The artist hated losing. Be it some weird competition with her mom, a game with her dad, or a self-assigned challenge, Herah couldn’t stand loss.
So, laying in a pool of her own blood, paint, and tears, shivers racking her body, and feeling like one big bruise, the artist could only hate her predicament.
“Looks like I win.”
Herah looked up and found an acier with silver scales and skin the color of chrome covered in blood her own and not and paint. No horns framed her head, nine cycles too few to have them pop in yet, but the acier always said they’d probably jut out her sides like spikes same as her mother’s.
The artist missed her mother.
Gazing upon her opponent’s face, Herah found golden eyes so warm the artist thought them liquid. A smile with that same warmth connected the cheeks of this acier.
Herah looked away tracing the white walls stained in blood and the opaque windows the monsters hid behind while watching their “test” unfold.
The artist didn’t even know what this test was, just that it sucked.
“Vahcuv Rouge and Argent, test is over,” said a disembodied voice, emitted through the black box hanging from the ceiling surrounded by magma lamps lighting the room, “Leave through the door in the next minute, or be subject to stim treatment.”
Herah didn’t even get her name from the monsters, instead called whatever a vahcuv was and her color. At least it made her flame feel closer to her mother. Not close enough.
The artist tried to rise, but her knees and hands sought the padded floor as soon as they left it.
“I gotcha.” The acier said, grabbing Herah by her arms and pulling the artist over her shoulder.
Herah didn’t want this acier’s help, seeing it as insult to injury. But her fear of stim treatment, her lips quivered just at the thought, kept her weak struggles in her mind. As the pair limped towards the exit, just a wall of light as far as Herah could tell, the acier spoke again.
“Hey Herah, I know your name, but do you know mine?”
The artist shook her head. The acier let out a hmph.
“Boo, I hear so much about you, but none of the other étincelle ever talk about me. That’s unfair.”
“I don’t like being talked about.” Herah said, her voice barely a mumble.
“Why not? You sound hot.”
“Because it normally means I’m in trouble.”
“That’s why you sound hot.”
The artist’s eyes felt heavy as the pair breached the door and began walking down a corridor. A corridor Herah couldn’t make out in the moment, but one the artist knew to be as white as the room they just left. A pit always formed in her stomach and bile crawled at her throat at every step taken down this path.
Herah didn’t want to think about it too long.
“You beat me.”
“Yup,” the acier responded, letting out a small hum as the pair continued walking. “You’re tough for someone who’s seven.”
“But I lost.”
“That’s okay.”
“Is it?”
The artist felt the acier’s eyes. A few moments of silence passed as the pair didn’t slow in pace.
“Of course,” the acier said. “You might’ve lost the fight but you still won something.”
“What?”
“A new friend.”
Herah shook her head.
“I don’t have friends.”
“You do now.”
The pair reached the next door, another wall of light, but by this point darkness ate at the corners of the artist’s vision. Herah felt an itch in her brain. Something about the acier walking by her side, her energy, made the artist feel warm. So before sleep took, a question slipped her lips.
“What’s your name?”
Herah could feel the acier’s smile widen, before gently bumping her head into the artist’s.
“Argentcend, Argentcend Burn Aun.”
Herah cracked her eyes open, tears dripping down her face.
Ash, I haven’t recalled you in a while. The artist closed her eyes and shook her head. Not the time.
The rub of smooth bark against the back of her head and neck and the heavy scent of ash surrounding all her sides told Herah her body laid propped up against the Donneur de Frêne. The hug of cloth around her torso and spandex around her thighs meant either Jeffery arrived or someone had clothing to spare in her size.
Who dressed me, though?
The artist wiped her tears away with her thumb then opened her eyes again. Such action proved fruitless, spots blotting her vision and forcing her eyes shut once more. Only then, did Herah recall the aches and how heavy her body felt. Her flame felt like a lit match, better than embers, but only so much. Her body also felt lighter; well, more her hands. They itched, the flowers beneath her palms felt in excruciating detail: from their tiny hairs which bristled at her touch to the ever so slight difference in hydration across every micrometer of the petals.
