Heating up the water took less of his travels than Gregor thought. Mostly because he rigged one of his cooking rods to hand off his shoulder, with the torch right under the hooked canteen.
It was clunky, but ingenious— if he did say so himself. Although, he was forced to stop just before the water got to boiling. The tunnel was becoming increasingly cramped, to the point where his contraption wouldn’t fit under the roof of this cavern.
Waiting took a while more than he would’ve of liked, but at the signs of bubbles he was glad he had something to wash down some of the cooked bark.
The trek continued, the path itself began to shrink as the water took more of the tunnel. Shallow as it was, Gregor grimaced. He looked to his boots; they were well enough for rugged terrain, but gone were the days were these things water tight.
The journey lapsed an hour, with Gregor crouching, his flame kissing the ceiling. He was almost beginning to wonder where would it end. Well— he got his wish soon enough, only for the light to got no further.
A wall blocked the way, though cracked and crumbling it stood strong… at least for the moment, there was no clear path ahead. A dead end nearly tested his hope.
But where was the water coming from?
Gregor cast the flame over the stream, flowing from the wall, illuminating a small hole; carved and jagged from erosion. He looked around for a saving grace, but slumped, staring at opening.
The pieces of this place was slowly becoming clear. And the proof of future disasters more than likely started here, beyond the that was to be gone in a few years…
A little discomfort now, for some peace of mind later. Gregor pick himself up.
He needed to get wet, and wade through the damn near freezing water.
He stripped, shivering at the touch of cold stone, while stuffing everything within his pack to near bursting. It would get wet, but hopefully it was tight enough to ward most of water.
He dunked a foot, “Ah—“ and immediately reeled back. This… it was colder than he thought.
Gregor stared at the stream almost reluctantly, thinking if this was even worth the trouble, converging upon a thought. Better than wagging through pools of blood to reach a chance upon a rift. Grumbling he took a breath and jumped into the water. Splashing knee deep, droplets of water coated his body as he sucked in a deeper breath.
But he was still too big.
At the objection of his member he crouch, his knees nearly touching his chest. Shivering all the while, he pressed on waddling, embracing the hollow way and the torrent of echoes that came with it.
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His breathing became short and fast, and not of his own will. Just as the clangor climbed in intensity. The walls began to nearly scrap his skin, feeling the heat of the torch was almost becoming unbearable.
Gregor dunked his head again in the frigid water for relief.
It had been slow, almost to a crawl. His pack half submerged with but a prayer that it held on. Because the water tunnel was far deeper than he thought. Nearly causing him to return, if not for a glimpse of the end.
A lip of jagged rocks shone but brief cracks to wider space. Absolution was at had from this cold death, but his torch could not pass, let alone his pack untested by the water.
Gregor reached his hand under and over, feeling the unobstructed space but a few centimeters through solid rock. He took a his breath, and released his torch, diving from sizzling flame and emerging into the dark.
His hand felt all around, finding nothing obstructing him. He stood, his eyes adjusted to the shallow outlines of a shore. Waging through as he climbed and shivered onto the cold rock.
But he didn’t disparage the time— quickly he dumped his pack. Half of his supplies were soaked, but nothing touched his spare torches and flint. Nor his papers. Thank the stars.
His hope ignited a smile, and one of the torches was set to light. The underground revealed in a strange truth, making Gregor pause as he took it all in.
A waterfall caressed the high cavern wall. Its eroded channel was barely taken by the water coming down. Speaking to the waters that have yet to drown the place. Even the small pond in front of him was lacking, the clear line of a higher shore touched the place where he stood.
But most of all, from this hidden alcove was a clear tunnel right by his way. Its form was unnaturally circular, twice as large as he was tall, save for the smooth flat ground.
He felt elated, warmth brushed away the cold that for a moment. He wanted nothing more than to rush down the corridor. But held himself by the flame, rummaging through his wears with abandon, to a deflated sight.
Shirt might have been saved but his pants and boots were an unfortunate mush.
He never would have thought a day would come where he would have to cook his boots… along with a few berries to celebrate.
Preemptive, he knew— but damn, he just wanted to have some tasty morsels before the race truly began. So he took his torches, and broke them into making a small fire. Igniting and hosting his pants and boots on a stick, plunged into a crack that would give support but not break.
The meal was relaxing. Once he got his clothes on, the cold began to drain away. Tightening his laces in relief of toasty feet. Ready to make head way as he set off.
Each step was hope, finding the passage twist and turn oddly. The sounds of the waterfall becoming a whisper till all their was left was his beating heart.
