The quiet hum of mechanisms. Ahead, the howl of engines breaks through. Behind—the Umformer and the gyroscope mechanism. I could have removed them entirely with magic, but this is better, more illustrative. If anything happens, I'll be the first to know by the absence of noise.
The steady chime of the radar and the beep of systems whose indicators are reflected on the inner surface of the helmet as illusions. The air inside the helmet is cool; I specifically worked on the circulation. The bridge room is quite bright; the sun penetrates through the panoramic window with open shutters, but not too much—the polarization is on. However, for an elf, the lighting is quite sufficient.
I'm bored in the pilot's seat. It's large, leather, and soft enough that one could even sleep in it if desired. Sleeping is not allowed; after all, piloting is an important matter; the process must be controlled. Fortunately, everything necessary is projected onto the inner surface of the helmet, so I don't have to sit in one position for hours. But I'm frankly bored, and flipping over, I just lay down, putting my bare feet on the back of the chair, and tossed my hat onto one of the chairs. And my boots are just lying nearby. I can even conduct a battle in this position as long as the shield holds and the Pepelats isn't being tossed around.
What's happening outside? Nothing at all. We're flying over the ocean, and outside, absolutely nothing is happening. No birds, no dragons, no whales or large fish. There's nothing; no one to shoot at. No, of course, I could go lower, to the very edge of the water, to attract attention. And there, local inhabitants might even try to eat us or Nagas might try to shoot us down. Nagas, by the way, are Night Elves altered by the ancient god N'Zoth, I think, led by Queen Azshara, turned into snake-furries. They don't like land-dwellers. They'll definitely try to kill us, or maybe feed us to someone.
And since we're talking about elves from the times of the ancient empire, I don't want to test the armor's strength and the difference in magical potentials. That's why we're flying at a decent altitude, so those fish-faces don't even get the idea to shoot at us, and squids don't grab us with their tender little tentacles.
Venidan and Dartaola are sitting a floor below. I know this for sure; for some time now, I've turned the Manhacks into mobile cameras. I'm going to expand the Pepelats anyway, which means I should see to protection against uninvited guests on board. Search and destroy systems. And the ability to just look around without exposing myself personally. But for now, it's not relevant—peeking at those around me. Not out of malice, just out of boredom.
Venidan, lost in herself, is doing kata. At first, I was very surprised, thinking she was dancing. But looking closer, I realized. These slow, fluid movements aren't just some dance. It's a complex of difficult exercises, each of which ends with the imaginary death of someone invisible. But it's beautiful. I've seen her in battle many times, but I didn't even suspect she could do it so mesmerizingly. I even made it look like the Manhack was just patrolling and flying around every corner to watch longer. The elven woman ignored the machine, more occupied with herself. And I'm interested!
Dartaola set up a small altar of Holy in the former sheep cell; we don't go there anyway. If I understood the essence of her problem correctly, the Paladin had a crisis of faith. Because the magical hunger touched her too. And the necromancy was poisoning her. Holy did not protect. Well, theology isn't my strong suit; besides, Dartaola herself is older than Venidan and me combined, so I shouldn't meddle in that. She'll figure it out herself.
The crow is sitting in the corner, eating something. The Magister doesn't control his familiar; it's obvious from the bird's behavior. He has a lot to do too; he can't entertain me around the clock, I understand that. Ultimately, in the end, he turned out to be involved in the political movement, strictly ordering us not to interfere and generally not to show up where the elves had gathered.
He explained this on the very first day:
"It is not worth you appearing there, apprentice. There will be many who are displeased with you."
I clarified then:
"In what specific way, Magister? Ill-wishers? The aesthetic patrol?" — I had repeatedly heard complaints about the design of the Pepelats.
The Mage waved it off.
"Right now, those are trifles, apprentice. But quite a few are aware of what you have done. And they will certainly show interest. As you understand, I would not be able to shield you from everyone. Until Kalimdor is scouted and Teleport points are established, they won't reach you there. This is useful for you as well; you'll be able to assess the situation and perhaps extract some benefit. Do you understand?"