The scales on my hand are gone, must’ve been cannibalized to fuel my flame.
But it was only enough to keep her alive; La Flamme would have her gift to the Cendreux do no more harm to her children than necessary.
And you’ve done enough, my Mistress.
Eyes shut tight, the artist inhaled deeply. A flood of smells graced her nostrils: sweat, grime, worry, frustration, pencil shavings, moist dirt, spicy and flaky wood, etc. Her goal was fuel so Herah filtered out every smell not flesh, metal, or smoke.
A bevy of silver hung overhead, the closest just four feet away.
Not strong enough to even bite it though, something softer.
Forty feet far and close to the ground, freshly cooked meat— the artist didn’t recognize the smell, but it brought to mind a Chercheur D'or plucked of their golden feathers— sat.
Too far for me to get.
Right on top of the odd meat, smoke tinged with its flavor and wood met the artist’s nose.
That’ll do.
Herah focused on her flame and imagined the warmth in her head. As it settled right in the middle of her brain, the artist felt another warmth at the edge of her skull sitting at the bridge of her nose. A warmth that tugged at her mind and made her flame flare in desire. A warmth right where smoke and food sat.
Fire.
Herah dragged her hand up and pointed her palm towards the flame, her arm quivering and drooping. Eventually, the artist focused enough to hold her arm steady and pull on the warmth atop her nose. It came slow, the warmth inching its way through her skull to the edge of her brain then further into the lump of fat until it reached the center warmth.
And by that point, fire streamed up Herah’s arm, into her mouth, and down into her flame. Her limbs no longer shook and felt lighter as the match light inside became a campfire.
The artist opened her eyes, and found the blanket of night covering the land. The planet’s star no longer in the sky, powerful moonlight beamed down atop the portions of the meadow not covered by the Donneur de Frêne. The black and white flowers’ glow appeared more defined under the moon, a gleam to it not seen in daylight. A few dozen feet ahead, Alex, Owen, and Max sat in chairs grown out of the ground with legs and backs of thick roots while soft, green leaves padded the seats. The soothsayer sat to the left of the liar who sat across from the binder who's back faced Herah. A still smoking but dead campfire of burnt twigs lay between the three.
Alex glared, with his weird, blue overshirt folded up in his lap, his blades atop it, and some half eaten white meat on a stick in his hand. Owen turned and smiled, his hair out and hat in hand. Max set her lips into a thin line while her weird, brown overshirt lay spread out across the flowers behind her seat.
The faint greasiness of surprise flavored the binder’s and liar’s scent, followed by the earthy scent of relief. The sharp spice of anger tempered Max’s smell however. The soothsayer smelled of a faint, spicy annoyance and sweet and cool satisfaction.
“Herah!” Owen hopped up and rushed over. “You’re up! We were worried when you slept so long.”
The binder went to touch, but Herah held up a hand and shook her head.
“Not yet. Need food.”
“You just ate our fire, Ashbrain.”
“Need more.”
The artist glanced to her left, where the smell of pencil shavings hung four or so feet away. There Jeffery floated, twirling in place above the flowers with seemingly no care. A warmth not her flame spread through Herah’s chest as the artist felt her pencil’s mind brush against hers. Herah let them in without hesitation.
Hey Jeffery.
The pencil filled her mind with a vision of herself waving as it floated over.
“Knot?” Herah asked, and Jeffery spun up then smacked a low hanging knot about the size of the artist’s head off the Donneur de Frêne into her lap. Herah tapped the wooden shell of the knot with a claw and injected a burst of red fire into it. The shell collapsed into ash, revealing silver.
My favorite.
“Woah.” Owen mumbled as the artist raised the metal to her lips, unhinged her jaw, forced half of it into her mouth, and bit down. The sharp shearing of metal filled the air, the other Gifted wincing as Herah chewed. The metal melted atop her tongue and fed into her flame until it felt like an inferno in her chest.
