Frost 65, 119
There were only two more days until the deadline. Fortunately and fortuitously, Foma had most of the day to focus on imprinting the golem's core. The early morning had been filled with letters, both filing and summarizing as well as writing and sending off replies. In a way, it was a proper warm-up for the extensive imprinting that would come next. Once the last of the envelopes had been sealed and sent off with a courier, Foma holed himself up in one of the workshop's back rooms and gradually but neatly completed the necessary circles of mending.
In one lay the core, but in the other Foma had placed a chair and table which sported an ink well, pen, and a stack of papers. Stretching his neck side to side, he settled into the chair and prepared himself for the task at hand. Ring in hand, he reached over and gently pressed the gem to the circle. As the aether thrummed to life, connecting his consciousness to the yet to be consciousness of the core in the other circle, he set the ring aside, shut his eyes, and began.
Movement, sound, and sensation were the first things to be imprinted. He restricted his memories to those specifically involving the acts of writing and listening; what it felt like to properly hold a pen or quill, the weight and pressure of writing itself, the gentle rise and fall of hands shifting a single sheaf of paper... Then there came the memories of others' speech, the steady stream of sound in and the even steadier examination of it. He thought of thought itself, its purpose and function but also feeling, the piecing together of information so that it all fit cohesively. He recalled speeches, conversations, and advice... and soon the foundations had been laid out.
Next came self-preservation. The pen was only to be dipped far enough for the well to fill, not to stain the fingers. Fire and water both were to be avoided. Outside and interfering forces were to interrupt the process, better to wait than press on and break something. These and more were pulled up from memory, one by one, instilling within the core not only the fundamentals of its purpose but also a methodical sense of perpetuation.
He spent a solid hour reiterating these foundations via memories and words and sensations, but he was eventually ready to move on to functional forms. The first was holding the pen itself. He sat with back straight and hands folded neatly upon the table, lifted his right to take hold of the pen, carefully dipped it into the ink making certain to fill the reservoir but no more, lightly dabbed it upon the edge of the inkwell, then held it ready and waiting for instruction. He did the same from a myriad of different starting positions, over and over again, until he'd provided a wide array of starting points that all ended in what was, more or less, exactly the same place.
Then came writing. He started with the most simple but inclusive of sample sentences: Grumpy wizards make toxic brew for Jack and the evil Queen. At first, every letter was kept in under case, then upper case, then proper case, and each time the ink ran low, he carefully re-dipped the nib, dabbed it upon the edge of the inkwell, and picked up where he left off. Repetition of motion with small additives each time, until he was dictating to himself, listening to the words, then writing them down upon the paper. Eventually, and after several sheets of filled papers, he was at last ready for both vocabulary and the process of learning knew words.
Their workshops writing golems, those that possessed the capability to learn new words, were imprinted with a specific trigger phrase which allowed them to fully access their overbodies and learn as any other sentient creature might -- albeit a sentient creature who was never in danger of losing any of the information imprinted upon it during its creation. This particular model's phrase was "rutabaga retaboga ratobega", which was exactly as difficult to pronounce correctly as it appeared to be on paper.
He spoke slowly and deliberately, linking the phrase to the understanding that anytime it was heard the first time, it was time to learn. A second time, and no longer were unknown words something to be memorized but merely unintelligible noise.
After that came vocabulary; speaking, reading, writing... images were no longer strictly necessary, but the various colored memories called to the forefront of Foma's mind helped to keep him focused on the task at hand. The work was slow but steady, one word after another was gradually picked apart, each little piece methodically installed within the golem's artificial soul. Several thousand was eventually whittled down to merely a single thousand. That, then, was dutifully chopped away at until there were only half a thousand left. Then four hundred. Then two hundred. Then fifty. Then four, three, two...
"Allot," Foma stated, clear and with proper annunciation. His pen glided over the page: a-l-l-o-t. "Allot; full capitalization," he stated again. A-L-L-O-T. "Allot; first letter capitalization." A-l-l-o-t.
But that wasn't even then end. Next came grammar, the proper structure of sentences, punctuation, capitalization. He reviewed the rules with examples, dictations, lessons both purely verbal and mental then mixes of both. By the time he was, at last, finished, his throat was dry, his back was aching, and he was down to his very last sheet of paper.
Once the circle was dispersed, Foma let his eyes finally rest shut. He sat there in the small side-room in the relative silence for several minutes, just enjoying the sound of the still air *not* filled with his own voice. He very nearly almost fell asleep, but was interrupted before he could doze off completely by the door bursting open.
"Out," Mister Gutermuth snapped, arms filled with a mess of books and documents, a small linen sack that no doubt housed his own core hanging from his wrist. "This isn't a tavern room."
