Xerion sat in the middle of his room, various pieces of paper, tools, and materials scattered everywhere around him. Frantic palms grabbed and discarded one item after another, adding to the already chaotic mess that this place was.
Where was this thing?! He could’ve sworn he saw those notes on his table – well, on one of them - not a day or two prior. As plentiful and diverse as the magics of his clan were, he highly doubted there to be a soul bored enough to come and fiddle with his stuff.
Nervous energy coursed through his body, jittery and erratic movements changing the boy into a living storm. Nothing stood in the way of his search, and finally, just as he was about to start peeling off the walls’ paint…
“Aha!” he exclaimed, his notebook in hand. “Got you, you little bugger. Guess I should’ve checked below my bum first.”
Xerion dropped onto his meditation mat, splaying open his notes and hastily scanning their contents. A calloused finger traced over the sentences, seeking a single, relevant passage. Just as the boy’s patience neared its end, it appeared.
(…) the importance of the diagram is next to nonexistent. Its shape can be customized, so long as it doesn’t exceed the ability’s limitations. It only has to designate the area of effect and form an essence connection between the stakes. Don’t fumble up the sigils, you twit! Yeah, you heard me! If you’re reading this, you must’ve forgotten the (…)
Oh, for the wrath of the void. How he loathed himself sometimes.
(…) you knob. Right. Where was I? Ah. The carvings should resemble a palm, but with eight four-jointed digits. You probably can’t remember the fingernails. Think a triangle on top of a square, with three wavy lines running through their entire length. The chant will do jack all if those aren’t exact. Their drawing is on (…)
Xerion flipped through the pages, stopping on the one depicting what he sought. Yes, this was it. With the stakes already close at hand, he grabbed a special knife and dived straight into the shaping.
Haste makes waste, he told himself. But don’t dillydally too much; can’t make a bad first impression by being late.
Wood chipped beneath each of his slow, precise strokes. Rituals were notoriously finicky. The tiniest of mistakes, a millimeter of deviation, and who knew if instead of a ray of holy light, a bomb of dung wouldn’t appear. Cautiousness was the name of the game here.
Sweat beaded his brows, as the focus needed to perform here brought more pressure to his body than most workouts would. But the work ought to be continued, and so it was, till his entire robe reeked of armpits.
Xerion rose, placing all of his equipment near the room’s exit and stripping out of his outfit. Few short steps took him to a tub of deep bronze metal and he hopped in, activating an enchantment with a burst of essence.
Water hot enough to turn him red flowed freely from a faucet, pumped from a reservoir beneath the mansion, and heated up by the workings created by his mother.
He sighed in contentment, giving himself a minute of relaxation prior to a session of ferocious scrubbing. By the time he exited, even a person with the strictest of smell standards wouldn’t say a word at the whiff of him.
The visit to his closet was a quick affair. For a day of such importance, only the very best of his martial robes could grace his form.
It fit him like a second skin, hugging him so closely yet impeding not a move of his. If questioned, he’d never admit his choice to have been influenced by its color, but there was no denying that this blue matched his eyes just so.
His saber couldn’t be forgotten, the li’l beauty sheathed and tied securely to her spot below his waist. Ah, the boost to his confidence it did, having her around. Priceless, it was.
Xerion looked at the time and balked. When did it get so late?! His world turned into a blur as swiftness became the only thing that mattered. He had to go, now.
Wind dried his hair in a blink as he rushed through the districts of Virsha. The dome above the city shone with the usual morning radiance, urging all living within its confines to get started on their day, for the lack of work wasn’t something people ever had to fear about.
Neither did he, for that matter. And the upcoming meeting with his team was sure to add to his responsibilities.
He couldn’t wait.
----------------------------------------
Image mattered. Were there things of greater import? But of course. Yet not a soul would dare claim it to be of no consequence. Doors would open and close, the balance of relationships might shift, and a life could be made or lost, solely based upon it.
Image had to be cultivated. But just how many factors aided in the creation of this monstrous construct? Everyone perceived the world differently, taking note of details seemingly insignificant to all others. Mannerisms. Appearance. Opinions. A trillion tiny parts that told of what composed a person’s core.
Image, or rather its foundation, relied substantially on the first meeting, on that precious few seconds when an elevated yet still apish brain would decide, put a label: a crown, a clown, or in between.
Was this the unequivocal truth? Doubtful. But for Xerion, such were the rules that governed the very reality itself.
He couldn’t be late. No future existed in which he arrived even an instant beyond the perfect time to enter. The people he’d meet today, they’d likely become his companions, the allies he’d rely upon in war and in more mundane matters for years to come. His introduction to the already-established circle of friends would set the tone for all their following interactions. He’d accept nothing less than the optimal result.
