Sexy Steampunk Babes

It had struck her at breakfast, and it struck her now, for all that the entire populace of the Academy wore uniforms, they weren’t actually all that uniform.

For example, the classroom Bonnlyn sat in now was a veritable riot of colors.

Reds. Blues. Greens. Blacks. Whites. Each representing differing houses.

Which didn’t really make a ton of sense until you thought about it a bit. It wasn’t like the entirety of the first year cohort of the general intake program was present in the room. Nor was that true for any of the other houses. In truth, only about one team from each house was present.

A move that could only have been deliberate.

They’re trying to create competition, Bonnlyn decided.

Which she supposed made sense. Her mother often did something similar with her branch managers. She often said that a well-maintained rivalry only ever drove the women involved to greater and greater heights.

To the benefit of not just themselves, but the company as well.

Clearly the academy subscribed to the same philosophy.

Unfortunately, she thought as she shifted about on her irritatingly short stool, they took it too far.

Because what moron would ever think it was a good idea to divide up the Instructors along the same lines?

And then have them teach classes filled with their ‘rival’s’ students?

“You,” Instructor Harlen, her red half-cape flaring with her movements, pointed straight at Verity for what felt like the fifth time since they’d sat down in her class. “Tell me, how does a mage perform the miraculous feats that make them a mage?”

Bonnlyn grit her teeth as the orc floundered, the rest of the class giggling a little as she did – especially those of House Sunland.

Instructor Harlen’s House.

“Oh, uh,” the orc gazed at the chalkboard at the front of the room in desperate search of answers. “They channel the, uh, mystic power inside themselves to-”

“Wrong.” The woman’s pointer impacted the chalkboard with a resounding crack. “Laughably wrong. Proof enough that talent at clubbing heads does not make a marine-knight.”

The orc sank in her seat at the words even as Harlen turned back around.

“Mages do nothing in regards to the effects of a spell,” the woman jotted her words down in chalk as she spoke. “We can no more summon fire or lightning than the common woman or man can.”

Glancing over, Bonnyln wasn’t surprised to see William quietly patting the poor orc girl on the back.

He was an odd one. Good odd. But odd.

Didn’t act much like a noble at all. Sure, he was a guy, not a gal, but it went beyond even that.

Almost to the extent that Bonnlyn had found herself wondering whether there was any truth in blondie’s claims regarding why he’d been saddled with a place in general intake.

As much as she hated to agree with the elf on anything – even within the sanctity of her own mind – that really did suggest some kind of scandal.

One bad enough that he’d been shipped all the way to the academy.

And given how nice he’s being to Verity, she thought. Well, it’s enough to make a girl wonder if that’s just a result of general niceness, compassion for a teammate… or a result of some poorly repressed xenophilia…

It’d fit, she thought. Some sort of illicit romance with a ‘lower caste’ that resulted in him being shipped far away from home.

Ancestors below, she hoped that was the case. Because that would mean she had a much better chance of slipping into those tight little slacks before the school year was out.

A thought that was a little unworthy of her, she’d admit, but she was only mortal.

And he was hot.

What kind of woman would she be if she didn’t at least try?

“Where we differ from our fellow is in our soul’s ability to act as a conduit.” The instructor continued from the front of the room. “A conduit to a realm brimming with beings capable of performing those aforementioned acts.”

She tapped a collection of cartoonish looking beings. “Fae. Spirits. Demons. They have myriad names. And we know frighteningly little about them. What we do know is that they exist beyond the bounds of this world, they do not think as we do, and they are frighteningly powerful.”

She smirked. “Yet they have their vices. Refined aether. That which has stewed in a mage’s soul and become colored by their mortal essence. These beings yearn for it as an alcoholic might his next drink.”

Bonnlyn watched as Verity continued to furiously scribble down notes, her brow creased in concentration as she struggled to avoid creating blots on the page with her quill. Olzenya was doing the same from nearby, albeit without any trouble whatsoever on the blot front, though her vaguely bored expression suggested she was merely going through the motions.

Marline and William weren’t even doing that. The Dark Elf just sat there with a slightly bored expression on her face, while the human was clearly drawing something rather than writing.

This is probably all old news to them, Bonnlyn thought as she scribbled down her own notes, stopping only to dip her quill back into her inkpot.

“With that said, it is a common misconception that when a mage sends their aether into the void and toward their patron, it is the aether itself that the patron takes in payment,” Instructor Harlen continued. “This is incorrect. For where do we draw aether? The fae realm. And it comes to us with ease, raw and unfiltered.”

