Gregor haphazardly dodged. Fumbling up right from the lopsided weight.
A flurry of soft grey wind cuts shot past, fading to whirlwinds of mist beyond the platform. Failing— again— to get closer to that damn thing.
Tens of minutes went by and the mimic still floated in the center of the stage. Unwavering its attacks. Unbothered to even move from the center of the platform.
It wasn’t even winded… well figuratively, but he was.
“Rirrom ,” He cast between heavy breaths.
Two sheets of film, twice his size, flickered into existence. One just in front of Gregor, while the other connected to the edge and went straight back.
He could see the outlines of the squares in the deepest black. Knowing the Spell took hold; a one way mirror, of the side shifted to the front pane. But it was no true defense, only the barest of any illusion.
An attack would go right through the sheet, and more than likely break the Spell. Because for all the speed this Spell had, it had a critical flaw.
Gregor could not move the place it was cast.
It took a bit of concentration but was better than running around the dull thing. If anything else were to take a closer look at the lines of the sheet it would be clear of the false reality.
Only mimic made did not attack. It just floated there, giving him his moments.
Was this some kind of trap? Game? He didn’t think so… but honestly, it was strange that the Spell was working at all.
What could I try next?—
“Need some help?” The voice nearly broke his concentration— his link to the spell was cut off. “Just a little so we can speak.”
Gregor turned shocked. He had never known a Spell could be taken over like that. “How…?”
“Practices of a long life.” The headless man said. “But you don’t really have that kind of time, do you?”
He paused. What was this… what could he do? Was it bad to at least listen?
“What do you have?”
“See there, the Felshin.” The headless man pointed to the bundle of fans. “Does it look like visual cues are a part of their senses?” Gregor shook his head. “Instead, think of what you are doing currently that you weren’t doing before?”
Gregor thought in silence, but really trying to draw out his resting period. Finally being able to replenish his Miasma with any strain.
Although, excluding the first blast, there was no area gust. Everything had been focused, causing him to evade by a hair’s breadth…
Wait!
“My breathing?” He looked to the headless man, only to receive a shrug.
No… that couldn’t be it. Otherwise why isn’t attack him now. The Spell only makes and shifts reflections, not the senses to his space. Surely not at this Rank of Spell.
Then what could it be? Gregor nearly groaned in frustration. The only thing he could think of it being was his movement, and that somehow the Spell obstructed him with a wall of Thame.
Gregor looked at the Spell. Still rough in its presence, proof of his lack of mastery with how much Thame it was leaking.
But that was it, it stood still otherwise. Perhaps even blocking his presence with how faulty the Spell was.
It’s priority is movement, maybe with the air I move? Then its secondary must be the intake of Thame his body naturally pulls. Gregor frowned at the thought, because he had no easy solution.
“Do you wish for more?” The man asked, but Gregor ignored him.
There had to be something he was missing, but he would likely need to take some risks in finding the truth.
Gregor looked the headless man over, not fully trusting his presence. But so far, he made no move to throw him off the platform. So he set down his pack of burdens, and gripped his sword.
“I’ll take it from here.” He said.
“Suit yourself then.” The man replied, disappearing along with the Spell.
The fans unfurled. Spinning, gathering the winds of grey.
Gregor rushed to dodge, as he danced with the cuts of wind again.
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Henry awoke again to the ceiling.
His head was clouded. His insides stung with a thousand needles. His body quivered. His Thame shuddered, of shame and torment.
Whatever had happened, it nearly broke the green that nestled in his gut. His ‘core’, as he dubbed, and mind shook when he replayed the memory. This feeling— this pressure— he thought he knew fear, but it was always a distant thing. In writing, voices, screens, or in the reaches of imagination.
But now he felt it, the chasm. Of being afraid, and drowning in fear.
The door creaked open. Henry grit a groan, and quelled the spasm in his neck to turn.
There Ifeden closed the door, and floated over to him in much the same course. Prophesying the doom that would be another conversation.
Maybe this time it could be the end of it? And that… wouldn’t be so bad, would it?
Letting this all go— his Thame still. Waiting for the last voice to speak his mind.
