September 3rd, 2 AC
Struggling not to gag at the smell, Count took a moment to lean on his shovel. He was born Jeremy Edward Fitzwilliam Percy, but he barely even thought of himself that way anymore. So many things had changed. Though the shovel he stood on unfortunately wasn't one of them. Oh, it was a slab of spell worked wood, not mass-produced metal and plastic, but it was still recognizably a shovel and it filled the same purpose. All you needed to shovel whatever shit you pleased. Quite literally in this case.
He wondered for a moment, whether the loss of his birth name or the damn smell was worse. He didn't much feel like a Count at the moment, even if Britten had counts. Ignorant twats. The rank was properly called Earl! Nor, if the inspiration was somewhat less noble, was he likely to enumerate everything, sparkle, nor get a chance to nibble on coed necks. Not until he had a bath at least.
He sighed. Americans did not understand class, and even less the nobility that embodied the concept. Good breeding was more than just wealthy parents. It was about… He sighed and let it go. The social framework that made that system work was long gone. Even if it was remade, which looking around it very well might, it still wouldn't be the same structure as the old world. He shook his head. It could have been worse.
A nom de guerre was the rule, not the exception. A true name was a handle to be used against you, a link that could bypass a large distance and most defenses. Nicknames were a necessity, not a luxury. And should you fail to quickly pick a tolerable handle for yourself, then an intolerable one would be chosen for you. Cruel? Occasionally. Count could not deny it, had even, much to his shame, participated. Despite any shame, it had and would continue to happen. He'd learned that lesson the hard way. Act fast, if you didn't, someone else would.
He would not be one of the poor bastards answering to the likes of Bore, cruel even if the poor sod was a bit dull, Squiggoth (A dirty set of dreads), Mopey (Permanent RBF) or any of a half dozen other frightful appellations. Count, no matter how incorrect or ridiculous, was still something he could live with. Much like the smell of decaying manure, he mused trying to breathe only through his mouth. It was amazing what you could learn to tolerate when the alternatives were worse.
Holding in another sigh he stretched backward for a moment, holding it until a faint popping sound reverberated through his body. Then he forced himself to pick the shovel up again and thrust it into the wretched pile. The longer he delayed the longer he’d have to breathe in this appalling stench. He drove the shovel in with a will, stretching out his arms on the backswing to toss the steaming load on top of the growing pile to his left. It was distinguishable from the source merely by a smaller size, smelling worse and having a slightly lighter color.
If he kept at it, he'd finish in another hour or so, though he'd be fit to drop by then. Another state he was getting used to.
So, with his head down, he shoveled with a will. Occasionally pausing to stretch out his arms or back, but without lingering over the momentary breaks. Shovel by shovel he shifted one chest-high pile onto another. It was backbreaking but needed work. It kept the pile from igniting in the mid-day heat and also turned it into fertilizer faster. Or so he'd been told. The alternative was that they were just screwing with him. Sometimes he wondered…
“Take a breather, youngster.”
Startled Count almost dropped the shovel… and the nearly full load of unmentionable glop on top of it. Recovering, though barely, he finished the toss and carefully stepped on the back of the shovel, forcing it into the ground. The first day he’d turned with it in his hands and nearly brained someone. Someone who then returned the favor without the 'almost'. The clot alongside his head had left it ringing like a church bell.
The shovel fixed in the ground he turned and gratefully accepted a full waterskin from the liver-spotted old man in his green overalls sans shirt. Yongder was a decent fellow, in his own eye-searing way. But that way had its, hmm, conditions. Listen respectfully and respond directly. No flattery, no long-winded recitations nor beating about the 'ol' bush'. Stick to that line and he was a wise and kindly man. Don't and he was a right devil.
“Thank you, Sir.”
He snorted. “No sir, I work for a living. Something I’m thinking you never have.”
Count struggled for a minute, he may have come from somewhat exalted stock, but he was no slacker. But yelling out such wouldn’t do a fig of good. As bad as screaming “I'm not yelling.” It achieved nothing useful. With effort he forced his temper down, keeping what he hoped was an attentive look on his face.
“Ha! Stung ya a bit did I? Heh, I like you youngster. You got fire in you, don’t give a hoot for any young punk without it. But you control it and that's a fine thing. An' ya work damn hard another fine trait.”