To illustrate, the woman extended her hand, a billowy wisp of blue-green smoke wafting from it before floating up to the rafters.

“Fae are beings of aether. It permeates their entire world, as air or water does ours.”

She stopped the flow of gas. “No, the aether is a mere byproduct of what the fae truly desire. Emotions. Memories. Our mortal experiences, which come to colour the aether we hold within ourselves – turning it from raw aether.”

Once more, blue-green gas billowed from her right hand, rising up like smoke.

“To refined aether.”

Her left palm rose up, gold-white gas twisting in the air sluggishly like a spray of mist. The amount was much less than the one coming from her right hand, cutting off after a few seconds – while the raw aether continued to billow forth.

“You.” Naturally, her gaze once more turned to Verity. “How much aether can a mage channel?”

Everyone knew the orc wouldn’t know. Why would she? She’d been a slave prior to her talent expressing itself.

“That depends.” William interrupted, his voice dry and disinterested he continued to gaze down at whatever he was sketching. “Is the aether in question raw or refined?”

Instructor Harlen’s gaze hardened, her lips pursing as she turned to regard the male. “That question was directed at your teammate, Cadet Ashfield. Not you. And I would remind you to look at me when you speak.”

“My apologies.” Casually placing down his quill, the boy looked up at the elf with a remarkably cool expression. “I got a little too excited about maybe knowing the answer.”

He didn’t sound excited, the dwarf couldn’t help but note.

And if she noticed it, so too did Harlen.

The woman scowled, even as she turned back to the board. “Learn to control yourself in the future. This is a military academy, not your personal estate, and I am not one of your limp-wristed personal tutors.” She paused. “With that said, if you’re so eager to talk out of turn Cadet Ashfield, you can explain why the difference between raw aether and refined aether matters when discussing a mage’s ability to channel either substance.”

Bonnlyn couldn’t help but note how relieved Verity looked as the class’s focus once more shifted from her, even as William opened his mouth again.

“Of course, Instructor. My thanks for your patience and forbearance. On the topic of aether output, a mage may continually produce raw aether in limited quantities so long as they have the stamina to do so. In that regard, with unlimited stamina, a mage would be capable of producing an unlimited amount of raw aether.” He coughed before continuing. “By contrast, a mage’s ability to output refined aether is strictly limited by how much of the substance they have retained within their soul. Their capacity is the limiting factor. And while that capacity might grow with age and experience, it is still comparatively limited and can be expended very quickly.”

“Hmph,” the Instructor grunted, clearly unhappy that she couldn’t find fault in his explanation. “Correct. Which leads onto the next topic. How does raw aether become the infinitely more useful refined variant?”

Her tone made it clear the question was rhetorical and thus served as a dismissal to William who slumped in his seat once more.

“The conversion of raw aether into refined aether is a process that occurs while a mage sleeps,” she explained. “Which also happens to be the moment where a mage may actually meet their patron. Some scholars suggest this is no coincidence. For it is only in the land of dreams, where reality distorts and the boundaries between our world and the void weaken, that a fae can interact with a mage.”

As the woman’s explanation continued, Bonnlyn noticed that Verity was giving William a thankful look, which he returned with a wry smile before turning back to… whatever it was he was doodling. Completely missing the way both Marline and Olzenya were now glaring at him.

For her part, Bonnlyn was glad the guy had managed to get the old coot off her teammate’s back for a moment, though she would also confess some curiosity as to what the boy was sketching.

Damn short body, she thought as she tried to casually lean over to look.

It was a design document of some kind. For some kind of suit with… a long pipe attached?

Or was it a rope? She pondered as she saw the way the object bent and twisted as it emerged from the suit’s head, before attaching to some kind of machine.

Is it supposed to be some kind of maneuver-suit?

She supposed it wouldn’t be too peculiar for the man to have an interest in that sort of thing. This was a military academy after all, and they’d all be learning how to use the things soon enough.

Hell, it’d be stranger if he didn’t have an interest.

The thought made her smile. If he really did have an interest in designing suits, she had some experience on that front. Perhaps they’d have an opportunity to collaborate together?

And then collaborate on some other things too.

That’s a big ass helmet though, she thought. Like a giant fishbowl. The fabric looks incredibly thick too. Those gloves would make wielding a bow-gun almost impossible.

Still, she had her answer. Curiosity sated and spirits buoyed, she turned her attention away from the wildly impractical looking design her teammate was working on and back to the board.