“Takes a great deal of effort to get Ize that furious.” Ifeden spoke, bare of any judgment. “However, speaking of Wys in such a way would certainly do it. A bit of cheating on your part.” The armor specter chuckled.
“Why are you here?”
“Well, being frank the turns have not been great. Ize needs a bit while more to settle herself,” He humorously huffed. “Why if she saw you now, you might just end up a cripple and throw all struggle away to the winds. And Riker? Despite your condition he wants to keep pushing regardless.”
“So the only one that won’t kick me out of bed is you?” Henry asked, almost perceiving a smile in the shadow of the armor.
“Do you want to continue your training?”
If Henry could shake his head consciously he would’ve, “Does it look like I can?” He asked, as even speaking sent spasms that weren’t his own. The twitches in his fingers sent tingles up his arm.
“No...” Ifeden sighed. “No, it does not. And it looks like it won’t be for a while.” He said with regret. “Which is why I am here. To ask if you want this to end early.”
“What?” Henry thought he heard wrong.
“Riker… Ize… they were not so keen to your mental state.” Henry shuddered. “Riker, as with all our students of Yor had this look on life, a fire deep eyes. One that you certainly lack. And Ize, she’s never dealt with someone that wasn’t just an innocent, or an insane speaker of a cult. Outside teaching of course, but few dared to even ask questions. Much less speak directly in conflict with her.”
It almost sounded like an excuse. He hated complicated things like this— Henry frowned. “I’m sorry…”
“Those are useless words when you meant everyone of them.” Ifeden was quick to cut off any breath of a word. “Now, I’m not blaming you— It is not my place. I am here to give you more, to help you understand the life that inflicts those on the path of Miasma.” Henry kept to the silence, curious but with an unknown worry in his gut.
Ifeden went on, “The people of Miasma tend to be fairly selective. One could say paranoid at times, especially when they’re vulnerable. Subtly is their weapon, and silence a constant companion coupled with retribution. Why, I still remember a time when a student put one’s humor to the test, only making dreams into nightmares. The young man couldn’t sleep for weeks without one eye open.” Henry’s eyes flashed with concern. “But that took weeks of preparation, and nothing is going to get by my senses with any of it being certain death.”
There was an awkward silence. Henry imagined a cricket chirping in the faint creeks of his mind.
“What’s going to happen if I say yes?”
“Instead of weeks with us, you’ll have a month on your own.” Ifeden stated. “We’ll show you where the food and drink is gathered. But other than a few words and perhaps some good byes that’ll be all.”
“And… what of me? What am I supposed to do?”
Ifeden shrugged. “You’ll have to figure out how to harness your time in this space, because unless you want to delve Rifts constantly, there is no greater place in this world to train than here and now.”
“But… then,” His voice faded to a whisper. “I’ll be alone… again.”
Ifeden didn’t reply, he was nearly sure he didn’t hear anything, but simply stared on his own. Patient, awaiting his answer. He would probably wait there an entire day before he forced the issue.
Only Henry already had an answer dancing on the tip of his tongue.
His view creaked back to the ceiling. Because if he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t fully with his gut. The fantasy had cracked and shattered. And a new reality had taken its place, one more grim of his future.
His thoughts carried him after word— after all of this.
Taking up the mantle. Fighting the depraved, and liberating Avatars like some sort of this world’s version of a superhero. And not some moral bound marketing ploy comic book heroes, the gritty ones— the graphic ones.
There his thoughts spiral from one dark corner to the next.
The more he thought about what a man could do. What could a man hopped up on power and ego, delving into vile acts with no remorse even by his own reflection.
Just bringing a fraction of it to reality, facing such things… Henry didn’t want to think about it anymore.
He caressed his ring. The beginnings of such a journey, but it gripped responsibility and shaken his morals. He knew that he didn’t have enough talent to be a hero, not in Thame and definitively not in character. Because the first thing he could think of when trouble came was to run away, for what could he do? He couldn’t imagine holding up the world. To be the sun steadfast in the dark, when everyone would look up to you because you have something that they would never have— this power. And with it, all the challenges and troubles that followed.
Because now his simple act of existence, promised to make him a target. He could almost feel his place in this new world, being gifted with wonder, only to be tantalizing prey. A crop to be culled at the bottom of the food chain.
