Elena Cooke
She practiced with Zachariah in the main training room. Their rhythm echoed hauntingly in the deserted space. The lack of any others felt unusual. It was a return to the very early days when few thought to learn the fundamentals before facing monsters. The previous two weeks had brought a great deal of life to the training facilities. Classes ranged throughout the day and there was constant traffic to the private training rooms.
Now, it was too quiet.
Elena tried her best not to think of the reason for it. The whole point of the two of them coming here rather than their rooms was to avoid the dreadful atmosphere that pervaded the Sixty. That, and to get better. While on the whys summoned panic, it was imperative to become stronger. It had been made clear to them all that their current strength wasn’t enough. More power and skill was needed. They learned that there were horrors that could too easily break them.
Coming to The Pit was a freeing experience for Elena. All her life despite the warrior’s physical advantages, she had been admonished for not being more feminine. To be dainty in movement and form Forced to hold back so that the boys would not be outshined. Aloof silence was the closest that she had ever gotten to being what was expected of her.
Chopping firewood had always fitted better in her wheelhouse than needlework. She despised needlework
Now, in the frontliner she could revel in the fullness of her strength. There was no one to scream at her for outplaying the boys or to whisper disappointments for a muscular frame. She had fled her horrid family, but memories were hard to leave behind. Especially the ones that took on a semblance of life themselves. The haunted memories lost a lot of their power after Elena felt praise for her strength. The Sixty celebrated her natural gifts.
Suspicion had been the first emotion the warrior had felt when Warner had picked her out. SHE asked pointed questions warily to understand or suss out the threat. Wonder came thundering in when Elena found that the man was being honest. Her height and muscles had drawn the others' attention. It had been freeing to be wanted for what her family had hated. Under his glowing encouragement, she had learned the ax. For that alone, the brawler had her loyalty. Freedom from your own demons was a rare gift.
That newfound freedom had carried her willing into the claws and fangs of monsters. As horrible as the Ratsins were, Elena had found fighting them a delight. They offered an unmistakable stick to measure her growing strength. The fact that there was no downside to their deaths was just a plus. The challenge was the pleasure and resolve that the warrior needed to keep pushing upwards. It brought an enjoyment of life that she had never felt before.
Today’s events changed things. She had seen and felt the wavering in the air. It seemed foolish to her that many were not prepared to accept that their own power wasn’t enough. Effort needs to be paid to gain anything and Elena was happy to spend the time. A shiver ran through as she remembered the horror of knowing her strength wasn’t enough. That dread fueled her to keep standing and moving. Flashes of the dead and dying forced her to crystal clarity. Her breath came too quickly, but the memory of how close death had come only reinforced her need to get stronger. The reaper had proved to be too easily met.
The two of them pushed raggedly against each other. Both warriors exerted everything they had to best the other. It was the only way to improve, and blur everything else from their minds. Her training ax finally caught Zachariah and Elena stepped back for a breather before they started again. The spearman nodded the bout to her. Instead of stepping back to rest though, he moved to put his wooden spear away.
“What are you doing?” gasped Elena. “Let’s go again!”
Her friend sighed heavily, shoulders sagging. When he turned to look at her, the exhaustion was clear. Their face reflected the same aches and tiredness Elena felt. Though, her determination to keep going was entirely missing from his stance. Zachariah looked done. “Going to bed,” he replied.
“Nah, let’s go again,” encouraged Elena weakly. “I’m still fresh.”
“Liar,” stated Zachariah. “We’re both long done.”
“Err, I, I’m not ready,” explained Elena uneasily. “I don’t want to sleep.”
“That’s silly,” He pointed out. “Hurting ourselves because we pushed too far won’t help us against that dead thing.”
She flinched and flushed that her friend had seen it. Her eyes dropped in a cocktail of emotions. The memory she was trying to escape turned her insides cold as it broke free. It was a bad enough reaction that her father’s voice echoed out from the back of her mind. Whispering “Just a girl” and “act like a girl for once.”
Elena shuttered while trying to push her demons back down deep. “I don’t want to think about that… thing. I just want to be stronger than it.”
“Then, it would be a fragile strength,” Zachariah stated softly. “You weaken yourself by refusing to accept the pain. We almost died today. Embrace it and move on.”
“It’s not that easy,” admitted Elena shamefully.
He looked upwards with another sigh, answering, “Never is, but I don’t know a better way. Pain is pain. Fear is fear. Accept it and they fade. Don’t let it fester.”
