July 22nd, 5AC
Habit had Timothy rolling out of bed at the crack of dawn. Habit forgot how bruised he was, lying flat on his back on the floor wheezing he took a few moments to reflect on habits and genealogy involving hamsters and elderberry. A few moments later, and out of breath he couldn't stop himself from smiling. Despite the stinging pain in his side, the stiff muscles around his eyes and the ringing in his head…
He felt wonderful!
A millstone was missing from his back. Worry and built-up stress sloughed off in the process of a good hot meal, a better bath and a couple of hours of full-contact Nullgyball. Just what the doctor ordered.
A black eye, three tender ribs, a sore toe and a small headache. Not bad. He'd gotten worse at a Slayer concert.
He'd had a wonderful night and if it wasn't the best he'd ever played, not after a long day of travel and only a short nap, it hadn't affected his fun. Hell, it had even improved it. Something about being a bit on the ragged end of his nerves had lent an extra sharpness to everything.
Besides a small handicap had made it difficult enough to be entertaining. Considering he'd built the enchantments that made the game possible, a bit of handicap was needed.
But only a bit, the guardians here were no slouches, and size was hardly the only arrow in their quivers. The athleticism and lethal instincts they'd developed in the prairies and jungles weren't just for show. He was faster and better with the magic involved. Movement and redirecting the movement of others. But he was considerably less durable and didn't have the eyes on the prize instincts.
Still, he'd managed to give as good as he'd got. He savored the memory of twisting his opponent's thought construct just enough to slam him into his own teammate instead of Timothy. Turning a hard check on him into a pile-up of bodies that left him free to score.
It was all in good fun and he even offered to pay for a healing potion if the pansy wanted to go crying to the medward. An offer that was politely declined. Politely being Timothy's black eye, so fair was fair. Even the low-grade headache from heavy magic use wasn't enough to keep the smile from his face.
He considered just lying there till the headache faded a bit, but habit was too strong. He pushed himself up, threw on a robe and was halfway belted before his mind caught up. Even if he wasn't fully awake and ready yet, his stomach certainly was. It had been a long time and more exercise since dinner. He was heading towards the door, and breakfast, when he felt something was off. He froze, hands popping into position and flicking through a quick scry even as a motion ward expanded from an ear clasp.
The scry came up empty, but he didn't drop his guard. There had been something... He slowly worked through his past actions, and then through to his planned actions.
Ah.
Sighing he dropped the shield, popped his neck and turned back into the room. Grabbing a pile of jewelry from the end table and sliding on a pair of mana well bracers, a warding medallion on a woven cotton lanyard and a few hog bone force rings. The rest went into a pouch on his belt. He'd been about to walk out of his warded room without activating his travel wards. He really wasn't thinking this morning.
In partial punishment, partial plain good sense he sat down on the bed and carefully went through each of the active charms or fetishes. Sure, he'd already done this yesterday, twice really, but an extra check wouldn't hurt. Someday he'd wake to an alarm and have no chance to go over his tools. When that day came, he'd have built up enough good fortune to tide him over.
Or something like that at least. He made a note to refill the bracers soon. They’d been getting a real workout refilling his other enchantments in the wild. They only self-filled where he’d made them. He made a note to check again after they were refilled. Mana running through an enchant wore it out in proportion to the quantity that flowed through it.
On a more paranoid level, there were no signs of tampering nor curses on any of his gear. It didn’t happen often, but it was always good to make sure. He paused briefly to consider his staff.
Somewhat reluctantly he decided against it.
The belt and jewelry were like a holstered sidearm, acceptable to take anywhere. The staff was more like a rifle. It wasn't wrong to take it to breakfast, but it wasn't necessary either and it would be awkward. Carrying a staff around took a bit of practice. But even with that people always seemed to trip over them.
But it was too valuable to just leave lying around. He dithered for a moment, then sighed and spent another minute working a quick and dirty binding. Lightly chalking (alchemically created for spell work) out the spell on the wall before charging it from his nearly depleted bracers. Placing the staff against the runed circle he watched carefully as the runes lit up and the staff stuck to the wall.
Hard stuck. For the next several hours a would-be meddler would have to remove the wall with it, to get the staff. Or be better at it than Timothy and that was a small pool and one that had better things to do with their time.
After that, the chalk would break down under the mana and meaning load. That it could last even that long with a powerful spell going through it was impressive. And costly. It wasn't expensive ingredients-wise to make, but it took some of his precious time.
His affairs in order he unwound the door wards and stepped out into the hallway. A dozen steps over and he dropped into the transit shaft. Bouncing downward on his way to a much-delayed breakfast.
The air and ambient mana had that cold, still feeling of early morning so he hadn't slept in, but neither was it still night. Good, breakfast should be ready in the commons. Someone must have been watching, or he'd missed a ward because he had company waiting as he left the transit shaft.
“Morning Runefather, I trust you slept well?”
He didn’t even wince anymore at the title. It wasn't so bad as such things went, and only close family members still used actual names. And that only in private.
You had to have a fair amount of skill to use a name against someone, but there were more than a few who met that bar. Timothy mentally grimaced, why oh why hadn't he twigged to that truth in the tutorial? He was still playing catch up after those early days of telling any and every one his name. At least he didn't habitually use his last name. Sure, they might find it out, but that wasn't at all the same as hearing it from his own lips.
It still left him in territory he'd prefer not to be in. On the positive side, he had several fun enchantments keyed into his name. Causing documents it was written in to deteriorate much faster and giving a bit of subtle disquiet to anyone who said it out loud.
He'd tried working a few extra spells to make people forget but they didn't work worth a damn. Just as well, messing with people's minds was a slippery slope. A skeevy slippery slope.
He was never planning on going full 1984, but he was happy no one else could either. That kind of power was scary no matter how well-intentioned the hands.
Shaking his head and realizing he'd been quite a bit too long, he belatedly responded. “Morning Cardea.”
It was moments like these that really though him for a loop. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice laughed at the ridiculousness of titles in a fantasy world. That he had better get back to sleep and get ready for a report tomorrow.
He told that voice to shut the hell up and moved on. Sure, it was oddly formal, early on he'd hoped, when most just used their first names, that they'd moved beyond formality and all the red tape that went with it. It hadn't quite worked that way.
They still had to call each other something. Handles, nom de jur, nickname whatever you wanted to call it. Mostly they came from events or mannerisms. The guy who got nut-shot by a squirrel was Squirly, the poor girl who'd peed herself during her first hunt was Waterworks. On the other side the guy who held things together, who stood tall and faced the charge when others ran? He was Ho'fast, and it was spoken with respect.
That was the thing. When a nickname passed some squiggly, unspoken line, it wasn't a nickname anymore. It was a Title. And it demanded respect. Failing to use it became disrespect. That was a dangerous seed when everyone walked about with loaded weapons in their mind.
If anything, their burgeoning society was more polite, more structured. Formal acknowledgments of a person’s position were the default and ingrained in everyday speech. Runefather. The Father of the magical discipline of rune crafting. Cardea, one of four guardians of the threshold. You know who they were by that title and how they fit into the power structure.
He held in a sigh, trying to hide how his thoughts were wandering.
Hopefully successfully as the man was still talking.
“- up some of your time, I understand you won’t be leaving until tomorrow morning?”
