Equations
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This is not a story about magic.
This is not a story about science.
This is a story about both.
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“Fellow Elders.” Roxad Xenu’shar said, standing on a mahogany stage with the towering Kachuck Cataract at his back, addressing an audience of three thousand long coats, embroidered dresses, and little brass trinkets, and flaunting a leather work vest, matching trousers, and shaded goggles - all stained with soot. “I’ll begin by requesting your forgiveness for my attire. The day began with a malfunctioning balloon, a brand new one at that. You know, with the multidirectional steam pulsars?”
The audience, dominated by Dark Elves and sprinkled by a few Humans, gave a forgiving heckle, several of them having been in his situation. “What was wrong with it?”
“Everything.” The one they called Rox threw his hands up as they responded humorously. “You all laugh but it’s the truth. It exploded at least three times and I’ve had to replace more than a dozen parts, but it sparked a bit of nostalgia in me. Remember the days when a Drow could just inflate a balloon and let the wind take him? When an airship was just that, a ship in the air? When a dueling flintlock pistol was a truly valued fashion statement everyone wanted but only a few of us possessed.” He tapped on the curved wooden butt of his holstered pistol.
His peers cheered.
“No matter how flimsy it was!? Oh don’t let anyone duel in the middle of the wet season! Or else you are more likely to see two men standing twenty paces apart just jiggling to unclog their guns,” The Elder exposed his firearm and shook it near his crotch. “And onlookers wondering if both parties were pleasuring themselves.”
His peers belted side splitting laughs, once again having been in his situation.
“Times have changed indeed.” His voice deepened, signaling a somber quiet. “Just five short years ago we were on the brink of civil war with an assassinated Queen. Now we’re the closest thing to stability in the known world. Our King’s human counterpart to the north was deposed, an old Matriarchy in Fallien almost fell to harpies, and what was once a fledgling motley mix of people in a small island nation centuries ago is now a maritime power that feeds everyone. That includes us.”
Several Elders voiced concerned agreement, for this was a fact that made many in Alerar uncomfortable.
Rox continued. “Speaking of Corone, The Citadel hosts more and more warriors with supernatural gifts every year. The records do not lie. Our own alchemists are achieving more powerful and complex transmutations. Our ancestral rivals have suffered at the hands of Xem zund twice in the last decade, the so called Saint Danebriel emerged in Salvar for a time, and there are even reports of the Red Witch Pode. So let us take inventory. More commoners are developing uncommon abilities, our alchemy is more potent, and three out of four of the Forgotten Ones emerged. It seems as though the supernatural is becoming more… natural these days.”
If it was quiet before, it was silent now.
“And the Tap, let us not forget about the Tap – the theorized source of all magic in this world which was shattered by the war named after it 10,000 years ago. One piece of it fuels Raiaeran Song Magic, another piece of it fuels the planeswalkers of Fallien, another fuels Salvic wizardry, so on and so forth, but what place does it have in our society of science and reason. Yes, the obvious answer is Alchemy, but my team and I believe there is more to it all than that. We have developed a theory proposing that the developing Laws of Physics and the Tap -which we continue to ignore- are one in the same.”
The crowd exploded in anger, hats and other accessories flying at him. “Object all you want in your Alerian rejection of magic, but suppress your nationalistic hearts and steel your objective minds. When you do, you will know that this is at least plausible, if not likely. And there’s more. We also hypothesize that the Tap has been repairing itself since its fracture…”
“… and it’s almost whole again.”
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