"O-of course!" Foma frantically began to clear away his mess. "Right away!"
Even with the haste of panic, it still took a solid five minutes to get everything out of the room and ready for the other apprentice, much to Mister Gutermuth's annoyance, but he didn't say anything else on the matter as he shut the door behind Foma's final retreating form. He was different from Miss Holzknecht who, despite her sharp tongue and taskmaster-esque proclivities, seemed genuinely invested in Foma's development as an artificer. Mister Gutermuth could not have cared less. He merely wanted things done and wanted them done correctly; to him, Foma was either useful or useless. There was no in between, nor, in that particular instance, any question as to which he had been classified as that day.
Foma carefully set his completed core down upon his workbench as he slumped down into his chair. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, and his thoughts were still reeling from the sheer volume of letters and words he'd subjected himself to for most of the day. So, when the scent of freshly brewed tea met his nose, he half imagined he was dreaming it all up.
"I've just made a pot if you'd like some." Familiar, snappish, and kind in gesture but not in tone. Miss Holzknecht stood with teacup in one hand and saucer in the other, eying him with all the fascination of a surgeon standing over the exposed innards of her patient.
"That would be wonderful," Foma murmured, eyes still shut but gradually opening again to offer his child-supervisor an appreciative smile. "My thanks, Miss Holzknecht."
"Yes, well," she raised small, neatly plucked brow. She looked, most days, far more like some delicate miniature woman than an actual child the way her face was so flawlessly painted and curls so perfectly styled and clothes so sumptuously draped about her slender figure. It was almost difficult to remember just how young she was and would have nearly been impossible had he not been studying under her for the season or so acutely aware he was nearly twice her age and at barely half her skill. "I didn't have it brewed for you, Kos. I'm simply offering you the dregs."
A light chuckle escaped him, a bit too tired to correctly mask his emotions, not that anyone within the cozy walls of the workshop really cared all that much, Miss Holzknecht included. "An offer I gratefully accept nonetheless."
The walk to the teapot helped to bring a little bit of life back into his limbs, but the steaming, floral liquid itself breathed new life into what felt to be his very soul. Reinvigorated in no small part thanks to Miss Holzknecht, Foma set about quadruple checking the golem's body, especially the hands and their respective shrouds. Everything was coming together nicely, even if he was long overdue for some much needed sleep.
There were only two more days until the deadline. Fortunately and fortuitously, Foma had most of the day to focus on imprinting the golem's core. The early morning had been filled with letters, both filing and summarizing as well as writing and sending off replies. In a way, it was a proper warm-up for the extensive imprinting that would come next. Once the last of the envelopes had been sealed and sent off with a courier, Foma holed himself up in one of the workshop's back rooms and gradually but neatly completed the necessary circles of mending.
In one lay the core, but in the other Foma had placed a chair and table which sported an ink well, pen, and a stack of papers. Stretching his neck side to side, he settled into the chair and prepared himself for the task at hand. Ring in hand, he reached over and gently pressed the gem to the circle. As the aether thrummed to life, connecting his consciousness to the yet to be consciousness of the core in the other circle, he set the ring aside, shut his eyes, and began.
Movement, sound, and sensation were the first things to be imprinted. He restricted his memories to those specifically involving the acts of writing and listening; what it felt like to properly hold a pen or quill, the weight and pressure of writing itself, the gentle rise and fall of hands shifting a single sheaf of paper... Then there came the memories of others' speech, the steady stream of sound in and the even steadier examination of it. He thought of thought itself, its purpose and function but also feeling, the piecing together of information so that it all fit cohesively. He recalled speeches, conversations, and advice... and soon the foundations had been laid out.
Next came self-preservation. The pen was only to be dipped far enough for the well to fill, not to stain the fingers. Fire and water both were to be avoided. Outside and interfering forces were to interrupt the process, better to wait than press on and break something. These and more were pulled up from memory, one by one, instilling within the core not only the fundamentals of its purpose but also a methodical sense of perpetuation.
He spent a solid hour reiterating these foundations via memories and words and sensations, but he was eventually ready to move on to functional forms. The first was holding the pen itself. He sat with back straight and hands folded neatly upon the table, lifted his right to take hold of the pen, carefully dipped it into the ink making certain to fill the reservoir but no more, lightly dabbed it upon the edge of the inkwell, then held it ready and waiting for instruction. He did the same from a myriad of different starting positions, over and over again, until he'd provided a wide array of starting points that all ended in what was, more or less, exactly the same place.
