Castra.

A complete and utter, frozen, useless, backwater.

For everything except lumber.

Thankfully, lumber was exactly the business that Antoine Spicer dealt in: Spicer’s Alternative Factories, a small but growing business based primarily in the southern provinces of Isvorder and Osteryard. The Land? He’d leased it with hard-earned cash. Well, his father’s hard-earned cash. Before it was SAF, it was Spicer & Sons Woodwork.

Father was proud of his mild success, and though the bigger loggers could try to keep him down, he’s managed to procure some lucrative contracts, and a couple factories in Castra. Sure, there was none of the glory in the big companies of Sunport, Rothon, and Opertin, nor the allure of Port Aurora or Lumino City. But Castra was (partially) his, and that was good enough.

Who knows? Perhaps his son would springboard off his success like Antoine did.

Now, finally returning to the lumberyard, he looked to his right to find his companion: Chef Bartoparte. He’d been his father’s chef, and his bodyguard. A brief man, to say the least, and all their interacts went a something like this:

“Good morning, Bartoparte.”

“Good morning.”

“How was your evening?”

“Bartoparte cannot complain.”

“Well, that’s nice.”

“…”

“…”

By the time their daily ritual had been conducted, the both of them would be at the woodworking plant. And sure enough, they were! The factory had already been four hours into the first shift (which began at daybreak, since Spicer was a lenient boss), and the churn and grind of factorization was already in full swing as Spicer entered the doors. But today, he was stopped.

“Good day, master Spicer?” said the man in the long coat, “Is it a good day? Hmm, perhaps. Humidity a bit high, as is wind, hmm…” as he continued muttering off to himself. Peculiar man, but Spicer knew the world was full of peculiar men. Well, Glimmer was, at least.

“Ah yes, good day. I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, master…”

“Doctor. Doctor, sir, uhh, Doctor Heimirdinge. Donnalt. Donnalt Heimirdinge.” Said the erratic chap, haltingly extending a hand.

After the most awkward handshake of Spicer’s entire life, Heimirdinge continued “May I, uhh, have an appointment, Master Spicer?”

“I suppose,” Very odd man, Spicer thought, “please, come in.”

“Well, all this material is all well and good, yes. You’ve certainly done your homework, Heimirdinge.” Said Spicer, though he still wasn’t entirely certain of the meaning of this.

“Doctor Heimirdinge. I graduated, doctorate. University of Lumino City, graduated as master of physics and alchemy. My two greatest passions, sir, besides sugar. Must remember to get some.”

“Yes, well, I don’t believe there’s anything out of order. However, I must ask the purpose of this…?” inquired Spicer. The big question on his mind.

“Just for a small experiment. A little one. A weather experiment.” Said the Doctor, in response. An empty response.

“What sort of weather experiment requires 300 pounds of copper, potassium and sodium salts, potash, and lumber framing?”

“Mine do.”

Another non-response, thought Spicer. Bartoparte grunted, as he prepared a whale chowder in the kitchen half of the office. The smell permeated the room, and Heimirdinge’s nose twitched.

“Master Bartoparte, could you put a lid on that, please?” said Heimirdinge, quietly.

“No. Bartoparte in most delicate part of the process.”

“I must insist.”

“No.” said Bartoparte. A complete, and odd silence seemed to permeate the entire factory. Heimirdinge turned back to Spicer.

“I must apologize for my secrecy, master. I must be protective of my research. Lest they find out. Hartmann, Ingenhauz, Leibowitz, Stirlmeister…” Heimirdinge carried on muttering on about it. Long-winded idiot, thought Spicer, just who would want to listen to so much nonsense?

“Very well, Doctor. I’ll approve your request. I shall-“ Spicer was cut off by a commotion! The shriek of dying machinery, a flash of light, the shatter of glass! Bartoparte’s pot went straight to the side, as he clung to a cleaver like a madman. After rushing out of the office, Spicer saw pure horror: his factory was overrun by Bakkians!

Bakkians, a dozen of them, all wielding axes had come and blown his machinery with dynamite, and had overrun his factory! A madman at the helm, bigger than the other and clad in sealskins laughed like barbarians as they smashed his equipment. His workers had turned tail and run, the ingrates, despite all the generosity that Spicer had shown them! Spicer didn’t get a good look at the vandals, as he was suddenly thrown over to the side by a retreating Heimerdinge. His head bumped against a pile of barrels, and the last thing Spicer saw was the top barrel of lubricant fall upon him.

He was in a world of pain when he finally awoke.

Thankfully, the barrel had missed his head, but his arm was a bloody mess. No, it wasn’t an arm. Not anymore. Just pulverized meat.

The factory was quiet. Looted bare. The Bakkians had destroyed everything of productive value, and stolen anything of material value, as they are wont to do. A plague upon industry, and the south, they were.

Fortunately the factory wasn’t burned down, like the others.

Spicer looked over, to find poor Bartoparte. His head was off, and could not be located. But Spicer found his kitchen knives in the guts of several other Bakkians that littered the factory floor. For some reason, Spicer could not bring himself to mourn for poor Bartoparte, and instead got up and limped his way out of his ruined plant.

He knew not what he would do now. He knew not whether he could still be called an industrialist. He figured that despite this, life would go on. Nobody would care.

He, like life, marched on.

[M]: This place takes in 911.