User blog:Moritzva/The Infinite Consortium - If It Doesn’t Fit...

“Keep it moving, Russel.”

A guard jabbed the frail man with the end of his whip, pushing him along. He lets out a grunt of pain, chains rattling as he stumbled forward and to the desk. Heavy sighs escape Russel as he leans against it, his body tired and worn from months of battering. The skin on his back barely had time to grow scars before being torn away again.

Rags were the only luxury in Russel’s wardrobe, courtesy to the ever gracious King Arthur and The Jade Empire. Their orders were simple: he was to wake up, work, and sleep within this castle spire, every day, until the job was done and he had discovered what ‘magic’ truly was. This wouldn’t be a bad gig, in his opinion, if not for how fucking dense his supervisors were.

Russel scowls and turns towards the lightly armored guard behind him. “How the hell do you expect me to work with these on my hands?” He rattles the overbearing cuffs on his hands, encumbering any sort of precision he might want to achieve. Those cuffs are further linked down along a long chain to a central bind in the floor of the circular magical laboratory- or, as Russel liked to call it, ”a cheapass scientific disgrace so primitive they probably invented leeching in here.”

“Shut up and work. You know what you did.” Next infraction would leave Russel with a one hundred pound ball-and-chain around his legs. Not that, Russel agreed with this treatment. No, he had some very stirring words on it.

“...Look, I know you’re just the dumb oaf they picked off the streets to watch me, but these are very precise measurements we’re working with. One wrong-“ A cry of pain escapes his throat as the whip lashes him across the face, slicing into his soft cheek and leaving a nice, clean cut. Russel winces, falling against the counter as the blood trickles down his face.

“I said, get back to work.”

Anger builds up inside of Russel, a steaming pot fuming with scalding gas, but without an outlet to release. The fury turns to a bitter contempt as he reluctantly gets up and turns to the equipment.

To the left were twelve vials of concentrated magic, or mana, as the court mages called it. Mana was everywhere, but to properly contain it was a feat in itself, one Russel had decent enough respect for. Twelve wasn’t nearly enough, though. It was laughable, as if spitting in his face and setting him up for failure. ''”Oh, yes, Russel! We want you to bend the fundamental laws of reality and warp the very world as we know it! How many tries do you get? Hmm, how about twelve?”''