Henry panted with his back on the floor, Dimetrodon was by him much the same.
“How the hell are you overheating? Doesn’t your massive frill regulate your body temperature?” He said mostly rhetorically.
Dimetrodon growled, but didn’t have the heart to whip him with his tail again. He chuckled at the slight victory, seeing the slits in his Avatar’s eyes grow sharper it might not last for long.
A shadow loomed over the light.
“You know, perhaps antagonizing your bond isn’t the wisest idea.” Ifeden exclaimed.
“A lot of things aren’t, but I ain’t going to have some Avatar that isn’t willing to put up with me in my best moments.”
“So this is a test?”
“No,” Henry deadpanned. “It’s the power of “friendship”.”
Ifeden chuckled. “Well, it's good to see that your both cooperating in your own ways.”
Yeah, progress… Henry thought the lack thereof.
The week had been a brutal mix of cardio, and strength training. Always on the move besides his hours of sleep, and minutes of eating, where he still had to concentrate on keeping his bond open to the flow of Yor. It was tiring— exhausting, the giant lizard took his energy like no tomorrow.
But he couldn’t complain about his body— his progress was astounding. Each day brought new benchmarks, and impossible gains. Henry honestly thought he could be in the upper echelons of human physics, nothing olympic level, but for the amount of speed he could summon, coupled with the weight he could pull. It was like a dream.
A natural effect of Awakening Yor— apparently.
The power brought out his body’s potential, but he was still having trouble with his main task. Finding the source of it all. No matter how he looked, tuned his senses, it was just a jumble of Thame. Sometimes full and vibrant, other times, dim and dull. Which he would have thought to be his breakthrough in finding the origin.
But he wasn’t making much progress on that front, the days became a blur with little conversation and jolts of pain lighting his buttocks.
Henry looked at the dinosaur laying down like a good dog, its eyes closed taking in the moment of serenity and felt at peace with his Avatar.
“I hope we can keep this pace for the rest of the day.” Ifeden said, bringing Henry out of his musings with a frown. “Come, it won’t be that bad.”
The specter sauntered off, with what he could tell was poorly contained amusement under that armor. He dusted himself off, and looked to Dimetrodon, the dinosaur looked back, for a moment it seemed that they had the same tired thought.
“These guys are merciless (a-holes)…” Well, almost the same thought.
But they walked ahead regardless to a desk, with Ifeden beside a giant chalkboard. He took his seat with a groan, his Avatar with a huff.
Ifeden began, “Over the next few days, your training with Riker will slow in place of lessons.”
Henry groaned louder, “Hasn’t the speeches Riker been giving not enough?” Dimetrodon snorted in affirmation.
“The talks you have been given are solely focused on your most basic utilizations of Yor. Nothing on the Elekio Language.”
“Language? I can read everything else just fine. Why—smack— OW!” Henry rubbed his head where Ifeden hit, “What was that for?!”
“I am complying with Riker’s training regiment, though it is a little unseemly.”
“You don’t need to do it as well!” Henry retorted.
“I wouldn’t if not for his record with training Yor. So, apologies but we will comply with the natural ways, as such, don’t speak unless you're called upon. Understand?”
Henry frowned, “Fine.”
“Great. Now, there are wonders in this world. Many within the various Trials, and amongst them, you’ll find information pertaining to the nature of the Trial, insight into the proof, and perhaps, a prophetic Trace to your own Thame.”
Henry raised his hand.
“Yes?” Ifeden pointed.
“So this is a big deal?” Henry asked.
“Very.” Ifeden replied. “I suggest you set yourself in, because I may only have enough time to go over some of this once.” Henry straightened himself, against his compulsion to slouch. “We’ll begin with the alphabet…”
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There was no dirt between Gregor’s hands, the darkness had not yet consumed his time. Still, the dawn had long risen, nearing noon, as he cradled his makeshift sack of supplies. Mushrooms, inner bark, berries, and edible leaves filled it near full, though his time was more occupied with plucking out the feathers of a large bird he managed to pelt.
It was a lucky shot. Much to his discomfort.
He knew how to aim, and where. How his body should flow, and the senses to capture. He knew it all. From the countless moments of experience, and yet, he missed the mark. Clipping a wing, instead of its body.
The bird fell, and so did he; for his skill was far from the mountain peak he once overlooked.
It was all he could think about, cleaning off, and saving the feathers. What was a desire, and what was reality. He had knowledge of his capabilities; abilities, wisdom, tactics, mindset, but knowing and putting them into practice were two completely different realms.
He thought he knew such minor arrogance, but now it seemed shrouded, blended together into something that should have been instinct, only to be absent entirely.
Delusion, perhaps? It was the closest thing he could think of.