Strength restored, Herah took a nip of the remaining half of her silver knot and focused her mind on her hands and the minor itch engulfing them. Like how one might focus on their own breathing. But instead of forcing her lungs to inhale and exhale, the artist forced that itch in her hands to grow more noticeable and sharp. Herah’s hands grew heavier. A few more nips of silver, and dead skin began flaking off her red palms and digits to reveal a bumpy texture. After eating half the remaining knot, the artist’s hands no longer itched and a slight luster showed from finger to wrist under the shadows of the tree. Her scales were back.
“You eat metal like dragons too.” The binder said, still standing right in front of the still-seated Herah. The sweet and warm smell of joy wafted from Owen, causing the artist to smile softly.
“All of La Flamme’s children consume metal.” Herah frowned. “Though I guess if they’re from your universe they’re not actually related to us. Probably why they’re dragons and not Cendre.”
The artist felt the binder’s eyes on her hands, both wide and studying them closely. Curiosity flickered in his scent.
“Are you picky with your metal too?”
“Food is food.” Herah answered with a shake of her head. “But soft metals like silver aren’t good for building strong bones or scales.” The artist licked her lips then set aside the last of her silver. “I have to eat it in moderation.”
“Enough with the dietary lesson, we have work.” Alex cut in, scowling.
“Not for you to decide, Alex.” Max said, scowling at her brother.
“Come on sis, do we really have to do this?”
“Who made me leader?”
The spices of anger and frustration from the twins caused Herah to recall just before her fight with the soothsayer. The frown the liar wore and her worry weren’t forgotten. The same pit from earlier formed in the artist’s gut, her eyes going between Owen and Max.
An apology is owed.
“But he’s right,” the liar said, snapping Herah from her thoughts. “We do need to talk. Please, join us by the fire, well, what used to be the fire.”
Before moving, Herah took proper stock of herself. Her earlier guess of being dressed turned out correct, now wearing one of her handmade black tees with a supernova graphic on the front that appeared to move whenever walking and black running shorts which ended just before her knees.
Good outfit choice, I’ll have to thank whoever dressed me.
Finished, the artist walked out from beneath the Donneur de Frêne with Owen and Jeffery. Stepping into the moonlight her eyes drifted towards the sky. Six moons sat overhead; five full, while the sixth waxed gibbous. Herah watched her own planet’s three moons enough to figure it’d be full by the time the Oni were to invade.
Whiter than the ones orbiting Incendié. A pang rang in her heart. Wish I was watching them with you momma.
“Head out the clouds, Ashbrain.”
The artist growled and snarled, stopping opposite to Alex with the dead campfire between them. The soothsayer glared back, dropping a hand to Nike and squeezing the grip of the wavy blade.
“None of that.” Max said, cutting the pair off. Her lips were still set in their line, and her anger and frustration smelled spicier. “Since I’ve been elected leader of our little band here, I will not tolerate another fight between you two. Not only is it stressful for me, harmful for our ability to work together, and loud, it’s more importantly triggering for Owen. Unless you forgot, brother, that he passed out when he saw Herah drenched in her own blood after we dragged her out of a hole four football fields deep.”
“Four point four.” Alex corrected, getting an immediate glare from his sister.
“You know what I fucking mean! He doesn’t deserve to suffer because you two can’t get along.”
Herah’s snarl parted into a gape, her eyes widening as the visage of the binder’s horrified reaction to just blood dripping from her face surged up from her flame.
Dammit! The artist grit her teeth and frowned at the ground. I shouldn’t have put you through that again. Fucked up twice in the same situation.
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“Am I understood?” the liar asked, her glare hopping between Herah and her brother.
“Yes.” The artist answered, lifting her head.
“Yeah.” The soothsayer said with a small huff.
“Good.” Max turned her eyes onto Owen. “Can you get Herah a seat?”