That sigh fought him even harder to get out. Perhaps even turning into a groan. He could just see his rest day evaporating. Responsibility was a burden. Once taken up you didn't get to decide when to put it down. Not more than once at least. He rolled that around in his head for a moment, considering. Something was wrong with his logic, but his head ached too much to find it. “Sure, can we speak over breakfast or do you need some privacy?”
“Breakfast will be fine.”
Just as well. His head wasn't in the right place to deal with scheming. Being out in the open limited it to something at least reasonable. Or so he hoped.
Striding forward, he responded with forced geniality to all the 'Good morning Runefather' and 'I hope you slept well, Runefather' that bloomed like stinky flowers from the tables he walked past. Thankfully, even the most prosperous of Thresholds wasn't a real hold. There weren't so many people that he couldn't make his way to the buffet without being waylaid. Again.
As a bonus, hearing the commotion the short line standing before the buffet stepped back willingly, gesturing him forward while offering their own greetings in turn. Not all of that formality was a bad thing apparently, he forced down a chuckle.
As long as he didn't let it get to his head. With an appreciative nod (Saying thank you was magically actionable) he passed them, snagging a wooden trencher.
Bellying up to the buffet he breathed in the lovely fragrance. Last night's leftover meat fried up with five kinds of mushrooms and a few hot pickled peppers. Lovely. A tray of steamed berry leaves filled with minced pork sausage, watercress and accompanied by a dark red chilly sauce. Very nice as well. A pot of red-brown semi-liquid stumped him for a moment. Leaning forward he breathed in and almost choked. Blood pudding. You didn't have to be British to like the foul stuff, but there was probably a strong correlation.
He refrained from shaking his head. The usual pots of pickled vegetables were next and had their own scent. Not conventionally pleasant perhaps, but it foretold the tasty treats within.
Taking another moment to just breathe it in, he imagined how nicely they must taste, then regretfully walked past them to the end of the line and filled his rectangular bowl with a grainy yellow slop.
Squashmeal. A couple of gourds stewed overnight, with beans, berries and a bit of broth or blood to cover all the body’s needs. Smashed into a gruel before serving. All the body's needs except taste.
He mentally pictures a little blue pop-up saying willpower +1!
Life was full of difficult choices, and making them did help you improve. Like weightlifting for the mind. Didn't do much on its own, but with enough reps, it paid off. Even if his taste buds frequently disagreed. But fuck them, he'd spoiled them last night for some much-needed stress relief. Today it was time to get back on the wagon.
He tossed a stone coin in a jar at the end, the honor system worked when you had to be someone to even get here, then snagged a clay pot of water and two cups. Juggling the load a bit he headed over to an empty table. Thankfully without spilling anything.
The table was knee-high and shaped like a fat, flattened mushroom. Four backless equally low leather chases flanked it and Timothy slid gracefully onto one of them. Half sitting, half reclining, he leaned on the armrest that only graced one side.
It wasn't a style he'd grown up with, but he was used to it now. It wasn't just the Haven's restrictions, but also breakages. They were all superhuman by old-world standards, and the furniture was one of the things that paid the price.
The black-robed and cowled Cardea took the seat opposite him but thankfully didn't appear in a hurry to get started. Giving Timothy several minutes to properly address his breakfast, and to down two cups of water at the behest of his still aching head. He considered going back for some ginger tea but regretfully decided against it. He’d been hitting it far too hard recently.
Perhaps to be companionable the Cardea accepted the second cup and even moved it within the shadowed opening of his cowl. The water level barely dropped, but it was at least a companionable gesture. Eventually, he started to speak. “I understand you have a new class graduating soon.”
Thankfully that didn’t require a response. They were scheduled to graduate the first batch at the end of this year (April when the restart happened, not January). Anyone paying attention already knew that. He sighed internally, just as well he didn’t need to speak. Apparently, the headache was bothering him more than he thought. He needed to tamp that down before he made an enemy for no reason.
Failing to get a response the Cardea continued, though the shoulders of his robe hunched forward a bit and his voice had an odd tone to it. Awkward, Timothy judged after tasting his intent. “We're doing extremely well here. On track to pay off our start-up loans in another year or two, not the 20 that was originally projected. With the new Threshold, we could move to full hold status soon.”
Ahhh, now Timothy had this conversation pegged. He rarely got involved in lawmaking, all the debating and arguing left little time for actual useful work. Magic work preferably.
That didn’t mean he didn’t pay attention. No pathfinder could afford to remain a neophyte where politics were concerned. Besides, occasionally even he was forced to act in that sewer of an arena. Between creating, selling and renting out various enchantments, he'd built up a great deal of political capital and he wasn't above expending some of it to veto a particularly bad law.
This issue wasn't to that level, but the debate around it had gotten pretty heated. With some Origins, and an even larger number of those deputized by Origins arguing for weeks over what it took to become a new Hold. One with the recognition of the union. Red tape might be genetic.
When the blood and fur settled, they'd announced four requirements that basically boiled down to one. You had to be self-sufficient.
They went a bit mealy-mouthed on the details, but that's what it amounted to. You had to be protected by and support some satellite defenses (IE the new Threshold). You had to be free and clear of debt. And, what he was working up to, you had to have your own pathfinder or pathfinders in residence.
There were many reasons for that, from trying to keep and maintain the forming social structure of pathfinders on top to the reality that only pathfinders could forcefully awaken new guardians. Only pathfinders could create new spells to account for the changing threats and conditions and only pathfinders could push forward the Path's for those new guardians to follow. If all the other holds fell, a hold without pathfinders would not survive long.
As for the less noble reasons? Timothy didn't sweat them. All human society had layers. From a more mild socioeconomic spectrum to full-on cast systems and if you weren't on top, it was hard to make sure you didn't end up on the bottom.
Pathfinders were a minority. Around 1 in 100, or even 150 at the moment though the new crop looked to narrow that gap at least a bit. They were a minority that was superior in many ways to the majority beneath them, but that didn't change the minority part. Humans were rarely kind to such.
It showed up both in real life and in fiction all over the place and Timothy wasn't about to pull a Professor Xavier. To become a traitor to his own kind for some BS greater good. Pathfinders weren't going away. Society, or even humanity for that matter, could not survive without them. But that didn't mean their place in it couldn't be considerably less comfortable.
Timothy had no interest in becoming a wizard in a box. Responsible for turning out spells on demand but without the power to pursue his own interests or even have a say in what problems needed solving.
Getting past the political nature of it, the practical was also a problem. The original group of pathfinders, or Origins as they were called (father this, or mother that was pretty clunky), already had commitments. Between trying to develop their paths, defending their holds and providing support for the thresholds they'd sponsored, their dance cards were full.
Besides his immediate allies, two siblings, the Bard, three Paradisians and three Bloodhavenites, there were only another three dozen Pathfinders spread over 27 towns in the union. 25 Timothy corrected himself. Templeton and that asshat Bensen were not official members nor were the North Korean Fear casters. The irony being the latter was slowly coming along, but the former not so much.
That wasn't very many when considering the ground the Trade Union covered. There wasn't much leeway. Until now, when a new batch of young Pathfinders were almost ready to take their place on the larger stage. Google help us all...
Still, there were only 44 students left in the graduating class, if he graduated them all which was not a given. That was still a small pool to pull from. The Cardea would have to really stand out to convince one or more of them that this particular Threshold was deserving of their time.
Success meant promotion to a full Hold status and all that went with it.
All.
