“Straighten your back!” A wrist flicked as the end of a small one-handed whip lacerated Jorun's lower back. The new cut, one among many, was highlighted by the bard's rapid heartbeat. Each pulse renewed the pain, and the agony increased the buildup of his vexation. That in turn, made his heart thrum and thus caused a toxic cycle of frustration and pain. ”Stop hunching over!”

His focus was diverted into his breathing, the pain dulled as a side effect. A crack of sound, blood pooled into droplets on his elbow. “Pull! Keep it back!” Using the last vestiges of strength Jorun rocked the bowstring. He felt the light drag of feather and fiber across his cheek. “Hold!” The bard obeyed the command, or tried. He didn’t have the fortitude to force his muscles to keep together. Each moment that passed, the more strings of flesh separated under the paramount stress. Under the natural instinct of balance, Jorun’s other hand tried to compensate. As the bard's arm fell unexpectedly limp, the bow flicked up as the arrow released. Sending it well over the three ringed bullseye he was aiming for.

“No!” Three thin lines appeared on Jorun's arms. Sharp pain followed and that usurped the tightly held gates of agitation. The bard turned to face the inflictor, a small man. Nose stuck upturned and deep sunken eyes, hair in a horse shoe and long curly eyebrows. The generality of the countenance in a perpetual snide of disgust. A long coat that touched the ground fluxed with terribly combined colorful colors. The wind picked up violently and a whistle of harsh tune picked at any receiving eardrum. “Why do you fail to reach these simple orders!” Four cuts. One on the cheek, another on the stomach, and two on the legs. The man's tiny weapon of discipline dripped with red liquid. The wind turned.

The man brought back his wrist and switched it forward. The length of the whip rebounded from a sharp force of air. The man looked at the bard with raised, arched eyebrows. "How. Dare. You!" Tens of times did the whip move and each time it was met with an equal hard whistle of wind.

Jorun gripped the bow with two hands at the bottom of the curve, and swung with the tenacity of the wind. As soon as the bow came close, it stopped. Both the miniscule amount of muscle he had before, and the new found strength he had been garnering recently wasn’t enough to push through this invisible wall of force. The wind didn’t have the force to budge the makeshift club either.

“I can clearly see, this is not working.” A voice came. Jorun and the man had faces of relief and worry respectively. The bard, thankful to be done with the pompous noble of some small what's-it house he didn’t bother to learn the name of. While the man was fearful of the Auditamor's general higher station. The quarrelers turned to see Doco approaching.

“Sir! This little shit..” The man began to say.

“Little shit?! You're the grown nose-devil who can’t see past the pimple on it!” Jorun rebutted

“Not even Solonors blessing wouldn’t make you shoot straight! ”

“I wasn’t the one born with Erythnul’s looks! Not to mention the hair on the bottom of a horse’s hoof covered in shit!”

The man got red in the face, and then launched the whip forward. Like the bow, it stopped close to Jorun. He turned towards Doco. Who stood silent and had visible agitation in his character.

The low, petty noble had his mouth open for a moment before his jaw was forced shut. The entirety of him, including the extended whip, was lifted and carried out of sight. After a minute, Doco either decided to release his magical hold or the distance was too great for his concentration. A loud yelp was heard from the distance.

“Now you.” Doco said.

“But I didn’t do anything wrong!” Jorun half yelled. Suddenly, the force that canceled out his forward momentum evaporated. With his weight forward, the bard tumbled and hit his head on the ground.

“You didn’t. I know you didn’t. This was just another avenue of teaching that failed you. I helped raise Kenan, I knew exactly how to teach him. With You, I’m going through trial and error. Strict teaching, obviously, was not going to work.”

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“So, now what?”

“Get some sleep. I guess. I’ll need to figure something out.”

***

Rest didn’t come. It hadn’t for a while. In the last week, he had slept maybe 20 hours. Something poked and prodded his mind. Kept his conscience awake and alert. A yearning and a calling. It was, of course, an old friend. When he looked back. It explained all of his late night insomnia, and why he always found sleep only when the sun peeked its gaze across the skyline. Or why he often chose to explore when thunder echoed and lighting stuck.

The wind.