Before the binder could respond, Herah shook her head and plopped onto the flowers.
“I prefer ground.”
“Okay.” The liar nodded before casting a glance over everyone. “Second order of business, we talk. We know hardly anything about each other, not even ages. So let’s introduce ourselves again, share a fun fact or interest, and discuss our Gifts. Will that work with all of you?”
“Yes.” The artist answered without a second thought.
I agreed to let you lead, so I’ll submit to your will. And, Herah let loose a small smile. I like how you take charge.
“Sure.” The soothsayer said, frowning deeper.
“Of course.” Owen responded, smiling and nodding at Max.
“Then,” The liar touched her chest, “I’ll start first to set an example. My name is—“
“Before you start,” Alex cut in, earning another glare from his sister. Ignoring it, the soothsayer nodded to the still-smoking branches between everyone. “Ashbrain, light the fire.”
Herah grit her teeth and let loose another growl, before spitting a loogie of red flames into the sticks. The campfire renewed, starting red then slowly transitioning to a standard orange glow. Alex leaned back and waved his hand for his sister to continue. Max’s frown deepened, but the liar said nothing. Her eyes moved back to the other two Gifted.
“As I was saying, I’m Max, a human of seventeen years, my fun fact is that I like comic books,” Max paused, then shook her head and chided herself before adding, “Books full of mostly images instead of words, and my Gift is Fibs. It allows me to lie to reality, with some limitations.”
“Expand, please?” the artist asked.
The soothsayer rolled his eyes.
“She can warp reality by lying.”
“That sounds amazing.” Owen said, his gaze locked onto the liar and scent drowning in a smokey, savory smell, like grilled beef and a sharp, oily one, like gasoline.
Curiosity and amazement respectfully.
Feelings Herah shared.
“Powerful.”
The liar blushed.
“It can be useful.” Her eyes swept the other three. “Now, who’s next?”
“Me.”
Everyone’s attention fell to the artist.
“Go ahead, Herah.”
“I’m Herah War Hej, faithful Cendreux to La Flamme and child of Orange and Rouge. I’m sixteen cycles old, and my fun fact is,” Herah pursed her lips, running through a selection in her mind, “I like stories. My Gift is Traduire. It allows me to take any art I make and bring it into reality.”
“Cycles?” Max questioned.
“Rotations around our planet’s star.”
“Oh, different name for years, got it.”
Alex tched and shook his head.
“What about your body turning into paint?”
The question wasn’t an order, so Herah didn’t immediately answer. Instead, the artist frowned and stared.
I don’t want to tell you shit. But, Herah glanced to the liar, who met her eye and set her lips back into that line again. The pit in the artist’s gut grew ever so deeper. I owe you this at least.
“Price of my Gift. Depending on a few factors: unity of materials, how detailed the piece is, its size, what it can do, and how long it lasts, a portion of my body becomes paint when I manifest my art.”
The soothsayer’s scent began shifting as Alex leaned forward and started tapping his nose. Herah creased her brows and scrunched up her nose, on edge at the intense focus.
“Did you make Jeffery with it?” the binder asked, diverting attention his way.
The artist glanced up to the pencil, hanging over her head, spinning in place.
“Yes.”
“What’d he cost?” Alex asked.
“Too much.” Was all Herah said in response. A replay of earlier, when Traduire went out of control came to mind. As did a replay of a similar memory from much further in her past.
The artist shivered.
“Thanks for sharing, Herah,” Max smiled for one second, then looked to Owen. “How about you?”
“Oh,” the binder gave his hat a few squeezes before taking a deep breath and nodding. “I’m Owen Vulcan. I’m a gnome and three hundred eight, though Herah says that I’m nineteen relative to her own age so maybe it’s similar for you two as well. I like fairy tales.”
Owen paused for a moment, frowning and looking down. His scent fluctuated steadily, growing stronger in steady bursts as his mind worked over his next words.
