The morning air hung heavy with a biting chill, seeping through every layer of clothing. As I tightened my backpack straps, the cold seemed to penetrate deeper, settling within the crevices of my being. A poncho, a birthday gift from Captain Rhodes, enveloped me like a shield against the harsh realities awaiting. The oversized fabric whispered promises of growth, a sentiment that both comforted and unsettled my restless heart. Ms. Westbrook stood beside us, the warmth of her support contrasting with the frigid morning air.
Booker, his breath-forming mist in the frigid air, believed we might encounter an early spring in our journey. His optimism clashed with the somber undertones of our departure. As we treaded through the cold morning, the crunching of frost-covered leaves beneath our feet mirrored the echoes of farewells left behind. Ceres Westbrook, a source of unwavering support, walked with us until the edge of Bar Harbor. Her concern lingered in the air like a gentle fog.
"Will we ever see you again?" she asked, her eyes reflecting a mix of worry and fondness.
Booker, ever the sage with a hint of humor, replied, "The boy, perhaps. But I'm getting too old for all this walking. I may settle down." His words carried the weight of a traveler contemplating the crossroads of his journey. "If not, it's been an honor knowing you these few months, Ceres Westbrook," he added, a subtle farewell infused with gratitude.
Ceres, unable to mask the sadness that danced in her eyes, bid us farewell with a gentle hug. The three of us ventured into the unknown, leaving behind the harbor that had sheltered us, into the vast expanse where every step marked a stride towards personal growth.
The absence of Captain Rhodes shadowed the farewell, summoned to the capital to answer for his audacious act of liberating us. The harbor, once a sanctuary, felt haunted by the specter of impending trials. Tears welled up in my eyes, mourning the loss of a friend who had defied a king's tyranny for the sake of freedom.
As we left the harbor behind, the signpost stood tall, its inscription in an unfamiliar language. I looked up at it, my eyes betraying my confusion. "What does it say?" I asked, my voice carrying the weight of uncertainty. Booker, ever the guide, explained, "It says, 'This direction to Bar Harbor.' Forget not everyone knows the writings of foreign lands. That is the writing of the people of the river." he says.
As we journey down the path, leaving Bar Harbor and Ceres behind, I can't help but ask Booker about the "people of the river." The old man, ever eager to share his wealth of knowledge, begins weaving tales of a unique community. These people, he explains, reside exclusively in the forest, and their lives are intimately entwined with the rivers that flow through their domain. Though they are not considered part of the kingdoms, often labeled as savages, Booker emphasizes that they are, in fact, some of the kindest people one could encounter.
Booker delves into their history, recounting how their ancestors were among the earliest practitioners of Ruach when they were known as the People who sit upon the hills. He narrates the gradual decline of Ruach practice as Eruians embraced Aether's manipulation upon discovering the Aether Field. "Many believe both are the same," he remarks, "but they differ greatly in power output." Ruach, he insists, is far stronger due to the unparalleled strength of the spirit. However, mastering it is an arduous task as the flesh and spirit often engage in internal conflict.
Our first night in the wilderness is an adventure in itself. Booker, the seasoned storyteller, regales me with tales of his youth. Some are familiar, stories I've heard countless times, while others are new, slipped in like hidden treasures waiting to be discovered. In the flickering glow of the campfire, I find comfort in the warmth and wisdom shared by the old man.
As the night deepens, I muster the courage to broach a more serious topic. I question Booker about joining a Guild, like him and Captain Rhodes. His response reveals a facet of his life that I hadn't fully grasped. Booker confesses that he never officially joined a Guild due to past actions that rendered him eligible only for freelance work. Members of Guilds, he explains, earn significantly more Ru than freelancers. The realization dawns on me – the old man's tireless efforts were not just for himself but, in part, for my well-being.
Sitting cross-legged by the fire, I gaze into the dancing flames, contemplating my existence within this dynamic duo. With a hint of vulnerability, I pose a question that's been lingering in my thoughts.
"Old Man Booker, am I a burden?"
The question hangs in the crisp night air, and he responds with a hearty laugh, dismissing the notion.