Gregor stared absently into the fire, preparing the last of the bird for the spit roast. Dining on berries in the interim, thinking how to solve his problem quickly, a crease in his brow, much to no avail as he reflected. More pitfalls than sure trends. Practice was the only way, but how, and when were the questions…
He leaned heavier on his fist. Feeling the heat as he turned the stick. It seemed that nothing was as simple as his father hoped. He would have to keep an open mind on things, lest he get buried by a burden he was too ill-equipped to handle.
He had to stop himself the moment the berries were going to disappear before the bird got cooked. Gregor frowned, partaking in a bit of bark; cooked over the fire until they turned golden. The flavor was about as dreadful as he expected, if he had some more water to spare, boiling up a spring of pine needles would’ve added some much needed support to pushing down the trunk. His eyes glazed over. Though as it was, that wasn’t going to happen before he explored the cave, and certainly not before he had to double back around. He needed some more rations, and sap for fuel.
Gregor sighed, skewering the whole line of bark and finishing the final few minutes on the bird.
There was far less meat than he thought, it turned slightly overcooked. But it was the best damn thing he had in weeks. Not counting the mushroom stew, of course.
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The meat was picked clean, the bones scattered on his return trail to the disemboweled tree. With some more bark secured, smoked to a golden-brown char— the fire was swiftly buried to a subtle smoke, and the last of his supplies bundled.
Gregor stared at the hole, it was smaller than he remembered. He wondered if he would even fit this time.
He looked around for anything to stop him, but not even the wind sought to answer. Gregor took a deep breath, and the went feet first. His pack trailing in hand.
The tunnel pressed him at weird angles, hard patches grinding bits of his clothing. He groaned in discomfort, catching himself at a tight bend, feeling the jags in dirt nearly take blood when he pushed through. Delving onwards, succumbing to the dark till all he had left was the taste of earth.
It wasn’t long before he could go no further. A foot snagged stone, the other nothing, almost dangling in the air. He calmly felt around the hole, pressing his feet onto it’s sides. There was barely enough room for Gregor to bend his knees— he took a breath, and slammed against the rock.
Nothing gave, but he did it again— and again— again!
There was a crack. A chip in the stone that echoed its pebbles falling apart. Gregor smiled, taking another deep breath and kicked harder. The damage spread, the wall couldn’t bear it any further as it partially broke, tumbling down with a booming echo.
Gregor tried to look up and see into the darkness, but there was nothing new. He squeezed further, feeling the edges of rock upon his legs until he turned and flipped around. He felt around for small pieces of stone, throwing it behind him. The echoes sounded how high he was in confirmation. It couldn’t have been more than a few meters but he would not be played the fool today.
His feet searched the wall until they found a solid foothold. Allowing him to finally come out of the dirt and into the cavern.
His arm was still locked on the edge, holding the pack. While he felt around for his flint and made shift torches. A grunt escaped, turning into a cough of dirt.
It was hard finding the balance while digging through his supplies. And it was even harder fiddling with the flint and lighting the torch.
The birth of flame made him wince as he raised it above himself. Shining the light onto the earth that hasn’t seen the light of day, in a long, long time. He gazed upon the flat stone just below, the small stream of water that cut the cavern in two, and the tunnel from whence it came.
His hope ignited brighter than any fire. He found his landing spot, and without hesitation. Jumped with everything— the fool, he didn’t calculate the weight of the torch, much less than the pack itself. His knees buckled, eyes springing wide as he gripped the torch harder, raising it higher. Shoulder met stone, and Gregor felt pull on his muscles.
He groaned with the wind half-knocked out of him.
Gregor turned onto his back, feeling the cool stone. He held his breath with the pain, stuttering for air, repeating the cycle over again.
He lost track of time before the pain began to fade, Gregor pulled himself upright. Rolling his side with a slight wince, it would go away, in time, hopefully nothing too serious.
Finishing the last of his self checkup, he looked to the stream running through. Frowning when forgot to bring some more firewood to purify the water; it was clear and pristine, but he knew many stories of people dying from shitting themselves because they trusted such water.
He looked to his torch, relenting to a slump— it was going to take some time, but he could make the water safe.
Drinking the last of his canteen water, and cleaning his utensils. Gregor filled his containers full from the stream. Where he noticed a bit of cloth sticking to the edge of the creak.
He knew this cloth, taking hold and examining it thoroughly. The stripped rat really did a number on the pouch, nothing was left, it wouldn’t even be worth as scrap cloth. He sighed, throwing it to the stream of water. Slugging his new reserves with the rest of his pack.
Gregor looked left, then right, both ways free enough to follow. But only one, was in the direction of the mountain.
So, Gregor went right and left the cloth to its own travels.
----------------------------------------
The night was maturing past the height of the moon; the last candles finally being snuffed out in one of the more wealthy districts. Leaving the only light be the few stars shining through the cloud cover.