That was the kicker. Thresholds had rules, levels of minimum competency and kill records. That left something to be desired for the more menial positions. The buffet was on the honor system, not just because the hunters could be trusted, but also because no one had the time to stand around and play teller.
There were no waiters. No simple cooks, and only a few with the coveted skills of a Cook. Even those had to be skilled enough hunters to travel through the jungle to get here. No, the best they could do was hunters moonlighting for high prices on the low end, and the usual exaggerated costs for progression meals on the high. No short-term stress-relieving companionship. None of the many luxuries that a full-time support staff could bring.
Giving the man the benefit of the doubt, there were also no families. Pregnant women weren't permitted to stay. They had to rotate back to the valley or risk their children growing up in a prison. Threshold arrest he mused. Travel wasn't safe, or frankly possible for Norms. Not through the jungle at least.
Even if they could self-awaken, or could find a Path as a guardian without the usual training steles, there would still be issues. The surroundings were not beginner-friendly. Not by a long shot. And if you weren't good enough to hunt here, traveling was only a little safer.
Timothy didn't let his thoughts show. He gave the man his attention and waited through his pitch. Sure, that meant he had to listen while the man beat around the bush for another five minutes, enough time to empty his bowl and half the water jar. He chased a few leftover pieces of yellow paste around the edges and drained the dregs of his cup of water before finally interrupting the man.
“No.”
“...Excuse me?”
“You damn well know, or at least you should, that my students are not going to be ‘assigned’ anywhere. They’re free people, living free lives. They’ll have many, many offers. If you want to snag a Pathfinder, don't talk to me, just make the best offer. To them.”
“Free people? Am I free Runefather? Can I leave this post to visit my son?” The shadows in the cowl were a magical effect, and they didn't permit Timothy to see the man's face, but both his tone and intent, deliberately projected, were bitter enough that no amount of cream and sugar could make it palatable.
Timothy remained unmoved. “Bullshit. You chose this, hell, you more than chose it. You fought for the opportunity! Your group beat out 25 other teams for the spot as I recall.” As if he wouldn't know. He taught that damn class!
The cowled man held up his hands defensively, “You're right. We did! We fought hard for this spot, and I don’t regret it, most of the time.”
He paused, hands appearing on the table, gripping each other with white knuckles. He searched for the right words for a few seconds then sighed, and the bitterness mostly left his aura. Sadness replaced it, though those without Timothy's specialized senses could be forgiven for not noticing. “But I do want a family. It's not so much to ask. To have my family here. To see my children grow. My wife is pregnant and will have to leave for Paradise in a few weeks. I don't want to leave her alone to raise my children. To have no hope of seeing them, even if she manages a few visits, for what, 15 years? 17?” He took a deep breath as sadness with a tinge of hopelessness lost ground to pent-up frustration.
“I know I signed up for this, Runefather, and I'm not trying to blame anyone else for it. I’m not backtracking, I'm not going to violate the rules and I’ll still enforce them on others as well. That's what this is! I’m following the rules by talking to you, trying to find a way out that is above ground and honorable. This is the only official approach I can make to make my desires possible.”
He paused for a minute, rubbing his hands together. “It’s not just for me either. Couples are far from uncommon in hunter teams. But even if you ignore them, many of the rest would still like to have a little more than bunk. They want a permanent home. Something with some warmth to it. Be that creature comforts or a spouse and children.”
Timothy sighed, the man wasn’t wrong, and he wasn’t crying wolf. That didn’t mean what he was asking was Timothy’s to give. “It’s not an unreasonable desire. It is an unreasonable request. They’re free agents. They have to make that choice on their own.”
“Yes, but you can make suggestions and recommendations, right? That’s all I am asking for. A recommendation, and not an unearned one either. You've seen our home, hell you built a good portion of it! Tell me it isn’t a jewel among thresholds.”
Timothy smiled slightly. “It is a jewel and you've done some truly amazing things with it. I honestly congratulate you.” He drew out a moment of silence, before continuing. “But it doesn't matter.”
“I understood what you wanted from the get-go. My answer is no, and must remain no, precisely because I do have considerable influence. If I made a ‘recommendation’, It wouldn't be much different from an assignment. I won't do that to them. Not only would it be unfair to the students, it would be terminally stupid for me.” He held up a hand to stop the Cardea. “I said terminal, as in fatal. As in it would get me killed.”
“I'm going to assume you asked in ignorance, no surprise really, it’s not like you can Google it. But let me fill in a few blanks. It starts with a simple question. How is a school for the best and brightest of the entire Union not an excuse for holding hostages?”
The room fell silent. They’d gathered a decent audience by now, the issue was emotionally charged to begin with and they’d hardly been quiet. It was why, along with the fact that the first class was about to graduate, he was willing to let some of the behind-the-scenes negotiations surface.
“When we finish here, if you have any doubts, I'll walk down to the Truth stage in the baths and verify it.” He didn't want to deal with riots later and fucking this up could cause a considerable amount of unnecessary ill will. Maybe even destabilize the Union, though that was highly unlikely. Not right away at least, but enough hummingbirds could bleed out a hog.
“All the young self-awakened from the entire Trade Union voluntarily moved to Paradise. You know that. What you don’t know is all the infighting that went on before the choice was made. Accusations of poaching, of indoctrination, mind control even a few darker improprieties that lead to a dual.” Fucker was lucky to be alive after that stunt. Words were no longer idle and accusations could be proven or disproven. The usual political gamesmanship of the old world was not tolerated.
“It wasn't pretty.”
“But even aside from the trolls and assholes, there were some legitimate questions asked. Was this just an excuse to take the next generation's leaders from each Hold and keep them for ourselves? Was it an excuse to force the Union members to behave at the threat of losing their future? Why Paradise instead of one of their holds.”
Timothy paused for a second and redirected. “That one, by the way, was the easiest. Paradise is smack dab in the middle where most of the river tributaries meet and has both low-tier areas for beginners as well as mid and high-tier in the swamp. All within a day’s travel. Location, location, location.”
He poured another cup of water while he let that percolate. Taking a gulp he continued. “The rest wasn't nearly so simple. Promises were made under verification. Magically potent promises and Truth fields. Violating those promises would leave me in a great deal of pain, not to mention magically vulnerable to a great many angry Origins. Because it's to all of them that I made those promises.”
“I swore, to the best of my abilities, to teach them about magic. More than that, how to hunt, how to survive and build a hold in the wilds. Any indoctrination, and let’s face it that's what basic schooling is, would be watched, adjusted and agreed upon. It wouldn't be a chant for democracy or communism or any other old-world governmental bull shit.”
“It was going to be a massive document, hundreds of pages of do this, don't do that. Lawyeristic BS at its worst. Thankfully no one was capable of actually writing it down at the time, not unless they carved it into the cliffs themselves. I wouldn't have signed such a piece of shit anyway. So, we compromised. Verbal agreements, truth spells and the classes are open for audit by any Pathfinder of good standing in the union.”
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“That includes the right to steal my teaching material to use for themselves if they want to by the way." And he really hoped they would. He wasn't Jenney to give away things for free, but he did have better things to do. "Even without the document, I have to dot fucking i’s and cross asinine t’s. All to keep every damn Hold willing and happy. I assure you I have many things I'd prefer to spend my time on. But I do it anyway. I hold people's hands and assure them that yes, little Jill and Johnny are in the best place for them.”
