The Primarch Keeps Breaking Things

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> It's the hot new meme
> It's what the cool kids do, old man!
> You can't distract me Barth who was that cutie you were mackin' on?

You play your clumsiness off as deliberate, pocketing your comm with a condescending chuckle.

"Have you even been on the Internexus in the past century? Nobody catches anything with their hands anymore."

He seems vaguely affronted. "Exactly how old do you imagine I am?"

"Too old to be cool." You reach up and give Barth's shoulder a sympathetic pat. That's right. Derail, derail, derail. "But never mind my sick moves—who's the cutie you're mackin' on over there?"

Barth pulls back some, looking the closest to scandalized you've ever seen him.

"I don't know what that means, but it sounds incredibly improper." He composes himself before you can snap an embarrassing picture. Dangit. "She's a tourist, native to this world, though she claims the Cervo population is sparse here."

"Ooh, OK. So there's nobody else to hit on."

Barth pointedly ignores you. "I'm told we landed amid preparations for a 'First of Summer' festival. She'll be partaking in the annual treasure hunt later this morning."

"Uh huh. But what's her name? Don't tell me you didn't get the lady's name."

Barth hesitates. You're having way too much fun ribbing Tall, Antlered, and Boring here. You're the least popular person at Madam Diavla's Academy of Chronospatial Magic, but you can sure pretend like you know a thing or two about girls. Which you don't. Not yet, anyway.

"It didn't occur to me." Barth glances at the Cervo, who waves daintily with her fingers when their eyes meet. 

Hmph. Seems he got more useful information out of her than you did from the old woman you made a proper fool of yourself before. Should you take advantage of her friendliness? Or would you rather figure things out on your own?

You weren't lying about the time discrepancies between this world and yours. You have all the time in the megaverse to mess around.

>_

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Haha, thanks btp! I was worried the lack of consistent art might be a strike against it, so that's relieving.

>Offer to get drinks for everyone, generosity creates loose lips but no ships, as the old saying goes.

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Woop, can't edit font colors on my tablet. Bolded text it is.

> Offer to get drinks for everyone, generosity creates loose lips but no ships, as the old saying goes

You'll need to make at least one friend in this dimension if you're gonna fix Elana's focus. Why not start with the obvious choice?

"Buy her a drink," you suggest. "We'll use my allowance. After a little flattering, maybe she'll like you enough to point us at someone who can fix this."

You gesture with the once-baton for emphasis. Dried sap flakes from your fingers.

"I suppose you didn't tell Elana you melted her wand?"

"Ha, no. I like being alive." You shove him in the woman's general direction. "C'mon, move it. You ask her out."

* * * *

Gaining the woman's favour takes zero effort. Not a second after Barth invites her to brunch, the woman suggests a menu, a diner, and the quickest route there. You just wish Barth hadn't introduced himself as your 'sitter', too.

"You can't visit Eryl without trying the festival specials at least once," she says, wedging herself between you and Barth on the way through town square. Her long lashes flutter. "I was thinking of eating soon anyway. You always want to eat before a competition, right?"

"Yeah," you say. Not that she cares. You wish she'd elaborate on this treasure hunt instead of making, ha, doe eyes at Barth... but inviting her out was your idea, and the consequences yours to bear.

---

Now, what was this woman's name, again? And why's she so pumped about festival games?

>_

> Her name is also Elana.

> It's where prospective suitors fight for their lives while searching for clues leading to prizes and affection. She just got a entry.

> Her name is also Elana.

> It's where prospective suitors fight for their lives while searching for clues leading to prizes and affection. She just got a entry.

>Yes, let's make this story as confusing as possible!

>She's so pumped about festival games because she's the grand champion several years running.

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> Her name is also Elana.
> She's so pumped about festival games because she's the grand champion several years running.

Maripaz' Diner is a modest affair, tucked between an Elvish apothecary and a used-books store. Barth holds the door open for doe-Elana—you're not being racist with that label, by the way, just practical—and you squeeze through before he lets go.

"Barely anyone comes here outside festival season, but the food's just uh-may-zing." She ushers you and Barth toward a booth by the window, and gracefully slides into place beside him. You end up alone on the opposite side of the table. Wow, these booths are wide. "Sorry, what's your name again? Chris? I think it's so funny that your sister and I share the same name."

"Yep, funny."

You force a smile for this bubbly creature, whose physique and personality seem mismatched. She's six feet of lean meat and muscle you wouldn't want to bother. Sweet face aside, doe-Elana looks like she could punch everyone in this room into another galaxy, and have energy to spare for gryphon wrestling.

