The four elements of the craft:
First—the fabric that conducts mana. Not ordinary fabric, but special. It's woven by beastfolk—furry masters whose paws know more about magic than all books. Their material doesn't just conduct mana—it's imbued with it, like a sponge with water or a human soul with disappointment. In every thread, there's a barely audible whisper of the wind, into which the beastfolk weave the wool of magical beasts roaming the forests under the moon.
I imagine beastfolk at weaving looms—wolves in aprons, bears with thimbles on their claws. An absurd picture, but no more absurd than the whole story with magical pouches. The irony of fate—to gain strength, you have to bow to those born with it.
Second—slime from slugs. Of course, slime! Because respectable magic can't do without something disgusting and hard to obtain. Not ordinary slime, but that sticky, cold substance left by slugs in the swamps of "Zelnula"—forests where trees whisper to each other, and the air is thick with mana.
These creatures are slippery lumps of ancient power, the quintessence of swamp melancholy. Their slime isn't just mud, but a key to eternity. Coat the pouch with it inside, and it becomes like an icy cave where time freezes, and decay retreats. There's something appealing in the thought of wading knee-deep in swamp muck, catching these beings. Beauty hidden in dirt, like a secret waiting for its hour.
Third—a metallic tie to prevent mana leakage. Mana strives to leave enclosed space no less than a prisoner dreaming of freedom. The best ties are made by underground dwellers—pale shadows living in eternal darkness who know how to hold the invisible. Their work isn't just craft, but art, where every curl of metal whispers of the struggle with emptiness.
Fourth—a mana storage stone without an element. Here, elves lead—eternal wanderers with eyes full of stars. Their stones are like mirrors that reflect only the essence, without the extra noise of fire or the whisper of wind. In them, there's nothing but mana, and in that emptiness—fullness.
What do we have in the end? Fabric from beastfolk, slime from "Zelnula," a tie from underground masters, and an elven stone. It's like a bouquet gathered from different corners of the world, where each flower is part of a great mystery. Creating the pouch requires money—not astronomical sums, but not pennies from a pauper's pocket. Middle class in terms of magical artifacts.
Money is just the beginning. The hardest part is the charging process. A person with average mana reserves must pour it into the pouch for three years to fit a sword. Three years! In that time, you could learn a language, master a craft, or get disillusioned with life twice. For a cart, it takes six to seven years. For a whole room—fifty to sixty years.
Fifty years! That's more than the average person lives. So creating a truly spacious pouch is a lifelong endeavor, and a long, purposeful life at that. An entire life dedicated to creating your own little "nothing" capable of holding "everything." No wonder there are few pouches larger than a cart in the world—they become family heirlooms, passed down generations along with curses and blessings.
A curious fact: each pouch can be expanded by constantly feeding it mana. In principle, I could do this every evening before bed—a meditative activity, a quiet, almost sacred ritual. My little rebellion against the fleetingness of life. Instead of counting sheep—counting units of magical energy flowing into a personal pocket of the universe.
This wonder has a dark side. Living beings can't survive in such a pouch—their mana vessels and blood vessels shatter immediately. Death is instantaneous and presumably painful. Why? Maybe life is too loud a guest for such silence? Or is this pouch like a mirror that tolerates no reflections? The book is silent, leaving only the bitter truth: what preserves the inanimate kills the living.