Ok but can you imagine a Wheel-wright/Wagon-wright apostate or one that was sympathetic to apostates?
Like they need to have hella focus on exacting details, control, precision– all things you need in learning and controlling magic.
Imagine a shopmaster being in contact with the Collective and Underground and taking in apostates from countries or City-States over, staring Templars down. “Serah Wright, we’ve heard of a maleficar that may be masquerading in your shop.” The master shifts her pipe and looks around her smoke, steam and sawdust filled shop before looking back. “That so, Ser? What would a mage be doin’ with a wheel?” “That’s not what we meant, Ser.” “Alright, aye, you sayin’ they’d be here to buy a wagon?” “Serah–” “Can’t say how it’d be my problem if they got here with enough coin to buy a wagon.” She took a draw on her pipe and let out a thick cloud of smoke that cut off the Knight’s protests with harsh coughing. “Takes a long while to make a wagon, let alone get a horse to draw it. Don’t know why they’d be here if they bought one though.” “Serah, they may be working here.” One finally choked out, getting her attention. “If you please, we need to see your workers.” She quirked an eyebrow. “What would a mage know about wagons? Can’t they fly or whatsit? Turn into birds and dragons?” “Your books, then, serah.” A pause, eyeing her pipe warily. “And we’ll be on our way.” “Fine, fine. OI, Sansa!” She called, a slight elven girl with a sizable hammer coming up from the shop. “Yes?” “Bring me the books so the Knights don’t have to trip through the Works, eh?”
And naturally they’d insist on going back in there anyway, get smacked accidentally by a metal tire being curved for a wheel, nearly blinded by burning steam from quenching a different tire, one got smacked on the back-swing of a worker tightening something. By the time they got to the office they couldn’t sift through the aliases in the books if they tried. Once they leave the boss just turns around to see the apostates that work for her grinning. “Oi, you got work to do, ye? We can laugh at the bucket heads later.”
The scene: At this moment in the campaign, the only surviving PC’s were myself and the party’s fighter. The other players had just died in an ambush, so they were rolling up new characters while ours decided they wanted some payback. The DM had originally had a cleric following us, but shenanigans and rolls had turned her into a dragon about two sessions ago, so she had just showed up to check in on us after this happened.
Fighter: Hey Pyrrhus, (my character, not the dragon) how much oil do you reckon we have in the wagon?
Pyrrhus: A couple of gallons, why?
Fighter: I’ve got an idea. (the player had an evil gleam in his eye at this point.)
At this point, the fighter began talking to the DM’s dragon, trying to convince her to act as the carrier for the wagon while I began lashing the barrels of oil and alchemist fire that the fighter and our dead giant had been gathering just because to the inside of said wagon, getting it ready. By the time I was done the fighter had talked the dragon into dropping out wagon of explosives over the enemy camp (the DM was curious to see what we would do).
Me OOC: Okay, as Solendis (the dragon) drops the wagon over their camp, I ready my fireball spell-like ability and cast it on the wagon at the moment of impact…
Suffice to say, by the time the heat and flames died down, there were no survivors in the enemy camp, and my party has since referred to the “MOAB Incident” as why myself and the fighter’s player cannot be allowed to play artificers.