“I step through even more hoops when little Johnny, the hope of his family, dies. Because a good number of my students do die. Another portion I kick out and leave to fate. And it fucking hurts. I suffer through that heartache and pain, and I assure you there is a great deal of both. I do all that because without my help, you get one in two pathfinders surviving their first half-decade. We, the humanity huddled around our little river, can't survive that.”
“One in two?” The Cardea managed to gasp out.
Timothy nodded sadly. “I do keep an eye out, and neither Templeton nor the North Koreans sent us their baby pathfinders.” And wasn't that a fucking waste.
He sighed. “I've lost 9 students so far. From a starting class of 53. It's not a joke. Pathfinders have a great deal of authority in our union, but it doesn't come for free. The last class of guardians had 2 deaths in their initial training. That's out of 135.”
“Haaa, I'm preaching, aren't I? Anyway, I gave an oath not to dictate the Path of my students. I'll keep that, in spirit and word. Some will go back to their hometowns. Some might go to Thresholds, maybe even this one. But in each case, it will be their own idea. Their, and only their, choice. Still, you could thank me for that. I had to fight to allow you the opportunity. To give my students the freedom to make their own choices. Several holds had suggestions that were suspiciously similar to conscription.”
He paused to let that sink in. “I not only won't give you what you want, I can't without breaking my oath.”
“He really can’t,” Donald's voice, followed by his large frame encased in a luxurious cotton clothing set with runed and illuminated leather plates, broke through the surrounding crowd like Moses parting the sea. With a gorgeous lady under each arm, both positively glowing. They were in typical hold wear for these parts, a midriff bearing leather halter top to provide some much-needed support and low-slung baggy thin leather trousers that were nicely filled out. Donald himself looked quite, well, de-stressed. “and, much as I enjoy his company, if he tried I'd slap him down for it. Me and every other Origin in the Union.”
His casual attitude and confidence gave him a gravitas and charm that Timothy sorely lacked. “It has to be this way, you see. We are all so very different. From culture to magic use to available resources. We needed a way to bring that all together. To make the Union more than a temporary convenience and keep us all from killing each other in the future.”
He shrugged, bouncing the voluptuous ladies under his arm in a fairly distracting way. “But even though we agreed that a school was needed, who would give their future up as hostages without protections? Then along came a Runefather. Prestigious, knowledgeable, powerful-” Timothy raised an eyebrow doubtfully. Where was he going with this? “-and most importantly, politically incompetent.” Ah, there it is. Timothy gave him a side-eyed glance, war it is then.
Good, Timothy was the master of it in this world. A subtle and precise hand with mana may not be as directly powerful in a duel, but it made for vicious pranks. Or debilitating curses if pushed far enough. “The man thinks magic and knowledge are more important than political power. He doesn't just say it, but can even prove it under verification. I lost some money betting against him on it. I'd have sworn you can't be a pathfinder without ambition. He proved me wrong.”
Timothy snorted. Why did so many buy that bull? It wasn’t that he didn’t have ambitions. They were just much bigger than wasting his time trying to tell people what to do! There was an entire unexplored world out there begging to be explored, to be understood. Let them put on the funny hat and be president. Or mayor, jefe, politico or whatever they wanted to call it. Good riddance. He wasn't about to be stuck as a glorified nanny. Sure you could decree nap time and horde all the best snacks, but really? Wasn't there more to life than that?
Take up that kind of position and you wouldn't be able to put it down. You'd be tethered for the long hall. The irony of his teaching position and that viewpoint wasn't lost on him, but at least he had plans that should see him released in the not-too-distant future.
“Oh, he's not the only person teaching those kids. We sub in some of the best hunters for more practical training. Usually when they are convalescing. But it doesn't work if it gets twisted into politics and power games instead of magic.”
A shorter, stocky man to the side took a step forward, waiting for the Cardea’s nod to speak. “You're both bigshots, right? Not just in Paradise and Runehold, but in the Union at large? Why are you out here putting up another outpost?” His tone added the word ‘just’ to that statement. Timothy could easily add up what he didn't say. Why were they making more when there weren't enough Pathfinders to fill what they had?
Timothy waved Donald ahead. He had the stage and frankly was better at this sort of thing than Timothy anyway.
The tall blond returned a subtle nod before turning his head to ask. “Your handle?”
“I’m called Two-Branch, Second Bloodfather.” At Donald's raised eyebrow he elaborated. “I fell from a branch up top.” He pointed upwards towards the canopy. “Smashed into one branch and kept falling, landed on the next. Most of 60 feet.”
“Survived hitting two branches, lucky!” He said with admiration. A lucky handle was a touchstone. A rabbit's foot and superstitions, well they weren't always just superstition anymore.
A muttering of agreement broke from the crowd.
“Two-branch, do you really think there is any just in germinating a Threshold? Familiarity may bring contempt but surely you realize what a marvel it is that you live in? It's the combined brainchild of no less than eight Origins for fuck sake!”
There was a rumble of surprise from the surrounding crowd. A fact that somewhat horrified Timothy. This was supposed to be public knowledge, for Google's sake! Part of the quarterly status broadcast the Bards and his minstrels put out. A third of the crowd should not have been surprised by that!
Donald continued speaking, taking on a chanting cadence. “The Mother of the Green in her fairy garden found the way. Separation, confusion and misdirection. But these were the inherent strengths of her garden, her Path and her Home. They were not a spell that others could cast. The Father of Runes” He pointed to Timothy, “ and the Father of Oratory tore the maze into base components, then built it up again as an enchantment within a story. A story small enough to tell, but larger enough to be heard.”
“Still, few indeed were strong enough to tell it, too few to manage what was needed and wards alone could hold back the world, but they could not provide a home. So the three Fathers Blood took the stage.” Timothy snickered quietly, that damn chant was bad enough without referring to himself in third person, “They made a bloody seed and grew a Haven to hold a home.”
“But these were but pieces to the puzzle. The Father of Binding saw the full picture. He bound the wards to the building and the building to the Cardea. Wards, building and Cardea became the Threshold.”
“But a single man, even of the Cardea, must sleep. He could not maintain the wards for the full cycle, every cycle. The Father of Brotherhood said ‘If one won’t do, then four will’. He joined four as one and let them share the burden as brothers should. But even with the truest Loyalty, four are not one, and in becoming one, almost forgot they were once four. Insanity called, but the Father of Spirits took up the charge. He created a cushion, a filter. He awakened the Haven's spirit and set it as a buffer. Now the four made one could become four or one at need.”
Donald smiled, “Now that I’m done with the official legend, thank the Bard for that by the way-” Oh, Timothy wanted to thank him alright. Thank him with a bat. He liked Gareth, the charming asshole, at least when he was in his company. That was a Bards thing. They were always likable assholes... Right up until they left and you realized how much of a mess they'd made while charming you out of your coin pouch, booze and probably wife.
Bards and Minstrels all seemed to have the same weakness. An inability to respect truth when it got in the way of a good story. “-the practical part is that you’re living in the most advanced piece of magic in the entire Union.” Close, but there were several other contenders for that title. Now if he'd said most powerful working Timothy wouldn't have any room to quibble.
“Most of the creation was done before we ever set out. The Runefather crafted the ward staves, my brothers and I caused a blood seed to sprout and the Spirit Father awakened its spirit. Then the Binder had to personally bind the new Cardea to the seed, spirit and wards. It was a massive, and expensive task. But it could be done from the safety of the holds and waterways.”
