Author's note

Sorry for the short.. fallout. I'm tossing 2k words your way today as a means to make up for it (Not that it's much making up for anything, but my word count looks a bit better now.)

Not so polished today, I'm running on pure will-power for NaNoWriMo at this time... I'm off, I've got stuff to do.

Word count

This chapter: 2007

Total: 18065

NaNoWriMo target for the 11th: 18333

Oh, I'm behind.

---------------------------------------------

Aitken awoke from somebody banging on the door outside

Oh crap, the owners are home.

He slowly got to his feet and pulled his old rusty sword from its scabbard, then tried to look out through the cracks in the door.

An imp?

“Who’s there?” Aitken yelled through the wood.

“What do you mean ‘who’s there’? It’s my place you’ve locked up.”

Aitken frowned lightly at the lack of surprise from the other imp’s side.

He unbarred the door, and an imp slightly shorter than himself entered.

The imp eyed him up and down.

“So why have you come here? also, lower your sword, you couldn’t fight me even if you wanted to in your condition.”

Aitken lifted his eyebrows briefly while tilting his head, and proceeded to sheath his blade.

“So why do you have a hut out here anyway?”

The imp stared directly into Aitkens eyes. “You should answer first, why’re you all the way out here?”

“... Some humans didn’t like my presence, so I needed somewhere to… recover. And I stumbled upon your place.”

The imp shrugged. “I guess that’s a good answer. I’m on the run myself - I guess we are in similar situations. Your master dead too?”

Aitken hesitated a moment, then gave a nod.

“And now they’re hunting you?”

Aitken nodded again.

The imp sighed. “If only us summoned creatures would be returned when our masters died, this mess wouldn’t happen so often.”

Aitken flinched “What do you mean often? Know of anybody else?”

“It’s pretty common.”

“So do you know of any?”

The imp stared off to the left, into the wall. “So what’s your name?”

“I’m A-...ahhh, Zagmar.”

The imp lifted an eyebrow. “Giving me a fake name under these circumstances?”

“It’s not fake.”

The imp slowly lifted its eyebrows and slowly turned its head to the right. “Whatever you say, Ahzagmar.”

“Look, I’m Zagmar, and just Zagmar. Now, are you going to introduce yourself or not?”

“Look who's talking, the home invader demands my name.”

“It’s rude not to introduce yourself after asking for someone's name.” Aitken said

“Just like it's rude to enter someone’s house without permission” the imp answered.

“I had no choice.”

“Of course you did. There's always a choice.”

“Like what, bleed out on the ground?”

“Exactly, you could go bleed somewhere else, or you could tell me your real name.”

Aitken hesitated for a moment. “Okay, I’m Aitken. And you are?”

“Zagmar.”

Aitken gave the imp annoyed look. “Your real name?”

“See? That’s what it feels like.”

“Okay, then I’ll just call you Bobby” Aitken grinned a bit.

“Wha- hey! I’m Flasor.”

“Too late, Bobby.”

Flasor sat down in a corner, motioning for Aitken to do the same.

Aitken did as requested, and sat down against the opposite wall.

“So what happened to you, struck by a lightning?” Flasor said.

“Something like that.” Aitken gazed into the floor.

“Well, you’re quite defensive.” Flasor sighed. “So let me guess, you ran around on top of a mountain and got fried by a thunderstorm?”

Aitken peeked up at Flasor. “Seen any thunderstorms around here lately?”

“You have a point… So youuu… got attacked by an electrical mage?”

Aitken shrugged “How do you think my master died?”

“Aha! so I was right?”

Aitken stared down into the floor again. I’ll just let him think that. It's probably for the better.

Aitken noticed he had no trouble breathing or talking.

How fast do imps heal? or is it due to the healing salve? I wonder how my horn is doing?

Aitken touched his horn, and felt a rough circular plateau.

“About that, how does one go about losing a horn?”

Aitken flinched. “Ah, it was a close call with a blade.”

“You’re pretty messed up, how much do you fight?”

Aitken sighed deeply. “As much as I have to”

Flasor smiled “you opened up more…” he proceeded to open a brown leather pack on his right hip. And tossed a piece of raw meat “Catch”

Aitken caught it and looked at it. “Shouldn't this be cooked first?”

“what are you, a human?” Flasor answered, already holding a piece himself.

Aitken stared at the raw meat. Really?

The smell of cooked meat spread through the room, and Aitken quickly looked up. “Didn’t you sa- wait, how do you do that?”

Flasor roasted the meat with a flame springing from his hand. “Huh? You’ve been in that many fights, but you can't use fire magic?”

Aitken slowly nodded “I had no idea”

Flasor slowly shook his head. “The old-timer don't teach you jack these days.”

“You mean thu’khol’laad?”

“That what you call him? But yeah, him.”

I might teach you later, but for now, enjoy your raw meat.

Aitken hesitantly chowed his slab of meat.

“Wanna do an affinity test?” Flasor asked.

“Like fire magic affinity?”

“No, its a holy magic test.. Of course it's a fire magic test, you’re an imp. You can't have any other magic. “

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

“So how do I take the test?”

"Simple. Put your hand here, and focus your energy to your hand."

Aitken put his hand on Flasor’s. “Like so?”