It couldn't be clearer.
"Of course, Teacher. We will head to Kalimdor on a direct course. Of course, a small repair wouldn't hurt, but it's not that bad. We'll make it; if anything happens, I'll jettison the extra compartments."
I fulfilled the requirement, naturally. There was too much sense in all of this. And so it happened that we all settled into different parts of the Pepelats, each busy with our own business. To avoid bothering anyone, I literally live on the bridge, fortunately, the bathroom is right behind the wall in the technical zone. And I'm the first to hear news from the Teacher when he finally takes control of the familiar. I can't read; for that, I'd have to turn off most of the helmet's indicators so they don't interfere. In the process of piloting, yeah.
To keep from dying of boredom, all that's left is to sing:
Kote!
Kandosii sa ka'rota, Vode an.
Coruscanta a'den mhi, Vode an.
Bal kote, darasuum kote,
Jorso'ran kando a tome.
Sa kyr'am nau tracyn kad, Vode an…
Kandosii sa ka'rota, Vode an.
Coruscanta a'den mhi, Vode an.
Bal…
Motir ca'tra nau tracinya.
Gra'tua cuun hett su dralshy'a.
Aruetyc talyc runi'la solus cet o'r!
Motir ca'tra nau tracinya.
Gra'tua cuun hett su dralshy'a.
Aruetyc talyc runi'la trattok'o!
Sa kyr'am nau tracyn kad, Vode an!
In the helmet, it sounds quite authentic. Although I still haven't painted the cloak—nothing to do it with. So boooored! I can't even get started on assembly. Not because I'm afraid of bothering the others, but because the Pepelats took damage during the explosion of The Sunwell. Not critical—the core is fine—but the external, detachable compartments took a hit. Two were simply torn off, and the workshop is damaged. Until we fix it, I'll be limited to theory and blueprints.
I popped a mana crystal into my mouth, pulling it over with telekinesis. The energy in the Umformer will last another six months; one of the rooms is literally packed with crates of various junk. The Guard dragged in all sorts of trash; all I have to do is shove it into crates and remember to toss it into the furnace. As Sidorovich used to say: "You might as well have collected tin cans." And they would have, if they emitted necromancy. As it is, I have hearts, staves, amulets, and other scum by the pound in there. I yawned.
It's fine, just a couple more hours of boredom until the Magister is free, and then I can listen to the latest news.
"Boredom! As Muradin used to say: what is there to do?"
I looked around for at least something to mess around with. Maybe work as a commentator? No one can hear me anyway.
"And so. A transcontinental flight!" I proclaimed, peering intently into the cameras.
Ocean all around, no shore in sight, only ocean and nothing else.
"An epic event with epic views!"
I jumped up and, slapping my bare feet on the cold deck, walked over to the observation window. Maybe I'd see something interesting that way.
"Well, why not? Who else could boast of commenting on something like this?! So... On the left, we see mighty waves. The ocean is restless, playing with the crests of its watery muscles!" Yes, I'm messing around, but what else is there to do?! "On the right, we see... the same waves... Ahead... Waves... Behind... Khem." I had imagined this a bit more epically... But external cameras aren't everything. Heh-heh. Our "Magister"... is pecking at feed. The ammunition depot... Stable. The refrigerator... Working. Venidan... is definitely dancing now. The factory... Waiting. Dartaola... Meditating. The Generator... Producing...
Everything looks exactly as it did six hours ago. And at the start of the shift. Not funny.
I walked along the panoramic window, searching the blue of the ocean for anything to comment on. Maybe a whale or some other interesting creature. Supposedly, Pandaren sail on huge turtles, literally the size of an island. Maybe we'll meet one, along with the furry ones? Or someone's ship? A sea monster? Anddd no, nothing, no huge turtles. Well, that's a shame. I switched to the Manhack patrolling the living area.
Wait, stop... Back up, back up! Veni is doing what?!
