Kistel distinguished herself quickly at a very young age, showing rapid understanding of multiple language and writing structures. Her mind proved able to comprehend the underlying structures of different languages and cultural mind-sets with astonishing speed, granting her great prowess in correctly assembling the bindings needed for non-mortals of all types. Though some thought at first she might have an eidetic memory, capable of recalling experiences and writings with perfect clarity, experimentation showed she was actually creating the binding structures so rapidly by way of intuitive problem-solving processes, rather than memorization of her learnings. In fact, she found over the course of her lifetime she had to work just as hard as others at rote memorization of basic principles.
By the time she discovered the entertainments to be had with boys, she had begun assisting professors in their state-sponsored lab work for the city, helping them reason out accurate truenames and binding elements for powerful outsiders. She was expected to go on to positions of great prominence in the community, whatever path she chose, and several different groups were impatiently waiting for her coming-of-age binding ritual to approach her.
One state worker in particular, however, was much embittered by her success as she helped him in his most ambitious project ever, feeling his own greatness was being overshadowed by this upstart prodigy. Having been somewhat spoiled for her talent at this point, Kistel likely didn’t help matters any in her various interactions with him. So it was that he chose to create a critical structure for the final binding element himself, rather than using the formula she had helped craft. She had to be escorted forcefully off the lab site, screaming in rage, when she found out. She tried to tell anyone who would listen that the structure he intended to apply would create a flaw in the greater binding process, but in the midst of her young anger, it was dismissed by those who had any power to effect the site as a tantrum.
Thus it was that when Head Spirit-Mage Melbrose d’Atan chose to summon an angel of vengeance from the highest choirs of the Heavens, he succeeded… to catastrophic effect.
This community had long been a thorn in the side of many different extra-planar forces. However, they were prevented by cosmic forces from sending their greatest champions to rectify the community’s wrongdoings by force. Those lesser entities they could send to the mortal plane were quickly overwhelmed by bound forces, and then bound into slavery themselves. When it was discovered the presumptuous mortals planned their greatest blasphemy yet, a plan took hold in one archangel’s mind. Sending a messenger, he was informed that one of his enemies would agree to a temporary truce to hear his proposal out.
The Greater Demon Baphalet, while having the archetypal lack of love for his heavenly opponent, flew into an instant rage every time he was told yet another of his minions had been summoned and entrapped for some mortal food’s convenience. So when Tamael, an Archangel of Righteous Vengeance, proposed to remove the thorn in his side, he was intrigued enough to agree to a cease-fire.
After the requisite posturing and insults had been passed back and forth between the two, the archangel explained the mortals’ latest planned insult to the Heavens and Hells alike. Before Baphalet could become distracted by a continent-leveling rage at the prospect, Tamael raised a finger and said, “Thus I propose this: We give them a name of our choice to summon.”
Baphalet immediately caught on to the idea, and cackled with hellish glee as it took detailed shape throughout their meeting. Tamael would give Baphalet knowledge of part of his own truename, just enough for a summoning. He was aware of the risks inherent in the action; he considered it a necessary payment for the demon’s cooperation. Baphalet would disseminate an almost-correct version of it, in enough ways that the humans of Agafell would be able to locate the information, but only by working hard for it. He would then have his more subtle agents infiltrate the project constructing the binding mechanism, and work to sow just enough dissention among the crafters that Tamael would be held, but only barely. Combined with the incorrect summoning, the archangel would be able to break out of the binding with minimal effort, taking the ill-fated city by surprise. The community would have no chance against an unbound Archangel of Vengeance at his full fury; he would level the city for their many trespasses over the generations, simultaneously freeing the enslaved spirits throughout.
His plan worked, insofar as its initial execution. A human agent of one of Baphalet’s cults, placed years ago at a very young age, now saw use as Melbrose’s assistant and sometimes-lover. With a subtle phrasing here, a thought spoken out loud there, she turned his thoughts to the comparisons between himself and the thirteen-year-old prodigy helping him.
“I thought the Counselor was here to praise the project, but he spoke about Kistel most of the time. Oh don’t worry, sir, I don’t mean anything by it. I’m sure yours is the name that will be written in our histories, after all,” was one brief conversation that happened, her tone sounding slightly unsure as she reassured him. Thus, she brought to his mind the possibility that his life-time achievement might be claimed by another; by some young thing that had yet to even earn her place in society, who had never yet had to work for anything!