"A child can't be a burden. They just want food, fun, and sleep. Ask me in eleven years when you start needing my hard-earned Ru for trying to pitch woo to a good-looking lass!"
Honestly, I never understood his jokes but I laughed anyway like many times before. But to be honest I have heard of this WOO person so many times I am starting to think it's best if I don't pitch for him, or whatever that means. As the laughter gradually subsided, a sense of tranquility settled over our makeshift campsite. The fire, now reduced to flickering embers, cast a gentle glow, creating a serene ambiance beneath the canopy of trees.
I lay down on a patch of soft grass, bundled up in the oversized poncho gifted by Captain Rhodes. The cold night air nipped at my exposed cheeks, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from the dwindling embers. Booker, with his rough-hewn cloak, reclined nearby, his rhythmic snores harmonizing with the sounds of the night.
The unfamiliar noises of nocturnal creatures provided a symphony that lulled me into a deep slumber. Dreams, a kaleidoscope of colors, and fragmented memories danced across my mind. Amidst the unknown path that lay ahead, there was a strange comfort in the dream world.
With the first light of dawn, the world gradually awakened. The distant chirping of birds heralded the arrival of a new day. I stirred from my makeshift bed, the cold morning air clinging to my tired limbs. The embers of the once-vibrant fire had surrendered to the encroaching daylight.
Booker, ever the early riser, was already up, tending to the remnants of the fire. He glanced over and greeted me with a nod, his eyes carrying a mix of determination and wisdom. It was a new day on our journey, and the uncertainties of the future seemed to fade, at least for a moment, in the soft glow of the morning light.
Under the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy of trees, Booker and I delved into the intricacies of sensing spirit energy. The air was crisp, carrying the subtle hints of the forest as we engaged in our morning ritual.
Seated in a small clearing, Booker guided me through the process, his voice a steady presence in the tranquil surroundings. "To sense Ruach, lad, you need to attune yourself to the subtle energies that surround every living being. It's in the rustle of leaves, the song of birds, and the very breath of the earth."
Closing my eyes, I focused on his words, attempting to attune my senses to the unseen energies that bound us all. Booker, with the ease of a seasoned practitioner, emanated a gentle Ruach, a testament to his profound connection with the spiritual realm.
He continued, "The key is to feel, not just with your body and mind, but with your spirit. It's an art, a dance with the unseen currents that weave through the fabric of existence."
I followed his guidance, attempting to attune myself to the unseen energies. Mimicking his motions, I took a deep breath, trying to align my senses with the subtle currents that permeated the surroundings.
As I delved into the practice, a cold wind swept through the clearing, breaking my concentration. I shivered involuntarily, the chill cutting through the layers of clothing. "The cold is distracting," I admitted to Booker.
He nodded understandingly. "Aye, the physical realm has its challenges, but to a spirit user, the cold is a fleeting inconvenience. Spirit energy can be a source of warmth when channeled properly."
As the week unfolded, my attempts to sense spirit energy became more refined. Booker, ever patient, encouraged my progress. In the quiet moments of our training, I could sense the subtle vibrations, the ebb and flow of energy that eluded the naked eye—our mornings seamlessly transitioned into afternoons spent traversing the hills. The scenic landscapes unfolded before us, a testament to the beauty of nature. With each step, I felt a growing connection to the world around me, a harmony that resonated with the teachings of Ruach.
Booker, though weathered by the passage of time, moved with a grace that spoke of years spent attuning to the very energies he now guided me to sense. As our journey unfolded, so did my understanding of the profound bond between spirit and existence.
The morning sun painted the horizon with hues of gold as Booker and I prepared to join the caravan. Excitement bubbled within me, fueled by the anticipation of embarking on my first escort mission. The prospect of leading the group filled my thoughts, a vivid fantasy that clashed with the impending reality.
As we approached the gathering point, the caravan came into view — a diverse assembly of hopeful souls seeking refuge and safety. However, the stark truth revealed itself as we met the group of around fifty individuals. Among them were women, children, and elderly grandmothers and grandfathers. The somber atmosphere hinted at the hardships they had endured.
Booker, standing tall despite his age, spoke with the caravan's matriarch. She shared the grim tale of their last attempt, marked by robbery, violence, and the loss of many of their men. Evicted from their lands by the ruling Baron, they sought a new home in the next village, five days' walk from our current location.
