issue a simple salute “Yes, General.”

 

Alren would continue to mull through the various aspects of what was to be needed. The objective list to be entrusted with the 5th brigade grew ever longer. Each new stone unturned brought with it an answer, though in its company flanked two more questions. After enough time had passed, he would gather up his things and make his way towards the Imperial palace.
 

[Mirtok 2853]

~ The North-East Territory 1766 ~

 

The Eye of Man was the name that was eventually decided for the massive military fortification being constructed in the North-Easterly territories of the Empire. It’s name paid homage to the Emperor and the entirety of Humanity in one fell swoop. A particular marvel of modern military engineering and martial planning. The obvious desire to control the farthest reaches of the Empire and ward of external aggression proved more than enough reason for the Imperial State Army to commit its Army Corps of Engineers to its creation. However, this example of Imperial prosperity was destined to be much more than a well defended pile of stone.

 

The soldiers of the Corps worked tirelessly each and every day first laying the foundations for the mighty fort upon the command of the War Office. Before too long, the walls of the Eye took shape having been afforded a strong footing in what used to be the grand city of Avalain. The General would make frequent trips to the far East of Helena to view the progress at the hands of his comrades. The arctic evergreen climate typical of the area was a welcome change from the temperance and humidity of the Crownlands. Sheets of ice crashing on the beach, frozen uncaring stone and emerald green pines peaking through blankets of snow- the stories he had been told of his ancestral roots in his youth drew great parallels to the comfort he felt in this region of the Empire.

 

More often than not, Alren was not content with watching the laborious work take place before him. The DeNurem found equal comfort in climate as he did in connecting rock to pickaxe. It had taken nearly five years from when the final stone was pulled from the Curonian walls, to when that same stone found purpose once more in the grand keep of The Eye. Half a decade ago, he had not thought of the work that presently dominated most of his time but his intuition when drafting the blueprints for the fortification had proved fruitful. 

 

The Eye of Man had achieved a base line operational state and could finally be manned by the expeditionary 5th Brigade. With the arduous task of building the stalwart defenses out of the way, the Engineers could turn their attention on the more ornate and purposeful details of construction. From the makeshift camp near the water's edge, the men of the Army Corps of Engineers would emerge from their tents to be addressed by the General. A particularly chilly breeze would rap at the canvas shelters and nip at the noses of the soldiers. In the center of the temporary settlement, under the shadow of the storage complex, stood a long wooden table adorned with the full layout of The Eye. With a long stick, Alren would begin to express the next phase of construction.

 

“I see no better location for the War Office’s research and development division than The Eye. As such, we must provide the space in which our comrades may peacefully conduct their work without fear of interruption nor the wandering eye of external agents. Confer with Captain Tovelm as to what would be needed and get it done. I will also be drafting some designs for various work spaces that I see necessary for the project. As always comrades, your work is of a confidential matter, let none know of the facilities we construct.”

 

One God, One Empire, One Emperor.
 

[Mirtok 2853]

~ The Hedgerows 1766 ~

 

Comrade Helson was born to mundane potato farmers, in a little valley in the Hedgerows. The land he grew up on enjoyed a steady supply of fresh water running from the steep mountains that once tightly embraced the old city of Vez. The crops his father had reaped each year went to supply local alcohol production, a strong drink that seemed to be favored by an entirely different breed of people. It was a decent living which allowed his parents to host many guests throughout the years. Little slivers of the outside world told through the casual conversations by friends of the family would embolden his imagination.

 

Much of his childhood had been free of conflict or true hardship but it was a wholesome one at that. He was an only child, which only seemed to bother him when the boredom set from a dreary day kept him stuck inside. On most days he would tend to the crops and in the evenings he would explore the rural region in which he lived. A sense of adventure sat like a hungry ember at the pit of his soul, waiting to feed on the first bit of tinder it could find. When he had turned the ripe old age of 16, it was his own decision to enlist in the Imperial State Army- finally something to stoke the flame.

