I only had my wand, and what clothes I wore. Most of my things were lost in the woods at the bottom of the cliff I had leapt from. What did she mean by, ‘all of my things.’ Before I could say anything, she leaves. I pace around for a moment until Nyt comes back, carrying my shirt and eye patch, and a pair of dark trousers that seemed like they’d fit, and a pair of boots that were a little too big. She passes them to me. As I slip them on, a couple others walk in as well, carrying a variety of things.

“It’s not much but it’s the least we can do.”

The first of these was a large deerman, who’s fur had tints of white at the edges. He passes me a small draw bag while I’m finishing the buckles on the leather boots. A little bit of weight sags the bottom of the drawstring bag, so I pull it open and dump its contents in my hand. A white ring with black inscriptions around its band, and a necklace with three long white slats hung on a leather chord with similar looking runes inscribed on each slat.

“Thank you.” I say.

I push the ring onto my finger, and immediately feel a wave of energy and a better sense of the mana in the air all around me, if only a little. I put the necklace on, and my mind is a little clearer. A buff to magic and intelligence, maybe? Maybe something else?

“They’re made of the bones and sinew of the apostle.” The deerman states proudly with a broad smile.

I fight the urge to tear them off of me. I thank him, and he bows his head and moves aside for the next person. This one is a young Ir carrying a tan sash. At least this one can’t be made of the bones of the apostle. She helped me tie it around the waist. I feel my legs strengthen a little.

“This is made of the hide of the apostle.” The older deerman states, just as proudly. “Made by my apprentice there.” He motions to the grinning Ir.

I try to stop the oncoming grimace.

“Thank you…”

“You’re welcome!” The Ir states cheerfully.

I feel macabre. The Ir moves out of the way and the next person comes. A young man who was in the pens on the ground. He looks to be about 15 or 16, with shaggy black hair, and tanned skin. He should be finishing up high school, not locked up in here.

“Took him in under my wings. Has some talent.”

He places two large items in my lap. I recognize them at once by their patterns; the feathery design of the sails on the skiffs.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“I remember you saying you wanted to make something out of them.” Nyt says, “So I suggested these.”

The first of these items was a large cloak. It hung across my neck comfortably with a scarf like piece that was held together with a simple clasp. When fully unfurled, it falls down to the back of my knees. The second of them was a large backpack, that had just as much space, if not more, than the bag I had lost on the cliffs.

“Thank you.” I say.

“You’re welcome, man. Least I can do, you know?”

“You live in Arville?”

“I do. Man, I can’t wait to see my mom and dad again.”

“Thank you guys, really.”

“That’s not it.”

The elderly deerman says before pushing the door open, and reaching outside for a brief moment. He pulls back in two more things; the staff that the apostle had carried, and a dagger in a wooden sheathe. The first of which he carried by a piece of cloth wrapped around its center.

First he hands me the dagger. Its light, and familiar and feels good in my hand. The handle is simple, but the sheathe is exquisite. It bares the image of a man striking a dark figure with a sword and pushing it back.

“This is made from the shards of the broken sword you used. All we could recover of it.”

“You didn’t have to do that. It wasn’t an important sword.” I answer.

“Not an important sword? It killed an apostle. It’s a shame we couldn’t recover more of it.”

I slide it out of its sheathe. It sings beautifully as it slides against the dark wood. The metal is black and reflective, as if I were looking at a mirror.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Name it.” Nyt says.

Oh. That’d be cringy.

“I don’t think I will.”

“All good blades need a name!” The large deerman slaps my shoulder.

“I’ll think about it.”

He laughs, and passes me the staff.

“Grab it by the — oh, gods dammit.”

As soon as I grip it, I feel a vast void within me...no, not within me, all around me. It pulls and tears at me like a thousand thousand thorns as if my entire body was being torn apart. With it, goes a part of my conciousness. I feel myself in everything — in everyone all around me. Is this mana? Can mana be this intense?

“Grab it by the cloth, boy! That’s a root of a God Tree you’re holding!”

I slip my hand down until I feel the rough burlap brush against my hand. As soon as I no longer touch the wood directly the feeling fades and I feel myself snap back into reality. I take a deep breath. I now understand how the apostle was able to use magic so quickly and so precisely, but now more questions swim into my mind. How does one continually experience that, and not lose your mind? Even now I wasn’t sure if I was me, or the chair in the corner of the room, or the lamp in the room over or if I were the children listening into our conversation beyond the door to the outside, or the countless dead and burned Efrans beyond the wall. I sit down on the edge of the bed and let my mind recover for a moment.

“What is that cloth made of? It blocks out so much mana.”

“From the woven hair of the apostle, of course.”

I nearly drop it. Instead I snatch it by the shaft before it could fall, and find myself living the life of the nearby bed for several moments that pass like an eternity before the staff is snatched out of my hand.