The walls shook, sending dirt drifting down from crevices between bricks that had never known the touch of a hand determined to clean them. Jaecup coughed and waved a hand angrily at the cloud of dust threatening to cover the small parchment he was writing on. Just then there was a loud knock at his door, which he ignored, until the knocking became more desperate. He slid his chair back against the floor, the screeching noise it made fraying his last nerve as he flung the door open.
“We’re under attack and you’re still bothering with courtesies like knocking?” He shouted.
The servant on the other side of the portal stood with his jaw slack, unsure of what to say.
“Well, go!” Jaecup pointed to the nearest set of crates, hastily filled with vials of glowing liquids, the skulls of foreign animals, and powders of unknown variety.
The servant nodded, bowed awkwardly, and began taking boxes from the room. As he and others came and went, the room began feeling emptier, and in a strange way, although there had rarely ever been another soul in the room with him, it felt more lonely. He could remember the day he first came here, after climbing up a too long set of stairs to the highest turret on the edge of the keep. It was a gift of sorts from his sister. She’d always been the more, what was the word he was looking for? War minded.
She’d said “You can have your little roost to brood in, you and your trinkets and morbid interests. That way, when you inevitably blow yourself up during some alchemical process, you’ll be the only one to die.”
They didn’t hate each other, exactly. Well, maybe they did. No matter. He’d eventually become used to the climb up the stairs, and on occasion he actually found the view peaceful. Today though, as he scanned the horizon, the view was filled with enemy siege equipment and the smoke from countless fires burning as the world he knew rang it’s death knell.
Another boulder flung by one of many trebuchet’s crashed into the keep, and the last of the things on his shelves began dropping to the floor. He reached out a fumbling hand and caught a vial of grey powder. For a moment, he was struck by the tiny vial, and everything it seemed to embody. His own personal lab, as many assistants and he could use, though none were ever around for long, and he never did find a use for this vial of grey dirt. Now, his world was literally crumbling around him, and this tiny vial had turned out to be worth nothing, just like all his efforts here had proven to be. He gritted his teeth and ignored the lingering sense of failure.
“That box, there!” He directed one of the servants whose idleness drew his ire.
More rocks slammed into the keep, causing him to stumble. The servant carrying the box fell to his knees, and jars of a viscous orange liquid began seeping onto the stone floor. In a rage, he threw the jar of dirt in his hands at the servant.
“You fool, that’s extract of sorrow root! Do you know what that cost me? Do you? An arm and a leg. Literally! Well, and some other things, the Janoans are a very strange people, but--” He realized he was rambling and regained his composure. “Look, just-- “ This time he stopped speaking because the servant began to cough and wheeze as a small plume of smoke began rising from where the dirt and extract mixed. His eyes widened as the smoke began to flicker and spark, catching the nearby crates on fire.
“You!” He pointed to the nearest servant. “Water!” At least this one had enough sense to already be doing something before he had to demand for them to do it. But as the water touched the fire, a crackling popping sounds overtook the room, and an explosion knocked him from his feet. As he recovered himself to one knee, he looked at the devastation about him. Both of the servants nearest the explosion were dead, laying in a pool of blood and mangled flesh.
As his ears rang, he hobbled over to the table where he’d been writing and began writing a new note.
“The keep has fallen. All is not lost. I have found the path to victory.”