“I’ll try,” sighed Elena. “Will you sit with me for a while?”
“Yes,” smiled Zachariah. “My shoulder is yours to cry on. Only, forgive me one thing?
“Alright, what’s that?” Elena asked, curious.
Grinning, he said, “Do not hate me if I fall asleep.”
She chuckled, but not because it was funny. Mostly it was out of relief. “I’ll try not to hold it against you. Let’s go to your room in case we both fall asleep between “my tears.””
Blushing a little, Zachariah tossed out “Ahh, yes, lead the way.”
Axton Price
Laughter sprung eternal. He could neither escape nor stop it. The cackle was strangling him slowly. His every attempt failed to squash it more than to a shuddering breath. Axton was terrified. The world spun as the ax-wielder gasped for air between every painful burst. Sharp bites of sacred air. He lay heaving on the ground struggling to escape his own body.
Axton desperately tried to break the cycle. The laughter rose and fell. Slowly to a trickle of chuckles. Hope would burn bright as the ax-wielder thought himself free, but then something would strike him funny. Everything seemed to. Random thoughts mostly, though his eyes were squeezed tight against seeing the sights of the room. That only made the dark humor of waking in The Pit come to mind. Scaring himself free also wasn't an option as the frantic laughing was at least partially panicked. That made horror and despair useless too.
So, trapped in the darkness of self, he fought and shook to clamp off the crazed humor. Why can’t I stop? He screamed inside. Please damn it, I just want it to stop! The shuddering need rushed through him as giggles forced his mouth open over and over again. Axton wanted to claw his own throat to find any end to this. Only the fear that he would still be laughing after being restored to life held him back.
It had all begun as a chuckle as the dead thing broke him and left the ax-wielder to die slow. He laughed at the useless bravo that had brought death upon him so rightly. Blood spurted from his mouth at each excited exhale, but pooled faster beneath him. Coldness and weakness came to his limbs. Laughing the whole time before darkness took him to the beyond. Into the endless, he came laughing, and in the face of oblivion, panic raised it to wild frantic guffawing.
He woke up laughing and fled howling away from everyone. WHY CAN’T I STOP LAUGHING? roared the ax-wielder. It was only clear in his head, as screaming through the laughter just caused him to gag colorfully. His chest ached as his body bucked in rhythm. His throat clicked at every effort and grew painfully dry. Feeling at any moment it would rip itself apart like two pieces of sandpaper grinding at each other. The thought of the moisture that bleeding would bring seemed a gift.
Drunkenly, Axton stood up. Wavering steps as he blindly sought his axes. They had been absently discarded upon his rushed entry. Unsure and hoping for a safe place. The room had turned out to be pointless to his efforts to calm down. Thinking of the axes had given him an idea. His feet found them first, jumbled together on the floor.
Trembling like the elderly, he bent down to pick them up. Laughing like mad the whole time. The seeds of calm blooming at the familiar smoothness of the polished wood in each hand. Axton focused entirely on the weight of the axes. A task made easier since he was still blind to the world with his eyelids clenched shut. For the briefest of moments, he considered turning the blades on himself. It wasn’t the original intent, but the uncontrolled laughter was getting to him. The pain and panic were drowning everything else away. A quick end was appealing.
Instead, Axton steadied himself into a stance and began to run drills. Stoically, as the laughter spilled free, he called on every memory of training. Trying his best to only pay attention to his movement and remember instructions. When his axes caught something or grazed the walls, he didn’t slow. Only flowed into the next movement. The laughter began to fade. Quieter and quieter. Becoming just chuckles spaced with random bellows of humor. Then shoulder-shaking giggles took over and were in time replaced by pop-up guffaws.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
It was only when he had been working solidly for a minute without a buck of the chest that the ax-wielder stopped. He collapsed half on the bed. Axton was overwhelmed with exhaustion and relief. Enough to weep in joy while pressed face-first into the mattress. His tears were still flowing when he fell asleep.
Damian Franklin
He had noted the despair that the Sixty had fallen under. Damian was getting much better at understanding what was seen on their faces. It was tiring at times to translate the new sense he had gained in The Pit, but it was extraordinarily useful. Though, the obsidian acolyte wasn’t completely sure on how to utilize it yet. Only that it was valuable information. The solution to fix their current mood was also beyond him.