In Celestria, where I hailed from, there were no Barons, only Kings, and the King's hand. The concept of Barons governing sectors was foreign to me. A few surviving men in the caravan expressed doubts about an old man and a child providing adequate protection. However, Booker, with his reassuring presence and confidence, quelled their concerns. He assured the matriarch that, under our watchful eyes, they would be safe on their journey.
The reality of the situation dawned on me — the responsibility, the potential dangers, and the weight of ensuring the safety of those who had entrusted their hopes to us. Despite the contrast between my fantastical expectations and the gravity of the task at hand, I steeled myself for the challenges that lay ahead.
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The caravan's defense plan was carefully devised, with Booker leading the front alongside the elders. The men, a mere five in number, formed a protective flank. Two of them took positions behind Booker and the elders, while the remaining three walked at the rear, guarding the women and children. As everyone fell into their designated places, I found myself standing next to Booker, ready to understand the intricacies of the plan.
Doubts began to creep into my mind, and I voiced my concerns to Booker. "Can we get all of them to safety so easily?" I asked, searching for assurance. Booker responded with a confident nod, dispelling any shadow of doubt. "Aye, we can, lad."
Curiosity piqued, I inquired about my role in the caravan's defense. However, fear gripped me as I imagined being relegated to the back with the women and children. "I am not going to be put with the children and mothers, am I?" I questioned, a sense of defeat lacing my tone.
To my relief, Booker shook his head, and I eagerly assumed that I would be among the men protecting everyone. However, my anticipation was met with a different reality. Booker, pointing towards the back of the caravan, informed me of my position. "You want me at the fourth position?" I asked, attempting to understand the reasoning behind my placement.
"No, son, I want you in the fifth position behind the last set of men," Booker replied, and a look of defeat must have immediately crossed my face. Confused, I questioned why I was placed so far back, expressing my desire to walk with him and continue my training.
Shaking his head, Booker calmly explained, "This is part of the training. Now get into position, son. Daylight is burning." With those wise words, he walked away, leaving me to ponder the significance of my assigned role in the defense formation.
The lonely trek stretched on, the rhythmic sound of footsteps forming a somber melody. The further we walked, the more the group got further ahead of me, and a sense of isolation crept over me. I couldn't fathom the purpose of this isolation, but I persevered nonetheless.
Midday arrived, and a break was announced for lunch. However, any hopes of any form of normalcy were dashed as I found myself relegated to the back of the line. Old Man Booker, with his wise eyes, would lead me away from the group, instructing me to wait until everyone else had been served. I stood alone, a silent observer of the laughter and conversations that unfolded among the others.
When my turn finally came, the remnants of the communal meal awaited me. The portions were scant, a reminder that my place in this caravan was different, and my journey held a unique set of challenges. Yet, even with a meager meal, it was still more sustenance than I had grown accustomed to in my initial months in this unfamiliar land.
In the solitude of the evening, as the caravan rested, I withdrew my journal to capture the haunting scenes around me. The people I walked among were bereft, stripped of almost everything. Their faces carried the weight of broken spirits, and the silence of their suffering echoed through the night.
Some nights, cries pierced the darkness, and sleep seemed elusive for many. I observed children, younger than myself, torn from the familiar embrace of their homes. In the midst of uncertainty, there was little solace to hush the little ones, and the stark reality hit me.
Questions swirled in my mind. Is this the inevitable outcome of wielding power? Do those with authority remain indifferent to the plight of the powerless? The unfairness of it all gnawed at my thoughts. It mirrored the injustice I had faced when cast away for a circumstance of birth.
In the shadows of the evening camp, I observed Old Man Booker sharing laughter and breaking bread with the other elders, while I, inexplicably, was relegated to the outskirts of the camp. The sense of isolation crept over me, and questions stirred in my mind like restless spirits. Had Booker grown tired of my presence? Was this a subtle sign of annoyance?
In an attempt to find solace, I turned to my journal. With a pencil in hand, I sketched the faces of those around me, capturing the stories etched in the lines on their weary faces. Among them, I noticed a girl, much like myself, an outcast among outcasts. Her silver hair caught the moonlight, and she bore the weight of teasing from other children, cruelly calling her "ghost."