 

The war he had only heard scant stories of had more or less been over for quite some time. He worried little if he would ever see intense combat. For him, to enlist meant to explore a world he knew very little about. The simple fact that his service brought a steady supply of mina and ensured all his basic needs were met afforded great comfort in the son of a farmer. His first two years in service to the Empire was that of daily drills, military education, strenuous physical training, and the occasional tongue lashing from his commandants. It was difficult for him to contemplate the type of man he would have become if it were not for the rigid structure that the ISA. Every so often he would be tinged with melancholy at the life that almost was and that could never be.

 

Upon graduation from the Combat Academy, he was assigned to the 1st brigade and given the simple task of gate duty and foot patrols. The beat he walked focused mostly on the Armas and Arkent district, a side of the city that saw much in the way of civilian squabbles. This continued on for only a few months before he was suddenly reassigned to help staff the newly formed 5th Brigade in Kaedrin. He was not at all upset by the assignment as the new location of duty was in close proximity to where his parents lived. He had thought to visit them towards the end of every month. But such was not the case when he reported to his new Captains office.

 

Captain Tovelm was a giant of a man. One might have hoped a jolly soul might live underneath the decades of hardened military service that permeated the Captains visage- a hope that was sure to disappoint.

 

“Private Helson reports as ordered, Captain!” He would snap to attention, raising a salute.

 

“Aren’t Helsons those who lack a proper family name? Your enlistment paperwork showed your relatives still draw breath.” growled Tovelm from a large wooden chair seated near an open window overlooking a thick forest grove.

 

“My father was a Helson, Captain, as he did not know his parents.”

 

“Ah, that settles that. Someone’s taken notice of you Private, said you have an interesting little mind. One I suppose is cut out for the type of work we do here in the 5th. Dya like the cold, comrade? Don’t really matter if you don’t, we’re destined for The Eye. Heard of Curon?” The rugged Captain would take a long draw from his tobacco pipe, letting the smoke soak around his teeth before expelling it into a perfect O ring shape. “Again, doesn’t matter. Not really asking, more so just tellin’. Couple’a thinkin’ lads we got here. I might be big in stature, I’ve got a big mind as well. Without havin’ to crack open your country boy skull, I’d like to see what kind of mind I’m dealing with ‘ere. Report to The Eye immediately, claim a room in the barracks and find an open work station in the manufactorum. Questions?”

 

Before Private Helson could ask his question, the Captain rose immediately to his feet. His large foot clad in an ISA standard combat boot making a heavy thud on the wooden floor. “That’s a good lad, don’t get your head cut off by a Nottingham along the way.” With that final word, he found himself quickly ushered out the door. He had learned that to question orders rarely lead to anything productive- all that was left to do was to execute his mission as described.

 

“Another day, another mina.”
 

[Mirtok 2853]

~ Boomhill Mine 1766 ~

 

Large boulders soared overhead, ripping a stream of displaced air in their wake. The not so distant shouting of an old comrade bellowing orders to the siege engineers- “Open fire!”. The clatter of the Haensemens armor as they hunkered below the ridge edge to avoid being picked off by a stray arrow. The ever-present, pungent, and offensive odor that lingered in the atmosphere around them all. He remembered how the stench clawed at the soft tissue of his eyelids and nostrils. How it burned his throat with each breath. He then remembered staring at the wooden palisade as it was assailed with missile after missile from the calculating Imperial engines.

 

Just then, a shriek of pain from over the hill. A flash witnessed through the splintered wooden walls. A blinding corona of light, an incredible display of turbulent flame, and the cacophony of explosive catastrophe. He had never heard an explosion as a result of rapid combustion, he was not fully prepared for the shockwave that followed the spectacle. For a moment, as his ears rang and the world around him was deafened from the blast, he found unexpected peace- maybe even a fresh breath free of the acrid stench. He gave the order for his comrades to advance- retribution for the dead must be extracted. Boomhill would never be the same.

 

In a single blink, the events of that day evaporated. In its stead stood the familiar red walls of the Bastille as well as an informal line up of ISA soldiers. General DeNurem would clear his throat before delivering the expedition team their orders.