"So-o, are you guys gonna watch any of the events?" Doe-Elana smiles at Barth, whose expression hasn't changed once in the past fifteen minutes. "You know, I'll be doing the treasure hunt again this year. I'm looking forward to punching another couple skyboars in the throat."

For whatever reason, you're not surprised. If Barth is, it doesn't show.

"Do you participate often?" he asks. Doe-Elana's eyes shine.

"Grand champion three years running." She tugs down the collar of her top, exposing part of a pale scar beneath the left wing of her clavicle. "I've been up close and personal with everything in the Maze. None of 'em lived to regret it."

"That sounds terrifying," you say.

"Nah, not really."

"I meant for the monsters."

"In that case, oh yes." The bloodthirsty glint in doe-Elana's eyes catch you off-guard. "It's worth it, though. You know what the grand prize is for clearing the Maze?"

"... Is it a wand?"

She blinks. "Wha? No. Something way better than a glorified twig. It's...."

>_

>coupon to applebees

>It's - Monty Python's Flying Circus *cue theme song*

or

>It's a fairly valuable novelty item usually offered as a prize for earlier mentioned festival games.

A trip outside.

>Video games?

>Money. LOTS of money. Enough that this woman hasn't had to hold any kind of regular job for years because she basically makes an occupation of winning this prize.

This year is a Galaxy Ball.

A Render's Egg, but she's never had any real use for those so she sells it and sends the much-appreciated money home to the extended family

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> A Render's Egg, but she's never had any real use for those, so she sells it and sends the much-appreciated money home to the extended family
> This woman hasn't had to hold any kind of regular job for years because she basically makes an occupation of winning this prize.

"It's a Render's Egg," doe-Elana says, antler bells tinkling when she leans in for emphasis. "Real, not synthetic. Yanked straight from the chrysalisk mines up in Pyll Rise. They give 'em to you wrapped in lindworm leather—apparently it keeps the spirit trapped in there calm. Did you know that? I had no idea."

"That's crazy," you exclaim. Several of Maripaz' patrons glance your way. "Aren't Render's Eggs too rare to just give away at a festival? Only nine or ten ever exist at a time, unless someone cheats and tweaks the world seed, but even then it's just--"

Barth kicks you from under the table.

"Uh, nevermind. Sorry for talking over you. You were saying?"

While doe-Elana tilts her head, wearing a puzzled smile, you give yourself a mental slap. The first rule of pandimensional travel: Don't talk about pandimensional travel. That goes triple for anyone from the Circles. Quadruple for a Primarch.

"...It makes sense they'd be that rare, though, considering the price. Haven't had a proper job in years. I auction mine off and send the money home to the herd, like a good girl." Doe-Elana seems willing to pretend you didn't just startle twenty people with impassioned nonsense. "I didn't know Render's Eggs ate seeds, though! How does that work? They don't have mouths."

Barth orders food on all your behalf while doe-Elana rests her chin in her hand, awaiting a reply. Wow, this talk veered way off course. Never mind seeds—Render's Eggs don't eat at all!

You want to steer the conversation in a useful direction, but you suspect dismissing doe-Elana's curiosity might hurt your budding relationship. Fighter types are always more perceptive than they appear.

Gahh. What do?

>_

"They're terms of a card game I'm obsessed with. Render's Eggs are the rarest cards you can get, only 9 or 10 in the world. The Seeds is what we card fanatics call the rules. What were you talking about?!"

>Try and steer the conversation in a way that makes her think it's her idea. Be a puppet master. Discretely, of course.

>Try and steer the conversation in a way that makes her think it's her idea. Be a puppet master. Discretely, of course.

You really want to do this but-OH MY GOSH THIS FOOD IS SO GOOD-you seem to be having trouble - OHMNOMNOM - keeping your mouthways clear of obstructions

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> "They're terms of a card game I'm obsessed with. Render's Eggs are the rarest cards you can get, only 9 or 10 in the world. The Seeds is what we card fanatics call the rules. What were you talking about?!"

> OH MY GOSH THIS FOOD IS SO GOOD-you seem to be having trouble - OHMNOMNOM - keeping your mouthways clear of obstructions

You feign confusion. A server arrives with three plates of something you don't recognize, but that scent--oh, wow. You almost forget about doe-Elana's question, the stuff smells so good.

"No no, they're terms of a card game I'm obsessed with." That's right, talk nerdy to her. Doe-Elana doesn't seem the type. Barth starts cutting into his fried whatever; you and doe-Elana follow.

"Render's Eggs are literally the rarest cards in the world." You take a bite, and your tastebuds ascend to Heaven."Oh wow, what's in this sausage? I mean, sorry, only 9 or 10 Render's Eggs were ever produced. The Seeds—the sausage's stuffed? Is this spiced cheese? I love stuffed anything, alright, but this is something else. Where was I? Right, Seeds. That's what we hardcore players call the rules. I—OK, OK, we gotta stop here, I cannot believe how good this breakfast is."