He couldn’t help but straighten a bit at the praise. It wasn’t that he craved the man's approval or anything so absurd. But when expecting a rap in the teeth a pat on the back was quite pleasant.
“But you don’t know shit about how to work.” Ah, and there's the rap! With a sad shake of his head, the man took a step forward, brushing past Count and easily pulling the shovel free. “Watch boy. It ain’t none of your fancy learning, but it might save you some pain.”
With an easy, graceful gesture the ancient old man shoved the shovel into the first pile by the simple expedient of leaning on it. Then he swiveled at the waist and tossed the load onto the waiting pile. Count stared. The man's bared biceps didn't flex, he didn't breathe any harder. Didn't seem to expend any effort at all. Yet the large shovel load was quickly and easily shifted, and without, he was ashamed to admit looking down at his own filthy clothing, so much as a single clod tossed awry. He did one shovel full and only one, then replaced the shovel where he'd found it and still Count felt like a complete idiot.
With a small sympathetic smile, Yongder patted him once on the shoulder, took the waterskin from his limp hands and walked away.
Shaking his head in disbelief he picked up the shovel and tried to replicate the old man's move. Tried and failed. Of course! It couldn’t be as easy as he made it look. Time to ‘try, try again.’
And try he did, over and over again. Sometimes it almost worked, others he had to recover the situation with a bit of extra upper-body strength. Gradually his successes became more frequent and his failures less egregious.
Still patchy, but he could already tell the difference. He was taking fewer breaks, the source pile was disappearing quite a bit quicker and his aching arms were considerably less achy than usual. Not to mention making considerably less of a mess.
Not that that mattered much today. Glancing down he had to sigh. That ship had sailed, and he was going to have to spend some of his imaginary “free” time dealing with the damage. He only had two sets, both little more than a pair of scratchy underwear and a knee-length robe, armless, of the cheapest jungle cloth fixed in place by a belt of the same material. Green vine fibers processed by a magic tool into stripes with no cross-weave. It was stiff, didn't wick moisture and wasn't terribly durable. Its only redeeming feature was cost. It wouldn't last much more than a week, but by then he could just buy another. A stone coin each was a very modest price.
Quite a change from what he remembered of medieval history. Something like 2 sets of clothes a year and food as an entire salary.
But while logic said it was a good deal, it still didn't feel that way. Between flipping compost, scrubbing down privys and weeding the endless vegetable patches, every extra shift was one too many. He held in an unmannerly snort. Four hour's flipping shit would land him a single stone coin. Food that wasn't squashmeal, his poor taste buds revolted at the thought, ran about half a stone a day. Between class supplies, clothes and rent, that didn't leave much to go around.
He shook his head, with a bit of his precious time spent washing, hopefully less than a half hour, he'd save a work shift. Even if he just stretched it to three changes per month he'd still save four unpleasant hours of labor. Four lovely hours to catch up on studying or even, God willing a bit of relaxation. Anything other than shoveling shit!
He pushed the shovel back into the knee-high pile. Worrying put no coin in his pockets. Pockets, he made a mental note. That would be a fine thing. Note to self, find a jungle cloth dealer that put pockets on the one size fit no one robe.
Taking another shovel full and beginning the familiar twist and dump he tried to think beyond the money, hard as that was. It was hard to ignore it when he was still in debt to Runefather. That wasn't the sort of situation you wanted to let linger.
Teacher had an odd fixation on paying debts and a knack for inspiring students to stay out of his. Count shuddered, you only woke up at 3 am once with an unnatural giggle in your ear to learn that one. His curses non-withstanding, the interest he took was also unpleasant. Not coin, but unpaid drudge work. Like cleaning the classroom or running errands. Just another way to piddle away his already nearly mythical free time.
With each shovel moved, he was closer to what Yonder demonstrated. It wasn’t about force, he mused, or at least not primarily so. It was about balance. It was about finding his center and shifting his weight around it. If he pivoted just right, he could shift the shovel without falling over (and into a pile of shit) then the weight didn’t stay on his arms and he didn’t use much strength. Less work for more effect.
