While helping with repairs, Pirin spent his time wisely.
That meant advancement. Or at least, trying to form foundation Timbers.
Every morning, he formed his Reyad. While he scampered along the spine of the crippled airship, holding ropes and hoisting beams, he gathered Essence. While they hammered new pins in, replaced damaged and cracked spars, or sawed away damaged beams, Pirin tried forming Timbers.
He had consulted the sparrow Path manual for the best way to use gnatsnapper Essence—it was the closest he’d ever get to sparrow Essence—to form Timbers.
“The most perfect Timbers should appear in the spirit, as a statement of arcane foundations,” Pirin whispered to himself, trying to quote the Path manual as best as he could. “They should have no physical form, but will become a part of the Essence system, the spiritual self—the soul.”
On the first day of repairs, Pirin’s attempt at forming a Timber fell short again. On the second day, he managed to condense the Essence into a long, feather-textured vessel. He pictured it in his consciousness, examining his own spirit and soul. But again, this half-formed Timber was filled with empty, vacant cracks. It would be low-grade. Pirin refused to complete it; he let the Essence fall away back into circulation, long before he risked completing the Timber.
On the third day, he pestered Myraden while they helped Brealtod lift a beam. “What makes me advance from Spark to Catch?”
“When you reach three Timbers, your body will start trying to advance,” Myraden said. “The longer you can use your willpower to hold it off, the more Timbers you will be able to make.” She grunted as the beam shifted. “But that was a while ago, and I did not have a teacher. All I had was luck and…motivation.”
“Motivation?”
“I cannot fight the Dominion if I am weak.”
“Ah…” Pirin breathed, chewing his bottom lip. “Alright. Thank you.”
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Stitching the envelope back together was the most monotonous task, but also the most strenuous. Pirin clung to a rope to keep himself up, clenching his arms, legs, and gut. There was no proper scaffolding for repairing the ship, and to fix any of the fabric on the side of the vessel’s hull, they needed to cling to ropes.
He pushed a sewing needle in and out of the fabric, stitching a new white sheet onto the rest of the hull. Sweat dripped down his forehead, and most of his muscles were already starting to ache.
To take his mind off it, he tried to use the Memory Chain. He let his mind go blank, then pushed his Essence up to his head. He couldn’t picture exactly what he was doing, nor what he was doing to trigger his Bloodline Talent, but there was something that needed Essence up there.
As the day went on, he settled into a calm breathing pattern. The sun glared down on him. Every breath felt like it was half air and half water, and his throat constricted. His mask didn’t help the airflow, either. This was the opposite of what he needed! It was making him concentrate more, not less…
After another hour, when he was starting to feel light headed and lose focus, that was when the Memory Chain triggered.
He shut his eyes and tightened every muscle in his body. He might not have been able to control how he got into it, but he could try to control the Chain once he was in it.
“Mr. Regos,” he breathed. “Show me Mr. Regos.”
That should be the easiest to control and see.
But instead, he only saw quick glimpses of green forests or broad oceans, or mountains and snowstorms.
Not what he needed.
“Mr. Regos,” he tried again, trying to push intent into his voice—just like he might talk to Gray.
Hm? Gray responded. Did you call me? Do you need something?
“Sorry,” Pirin said.
Saying it aloud wouldn’t work, apparently.
Whenever he had used the Memory Chain before, it wasn’t a specific word, but a feeling that directed…well, directed the start of the chain, at least.
Mr. Regos was easy to pick a feeling for—a vague sense of nostalgia. Pirin directed the feeling, and flooded his Essence with the sense, as best as he could recall. Just like he was using the Whisper Hitch technique, he let his Essence absorb his thoughts and feelings. It wasn’t long before they swirled to the back of his mind.
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The Memory Chain adjusted. Instead of random glimpses of landscapes, his mind showed him cold northern oceans and slices of icebergs, then the rocky shores and grassy plateau of Kerstel.
He needed just…one more push.
Pirin knew how Mr. Regos’ story ended. The man had been killed by the Dominion. He didn’t know why, not really. A random statement, an act to prove their power and dominance. Mr. Regos had died for no reason.
The next time Pirin inhaled, he inserted a touch of rage into his Essence. As soon as the Essence carried it to the back of his mind, the Memory Chain sharpened. The images shifted, presenting Pirin with a glimpse of his hometown.
Darekshore, a small, half-abandoned whaling town. At the back of the cove was Mr. Regos’ hovel. An elven boy in a tattered woolen coat walked towards the hovel. Pirin was watching himself.