As my pencil moved across the pages, I wondered: if circumstances were different, would these children still be so unkind? Does cruelty stem from within, or is it a byproduct of the harshness life imposes upon us? The doodles and small stories that filled the pages served as a sanctuary for my racing thoughts, offering solace amid the uncertainty.
As the night cast its shadows, fatigue gently claimed my consciousness, and I succumbed to the embrace of slumber. The transition from the waking world to the realm of dreams was seamless, and with the morning light heralding a new day, I awoke with only fragments of the night lingering in my memory. Before I knew it, we were back on the path, the caravan weaving its way through the unfamiliar landscape.
Resuming my position at the end of the formation, I walked in solitude, the rhythmic sound of footsteps becoming a backdrop to my thoughts. Teasing and taunting ensued, directed at my solitary journey. The words stung, though I couldn't fathom why. The laughter echoed in my ears, tempting me to lash out, but the fear of reprisal from the adults kept me restrained.
As doubt and worry swirled in my mind, the teasing continued, now shifting its focus to the silver-haired girl. "I better ignore them," I thought, uncertainty gnawing at me. "What if Booker takes their side anyway? He seems to be enjoying these people." The journey pressed on, and my solitude became a canvas for these thoughts.
Overwhelmed by the persistent teasing, I couldn't bear to stand idly by. "I better ignore them," I thought, my uncertainty growing. "What if Booker takes their side anyway? He seems to be enjoying these people." Doubt and worry swirled within me as the caravan pressed on, the taunts gradually shifting to the silver-haired girl.
Unable to endure the teasing any longer, I observed as she broke away from the group, running off the path to find solace. Her cloaked rags swayed in the cold breeze as she sought refuge from the hurtful words. The adults either didn't notice her departure or simply didn't care. As she disappeared into the dense woods, the dilemma of what to do gnawed at me – whether to fetch Booker or chase after her.
Fueled by an intense urge to help, I broke free from the group, determination etched across my face. The brisk air stung my cheeks as I chased after the silver-haired girl. Amid the trees, I stumbled and tripped, struggling to keep pace.
My calls of "Hey girl, the woods are not safe." echoed through the woods, but she continued running, her figure vanishing further and further into the depths of the forest.
Despite my efforts, she remained elusive, a fleeting shadow weaving through the trees. My legs burned as I sprinted, dust rising in my wake. I tripped over roots and uneven terrain, stumbling in my pursuit. Each fall was met with determination, and I quickly picked myself up, ignoring the scrapes and bruises.
Finally catching up, I found her frozen in her steps, terror etched on her face. Standing before a strange black and red glow, the air around the spot felt sickening. The eerie illumination, just a few feet from the ground, seemed to tear open as if something unnatural lurked beyond. The girl's fear mirrored my own as we confronted this mysterious anomaly in the heart of the woods.
The tear in the fabric of space yawned open, revealing an otherworldly scene. It seemed as if the very essence of reality was being torn asunder. The black and red glow emanated from the rift, creating an allure that was both dangerous and strangely attractive. At that moment, a distant memory resurfaced—an awareness of the portal and the potential dangers it held.
"Run away now!" I shouted, a surge of fear gripping my chest. A blinding light erupted from the tear, unveiling a portal that had manifested itself. Instinctively, I reached out to grab the girl's hand, but our attempt to flee was in vain. Something stepped forth from the portal, a towering beast with large horns adorning its head.
The creature's skin bore a disturbing combination of black and red, and its monstrous head featured multiple pairs of eyes. A wide grin stretched across its demonic face, instilling terror in both of us. The creature, hunched over and far taller than Booker, emerged fully from the portal. It spoke with a guttural, demonic growl that echoed through the woods, sending shivers down our spines. The unknown entity had breached the boundaries between worlds, and fear now held sway over us both.
Behind the towering beast, three smaller goblin-like creatures emerged, their grins as wide as the larger entity. They spoke in a strange dialect that I couldn't comprehend. The silver-haired girl and I found ourselves on the ground, paralyzed by horror. The urgency to get back to Booker, to escape, pulsed through me.