You dab grease from your mouth with a paper napkin. Doe-Elana laughs, bells chiming along, and reaches over to wipe excess from your chin. You've heard that Cervo don't quite understand personal bubbles. Barth's the exception what proves the rule. 

"There we go. Didn't I say? Uh-may-zing." Satisfied with your reaction, she turns to her primary point of interest. "What about you? You've been a little quiet, Bartholomew."

The conversation's in his ball park now. You mouth 'we've got priorities' between bites of paradise, and for better or worse, trust him to care more for sister-Elana's baton than flirting.

* * *

For now, you're the bodyguard. The relationship between the future Primarchs doesn't concern you.

If pressed for an opinion, you'd say 'Chris' should've saved himself a dozen pointless side quests and told Miss Elana what happened with the wand. She's got a fearsome temper, but she'll forgive him eventually. You suspect these shenanigans with the doe will lead you further from a resolution to their teenage drama—but what does Chris care? You're 'old and uncool'.

The doe bats her lashes, pulling you from your thoughts. Ah, yes. She wants your opinion on breakfast.

"Far be it from me to interrupt your conversation. The food's delightful—we owe you for the recommendation."

"Oh, gosh. You don't owe me anything."

She gives you a playful nudge. Cervo cultural norms press you to return it, and you do, but barely. You lost most attachment to Cervo customs after the incident that stripped you of your title and banished you to the Fourth Ring, where you now spend your days escorting an adolescent warp mage across timespace.

- - - -

Who were you and what did you do to deserve this, if you deserve it at all?

>_

You tried to go even beyond a god and almost succeeded.

There's a place that used to be a town, and is now a chunk of spacetime where the space has torn itself apart from the time

>The most heinous of all crimes; you removed a "do not remove under penalty of law" tag from a mattress WHILE jaywalking.

>The most heinous of all crimes; you removed a "do not remove under penalty of law" tag from a mattress WHILE jaywalking.

want

> You inadvertently helped a malevolent organisation spearheaded by your old rival. There was enough proof that you had connections to them, so you were found guilty. You used to be the advisor of some higher ups, but the authority turned on you quickly. They never particularly cared for your company. You spent a couple years absorbed in anger at the unfairness of it all, but now all you really feel is apathy.

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> There's a place that used to be a town, and is now a chunk of spacetime where the space has torn itself apart from the time

> You used to be the advisor of some higher-ups, but the authority turned on you quickly. They never particularly cared for your company. You spent a couple years absorbed in anger at the unfairness of it all, but now all you really feel is apathy

"But never mind me," continues the doe. "I did enough talking for all of us just now. What about you guys? How d'you bring home your bacon?"

"M' in school," Chris says through a mouthful of rice. "Senior year. Barth's—can someone hand me my glass? Thanks—a mystery, though. What do you do with your life?"

Even though it's all role-playing, the question makes you flinch. Once upon a time, you'd have been proud to answer in earnest.

(Lucian Galtia-Sipset, First Adviser to Demiarchs Ermond and Ysavel Breen of the Second Ring of Netherym. Self-taught, officially licensed master of chronospatial magic. A hair's breadth away from unearthing the secret to a malleable universe; you'll see.)

"Are you OK, Bartholomew?" The doe again, bells jingling. "Don't be shy! I washed dishes at three different diners for four years, and all of them sucked. What do you do?"

You want to reply, but your body and mind are fifteen years and two Rings apart.

(Experts call the pocket reality where Blackmont Village once stood, 'SCR-01'. You don't know what that means. Blackmont was the culmination of your life's work, and even once you were in exile, they wouldn't explain.)

"Barth? Hello?"

"Gosh, is this a sensitive question? I'll back off. You don't have to—"

"Ah." Your consciousness snaps back to the present. "I breed warhounds when I'm not babysitting Chris."

He and the doe look equally surprised. Their matching faces are a welcome distraction, and you top up your teacup with the provided kettle.

"I wanted to ask you something, but I'd forgotten. I remember now. Elana," her ears flick forward when you use her name, "Where would one go about replacing a focus in this town?"

You sense the relief rolling off Chris in waves. No, for all your disinterest, you didn't really forget.

"A focus? Like, for magic?" She lifts a puzzled eyebrow. "I don't know how the regulations work where you're from, but in Eryl..."

- - - -

Looks like they don't sell magic items around these parts. Why not?

>_

They're fearful. Recently, a couple places nearby have been completely razed by some poor sods with plenty of potential but no brains to speak of.