Xerion’s family was wealthy. Not to some ridiculous extent, of course, but more so than the vast majority of Practitioners. The accomplishments of his father, the Golden Defender of Visha, led to the accumulation of quite a fortune, one which got further multiplied by the efforts of the gifted Enchanter that his mother was.
Despite the tumultuous nature of the relationship between the boy and the woman, she left him wishing for little. The best clothes, the most nutritious of foods, treasures necessary to reach perfection before initiation – he got it all.
What truly left its mark were the various instructors she employed. The limited nature of the city’s population led to the dearth of people proficient enough at a given skill, and willing to teach it. In truth, that unwillingness mostly stemmed from paltry sums offered for such services and the fact that few saw their calling in training annoying brats.
Yet when the chance to earn the favor of Martha Säkene Širdis arrived, many tried to grasp it.
Xerion found himself immensely conflicted during those times, as the ever-present anger directed at his mother fought with the gratitude for all she did for him. Just like how different ingredients blend together to create a unique flavor, those opposite emotions warring inside his chest birthed a feeling quite unlike the sum of its parts: shame.
For he instantly knew he wouldn’t reject the aid she offered. He couldn’t, if he ever wished to realize his goals. And so he took it, despite being filled with frustration at his inability to provide for himself, while also making a vow to repay the woman before ever leaving the void lands.
Many things were taught to him over the years, be it the surprisingly intricate arts of movement during the battle or the method to breathe in synchronicity with heaven and earth. He particularly enjoyed the lessons on weapon use, as he quickly grew to love the simplicity of the saber.
Despite his young age compared to seasoned Practitioners, Xerion received high and frequent praise for his mastery of the blade, having taken to it like a fish to water.
It called to him, the overbearing nature of that single edge, the need to press forward and cut and slash and push till one’s opponent ended up as no more than a pile of tiny chunks of their former selves.
His expertise, gained through the shedding of untold amounts of blood and sweat, meant nothing when faced against the unstoppable force people so demurely called Duene.
“Up you go, Xer. A bit of pain never killed anyone. Come come.”
Xerion groaned, struggling to his feet. Streaks of red marred his form, thin lacerations present on every inch of his skin. His face and upper body were bruised, which showed the damage that can be inflicted by the flat side of a sword when wielded by skilled hands.
“Can we stop this already?” he asked.
The diminutive woman tilted her head to the side. “No.”
And then she came.
She approached leisurely, her movements barely disturbing the grass as she made her way through the courtyard. She did not need to rush; he was here, and he wouldn't escape.
Xerion crouched low, his balance shifting as he widened his guard to keep the monster at bay. It wouldn’t be enough. Couldn’t stand still. Stillness meant death.
Slow, deep breaths. In his nose and out his mouth. Had to maintain a rhythm. Stay consistent. The stability of his form was paramount. Any deviation would create an opening for her to exploit. She was so good at that, at finding gaps, and creating them if there weren’t any.
A piercing gaze clung to him as if glued. The beast kept coming. Her sword remained low, the blade angled towards the ground. Her posture dismissive. Confident. Duene Terä Širdis had nothing to fear, and she knew as much.
Xerion gulped, tasting copper and salt. A bleeding cut on his lip. Irritating. No! Couldn’t get distracted, not now. She was getting closer.
His saber remained pointed at her center of mass, its void-like blackness stealing some of her attention. Varsteel, the material was called. Pricy, but strong. The make of her weapon similar to his own. It wouldn’t matter; she could trash him with a stick.
Sweat covered his palms, the stress and exertion leaving his whole body drenched. By the Empyrean, how he stunk by now. Stop! Useless thoughts, trying to escape when the rest of him couldn’t. Need to focus.
Xerion tightened his fingers on the rough, bone-like surface of his saber's hilt. Despite the slickness of his hand, his grip remained firm. Strong and stable. Just like him. Not like me.
His eyes flicked to the side, looking at the many pillars dotted around the edges of the courtyard. Might work as cover. I’ll—
The slash was aimed at his face, just above the brow. It left a thin line, tiny bloody droplets already dripping down. It stung.
Thunderous drums echoed in his ears, the mighty beats of his heart, before slowly deadening and leaving behind static. She was here. He wouldn’t go down without a fight.
Xerion breaths came in fast and shallow as he lunged, the air whining in the wake of his blade’s passage. He aimed at her chest, certain he wouldn’t hit it yet aware no other move had a higher chance of connecting. With his whole weight behind the strike, all of his Power, she shouldn’t be able to—
Duene smacked it away, the strength of the collision leaving the saber vibrating in his hand. The woman smiled. He closed the distance, put himself in her range.
Her sword didn’t rise, but her palm materialized in front of his face.