“Though to call what occurs there a ‘conversation’ would be perhaps too generous a descriptor.” Instructor Harlen continued. “Dreams, after all, are not a place given to deep conversation or even basic causality. Again, many scholars suggest this is no coincidence, given the alien nature of the fae. It is entirely possible that the chaotic nature of a dream environment is more hospitable to them than the ‘rigidity’ of our home reality.”

She paused. “Either way, the ability to navigate such an environment is ultimately what divides a mediocre mage from a true master. The ability to lucid dream. To retain those contract terms and recite them in their sleep, ensuring that their patron acts as we wish them to act when we call upon ‘our’ magic.”

Her eyes once more roamed to Verity, who wilted under the woman’s gaze. “Those incapable of retaining their wits in their dreams will often find themselves awakening to find that they have a contract to summon entirely the wrong element. Earth instead of ice. Or, in the wrong format. An earth wall instead of a launched shard.”

She tapped the board once more. “A patron cares not. While they are, for whatever reason, bound by ‘laws’ of their own, they have not a care for the whims or hopes of their contractors, only the letter of the contract. Even if that will likely mean the death of said contractor upon their awakening.”

This time she smiled, her gaze roaming over the nearest collection of red-clad students. “Which is why I’m sure many of you are in the habit of reciting your contracts before you sleep. To hopefully ensure some degree of recall and cognizance in a time where neither comes easy.”

The smile faded as she once more regarded the entire room. “That is what this class shall teach. Meditation. Mindfulness. Awareness. The general sharpening of wits to allow each of you to properly form your contracts.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Though I am sure I’ll have more success with some than others.”

-------------------------

“Ugh, this shit is too tight,” Bonnlyn complained as she tugged at the hem of her black – or perhaps dark grey - gambeson. “I can’t hardly breathe.”

William hummed distractedly, unable to turn his gaze away from the brunette girl that had been staring him down from across the duelling arena.

Oh, he’d certainly expected to encounter his fiancée at some point in the foreseeable future, but he hadn’t thought it would be this early.

She was a third-year after all. It wasn’t like they’d be sharing classes together, and just about the only place she might have been able to seek him out was the cafeteria.

He’d figured he’d get at least a week before she realized he wasn’t going to seek her out – to complain or reconcile.

Unfortunately for him, he’d failed to take into account the idea that the duelling area held dozens of arenas, all of which were available to the academy at large to practice in.

Even when a class was taking up a portion of the grounds.

Fortunately for him, it seemed that the Blackstone girl was dutiful enough not to interrupt the Instructor’s lesson just to stride over to him to hash out some personal business.

At least not yet, he thought as another bout came to an end, the two first-year combatants sheathing their practice blades as the Instructor stepped forward to critique their form.

Finally turning away from the woman who would ideally not become his future wife, he regarded his dwarvish teammate.

“I can see that,” he hummed dryly.

And he could. For while he wasn’t going to make any kind of general statements about typical dwarvish bodyshapes, they did come with a certain… reputation.

The word short-stack comes to mind, he thought.

A descriptor the criteria of which Bonnlyn more than fulfilled. And something the armorer who’d created her outfit – probably a human or an elf - clearly hadn’t properly taken into account when creating her suit.

Dwarves weren’t exactly rare in Lindholm, but they weren’t exactly common either.

So yes, if the thing had been made with a very short human or elf in mind rather than an actual dwarf, it was all too possible the thing was just a little ‘tight’ around the chest.

“It’s supposed to be tight,” Marline said offhandedly as she watched the next pair of fighters step into the arena. “Because it’s supposed to deflect incoming blows. Two massive bulges in the front would instead drive an incoming slash or thrust into your chest instead.”

Well, he supposed a noble would know that.

Even if she was wrong.

“Perhaps, if she were wearing a metal cuirass over the top.” He pointed out. “It’s a gambeson though, which is supposed to absorb a blow rather than deflect it.”

“Yeah,” Bonnlyn grunted, flirtation forgotten. “And it’s all a moot point anyway if it’s so tight that I can’t feckin’ breathe.”

Rather than rise to the bait, Marline just shrugged, continuing to watch the fights.

No, she left that to another member of their party.

“Inelegantly put, but I suppose ultimately true. It’s possible her outfit truly is too tight. These are mass-produced kits after all.” Olzenya sighed, tugging at her own slightly worn gear with a general expression of distaste on her face. “The idea that some plebeian got the wrong measurements – or thought they knew better – isn’t beyond the pale.”