 

“Welcome comrades; Captain d’Arkent, Captain Tovelm. You’ll all be making a return trip back into Boomhill in search of information that may persist amongst the wreckage. It has been some time since we’ve sent scouts into the area, so it is unknown if you will encounter any lingering resistance. I would suggest you tread carefully, as always. Your Captains are aware of what specifically we seek at that wretched mine. Refer to them with any questions you might have. Godspeed, dismissed.”

 

And with that, the General retreated to his office situated at the top of the great hall. His comrades now in the care of their Captains would prepare themselves for the mission at hand. Collecting various tools and ensuring their personal supplies were all in order before departing. He could hear the imposing Captain Tovelm of the 5th brigade barking orders to his engineers as they prepared multiple resource carts burdened with tons of fine sand and loose gravel. The Boomhill mine was reported to still be burning fiercely, even years following the events of the battle that occasionally snuck into the General's thoughts. If any form of exploration into the mine was to be conducted, the flames would undoubtedly need to be dealt with. And with little option to quell the inferno due from the lack of water atop the hill, they had no choice but to laboriously snuff the flames out, one cart of sand at a time. Alren was not one to shirk physical exertion, nor commit others to a task he was unwilling to do himself. However, he had faith that the operation would be completed soundly under the careful guidance of his Captains and the capable Lieutenants they brought with them. He had his own set of tasks of a much more delicate nature that needed tending to.

 

It would be several days before the Boomhill expedition force would return to the Bastille. General DeNurem stood waiting at the end of the great hall, flanked by two long tables laden with a plethora of fine foods and fresh drink. One by one, his comrades would filter into the room in varying conditions. Ranging from slightly disheveled from days of travel, to severely injured as was the case of Captain Tovelm who had to be carried on a stretcher by two freshly minted combat medics. Sir Henry would march proudly past the heavy wooden doors that guarded the entrance into the hall, his uniform tattered and bloodied, his cuirass punctured and tarnished. A wide grin graced his aged visage as he lugged the severed head of a mighty avian creature, bound by thick cable to his back. With a thud, the well-earned trophy would be released as his burden onto the table.

 

“Another one for the wall, General.”

 

Alren reflected on the old knight's uncanny ability when it came to felling strange and ferocious creatures. He was as much a skilled soldier as he was a fearless monster slayer. Brave or perhaps downright foolish he could not tell, but whatever compelled Lt. Henry to do what he did, it was certain luck was always on his side. The last of the crew found their place at either of the long tables and immediately started to work at the small token of appreciation by the ISA for their efforts. While they ate, Captain Peter d’Arkent approached the General, encumbered by the spoils of their struggle and hard-fought by his troopers. Always the true professional, the Captain would render a salute to Alren before speaking.

 

“General, we have returned with minimal casualties. A few of us were injured in skirmishes with multiple brigand organizations that had taken refuge in the abandoned fortress keep. It seems that in the absence of Imperial pressure, Boomhill became host to unknown hostile forces in loose collaboration with each other. As of now, all groups have been dealt with accordingly, and the region has been returned to inactivity. I also regret to inform you that two of our numbers suffered egregious wounds and were unable to be stabilized by the medics. Their families have been notified.” A moment of pause befell the Captain as he considered the cost of mission success before continuing. “The fires present in the mine have been extinguished. Through our excavation efforts, we learned of a hidden supply cache containing many items that require further investigation. I leave them in your care, General.”

 

“Well done, comrade, join the others and take a well-deserved breather. Each of you has earned two weeks of rest and relaxation.” As the Captain moved to an open seat at the table to his left, Alren would peer into the crates that Peter had left before him. One containing an unassuming collection of various trinkets and baubles, likely the personal effects of the previous inhabitants of Boomhill. Another gently cradled multiple different vials of unknown powders and milled substances along with a badly beaten leather-bound book adorned with strange symbols along the spine. And finally, in the last offering from the Captain, was a crate that reeked of some offensive stench -a familiar scent to everyone in the room. A distant voice in the back of the General's head would echo faintly around his skull . . .

 

“Open fire!”
 