Faus’s quarry had since blown out his light some hours ago, but it never hurt to be cautious. His scouting didn’t turn but anything but… for this man, a daring escape might be too much after it all.
Tonight’s target was of similar build. And of less pity needed to take the action, for Ezekiel Gol would drench his hands in blood if it could be turned to gold.
That’s the man’s policy. A smile, and underhanded promises of flowery words brought about weighted chains to honest men. Relegated to nothing— no home, no food made them look decrepit and poor. And no one wanted to hire such dirt and for a decent wage, if anything at all.
His financial dogs would go about hounding businesses that didn’t directly pay them over the contractee.
It was bad business. Bad for customers to hear the harsh words and loud men ruining their solace in shopping.
Yet he never heard the man’s character challenged, saved for the Slums.
After bringing so many low, they still believed he was fair. Not bothering to look for a single second of the dealings this man has done. Even if they didn’t know where to start, they could’ve found Griken or anyone else manning the library. Because they knew, dealing with the man and the nobility within this city.
He was not a fair man to anyone who was “low-born.”
Disgusting.
Faus glared in the deepest shadow of a chipped alley, looking upon a picturesque home in the middle of grey street.
It was one of the few— the only one within a non-gated district— to have a yard; with green patches of grass and a tree in the front. The entirety of the land was fenced, but a lighter stone marked the divide between the streets and alleys. Potted plants flourished on the outside of window sills, with no mark of wear or deformation from vengeful victims on the entirety of this knockoff mansion.
The district itself was fair, few would even think to dare to come this close to the guards patrolling the line between the upper and common district. For anything close, I would bring them.
The Slums were better than the dungeons, so things kept quiet.
There were no guards employed by the grubber, but there were serfs that would come to attend the building… besides the terribly cloaked woman leaving by dawn.
Faus took a breath, relaxing in part.
Making sure his black garments covered his entire body and nothing was left out of his supplies.
His daggers were ready within their new sheaths by his sides, caltrops packed in their pouch, a pair of crude lock picks, and lastly, a thick pouch ready to carry the spoils of the night.
His escape route set, his Thame topped with a heavy beat of his heart— he was ready.
Faus peaked the street, finding it clear of life, not a sound heard but the brief whispers of the wind.
He moved quickly, dashing to the side of the property along the metal fence line.
“Igtiernova.” He whispered, his Thame answered.
A surge of dull grey surrounded his being. Faus gripped the top of the fence above him, in one motion, pulled and jumped over the spikes running along the rim. Tumbling silently on the green. He swiftly covered the ground at an unnatural speed, hugging the wall in darkness.
Faus looked around to confirm there was nothing. Preparing for the backlash, he took a deep breath, and stopped breathing, releasing the hold over the Spell. He nearly groaned as his muscles spasmed, causing him to curl along the wall.
That was dangerous… He miscalculated the strain of the conversion and called for another form of Thame. Without an Avatar to be a true Seeker, the backlash was greater than he remembered.
About a fifth of his Tae was gone, and he still needed time to rest… all this, for a couple of seconds.
Spells of Yor… they are truly the bane of all Anima Seekers.
Faus found his footing and moved to a nearby window, low enough for him to reach, at the height of his torso. He peeked through, finding the room clear. His hand ghosted over the frames till the upright-middle, right near the latch. With a hint of joy he whispered, “Witst.”
A deep blue flowed along the frame as Faus leveled his concentration. Hours of practice lead to this moment— directing the call of Anima upon the lock. Bending the wishes of the Spell to the edge of its domain, causing the blue to slowly fade and sputter mere centimeters away. As fates would have it, what he really needed couldn’t be called within his Pseudo-Realm, nor in the Invoker Realm. He didn’t even have the lesser variant of the “Key” Spell, walled behind the Pillar Realm.
But he had to make do. Sweat beat down his brow as he felt the rust give and the slow wilted hold over the lock turned open.
Faus could finally let go. The Spell took near half of his Anima, but it did its job, the rest was for his mundane power.
He took out one of his daggers, wedging it under the window till he got leverage. Quietly, he pushed the blade till he got enough room for his fingers, and then his entire body. He confirmed there was no one watching, inside or out.
The wide pot of flowers was a pain to manage, but he pulled himself into the house. Cleaning the traces of dust and dirt left by his infiltration while he had the moment.
The room was sparse, in a way— there were lavish chairs and tables, paintings hung between carved pillars of marble, but it didn’t look for comfort. More like a waiting area those pompous nobles employed.
It could very well be it, there were only two archways out of the room. And one led right to the front door, the other, was covered in a hung curtain sealing the space.
Slowly, silently, he crept along and parted the lush divide. Greeting to the site of stairs, and further halls that lead to more arches and doors.
Faus internally sighed. This was going to be a long night.