Meanwhile, another agent, placed as a researcher in much the same way by a different cult, subtly guided the research process to the information he’d planted. He tried to make certain, per his instructions, that young Kistel was the one to discover the planted Truename, securing Melbrose’s hatred of her further as she received praise for yet another seemingly effortless accomplishment.
The plan very nearly derailed at that point. Kistel was a true prodigy, with a mind seeming deliberately designed for languages and meanings. She managed to reason out that the name cobbled together from the ancient texts was incorrectly structured, and corrected it. However, Melbrose’s assistant was able to sway his rage such that he changed it back to the one in the texts as part of his envy-fueled construction process for his own formula. Kistel was removed from the summoning process, and the plan was back on track.
Melbrose performed his incantation flawlessly. The execution team burned, powdered, melted, poured, and blew the various components exactly according to formula. The binding structure, laid into the floor in precise curves and lines of blessed silver and tainted gold, was exactly according to design. Melbrose’s design. Tamael’s design.
The angel appeared from nothing; there was no explosion, nor whoosh of air. An excellently-performed summoning summons only the creature called, and none of its surrounding environment or energies. One moment, the ornate metal design was empty at its center; the next, the room was filled with its presence, looming over all present as well as those in the viewing room, despite kneeling as if injured.
Of course, the archangel was not injured. The summoning hadn’t damaged his will, as the mortals had planned. He simply stalled for a moment, as he carefully inspected the metal inlays at his feet, the energy patterns visible to him in the air. One moment. That was all he needed to confirm the structure was unsound, the energies incapable of holding even a tenth of his total being in check. Rising, he smiled at the Head Spirit-Mage, and at those in the viewing room behind him. All immediately understood the meaning of that vengeance-filled smile, that inhuman face projecting unearthly rage. All understood, but there was nothing they could do in that brief moment. Tamael brought his power forth, his wings burst into being about him, and blazing light swept away all those before him.
Precious heartbeats later, an Archangel of Righteous Vengeance stepped past the foundations of the building that had been altered to contain him, summoning his blazing sword into his hand and raising it high. All those standing about the building’s perimeter, staring at the flat area where it had been, screamed in terror. Standing easily forty meters tall, six brilliantly-shining wings blinding his form to a near-silhouette, the bald humanoid with goat-slit pupils was vengeance personified. Mere mortals could do naught but know terror in looking upon it, as it prepared to sweep its sword down, ending their generations of blasphemy with righteous fire.
Tamael could not have been stopped, but for the very nature of demonkind. Baphalet’s minions, though not demons themselves, were demonic in nature, worshipping him as they did. They did not go beyond explicit orders, for two main reasons.
First, minions of demons who go beyond orders are equally likely to be punished for excessive ambition as they are to be praised for adaptive actions. Were the cult members to take action beyond that asked of them, or report more details than their superiors thought important, they could find themselves in very ill fates at the whim of their masters.
Second, demons are lazy whenever possible. Even when inspired by fear of their masters, demons are always considering the easiest possible way to complete their given tasks with the least amount of effort possible. Thus noting Kistel as the prodigy she was, and perhaps informing their masters of further action that might need to be taken, struck the two cult members more as extra work than as vital intelligence-gathering.
So it was that Tamael was very surprised when he swept his arm downward… to find it empty. His blade, formed of his own will and invested power, was no longer in his hand. Feeling his wings flex, he looked back… to see chains, seeming formed of blood and dripping some black substance, tightly wrapped around his wings, tying them into a useless bundle. His shocked eyes followed the length of the trapping links. His gaze alighted on a small figure, brown of hair, standing in a determined stance. Just beyond the limit of the former barrier the building had supported, wearing little more than pants and a wrapping around her chest, was a girl. The chains, beginning to tighten their grip, vanished into a hole in the girl’s chest, just below her collar-bones.
“Soul-binding,” he murmured, the words echoing around him. Meeting the mortal’s eyes, he saw no fear there. A tremor ran through his heart. It was a brief quiver, but it shook him to his core. A mortal sought to soul-bind him? A mortal had made him know fear, even for a moment?? His confused emotions turned to rage.
“YOUR BLASPHEMY KNOWS NO BOUNDS!” he bellowed, his face contorting as he turned from her and set his feet. His wings shone ever brighter as he drew forth his full might, crouching over to plant his his fists into the ground before him. His every muscle, his very being, strained as he put the full force of his strength into his push against the draw of the chains. “I WILL SHATTER THESE BONDS AND LEVEL YOUR ENTIRE CIVILIZATION!” His words echoed across the city, people crying out and clutching their heads in fear and pain.