“My Gift is Nexus, it allows me to connect two or more things and have them share attributes or physical things in some form or shape. For example,” the binder raised his hat. “My cap is connected to a pocket dimension I use as an in-between for storage. With a few squeezes of the ball here, I can get anything I’ve stored out of it.”
“Interesting.” Herah said, thinking on how Owen might combine his Gift with his craft.
Can you link something like condition and make your armors able to heal people? Or bind two rings together and share vibrations through them for communication. What counts as an attribute?
“Thanks Owen. Alex?” Max asked, drawing the artist’s attention from her thoughts and to the brother.
The soothsayer sighed.
“You know my name, you know my species, and you know my age. I don’t much care to share a fun fact. My Gift is Enlightenment. It allows me to ensure the truth of reality is maintained.”
Silence ensued, only the cackle of the fire and the whispers of the ever present breeze filling the air.
…
…
…
“Really?” the artist asked, brows scrunched up and teeth bared.
Alex shrugged.
“My Gift is complicated and filled with many redundancies. I don’t see much point in explaining it to the rest of you since you wouldn’t get it in the first place.”
“Alex.” Max said, eyes and lips twitching. The spice of frustration grew stronger in her scent.
The soothsayer groaned then vomited words.
“Okay,Icanperceiveandmanipulatetheaxiomsofreality.MyGiftisbrokenupintotwelvelightswithaspecificabilityrelatedtothisboundtoeach.Onelightallowsmetodistortmyperceptionoftimetoextremes.AnotherallowsmetoaccesssomethingIlost,doesn’tworkatthemoment.Theotherallowsmetoquietenmyemotions.Anotherallowsmetoespyimmaterialdeceitbeitinoroutsidemymind…”
Herah tuned out, Alex’s explanation filled with words foreign and hard to parse. Owen nodded and lacked any grease to his scent. The liar snarled at her brother, her face reddening further and further until a few curses flew from her mouth.
“Okay! You’re not willing to share more, I get it.”
“Good.”
Quiet fell over the group once more as Alex continued eating his unidentified meat on a stick, Owen reached into his hat, pulled out a half-finished silver sculpture, and began shaping it with his science, and Max stuck a thumb in her mouth and gnawed on it while glaring at her brother. The artist took this time to think over everything said. Well, more everything not said.
We all shared the cores of our Gifts, but not a single one of us mentioned our border manifestations. Guess no one’s willing to share all the quirks of being Gifted as we’re gathered now. Though just based off the cores, guessing a few borders shouldn’t be that hard. Max, I bet it's impossible to distinguish your lies from your truths. Must’ve used it earlier when you said you and Alex weren’t humans. Alex, you can probably see through lies. I bet it's broad like my skill with art is. And Owen, hmm, I’m sure your borders crop up in your work but you haven’t shown enough to guess.
Herah glanced up to Jeffery.
Any ideas?
A vision of chains connecting herself, her pencil, and her parents filled her mind in response.
Gonna need to think on that.
“Now,” the liar said, snapping the artist out of her thoughts and getting everyone’s attention. “We have a better grasp on the basics of what we can do. We should also be aware of each other’s non-Gift related capabilities.”
The soothsayer frowned, scrunching up his nose.
“Sis—”
Max turned a glare onto her brother, killing his sentence in his throat.
“You made me leader, and you can’t take it back now. Even more than that,” The liar waved towards Herah and Owen. “These two are our allies. Not servants, nor underlings, nothing like that. We are equals here, Alex. So you can’t just hold all the cards. And while I won’t force you to share more about your Gift, you will at least share everything else.”
Alex started to say something else, but Max growled.
“I’m not asking you.”
The soothsayer frowned back at his sister, a soft and acidy smell, similar to the rain of the artist’s home world filled his scent.
Hurt.
“Fine.”
Herah watched this interaction keenly, both intrigued by how easily cowed Alex appeared before the liar and fascinated by how watching Max work shaped her feelings. The artist’s face felt hotter, her cheeks redder, and a desire to see and know more about her new leader burned in her heart.