Perhaps he though it be something grand, and ushering of power, a prickling against his skin. But the smooth-flat stone showed solid blocks to a road, and one last turn to a room broke in color.
“Impossible…” His words tumbled before the trove.
His memories in the myriad futures were a fickle thing, fading to but a few sheets of paper. However, there was one truth he did summarize buried deep within his heart; following a path, no matter where it may lead, would always be littered with more ends than next steps. Moments that made him giving up, broke him entirely, and the last simply dying.
Surviving was a luxury in time.
For each step that lead him higher; the ones that scribed his own chances against the odds. Those bore their ends with but a hairs breath, and meager shuffles as rewards forward.
He knew this— this constant. Great promises require great leaps of faith.
His mind went like shattered glassed, staring at the truth before his eyes; three breaks in reality. Two Rare Bronze. One Common white.— Rifts! A bounty revealed why their was such a sudden change in power. And for why a war ignited so soon, so fiercely.
Unbound, and primed for delving.
Though this was a worrying sight, conflicting with what he knew, but supporting the rise in the looming discord that would engulf the continent.
He gazed upon the center of it all, the Obelisk; standing a few heads taller than as he was, shinning with Rose-Gold words of the Elekio Language, nearly taking over his torch light, brimming with power.
They; Monoliths and Obelisks, were fulcrums— anchors that took the weight of Thame upon the world. Managing the continuous spawn of Rifts, and splurge of Breaks that would sunder the land. Falling from the stars in an act of ancient duty, provided a manageable source of Awakening and progression.
At least that’s what his father said it to be. Their presence was a boon, but he couldn’t help but think of the desolate hands and armies keeping these wonders locked. Isolated for no one but their own, less Seekers of aspiring Realms fall upon them.
They could not be broken, only crumble and wither away with their duty done. With Thame finally moving on.
Only there never was much Thame within these lands, “The Flushed Barrens”— what the greater continent called these Kingdoms. Lacking everything a Seeker could hope for.
It kept them safe from the underlying chaos that was constant within the world of Seekers.
But for one to be in such a state…
Maybe there would have been another fall? Gregor questioned if the miners didn’t stumble on to this place. Would another Obelisk take to mange this land?
The thought more heart wrenching as before him laid the path to promised heights. The instruments to his forbearers’ wishes laid bear, perhaps catapulting his rise with enough time for the Mark to fade.
Only their weren’t decades for this place to be left in secrecy. He had scribed his own path. He had people to repay… and the end would come either way.
There wasn’t time to get complaisant.
He walked past lesser Trials and placed his hand upon the Obelisk. Without Thame, but a pure act of will and thought, he wished to be tested. The symbols hummed. Power spread, encased him in Rose-Gold prodding at his mind.
A question with a booming echo of emotions.
‘Are you sure?’
But it was a waste of a moment, for he unrelenting— he would not be denied this chance. The Obelisk shone brighter. Accepting his intent. He would bear the risks, in this Unique Trial.
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Faus painstakingly search through the night; he went as a mouse through the pantry. Quiet, silent, pausing whenever there was an unknown noise. All to find his prize bits of gold. But where a mouse had it’s nose and acute senses, Faus had a decade of plundering noble homes. Through all their “cunning” they were all abhorrently predicticable towards the end with their secret stashes.
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Well… at least the coin. He never did get the extravagance decorating the compounds. This one wasn’t any different.
He took a breath in a lavish leather chair, inside some sort of personal study. At first glance their was nothing special, bookshelves sprawled with barely any space, a working desk, with some chairs to lounge around. Even digging deeper; sifting through the drawers didn’t really provide anything other than useful if fancy knickknacks— there were contracts and personal correspondences to people within the city— sure, but nothing illegal. If it at all seemed dubious a few pouches would all be needed for silence, and a greater return.
No, his attention was caught by three things; the lack of any windows, the door being the only one locked, and the obsessive amount of candles in this place.
Of which he was still a bit strain, but the crux of matter was that there was something here. And Faus stared at the books shelves for an obvious tell.
He got his bearings together, settling his Thame. Going around the edges of the floor, and lightly tapping on the both, it and the walls.
Nothing could be perfect, there was always a draft here an echo there.
He smiled at the end, a fault in plain sight.
The shelf near the door had a draft. Further looking to the floor there the faintest of lines, swivels from where the shelf would open.
Faus put his hands on the edge trying to pry to no avail. He looked for something, anything that might be desirable on the lines of books. He found one off, it was out of order, this far down the pattern— it should have kept with the alphabetical order. It did not— no, it was the only one on the entire shelf that was misplaced.