[Mirtok 2853]

~ The Manufactorum 1767 ~

 

Countless hours and many sleepless nights had been devoted to analyzing the contents of the manuscripts recovered from Boomhill. At least, he thought them nights . . . or was it day? The secluded laboratories shielded by several tons of stone made even keeping time a chore. Though the prospects of a consistent schedule were priority zero when compared to the objective at hand. As if carefully peeling two highly deteriorated pieces of reed paper wasn’t challenging enough, the results of the tedious labor spurred more questions than answers. The vast majority of the material recorded by some long-forgotten scholar had been penned in a language that was utterly alien to the General. Symbols of strange sorts littered each page, some obscured by unknown stains or scorched edges. It was evident that this collection of scientific work was either very old or very poorly maintained.

 

Some of it, however, had graciously been written in the common tongue, open to interpretation by Alren and the rest of the 5th Brigade research and development team. Some interestingly enough, bore the unmistakable trademark of Old Marian, the words of his ancestral progenitor. Despite scant swaths of recognizable text, careful examination turned up little results. The ornate little symbols that obtusely interrupted blocks of formatted text were beyond the direct knowledge of those who viewed them. However, it was clear that there was some sort of pattern to the symbols: they were indeed their own form of language that represented something in the physical plane or demonstrated some kind of scholarly concept.

 

It would seem that the only progress to be made would be through trial and error- quite the rudimentary approach to a complex goal. The possible and immediately available solution to the Arch-Chancellors mission would undoubtedly come from the explosive properties of the apply named volatite. An ebony hued, gravely, and offensively pungent mineral has commonly been known as Boomsteel in its refined state. Alren had first encountered the material during the siege of Boomhill, the acrid scent choked at his comrades' throats and had turned the brigand encampment into a white inferno at the blink of an eye. History taught in the Empire told stories hailing from centuries ago of great battles where cannon fire raged across enemy and allied lines. There could be found dozens if not hundreds of personal accounts from those who participated in these battles that detailed the iconic indicators of such fierce weaponry. However, neither volatite nor Boomsteel had ever been explicitly mentioned.

 

Atop the Generals workstation in the manufactorum sat two samples of ground material, each about 2 grams. On one square of waxy paper was a mound of pitch-black gravel, the other a finer granular substance of dark grey with minor flecks of a deeper black. The latter being a sample obtained from the personal collection of the Emperor himself, a recovered artifact of sorts during the expeditions to Athera a decade prior. The former, a carefully broken down volatite chunk. The experiment was simple, induce combustion of each sample and to observe the differences between the two. It had been mentioned that perhaps the black powder of old was the same as the Boomsteel of today- though the variations in color provided an immediate indication that such was not the case. The volatility of volatite could not be understated; as such, Alren took it upon himself to wear ISA standard PPE. The others on his team, Captain Tovelm and Ensign Ostromir among them, watched with bated breath at a safe distance.

 

“Take careful note comrades of every aspect of the reaction that you might notice. In a moment, I shall expose each rapid pressure utilizing a hammer strike.” With the aforementioned hammering instrument in hand, the General would steal the time before delivering an impulsive tap to deep black mineral to mutter a quick prayer. As contact was made, swiftly crushing several clumpy chunks of volatite, an instantaneous and deceivingly powerful crack exploded out from the metal table- the sound echoing off the cold stone walls all around them. Just as well, a quick puff of smoke following a rapid expulsion of light. Several more pieces that had not been immediately crushed by the hammer had rocketed off in random trajectories, popping and crackling as they came into contact with hardened surfaces.

 

As the abrupt chaos subsided within the manufactorum, the General would then reposition the hammer over the remaining substance, now carefully removing the protective glass vase atop it. A single bead of sweat rolled down his temple as he realized that perhaps these two combustive materials should have been more adequately separated prior to the detonation of the volatite. In much the same motion as the previous action, he would deliver a quick tap to the course grey powder. A few granules crumbled under the rapid exercise of pressure, but in a completely opposite manner to the former, this sample remained dormant and unassuming. Alren narrowed his gaze at the workstation before giving the powder another quick tap. Then another, and then another. Before too long, he was satisfied with the observation that the blackpowder substance was not activated by rapid pressure, which was the case with the volatite. Indeed this would match up quite congruently with the scattered accounts of old cannon warfare.