"I certainly didn't expect views this epic."
She's flowing like a stream in her modest little apartment. A splash, and the armor comes off. A fluid step, and her clothes scatter like spray. Another pirouette, and her graceful chest heaves like waves.
In a mix of shame and admiration, I hastily turned off the broadcast, trying with all my might not to blush in the process...
"And it turns out she can do that, too..."
Catching my breath, curiosity won out after all. I returned to the viewing just as the Ranger made another smooth step and was covered by a sheet snatched from the bed.
A second of silence while she froze like a graceful statue. And a new maneuver. The fabric surged in a Maelstrom, momentarily revealing patches of bare skin. Teasing and mesmerizing. This lasted for several more minutes while I studied this masterpiece, greedily soaking in the details. Noting to myself that it would be good to add a recording function as well. Finally, my Friend dove like a fish into the bed. And curved intricately, posing on it now. Okay, fine, and beyond that is definitely none of my business.
I don't think she needs to know about this. And if she doesn't know, no one is the worse for it, right? And as for me... when I grow up, I'll enter decent society. And a good, noble Elf should be able to dance and play something. And I can do neither the first nor the second; I simply haven't had the time to learn. And this dance will clearly not be something from the category of "human ballrooms." I haven't been there, but I've seen the statues. And judging by the statues, it will be something much more uninhibited. And simply, it's just interesting! So I'm not peeping; I'm learning from a professional. Yes!
Without putting it off, I dashed to the table. While the memory is fresh—it's simply criminal not to capture this! Am I an Elf or not, after all. Fixing beauty is in our blood! Her cunning pirouettes. Her movements, superb in their complexity. And how she played with the sheet... Almost fractal viewing windows. Perfect kinematics...
Well, seriously! Knowing this is definitely useful for me. Making sure no one was looking and that the raven was behaving like a raven, I tried to repeat a few dance moves. It turned out so-so, but in the end, no one sees, right? And if so, why be embarrassed. Especially since I'm not essentially training, but just doing all sorts of silly things without rhythm or meaning. Exactly, I'm just having fun. And finally! I want to be beautiful, too!
"And one, one-two, one-two. A turn, the crane, a bow, hand over the waves..." repeating the gestures from memory, checking against the drawings, I tried to copy her movements.
To make it more comfortable, I took off everything extra that restricted movement, leaving only the helmet to monitor the indicators. I know I look like a bull in a china shop right now, but so what? First, I'm dancing only for myself. Second, no one sees. The raven doesn't see, right? It's not even looking. And third, it's useless to ask Veni. If she hasn't shown that she can dance until now, what are the chances she'll teach me? I don't think they're high.
I don't know how much time passed, but it flew by unnoticed, and I exhaled, trying to breathe more evenly. I've completely lost the habit of physical exertion, oof. Though it's quite fun. A warm-up, and I just like moving to the music in my head, even if it's without purpose, meaning, or any skill. Besides, a shower is within walking distance.
"Warming up? Wise, though not entirely rational."
I practically jumped, forming a circle of Magical Arrows. But it was just the raven, clearly having gained the master's mind. Good thing he only returned now.
"Have you been here long, Teacher?"
The raven seemed offended.
"Less than a minute," the Magister replied immediately, "do not worry, apprentice, I have no desire to intrude upon your personal space. I do not sneak around, nor do I suffer from voyeurism. How are things on the Pepelats?"
I took the opportunity to change the subject with great pleasure. Still, it's so good the Magister can't see how much I've blushed. My cheeks are burning, my heart is pounding. But he is tactful enough not to ask stupid questions. So what if I played around a bit. I had to kill time anyway.
But now it will be interesting. The Magister is now our source of news from the "mainland." The very one where I am not allowed.
"Same as this morning, Magister. Nothing new. No enemies, no guests, no targets flying by. Nothing at all. We're heading straight on course for Lady Proudmoore's beacon. A couple more days and we'll catch up; everything is on schedule. And what is the news from Alah'Thalas?"