The memory solidified, carelessly tossing Pirin inside the body of his past self. A dull pain passed through his head at the sudden movement, and he couldn’t help but wince. The ethereal image of the Memory Chain blurred.
When the image cleared, Pirin was standing inside the hovel, facing Mr. Regos.
The man was stroking his beard and flipping through the pages of a book that Pirin had just finished copying. “Ah, you’re back. Good.” It felt like he’d seen this same image a hundred times before, and it was quite possible that he had.
Pirin couldn’t move anymore. He was a spectator in his own mind. But he could still feel his Essence circulating, and he could still control it.
But he didn’t want to shift it yet. If he’d seen something a hundred times, there was no point in showing it above others—therefore, there had to be something memorable about this one. If he could figure out what landed him here, then maybe he could figure out how to land elsewhere in the Chain.
Myraden. Or Gray. Or sword training. Or whatever he needed. The elven rulers of the past millennium had to have some advancement techniques he could steal.
“The job’s done, I take it?” Mr. Regos asked inside the memory.
“I splinted a leg, treated a case of springcough, and cleaned out a couple infections,” Pirin said. He couldn’t control his mouth. “And bandaged a horse’s leg.”
“Good work,” said Mr. Regos.
“Why’d you send me out on my own, sir? There was a lot to do.”
“Gotta learn somehow, donchya?” Mr. Regos winked. “You were more than ready.” He put his arms behind his head, then leaned back in his chair. “Now, while you were gone, we got two more requests for our healer’s aid. One to the east, and one to west. Which one’re you gonna take? We’re gonna have to go on our own.”
“I—” Pirin sighed. “I’ll take the easier one, sir.”
“Easier? Now, that doesn’t sound like the best way to learn.” Mr. Regos leaned forwards again, looking Pirin directly in the eyes and tapping the table with his fingers. “The best way to improve is to push yourself. That’s why I’m sending you to the east. You won’t know what you’re capable of until you’ve truly pushed your limits.”
The image destabilized, crumbling into grains then disintegrating into wisps. The Memory Chain collapsed, and Pirin blinked his eyes open with fright. It took all his effort to keep his Essence synchronized, to keep himself from losing his Reyad and accidentally venting unstable Essence.
He slipped down the rope he’d been holding onto, falling a few feet before reclaiming his grip. Now, he was drenched in sweat, and he was grateful he’d taken off his tunic and tied it around his waist—otherwise it would have been soaked too.
But his core was full of gnatsnapper Essence, and his channels brimmed with power. When he looked up, he realized he had finished sewing the new sheet onto the side of the airship.
“Are you alright, Pirin?” Myraden asked. She hung further down the airship’s hull, holding on to another rope and sewing another patch into place on the envelope.
“I’m…I’m good!” he yelled back.
And part of him meant it. His heart pounded with excitement. He’d seen Mr. Regos on purpose, and he’d managed to reliably determine a subject of the Memory Chain. That was progress. That was control.
Now, to keep pushing his limits…
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Nomad walked through the woods, playing a cheerful song on his flute. The song had words—something about endless roads and adventures—but he preferred the tune only.
As he walked, he bobbed his head, swinging the tip of the flute side-to-side. It was as long as a quarterstaff, and even a subtle movement of his head was enough to swish the length of pale varnished wood back and forth. He swatted broad fronds and branches out of the way. They held in place just long enough for him to slip through, then they snapped back just in time to conceal the trail of him and his racoon-cat.
When he drew closer to the clearing, he stopped playing his flute. He twirled it in his hands a few times, flinging it overtop his wrist then spinning it behind his back—just because it was fun to hear the air swish sonorously through the musical weapon.
Then he sighed and flipped it over in his hand. It’d have to suffice as a walking stick for the time being.
He reached the edge of the clearing before he knew it. His racoon-cat jumped up onto his back, then perched on his shoulder, watching through the trees with him.
“What do you think, Mannul?” Nomad asked softly, tilting his head towards his cat.
They aren’t going anywhere any time soon, Mannul replied.
The airship, while in slightly better condition than it had been after narrowly escaping the harbour, was still sagging and tattered. “A few weeks yet, I’d reckon.”
A few weeks of them just sitting here. Mannul’s round ears twitched, and he let out a soft meow. He flicked his fluffy tail irritatedly. If they’re not going to do anything interesting, we should leave. Head back to the Saltsprays and let those scavengers fight it out. Maybe they’ve found something useful.
Nomad scoffed. “I like your thinking, but not quite. We just need to give the elf one last push. Between the Saltsprays and the Dominion, I’m sure we could figure out something.” He stroked his chin. “When do you reckon they’ll have to get more wood?”