As he strained, he heard the deep cracking sound of the earth below him, and grinned, his demeanor feral. No mortal soul could hold one so empowered as he. He was charged with divine purpose and reason. He was the front-line against the demonic hordes. He was going to drag her soul out of her frail mortal form and crush her corpse before the eyes of all present. He was… he glanced down as the cracking sound continued, his grin slipping. The gouges made by his limbs were forming in front of him, as though he were being dragged backward.
...He was losing.
Earlier that week
“He can’t do this!” Kistel shouted, rearing back and striking the heavy cloth of the strike-sack hard enough to make Emelyn grunt. Feeling the force of the blow rattle through her spirit-toughened body right down to her heels, she winced, regretting suggesting this. Kistel was so often focused on theoretical development, it was easy to forget she could use her prodigious talents at binding for practical applications. Like empowering the force of her punches as she took out her aggression on a helpless target.
And the poor fool of a friend holding it up, Emelyn thought, grimacing as the next blow landed, pressing her back a few centimeters. Kistel’s strikes weren’t anywhere near excellent form, but binding a powerful enough spirit for strength meant she didn’t have to punch or kick correctly. She just had to connect.
“Technically,” she grunted around a particularly emphatic kick, “He can. He is head of the project, aft-”
She cut off with another strained grunt as Kistel launched a flurry of enraged blows.
“I! Don’t! Want! To! Hear! That! Crap!” she exclaimed, punctuating each word with an empowered strike. Finishing the sentence, she took hold of the person-sized sack with both hands and slammed her head into it. The sack blew apart, releasing its spirits as the formulas in the stitching came undone. Sand leapt onto the floor from the sack’s innards, immediately swirling up into a vaguely humanoid form. Not hesitating, it jumped toward the nearest sparring group, which scattered with a mixture of anger and fear in their shouted curses.
Emelyn held her hands up, quick-stepping back from Kistel’s irate visage.
“Okay, okay, I understand,” she said quickly. “No speaking of perfectly reasonable facts; quit screeching.”
Kistel’s face twisted, and Emelyn dropped into stance in case she tried to hit her.
“If you hit me, I’m going to plant you on your ass,” Emelyn warned.
Even in her anger, Kistel paused, thinking. Emelyn was the better hand-to-hand combatant of the two of them, and they both knew it. Emelyn doubted she wanted to deal with that humiliation when she was already so angry.
Trying to distract her out of her anger, Emelyn gestured at the remains of the sparring group to her left, saying, “Shouldn’t you do something about your mess?”
Kistel glanced that way. Two advanced students were distracting the released earth elemental with physical combat while the third tutor was trying to pull together a binding glyph for it. As he traced magical lines in the air before him, the amateur students huddled behind him, looking on with wide eyes.
Grumbling something she’d surely be chastised for if any instructors overheard, Kistel made a gesture in that direction, the action looking almost lazy. An intricate glyphed circle appeared on the floor surrounding the humanoid mass of compacted sand, which immediately collapsed, unable to hold its form. Surging upward, it attempted to reshape itself, hurling its half-formed body forward, but it scattered back apart at the inner edge of the circle. As it continued to relentlessly attempt escape, the three tutors relaxed from their efforts. Turning as one, they fixed glares on Kistel. She met their stares challengingly.
“As if you’re even supposed to be in this room unescorted without being able to handle the elementals bound here,” she snapped. Though their faces reddened in anger, the tutors had no response they could give. Emelyn made an apologetic face and mouthed I’m sorry over her friend’s shoulder as they gathered their group back up.
When Kistel whipped her head around, Emelyn adopted a blank expression, tilting her eyebrow as if to say, Who, me? I was just over here, agreeing with you.
Eyeing her suspiciously, Kistel finally sighed, her mood losing its edge.
“I do not screech,” she muttered, giving the remains of the destroyed strike-sack a half-hearted kick as she turned toward the dressing room.
Emelyn breathed a small sigh of relief, unwrapping the runed cloth bindings on her hands as she followed. Catching a couple of instructors giving disapproving looks at them and the mess they were walking away from, she smiled sheepishly and waved. One shook his head and started writing something down, while the other rolled her eyes and moved toward the sack’s remains. Groaning internally, Emelyn wondered if she had just sacrificed a week of sparring-room access to her friend’s tantrum.