This is a major port in the south of Quel'Thalas, literally on the border with Lordaeron. As I understood it, when the explosion of The Sunwell occurred, the survivors fled there en masse. The port allows for logistics, plus there are plenty of those who wish to escape to a safe place. I think this port can now be called our new, temporary capital. The raven, rustling its wings, flew onto the back of the pilot's seat.
"Good, apprentice. As for the Council... the rift is widening. The positions of the factions are defined, but there is no unity even close. Everyone has their own interests; the Prince's positions... are rather shaky."
Oh, this news appeared the day before yesterday. We didn't fly in there ourselves, on the Magister's advice. But the Elves have begun to split into factions, each of which has its own vision of the future.
The loyalists of Kael'thas Sunstrider. Under normal conditions, he, as the Prince, would have become the unquestioned leader of our people. Birthright, and His Highness's magical potential is such that he categorically cannot be underestimated. And he can strike in close combat, too; he's trained in swordsmanship.
His proposal is to lead the troops into the lands of Lordaeron, to Dalaran. In the hope that the mages, freed from the Scourge troops, will help with the magic thirst. But the very idea of crawling into a new battle, and for the humans who did not come to help, right after barely escaping a death match... appeals to few. And never mind that the attack was sudden, and the mages capable of transferring an army to the walls of Silvermoon are quite few. And those who exist are not always welcome. The main thing is—help did not come when it was necessary. For many, that's enough.
The conservatives of Sylvanas Windrunner decided that they need to win back their native land and restore the kingdom, now that the Undead have left. These have two global problems at once—magic thirst and the need to go into battle. Obviously, this will lead to supply problems, at least initially. It's not very clear how the local fauna will handle the destruction of The Sunwell, from which it drew power. But the humans can go to hell.
On her side are many Magisters, including Magister Umbric, who decided to seek a solution in magic.
And then there's the pacifist faction. These primarily want to go live somewhere where there will be no war and no Undead. To Stormwind, Khaz Modan, it doesn't matter. The main thing is that there's no war and they can live their lives. And all the statements and demands of the militarists are deeply irrelevant to them. True, they don't have a solution to the thirst problem either.
There is no full-fledged leader, but there is a representative—Vereesa Windrunner. Sylvanas's sister, yeah. Who arrived along with the Alliance ships, brought humanitarian aid and, in general, help. Which dealt quite a blow to the positions of both Kael'thas's and Sylvanas's factions. Because the Alliance, specifically the Kingdom of Stormwind, came to the Elves' aid. And suggested they return with them, where else. And so, discord and wavering ensued. I just threw up my hands.
"Unsurprising, Teacher. Most of the Elves perished. And the survivors are not always ready to rush into battle. Especially when there's no connection to The Sunwell and they need magic."
The raven suddenly hopped from the back of the chair to the armrest, looking into the helmet's visor.
"The reason I sent you away. At today's meeting, your role in everything that happened was revealed to the masses. Your entire, full role. The effect was... interesting, apprentice."
What? Why? How? We weren't going to show ourselves. Either my questions were obvious anyway, or I said them out loud, but the Magister replied:
"It's all about the Umformer. The Ranger-General's faction presented a report on this device, as well as the benefits of this mechanism for the restoration of Quel'Thalas. Nothing surprising; we didn't hide it. And among the military, there were enough witnesses to its operation. You yourself transported resources every day; many saw it. There are also plenty of those who knew more. From rumors or from witnesses. And this machine was remembered as a partial solution to the problem of magic thirst. It was remembered by the Chancery. And they wished to obtain it, one way or another."
A very shitty thought visited me. After all, a teacher is responsible for their apprentice; those are the rules, those are the traditions. The achievements of apprentices are the reputation of their teacher. But this works both ways.
"Magister..."
"I am fine," the raven immediately informed me, "this is too brazen even for them. In the end, I sincerely do not know where you are. And they do not know about the familiar. Plus, they expect me to try to teleport to you or contact you in some other way; they'll be able to track that. In any case, as long as you are over the ocean, it's not a problem. But that's not all."