"Run!" I shouted, grabbing the silver-haired girl. However, our escape was abruptly cut off. The larger creature, with lightning speed, appeared behind me as I turned to retreat. I ran right into its grasp.
"You... Eru, are born to die," it struggled to say in a language I could understand. "Yet death is all you run... from...Death is...Your...fate."
Thrown back with a mere glance from the towering beast, the silver-haired girl and I found ourselves in a cold spot within the wooded area. My senses wavered, and my mind was playing tricks with me a level of consciousness that made me feel detached from my body fading in and out, overwhelmed by regret and hopelessness.
In my blurred vision, I saw her—standing over us, feeding her Aether into a magic dome of ice that formed around us. The goblins were kept at bay, unable to breach the icy barrier. However, the leader, the multi-eyed monster, laughed mockingly.
"Do not mock us... Such... weakness," the monstrous entity sneered before taking a deep breath.
As I took a deep breath, I couldn't help but notice the menacing blue flames spewing from the monster's mouth directly in our direction. The ice dome held, but just barely. Despite the icy barrier, the searing heat was palpable, the flames only extinguishing inches away from us. It became clear that it was draining every last bit of Aether the girl had to keep us safe.
"Run away," she urged, her voice strained. "This is my fault. Run away."
She was right. If one of us ran to get help, at least one could survive. Fear and doubt clashed within me. Why should I sacrifice myself for someone I barely knew? The internal struggle intensified as I slowly got up, considering abandoning her in this perilous situation. As I limped away, she fell to both knees, holding the fiery onslaught at bay. The urge to escape battled with a growing sense of guilt. Was it fair to leave her to face this danger alone?
Running with my head down and eyes closed, I dashed into the wooded area out of sight. The frigid air stung my face, but the throbbing pain in my chest was more overwhelming. Memories of the pain I felt when abandoned flooded back – the loneliness, the sadness, and the heartache. The echoes of the past haunted me like ghosts in the shadows.
I thought back to the day before when I overheard the other children cruelly teasing the silver-haired girl. Yet, here she was, willing to give her life so I could escape. The weight of guilt and doubt gnawed at me, tugging at my every step.
At that moment, a mysterious voice called out to me, a whisper in the wind offering help. "Let me help you. Call my name, and I can help you."
My breath hitched as I asked who it was, turning in my steps, realizing I had not gone anywhere. The dim shadows of the dense forest surrounded me like silent spectators, and the soft rustling of leaves added an eerie symphony to the mysterious encounter. Doubt gnawed at my every thought, and the boundary between reality and imagination blurred in the obscurity of the frosted woods. Was I losing my senses in this sea of trees, or was there truly an unseen force beckoning me? The air was thick with uncertainty, and the haunting whisper lingered, demanding an answer.
With one final burst of fiery breath, the barrier of ice broke, and the heated flames erupted through. We both were just barely out of its range, but the silver-haired girl was drained. The voice persisted, urging me to say its name. "What's your name? I don't know it," I responded, desperation seeping into my voice.
The voice growled back, "You know my name, just as I know your pain. I am your..." Memories flooded my mind, a torrent of abandonment, my father's cold rejection, my mother's passive silence, the isolation on the boat, the anxieties, fears, and pain. But this time, they didn't feel like heavy chains binding me. Instead, they became ethereal threads, intertwining with the essence of the forest around me. In that moment of profound realization, I knew the name I must speak, the name that encapsulated all the pain and torment within me.
In a moment, clarity struck like a lightning bolt. The name—I knew it, yet it lingered tantalizingly on the tip of my tongue.
With all the strength in my lungs, I bellowed, "Despair!"
Pouring every ounce of my pain and agony into the word, a blinding light erupted beneath me, enfolding me in its radiant embrace. As the light subsided, a circular pattern of symbols materialized beneath my feet, intricate and unfamiliar. The beams of light gracefully intertwined, shaping a symbol that summoned a majestic wolf. Swift as lightning, the wolf lunged at the nearby goblin, sinking its razor-sharp teeth into the creature's head. The air resonated with the goblin's agonizing screams, a testament to the unleashed power of Despair.