William had a feeling that Olzenya’s agreement had less to do with any real agreement with Bonnlyn and more because she wanted an opportunity to express her own dissatisfaction with the kit they’d been ‘provided’ by the academy.

With the cost of said equipment – much like everything else they were given – being added to their service debt.

“Mine’s a little tight around the shoulders too,” Verity said quietly, still not quite recovered from the veritable tongue lashing she’d received in Harlen’s class. “I think it was built for a… tall elf. Not an orc.”

“Possible,” William admitted as he took in her suit.

Glancing around, he doubted any of the other houses were dealing with this. Most of the other houses had custom suits they’d brought with them from home. They all looked perfectly at ease in their equipment.

By contrast, Verity looked deeply uncomfortable in hers.

Perhaps she’s not used to being so constrained? He thought. Or having so many layers on?

Which didn’t bode well, given that the kit they were wearing still lacked the myriad funnels and thrusters that actually made a maneuver-suit into a maneuver-suit.

They would come in time, but for this first lesson at least, the Instructor had said she wanted to focus entirely on ‘conventional’ dueling to get an idea for everyone’s form.

Not a terrible idea in his mind, if a little shortsighted.

After all, in what situation would any of them ever be expected to fight in a maneuver-suit without thrusters attached?

“Cadets Halfhelm and… Verity,” the Instructor had clearly paused because Verity lacked a last name for her to use. “To the arena.”

The orc squeaked a little, but did as she was told, dragging her massive warhammer behind her as she went. The thing had stuffed fabric applied to both ends to try and ‘blunt’ the blows it gave out, but William still pitied whoever ended up on the other end of the thing.

Especially when someone of Verity’s size was the one holding it.

Well, I suppose the Academy has healers on-hand for a reason, he thought as he glanced over at the medley of white-robed women – and one man – standing at the end of the hall.

Sure, the academy did generally try to avoid injuries in a practice duel, they being able to fix shattered bones and ruptured organs with ease certainly allowed them a lot more freedom with their training methods than similar institutions would have been back home.

Though there’s not much they’ll be able to do if Verity accidentally shatters someone’s skull with that oversized melon-masher, he thought cynically as the two cadets squared off against one another.

Shaking his head, he turned back to Bonnlyn. “You could take it back to the quartermaster, and they might adjust it for you, but they’d probably charge you for it.”

At an inflated price too, given that the academy held a total monopoly on the cadet’s movements for the next month at least. Which was far too long to be running around with defective equipment.

The dwarf frowned, likely having similar thoughts.

“Or, I could adjust it for you,” he said.

“You?”

“Don’t act so surprised.” He laughed. “As you seem so keen to remind me, I am a guy. I was taught how to darn clothes.”

“It’s a piece of armour, not a dress shirt,” Marline grumped.

He laughed. “True, but my education was a bit more broad than most.”

Much to many of his more hidebound tutor’s dismay, he had a tendency to learn what he wanted to learn, with or without their help. While he wouldn’t say he’d ever traded sexual favours for lessons, he’d certainly implied it on occasion.

Quartermasters. Accountants. Blacksmiths. Guards. Leatherworkers.

He’d had a busy youth. Because as handy as memories of a past life were, they weren’t the be all and end all. To even reach the point where he could utilize some higher technologies, certain gaps had needed to be filled.

“With that said,” he continued. “I’d expect payment.”

For once, there wasn’t a hint of flirtation or lust in Bonnlyn’s gaze as she regarded him. She was from a family of merchants after all.

“Assuming you can actually do as you say,” she spoke evenly.

Fortunately, he wasn’t out to actually haggle. Otherwise he had a feeling she’d run rings around him. Bartering was a skill he’d tried to pick up for sure, but it just… didn’t come naturally to him.

“I do this for you, to your satisfaction,” he spoke slowly. “In return, you teach Olzenya here to wash and dry her clothes. Properly.”

It was rather amusing, the look of indignation that passed over both girl’s faces at his words.

“I- I don’t need this charlatan’s help!” Olzenya – naturally – responded first. “As beneath me as it is, I can hardly see any difficulty in learning how to apply water to fabric.”

He eyed her skeptically.

“I can!” she hissed.

His gaze turned out toward the arena, where the cadet from House Crowdown was almost disdainfully poking at Verity’s defenses, the human’s form a blue blur of practiced motions that spoke of long years of practice with her saber.

By contrast, Verity’s movements were quick but unpolished. More instinct than experience.