I take it it's going to get even worse, right? Well, they couldn't just stop at that.
"I'm listening, Magister."
The raven hesitated but returned to the back of the chair.
"The Chancery of His Highness Kael'thas Sunstrider, in response, revealed your involvement in the destruction of the Sunwell. Somewhat increasing the power of the weapon and downplaying the effects of the Sunwell's explosion. They brought up your age. And insisted on the necessity of preemptive oversight, 'for the sake of public safety.' This project was supported by all sides, though they haven't decided who should 'oversee.' From the point of view of our laws—the Prince's government apparatus. After all, you are not in service. But the others won't back off so easily either. You are wanted, Davilinia. Officially."
Wow, what news. Saved Quel'Thalas, they call it. No, I suspected there would be consequences, but this? I would have clutched my head, but there's a helmet on it. Are they completely insane there, or what? And this, it seems, I definitely said out loud.
"Not at all, apprentice," the Magister replied, "I believe that even in the event of capture, there will be no consequences. It's just that the lords mages do not wish for such power to exist in the world uncontrolled. And for the next missile not to strike their tower. I don't think anyone intends to harm you. We are Elves; we have more than enough powerful mages. Another matter is powerful and uncontrolled mages."
Yeah, yeah.
"And everyone just up and accepted this?"
The raven croaked; it seemed to be a laugh.
"Not at all, apprentice. But our society is fragmented. A destroyed Sunwell, a lost capital. Everyone has those who did not survive what happened. The Elves need someone to blame for what occurred. And even if the fact that you destroyed both the Sunwell and the capital looks quite fantastic, the Umformer is another matter. This machine has many witnesses. Rumors. And a purpose. It gives hope to ordinary Elves and angers them with its inaccessibility. A cure for the ailment they are deprived of."
I understood.
"They think I ran away. Doomed those who stayed, and am to blame for it."
"Correct," the Magister replied immediately, "the Elves are suffering, while the creator of a valuable mechanism has vanished, enjoying comfort. If the blame of the nobility is obvious in the loss of our great Silvermoon, then what happened here, the ailment that struck us from the Sunwell Corruption, it changes everything. The voices of the rich and poor sound in unison, demanding to find, return, and take you under control. Put you in the service of society. Fear rules them, apprentice. Different, multifaceted, but fear."
I sighed heavily, crushed by the news.
"I'm suddenly reminded of the Guardian of Tirisfal."
"There is more sense in that than it might seem," the teacher easily agreed, "given the known history, the Kirin Tor always wished to control its creation. I agree, it looks similar. In any case, it is currently undesirable to appear in the Eastern Kingdoms. I had to make sure you understand this. Unless, of course, you intend to end up at someone's court without the possibility of leaving it. That is the most likely future, given the situation."
I don't just understand it; I want to swear like a sailor. There are simply no words. Simply none.
"I need to clear my head, Teacher. This is too much hassle per unit of time. I... will look for an island. Lie on the sand, not thinking about anything."
The Magister didn't argue, and I set about searching for an island where I could de-stress. Generally, if you think about it, everything isn't particularly bad. Technically, it will be quite difficult to pin me down in the territory of the Eastern Kingdoms. I don't think that if a random Elven aristocrat demands my arrest and handover to him, the humans will comply. At least not before he pays them well.
There's also the territory of the Dwarves and Gnomes. And there, the main thing is not to run into trouble; the chances of a successful capture by kin will exist, but they aren't guaranteed. Though they still threw problems my way, the bastards.
What other pluses could there be? Well, the Legend. I want a legend for myself to gain conceptual weight and whip up a phantasm? I do. And such a cataclysm, however you look at it, is truly Legendary. Oh, almost forgot. Public address:
"Attention crew. Our flying rattle-trap is preparing to land on a deserted island. A day off is declared, featuring sea, sun, and beach."