 

The observers in the room quickly and carefully jotted down notes relating to the experiment performed right before their very eyes. Captain Tovelm, who had been watching from a safer vantage point atop a stone balcony looking into the room called out to Alren. “Looks to me like Boomsteel ain’t blackpowder, General.” Without turning his head, the General would continue to clear the workstation, saving the sample of blackpowder for future testing. “Aye, though, without a proper recipe on hand, we can’t be too sure of that comrade. At this stage, I am happy to continue on with the next phase of tests, excluding the use of volatite while we continue to discover the properties of the Emperor's relic.”

 

They would need to exercise extreme caution with their experiments as their access to the subject material was in extremely short supply. Any action leveled would need to be highly considered, and it’s cost-effective ratio weighed with intense scrutiny. They were fortunate enough to already possess the vehicle from which the projectile was launched. From these inferences and creative study, the team the General had assembled for this task were able to discern the specific requirements to make a cannon function. A cavity strong enough to withstand combustion and intense pressures. As well as a deliberate path of least resistance along which the heat and pressure generated from the burning of the blackpowder can escape. All they lacked was the ability to recreate the propellant that gave life to the deathly tools.

 

“I shall now expose the blackpowder to an ignition source, standby comrades.” Alren would strike a match head connected to an elongated wooden dowel. He was still quite wary of the reaction despite having witnessed first hand the material being ignited at the celebration for the Emperor’s return from Athera. With steady hands, he would draw the lit flame nearer to the workstation until eventually making contact. The powder set about the table quickly caught a spark of its own, rapidly spreading across the small piece of wax paper, leaving a wispy puff of smoke. As all those in the room observed, the reaction was significantly less violent than the volatite, certainly more controllable. It was apparent that substantially less energy was packed into a nearly equal quantity of this material that that of the former. However, what was most interesting to note was the strange similarity between the scent of undisturbed volatite and the spent remains of the blackpowder. The same sharp, acrid odor, yet in this less aggressive form, Alren found the smell to be quite pleasant.

 

Further experiments would be carried out to discover as many physical properties as could be determined with their limited knowledge. Alren allowed the others in his employ to try their hands and make use of a myriad of approaches to the problem. He took the time of idleness to mull over the results gathered, hoping to find something comparable in the ruined texts that were recovered in the Boomhill expedition. It had been a strange place to find such a document, amidst random vials of unknown crystals and substances. The majority of what was found was undoubtedly overshadowed by the series of events preceding it. Having to outsmart or battle multiple different brigand groups, then tangle with some unknown professional mercenary company, to end the day by slaying two massive winged beasts. While lost in thought, Ensign Ostromir would break away from his workstation and approach the General.

 

Alren had always been a little put off by the Ensign's demeanor, never seeming to be able to catch his eyes. What his comrade lacked in a desirable personality he made up for in their remarkable diligence to the arts of science. “General, I’ve been pouring over some of the pieces in the recovered manuscripts. It’s become painfully obvious to me that they are a collection of alchemical works, covering mostly mundane subjects in the field. I would say they belonged to a man of the craft who had likely kept all of their past works while they progressed the skill through the years. There is little in it that speaks to anything remarkable nor related to the current project at hand save a few pages. Much of the later works contained in the collection suggest the author had deteriorating mental facilities, so it’s slow work deciphering what they wrote down. I did find an interesting study on a particular substance which coincidentally was among the vials brought back from the expedition.” 

 

The ensign would hold up a glass container about the size of a loaf of bread stopped with a stained black cork. Inside jingled several chunks of some mineral that looked particularly like fresh snow that had been slightly discolored by soil. It was undoubtedly crystalline in structure as a thousand or more tiny surfaces reflected a diffused light at the observer as the rocks were moved about. On the cork stopped was a pointed symbol with a small diamond shape within it and trailing symbolic whisps to the right stamped into the top. “The author classified this substance as Nitre, claiming to have extracted it from a limestone cave in the arid plains to the South.” Alren would take the vial from his comrade, continuing to look at the little sparkles ejected by the curious tiny crystals. Somewhere else in the facility, another sharp crack could be heard followed by several metal objects hitting the ground- someone was playing with the volatite. The General would let out a slight sigh and hand the vial back to the Ensign as he searched for the source of the ruckus.
 