He wasn’t any stronger than he’d started the day. But he was almost done, and at least a quarter-hour ahead of time. If he'd known this from the beginning, he might trim an hour off each shift. Save a quarter of his time? All from just listening to one shabby old man. Count glanced down at himself and chuckled. A bit of the pot and kettle there.
But with 15 minutes extra… Count pushed on, tossing the last few shovelfuls over, spent an extra painful minute with a rake cleaning up the mess, then after a brief stop to confirm the task's completion, and collect the pay, he took off at full speed. He refused to smell himself for one moment longer than necessary! Still sprinting down the garden-framed paths, he turned a corner and dove, clothes and all, straight into a pond.
It was an idyll little pool. Hidden between several house hills and surrounded by fruit trees. Shaded all but an hour or so around noon. An important consideration as British skin and equatorial sun were not a good combination. The stiff robe pulled at him awkwardly as he pushed his body forward with freestyle strokes, but he pushed on. Might as well get a bit of the easy cleaning out of the way early.
After a few minutes, he regretfully swam back to the shore and pulled the robe and his unmentionables off. He dipped down to grab a handful of fine sand from the bottom and followed it up with a few leaves and stems from the soapwort bush seeded about every pond in the Hold. Not that it looked planned. Looking natural was almost a fetish for Paradisians. It didn't change the truth. They planned as much or more than any other hold. They just hid it better.
Everything here was artificial. Including the mesa itself.
He squeezed and wrung out the pulped plant extracting a light green sudsy paste. The soapy liquid was the plant's namesake and while a far cry from real soap, it did the job. At least with a bit of sand and elbow grease. He managed, after a fair bit of time and effort, to clean at least the most egregious bits and pieces off. It would never pass muster at the manor, but then nothing in the new world would.
He tisked at the damage left behind, new tears and vine fibers rubbed thin by his efforts. He'd have to replace it soon. At least it no longer smelt like horse shit. Or, considering the location, Hog Shit.
It would have to do.
He hung it out on a bush closer to the road, one in open sunlight. A year or so ago he'd have been mortified to walk naked outside. It just wasn't done. Now? He did not have the funds or the luxury of caring.
Instead, he dove back in and simply floated in the water for a time. Daydreaming about the day Teacher allowed him to cast without supervision. The day he could take better smelling and paying jobs. Ahh, wouldn't that be nice! He let out a breath and stared up into space for a moment. To be able to wear quality clothes again. Oh, he might not be able to afford actual woven clothes, but at very least, hide. Possibly even real soap! With a bit of money to take them out and enjoy the evening, perhaps even someone else to apply that soap.
He sighed, soon. He promised himself again, soon. He was getting very close to passing the tests. Just a bit longer.
But wishing would not make it so, reluctantly he swam to the edge and climbed out of the water. Without a towel, he was forced to shake himself like the mangy mutt he no doubt resembled.
It was crass, but as effective as anything else he could manage. A towel would be comfortable, but not all that useful really. Between the muggy weather and the constant rain, nothing ever really dried around here. Including towels. Not without magic anyway. Besides, the only towel he could afford would be jungle cloth, and it was bloody useless for anything besides pushing water around.
He started jogging toward his next class. If a giant playground/obstacle course could be called a class. It wasn't always a pleasant experience. More than once he'd come out bruised and battered from missing a jump or mistiming an obstacle. Not to mention the occasional dip in the lake of emptiness.
He shuddered. None of the teachers were tolerant of failure. They were keen enough to push you into it, as a learning experience they insisted, but weren't very forgiving when it happened. There was always a sting to it.
Something to help you to remember not to do it again.
In this case, missing a jump meant a long drop without an obvious stop. The lake beneath the course wasn't anything normal. It didn't even feel like water. Probably something Teacher cooked up in his lab. The one he denied having for manufacturing monsters, tests and other such horrors. Falling in left you floating in nothingness. Unable to feel the water, to find up from down. Breathing was free and easy no matter what direction you faced. But there was nothing to see. No difference between eyes open and shut. Just existing. Alone. Timelessly. He shuddered and tried to push the memory away.
Then it would be there. As if it always was and you just hadn't been looking hard enough. A faintly glowing ladder. Then a brief swim through perfect emptiness until you could reach it and climb out of hell.
