Season 1. Chapter 79: Artificers
Scene: The Arrival Request — Riven and the Artificer
Setting: Inside the makeshift command cabin deep in the camp woods, the faint hum of old-world tech buzzes under the faint glow of the overhead lamp. The walls are covered in maps, pinned threads, scribbled plans, and diagrams of societal infrastructure rework. In the corner, a weathered laptop, salvaged from a forgotten city, still connects to the Crosslink—a secure communication net Riven maintained through jury-rigged Vita conductors and signal crystals.
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The screen glared faintly blue in the darkened room. Riven sat alone, his fingers tapping rapidly on the keyboard, scanning through lists of names, tags, profiles.
[Search: Artificer - Technomancer / Builder Class - Independent Operatives]
There were dozens of listings—some flashy, some long-abandoned—but one stood out.
Handle: Yato
Codename: Artificer
Icon: 🧹 (A mop?)
Rating: Unknown
Status: Drifting Technician, Wandering Constructor
Affiliation: None
Cost: 1 Rare Catalyst per week. Negotiable in junk, spare cores, or noodles.
Riven narrowed his eyes. A mop?
Click.
He opened the direct link and typed quickly, sparing no time for fluff:
[Message Sent → Yato]
Camp restoration project. Need advanced structural support. Independent operatives accepted. Payment in rare cores and access to forge. Immediate response preferred. —Riven
Seconds ticked by.
Then the cursor blinked.
[Message Received ← Yato]
Yo. Heard of your patchwork zone. Looks weird. Sounds fun. Sure, I'll come. Probably next week. Mop's ready. —Artificer Yato 🧹
Riven stared.
A long breath.
"…Mop's ready?"
He rubbed his temples slowly, closing the laptop lid with a faint click. The screen dimmed, leaving the room dim once more, with only the flicker of candlelight from Aurelia's wing leaking under the door.
Riven leaned back in the chair, arms crossed.
"So the Artificer's coming… next week."
He wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a disaster.
But something told him—probably both.
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Scene: Network Check — Riven's Outreach
Setting: A quiet dusk settles over the camp. Riven stands on the balcony of the watchtower, a soft wind blowing through the treetops. In his hand, a cracked and reassembled phone—technologically mundane, but modified with Vita relays to bounce signals through trees, crystal towers, and buried lines. A simple HUD glows dimly over the screen, icons marked by sigils instead of names.
---
Riven tapped the interface.
[📞 CONTACTING...]
Oliver 🟢
Zack ⚫️
Nico 🔥
— CALL CONNECTED: Oliver 🟢 —
A faint static buzz, then Oliver's familiar, calm voice emerged through the channel:
> "Riven. You're lucky I climbed a cliff. Got a signal spot."
Riven leaned against the railing. "Status?"
> "Lost. Again. Forest's deeper than mapped. Trees here... they move. But nothing hostile so far. Zack's with me. Nico's ahead."
"Figures." Riven exhaled. "You okay?"
> "Yeah. We'll find the way back by nightfall or tomorrow. We'll mark a path if we circle."
"Good. Keep transmitting coordinates when you can."
> "Copy that. Out."
— CALL ENDED —
Oliver 🟢 (Signal Confirmed, Lost in Outer Forest)
Zack ⚫️ (Present with Oliver)
Nico 🔥 (Presumed Ahead)
Riven adjusted his grip on the phone and switched channels.
[📞 CONTACTING...]
Rowin 🗡
Velindra 🔪
Darion 📃
The screen blinked.
One second.
Two.
Five.
[No Response]
He tried again. Still nothing.
No signal loss—no static.
Just silence.
"…That's not right."
Rowin was usually the first to ping back, even if it was a joke. Velindra might delay, but Darion always answered with location logs or coded scroll reads. Something was wrong.
He lowered the phone, eyes narrowing.
Oliver's team: Lost, but alive.
Rowin's unit: Radio silence.
He opened a separate log and typed a quick note:
> "Track last ping from Rowin's group. Trace any Vita distortions in the northeast quadrant past the ridgeline. Deploy Goldie for passive spiritual sweep. Do not alert the newcomers yet."
The Artificer was coming.
The leaders were scattered.
And now three operatives were missing.
Riven exhaled slowly, slipping the phone back into his coat.
"...Looks like it's starting again."
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Scene: Fern's Dream — The Garden Within
Setting: Inside Fern Juniper's mind, where consciousness drifts in chlorophyll-hued haze. She doesn't walk through dreams like others. She roots into them—softly absorbing sunlight, memories, and fragments of emotion like minerals in the soil. In the world of her slumber, time flows in sap and spiral.
---
At first, there is only light.
Warm, golden beams filtering through translucent leaves, dappling her skin in a soft mosaic of emerald and gold. She floats—not in air, but in stillness, surrounded by the ever-humming breath of the forest.
She feels full. Not heavy—no. Full like a leaf with rain. Like a stalk brimming with morning sugar.
A glucose dream.
She reaches out without reaching. Her body stretches like a stem, her arms sprouting in delicate vines wrapped in soft, bioluminescent fuzz. Photosynthesis thrums deep within her, a silent rhythm as old as time.
Light in.
CO₂ in.
Water absorbed.
And then… sugar.
Pure, white-glowing glucose, spinning inside her veins like stardust syrup. It's sweet—not like candy, but like life. She tastes it with her skin, and in her dream, she eats it—nourished directly from the sun, no need for fruit or bread or fire.
She smiles faintly in the dream. Her lips are green.
Then something shifts.
From her hair—those long, greenish strands—a glimmer begins to form. Droplets. No—nectar. Thick and luminous, glistening like dew dipped in moonlight. It slides from her strands naturally, slowly…
And the butterflies come.
Dozens at first, then hundreds. Dream-butterflies. Emerald wings with translucent tips. Violets with petal-like patterns. Pale moths with silver fuzz. They swarm, not in chaos, but in reverence.
They land in her hair gently, feeding on the nectar. They spiral around her in slow orbits, their wings a kaleidoscope of silent joy. Fern does not flinch. She likes them. They're drawn to the peace she exudes—the peace of a tree that's never been cut, of a garden that's never been burned.
Fern dreams, and in her dream, she is the center of a peaceful ecosystem.
She hears no voices. Only a quiet hum. The rhythm of life.
A dream not of noise or war, but of photosynthesis.
A dream where being alive was enough.
A dream where she was enough.
And all the while, the sugar continued to build—white and warm, stored in her imaginary roots, waiting for the moment she'd wake… and grow again.
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End Dream.