Rounding the corner into the dressing room, she stopped dead, thoughts about how to keep her permissions vanishing. Kistel hadn’t wasted any time disrobing. Facing away from Emelyn, her brown ponytail did nothing to hide the smooth curve of her sweat-drenched spine and hips. Only her usual chest-wrapping and undershorts hid any of her assets from view. Rising from a crouch by her storage unit with her standard robe in hand, she turned and saw Emelyn staring.
“What?” she snapped.
Emelyn startled and quickly moved to her own storage unit, her face heating.
“I was hoping you could put a word in for me, since I just walked away from your mess. I’d like to keep up my regimen,” she lied, hearing her heartbeat in her ears.
Kistel was very definitely interested in boys, as multiple behavior infractions had demonstrated; she also seemed completely unaware that Emelyn was interested in… well, her. Emelyn had considered confessing to her on multiple occasions; occasions like every night before bed and every morning when they woke in the same room. But she truly valued the friendship they had too, and had no idea how Kistel would react. So she lied, and stayed as near Kistel as she could find reasons to, or distracted herself with extra lessons and training.
Kistel blushed, pursing her lips and looking honestly ashamed.
“Oh. Right, I didn’t even think… I’m sorry. Maybe if I go clean it--”
Emelyn waved the thought and the apology away together.
“It’s not really a big thing. One of the instructors was heading over to clean it up, she’ll be done already. Besides, I can use the extra time to work on leaf-binding.” Different spirits were more easily specialized to different tasks. Those that preferred to dwell within green growing things had a particular affinity she intended to take advantage of.
“So you’re still working on your secret plans for your Proving ritual?” Kistel asked, eyeing her speculatively as she popped her head through her robes. “Are you certain you don’t want me to help?”
Emelyn shook her head emphatically. They’d had this discussion almost daily since she hit upon the idea for her ritual, and immediately began refusing to tell anyone what she was working on.
“If you have any part in it, there will always be people who say it was your efforts and not mine that finished out the research for it.” She spoke while pulling her uniform shirt over her head, but made a point of making eye contact once it was on, to show her friend she was serious.
Kistel pursed her lips petulantly, but sat down to lace her academic’s boots up without arguing. She was a once-in-a-generation prodigy, capable of who-knew-what in any application of spirit-binding. She’d already developed and published new treatises on earth and fire elementals: according to her they ‘corrected grievous oversights and misunderstandings of the underlying language patterns necessary to permanently bind the types, kept up by an academic tradition favoring blind repetition of half-assembled structures that just happen to work barely well enough for practical applications.’ The dissertations had not won her many friends in the academic community’s older ranks, but her principles and theories were already being used to modify state-sponsored programs and public work projects.
The main downside of being so naturally talented, from Kistel’s point of view, was that she couldn’t tutor or assist anyone without their own results’ originality being questioned. She actually was…
Well, Emelyn thought, not selfless, exactly.
Kistel did care to some basic degree about others. She at least seemed to enjoy helping, taking as much pleasure from others’ joy at completing a task as she did from being praised. And she took a lot of joy from being praised. In fact, if she felt she did deserve praise for her work, she was outright offended at said praise not being forthcoming. If someone committed the greater travesty of booting her from the project or otherwise trying to claim her success as their own…
That’s when things get dangerous for people, Emelyn thought, inspecting the bruises forming on her forearms where she’d been reinforcing the strike-sack. Which brought her thoughts around to why she’d had the brilliant idea of helping Kistel work some of her anger out.
“So…” she drew the word out, trying to find the least-confrontational words available to bring it up. Giving up, she went back to lacing her combatant’s boots, asking, “What are you going to do about him?”
Kistel’s final movement tightening her standard apprentice’ sash, running from shoulder to hip, became sharp. Her expression determined, she said, “I’m going to the Council again.”
Raising her eyebrow, Emelyn pointed out, “They just kicked you out and forbade you from ‘pursuing the matter any further.’” She held her nose as she finished speaking, making her voice an exaggerated parody of Councilor Baeryn’s nasal monotone. Grinning, she ducked the sweaty training-shirt Kistel chucked at her.
Huffing, Kistel crossed her arms, frowning.
“I have to do something, though, right?”
“Do you?”
“Well, if Melbrose summons…” she trailed off, eyeing Emelyn as she corrected whatever state secret she’d been about to say.
“If he summons what he’s going to summon, and the structure is inadequate, the consequences could be… dire.”
“‘Dire?’ Try to sound more boring if you’re attempting to mimic Baeryn,” Emelyn teased, beginning to lace her second boot. “How bad could it be? I think Melbrose would look good with no eyebrows; I say let him summon whatever giant fire elemental he wants.”