“Unfortunately, that's not enough. We have to risk big brains, small package here-” He pointed to Timothy again, who ignored him. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before. “-to finish the job. His unique talent-” Wrong again. Although it was a technicality so he shouldn't quibble. Conager could harmonize an enchantment with the local field so it would draw its own mana. Unfortunately, he was a lazy asshole who didn't bother to put in the work. That left him making party favors and trinkets. “-to make the wards draw in their own mana. Without that, you'd either need quite a few more Cardea working in shifts to power this place or a mana tax on you lot.”
He nodded sympathetically to the grumble that thought produced.
“Unique, remember. We wouldn't risk him if there was another choice. We need him and despite what you said about being a free person. There’s free, and then there’s Free. Don't assume that you are the only one stuck by your choices.”
And damn him if that wasn’t true. You did a good job, what was the reward? More jobs!
It didn't end there of course, but Timothy slipped away shortly after, leaving Donald to play little clay king.
It wouldn't last of course. You didn't get to these levels of power by accepting no as an answer. They'd be back.
A fact born out when three black cowled figures swam up to him a few hours later. A pity, an impromptu musical competition was really heating up. Even if it was amateur hour. They were at least enthusiastic amateurs. Besides, it was still music, and without radios, CDs or iPods that was a lot more valuable than it used to be. Damn, he missed mp3 players.
The cowl without the robe was a rather humorous look. But common enough at this point that it didn't draw comments. Cardea in their official capacity were not individuals. They were a united faceless front. “Runefather, can we speak?”
Timothy fought with himself and, if barely, didn't sigh. “Well, in this civilized environment, I find myself reluctant to stop you. So apparently we can.”
“Ahh...” They always seemed to get a bit wide-eyed when he wasn’t the tip-top of politeness. Wasn’t that one of the benefits of power, not having to beat around the bush for 20 minutes just to say hello? There was far too much to do and so little time to do it in. No way was he wasting any more than he had to on small talk. His rare days off were supposed to be off! Not spent swimming in the cesspool of diplomacy!
It didn't help that magic effectively punished him for lying these days. A truthful politician was as useful as a screen door on a submarine. Of course, as Ma liked to point out, magic forced him to be truthful, not an asshole. That was all him. He took a deep breath and dialed it back.
“Alright, I'm annoyed because I've spent the last week stressed and overworked and I don't have much patience for this kind of thing on my best days. Just tell me what you want, alright? I’m a wizard, not a never-to-be-sufficiently-damned diplomat, politician and especially not a bureaucrat!”
The man visibly struggled for a minute, then caved with an exasperated sigh. “Fine. Is there any other way? The union, hell the human race-” Timothy hoped there was more to their race than the 27-odd Holds. Even with the recent explosion of births they still barely average over 500 each. “-can’t afford for experienced guardians to take a 15-year break to have children.”
Timothy gestured for him to continue. It wasn't a worry he was unfamiliar with. Not to mention the whining Jenney did about what the situation, and more men dying than women, was doing to sexual inequality. At least they were starting to think. There was almost never just one solution to a problem and if they were willing to look for any solution, rather than getting stuck on one specific way, there might be something. But it was a suspiciously large shift in their position. Almost as if- “Did Bloodfather coach you?”
His aura, though tightly controlled, still spiked with a moment of guilt. It was almost hidden by the cloud of determination. “I took certain advice he offered, is that a problem?”
“Huh, no problem. No problem at all. By all means go on.” If it got them in the same book it was an improvement, even if it wasn't quite the same page yet.
“I've heard about an avoidance talisman-”
“Fuck No!” Then again, maybe they weren't in the same library yet!
“Rune Father, please! You didn’t even think about it! It’s not like the enchantment doesn’t already exist. Those Bensenite assholes use something like it.”
“Then go invite them in if you dare.”
The Cardea spat over his shoulder to ward off the ill luck. A rather disgusting thing to do in the communal baths. At least the water was magically cleaned. ”I’m desperate, not an idiot! But they've been using it for a while, there's no odds I'd take to say you can't copy its effect.”
Flattering and annoying in one go. Timothy sighed, “...Sure, I can make it work. But I haven't and I won't. Don't you think there’s a good reason for that? Despite what rumors you might've heard, I don't horde critical spell work for my own amusement.” He didn’t give everything away either, but if it would save a lot of lives…
The Cardea looked aside, and Timothy could almost hear his teeth grinding together.
“Come now, you were a talented student yourself back in the day. I don’t need to spoon-feed you.”
“They’re weak.”
“Yesss, you got it in one! They're like cardboard cutouts of what they should be. Only alive because the rest of us are around too thin the herds and attract the waves. They just hide their brown nosing their man-made God. It's a Pandora's box and I'm not opening it for you or anyone else.”
“Ok, but I'm not asking to use it for skilled guardians or as an aid for hunters. I just want a way to let weaker people make the trip out here. We don’t have to throw the baby out with the bathwater!”
“You’re more powerful than I am if you think you can make that stick. At first, it’s just a monthly transport route, then someone finds a place where it's for a very good cause. It's not really a violation of my trust, honest. They'll just nip out to harvest a flower, it won't hurt anyone and it will probably be to save someone's life. Then it slowly gets worse and worse ad-nauseam.” Timothy shook his head.
“No.” Timothy didn't bother to mention the rest of it. The technique was flawed. So long as the caster was powerful, it would chase off anything with a weaker aura than him. But anything at or above that strength would be challenged, not frightened. Timothy still wasn't sure why the Dragon hadn't burned them from existence for the impertinence and until he did understand that, there was no way in hell he was setting anyone else up as bait.
“Alright, I'm willing to grasp at straws here. If none of this will work, can you tell me something that will?”
Timothy shrugged, “I have several irons in the fire. But none have panned out yet. Think something reasonable up and send it to me if you have a better idea. Otherwise, you'll just have to wait.”
The man sighed, “Can you give us some details? Not the full thing, just enough so I can spread it around to generate some hope.”
“I don’t do hope, Cardea. I do results.” He held the man's eyes, letting his reputation speak for him. He rarely made promises, both because he preferred to be believed, and also because breaking them was both painful and dangerous.
He let the silence linger for four or five seconds, but not so long that it became a dominance challenge. He hated wasting time on that shit. “In the meantime, if you want to help, then quit trying to force a single simple solution to the problem. If you get fixated on one possible solution you'll miss the woods for the trees.”
“I'll even toss you a bone. One line of attack you can do. An easy one at that. Send a rep to the graduation ceremony. You do have a wonderful hold, and the prosperity you are pulling out of the canopy is real. Just go compete.” Timothy waited as the man used his drink to hide his dissatisfaction with such a long-odds option. When his mouth was good and full Timothy continued. “Someone has to win the lottery.”
It was a good thing the pool was cleaned so often.
The trip grew easier the closer they came to the River, enough so that Timothy found part of his attention wandering back to the Cardea's problem. Not all of his attention of course, but he mulled it around in the back of his mind.
Once they hit the edge of the valley, there was a dramatic drop in the Tier of beasts. From low Tier 2 alphas in every third pack to just Tier 1s in less than 100 yards. It was an artificial line and one they'd bled to create and enforce.
In the valley proper each hold was required to maintain detection spells sensitive enough to catch the occasional Breakthrough. That plus steady hunting on towards the borders for any migrants and it was a fairly safe area to train the newbies in.