Oh, I’m impressed. Though, it feels a bit different or there’s more to it. Wonder why?
“I’ll go first again.” The liar said, dropping her glare. “Besides my Gift, I have a few blessings as well.”
“Blessings?” the binder questioned.
Max smiled softly at Owen.
“My brother and I have an extensive history with deities.”
Wonder who you pray to. The artist glanced at Alex. Do you pray at all?
“One makes me tougher and stronger than I appear.” The liar lifted her arm and flexed, light muscles showing as her smile stretched into a grin. “The other allows me to calm others with my smile, and the final one—” Max dug into the pockets of her weird brown shirt and pulled out a small black box, a bit smaller than her hands, with the golden print of a wheel flanked by two crescents on either side. “—are these, my battle-deck.”
“Battle-deck?” Herah asked, though her mind stuck more on the blessing around the liar’s smile.
That’s how your pacifying powers work.
Max shrugged before sliding the box back into her weird shirt.
“You use your fist, fire, and a giant pencil, I use my hands and playing cards.” The liar patted the pocket holding her cards. “And they’re tied to my Gift.”
The artist’s nose twitched as the smell of the box hit her nostrils. Wood and gold dust registered first, then something reminiscent of smoke and burnt wood. But it was just a little too warm, a little too spicy to be those exact scents.
Then, it clicked.
“They’re Scientific.”
Max frowned and tilted her head sideways.
“No, they’re magical.”
Herah frowned.
“So there is nothing special about them?”
“What no,” The liar shook her head. “That’s the exact opposite of what magical means.”
“Before you two extend this argument further,” Alex cut in, lips thinned and tone exasperated. “Sis, the words magic and science are inversed in Ashbrain’s world. You’re saying the same thing.”
The arguing Gifted paused.
“Oh, oh, weird.” Max said, pursing her lips and nodding to herself.
“You’re weird.” The artist growled back, baring her teeth. The liar blinked then chuckled, her expression settling onto something warmer than a frown.
“That’s all I have, next up?”
Herah raised a hand.
“Me.”
Max nodded, and the artist took it from there.
“Besides my Gift, I’m stronger and tougher than all of you, without Presence or Will or whatever that bullshit is at least. Then there are the six blessings of La Flamme. Rebirth, restoration, resilience, immortality, inimmolation, and revelation.”
Herah listed off all six with her fingers before raising them for the rest to see.
“Rebirth ensures after death, I reemerge anew. Restoration allows me to restore my body to its ideal form whenever it changes, whether that be through mutilation or distortion. Resilience allows me to absorb meat, metal, or flame to strengthen and maintain my flame. Immortality means I don’t die as long as my fire burns. Inimmolation is my inability to be burnt by the likes of fire. And revelation allows me to sense all flames within the same range I can smell.”
The artist dropped a finger with each blessing explained then stopped, not just thinking about what else there was to say but if Herah wanted to say it.
I’m not just talking about myself, I’m talking about my people as well. Should I really be disclosing so much to outsiders? It’s not like we keep any of this secret. We just normally show instead of explain. Words aren’t worth as much.
But it’d take too long to show and honestly, the presence of Alex made the artist want to not give more than was asked.
And a lot was asked.
“I’ve my fire of course, which has a lot going on, not in complexity but amount. The short of it is, I can treat my fire as an extension of myself and change its nature. Temperature, mass, behavior all are free for me to manipulate. As long as I don’t try to make something totally not fire I have a lot of room to work. I’ve shown a lot of what I can do already but,” Herah paused, thinking for a moment before nodding. “I haven't shown you the full extent of my ability to manipulate temperature. You haven’t seen how cool my red flames get nor violet.”
“Violet?” Owen asked, frowning at the artist.
“A Cendreux’s flame at its hottest and most destructive.” Herah touched her chest, placing her hand over the pocket holding her flame. “It burns everything.”