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He couldn’t imagine it—
His eye twitched. A dull roar creased his brow.
“Henry.” Ifenden’s voice struck him. His neck twisted too fast and sent a held painful moan. “Easy. I don’t know what’s got your Thame riled, but put it down. We don’t need another test of durability for the door.”
Henry blinked. Feeling the pressure seeping. “Sorry.”
“Again with the apologies, save them for another. I am more concerned about your decision.” Ifeden looked directly at him. “Have you?”
“I… don’t think I could do much without anyone of you.” Henry replied.
“Then I’m glad to hear it.” Ifeden said with cheer— well as much as a monotone cheer could be. “We’ll prepare for your recovery in due time.” Ifeden prepared to leave.
“Why?” Ifeden stopped, turning with a hum. “Why are any of you doing this?”
“Because we want to see the good we do continue.”Ifeden replied confused.
“I know that part— why you. What is your reason?”
The seconds dragged, before Ifeden’s voice bellowed. “I see. It’s not as grand as you might be thinking.”
“I… just want to hear it.” Henry asked, searching for his conviction.
“Diligence and chance most.” Came the reply. “I’ve always known the order, estranged into it by birth as one might say. Unlike Riker or Ize, I didn’t see my first battle till my early twenties. Diligence raised me, and prepared me for the worlds we fought to preserve and eradicate. It’s simply all I have known, all I will ever know, and never let me stray. It’s as I began and thought as I am now, proud of my accomplishments and sacrifices.” His voice was certain, a will unbroken.
One that Henry could never think to match.
“Did that help?” Ifeden asked.
“I don’t know,” came his whisper.
“Then that is a problem only you can solve.” Ifeden waited till he was settled enough to ask. “Would you like for me to send for my colleagues?”
A shot of adrenaline went through his heart. Maybe it was too soon, that he was stepping over the line. With Riker and Ize… but he would rather know, he needed to know. To give him something when he needed to stop running away.
“Yes.”
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“…In the end of the bloodied battle, there was nothing left of our camp.” Riker spoke with a curt voice, getting the point. Empty of emotion. “I was the only one to survive what was left with our stumbled conflict with a cult. We lost. And I would have perished along with them, if it wasn’t for the Wys Order. Taking me in and giving me the opportunity— I would have not lived for another week because of my desire for vengeance…
“At the time I thought it was more a trade, they get a man and I get the chance to wipe the cultists as they did my… companions. In the end I did what I set out to do, but after, there was little else left known to me, so I stayed.
“And its been that way ever since.”
Riker left without another word of prompting, leaving Henry no less troubled by the story.
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There was tension within the mist, Ize was most certainly displeased. There was a bout of silence, but the heat didn’t rise any further.
“You want to hear our stories?” Ize said flatly, making Henry internally frown. Ifeden did say that she might not be appreciative of the swing in attention.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Henry replied. Silence was better than just passing out over and over, again.
She took a deep breath. And surprised him.
“I grew up in a town of crossroads.” Ize floated over. “The largest city was before our main road, past us were the fields of grain and bounties of the earth. Where many of my father’s wealth centered, funneling the bustling commerce of the town.
“It's where I studied. For most of my life I wanted to be an archivist and then maybe one day I would be a scribe. Being a seeker wasn’t even a thought to myself with the regulations at the time, and the holdover our kingdom had.” Ize scoffed, shaking her head.
“First came a comet, and an Obelisk fell near our town. Coaxing any and all. Then came the riots— well, no initially, there was no governance over such things in our kingdom. Because who tried to constantly repeat history, throwing their land into civil war, followed by an invasion of the neighboring countries. That’s where my loss began, a shunned prince, in an endeavor to succeed to the throne, claimed the obelisk for himself…”
Havoc reigned, and more than half of the Seekers present at the time revolted against the prince’s decree. Ize’s life was turned over, when the first battle took place within her town’s walls. A skirmish, turned to a battle, and finally a war. Her parents. Her wealth. And all she cared for, died the very day. Crippled at fourteen.