“Focus it like you mean it.” Flasor said a bit annoyed

“I am”

“... Yea, I can feel it now… wow… You are so.. So very…”

Aitken nodded and stared intensely at Flasor

“Weak. I’ve never even heard of an imp with so little affinity. Magic will be impossible for you.“

“Teach me anyway”

“Why? It would be a waste of time. You have no measure of talent, you will never cast a fireball”

“Talent? Who cares about talent? Talent is an illusion, created by the quitters. Teach me, and i will wield fire”

“You almost sound like you believe that.”

“Actions speak louder than words. Let me show you my resolve” Aitken said.

“Okay, I guess it’s a basic skill all imps should have. I will show it to you - but only once. You have to practice it yourself.”

Aitken nodded.

Flasor put his hand forth. “Focus your energy, and let it seep out of your hand. Feel the burning sensation inside your veins.”

A small flame ignited in Flasor’s hand.

“That is what it means to perform fire magic, as a resident of Damnation. Of course, you will need chants for more advanced magic, but I suspect you won’t need that. Ever.”

Flasor laid down. “You should rest up as well. I’ll be heading out in the morning.”

Aitken nodded, and laid down on the wooden floor. He thought for a second how it was strange how very empty the wooden house was, but was distracted by some light snoring stemming from Flasor.

Aitken extended his hand.

Focus. Focus.

He focused all his energy into the hand, and tried to let it seep out - but it felt as if he had a glass of water and needed a fountain of magical energy. He felt how he needed pipes with pressure, but he had only a faint trickle. And he felt as if the toilet was just flushed and he needed to flush it again to suppress the remains.

He sighed deeply, at the staggering odds against him.

I can do this. I will simply have to work harder and longer than anybody else.

Night turned to day, and Aitken still hadn’t slept.

It feels as if It’s almost trickling out. I can do this, I have time while I recover. I’ll return stronger than ever.

Flasor woke up. “Ah, awake already? You should really rest.”

He looked at Aitken briefly, before walking towards the door. “Anyway, it’s your own problem. I’m heading out.”

With those words, he calmly exited and slammed the door behind him. Aitken was all alone once more.

Aitken extended his hand once more, trying to force a flame.

“Grr” It’s no good, it simply won’t come out.

He turned his hand around, hoping a trickle would drip to the floor - but it didn’t. No matter how much he tried to force it, twisted, turned and focused, not a single flame would exit his palm.

Aitken sighed, and grabbed his last apple from his backpack. As he munched it, he thought about what his problem could possibly be.

“So, I don’t have pressure enough, huh? What If I waited for a build-up?”

Aitken tried to focus his energy in the wrist, and stack it up - but as fast as it could arrive, it disappeared into nothingness.

He kept at it for a long time, still trying to build up any measure of pressure.

The morning passed and noon arrived.

“No, this approach is not working. I have to do something different.” He pondered what he could do, and came to the conclusion if it was lacking in force, he would have to swing his arm meanwhile.

He spun his arm in circles, and focused on making flames appear in his palm. He swung and swung, but still - nothing would come out, no matter how long or hard he tried.

Noon turned to evening, and evening to night. The moon stood above the woods and descended down once more. Aitken was exhausted, and had achieved no progress in the entire day. He fell to his back and panted. He narrowed his mouth, and his breath picked up in speed as a result.

His eyes lit up. “That’s it! That’s the answer.”

He focused on the tip of his finger - as small as he possibly could - hardly more than a needlehead in size.

He felt it this time - a small trickle achieved a measure of pressure. This is it.

He tried to force it for the better part of the morning, to no real avail. That’s when he swung his arm in circles, and a gentle spark flew from his finger.

Ha. I can do it. Wait, it’s a spark and this is a treehouse…

Aitken hurriedly stepped on the spark repeatedly, until it extinguished.

So I can make sparks… That’s… Lame.

Yet this time, he felt it was easier. When he focused on his finger, he could make a few sparks without swinging his hand this time.

He kept at it, making sparks after sparks, catching them in the other hand this time.

And over the course of the next week, the sparks grew in strength - First small sparks, then more of them, and stronger… A tiny flame, no bigger than a flickering candle.. Then a decent sized candle - but he hit his limit. No matter what he did - the past three days he had no progress at all.

Today, Flasor returned to the hut.

“You’re not around a lot, Bobby.”

“I’ve got other places to be. Have you reflected on your lack of talent?”

Aitken smirked. “I’ll show you.”  He extended a finger, and fire equivalent to a large candle struck from his finger.

“I see you managed to produce fire. That’s good… but.”

“But?” Aitken asked.

“Fireballs… are at least this size.” Flasor extended his hand and a flame-jet the size of a bonfire shot from his palm. “Anything less will simply not do.” Flasor took a deep breath, and blew out Aitken’s candle-sized fire. “There’s no way this will be useful for anything but lighting candles, but hey, at least you can become a firestarter servant for some noble witch.” He shrugged. “Better than nothing.”

Aitken felt a burning sensation in his stomach. “Well, it’s not how big it is, but how you use it.”

Flasor lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? Wanna show me how to use it then? Wanna have a go?”

Aitken pondered for a moment. “When I’m healed up, we will have a fight.”

Flasor slowly nodded. “I guess you’re gonna need that, considering your wings are still in tatters…”

Aitken looked at his wings - they were slowly growing together along the edges of the bones, but they couldn’t carry even themselves at this point - as the holes between the bones weren’t mended yet.

“It’s progressing though. Another week or two, and we can go at it.” Flasor said.

Aitken nodded. “Indeed. Let’s await that.”

---------------------------------------------

I bet you thought he was gonna have awesome affinity? Yeah, I'm here to make my main character struggle for his achievements.

Thanks for reading!