The artist dropped her hand and took a breath. More still had to be said but this gnawing itch began to form in the back of her head. Herah frowned, unsure as to why. Until her eyes found the soothsayer. His gaze felt sharp and predator-like. As if gathering information before preparing for the kill.
A shiver went up the artist's spine.
I hope this doesn’t come back to bite me.
Herah sighed then continued.
“I can also manipulate my bodily functions, to a minor extent. The length of my claws, the speed of cell growth, regeneration, perception of time, or the intensity of my senses. Speaking of senses, mine are sharper than yours. Most things within an etrèmolik of us, I can make out perfectly with my eyes. Within eight, I can hear most things perfectly. Within ten, I can break down and catalog quintillions— whatever numbers are after trillions— of unique smells in a matter of minutes. Taste and touch don’t extend past my tongue and skin, but I can break down millions of sensations and flavors at once as well.”
Her words hung in the air, so much said the artist knew the rest of her team would need time to fully process them.
Except the soothsayer, who hummed and nodded.
“That is useful.”
The liar smiled a few moments later, her lips closed, while an impressed huff shot from her nostrils.
“Nice.”
The binder smiled, shining his teeth with a light to his eyes while nodding.
“It’s amazing.”
A smugness rose within Herah, the praise a pleasant addition to a shit day.
“Is that all?” Max asked.
“Yes.” The artist answered.
“Okay,” the liar looked to Owen. “You next.”
The binder spoke of his crafting abilities, though like at first with the artist earlier, omitted the true extent of his skills. Instead, his focus laid in his ability to create proven (enchanted was the word Owen used) armor and trinkets with a variety of effects. His science wasn’t much dived into, the binder revealing it all relied on the manipulating, creating, or destroying life, matter, energy, and crafts. Max nodded happily at the info, while Alex stared the binder down throughout it all. Herah knew the soothsayer knew Owen was holding back, but Alex said nothing.
When it was his turn, the soothsayer didn’t put up any more of a fight. Alex told the party about how his daggers worked, as Max had revealed earlier to the artist, and his possession of the same strength blessing as his sister. Curiously, the soothsayer omitted any mention of Presence or Will. Even more curiously, the liar didn’t push on this omission.
“There, we’ve given each other our character bios, are we done?” Alex asked, scowling at everyone. “I’d like to do some planning for our next move.”
“For now,” Max answered, letting out a deep breath and rising from her seat. “Herah and Owen, feel free to keep yourselves busy while Alex plans. Consider our meeting over.”
The liar walked away from the campfire and up to the Donneur de Frêne. Before Herah could ask what exactly Max was doing, the liar threw off the weird things on her feet and started climbing the tree. The artist watched silently, noting how Max dug her fingers and toes lightly into the bark, forming small grips for her hands and feet in her rapid and skillful ascension. The soothsayer rose up as well, walking into the forest while muttering to himself. The binder appeared happy with his sculpture and also exited the meadow, heading in a different direction from Alex. That left Herah alone with Jeffery, still spinning in place.
Hey, the artist thought at the pencil, looking up as it tilted its head towards hers. Good to see you.
Herah raised a hand to Jeffery and began running her fingers along its length, petting her creation. The pencil responded with an image of the artist smiling before floating down into her lap to make petting easier.
The pair sat together in silence for a little while, both feeling the weight of each other's mind and enjoying the company. Nearly an hour passed before Herah spoke again.
What took you?
Jefferey responded with a vision of Norwe laughing.
Bâtard! Just likes toying with us. Herah scowled, then frowned at the pencil. Norwe acted like you knew each other? How?
A vision of Jeffery and her Maker floating across from one another in the void of space surrounded by a sea of debris composed of the shattered remains of planets and other celestial bodies stretching as far as eyes could see took shape within the artist’s mind.
You met while flying through space? When?
An image of Herah holding a paper listing a date appeared in her mind.