Kistel’s face smoothed to practiced stillness, offering no response at all to Emelyn’s guess as to what was being summoned.
Darn, Emelyn thought. She was forever trying to get her friend to let a detail or two slip about the advanced projects she was allowed to help with, but she hadn’t had any luck yet.
“It’s going to affect much more than Melbrose, whether it’s successful or not,” Kistel responded, her expression turning grim.
Feeling her eyebrows climb, Emelyn asked, “How big of a mess are we talking about? Losing a whole research building?”
Kistel met her gaze, flicking her eyebrows briefly. Emelyn whistled at the indication for ‘bigger.’
“Okay, so, the research sector?”
Kistel didn’t respond. Emelyn stopped reaching for her belt, looking at her friend. She was being serious.
“...The upper city?”
Still no response, Kistel’s expression remaining grim.
“The whole city??”
Kistel seemed to hesitate, then blinked once, shrugging slightly as she broke eye contact. Emelyn stopped breathing for a moment, supporting herself on the bench. This wasn’t a joke. Kistel couldn’t keep a straight face to save her life when she was putting one over on someone. She genuinely thought this was a threat to the whole city, maybe the whole region.
“No wonder you were freaking out when you tried to talk to the Council,” she breathed, her mind racing. “But Melbrose has locked you out of the project. No one else is going to listen after that scene in front of the Council building… What are we going to do?”
Kistel grinned at her, and she blushed, realizing she’d automatically included herself. “I mean, if there’s anything I can do, that is,” she muttered, looking away as she tightened the belt over her shirt.
“There is, actually.”
Emelyn met her friend’s gaze again. She was smiling, which could mean this was a joke; or she was genuinely touched by Emelyn’s desire to help.
“I’m not breaking into any state buildings,” she asserted suspiciously. Kistel giggled.
“Nothing like that,” she reassured Emelyn. “There’s something I might be able to do. It would let me correct Melbrose’ errors publicly, and claim some credit for myself. ...and probably save the city.” She delivered the last line as an afterthought.
Definitely not selfless, Emelyn thought dryly.
“It sounds like something advanced,” she said cautiously. She didn’t like admitting she was one of the less-talented peers in their generation, but she wasn’t stupid enough to attempt a binding outside her expertise. That was how the crater-pocked testing grounds to the east of the city had been established. There used to be a town there.
“Very, but I’ve already memorized the underlying language structure, and I can formulate the silhouette for the binding in an hour or two,” Kistel reassured her.
Emelyn breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t wanted to back out after promising her help, but Kistel could be reckless sometimes, forgetting little things like safety precautions and mortality.
“So, what do you need me for?” she asked.
“It will be nearly impossible for me to draw the glyphs perfectly while I’m losing blood.”
Emelyn blinked. Kistel had delivered the line so casually, she felt surreal, like she was dreaming.
“What?” she asked, eloquently.
Kistel looked bashful, avoiding eye contact and fiddling with the hem of her academic robes.
“Well…” she said, drawing the word out, “the process requires a willing donation of living energy, and the most effective method is to use blood as a medium, so--”
Emelyn jumped up, slapping her storage unit closed. “No.” So saying, she walked out onto the grass walkway of the Combatant’s Wing of the academy, leaving Kistel to squawk in surprise and scramble to catch up. She did so about forty meters from the training building, seeming flustered as she finished tightening her second sash so it crossed the first one.
“Emelyn.” She didn’t respond, continuing to walk at a pace that her shorter friend found difficult to match.
“Emelyn, please-”
“No.”
Kistel stopped to smile winningly at a pair of combatant apprentices who stopped where their paths crossed to offer casual salutes at the sight of her Researcher’s sash. Jogging briefly, she caught up again.
“It won’t even be that much blood, really-” she cut off, smiling at another pair of students who stared at them oddly when they heard her sentence. As soon as they had passed beyond earshot, she continued. “It should take two or three liters at most-”
Emelyn rounded on her, eyes wide. “Do you even hear yourself?” she asked. Loudly. Not caring that passing students and instructors were paying attention, she continued, “You want to remove three liters of your own blood! Are you aware of how much blood you have?”
Making quieting gestures with her hands, Kistel responded, “Yes. I average around 5.2 liters when I remember to eat on time. I checked.”
Staring, Emelyn responded, “You checked. Of course you checked. I don’t even know why I’m surprised. And you’re okay with losing three-fifths of your own blood just to show someone up?” Taking note of Kistel’s continued gestures to lower her volume, her mix of emotions spiked further.