And so he speeded like a madman, weaving in between the crowds of early risers: the essential – and often underappreciated – workers keeping this city going.
Despite not having started on his auxiliary methods, a Practitioner’s body was one beyond the puny means available to a mortal form. Sharpened senses allowed for movements seemingly erratic yet precise, but for those without the gift for essence wielding, he must’ve looked like a chaotic jumble of limbs charging through the town.
And his charge wouldn’t be stopped, no obstacle able to impede it in the slightest.
Until one did, of course.
“Watch out!” Xerion shouted, a moment too late.
The man appeared as if conjured from thin air, exactly in the middle of his path. Not five paces separated them, and he knew, a collision was unavoidable.
Xerion put more mass behind his step, pushed at the ground, and twisted his body while soaring through the air. His quick thinking saved the poor chap from things better left unsaid, but a single leg clipped his shoulder, ensuring they’d both taste dirt today.
His lungs lost their contents as his back impacted the hard earth. The world spun and spun as all the speed he accrued transformed into the very force battering away at him from every side.
A familiar coppery tang appeared in his mouth as he finally stopped. Xerion ran a palm over his face, only for it to come away with a lot less red than expected. This much blood, it couldn’t have been from anything more than a cracked lip.
A groan escaped his mouth as he sat upright, then a louder one when he stood up and shambled over to the victim of his folly.
The chap looked a bit worse for wear, a little dirty – and for the love of the Empyrean, how he feared to see what became of his robe! – but mostly just confused.
“Are you okay?” Xerion asked, extending a hand. “What am I saying? You’re obviously not. Sorry ‘bout that.”
Loopy eyes took him in. Confusion turned to anger as the man understood who turned his lazy morning into a painful one. The downed lad slapped his arm away.
“Yee little shit,” he said through gritted teeth, rising to his feet. “Have the void rotted yer brain?!”
“You have my apologies, sir,” Xerion said sincerely, with a tiny bow. “I was in a hurry and— You know what, it doesn’t matter. Are you hurt anywhere?”
The man looked himself over, seeming bruised and battered yet uninjured. Wrath still positively gushed from his form.
“Sorry, eh? You can take ‘em words and shove ‘em up yer arse. Yee ruined me shirt.”
“Yeah… How can I help?”
“Help?” the man scoffed. “How ‘bout yee tell yer parents to teach ‘em son better. I want money, what else.”
Xerion stepped forward, his voice deceptively calm. “What did you say?”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“The void got yer ears too?” the chap said, dusting himself off. “Money, I said—”
It was then that he looked up, and truly gazed at the boy before him. Clad in dirty robes yet ones of such a blue, only magics of Practitioners could’ve led to its creation. Not to mention it had nary a scratch despite the impact it endured.
Lean, he was, yet with every muscle on display so developed as if sculpted. A face with adolescent features slowly giving way to those that came with age. A coldness in his eyes, perfectly matching their color.
A golden insignia weaved into the edge of his right sleeve. Engraved upon its surface was a single vertical line.
A Practitioner.
“Errr, this one meant no offense, Young Master.”
“Repeat what you said about my parents.”
“I, uh. I’ll just—”
The man turned around and ran, scurrying as if the void itself was coming for a pound of his flesh. His efforts to escape were hampered by a slight limp to his left leg.
Xerion almost followed, before his brain processed the reality of the situation. He let out a self-derisive chuckle.
Oh great Xerion, how mighty you are, intimidating a mortal you nearly killed through pure idiocy. How exciting! What’s next? Maybe you should try your hand at bringing fear to the old and the decrepit. Oh! And the children.
He sighed, finally checking his state after the unfortunate accident.
Dirt covered him from head to toe, the pristine state of his robes ruined. Not to mention the occasional drop of red only adding to the already ungainly sight.
His cracked lip was stinging, and his good mood was ruined. He could at least be thankful for no broken bones, given the severity of the impact. Duene beat his ass enough times for him to learn to fall with grace. Well, maybe not grace, but in a way that left him uninjured.
The biggest wound was to his psyche.
Xerion sighed again and started moving to the meeting’s location. He’d arrive dirty, but being on time had to count for something.
The Training Hall may have been the largest building in the administrative district of the city of Virsha. Splayed over two hundred acres of land, and constructed from dark-gray stones shaped like scales, it resembled an image of a snake captured in mid-motion.
He often thought of the tales people spun of its origins. The most popular one told of a legendary battle between the Empyrean herself and Jörmungandr, the World Serpent. It spoke of such might unleashed by his Progenitor, the sky cracked and hissed and bled.
The colossal reptile stood no chance against the figure whose prowess cast a shadow over half the globe. And so it called for help, and its brethren answered.
A thousand roiling forms pierced the earth and hissed. That day, the world was swallowed by scales and fangs.