As he threw himself to the side, his eyes registered what she did. Small, thin fingers ran through the length of his hair before retreating, only to pat his head.
His breathing stilled, resuming its previous rhythm over a second later. She could’ve chopped him to pieces in that time. He understood. As crude as her methods were, she was teaching him. Showing how dangerous it could be to lose cool in the middle of a battle.
Xerion lunged again, tears streaming from his eyes as he employed the [Penetrating Gaze of the Sorrowful]. There’d be little point to all this if he couldn’t see her move.
His blows started raining down as his pupils split in twain. A hundred openings seemed clear to him, a hundred paths to injure the woman. A lie. She always did this, letting him think there was a chance at victory. Or, maybe, she just saw no reason in keeping her guard up against an opponent like him.
Be they true or false, he had to try to exploit them. Saber in hand, he kept pressing forward, pushing, hoping for one of his attacks to meet flesh. None did.
Duene moved like a dancer, her eyes half-closed, the wind ruffling her short blonde hair. His blade whizzed past her form time and time again, coming within an inch of her skin, ever closer, till he missed her by just a hair.
She smiled then, a big and toothy thing. Her lips cracked open.
“My turn.”
Xerion rocketed backward, shifting his weight for more stability while holding his saber aloft. His empty hand remained close to his body, fingers splayed wide, shoulder constantly moving as if readying for a strike. If she hesitated for a single instant, he’d count his efforts as a win.
She approached with a sense of inevitability, like the ever-encroaching void. The air seemed to hug her sword as it flew for his head, not a noise to be heard as the reaper approached. And so slow it was, gentle even, like the final brushstroke on a painting.
Xerion struck at it as if madness filled his veins, furious swings of that blackest of blades slamming into the woman’s weapon. A soft clang after clang echoed as his assault continued, each blow parried or redirected by the smallest of movements.
Steady but nervous steps gave him reprieve from the ever-nearing doom. Seconds passed as he kept retreating, the sword still remaining on its original path. He’d never guess how she could follow him yet appear unmoving, her stance unchanging.
Unfortunately, luck seemed to desert him as the exhaustion of the day eventually caught up with him. A single mistake, a foot placed at an unfortunate angle, led to his end.
His strike went wide, legs tangled up, and he found himself on his ass before he knew what happened. A blade’s edge resting against his neck.
“I win,” Duene said, her toothy grin stretching even wider.
Xerion let the rest of him fall onto the grass, his chest heaving as he gulped large mouthfuls of air. It tasted spicy on his tongue. How strange. Exhausted palms brushed over the greenery, receiving the barest of tickles in return. That put a bit of a smile on his face.
“You’re too powerful. You would’ve beaten me no matter what I did.”
“Obviously,” she said in that dry tone of hers.
He sighed. That woman could be so tiring sometimes. “Then what was the point of this… spar.”
Duene plopped down next to him, her legs crossed. One of her hands still kept holding onto her Varsteel sword, while the other’s elbow ended up on her knee, her head resting atop it. Two green eyes stared at him and he stared back, snorting in disbelief at the lack of even a single drop of sweat on her face.
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“You pissed me off, so you got a beating,” she said matter-of-factly. “But also, if we’re gonna be on the same team, you need to grow stronger. I helped.”
Xerion coughed, a bit of spit and blood running down his lip. “I hate to break it to you, but I didn’t learn much from… that.”
“No?” She tilted her head. “What was it like to fight me?”
“Overwhelming, as always. You’re too skilled. It didn’t make a difference how fast or strong I was, or what I did, you played with me like I was a kid.”
“You are a kid,” she said dismissively. “And yeah, I’m better than you. You’re weak. But you can improve, yeah? Why aren’t you trying to do that?”
“What do you mean? I’m constantly improving, but it isn’t helping any.”
“Yeah, you are, but not in the right direction.” Duene gestured at herself. “I’m quicker and more powerful, so create an ability to counteract that. Same with the blade mastery. Do something.”
Xerion sat up quickly, the rapid movement causing him to hiss in pain. “I can do that already? Aren’t those types of powers really energy intensive?”
She flicked him on the forehead. “Obviously. And yes, if you create them, you won’t be able to use them for long, but still, a boost for only a little while is better than none at all, no? Won’t help you much against me, but overall? Sure.”
“Okay. Yes, I want that. How should I do that?”
The woman shrugged. “Dunno.”
Oh, how he wanted to smack her over the head sometimes. It wouldn’t have ended well for him, but for just a moment, she might be confused enough by his actions to let the strike connect. His death would come swiftly after that of course, but he’d die with the image of her swaying noggin burned into his memory. Might be a worthy trade.
“Any ideas?” he asked as nicely as he could.
“Yeah.”