When they'd learned enough, grown enough, and had a kill record to prove it, then they'd move out to a threshold to grow farther. A regular training ladder.
It mostly worked. For the awakened at least. A norm had about as much chance as a thistle in a wildfire if they left the holds outside a boat. It took training and senses that only came with an awakening to survive outside.
No, the new world was one of personal strength. A paradise for the brave, driven and smart with little room for hangers-on. Eat or be eaten. Not a circle of life but more of a ziggurat. Any weak newborn, beast might climb to the peak, ascending the tiers to become a supreme threat. Or food.
It wasn't even a bad thing. More of a feature than a design flaw. The feature in fact. Beasts could grow by devouring other beasts, but Humans could too. There were a few more steps involved to remove contamination. Alchemical or Cooking. The only difference was that humans were better at it. So far. Even if at times by just a hair. The human species was the apex predator in this valley. At least almost. The sky-king didn’t count.
For the species, Timothy mused. Treeholm’s Cardea wasn't wrong. They needed the next generation, and the ones after that, to continue the process. If all their best and brightest had roadblocks in the way of procreating, where would that leave them?
His musings came to a rapid stop as a scrying spell started pinging madly. Not the spell from his bracelet, but instead a standing spell tied into the Riverlands themselves. One of his better works really. An ascension was in progress.
Timothy didn't need to say anything, it was a public ward for a reason, the teams turned and rushed off course towards the west, southwest. Duty called. It was the job of the veterans to run towards the danger just as it was a juniors to get the hell away. The real risks came when a junior felt it was time to become a veteran. Sometimes they were right and they'd claim a trophy to prove their status. Sometimes they weren't and the beast got its own promotion. Temporarily at least.
Neither was going to happen this time. Bad luck for the – Timothy listened carefully, slowly parsing out the feel of the magic waves being echoed by his spell. A cat. He decided. A Camo Leopard.
Easy peasy. On the fly, he assembled a quick and dirty composite spell. Not freehand, that wasn't really his jam. But he could combine the runes from a few different charms to do the trick when he had to. Even if it was far more expensive than a properly prepared enchantment. The Connection rune from his ring of Crystallized Great Tree Sap. The material itself helped with the meaning he needed. It was sticky and designed to bridge and seal fissures. A targeting rune from the fishhead weapon on his belt. Pirhana not carp, but there was still a tie-in to swimming up the waterfalls and ascending to a king of the sky. The connection wasn't natural to the material, but with some additional willpower, he managed to make the conversion. Finally the force rune from his Hog Bone staff.
Linking the charms together he followed the emergent energies that set off his ward. Pasting the feeling of ascending beasts together with his spells in precise order, his mind lept forward, following the tether to a horse-sized Leopard in the crook of a Tree branch, some 70 feet off the jungle floor. Twitching and writhing in pain, but not daring to scream. Its bones cracked and popped as its frame expanded even as Timothy watched. Perhaps worse, its mind was also expanding. Its aura was gaining depth even as it greatly grew in complexity.
Ascension wasn't easy. Nothing was free.
Timothy was sympathetic, but they were on different sides of this war. With a mental flex, he made the connection and triggered the force rune. Not much of it at this distance, just a small push.
Right off the branch.
Cats do mostly land on their feet. But not when in mid-ascension.
And not often from 70 feet up.
The pinging abruptly stopped, the team paused uncertain, but Timothy motioned them onward, then went through three more hand signs that ended with him drawing a hand across his throat. Sven nodded and made several more gestures before a 5 man team split off. They couldn't leave the beast for scavengers, not inside the Riverlands.
Letting his mind return to the earlier issue, Timothy worried at it like a dog with a bone. Turning the problem this way and that, looking for a workable answer. Unfortunately, like a puzzle missing some pieces, it just wasn't jelling.
Yet. Timothy was no exception to the rules. Struggle and pain might not always lead to a reward, but without them, the rewards never came. He had patience, he'd figure it out. Eventually, one experiment or another would produce.
Currently, his best bet looked like some kind of transportation spell.
Not that it was a great angle. The number of failures he'd had already were legion. Though not always a loss. The reduced mass bags were a consolation from one. He'd tried to make a flying canoe. Or floating at least like the hover-croc it was made from.
It didn't work. They were awkward for one thing, constantly getting caught on the underbrush and vines. They also damn near killed the norm volunteers who sat in them. The rapid shifts in direction a jungle runner shrugged off weren't tolerable without reinforcing the body. Even strapped in with padding didn’t help when it was their organs being jostled.
Guardians, at least the experienced ones, had augmented vitality and an Aural manifestation for protection. Timothy skipped the vitality, but his spells were even more potent. They also applied inside his body. Not something you could cast on someone else without dropping a lethal level of contamination.
It was a messy, painful death. Great if you wanted a war spell. Unfortunately, it was far easier to harm than to help. As the dearth of healing spells showed.
He continued to think on the problem as they dashed through the trees and occasionally over them. An hour or so later, the expedition snapped to a halt at a weeper's upheld fist. Timothy let out another ping doubtfully. He hadn't detected anything dangerous but wasn't about to ignore the man. Several seconds later he had his head in a close circle with the Team leads and Donald while the teams themselves took up defensive positions in various bits of cover nearby.
The weaper tossed his hands rapidly through a series of symbols. A fist in the air for conflict, then flipping it upside down to wiggle two fingers back and forth in a walking gesture, Humans. Timothy raised an eyebrow, no wonder he didn't detect them, but so what? They weren't looking for humans. Sure, it would be rude to stumble into a hunt, but-
The hand flipped again to hold three fingers upright.
Well shit.
That was an entirely different kettle of fish. Teams were five-man minimum, and mostly closer to ten. Not because of any hard and fast rules. If you wanted to run out solo, it was discouraged but no one would stop you. It was your own life to take. But even if you weren't suicidal, you weren't going to be able to hall a full hog home with one man. Not to mention a passel of them. Nor a Cat or much of anything else you were likely to find.
The three could be eccentrics. There were a very few specialized herb pickers who managed it. Relying on stealth and speed rather than power. They made a decent fortune on less valuable herbs not having to split them with a bigger team. But few lived long enough to spend it. Sooner or later, you'd wind up with nowhere to run. Still, it was possible. Just not likely.
There was a simpler answer. Occam's razor and all that. It was much more likely that what they detected used to be a team of five plus.
Donald glanced over, making eye contact with Timothy then leaned his head in the direction the weepers weep was pointing. Timothy nodded before making the same eye contact with Sven, only with a raised eyebrow. He was in charge, and despite having a higher status Timothy wouldn't overrule him. He could, but he wasn't a damn fool.
The man was a highly experienced hunter and a leader of other hunters. His instincts were accurate and well-trained. If he said no, then they'd best not go. Sven considered, made a few gestures at the weaper that had Timothy wincing. Mosquitoes? Army Ants? The weaper shook his head.
Sven looked back to the two of them and nodded, then deftly made a few signs to the other team leads. Eye contact and hand gestures went back and forth for a few seconds, no few pointing to Timothy and Donald, he noticed with twisted amusement, before they all stilled, and abruptly moved back to their teams, gesturing rapidly on the move.
The seemingly empty jungle exploded with moving hunters, Sven briefly out front throwing a few more instructional gestures out, before he soon dropped back to run beside Timothy, while the scouts moved out ahead.