Carefully, he pulled the book. It wouldn’t budge save for a pivot turn. A soft click shot him to high alert.
The book hung in the air, much like his heart. Only the book had itself an iron latch bolted to it. The only thing he would do was bolt out the window from whence he came.
A minute turned five then ten, and still there was nothing. The moment settled.
Faus gripped the edge of the bookcase, and with a light effort. The thing pulled open, revealing a stair case leading down, into the dark, where not even the moonlight could reach.
But he looked around, remembering a fancy flint in the drawer. The room providing all the materials— he lit the fullest candelabrum; a five candle holder, stowing away the flint, and taking hold of its ornate shaft. Supporting the light of a handful of small flames.
He began his descended, following the thick slabs of stone, spiraling deep into the earth.
With each soft step the weariness came up. The spiral continued, far deeper than he would have thought— deeper than the sewers, deeper than anything he’d known in this life.
Faus recalled his old memories— for a pompous man who’s only creed was but his own greed, shared a common sign in those horrific days. Where the man buried his sinful pleasures far the light, and ear of another.
He readied a dagger for the watchdog.
The stairs gave way to a small corridor, a door at the end, with a heavily bolted lock. The weight and complexity outweighed that of anything in this home. Paired with not a knob, but with a latch latched to an iron rode spanning the frame. A lock as big as his fist.
Faus held the large clasp of metal, regretting not practicing on some of the harder locks.
He fished out his picks and wound them through the lock.
“Witst.” The long piece of metal bound and pushed up against the thicker, blackened, pieces, prodding its inner workings.
Sweat beat his brow in concentration, less strain on the Spell and more of his Thame’s flow. Pacing was more important than accuracy here, finding himself at the beginnings of being winded. The strain taking its toll, Thame leave his body like a strain of flexed muscles.
A Spell was near always, cheaper for one’s self to keep running than to start it up all over again.
As it goes; ‘The start was the spark, and the time a dying light.’
He always hated those blasted riddles. They were mind numbing without any context, especially when they were repeat over and over again like someone hadn’t already heard it a hundred times over.
But, he should really stop recalling. A grunt just may as well break his progress to a screeching halt.
So he toiled. With the last of his Anima mindled the pegges and felt the pieces hold. With a strained smiled he turned his picks, with a resounding— click— the lock opened.
A hand over his heart, Faus slouched for his moment of rest. Listening all the while for anything suspicious.
There was nothing. Perhaps he was over thinking things. But he readied his mind, unlatching the door, awaiting it’s secrets.
The door didn’t creak. A smell didn’t linger. When the light caressed the stone to reveal the room, there was nothing but smaller study, with fewer shelves and a great many more chests.
He paused. The sight was unexpectedly mundane.
Faus carefully toed the floor for traps, but found nothing as he surveyed the room. So he searched— free to dig through the man’s alcove.
At first sight were the chests, a few with heavy latches but one still with out a lock. He opened the stash, revealing in glee, to the prize of silver neatly arrayed in woven stacks like sausage links. If they were cradled with cloth and wire, than intestines.
His smile was gleeful but brittle, more than justified as he packed half the chest. Only the feeling regret that he didn’t bring another stack, but even more so, that he couldn’t.
He looked upon his thin, reedy arms and felt shame.
Tired, malnourished. No matter how much he tried, there was only so much food a poor boy could scavenge. When no one wanted to hire a boy that could barely hoist what a girl would do.
Faus shook out of it.
Tying the end of the sack, filled with ten stacks of coin. Enough to feed him for a half-a-lifetime, if he so wished, but their was a nagging in his head. An old instinct that dwelled within him, it was hard to just turn around and walk away.
Why?— Why, is their a study here instead of a vault?
With a sigh, he set his bounty down and began a brief search through the documents.
Copies— forged tax documents, obscene contract clauses, unknown business sites… It was all the confusing bureaucracy and jargon. Things that he didn’t have a clue to manage, only he likely saw the signs of money laundering and tax evasion.
Nothing out of character of the man, Faus could imagine. He expected it from the fool, but wringing the lord of his coin was something few merchants could get away with. None without military might.
That was the way, it has always been. Follow the laws of those above you and keep what you hold dear close.
Though perhaps Ezekiel loved gold more than his own life.
Screw the future, hoard the present— Faus chuckled at the thought of the lord taking everything from the man.
Maybe a casual slip of this information would bring about something from a higher lord.
It was would be done in a day, a flourish of whispers and doubt of the lords power to command their natural rights. Though few of the common people would care, the nobles, however— it would be blood in the water.
Readying for their feast.