Xerion rubbed his temples, contemplating the pros and cons of quitting his life as a Practitioner and becoming a farmer. But no, that wouldn’t work. Essence was of paramount import when it came to growing crops. That wouldn’t let him escape from all those annoying people.
“Could you elaborate? Please?”
“I mean, you know your concept best,” Duene said, shrugging again. “Look around there, something suitable may come up.”
“Oh! So you mean I should just use the Conceptual Essence Usage system to create those abilities?”
“Duh.”
Just a tiny, tiny smack.
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Little mattered more to a Practitioner than their concept. It stood as the central pillar of their being, influencing everything from the way they generated essence to how they formed their abilities. It would come as no surprise that delving deep into its workings was beyond crucial.
But herein laid the question: how to study something as esoteric as an Emotion?
Over the innumerable ages that have passed since the dawn of creation, a special practice developed. It held many names, each similar yet distinct from the rest. That was important, as perception was key for the matters of the heart, and to put a label on a thing and think it true gave it power.
Xerion called it the Descent. The taste this word left on his tongue felt perfect for this whole whacky experience.
Half an hour elapsed since the beating Duene subjected him to. During that time, he washed all the filth that clung to his form and changed into a new, pristine martial robe. While he hoped the feeling of cleanliness would uplift his mood, the rot-like scent of the healing paste permeated his senses and soured it anew.
Sitting on the grass, his toes couldn't help but wiggle vigorously as the ticklish blades made them squirm. The fun had to end, however, as his feet moved for him to assume the lotus position.
Xerion took a deep breath, clearing his mind and trying to banish that awful stench from his memory. He let himself open to the world around him, taking things as they were and acknowledging them.
The softest of zephyrs brushed against his skin, its touch bringing him comfort. His clothes weighed on him despite their lightness, as if his connection to existence lessened through their wear. They’d remain regardless.
Air filled his lungs, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. A pull came from below him, ever-present, keeping him bound to the dirt of the earth. The beats of his heart thundered in his ears, the sound’s intensity lessening with time, the frequency of those drums lowering as he and the cosmos became one.
Then, he Descended.
The world of the true gave way before the realm of his mind. Utter blackness greeted him here, not a sense working as it should for the rules of this place followed his whims and little else.
Xerion did not speak yet his demand echoed through the fabric, a billion scenes of Courage overthrowing the dark. A will-flesh avatar stepped onto thought-made land, curious eyes scanning its surroundings.
Arrival in this dimension marked the beginning of the journey to create an ability through the Conceptual Essence Usage system. In here, he’d find its form.
Without much forethought, he crossed the boundary of the first of innumerable golden bubbles dotting the landscape.
He saw two human-like shadows, their genders unclear but their presence undeniable. Thick aura radiated from them in waves, showing them to be Practitioners of considerable regard. One figure held a necklace in its palm, constructed from solid essence weaved as five interlacing lines. Its jittery fingers lifted it to the other’s neck, wrapping it around—
Xerion stepped out. The Courage required to confess his feelings wasn’t something he needed this day.
The second scene he witnessed held a group of knights of old, all of them escaping from a beast with a maw wider than a mansion’s gates. One of the armored figures bled profusely from its calf, the wound changing a sprint into a run. Then it stopped and turned, its grim determination clear despite its blurred image. A shield slammed into the ground, ready to meet the charge of—
No, this wouldn’t do either. What he wanted to create shouldn’t take the form of self-sacrifice.
And so Xerion wandered through this endless land, entering a bubble after bubble, watching all the ways in which Courage might manifest.
The sights he saw were as varied as could be. He felt the resolve of beggars prior to asking for a penny, the bravery of children as they told others of their hurt, and the faith of sovereigns making decisions that may lead to the downfall of their kingdoms.
The only thing that constrained what appeared in this realm was him, for this was a plane where imagination and knowledge fused into a single form. Xerion found himself fortunate, as the years he spent in the Archives widened his horizons, allowing him to learn of the thousand and one ways in which emotion could manifest. That, combined with his overactive mind, led to the creation of countless possibilities for him to choose from.
As he traveled farther and farther into the depths of this land, so did the scenes grow in detail and complexity. From vague shadows to distinct figures, all improved, yet the end of his adventure neared as the continuous onslaught of this world threatened to turn his brain to mush.
For that was the biggest danger of descending here. Only a sufficiently cultivated mind could wander freely. If a Practitioner’s Focus, Acumen, or especially Will were lacking, they’d find themselves ejected quickly or shattered into fragments of their former selves.
Xerion continued to travel, and all sights he saw resonated with him, for how could they not? They came from him in the first place.
Before long, the pressure put upon his will-flesh body ramped up to the extent where thought-made knees buckled with every step he took. He had to choose soon, or this endeavor would prove fruitless.
And then it appeared.