“Blood stains.” He said. “A duel’s gone wrong and we have a morning kit inspection tomorrow. It’s also winter. If you dunk your clothes in the vats, there’s no way they’ll be clean by tomorrow. And we’ll suffer demerits because of it.”

Olzenya moved to speak before her mouth slammed shut. He could see her trying to think through the problem.

“I could use a water based contract to-”

“Blood’s more than just water,” Marline grunted. “You’d just end up with a dried brown stain rather than a red one.”

That… surprised him. Not what the dark elf had said, but that she’d known to say it.

“Surprisingly knowledgeable for a noblewoman,” he noted.

The dark elf scowled. “You weren’t the only one whose upbringing was slightly less than conventional, armour boy.”

William hummed, acknowledging the point. Though he was slightly irritated that he wouldn’t be able to hang teaching the dark elf how to keep her clothes clean over her head in return for a favor.

I suppose I’ll just have to settle for the high-elf, he thought.

“I’d also note that if you’ve been in a duel, there’s every chance you’ve expended your contracts,” he pointed out. “Not every duel we have is going to be magic-free.”

Hell, most wouldn’t be.

The blonde mulled it over for a few more moments, before sagging. “Fine. As cherry-picked as your hypothetical is, I acknowledge that… kit maintenance may be less simple than I thought.”

A little snarky, but still a more graceful admission than he’d been expecting.

“Bonnlyn?” he said, turning to the dwarf.

“Two parts water to one part vinegar.” Her response was instant. “Vinegar we could source from the kitchens, legitimately or by bribing a late night servant. Then it’s just a matter of dabbing, not scrubbing the fabric, re-applying our mixture as needed until the stain is gone.”

If anything, Olzenya sagged deeper at her rival’s show of competence. He half expected her to throw out a snarky line about the girl knowing such ‘manly knowledge’ but the high-elf didn’t do that.

“Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll take lessons from… Bonnlyn.”

He grinned.

Then went for the kill.

“Good, and in return for Bonnlyn helping you in return for me helping her, I expect you to teach Verity how to meditate.”

All the girls gazes snapped to him.

“And what do you get out of that?” Bonnlyn asked – almost suspiciously. “Because I’m almost beginning to think you’re sweet on her.”

He laughed. “Hardly.”

Glancing over their shoulders, he was a little surprised to see that Verity actually had the upper hand. At some point she seemed to have figured out her opponent’s patterns, and was now almost casually moving to corner the human.

He could almost see the moment the blue-clad cadet got desperate.

And said something.

Something not all too pleasant given the way the orc recoiled.

For about a second. Then the hammer lashed out.

All conversation cut out across the audience, as an aborted gurgle was punctuated by the sound of teeth clattering to the stone floor.

“F-fight over,” the Instructor yelled, rushing forward. “Cadet Verity victory.” Kneeling over the human cadet, she tsked. “Healers!”

Casually Verity stepped back as both the healers and Instructor moved to tend to her downed and moaning opponent. After a moment of puzzled contemplation, she raised her hammer, regarding the damp bloodstain on its fabric surface. Slowly, she reached up to pluck out an errant tooth that had embedded itself there.

The entire room was silent but for the sound of the down cadet and the activation chants of the healers. Even the other duelists in the distant arenas had ceased their fights to see what commotion was.

And yet Verity still just looked… puzzled.

It was actually kind of terrifying.

Right up until she glanced up to see all the eyes on her and almost jumped out of her skin, hunching in on herself, before glancing towards her team, her eyes wide in almost desperate plea for help.

“I, uh.” William swallowed nervously. “Was actually hoping she’d teach me how to speak orcish.”

He watched as a stretcher was brought out and the downed and mewling cadet was rolled onto it.

“Now,” he continued. “Now I’m thinking that I’d like her to teach me how to do that.”

Assuming that could even be taught. If it couldn’t… well, he’d settle for learning how to avoid having it happen to him.

That seemed a fair trade for a few breathing exercises and tips on how to lucid dream.

Right?

“O-ok,” Bonnlyn breathed, trying and failing to keep her voice calm as the orc started walking back over to them. “You’re insane though, you know that right?”

He paused. “Insane. What do you mean?”

He didn’t know why he was whispering. Or why Olzenya also chose to whisper as she leaned over to him.

“Because you’re going to ‘pay’ that madwoman for the opportunity to step into the arena with her.” She inclined her toward where said madwoman’s last practice partner was being carried off. “After she did that.”

Oh.

Oh…

Shit.