Timothy nodded to him, even as he kicked his own scrying magics into high gear. Times like this he wished he'd brought a few more detection enchantments. Ones with additional species to search for. Not that he'd had any more room and everything else he'd brought he'd used anyway. It was always a matter of tradeoffs. And he was on the wrong side of this trade.
Not that it should be a problem. He hadn't brought any extra scrying amulets, but he wasn't alone. The weapers did this for a living. Even if Timothy was better on a technical level, better distance, power and accuracy, they had their own skills to bring to the table. They were quick and dirty versus his refined efficiency. But quick and dirty worked.
Besides, they'd detected this potential problem, not him. That was a pretty good indicator. The unfortunate part about having an active mind and even more active imagination was that meant extra time for worrying. Despite having no information to base those worries on.
As for how much additional time? He glanced sideways at the charm the weaper was carrying. A human weep wasn't the usual spell to have going. He likely just subbed it in every once in a while, for a quick scan. With far fewer humans out and about it had a better range on it, but not impossibly large. Something like four to five miles depending on the operator. Throw in an additional distance based on when the human weep had been last used, a mile to a mile and a half, and he'd call it two and a half to 5 miles. Twenty to forty minutes with normal engagements.
More of course if they ran into a lot of fights. Never if a beast wave was forming. Timothy flicked through a boosted ping and at least marked that off the list. There were plenty of beasts around, and the successive pings weren't showing more than usual moments.
They dodged around a pack of earth toads and picked off a scout wolf before it could signal its pack. This was the kiddy pool, but it could still kill you if you were stupid. Before its corpse hit the ground they were already a dozen yards passed with no intention of slowing. A pity to waste a kill, even if the low-tier beast wasn't worth much.
Waste was disrespectful. They weren't fiends to slaughter for the hell of it. Needs must, he reminded himself. Likely lives were hanging in the balance.
It wasn't a new feeling, not even on this trip, but it still bothered him.
The weeper made another gesture. Still 3 humans, moving south towards Paradise, but not very quickly. Dangerously slow frankly, but at least that meant they’d be easy to catch.
Another 10 minutes went by and the density of beasts his scans were detecting was increasing at a pretty steep rate. Not a good sign. Their wayward humans weren't breaking contact fast enough. Drawing in more and more beasts with noise and blood. If they kept at it, they'd build a mini wave and get washed under.
A few minutes later the lead scout made a few more hand symbols, pointing towards the arm-length fern frond beside him. Dark red blood with black highlights painted one of its fronds. Not dried yet and human or the scout wouldn't have bothered.
Timothy soundlessly swore as a pulse revealed a massive swarm of beasts ahead. Nearly 50 of them, and of more than one species. Even as he watched the numbers were changing, dropping a few at a time, then rising as more beasts ran in.
A fight then, and a nasty one at that. He clapped lightly, a risk but worth it when time was short, and gestured violently to the right. He didn't know the sign for a feeding frenzy, but thankfully this he could do on the fly. Several incredibly thin tentacles of intent stretched out of his aura and tapped against the nearest guardians. It wasn't a polite conversation. There wasn't time for that, but he got his point across easily enough.
They aped his gestures even more emphatically. Sven, already turned and sprinting right gestured up as well. Timothy grimaced but quickly activated his belt and a ring. One to lighten his weight and the other to give his hands and feet a sticky grip. Then lunged up the nearest tree.
The trees were smaller closer to the river where the mana density was lower, but they were still over 20 feet in diameter. More than enough to provide him a climbing wall. It was about 50 feet straight up before he reached the first massive branch. He paused hanging off the trunk for a second while he gave the branch a quick study. He had no desire to meet and greet any prior occupants at short range. Then a guardian landed in front of him, darting down the wooden trail even as he spotted two more hanging from the trunk behind him.
Oh ya, bodyguards...
He lunged forward onto the branch, fighting down the itch that tickled the back of his neck. The high road wasn't any safer than the low. Just different risks. Risks that often came from nasty things dropping from above. Looking up wouldn't stop that from happening though, and it might result in him stepping off the beaten path... and with a long way down. No, he had to trust his bodyguards to do what they were fully equipped and trained to do.
Another pulse showed less than 40 beasts remained fighting, but the noise and smell of blood from the fight was rapidly drawing in more. Their fate was sealed. The winners would be too tired to deal with the newcomers.
But that still left the humans with the not-so-easy task of avoiding those newcomers as well. The ground-bound weren't a problem but panthers, flying squirrels (omnivores and quite vicious in their own way) giant raccoons, lizards, primates and a even dozen bird species were a different story. Not his problem. He reminded himself.
Those tradeoffs were really kicking his ass today. He flung himself forward keeping his curses internal. A motion spell flung him across a 20-foot gap to land running on a branch the next tree over. He jumped over a dripping red patch and around a leaf that was big enough for a floor fan. Reaching the Trunk he jumped twisting his body nearly horizontal while his hands barely touched the trunk, manually adjusting the grip fields in his ring to slide rather than stick, he drifted around the 40-foot diameter trunk. Releasing the slide in time, but facing the wrong way on the next branch he pulled a twisting somersault to correct the problem before landing.
Then he did it all again. He didn't pause, he didn't slow. Bounding off a tree trunk here to make another branch only to slide underneath it, easily swinging across the bottom of the branch like a set of monkey bars to avoid a sickle-winged guan's nest. Then a half moon arch of his back to launch himself upwards to Tarzan a vine into another branch.
Steady feet were a must, but a steady eye was even more important. Recognizing the dangers ahead well enough to map out a viable route without stopping took skills.
Skills Timothy didn't have, and despite the adrenaline high he was riding, he knew better than to assume his smooth path was his own doing. Bodyguards before and after him were clearing the way and guiding him to the best paths. Nobody could be an expert at everything, all at once.
Then he missed a small twist, not a large danger but a razor leaf branch he misidentified as a mahogany leaf. His basic ward suite would have absorbed any force if it was coming at him, they didn't work so well when he was running into it! The leaf failed to slice his reinforced hood, but it pushed it back enough to slide along his forehead in a splatter of pain and blood that rapidly dripped into his eyes.
His hand snapped down in a well-drilled motion to snag a potion, activating it with a pulse of will even as he paused, not daring to continue the mad sprint without his physical sight, even as his mind scanned the surroundings for trouble. Enough to spot a large body and a hand coming his way. He pulsed two of his wards down as that hand wrapped around his waist and carried him forward at full speed. A huff of air left his lungs at the impact, but it was a quiet huff at least, and it didn't throw off the potion that was almost to his lips.
He took a quick sip, more difficult than it sounded when being carried like a pool noodle. Just enough to clear his head and make sure he didn't fall into shock. He took an extra moment to think instead of react. Making a quick judgment he poured a dap of the thick sticky green liquid into his other hand and rubbed it directly into the wound, then pinching the flaps of skin together for a few moments. The liquid quickly set up on the wound and sealed the superficial, if bloody, cut. It would take another minute for it to fully heal.
Timothy grimaced, forcing his mind to catch up. The wound was sealed, but the blood it let out was all over him. And worse, the scent of blood. He pulled a waterskin from his belt, popping it open but placing his lips on the whistle attached to the leather cap rather than the spout. He blew a quick bird trill through it. It wasn't that loud, but still more noise than he'd like to make in the open.