Then came writing. He started with the most simple but inclusive of sample sentences: Grumpy wizards make toxic brew for Jack and the evil Queen. At first, every letter was kept in under case, then upper case, then proper case, and each time the ink ran low, he carefully re-dipped the nib, dabbed it upon the edge of the inkwell, and picked up where he left off. Repetition of motion with small additives each time, until he was dictating to himself, listening to the words, then writing them down upon the paper. Eventually, and after several sheets of filled papers, he was at last ready for both vocabulary and the process of learning knew words.
Their workshops writing golems, those that possessed the capability to learn new words, were imprinted with a specific trigger phrase which allowed them to fully access their overbodies and learn as any other sentient creature might -- albeit a sentient creature who was never in danger of losing any of the information imprinted upon it during its creation. This particular model's phrase was "rutabaga retaboga ratobega", which was exactly as difficult to pronounce correctly as it appeared to be on paper.
He spoke slowly and deliberately, linking the phrase to the understanding that anytime it was heard the first time, it was time to learn. A second time, and no longer were unknown words something to be memorized but merely unintelligible noise.
After that came vocabulary; speaking, reading, writing... images were no longer strictly necessary, but the various colored memories called to the forefront of Foma's mind helped to keep him focused on the task at hand. The work was slow but steady, one word after another was gradually picked apart, each little piece methodically installed within the golem's artificial soul. Several thousand was eventually whittled down to merely a single thousand. That, then, was dutifully chopped away at until there were only half a thousand left. Then four hundred. Then two hundred. Then fifty. Then four, three, two...
"Allot," Foma stated, clear and with proper annunciation. His pen glided over the page: a-l-l-o-t. "Allot; full capitalization," he stated again. A-L-L-O-T. "Allot; first letter capitalization." A-l-l-o-t.
But that wasn't even then end. Next came grammar, the proper structure of sentences, punctuation, capitalization. He reviewed the rules with examples, dictations, lessons both purely verbal and mental then mixes of both. By the time he was, at last, finished, his throat was dry, his back was aching, and he was down to his very last sheet of paper.
Once the circle was dispersed, Foma let his eyes finally rest shut. He sat there in the small side-room in the relative silence for several minutes, just enjoying the sound of the still air *not* filled with his own voice. He very nearly almost fell asleep, but was interrupted before he could doze off completely by the door bursting open.
"Out," Mister Gutermuth snapped, arms filled with a mess of books and documents, a small linen sack that no doubt housed his own core hanging from his wrist. "This isn't a tavern room."
"O-of course!" Foma frantically began to clear away his mess. "Right away!"
Even with the haste of panic, it still took a solid five minutes to get everything out of the room and ready for the other apprentice, much to Mister Gutermuth's annoyance, but he didn't say anything else on the matter as he shut the door behind Foma's final retreating form. He was different from Miss Holzknecht who, despite her sharp tongue and taskmaster-esque proclivities, seemed genuinely invested in Foma's development as an artificer. Mister Gutermuth could not have cared less. He merely wanted things done and wanted them done correctly; to him, Foma was either useful or useless. There was no in between, nor, in that particular instance, any question as to which he had been classified as that day.
Foma carefully set his completed core down upon his workbench as he slumped down into his chair. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, and his thoughts were still reeling from the sheer volume of letters and words he'd subjected himself to for most of the day. So, when the scent of freshly brewed tea met his nose, he half imagined he was dreaming it all up.
"I've just made a pot if you'd like some." Familiar, snappish, and kind in gesture but not in tone. Miss Holzknecht stood with teacup in one hand and saucer in the other, eying him with all the fascination of a surgeon standing over the exposed innards of her patient.
"That would be wonderful," Foma murmured, eyes still shut but gradually opening again to offer his child-supervisor an appreciative smile. "My thanks, Miss Holzknecht."
"Yes, well," she raised small, neatly plucked brow. She looked, most days, far more like some delicate miniature woman than an actual child the way her face was so flawlessly painted and curls so perfectly styled and clothes so sumptuously draped about her slender figure. It was almost difficult to remember just how young she was and would have nearly been impossible had he not been studying under her for the season or so acutely aware he was nearly twice her age and at barely half her skill. "I didn't have it brewed for you, Kos. I'm simply offering you the dregs."
A light chuckle escaped him, a bit too tired to correctly mask his emotions, not that anyone within the cozy walls of the workshop really cared all that much, Miss Holzknecht included. "An offer I gratefully accept nonetheless."
The walk to the teapot helped to bring a little bit of life back into his limbs, but the steaming, floral liquid itself breathed new life into what felt to be his very soul. Reinvigorated in no small part thanks to Miss Holzknecht, Foma set about quadruple checking the golem's body, especially the hands and their respective shrouds. Everything was coming together nicely, even if he was long overdue for some much needed sleep.