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Then start the course over… The entrance was one way after all. the only exit was on the other side.
Better by far not to fall in the first place of course. But that resolution never quite seemed to work out. An overabundance of caution made it more likely, not less.
*BOOM*
Crap! He broke into a sprint. That was the five-minute warning. The first beat in the calling of the hour. Only on the very last would it be 4 o’clock.
Five minutes... he could make it! With a bit of luck!
Practically bouncing around a tight turn between house hills, he ran forward and down to a half-hidden doorway leading into the mesa. The 'door' was a one-way flat plane of darkness. Impenetrable to light and sight, but merely spongy to the touch. He ignored the nauseating texture and darted through. Stepping onto a slightly springy surface. With a barely noticeable delay, it lit up beneath him. Then spread a step to his right and down. It was the only light in this place and it didn't shine. He couldn't see his own hands, but at least he could see his feet and where his feet needed to land. It was enough.
He deftly bounced down the toadstool stairway, dropping from his sprint into more of a careful hoping pace. The lights followed him. The one beneath his feet and the next one down. Never more and never less. Caught in a spotlight as he hopped around the 30-foot shaft.
He'd made several bets on how deep the damn thing was. But not any that had ever paid out. Then again, he hadn't lost anything either. Because they still couldn't say. A dropped rock gave no sound of impact. A lit torch could burn you here, but it gave off no light. And sounds didn't echo.
Somehow not knowing made it worse. Silly really, whether it was 30 feet or two hundred didn't make much difference. Either way falling wouldn't be healthy.
No, it wouldn't be. The Runefather wasn't one for safety features. Not one's that save you from yourself. All things have a cost he could almost hear Teacher say, and stupidity’s costs are the highest. He might, no, that was spite talking. He would save a student’s life. Then make it unpleasant enough to make the lesson stick.
Keeping one hand sliding along the outside wall he kept moving. Stretching out his stride to take each toadstool in a single step.
*Boom*
He forced himself to ignore it. Unable to really tell the passing of time in his small island of light. Sensory deprivation always made time seem illusory. Stair by stair he descended at the same rapid but constant speed, like a penny circling the drain. Or considering the smell he hadn't entirely gotten rid of, flushed. He quickly shook off that thought. His stomach was already twisted up in knots, no need to make it worse.
*Boom*
Dammit! Just this once couldn't the damn stairway be on the shorter side? It was never the same length, but did today really have to be that day?
Parkour would seal the door on the last beat. Panic started to rise. The man had no mercy in him for the tardy. He’d be stuck sitting in the dark till the next class opened. He forced the rising bile down. He'd done that once already. And had the nightmares to prove it.
Then it appeared a slim frame lined in the same light as the toadstools and filled with another sheet of oily opaque blackness. He didn’t pause to rejoice; it was going to be fucking tight. With a single additional step, he dove head-first through the portal, already tucking his shoulder for the landing. Bruises would heal, nightmares lingered.
*Boo-
He slid through and rolled as he hit the hard stone floor on his shoulder, tucked and rolling across it like he'd been taught.
-om*
Gasping for breath and rubbing at his shoulder, he shakily stood. Parkour, more a rough shape in the shadows than anything that looked human, was glaring at him. He couldn't see his eyes, but he could feel it.
The man fit the obstacle course he was named after and presided over. Obstacle course, it seemed almost disrespectful to reduce this underground wonderland to such a simple description. It was Zelda meets Indiana Jones with a side of hard-core street parkour. He glanced out into the impenetrable darkness and let his mind fill in the blanks.
A loose fill of 2ft wide circular platforms floating over an abyss of darkness, few at the same height, surrounding and interpenetrating a forest of organically twisting stone columns that more resembled the roots of some gigantic tree than the work of human hands. A fact further emphasized by the artistically spotted stone trees that spawned from those twisting roots, complete with branches more than twice his height in diameter.
Rotating and swinging about these lovely stepping stones, branches and roots was an assortment of pendulums, seemingly random water sprays, gusts of wind and the occasional flash bangs just waiting to send him to the depths. There were monkey bars, pressure plates, slides, tightropes and knotted vertical climbing ropes spread out across the mess too.