Her mind had trouble following through that day. But the one thing she always would recall…
“—the rot. When the ash settled, the corrupted took their chance to seize the crippled and fallen. The Seekers and the Prince lost their lives. I can still remember, running over that hill, the screams of the Avatars overpowering the rain. As they took everything, and attempted to break the Obelisk.”
“I kept running, trying to avoid the smoke stakes of towns and villages that I was first running to. And on my third day, Wys took me in. Trained me, taught me, gave me everything to rise to be who I needed to be.
“It’s been my home ever since then.” Ize ended with a somber voice. Her head turned to an empty wall, the mist about her drifted to where Henry could almost see the color of her eyes and the distant look upon her.
There was no discord in the silence left, only longing. Wishes of a grand imagination, that Henry squashed himself out of.
He didn’t want to be alone right now… and ‘sorries’ might not cut it.
“Why were the cultists trying to break the Obelisk?” Henry asked, confused. Ize was in charge of guiding him through basic Trial encounters. Rifts could be broken, but to do so would be a vile act. Obelisks and Monoliths however, could not. So, why? “I thought you said, Obelisks couldn’t be broken?”
Ize was struck out of her head, almost curiously huffed and sighed. “I guess this will be the lesson…” She cleared her voice and came floating over. “The Wys is considered a purist order. In our ways we believe that everything has a natural passing, that going to certain tenants; breaking Rifts or binding Avatars, destabilizes the world’s order and creates pandemonium for us all.”
That's… “Why does that matter? I get the enslavement part but breaking Rifts?”
“Besides attempting to claim rewards without passing the Trials, can you think of any other reason?” Henry did think about it but his face scrunched in a frown. “Then how about a hint?” Ize spoke with a hint of glee. “What if someone had an Heirloom to constantly check their condition. Be it in this world or the Trial. If things get bad, they could break the Rift.”
He got it— “Then they could rescue that person?”
Ize nodded. “At the chance of harming the world by shifting the Trials over our own.”
“So… then,” Henry finally connected another piece of knowledge. “That’s how Monsters come here?”
“It is one way, the most common way. But let me ask this, who do you think would have the resources to have such capable Heirlooms?”
Henry thought about this medieval place of kingdoms and empires, and frowned. “Kings and Queens?”
Ize chuckled— weird. “Yes, all manner of powerful individuals and organizations want to keep their legacies alive. So here is a thought— What’s a few breaks if it means my own are safe.”
His eyes went wide. “Oh… shit.”
“We made many enemies in our time seeking to keep our ideals true and protect the innocent.”
“Then the cults? Are they just some kind of shell front for other people less inclined to get their hands dirty.”
It took a bit for Ize to make sense of his words but, “A great many of our time were, and I don’t think much has changed.”
“So breaking an Obelisk proves what? That they could just keep on trying near the brink of death.”
“Oh, if that was the only thing, but a great many are not all.” Her tone went dreary. “The true cultist, the ones ab hornet in their corrupted Spells and ways wish to break the Obelisks on some old myth.”
“What myth?” Henry didn’t even feel the pain as he prompted himself up.
“When our anchors were Temples, and Seekers were a manner of common heroes.” Ize said with barely hidden bore. But there was a bounce in his heart, and a spark in his eyes. Making Ize sigh fondly, “Hidden in the vastest of the world. Where few men dreamed, and even few dared, stood Temples in majesty awaiting their chosen ones…”
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The winds clipped past, the fans spun fiercer. Gregor braced his arms, covering his face as his body braced and shoes dug in. He was so close, but that last step— it was right there!
But still, it was too far.
Dammit. Gregor took his chance and slash with his sword. Failing— his eyes watered, his body took more wind and lost his balance. His heart jumped as he caught the air. Feeling the gusts pushing him farther than natural.
Gregor screamed against it.
His Thame riled, expelled! The wind lost their guidance, and reason, letting him touch the marble. Skidding, nearly stumbling as he darted back near the edge. So the blades of wind were once more the pattern.
Above then right… Gregor dodged with ease.
The dance began again.
“Do you still not need my assistance?” The headless man asked, floating high above the platform.
“No.” He barely managed a whisper.
“Shame. Well, if you at some point find this tedious, I am here.” The man replied, a third time the same ramble.