[Mirtok 2853]

~ The Firelands 1767 ~

 

Several years previously, a mission delivered by the Emperor himself was entrusted with the 4th brigade. At the time, the 4th was mostly new and still trying to find its footing among the standard framework of the Imperial State Army. It’s conception spawned from the need of a dedicated, highly trained, and fiercely loyal group of soldiers strictly beholden to the Emperor and his family. Not that any soldier of the ISA wasn’t devoted to his will, these specific individuals were expected to give much more than the common man when it came to their service. As such, undertakings of a more delicate or unorthodox nature usually found their way to Captain Swint and his brigade compatriots. This aforementioned mission certainly met that criteria

 

The more climactic series of events that occurred on this excursion were annoyingly unknown to the General. One would have thought that inclusion on all affairs relating to the ISA would be extended to Alren, considering his position. However, due to the personal interests of those involved and the disturbing nature of what was encountered, much had been omitted from the final report given by Swint. The gist of it all spoke of a hand-selected team, making a journey to the far South. A strange little peninsula that jutted off from the wild and untamed lands that so many fringe agents claimed minor holdings in. Back at that time, the air had been much cleaner than today. But the region had always been quite treacherous as molten rock appeared to seep out of every crevasse, and the ground was as if it were made of a thousand glassy black knives. The fire lands were what the laymen referred to them as, a fitting name for such an inhospitable place.

 

What was once of no particular interest to the General when the original report was given to him, spurred a fervent curiosity in him now. One of the 4th brigade agents that had accompanied them took note of the various sights, sounds, and smells- unrelated to the foe that would disturb their expedition further along the timeline. Alren thought to himself how pleasingly thorough his comrades had been in their record-keeping- a testament to the type of soldier that belonged in that brigade. Looking past the bubbling pools of lava, the echos throw off by rockslides due from the unstable ground, the blistering heat that permeated every inch of the landscape- this soldier had noticed a sharp, acrid scent. A smell that induced minor nausea and stung the soft tissues of his senses. Alren’s initial assumption after rereading through the account had pointed towards a likely new source of volatite. None in his employ knew of the material at the time, hence why no efforts were made to explore such- until now.

 

Alren held in his right hand a folded page from the soldier’s report. In the other, a stiff cup of coffee still releasing gentle wisps of vapor that spoke to the heat of the drink. His office in the Bastille had grown increasingly disheveled as more documents relating to the blackpowder project dominated the available surfaces. By the day's end, everything would be packaged up and transferred to the newly constructed manufactorum facilities at the Eye of Man. A solid knock at the door cut through the hustle and bustle leaking through the General's open window. Alren set the mug atop a growing tower of books before closing the window and making his way to greet his visitor.

 

At the door stood Major Swint, a man whom he had served with for his entire ISA career. Behind him, the 4th Brigades newest Captain, Oskar van Tirpitz. He beckoned both of them inside and gestured towards two open chairs.

 

“Major Swint, Captain Tirpitz. I’ve just been looking over some of your earlier adventures back when the covert aspects of your duties were in full effect. I find myself increasingly jealous of the glory earned. Though I can’t imagine it was glory unearned. This world is certainly filled with its fair share of disturbing villains. I’m glad capable men such as yourselves serve his Imperial Majesty.” Alren would chuckle to himself, twilling one end of his mustache as he reflected aloud. 

 

“I have a mission of my own that I would like to entrust with the 4th once more. A return trip to the fire lands in the South- I’m sure each of you are quite familiar. Instead of heading in to rid the area of fantastic creatures, I would ask instead for a keen eye. We require various material substances that I believe may occur naturally in the smoldering recesses of the Firelands. Your orders are to reenter the region and collect samples of any minerals or substances that appear greater than mundane and bring them to the Eye for further analysis. I’ll be attaching the 3rd brigade as well as some 1st Brigade volunteers to your team. Don’t get them killed.”