His thoughts meandered and drifted in amusement, but he paused picking up a well worn diary. Displaced from all the fine paper and leather, this one was old, broken down over time.
His confusion only spurred, his eyes widening over the latest entry.
Plans for the reconstruction of the Slums, the lords word reigning higher, and the command to pledge an amount of wealth into the reconstruction. All tailing to Ezekiel Gol, raising the man on higher, to be the most powerful merchant within the city, maybe even challenge the lord in some way, with his contracts and legalizes.
Only if he wasn’t the man’s left hand; a shadow and his bank. Funneling money for the lord himself to some far off bank within the Iscaldee Kingdom; the largest nation in this corner of the continent.
This… this wasn’t a fool challenging the lord. He is a puppet— puppet for a man compelled on treason.
Implosions he knew, the fall of kingdoms by their people were something left alone by other powers. Less their was something of an agreement or trade, but it was mostly done by the common people, this… this was a noble, if others took notice, or they were thinking along the same lines, it could destabilize the region. War was was an after thought to the anarchy that would come. And the vultures that would sweep in for the smell of blood.
He had lived long, he had sworn to a cause he knew to be right. But he never was the one to bear the weight of decisions like these.
Faus closed his eyes and diary. Feeling the weight of all its worth.
It was a struggle to hold it, his hands shook a little.
He was confident Ezekiel would find this place raided, keeping his personal ledgers pristine as they were. The question was how fast. With the diary gone, it would only accelerate an unknown recourse.
The thought weighed his mind, one that would see a flood of soldiers in the streets. But it fell to the wayside as Faus didn’t notice, falling into a trance. One born from the knifes edge, of espionage, and flights through the sounds of war horns.
He unfurled the sack and placed the diary within. Taking hold of the light and tracing back his steps. Locking the latch. Snuffing out the candle. Closing the doors and window.
Into the night, with but a few hours till the dawn. The sky still his friend, providing a great darkness.
He guided the sack over the fence, in silence. Reaching for himself to the edges of metal, unconcerned with being caught this late.
Landing with a soft thump, he lugged his sack over his shoulder. With his coin and evidence, he made off like a quiet bandit into the night.
Preparing for his next task, and to call for another meeting.
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Henry’s vocabulary wasn’t progressing as well as he hoped, weaving of words and symbols three times that of the old alphabet was draining his head.
“Owch…” He whimpered with the hit, tired of it all.
“…Will you stop boy?!” Riker yelled getting in front of his run.
“Wh— What?” Henry said, gasping for air.
“None of this will work if your not paying attention.” Speaking to his Thame control and sensitivity. “Have you even got an idea where your Yor is even focused?”
But it was really god damn hard!
Henry frowned in silence.
“Sit, rest.” Riker pointed off to the side with a bench.
He complied, Dimetrodon trudging behind him giving him soft eyes. His snout came up next to him as he sat down, resting on his knees, stroking his head gently calmed his heart.
“You need to focus.” Riker said flatly.
“I’m trying.”
“No, you are not. You can’t just keep zoning out on your exercises, even less on your studies with Ize and Ifeden.” Riker looked him over and grunted. Looking over to the clock on the wall. “You have until the hand is at four, get it together.”
With that he left. Fading out into one of nearby walls.
Henry didn’t even have the energy to curse. He wanted to change, to improve with the chance he had been given in this life. Because many would kill for it, wouldn’t they? Just like back home, under the care and tutelage of the more set careers. Engineers, Architects, Welders, Carpenters, Programmers… those who had a hand flew higher than Henry dared to dream.
It was pitiful that they weren’t even that high, but still impossible to reach.
At least in the end of his old memories. Wearying away the hope.
Dimetrodon whimpered. Though it was more of a rumble, a bellow act of aggression. But Henry knew… it was hard to describe, the subtle differences, the changes he felt.
“I know buddy.” He leaned over and hugged his big snout. “I’m okay. We’ll do better.”
Henry closed his eyes with Dimetrodon, basking in the moment. Because he was lagging, they weren’t strong enough— they weren’t fast enough.
They needed more, because he was a heavy enough weight as it is.
We’ll make it through, Henry reassured himself. Do better. Be better. Do better. Be better…
He kept the chant alive, even as Riker returned to continue their training. For a fear well within his heart, if he stopped for a moment he would never get back up again. Burdened by the great promises, with only the barest of tools of mediocrity. Falling— failing to live, only survive till tomorrow.
Henry didn’t know when these thoughts started. Only he kept running, he kept pushing, ignoring everything but his drive.
Ignoring the specters that subtly watched his progress, and the soft eyes of a dinosaur wholly concerned with their Seeker.