Cedar Sanderson is doing N'inktober, so I'm going to follow along and do what I've been trained to do by the Raconteur Press Postcard books: come up with a story to match her visual prompts. I can't guarantee that I'll have a complete story for every image, but I'm going to at least try to come up with a scene, a start, or an idea!
Hidden Demiurge
“You were supposed to have them ready by now, you incompetent fool!”
Spittle flew through the air with each word. The veins on Valkaroth’s neck bulged alarmingly. Then again, they were always bulging. Outside of battle, the godling of war and violence was seldom in anything approaching a good mood. Being told his latest toy was not yet ready was a convenient excuse for him to allow his rage to boil over.
Maker didn’t turn from his table. He’d investigated a wide range of strategies for dealing with Valkaroth’s accusations. Defending himself was worthless. So was agreement. In the end, he’d developed an entire science of social interactions and worked up an 11-dimensional decision graph, only to determine that - regardless of what he did - the outcome was always going to be the same.
He found it distinctly ironic that the starkly deterministic nature of their universe could be simultaneously comforting and frustrating. It was even more ironic that that particular observation had inspired his latest project.
So he kept his hands busy with the model while Valkaroth raged. He had lived through this scene ten thousand times before. He knew exactly what was coming. The universe would tick on like an incredibly well-made clock, behaving exactly as it should in all instances. The godling would rant and rave for precisely so long, then pause for a breath. He would have time for two score words; no more. In fact…
Valkaroth’s voice trailed off, panting. Maker spun around on his stool. His motion set the adamantine chain that bound him to his workbench in motion. It danced across the stone floor, each link sounding a distinct note as it struck the granite floor.
“I told you this would take three Turnings. Three. It has been two. They will be ready in one more.” He spun back to his workbench, chain tinkling out a new tune.
Behind him, Valkaroth sputtered.
Maker ignored him. Even after a thousand thousand Turnings, he was still pleased with his work on the chain. He had poured his skill and knowledge into it, fashioning each of the links to be a different size and shape. Altogether, they could produce over a trillion different combination of notes. He’d heard every one.
Of course, he’d known Valkaroth would use the chain to make him a prisoner in his own workshop. That was of no matter. His state was inconsequential compared to the act of creation. Still, he had hoped that the size and complexity of the chain would lead to something new. Something… surprising. Yet, like everything else, it had been painfully predictable to him.
Which was why he’d gone in a completely different direction with this project. Small and simple. Maker pinched space here, twisted time there, and nodded as his model curled up into itself. He had just enough time to note the configuration it took before a scarred hand fell on his shoulder and yanked him around.
Valkaroth’s face was twisted in a snarl, eyes red with rage. His fist was raised, ready to strike.
Maker looked aside. After ten thousand times, what was one more? He braced himself for the inevitable blow. He’d bounce off the table and get knocked to the floor. Climb back onto the stool while Valkaroth mocked him. Then the idiot would shake him like a rattle before wandering away, and Maker would have peace in his hidden workshop until the next Turning.
One heartbeat passed.
Two.
Three… and every nerve in Maker’s body fired in a frisson of excitement as something behind him shifted.
Valkaroth lowered his fist. Instead of striking him, the godling grasped his beard, yanking him forward until they were nose to nose. Maker gagged at the hot, ripe stench of Valkaroth’s breath.
“Those flying things you made for me. Dragons. I enjoy them immensely.” Valkaroth’s snarl turned into a predatory grin, full of broken teeth. “I will be back tomorrow. With the dragons. If you are not ready, I will let them gnaw your hands off at the wrist. Slowly.”
Valkaroth shoved him back. Maker went sprawling on the table. With a sneer, the godling spun on his heel and stomped out of the room, slamming the heavy iron door closed behind him.
Maker winced as he pushed himself up from his workbench, eyes watering with pain. He felt his side carefully and yelped in pain. One of his ribs was fractured! In a way that had never happened before! He took a short, shallow breath, marveling at the fact that he had no idea how it would feel.
He turned and found his model, focusing closely. It looked nothing like it had previously. As he watched, the unbelievably minute and discrete particles he had used to create it twisted and slid around each other in continuous motion.
Try as he might, he could not measure it. Not with his eye, nor with his hand. Even his mind, keenly in tune with every particle of the universe, could not predict the next permutation as it danced to a song he was no longer able to hear. The very existence of it was warping space and time around it, generating something he had thought of, but never seen.
“Randomness. Unpredictability.” Those words described it, but they did not name it; and names have power. Maker studied the formlessness before him, and let it tickle his mind, until a name formed there.
“Chaos.”
Maker grasped his chain, feeling the new, inestimable measure of it. He flicked it chain against the floor, laughing triumphantly as it shattered. Links scattered across the floor, playing a discordant tune that he had never heard before.
Valkaroth would be back tomorrow, with the dragons. He had no idea what might happen then… and that uncertainly was gloriously intoxicating.
Perfect. The clockwork universe shattered by uncertainty's principle.