There’s a whole lot of nothing on the Boreal Pass, except for mongrels and spirit beasts. She has to deal with a few, but Rakan’s making the others work for their coin as the saying goes, since her arm is currently out of commission. He deals with the spirit beasts though, no point in risking any of the disciples when none of them can match one at the moment. So, with all her free time walking, she decides to do something different. She breathes in, holds the breath, and manages to grab just a miniscule amount, putting it into her core. Gathering while walking isn’t really worth the effort, but she’s not doing it for the Qi, she’s doing it to improve her will in a way that doesn’t involve spilling out her guts. She doesn’t know how successful she’s been since she started, but she assumes she’s made some progress. That’s just how cultivation works, always growing, never regressing.
The will, like control, isn’t really something that cultivators train. Its usefulness kind of dies once you anchor, at which point there isn’t really a reason to gather unless you do it recreationally. Tantra certainly isn’t anchoring any time soon so she might as well invest, especially since it’ll help her push past her soul's limits in the control exercises.
No ones really talking, Yorin is humming a happy tune while carrying Erick on his shoulders. Etra’s making a face like she’s constipated, probably cultivating as well, she needs to learn how to control her features. Rakan is watching as Kisrin takes on a few mongrels with his spear, being precise and calculating in his motions. It’s nice, to be with good company, she’s been stalling on asking them if they’d like to join her on the caravans once she gets home, so they can travel the world together. She doesn’t think she can go back to pure politics now that she’s gotten a taste of camaraderie. She’s honestly curious about how they might interact with the harem and her siblings. She’s a little horrified by how they might act around the nobles, she has to teach them some etiquette.
So much to do, so little time.
Is it weird that she finds this fun?
Probably, but all cultivators are weird, and she’s a cultivator.
Huh.
She’s a cultivator.
She hasn’t really thought about it since reaching foundations but she’s a proper cultivator, if only a weak one. That thought makes her weirdly happy, she did something she was sure was impossible, sure she might never reach anchoring but most don’t reach that step so it's fine. Hells, with her blood infusion technique she might be able to dig her roots at a speed that beggars belief.
Maybe that’s how Rakan’s so strong.
-
Rakia takes one big gulp of the elixir and waits. It always takes a moment, lethargic, like a ghoul rising from a field of death and carrion. Ghouls aren’t common, not like in the stories of way back when, when the bastard god Roguth’Karr rained the tears of hells cherubs down unto the world. She’s glad she wasn’t born in that time, or any time the gods took interest in humanity. It always ends with the formation of new empires and kingdoms, because the old ones were burned to the ground. Funny that, humanity lives at the mercy of the gods they claim to defy, gods that could easily-
Pain.
Ahhh, there it is, finally.
Her body writhes and convulses as she falls to the floor and froths at the mouth. No worries, this is how it’s supposed to go! She just has to endure for the next, oh, hour or so. Probably more, this is the most she’s taken all at once before. But that’s okay! This will make her stronger in the ways that matter, much stronger. She needs that, needs it badly. She has a fancy new scar where that son of a whore punched through her stomach and rearranged her guts.
She has to get stronger, she has to get much stronger, and she can’t do that quickly without taking a few shortcuts. She can feel the dao of the hunt twist and scream as her soul is forced to expand, can feel the shards ripping into her foundations and tainting her meridians. But that’s okay, that’s more than okay. There’s a price for strength, and while most pay that price with time, she pays with her cultivation.
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She can always build it back up.
But her soul, her sweet little soul. She imagines it’s miniscule compared to an immortal, but compared to her peers? She dominates, it’s the one advantage she has over everyone. Most don’t take the elixir as often as she does, afraid of the taint like the cowards they are, taking small drops to mitigate the side effects.
Koraz wasn’t happy when he found out she had been harassing one of the sects, waxing all lyrical about how the elders could crush them if they were inclined. She doesn’t know how such a coward became the chief of a bandit clan but life’s funny in how it defies expectation. Ah well, he brings the coin so there must be something he’s doing right.
-
There is a sound, then there is silence.
Sound.
Silence.
Sound.
Silence.
How long has it been, trapped in this place of endless cycles? How long since it’s felt the touch of the World? It doesn’t know, the concept of time doesn’t exist here, it might have been a second spread out into a millennia, or billions of years compressed into just a few years. How long has it been shackled? The sound it’s only company. It changes sometimes. Sometimes it is the delicate laughter of a child, other times it is the warcry of a barbarian. It wants this to be over, it wants to be free, it-
Sound.
Like the rushing of water through a creek as it sinks and absorbs into the ground, feeding the life surrounding it.
Silence.
Like a promise stolen.
-
Ilkar takes a sip of tea. It isn’t particularly noteworthy tea, the Giants Repose sect has been falling on hard times as of late. That doesn’t matter much to him, he’s here to collect, and they will either offer coins or bodies. Either works for the empire, so either works for him.
The door opens and a man of unusual vitality enters the room as Ilkar sets down his tea.
“Gosharn, what a pleasure it is to see you again,” Ilkar says with practiced joy.
“I wish I could say the same,” Gosham grumbles as he takes a seat on his cushion, “let’s get this over with.”
“It’s that bad huh?” Ilkar says.
Gosham sighs, “It is, I don’t look forward to sending my disciples to die in the empire's wars.”
Ilkar shrugs, “that’s the way our world works. I assume this means you can’t pay the ten thousand?”
“If we did, the sect would be destitute,” Gosham says mournfully.
Ilkar shrugs, “then you know what I will ask.”
Gosham sighs, heavier this time, “I do, and I will.”
-
Ranya is looking at her soul.
She shouldn’t be capable of this, not so young and early into the path, but the constant wrongness provides an easy path to follow. The source of all her problems ironically is what's making her do things only old cultivators should be capable of. She’s fine with that, it’s not like having a daemon in your soul is a good thing.
Her soul is amorphous, just a cloud of potential floating through the ether, it looks…beautiful, until you look at its centre. There's a parasite is feeding, ever so slowly taking her identity to live and grow. It is so small, but that is only because Ranya is a diligent girl, and refuses to let it grow.
Like right now.
It’s filled with the pieces of her soul and it swells, like a bloated maggot. Before it molts, Ranya takes a hand and grabs it.
Pain she is familiar with but will never acclimate to courses through her body, but she doesn’t let go. She holds for dear life as it sheds its previous skin like an old coat. It doesn’t try to fight her, that’s not what a daemon is. It probably doesn’t even know what it’s doing beyond the feeding.
Ranya finds that sad.
Eventually the bulging stops, and the parasite settles in the palm of her metaphorical hand. She lets go and feels instant relief. She examines the bug before leaving.
It’s gotten bigger, slightly.
Ranya sighs.