To the Elves' credit, they were on the bridge in two minutes, including the previously not-so-dressed Venidan, who managed to get into her uniform in a minute. If I didn't know, I'd never have guessed she could dress that fast.
"What happened?" the Rogue demanded from the doorway, "the answer 'nothing' won't work; I know you too well."
Well, I told them what. And the Magister added to it. Venidan swore so much I wanted to write it down. It seems she's a girl of many talents, most of which she carefully hides. And I continue to search for an island for landing. Something with excellent sandy beaches.
"Amazing, kid," finally calming down, the Rogue uttered, "you're the youngest criminal in our people's history. Congratulations. But seriously, this is a mess; I'm completely with you on that. And with the Magister that the further we are from these 'masters of life,' the safer. Dartaola?"
We all turned to the Paladin. She snorted, looking back sternly.
"I am against injustice, in any case. And this—is unjust. One way or another, someone must look after you. And it seems I'll have to be the one. Considering that everyone involved has successfully forgotten about your upbringing."
The Magister rustled, moving onto the tactical table. He uses illusions, and the raven can walk freely on it. Dartaola turned to him as well.
"I have something to say to you too, Magister. Effectively, you have left two children without supervision. The younger one spends a mass of time in the workshop, feeding on Alchemy stimulants and mana crystals. No physical exercise, no dancing, no skills required of a decent girl. Her design abilities—a separate drama. This metal box is hideous!"
I couldn't stand such insolence.
"The Pepelats saved us all. Show some respect."
But the Paladin only flashed her eyes.
"I find the capabilities of this machine more than worthy. It has many saved lives to its credit; that is completely indisputable. But its design—is hideous. Like Goblin machinery! And I am more than certain: had you a deeper understanding of art, this would not have happened!"
I tried to interrupt this "mommy." Because it's brazen.
"And when am I supposed to do that? I don't spend a mass of time in the workshop out of a good life, Dartaola. It's a rational use of time."
"You aren't twenty-five, Davilinia," she countered sharply, "you are a child. Something everyone around seems to have forgotten. Including you, Magister; it's immediately obvious—a man. And you've never raised girls. She should be instilled with a whole list of skills that will be useful in later life and which everyone, it seems, has decided to ignore."
The Rogue giggled, and the Teacher seemed slightly embarrassed. But the Paladin, having found a Second Wind, wasn't finished yet. She heard the laughter and turned.
"Now, Venidan. What kind of example are you setting for your younger comrade? Alcohol, debauchery, you prepare stimulants for her. I am simply amazed by such an attitude."
However, she found no understanding in the Rogue. Let them argue; well, I finally found us a place to land. An atoll—a chain of islands forming a circle, left in place of an ancient volcano. A sandy beach, some rocks, a couple of dozen palms, and no visible fauna.
The Magister thought the same, returning to the chair and looking through the windshield as the ship made a ring over the atoll.
"A good place. What will you do?"
I shrugged.
"I need to think. Change the environment. I've never been to places like this. All this... I expected something like it, but not this fast, not this sharply and radically."
The Magister hummed.
"As I said, no one intends to specifically arrest you; that's quite obvious. All this—is just a justification for why you specifically should be caught, wherever you appear. So that no one gets the idea to help a dangerous, unconstrained psycho."
I didn't wave my arms—I'm piloting—but I snorted.
"Let them go to hell. Some 'kin' they are."
"That's usually how it works," the Magister unexpectedly agreed.
Noticing my gaze turned to the bird, the Magister added:
"Politics. Your invention has become an instrument of power, and the Players wished to have it for themselves. It may be unpleasant, but it is how power works. If you want my opinion, apprentice..."
He paused, clearly giving me the chance to ask. Or not to ask. I would have liked to say no, would have liked to just lie on the sand and think, but... This is important, and it needs to be thought through as well as possible. Fortunately, Venidan and Dartaola seemed to have stopped arguing. Or at least they aren't interfering with our conversation.
"What do you suggest, Magister?"