Again, needs must. He transformed mana from his bracers and fed it into the whistle, it wasn't his work and wouldn't power itself. He pushed the image of blood into the whistle and bound the water and the ideal together. The enchanted water burst free from the spout and engulfed his head in a spinning mess for several seconds, then separated away, carrying the blood with it. Another small trill and the now disgustingly pink water launched itself sideways, though as an orb and not a spray.
Able to use his eyes again, Timothy tapped the guardian's arm. Indicating he was ready. Then a burst of motion magic from the staff strapped to his back launched him from the man's now open arms and back to his feet sprinting.
Cursing himself silently for making such a noob mistake.
Any ordinary-looking thing could kill. Yes, even leaves. Picking up the place he doubled down. Following the guardian ahead through spell-assisted bounds, slides and wall jumps as before, but spending a bit more time watching what else he was avoiding while making those same jumps. Noticing now that he was looking for it, how the chosen route avoided many other sharp-edged leaves or potential nesting sites. Unfortunately, he just didn't have the attention to spot it all. Not at the speed they were moving and his own need to focus on his footing.
At last a hand sign from ahead, one he quickly and dutifully repeated for those coming behind, and he dodged lightly to the left, coming to rest between three bodyguards on a wide flat-topped branch.
He glanced around but didn't see anyone else. A fact his inner eyes completely disagreed with. Not that even his magic senses could see more than twenty fellow hunters, but then they were very good hunters. Twenty wasn't bad without a fixed circle or an amulet, he was getting better at doing it freehand.
Then Sven made an appearance and Timothy's newfound confidence guttered and fled. On the blank side of a tree directly in front of him, the bark shifted and he was there. No branch to provide cover, no leafy clutter. Just bark.
He flicked a series of hand signs in the open. A gesture down and to what Timothy was pretty sure was the southeast, followed by directions for the first through third squads to take up a perimeter. Then he jerked his head downwards while looking at Timothy.
The jungle encouraged certain attitudes. When surprised you cast to kill first, and ran before worrying about pesky things like questions. It was an attitude with a lot of damn good reasons behind it, but it did make dropping in for a spot of tea without bothering to call ahead a bit risky. Good intentions be damned.
But it was a bother they were well prepared for. Grabbing a nautilus shell from a tether on his belt he deftly shaped its silencing effect into a cone, and gave a crow's cawww down the middle. Crows weren't common here but they also weren't completely unknown. Mostly they stuck to the edge of the planes or planes proper.
They paused for a few moments, only moving when a responding caww came back. Then the first and fourth team dropped.
Almost reflexively Timothy's stomach dropped with them. It took guts to casually step off a branch over 70 feet in the air. Not that he couldn't do it too, but his stomach didn't know that.
He watched them touch down without any noise or noticeable impact. Probably reduced their weight to nothing right before they landed. Leg muscles could absorb a great deal of force, and since the force was based on speed and weight... well if you did it right it looked damn impressive.
Timothy waited, keeping his eyes off the meeting and instead moving across the canopy above. Others would be covering the lower portions and the ground. New instincts spoke to him, indicating dangerous avenues of approach or suspicious-looking clumps of vines. Trying to make up for their mistake earlier no doubt. Bastards. But they were getting progressively louder the longer he sat here.
Staying still this long wasn't wise. Too much time for their magic signatures or scents to spread out. They needed to move, and soon. At least if they didn't want to deal with another feeding frenzy.
Sven appeared again on a branch 20 feet away, gesturing widely and moving his arm to bear south and a bit west, Paradise, but then a quick gesture for a jog west first, followed by, much to Timothy's relief, a gesture to the ground. He loved the skyroad, he really did, but he wasn't nearly as practiced at it as those around him and hated to have to let them pick up his slack.
Letting a pair of bodyguards go first, Timothy followed with a great leap to land below Sven, and slide down the trunk at a good clip. More control if he needed to doge than free fall offered. He leaped free a good 10 feet off the ground and landed sprinting.
To his right, Hanze had a bloodied figure riding piggyback and another two strangers in better, if still severely ragged states following after him. Their green and brown clothing was dotted or perhaps splattered about with still-wet blood.
Lucky bastards. Without help, they'd have seen a different Paradise this day. The blood scent they were trailing was catnip out here. And if the beasts didn't have a nose for it, then the magical significance of dropping fresh hot blood onto the earth wasn't any less obvious. They'd bait in anything with predatory instincts in a square mile.
Predators and scavengers his team would not need to deal with.
Without slowing Timothy gestured towards Sven. First, a wide wave to catch his eye, then a simple hand-held flat beneath his nose. Scent blocker? Mana blockers weren't really a thing. Not in a case like this, but they could at least deal with the more physical problems.
The return gesture involved a middle finger held upwards. Hunter sign was a new language, and of necessity fairly simple but that gesture didn't take much interpreting.
Waving an apology Timothy fell back. But after a few minutes of travel, he moved up again to sign at Sven. How many? He hesitated, not remembering a sign for missing and not wanting to ill wish with the sign for dead.
Sven didn't wait for him to find it, holding up two necklaces. Bloodied woven fibers with a bit of polished quartz on the end. Now liberally spotted with dried blood.
Timothy grimaced. Two?
Two here. Three - and he gestured behind them.
Timothy gestured with a loop to the team then gestured back in the same direction. Recovering at least the necklaces was usually a priority. There was a reward, but by custom few claimed it. It was too easy to picture that bloodied necklace being given to your own family to charge others for the service.
Sven shook his head. Then made an underhanded gesture. It took Timothy a few moments to place it. Then he flinched. Weasels. Oh sure, scavenging rodents didn't sound that scary. But much like their cousins (probably?) the prairie dogs, the damn things swarmed in packs of up to a hundred. And at 5 feet in length, a swarm of the ROUSs was pure nightmare fuel.
They weren't on his detection charms because they weren't that dangerous... most of the time. They were territorial, but they would warn you away before you trespassed. Like a rattler letting you know. They didn't want trouble either.
Right up until they got a bit of blood in their teeth. Then they went mad for it. The old cliché about weasels in hen houses came to mind. They'd kill anything and everything that wasn't another weasel.
What did these dumb SOBs do? Timothy shook his head. He'd get the full story when they got back. But he didn't have to hear it yet to know one thing, and he tried to think better of them for it. They'd already paid for their mistakes. And would continue to pay for a long time to come.
The real question was where the survivors went from here. Some men lived on, letting the guilt and blood debt motivate them to improve. A reminder to be better and a responsibility to look after the families that were left behind. He hoped for their sake they could make that transition.
Because the alternative was to break. Leaving a small but growing population of twisted, tormented survivors bedeviled by survivors' guilt, grief and PTSD. Unable to safely care for themselves, and a danger to anyone around them.
Timothy sighed. He didn't blame those men and women. He'd suffered through the special hell of survivors' grief himself, and not just once or twice. It wasn't something you wanted to brag about, how you were somehow stronger, tougher or some such nonsense. At times he wondered if it wasn't those of them who kept going who were in the wrong. That they, and he, somehow didn't care enough. He flushed the thought. As he had done many times before and would likely do many times again. It wasn't honest and it didn't help.
The broken were a waste of good hunters. One the Holds could ill afford. He tried to remember that those hunters went to their deaths hoping to help the living. Refusing to move on and you spit on their sacrifice. It helped to think of it in that light.
Angling wide to doge a massive tree trunk and bounding up and over the equally oversized twist of roots that led up to it, Timothy held in another sigh.
It helped. But only a bit.