Yes, people died, thought Damian as he tried to parse it out. But, they came back… That should make everything alright if not be a cause for celebration, right? Perhaps, the experience is unpleasant? Hmm, that doesn’t answer everything… Many that did not die are also being negatively affected. It is strange and I do not understand what I see… though, I am curious about what it was like for those that did die. That will have to wait… I do not think it would be appreciated at the moment. Hmmm, when things calm down I will have to question Anastasia… Maybe Analia too. An acolyte’s viewpoint is likely more useful, but a few others for perspective?
Having concluded there wasn’t much he could do for the morale of the Sixty, the obsidian acolyte turned his attention to the bulging pack filled with Mana crystals. Several had been converted to his Violet frequency, but most were still their natural azure. There were still a lot of experiments to do on them. Placing a spell within a crystal was a high priority for him. That had proven so far to be quite difficult. It wasn't the only avenue of research currently out of reach.
Damian tried to have other acolytes harmonize their own Mana crystals. All of them had trouble connecting and only Jorgenson proved able to affect her crystal. It briefly started to change to a shifting green-gray before the azure rejected the change. There would be no studying other Mana types and signatures just yet.
The obsidian acolyte sat at a desk in his room and patiently felt through various crystals. He learned little bits here and there. Mostly it proved increasingly useful for training fine manipulation of Mana. The empowering effect is so far their best use, but I should pass out a few for training purposes, considered Damian. That should help the other acolytes catch up to me. I should test to see if other path types can do the same… and the faith-based acolytes might also be another divergence!
He smiled, thrilled and joyfully at the prospect. In the glow of violet and blue, the obsidian acolyte dedicated himself to unveiling more secrets of The Pit.
Analia Curtis
Her death had been a wondrous journey. Layers of scales had been torn from her eyes. The kiss of oblivion had brought clarity and new understanding. To say death had been pleasant was going too far, but it had been informative. To see darkness and void in their purest forms was a gift. Through a mix of horror and awe, Analia had gained insight into her innate power.
Oblivion scourged her soul while the vastness of the darkness sang to her. A great shadow that lay between death and life. She felt the truth of that place, a passage to travel. Oblivion cleansed the soul of burdenful self and on the other side of the darkness was a new light. Analia shrieked and rejoiced at the annihilation. Then, the shadow acolyte was reeled back to life the way she had come. Same form, new body.
She didn’t regret being pulled away. Analia wasn’t done with this life, it was good to be back. The difference from others, that she knew to exist, was her view on dying. There was horror, but the value of the insight outweighed the memory of oblivion. Power thrummed within her. A change had come about the shadow acolyte.
By will alone, she drew an orb of darkness to exist above her hand. A chanted spell was no longer her only route to magic. It didn’t catch her up to Damian, but Analia knew it was a turning point in rising as an acolyte. The orb floated, rippling to unknown touches. Midnight black with a haze of gray surrounding it. If she listened closely, the sound of disintegration could be heard. Oblivion was within her grasp.
Julia Sarcos
The waves rumbled over the sand and salt hung heavy in the air. It was a beautiful beach. With perfect weather to enhance the experience. A shining sun to warm the skin and a cool breeze to keep the sweat away. There was nothing else to hear, but the ocean’s tide. Julia relaxed, staring out at the hazy horizon where dolphins played. It was a day of peace.
“Feeling better?” asked the woman beside her.
Julia turned to the other with mixed feelings. It was almost like being haunted, except the ghost, was you. The apparent differences were few. The shield maiden’s wild hair was tied battle-ready and wore the strange clothes of The Pit. This other version of her allowed the hair to be freely caught in the wind and was dressed in the paint-speckled cloths of her once artist life. There was of course a divide created by their weight. She could claim the best shape of her life, muscular even. The old her was not overweight, but more curvy than sleek. Summed up, the sense she got from comparing them was like a before and after of a survivor of a plane crash. Like something found in an article comparing how much had changed during their time on an uninhabited island.
“I am,” admitted Julia, still awkward with her reflection. “You’re me, but it’s still embarrassing that I showed up here screaming.”
“From what you told me… I don’t blame you,” shivered the other Julia. “Though, that’s not what I was really talking about. Well, that’s connected to why we're here, but not the whole story, y’know.”
“O’ hmm,” murmured the shieldmaiden. “I don’t like dying.”
Rolling her eyes the other replied, “I don’t think anyone does.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she sighed. “I mean, I definitely do not want to do that again. That place I went… horrible. Worse than dying, or at least the worst part…”
“And?” pushed her reflection. They looked a little miffed.
