It seemed the spell somehow intuited where it had to be to best strike the target with whatever momentum Mikal imparted on it. So when he had given it no momentum, the sparrow appeared right above where he aimed, but when given momentum, it appeared further away horizontally so that it flew to the target.
He wanted to experiment more and figure out everything he could about the spell. However, the weakness he felt made it difficult even to stay sitting up, much less stand and punch. The feeling of weakness was very weird; it was distinctly different from how it felt when he had ran, and his muscles were tired. It also differed from the feeling of hunger, and how it made him want to just lay down, it felt more like the connection to his body was somehow weaker, like he had to use more will to get his body to do what he wanted.
"Use more will..."
He muttered to the empty air, his voice tinged with a mixture of realization and weariness. Was that it? Did casting the spell and moving his body use the same energy? His willpower? That felt right to him. But it raised more questions: Could he use up all his willpower? What would happen to him if he did? And how could his will affect something outside his body without him touching it? He knew of a concept he thought was related to the concept of spells, mana. But he wasn't really sure what the word mana meant. He thought it was some form of energy, but not energy like food and calories, a more magical form of energy. He felt like he was trying to grasp at a speck of dust in a cloud of smoke.
"If I had my memories, I wouldn't have to sit here grasping at straws." He growled, frustration boiling over.
The hole that was his past felt like a chasm that sucked in all attempts at comprehension. He knew what words meant; he had definitions, feelings, and associations with words. However, he couldn't tie them to anything tangible. The words themselves just floated around in a vacuum, detached from any experience.
As he sat there, enveloped by the silence of the shack, Mikal couldn't help but wonder about the price of the power he'd stumbled upon. Was it merely physical exhaustion, or was there a deeper permanent loss to wielding magic—a toll on the soul, perhaps, that he was yet to understand?
With a deep, steadying breath, he forced himself to look beyond the frustration. There had to be a way through this maze of unknowns.
"I will find answers," he vowed to the silent forest.
The determination hardening in his voice. His curiosity wouldn't have allowed for anything else anyway. But it felt good stating it to the world.
The only way to get answers was to experiment, and if there was a permanent cost to casting spells, he would just have to deal with it when he found it.
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He had no idea how long he sat there, an hour perhaps. The lightshafts above had moved a little, but he wasn't familiar enough yet to know how much time that signified. He had mulled over all the questions tumbling in his mind for a while before drifting into a sort of blank-minded state. When he had come to again, refocusing his attention on the world around him, an interface box had appeared.
Congratulations! You have demonstrated the ability Meditation.
* Meditation: Minimize the usage of will by going into a restful state, blocking out external stimuli. While in this state, regeneration of will is slightly higher.
Companion will now assist in meditation by optimizing bodily functions to expend the least amount of will, allowing for even higher regeneration.
An ability? Optimizing bodily functions? He wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. The Companion could control his heart and breathing? The ability seemed good, and it also confirmed his theory that willpower was used to cast spells and that he needed will to control his body. He wondered why that was, he felt like that was different from how things had been in his before.
Getting to his feet, he decided that trying the spell out could wait. Right now, he really needed to relieve himself.
The description had not lied about the rowaberries being a laxative. Also, using moss to try and clean up was... uncomfortable, to say the least. He really wanted to find some sort of water, not only to quench his thirst but also to give himself a good wash. He looked down at his hoodie and jeans, which were caked in dirt, occasional stains of blood and a big red patch on his stomach from the mushed rowaberies as a finishing touch. Writhing around on the ground, sleeping on a dusty shack floor, and cutting his hand had done no favors for his clothes. At least they were not torn.
He could do nothing for his clothes or his thirst without finding a source of water. His stomach also gave loud reminders that he had to find a source of food that did not give him the runs. Before heading out in search of water, he returned to the shack to retrieve the bag of holding. Putting the finger and rotted quill inside proved to be as easy as just dumping them in the opening. He also rolled up a couple of the furs and put them in his bag. If he untied the bag and opened it fully, the opening was quite large, so getting the furs inside was no problem.
He decided to wait a little before investigating the book that had been in the bag; his interface said the language was unlearned, and he had more pressing concerns. He stood for a while outside of the door, not eager to leave the perceived safety of the shack. Even though the forest seemed as serene as it had yesterday, last night's attack had given him a different perspective on the dangers of the forest. The atmosphere that had yesterday seemed mysterious but intriguing felt more oppressive now.
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For what he thought was about two hours, he searched for something to drink. He employed the zig-zagging pattern he had used before to cover as much ground as possible, making sure to note distinct features in his surroundings so he could find his way back to the shack. There wasn't much that stood out, but there were occasional dead trees or a big patch of rowaheathers he could make a note of. Getting a sense of general directions wasn't too hard with the shafts of light in the canopy above. He had decided to continue walking down the constant slope that seemed to never end, so he could also orient himself by the direction of the slope.