Aluxus decimated them.
The battle’s end arrived only when Nehebkau, the Primordial Snake, descended and asked for forgiveness for the sins of its descendants. It was granted, though few survived by this point.
As much as Xerion loved this tale, he doubted its veracity. If the Training Hall was once a serpent of myth, one slain by the Empyrean, how was it still standing? How was it standing at all?
He knew, vaguely, what Heartfire should be capable of. If Aluxus used it, not a speck of dust would remain of whatever unfortunate sod found itself at the receiving end of that power.
Does it really matter? He thought and shook his head. Gotta get in. Time to meet the team.
Quick steps brought him to the reception desk, a man in his twenties with gorgeous eyes and a smile worth a million essence coins sitting behind it.
His eyes took Xerion in. An eyebrow rose at his disheveled appearance, falling a moment after at the sight of his golden sigil.
“How can I help you, Young Master?” he asked.
“Xerion’s just fine. I’m here to meet with the members of Team Hylkiö. Could you direct me to them?”
The young man did his best to repress a wince, but failed miserably. “Hylkiö, huh? My apologies, sir. I’m sure the rumors are unfounded. They should be in…” He looked down and flipped a few pages. “Aha! Room 209. Go up to the second floor and it’ll be on the left after the first bend.”
“Thank you,” he said and hesitated. “Um, what rumors?”
“Ah? Ah! None at all, sir. I must’ve misspoken.”
“Really? I’m pretty sure you— Okay! I didn’t mean to make you so uncomfortable. Guess I’ll find out by myself.”
“The second floor, sir,” the receptionist repeated.
“Yes yes. No need to be pushy.”
Xerion moved and gazed at the beauty of this building. Enchanted orbs provided soft illumination to show gray, bare walls, followed by more empty dull walls, and then even more, and he was beginning to believe the “Training” part of this construction came from how it tested the hearts and minds of those within its depths. Empyrean help him, he was there for less than three minutes and the depression already started to set in. A dreadful sight it was, truly.
Soon enough he stood before a door of metal, painted white for who knows why, and was about to knock but thought better of it. He’d rather not add another bruise to his knuckles. So he grabbed the handle and entered.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Heyo, Xer,” Duene said, giving him a little wave.
He wanted to cry. Had he angered the heavens somehow? This was the only explanation for this stroke of misfortune. Couldn’t they just summon Tribulation Clouds and strike him dead? His end would’ve been swifter and less painful.
Goosebumps began to appear on his skin as a gaze sharper than a dagger traveled up and down his body. He returned the look, and the dichotomy of what he saw would never stop astounding him.
An emotionless, heart-shaped face so pretty, myths could rise upon its sight. A single jagged, long red scar. Diminutive in every way that counted. Muscles as if steel was broken and reforged a million times. Cute pink outfit hugging her from neck to toe. A sword so dark, the void feared to touch its form.
Duene was not a person but a naked blade, and woe to the ones who incurred its wrath.
“I must admit, that expression he’s making is most pleasant to look at.”
“Teacher?!”
Nadia strolled in his direction, her smile showing the tiny gap between her two front teeth. Her form-fitting clothes were of the same earthy brown as her curly locks, and covered everything besides her head and, of higher note, her arms. Those remained bare, a Totem upon Totem engraved on their surface.
Hair swept to the left side allowed for the woman’s ear, pierced half a dozen times over and holding ornaments like her insignia and other items, to see the light of day. Well, not that of day, as the thing illuminating this room was an enchanted object of some kind, but the statement still stood.
From behind her back protruded parts of a gigantic, white bow.
“Are you in need of assistance? Shall I lend a hand in picking up your jaw?”
More than anything else, it was her posh way of speaking that shook him out of his stupor. “Why are you here?” He raised a palm. “Wait. Please don’t state the obvious. Is this a joke?”
“We’re members of Team Hylkiö. Interpret that however you want.”
Xerion sighed, briefly wondering whether exhaling in such dramatic fashion would become a habit. Given the people in this room, he’d say likely.
“Would you like me to introduce you to the rest of the members?”
“That’d be lovely,” he said, fighting with himself not to sigh again. This situation was… unideal.
Why? The question seemed to ring throughout his mind. Why am I so disappointed? What did I expect?
He analyzed his thoughts, and the conclusion he reached soured his mood slightly. Because they know me. Know me for who I am. A bit of an idiot, too ambitious for his own good, filled with unearned pride, and with not only mommy, but daddy issues on top of that. A mess.
Ever so slowly, as he delved deeper, a bit of verve started returning to his eyes. I wanted the easy solution. To not have to change, but to meet new people and present myself to them as whatever I desired. Well, that possibility flew out the window.
“I guess I’ll have to put in the work. Be better…” Xerion murmured.