It always reached its peak when everyone else cowered, hid, or was asleep. And with regret, it was only recently that Jorun learned to freely listen to its whisper. And so, he snuck out at night. Its reason for the beckon yet to be heard. Jorun knew the wind was patient. So he had to be too.

On the wall of Banburn he looked to the forest. lack of light and the thick vegetation mixed to a visibility of a strict minimum. Just with the dismal sight, there was a lack of sound. The forest was empty. And would be for some time. Until then, when the animals came back. The wind would take care of the place. It was, after all, where everything wasn’t.

A bow and quiver accompanied him. He wished for his instrument. Yet he hadn’t had the time, nor the coin for that matter, to get a new one. For now he settled on the note of his own music. His voice rumbled and power gathered in his throat. As a soft tune came through. Song and tale about a man who fell in the river flowed out. Conjured in both memory and improvisation. Instead of fighting the water, he became the water. He wasn’t seen for many years until he washed up on a shore near a recently crashed caravan. No survivors, but the not too recently forgotten wagons had a large shipment of gold.

What was odd, something he couldn't reach the definition of, was the wind. It reacted more than usual. As if it agreed. Jorun's breath continued but his noise stopped. The words stayed in his mouth and head, churning inside as they were marinated for enlightenment. The wind refused the rejection of music and continued its squeak in a mimicry of the bard's song. Further propelling his thoughts.

His training hasn't been as expected. It wasn’t grueling, where every inch of progression was met with diverse obstacles of mud, blood, and sweat. The type affiliated with the currently estranged Kenan. There wasn’t a lack of hard physical work, it was just less. Different. Joint with an adequate amount of scholarly work, a mix of political practice in addition to the science of the mind. Most teachings were headed by various local masters weaved into Doco’s own lessons. The Auditamor, If Jorun had to guess, was far more educated than anyone else.

Despite any initial misgivings. Jorun had taken to this alternate form of improvement. Finding the learning interesting and political intrigue with its maneuvering thrilling. Jorun had even danced in the circle of nobility. Making friends and foe in the inconsequential class of the back-water, not to mention ruined, small town. His biggest enemies so far had been any small-lord Jorun had philandered with the daughter of. Friends numbered aplenty with his involvement with the heroes of the Banburn, even being a minor one himself.

That was merely the day's training. From the earliest moments of dusk, to when the moon reached its zenith. Doco had sole control of instruction. First was armament training. That of a bow, which was mostly trial and error, and then dagger and sword. The ladder taught in a horrid torment of pure sparring and experience earned lessons. Next he studied cloak and shadow. The bard changed his role into that of a rogue. Sweeping the city from the darkness to get from one destination to another. All the while avoiding the eyes of prepared guards, or the sharpened gaze of Doco.

Jorun understood the meaning of the exercises. All of it. He gained strength in the areas that Kenan would lack. The why, was in complete coherence, the how, eluded him. Besides the social and certain scholarly elements, everything was an enervating ascension met with impossible obstacles. All weapons felt clunky, steps of any technique ground across the set muscles in his legs. Even the wind failed him at times. His longtime, intangible companion led him straight to guard patrols sometimes, while other instances showed Jorun in a circle.

It was frustrating to the point he teetered on the decision of giving up. Not to mention he was exhausted. His body ejected out energy stores from comfortable meals at the table, and showed muscle beneath. But the demand kept on rising. The pure amount of information crammed into his mind reversed its intention and made Jorun into nothing more than a hollowed out husk.

He needed something. An edge? No. The wind picked up. It grazed across stone, taking the tiniest bit of wall with it. The energy ruffled his hair and brought fresh breath to his lungs. A weapon? Something to hold on to? Another surge, both of the air and mana. A vortex of power mimicking the strength of a cyclone swirled above Jorun. Not a tool. Something didn’t have to be tangible for it to be clung too. So conviction? A code? A moral compass? The wind's sharp whistle brushed up against Jorun's ear drums, coaxing him with unintelligible words that invoked a cluster of emotion. An ideal? The strong gusts rushed to a point at the zenith of its power. Then it left in a sudden rush of emptiness. Jorun felt deflated but mentally grasped at the wisps of narrowly missed inspiration.