"You will have to choose, apprentice. Alas, you do not have the weight to rely on no one at all. There are no resources. No power, no home. In the current conditions and scale of the players, I do not possess the necessary 'weight' either. All I can advise is to weigh all the pros and cons and choose the side on which being will be most comfortable for you."
I didn't answer, silently landing the machine. And what could I answer? The Magister is right; one man is no warrior in the field if he isn't Medivh. But even he ended up under Sargeras in the end. I'm not up to Medivh's level yet. I need to think.
The Pepelats touched down on the sand with a quiet shudder, and I literally tore the helmet off my head. Yes, it's made quite comfortable, but wearing it constantly—you get fed up. Whether in the pilot's or the combat one. I met the eyes of the other Elves, silently looking back.
"A break is declared. We're not flying anywhere else today. Today we have—a beach episode."
Yes, I don't have such a thing as a swimsuit, but what's the difference? Everyone here is one of us. In the worst case, I'll fly to a separate island. The Magister flatly stated he was disconnecting. Jealous, or doesn't want to peep, it doesn't matter. What matters is that I was the last to climb out of the ship onto the sand.
"It's not bad here!" Venidan giggled, holding a bottle of something. I hadn't seen one like that with her before, "we can have a great rest."
In honor of minimalism, I left most of my clothes on board, allowing my toes to sink into the sand. The hot sun beats down from above, fortunately, the Pepelats created some shade upon landing. Actually, I need to think about the fact that our ship is visible literally from the horizon. Just a minute. I reached for the strings, fortunately, they responded easily. Now I just need to give the object the right shape and it will be good.
"Illusion!"
There, that's better. Now, instead of the Pepelats, random observers will see a rock. A perfectly ordinary piece of cliff. Well, and three girls of Elven appearance sitting on this very island. But that's a separate problem. Meanwhile, I took my first steps on the soft, warm sand, looking around. The atoll is not small; the ring of islands is several kilometers in diameter. Ocean, sand, and sun. And nothing else. Paradise, though there's nothing to eat.
"Kha, ptooey, ptooey!" a cough and laughter sounded from the side, "nasty, bitter, ptooey!"
Turning around, I realized it was Venidan spitting out water, to the laughter of our Paladin.
"First time seeing the ocean? The water is full of salt; drinking it is simply dangerous," and turning to me, "Davilinia, don't drink the water. I assume you're here for the first time too?"
I nodded to both points at once. Venidan, meanwhile, rinsed her mouth with liquid from the bottle.
"Couldn't you have warned me earlier? Nasty! Ptooey. Okay, people, what are we doing?"
I shrugged.
"I need to think. I can't swim, so I'll sit on the sand. Do what you want; we're not flying anywhere else today."
Dartaola nodded calmly.
"Fine. But if you decide to sleep, move into the shade. It won't be good if you get burned. We have absolutely nothing here that could help with that. And I don't want to heal sunburns with Holy light because of someone's stupidity."
Yeah, yeah.
"And we'll be left with one pilot."
"What can you do," the Paladin spread her hands, clearly feigning, "stupidity is stupidity. In the end, you were warned. Both of you."
Deciding not to argue, I lay down right by the Pepelats's support, in the shade. Or rather, now it's a massive rock. I need to think. I settled on the sand as comfortably as possible, putting some fabric under my head, just in case I actually fall asleep. Venidan and Dartaola stopped at a distance; it seems they decided to swim, sunbathe, or whatever. And I suspect what's in Venidan's bottle is clearly not water.
Whatever they say, the Magister is absolutely right. A choice will have to be made. Three factions of Elves. I think Magni Bronzebeard or Varian Wrynn wouldn't be against taking me in either. Possibly Thrall, after the Third War. The Blood Elves joined The Horde specifically.
Only... it's not all mandatory. I don't have to choose these sides; I don't have to join the Systems Alliance or The Horde. And no, it's not about creating a hidden base. That's possible but would require considerable resources. Unless I go all-in on a space station right away. Why not a space station? Complex calculations and a lot of resources that would have to be spent. And not just those that would have to be regularly delivered from the surface, which creates a vulnerability. The construction itself, too.