“Did you say something?” Nadia asked, as if a Practitioner of her Rank wouldn’t have heard it loud and clear.
“Ah, it was nothing—”
“He said, ‘I guess I’ll have to put in the work. Be better,’” Duene chimed in.
“Ah, yes. Thank you, dear. Your help is most appreciated.”
I want to die.
----------------------------------------
“This is Vaikus Souja Širdis,” Nadia said.
The metal man grunted, acknowledging her introduction of him and thanking her for it. To be fair, flesh did exist below that ton of plate – his head poking out of it being a prime example – but Xerion had trouble wrapping his head around the idea of even walking while covered in such a heavy material. The strength needed for that… calling it tremendous would be an understatement.
Almost as tall as the Grand Elder, the difference between his height and Xerion’s was as large as the gap between their ages. His appearance would suggest a man in his mid-fifties, though the truth lay likely far from such an estimate.
The most impressive thing about him was that glorious beard. Longer than a palm, perfectly trimmed and shining with a luster that forced the eye to look upon its magnificent sight.
There was not a trace of envy in Xerion’s heart, however. The fact he started tugging at his boyish stubble a complete coincidence.
As interesting as that all was, what truly stole his attention from the get-go was the door. At least, he first assumed it was a door. The length of Duene and close to a finger and a half in thickness, this monstrous thing of dull orange metal held enough enchantments for a house or three.
How Vaikus wielded this in combat, he had not a clue, but was very eager to find out.
The man in question raised two digits to his forehead, then sharply jabbed them to the side. Was that a salute? He read about those and their uses in some ancient military groups, though he had yet to witness one performed.
There was a charm to it, he decided. Not only did it quite perfectly convey a greeting, but it also managed to let him know Vaikus was happy to meet him and looked forward to working together.
How quaint!
“As you may have noticed, Vaikus doesn’t speak. At all. He did develop quite a comprehensive system of grunts and other gestures, however.”
“What,” Xerion said, utterly flummoxed. “But— How would that even work? And what about when you fight?”
The giant gave him a thumbs up, and he just… knew, that the team had little trouble with communication, and that they understood what to do perfectly well, and not to worry for he would too.
“Uhhh…” he said articulately. “Is this an essence ability?”
Vaikus winked. Ahhh, so it was a power indeed.
“As far as we know, he formed something akin to a [Vow of Silence], though the workaround he found is quite neat, wouldn’t you say?” Nadia asked.
“I’ll say.”
“Now come, let us meet the final member of Hylkiö.”
It was another man, this one no more than two years his senior. That took a load off his chest, he had to admit. As much as the idea of working together with a group of experienced Practitioners appealed to him, the thought that even the youngest of them tripled his age kept nagging in the back of his mind. Now things wouldn’t be so bad.
That was not to say he’d be equal with this chap, as his golden insignia clearly showed a “II,” leaving Xerion as the only one in the initial Rank.
He’d catch up soon, he was sure.
“Meet Philip Järvi Širdis,” Nadia announced.
The man flashed him a smile showing two rows of perfect, pearly white teeth. “Good to meet ya, Xerion. I’ve got to say, I heard about you lots and lots from a certain chatty mouth.”
“All good things, I hope?” he asked, half-joking and half-praying.
“Is it true that the Archive’s Keeper used to chase you out with a cane?”
Xerion whirled. “Damn you, Duene! Of all the stories, why those?!”
“What?” the woman in question said, unconcerned. “They’re true, aren’t they?”
“That’s not the issue! Did you have to go with the most embarrassing ones?”
“Yes,” she said and nodded. “Those are most entertaining.”
For a second there, he forgot whom he was talking to. Of course she wouldn’t see the issue. Ah, he could already feel another sigh trying to force its way out of his mouth. He wouldn’t let it escape. This can’t become a habit.
If going by physique alone, Philip held not a thing of note. Well-defined muscles lined his form, but such was the standard for a competent Practitioner. His face was handsome though not unusually so, and that prominent jawline certainly took most of the responsibility for that.
That was not to say the man could ever get lost in a crowd. Oh no. Not with that head full of messy hair, dyed in the brightest of blues.
This was a bunch of weirdos, wasn’t it? The receptionist did mention something about rumors.
Philip’s peculiarities didn’t end there, of course. His outfit matched the color of his fingernails, which in turn mirrored the shade of his hair. A shortsword was strapped to each of his hips, both sheaved in azure scabbards.
Xerion was beginning to suspect the man to have a preference. Clues for that were few, but he trusted his gut on this.
He decided to disregard the stream of water floating around Philip’s head. Did he use it for combat? Maybe some of his abilities relied upon it? Or was it only there to complete his image? Xerion was too afraid to ask.
What have I gotten myself into?