“Why are you quieting me?” she demanded. A thought occurred, and righteous anger became prominent in her emotional whirlwind. Stepping closer, she spoke in a deliberate, level tone.
“Is this formula Forbidden?”
Kistel affected shock and indignation, though not very well.
“I would never jeopardise my own prospects like that! You know the punishments for Forbidden research carry permanent consequences!”
She hadn’t answered directly. Emelyn narrowed her eyes, and moved to continue on her way without saying a word. Seeing her friend’s determination, Kistel grabbed her arm, pulling her off the path onto the paving stones of a separating courtyard.
“All right, calm yourself. It’s not Forbidden, exactly.”
Emelyn’s brow went up at the qualifier.
Rolling her eyes, Kistel spoke quickly, clarifying, “Forbidden techniques must never be researched or practiced. This one is just… frowned upon.”
Emelyn held her facial expression, knowing there was more.
Pursing her lips petulantly, Kistel added, “...because no one has ever successfully proven the method.”
Her eyes widening, Emelyn gripped Kistel’s arms, whispering harshly, “A Gray Formula? Are you insane?”
In general, binding principles were categorized, no matter the subject, into three areas. Black Formulas had not only been agreed upon by multiple peers after review, but had also been proven in low-impact testing environments. These were the most common binding one might see in use at any given time. They were predictable, stable, and effective. White Formulas referred to those binding principles multiple esteemed peers had agreed on, which had not yet been tested definitively.
Their entire social structure reflected these concepts, assigning darker colors to those things that were predictable in some way, reliable. Outsiders were often confused by the concept, misinterpreting ‘reliable’ or ‘predictable’ for ‘safe.’ A trained attack dog, wearing dark green, could be relied upon to react aggressively to someone other than its handler, for instance.
Researchers in volatile labs, on the other hand, wore uniforms of brighter colors. The Research Sector of the city was a riot of painfully-bright buildings and directional indicators. The colors served to warn what type of danger might be present, but it was just wise in general to stay on one’s toes in the area. Likewise, public workers put out bright warning indicators when working with volatile substances.
Then there were the Gray Formulas. These bindings should work, as agreed by all who had reviewed the concepts. They were classified as Gray when, in spite of all available routes of inquiry, they didn’t work. Many of them failed with catastrophic effects when attempted. Kistel was right, none of them were subclassified as Forbidden, as the state was loathe to abandon potential resources. At the same time, few ever attempted to resolve them, preferring to lead long lives as non-corpses.
“But the White Mages who tried this one, they were missing pieces of the language I’ve revealed in my research on Melbrose’ project!” Kistel whispered, her expression pleading and fervent. “They had no idea some of the contranyms even existed, so they would have been preparing mathematical formulae in complete counter-purpose at multiple points, and-” she cut off as Emelyn put a finger to her lips.
Closing her eyes, Emelyn tried to gather her whirling thoughts while Kistel bounced up and down on the balls of her feet like an excited child.
One, her friend wanted her help draining most of the blood out of her body.
Two, her friend could be very reckless… but was so far peerless in her ever-growing understanding of all categories of binding.
Three, her friend wanted her help draining most of the blood out of her body. It bore repeating, because it was insane.
Four, her friend’s soft, very kissable lips were touching her finger. Pulling it back as casually as she could, she crossed her arms, continuing to list without opening her eyes.
Five, If there was a legitimate possibility something really horrible was going to happen soon… she’d rather be helping do something in her final days than continue as if nothing was wrong.
Six, …and this is the kick in the teeth, she thought. …Kistel would find a way to do this herself, possibly all by herself. Possibly failing because Emelyn was the only person around likely to agree to act as assistant to the process.
Sighing, she opened her eyes. Kistel had her hands in front of her face in a praying position, biting her lip in apprehension.
“Promise me you know how to make this work?” Emelyn asked in a defeated tone.
Kistel broke into an enormous grin, squealing and wrapping her in a tight hug.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise, I’m 83 percent certain of my conclusions, and that will only go up as I construct the physical formula. The original researchers were way off-base with some of their assumptions about various nouns; they wrote that the tongue only used an equivalent to ‘air’ as an uncountable noun, but several documents from the same time period had already confirmed three different plurals for it...” she babbled excitedly, barely stopping for breath as she dragged Emelyn to The Library in the Upper City.
Emelyn smiled weakly throughout the mash of terms she barely understood, hoping they could at least stay together after this, however it turned out.
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