A whistle of wind jutted his head to the side. The faintest air tickling the bristles of his stubbles. He took a hot breath, sweat dripping down to the marble.
Gregor couldn’t recover quick enough. With his current pace… maybe two more goes. He grit his teeth and dodged till his Thame recovered.
He moved with a familiar grace, not enough to be called proficient but it was something. What felt like countless weeks of training riled up his senses. The faint, ever present feeling, that this is barely a fraction of the dreams that reach for the Stars. If he could squeeze this experience more, he would’ve— it was the perfect partner to build up his instincts.
It was written as such, not to delve into the mysteries beyond himself lest he get trapped and rung round. He heeded these words as doctrine, that only once he ascended and became a true Seeker he would unravel the pages of the Invoker Realm. But practice came before, and survived at the foremost forefront.
Gregor pressed his senses, focusing on replenishing his reserves on the final trickles of Miasma.
“This… now,” He gleamed. Taking his stance, he waited for the horizontal cut.
The fans spun predictably, and Gregor dashed, his body bent, knee sliding along the marble. The cut of air almost had a shimmer to itself, eclipsing his view as he reeled his head back and under. Rising to a full sprint when the cut had passed.
The fans unfurled, their motion stopped, and what was their face faded to flat. A spike of Miasma signaled the start. The winds picked up, and sudden guts flooded from the center. As tiny, near unnoticeable, cuts of grey went flying.
Gregor braced his Thame against it before, but this time. This time, no more.
Grey met skin. A sharp warning blared through his mind, almost instinctively calling Thame to shield. But he held it off, letting the flask long cuts seep and burn more than paper cuts.
A grey cut went for his head, but his blade rose against it. His Thame restricted to a gentle coat he learned to wrestle. Blade met grey, and broke its path. Fading into the chaos of the air, harmlessly.
Gregor found his way, with enough Thame left. He grit his teeth, and pushed with it all.
Here it comes… A few paces were left to test— before the winds turned torrent.
Grey cuts mix with blades of their own, but Gregor had seen enough.
Right… Right… Middle… Jump… The pattern followed, till a few paces were left. Winds turned to a shield, bellowing out, compassing the fans, protecting them just out of reach.
It wouldn’t be long, barely a second before his Thame diffused. But he poured everything into the blade, focusing, constricting a will that was not made for Miasma. Throwing his greyed blade towards the center of it’s face.
The blade wobbled, swayed by the winds. For a moment Gregor’s heart fell, doubting his aim, bracing against the wind.
The sword met the shield of wind and grey, and passed as a blade through soft fibers. Piercing true to where he threw.
There was no screech, no last act of defiance, only the fans fell, the winds stopped, and Gregor relaxed his fight—
Boom.
There was no warning. No change to his senses; no sounds, no touch of wind, nothing as far as he could see, but a fallen bundle of fans, and no chaos of Thame.
The fans exploded, the winds and Thame followed. Gregor felt his entire body become weightless, but his eyes drifted to his pack. Catching flight like a kite in the wind. There was nothing he could do, watching as it was falling far from the edge.
His future… his memories…
“Do you wish for my help, now?” Came the headless man.
Maybe he should have taken at least a second to weigh what this could mean. But it came on instinct, with his heart wavering to the winds, “Yes.”
In one moment his pack was falling, in the next it stopped. He— then stopped. Letting the wind pass over him until it was all gone. As he was moved, gently, to the center of the marble floor, his pack at his side.
He picked it up and sifted through it to make sure everything was there. It was.
There was a gentle pat on his back, “I’ll be here if you continue to need assistance.”
Gregor turned to the headless man, left with only wonder and confusion of everything that happened.
A bridge cut his thoughts short, rising from the mist. Staring at it as the headless man made way and approached it with a steady pace.
He followed almost unknowingly forward, but with a tickle in the back of his mind and a slight twist in his gut as he followed along this path.
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Under the cracked moon, on top of the balcony the man paused in sipping their tea. Looking far off into the mist, a loud sigh echoed.
May luck aid you, if your mind cannot. The headless man thought, as he mentally marked the chances for survival steadily to new lows.
“An empty path, carved not of one’s hands, leads nowhere beyond the laid path.”