A small smile full of mischief popped up on her face for a moment. “And what?” she asked cheerfully.
“Come on, Julia,” frowned the other. “Do we really need to talk about this all over again? I thought we got through it.”
“Haha, alright, alright,” said Julia, giving up. “Don’t hold it against me for wanting to prolong my time here. It may be a dream, but it’s just so lovely. I won’t be seeing a place like this any time soon…”
“Fine, I get it. I won’t blame you. The Pit looks like a pretty dreary place… Still, I need to hear you say it.”
She nodded, but stayed silent for a few beats. Pausing to greedily take in everything around her. When Julia felt any further delay wouldn’t be tolerated, she said, “Ok, yeah, I can go back. I will go, and I do want to.”
“Even though it's terrifying?” probed her reflection.
“Despite that, I do,” smiled Julia. “My whole life I’ve been scared. Worrying about every possible thing that could go wrong. In The Pit, for the sake of the Sixty… I pushed past it. Clarissa helped with the first step, but it was me that kept going. I care about everyone. I want to see them again. I want to see Malachi again.”
“Of course you want to see Malachi again,” teased the other Julia with a wiggle of her eyebrows. “Don’t leave that hanging! Finding him was too lucky not to go for it. Trust me! I’m jealous.”
“I’m jealous of myself, that’s weird,” snorted the shieldmaiden. “I’ll work on that… somehow talking to a boy is scarier than fighting monsters.”
“Life’s weird like that,” agreed the old her. “Good luck!”
Everything faded to white. The beach disappeared before her eyes and the sound of waves followed after. Her view grayed and darkened until Julia realized she was looking at the inside of her eyelids. Opening them revealed the gloomy expressions of Malachi and Clarissa. Both appeared to be looking at something inside and were unhappy with what they saw.
“Hey, guys?” greeted Julia, a little confused.
The bed she laid upon bounced as Clarissa dove on it to give a hug. “Ju Ju!” cried her friend. One arm looped around the redhead while the other hand stayed warmly clasped in Malachi’s. “Dammit woman, why were you asleep so long! The others woke up pretty fucking quickly! You just… laid there like sleeping beauty!”
“The others?” blinked Julia.
Grimly, Malachi answered, “Those that died.”
“Ahh, right…” she frowned. “Sorry. I had to talk something out…”
“What does that mean?” asked Clarissa.
“Uh I’ll tell you later,” replied the shieldmaiden quickly. “How many died?”
“Too many,” sighed Malachi.
“Yeah, what gloomy guts said, but if you were to put a number to it… fourteen,” responded the redhead.
“Wow, that’s a lot,” Julia said in shock. “How’s everyone taking it?”
Malachi flinched and Clarissa grimaced. They both tried to answer at the same time. The latter said, “Not well.” In unenthusiastic opposition, the former said, “Well as can be expected.”
The awkwardness of the silence that followed gave Julia time to notice their bearded leader’s status. “Malachi!” burst out the shieldmaiden. “What happened to your arm!?”
He smiled awkwardly in response or at least tried to. It was a brittle and sad thing. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll adjust… Speaking of which, I should be off. I have training to do… I am very glad to see you back with us. Rest and take all the time you need.” Despite her protests that he needed the rest, Malachi left in a swirl of his cloak. Julia stared at the door after he was gone, a frown marring her face. This was not what she expected to return to.
“We’re in real trouble,” said Clarissa through gritted teeth.
She wanted to disagree, but all that came out was, “Are you sure? Maybe he just needs some time.”
“He’s not the only one sunk low, but Malachi’s funk might be what drags us down,” expanded Clarissa. They stayed together in companionable but depressing silence. Seeking and getting comfort from the other’s presence. Finally, the redhead started to talk again. “He’s not wrong about training though. None of us are good enough yet… I’m gonna go train… what will you do?”
“I’ll walk with you and do my own work,” agreed Julia. She jumped out of the bed before Clarissa could.
“You sure? I don’t want you to push yourself too hard. Y’know, after dying and all.”
“No, it’s fine. I want to be here and that means I have to take it seriously.” They both walked out together. When Julia got into the hall she froze. Her head tilted towards the archer with a bland look. “Wait… was that Malachi’s bed?”
“O’, why yes it was!” exclaimed Clarissa. Suddenly there was pep in the redhead’s step and Julia blushed very hard.