A huge platform, tons and tons of resources that will attract a lot of attention. Dependence on infrastructure on the surface, or satellites that will be needed to create a coordinate grid. For regular rocket flights with consumables that I won't be able to get in space. No, of course, some of these problems can be solved by taking Ulduar by storm. And yes, "taking Ulduar by storm" is a separate class of hassle. A huge Titans complex, the local creators, armed with a legion of mechanical soldiers, with tanks, mechs, and the most ultimate machinery. That is a little, just a tiny bit, NOT AT ALL my level. For the next couple of years, definitely. Like a space station.
No, one should start more modestly. With a ground base where they won't dare attack me or try to take me away. Because there will be a roof. Well, besides myself. And where can we organize such a thing, hm? In Theramore. The city will be actively built up. Both the human-elven Theramore. And the capital of The Horde—Orgrimmar. If you're ready to compete with the Goblins, you can get a gesheft in both cases.
"Trade!" I chuckled to myself, feeling the sun slowly crawling onto my legs. A pleasant feeling.
Trade—that's good. Currently, there is no oceanic trade at all. And when it appears—it will be built on ships, slow enough that you can't deliver every cargo. Primitive. Or on Goblin machines that charge triple. Especially under the leadership of Trade Prince Gallywix—an especially fat and dangerous Goblin. But he is dangerous. And if anything, one should account for setups from competitors in the market.
On the other hand—fully transport analogs of the Pepelats, container ships with standard compartments—will be extremely useful. Ultra-fast delivery across the ocean, and much safer than by water. We'll choose Theramore as the base. There was such a thing in Earth's history as the Hanseatic League. It was a medieval commercial and defensive network of merchant guilds and market towns in Central and Northern Europe. Originating in the late 12th century in several North German cities, during the period from the 13th to the 15th century, the League expanded and eventually encompassed nearly 200 settlements in eight modern countries, from Estonia and Novgorod in the north and east to the Netherlands in the west and stretched inland as far as Cologne, Prussia, and Krakow.
Of course, I intend to be more modest. But if a trade network is established, it could be promising. Especially since Jaina will become a highly respected leader of the city in the future. Mom is her secretary. And if I pick up external trade, it could be curious, oh yes. The sorceress will provide protection and social standing. And if we manage to make Theramore a center of trade, the result will be very interesting.
Of course, there will be competitors. Gallywix's Goblins, Kul Tiras, from which the father will sail for his daughter. But after all, this is all predictable. Which means—solvable. The residents of Theramore will get the benefits of civilization, jobs. Elves, thanks to access to Umformers—mana. It looks quite promising, given the afterknowledge. If it works, of course.
Yes, there will still be the problem with the mana bomb and the destruction of Theramore, but I'll definitely have a decade to come up with something. Maybe fifteen years. For now, it looks difficult, but not hopeless. Of course, I still have a problem with forming the organization itself. I have no idea how to create corporations. How to work with personnel. Specialists are needed, and more or less reliable ones. We need a plan.
What exactly to build, who should be in what positions and doing what. What equipment is needed and in what quantity. Ensure security, work, advertising, orders. Convey and correctly present this to Jaina and the others. Convince the sorceress to spend resources on this. Workshops, shipyards, warehouses will be required. And much that I just haven't thought of yet.
Many technical and organizational questions. But this could be the solution to all problems at once. At the very least, Jaina will be sharply against giving me to competitors, even from the Systems Alliance. She's no fool, and she's a good person. I'll get resources for all my wants and cans, relative freedom of action. The opportunity to continue looting Medivh's tower, and maybe even adapt it for my needs, through Walter. Sounds cool, doesn't it?
I fell asleep thinking about the best way to pull this off. The name came to me on its own: "Steel Sun." The solar theme is close to the High Elves, and metal is, well, metal. This will be entertaining.
Naturally, I fell asleep in the sun and got a sunburn.
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