 

Without any hesitation, the two elite soldiers rose from their seats and issued salute to their superior officer. They had even spoken in perfect unison before departing from Alren office to assemble their forces for the mission.

 

“It shall be done, General.”
 

[Mirtok 2853]

~ The Rolling Hills of the Crownlands 1780 ~

 

Another half a decade had come and went. With it, an ever changing list of priorities and critical directives. Though work had never officially stopped on divulging the secrets of the “Blackpower Project” the resources dedicated to it slowly dwindled as the mysterious nature of the substance alluded so many. As well, the bright minds of the 5th Brigade one by one dimmed as conflict in the South had claimed so many lives in brutal fighting. The General, along with a dedicated team of comrades with no other purpose than to tinker, kept at the minatony of trial and error. New and strange substances were combined in a multitude of ways, all inspired by rotted and forgotten maniacal alchemical scribblings.

 

The time Alren could spend in the laboratories sunken well below the impenetrable stone of the Eye of Man became less and less. His attention and expertise were needed on the frontlines, directing the Empire’s forces far from the worktables of what had once been the premier undertaking of his regiment. The project seemed hopeless, some strange ulterior barrier had prevented any remarkable progress towards the end goal. Any mixture that was devised seemed to produce some energy but not nearly enough to match the explosive power of the ancient powders. The practical applications of any weapon they were able to produce were virtually non-existent, more so a party trick than a means to conduct brutal warfare like the times of old.

 

It was then in the midst of the bloody conflict with many foreign nations, as the skies above assailed the world with unknown anomalies, and horrific monstrosities spilled out from another plane of existence, that a remarkable breakthrough was made. The snowy General had retreated from the chaos in the world around him, once more to North-Easterly reaches of the Empire. The cool air of the territories, married with the silence of nature secluded from metropolitan exploitation had always been a great comfort to Alren. It had been some time since he spent any considerable presence in the manufactorum, not quite like it had been when the halls were flush with heated air from the many forges. The steady pinging of craftsmen at work, expanding the impressive supply of Imperial resources destined for the next area in which war reared its ugly head. But despite the time away, the work he had left had been carefully tended to and saved from decay by the astute Corporal Helson.

 

The aging DeNurem poured over the work of a much more energetic man he had once been, motivated by discovery. He remarked fondly of the satisfaction he had once gained from performing the tedious work of trial and error. His old notes, full of dead ends but surprisingly useful discoveries along the way, had gone on to progress the capabilities of the Imperial State Army in unintended ways. He eventually came upon the original record of his first trial with the ancient powder sample that had been compared to the initial iteration of a like substance. His mind drifted back to that time with a vivid detail of the decade old memory- that unmistakable sulfuric scent made for it’s recall effortless. And with a flash of brilliant epiphany, almost exactly like the flash in the pan from his memory, he had an idea.

 

“Oi, Corporal! Wheel in one of the ancient cannons and have some of the other Privates carry in a few rounds. Also, clear your desk out of the way or your thesis on Wonk blood won’t be much more than a hole in the wall!”

 

From above, recruits and cadets in the 2nd Brigade had been running laps along the perimeter of the fortification. Under the booming commands of Captain Othaman and the metaphorical whip of his dauntless commandants, the proceeding of the day's basic training had continued uninterrupted. That was until an eruption of sound vibrated the ground from beneath their feet, causing some of the newest recruits to lose their footing. All in attendance looked around for the source of the noise. Was it perhaps an attack? Had the Inferi Demons actually managed to insert forces so far from their incursion point? A small column of grey smoke plumbed from an opening in the great grey keep of the Eye. The visage of a familiar silhouette emerged from within as well, casually walking through the unknown smoke. The voice of the General called out over the courtyard . . .

 

“Fear not comrades! Those rumblings were not the allusions of your death, far from it in fact. They are indeed the allusions of death for any who might find themselves at odds with the Empire and her allies. Rejoice brothers and sisters, for we now can wield the ancient weapon of our ancestors. We have reentered into an age of fire! We are Blackpowder Blessed!”

 

Spoiler