Any and everything an overactive teenager could want in a playground. And if it had just stopped their Count wouldn't even call it a class, just solid fun.
It didn't.
Because below the fun, was the lake.
After several involuntary washings, he wondered how sane any of them really were.
Parkour was the king of this combined heaven and hell. Seven plus feet in height, broad-shouldered and with the indecipherable air of someone who had been through the real gauntlet of life. As some of his classmates put it in one of those charming Americanisms, 'he'd seen the elephant. And probably killed it.'
He was missing a half of one foot, but even partially disabled he was quick and nasty. There was a standing invitation for any student who thought they were hot stuff to race him through the course. Looser went for a swim.
He hadn't lost yet. Even without a working foot, he was more agile than a monkey. Or a comic book ninja. A modern-day Jackie Chan of their very own. Complete with a never-ending wellspring of cheesy but insightful proverbs.
Like, “When is a wall not an obstacle?” Answer? “When it’s just another platform.” Then proved it by wall-running like a ninja in some video game.
It was the real lesson of this place, count figured. With time and effort, they would all become more than merely human. With the ability, physical or magical, of a superhero. But it wasn't enough to have the body, you also had to have the mentality.
There were all these pesky instincts insisting you couldn't fly. That a fall from this height would break a leg or that you couldn't make that jump. All of them lies. You had to push it, forcing the body to learn new limits. New fears. Then as you grew in power, you'd have to break those as well.
Not that it mattered, because those eyes were perhaps considering breaking Count.
He took a step forward into the light. “Welcome class, and to our last-minute addition. The difference between late and on time is a razor's edge. Fortunately for you, you fell on the right side of that blade - this time. But play on that edge long enough, you'll get halved.” Then his face relaxed as he barked out a laugh. “But at least you had the balls to reach for victory. That's something at least.” He glanced out over the small group of teenagers still chuckling then casually stepped backward into the shadows.
His indistinct outline faded till only a set of teeth, gleaming slightly in the diffuse blue glow of the starting platform stood out. “Balls or no, I don’t recommend following Count’s example. The risk should be worth the reward. He risked a broken neck to avoid some time in the dark and my disapproval. I'm complimented of course, but was the juice worth the squeeze? I think not. Don't get in the habit of taking pointless risks. In the future the stakes will be far higher, don't risk your life without a large potential payout.”
“Balls are required, but so are brains. I expect most of you will find the courage inside yourselves to fight when on death's ground. But if you think a bit more and plan ahead, you might not have to!”
The shining ivory disappeared and the shadows around where they were abruptly stretched out in an upward curve. It took Count far longer than it should have to realize that he was now smiling. From the Cheshire cat into Mr. Rogers. A disturbingly quick change.
“Moving on, are you becoming comfortable with our little maze? Starting to find routes and methods that suit you?”
He nodded along quietly as the gathered children voiced their agreement. Even Count chimed in. He’d found a way to take advantage of his longer stride and greater height to skip an entire section of spinning bars, greatly decreasing his final time and his chance of ending up in the drink. Every time he ran it, he'd shave a bit of time and a bit of risk away.
“Good!” Parkour’s shadow grin widened out significantly, becoming more like a gaping maw than anything that should exist on a human's face. Count’s stomach clenched. Whatever was coming, he wasn’t going to like it. “I’m glad to hear I didn’t waste my time.” He abruptly waved his unoccupied hand and a wave of light flowed forward across the room. Briefly highlighting each landing, obstacle and tree branch before dying away moments later.
It was too quick to make note of details or to plan a route, but the glimpse showed him at least one thing. Nothing was where it should be. He'd changed it. Somehow.
“The maze is supposed to teach you how to adapt and overcome. To take dicey problems and dissect them. Extracting survivable solutions. On the fly and at full speed. Not to get comfortable with the same old problems and polishing increasingly stale solutions. Comfort leads to weakness, not growth. Whenever you start getting comfortable, well, it's time to rearrange the furniture.”
The shadows on his face began to straighten out. Dropping whatever levity, even a cruel levity, they might have had. “Of course, I shouldn’t have to. Growth doesn’t come from comfort, but it also doesn’t come from outside help. It comes from inside. When you start feeling comfortable, don’t wait for me to change things, take the initiative and mix it up yourself.”