He had discovered that the stone lines on the trees seemed to grow ever wider the longer down the slope he got. Where he was now the lines were something like 6/7 centimeters wide. He had gathered rowaberries whenever he came across them, his bag containing almost 300 now.
For some time now, he had heard the rushing of liquid coming from right ahead, yet it never seemed to get any closer. The eerie quiet of the forest amplified all sounds, making distances deceptive. As he walked, he spotted a few more Darkspike Treehogs, all displaying a level range of 5-8. Their presence was somewhat reassuring; he reasoned that these creatures must also have access to water. The thought of testing his spell on them crossed his mind a few times, but the idea of taking life merely as an experiment didn't sit right with him. He resolved to only attempt to kill one as a last resort, if he couldn't find any other source of food.
Continuing his trek, the sound of water gradually grew louder, hinting that he was getting closer to the source. When he finally reached it, he found a decently wide flow of river running in a deep furrow in the ground before the stream disappeared suddenly in a cloud of mist into a hole in the ground. The sound coming from the water going into the hole was thunderous, amplified by the echoes as the sound bounced off the walls. The mist left a cold layer of dew on his face, and his hair quickly got wet from the high moisture content in the air. He reveled in the feeling.
Mesmerized by the sight and feeling, elated at finally finding something to drink, he did not see the creature drinking from the stream some distance further up. The creature had spotted him, however, and it soon grabbed his attention when a spike suddenly stuck out of Mikals' thigh.
The searing jolt of pain lancing through his thigh, snapped his attention to the creature, as it arched its back, a wall of spikes extending towards him as it readied for its next attack. It looked similar to the darkspike treehogs but smaller. Its fur had a dark green tint and the black spikes covering it ended in green tips.
Venomspike Treehog (Juvenile), Level 3-5
The adrenaline rushing through his body had already dulled the pain. Mikal dived to the side. Scurrying to get behind the nearest tree. Just as he was about to get into cover, another sharp pain from his other thigh sent him tumbling to the ground. He caught himself, stood up, and leaned his back to the tree. One spike was sticking from each thigh, one had hit him in the side, and one in the back of the thigh. He tried making his profile as small as possible, but the spike in his back made it difficult to press himself against the tree.
With ragged breaths, he tried to calm himself and consider what to do. The venomspike had hit him with precision while he was moving, so running out of cover seemed like a bad idea. Open ground would be to the venomspikes' advantage. He felt panic rising. Was he trapped? No, he could still move, still cast, so he still had options. But what could he do?
His mind raced, discarding options as quickly as they formed. Maybe he could run straight away from the creature, keeping the tree between them? No, he had no idea of how fast the creature could move. A distraction? Throw something and then sprint? Or should he fight? If he got a clear line of sight, he could use his sparrow strike. Would that work? He was pretty sure the creature was more than 10 meters away, and he hadn't tested if the sparrows could fly out of that range. He didn't even know if they would do any damage. A weakness in his legs tore him out of his panicked inner rambling. His legs felt numb, and he slowly lost the ability to stand, sliding down the tree. The fall drove the spike in his thigh further and further in until, to his horror, it poked out of the other side of his thigh in a spurt of blood.
He didn't feel much pain, but the sight was gruesome. Venomspike, of course. He had been inflicted with some kind of paralytic. It seems the choice of whether to run or stay and fight had been made for him.
The thought sobered him from his panic. He had to fight, and now it was just about how to win. His only chance was to land a sparrow strike and hope that it dealt enough damage. Would it? He had barely tested the spell and now he would stake his life on it? He briefly considered playing dead, hoping the venomspike would come in close, but discarded the idea. The thing was covered in spikes. He looked at the spikes in his legs; he had lost all feeling from his waist down; should he try to draw one of the spikes from his body? He could possibly use it as a weapon, but it would also make the bleeding from his wound much worse.
No, he had a means of attack in his spell. He would use that. He heard a rustle from the other side of the tree and readied himself; he had only cast a sparrow with momentum successfully once, so he would not attempt it now; the explosion had to be enough. He tensed, readying to cast. Strangely, the panic from before was gone, and his mind was clear. Focused on what was to come.
He heard another rustle from the other side of the tree, much closer this time, and for a fleeting moment, despair and panic took hold of him. Could he really win, had he overlooked something?
The venomspike appeared around the tree, standing no more than 4 meters away, and without hesitation he cast. Before the first sparrow even hit the venomspike, he cast again. A spike hit him in the shoulder, and he reeled; the first explosion sounded with a thump, and he cast again and again and again. With each cast, Mikal poured his willpower into the spell, an inner roar of pure exertion bellowing through his mind, a plea for it to be enough.
A constant cloud of blue tendrils extended from where the sparrows struck, obscuring his vision of the creature. He did not know how many times he cast, but eventually, he stopped. The weakness was overcoming him and his consciousness wavered. Right before his vision blackened from either the venom or the overcasting, he got a look at the charred remains of the venom spike; there was almost nothing left of it. As the darkness claimed him, his last coherent thoughts were a mixture of immense relief and a slight feeling of sorrow for having been forced to kill.