-45000000000, Hausse, Lavemontée, 88, Gardiens de Feu
The artist frowned, two problems in the date the pencil provided. Problem one, no date from anyone who followed the Cendreux’s date tracking method should ever be negative. Especially the first number, as the first number in any date is the number of cycles since the individual's birth. Problem two, the last part to a Cendreux date is the current age they occupy.
The current age of the Cendreux is Rallumage, Gardiens de Feu is the age right before. And since those years are negative—
Herah stared at Jeffery, eyes wide and mouth agape in silent horror.
Jeffery! How the fuck did you go over forty billion cycles into our past!? Why!?
A vision of herself shrugging filled the artist’s mind. Her left eye twitched, as green flames wafted from her mouth.
What do you mean, you don’t know!?
Another shrugging vision was the only response. A firmness came through with the visage, indication the pencil would share no more on the subject. And as much as Herah would love to argue with her creation, the artist knew such a thing would only end with no answer and a headache.
Your stubbornness annoyingly exceeds mine. The artist thought, getting a vision of herself smirking smugly as a response. Herah bit at Jeffery, but didn’t do anything more; her thoughts drifting to another reason to not argue with the pencil. Plus, I have something more important to ask you.
Jeffery filled the artist’s mind with a vision of herself tilting her head to the side.
You’re strong like Dad, like— Herah grit her teeth. —Alex. You have that same thing going on with your presence or will, whatever that bullshit you can all do is. Could you defeat Norwe?
Jeffery paused then spun the opposite direction. The artist frowned, her stomach shifting uncomfortably while watching her pencil spin without a responding thought.
Finally, Jeffery gave Herah a vision of herself shooting flames from her left nostril then her right.
The Cendreux’s way of saying fifty-fifty.
Why don’t I believe that? The artist growled, huffing red flames. Why can’t I?
WHOMP!
Pain exploded in her brain as the butt of Jeffery’s eraser smashed into the back of her head.
“You cunt!” Herah shouted, spewing green flames while waiting for her rattled skull to settle.
“Herah?” Max asked, smelling of worry and peaking out from the top bush of the Donneur de Frêne. “What’s wrong?
“Nothing!” The artist shouted back, looking up as flames flared and soothed the pain in her temple. “Jeffery’s just an asshole.”
“Ah, okay!”
The liar retreated into the tree’s leaves. Herah frowned after Max. Her need to apologize came back to mind.
Better to do it now. But I should also try and flow into it. I think? That’s what Dad said the art to apologies was, right?
“Hey Max!”
The liar’s head popped out of the leaves again, eyes blinking and smile soft.
“What’s up?”
“Why are you up there?”
Max pointed up at the five satellites overhead, her smile stretching.
“Moon watching!”
The artist grinned back, memories of late nights laying atop her box home with her mother by her side surging up from her flame.
“You watch the moon too!?”
“Yeah, it’s…” The liar’s expression shifted, her brows furrowing together and lips twisting into a frown. “It’s an old habit.”
Max’s scent changed with her expression, going from the sweet warmth of joy to the soft heaviness of sadness then the even softer acidness of hurt. The liar’s scent flickered between the last two emotions, as if warring with itself.
Confliction. Probably still about earlier. Herah thought, frowning up at Max. Her need to apologize came to mind, the pit in her gut disappearing, but the artist couldn’t just do so from below. It’ll only be genuine up close. No better chance than now to try.
“Want some company?” Herah asked, offering a small smile.
Max’s frown deepened, then the liar looked away towards where Alex went.
“Nah, you should go get Owen. It’s been long enough that my brother should have a plan and be back this way soon.”
The artist frowned and looked down.
Not the time.
Herah sighed, raised her head to Max and blew a single blast of fire out of respect for her authority before walking in the direction of the binder. The pit in her stomach grew all the deeper, but a vision filling her mind, one of her talking with Owen, gave her pause.
The artist looked at her pencil, now hovering to her right and smiled.
“You’re right Jeffery, I can still apologize to someone else.”