An army marched, bathing the invaded kingdom in rivers of blood. Their advance never stopped for their feet never tired, essence coursing through their forms and fueling their drive. The conquest commenced, and beware those stupid enough to stand in its way.
A quaint little village sat near a river, its inhabitants eager for the harvest to come. The incessant heat gave way to a sun whose rays hugged the trees, allowing a hundred colors to appear on their leaves. The time to reap finally arrived.
With the seasons’ change came not bounty but death, a thousand spears thrusting and meeting flesh. The hamlet burned as grief fueled the fires, erasing the place that stood there for years. All would end, but one person remained.
A circle formed with him at its center, the man a giant in spirit if not in physique. The army held not a fool in its ranks, so as they pressed, they did so from all sides. Yet he survived.
Battered and bruised, filled with cuts and stabs, yet not one would assume he gave up on life. A resolute face showed not fear but resolve, for this ember would burn unendingly, keeping the warmth his soul experienced merely a day past.
As the ferocity of the attacks climbed, so did the might held by the man. His parries grew quicker, swings carried by arms bursting with strength, while eyes sharpened as the hours passed. Above all, it was the thunderous drums of his heart that brought dread to the killers.
His death arrived on the eve of the second day, for the power of one stood little chance when faced with the many. Despite his fall, the giant prevailed in achieving his goal – the village was gone, yet its memory stayed eternal, the story of resolve fueling his might on everyone’s lips forever to come.
Xerion watched the scene play out, impassive at first yet clutching at his chest by the time it ended. He made his way over to where the imaginary corpse of the fallen warrior lay, and without saying a word, he merged his avatar with it, the two becoming one.
Then he Descended, his will-flesh stripped from him as the second stage of this journey began.
Here was a plane in which thoughts held no sway, only the heart drifted along the golden waves. The realm of Courage, this conceptual thing, showed itself as whatever one wanted to see.
Xerion hoped his Integrity to be sufficient to withstand its corroding waters of brilliance. If not, he’d end up as nothing more than a creature of pure emotion. With that lovely image burned into his mind, the carrier of his soul dived into the depths.
Infinite patterns appeared in his heart-sight, each distinct and different from all the others, each expressing Courage in disparate ways. Yet of higher note was their simplicity, the tiny constructs made of a single line and little else in most cases. As it should be, for such a shallow layer shouldn’t contain anything of note.
What he sought must lay somewhere in the unfathomable depths of this place. A pattern able to realize the ability he envisioned.
The gold of this space never lost its radiance, no matter the leagues separating him from the surface. Yet this glow brought no comfort but rather dread, as he could feel his sense of self being erased.
Xerion cut off all sensations in the bid to preserve his core. Not a thing about him could change if he didn’t will it for it to do so.
Now deprived of stimuli, his heart became a semi-sentient boat, braving the depths while following its instincts, looking for the missing piece of the power whose creation not long started.
And it found it. How long that process took, he couldn’t say, for time lost its import during the search. But it was here, and it was glorious.
As if a tree that lost its trunk and crown, a system of solid golden roots lay before him. The newly regained heart-sight scanned it from top to bottom, marveling at the contours of this beauty.
It looked like a human, with endless roots embedded into every inch of its form, all pumping hot, mighty essence. The complexity of this thing, just how much power could it carry. Yes, this would do. Now onto the last step.
His heart leapt into the center of the pattern, a suction force unlike no others exerted upon its surroundings. The construct resisted, unwilling to leave the confines of the ocean that birthed it, yet its fate was already decided. He wanted it, and that’d be so.
The imprinting took an age and an instant, the time itself a funky thing when resisting conceptual corrosion. When it was done, a feeling akin to fitting the last piece of a puzzle washed over his soul.
Xerion ascended, leaving behind the realm of the heart and mind, emerging in the world of the true. A Sui Scroll unfolded before him.
[Resolve Augmentation] (Expert) (Rank 1)
An essence ability created by Xerion Säkene Širdis.
Its roots stem from the Conceptual Essence Usage system. Formed using an image of an ever-strengthening last survivor, and realized with Courage-attuned essence woven into a pattern of root-like pathways filling a human form.
Resolve augmentation conjures thin golden lines of Courage-attuned essence. The conjured construct then sinks into the Practitioner’s flesh and forges new, temporary pathways within it – accessible only by essence converted through the use of this ability.
The created pathways weave through the Practitioner’s body, mind, and heart, bringing all three closer to unity and allowing the Practitioner to utilize them to a further extent.
While the ability is active, the Practitioner will experience an initial 20% boost to all of their Attributes. The boost will continue to climb while the ability is employed, up to the limit of 100% augmentation of all attributes.
The ability’s essence cost, as well as the extent of its boost, are largely dependent on its grade and the user’s power.