“Every day find your limits and push yourself to them. To them, mind you, not beyond. You’re not some anime character. Push yourself past your limits and if you’re lucky, you only damage your physical muscles. If you're not lucky, then magical backlash might turn you into a vegetable.”
Count stared in disbelief, “Full body transmutation? I didn’t think even the Runefather could pull that off!” he heard Pepper mutter in surprise.
“What? No. A brain-dead human, not an actual freaking carrot or radish. Geez.” Hey, Count thought it was a perfectly reasonable assumption considering.
“Enough of that. Get started, and try to enjoy it. There is an old saying. Like what you do and you’ll never work a day in your life.”
He paused a beat. “It’s bull shit of course. There will always be things in any line of work that suck. That’s why we call it work. But your attitude can determine whether those situations make up 5% or 95%. Just a thought.”
Then even his outline disappeared into the shadows as the lights dimmed, leaving only a fluorescent outline of the platforms and pillars extending about 20 feet. Looking down the same outline graced Count’s form. He shook his head and started looking. The platforms he could see numbered over a dozen in range, not to mention a few suggestive hanging vines.
Time to learn the course all over again. He was definitely getting wet today, he shuddered for a minute but tried not to let it get to him. That was one of the first lessons Parkour had taught them. Fear was your common sense saying pay attention. You should never ignore it, but you shouldn't let it control you either. Else it became a self-fulfilling prophecy.
He acknowledged his fear, agreed that it was a legitimate warning, but refused to let it make his decisions. Only he got to do that. With a deliberate, forced smile he turned to face his classmates. Another useful trick was to set your fears against each other. Fears like looking bad in front of others. “Well, let’s be about it then. Good luck chaps.” Then with forced glee, he took a running leap, grabbing a vine near the apex of his jump and swinging forward, a terrible Tarzan impersonation falling from his lips. “Aaaah-eeh-ah-eeh-ah!”
Parkour was right. When there was no way backward, you might as well give forwards your all. If you did it and meant it, you might just enjoy it. And if he could make a good impression on his classmates at the same time? Hell yes!
Swinging out into the darkness, Count kept his eyes sharp, watching the line of florescence that extended with him. Swinging out and letting go when he couldn't see was beyond foolish. Thankfully the vine wasn't of the timed-release variety. He spotted a likely path, then arched his back to increase momentum backward, like a playground swing, on the next forward pass he tried to find his center, shifting where he thought it was backward, then forward as he released. Arching through the air to... almost fumble the landing.
Throwing his arms wide for balance and shifting his feet, he avoided falling off the platform, but not from falling on it. He didn’t care. He'd made it and was far too happy with that to bother with trifles like a slightly sore nose.
That shift in balance. Was it so different from shoveling shit? The amount of control it brought him, even with his clumsy usage. It was a simple trick, not some deep fundamental truth, but it opened up avenues he’d never considered. Control. Control his center and he controlled the entire body!
He took a deep breath and forced a bit of calm. Best not to get too excited. He was no Shaolin monk, just because he could shovel shit and swing a bit better didn't mean he could try out the Bed of Spears. But then again, he mused, they didn’t have magic. Perhaps in time...
With a sharp push and a kiup he launched his body upright, took a half step back then with a single running step lunged forward to grab the next line. This time he didn't have to pretend, the glee in his heart was impossible to contain. His understanding was rough, but he knew how to fix that.
Experiment! Despite the lingering smell and the threat of the drink, he was suddenly happy. He was learning! Improving! How could that not make him cheerful? Leaping from the first vine he easily grabbed the next, maintaining his momentum with judicious shifts in his balance point. Wind brushed past his face and the world opened up before him. He was free to dance through the void! The fluorescent outlines of platforms and obstacles merely running lights beckoning him on. Recklessly he bounced off a wall, ran along a platform and lept out into the air, falling for a good second before snagging another vine, adrenaline pumping through him in an intoxicating flood. Maybe this was what flying felt like?
He grabbed above a bump on a new vine, only to have his stomach drop out and the euphoria abandoned him. The knot, a camouflaged bead on a greased vine, slid beneath his grip. Then he got to experience something else altogether.
What falling felt like.