Laying on the altar I continue poking and popping the little bubbles of light that explode into little sparkly rainbows.

There are only a few left for me to poke and pop when multiple doors around me open. Cleric Strongjaw, Lady Wisemore, Merrygold, and Violet enter the room, along with a dwarf woman with a scar that looks like her whole head was split open and stuck back together, a half-orc half-elf man whose entire left face and most his head is just burn scars, a human woman who is clearly missing an arm, and a goblin-orc woman who has no legs and is walking on little metal stubby feet things.

“We felt the presence of The Fist. Did the baby receive his blessing?” Split-face asked.

I would’ve expected her voice to be rough, or angry. But instead she’s giving me a very warm and comfy feeling. I think she’s a good person.

I look again at the four maimed people walking in. Each of them radiates an aura of calm and compassion that one really wouldn’t expect from their looks and scars.

Huh. So, maybe people who get hurt really bad become nice because they know what hurting is and want less of it? Yeah. The pretties were really badly hurt when we met and they’re super nice to everyone. These four seem the same. What’s Strongjaw’s excuse?

“Strongjaw,” Stubbies says with a much deeper voice that I could’ve imagined coming from her, “what happened in the trial?”

Strongjaw looks at the four with respect, inclining his head, “Council. Before I tell of what we saw, I must first state that this trial holds no meaning to Ratel.” He gestures at me.

I finish popping the rest of the bubbles with a giggle.

“He seems to hold no fear. Not of his death, not of what could happen, not of what he has seen. He has no nightmares. When the trial started, instead of the nebulous cloud of emotions that is typically observed Ratel had a fully grown body. It was solid, clear, and consistent. His internal vision of himself is somehow stronger than all but a few ascetics. It’s stronger than mine for certain.”

The four new people go very still and look at me intently. Stop that. It tickles.

“Interesting.” Burnt-elf says to me.

I must be in a bad mood or something because I don’t normally give people mean nicknames. Hmmmm…? Oh! I’m hungies.

I turn over towards Merrygold and Violet, reaching out my hands, “Wa waaaa wooo!”

I ignore how the four new people’s eyes go wide in shock and Face Man smirks a little to roll over and start crawling towards the pretties. Sure, there’s the edge of the altar, but I figure either they’ll come grab me before I fall, or I can just stop and climb down.

Yep. There’s Violet.

Violet quickly rushes over and picks me up before turning her back on the room and giving me my food. The best.

I can hear the conversation continue, but I don’t pay much attention to who is saying what because I am hungies. I idly wonder when I last ate, but then put it out of my mind. Afterall, why think about that when I can just enjoy eating?

“Describe it to us.”

“Council, I don’t think you understand what I’m saying. It was vivid. Enough that I can do this.”

There’s a little burst of light from behind Violet, who turns around to see what’s going on.

Fiiiiine, I’ll pay attention to the conversation while I eat.

Cleric Strongjaw has his hand on the altar, faint white mist and light spilling from his eyes and mouth. Standing on the altar is a human.

I don’t know what it is about the man standing there, but I like the way he looks.

The person standing there… Wait, the man isn’t moving, isn’t breathing… After staring for a moment I realize that the person isn’t really there. It feels like an image, but not a real person.

Alrighty. So the image of a person standing on the altar isn’t really tall, or ripped, or huge. Nothing about him stands out except for the fact that he looks perfectly balanced. He’s shorter and smaller than Cleric Strongjaw, but looks like he could move right through the man and not even notice. His chest, shoulders, abs, back, arms, feet, neck, jaw, all look compressed somehow. Not squished, but so dense and toned that even the light captures it.

His hair is a wild mane that almost defies gravity, but is long enough to reach to the middle of his back. It seems to shimmer in a way that blends from spun gold to pure black. Skin that seems to have a subtle glow underneath it that matches the hair - ranging from pure white through shades of gold and brown to black - depending on the angle one sees it from.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Speaking of hair - there is no hair on any other visible part of the picture.

The figure is wearing a pair of just plain gray, slightly baggy, pants that tie in the front and fall just above the ankle.

Oh that’s me! I recognize that. That’s what I look like… looked like? Meh. That’s a picture of me.

I point at the figure, “Magic.” Then go back to food.

With a huge sigh Merrygold starts to explain, “That is exactly what Ratel looked like in the trial. For the first half an hour nothing happened. He just sat there in that form seeming to meditate. Everything around him was dark and misty so we couldn’t see more than that, but the trial never started. He appeared like that, just as vivid as that illusion. He bounced and stretched a bit, then just seemed to sit down and meditate. Nothing happened for quite some time until the Cleric here got an idea.” She growled at him.

Strongjaw picks up the narrative almost immediately, “I figured that if he, himself, had no fear and there was nothing for the trial to work with then we needed to move on to a more - complex approach. My thought was that what if the best moments of his life had suddenly gone very very wrong. The, uh, results were… gruesome.”

He trailed off for a moment, seeming to have a bit of remorse about how things played out.

“Gruesome? HA! We had to watch ourselves be butchered by demons twice. The first time Ratel drowned in Elodie’s blood as he had to watch us get slaughtered in front of him. Us included both Lady Wisemore here and her eight year old page Janice. That scene was of this morning! The second one was yesterday! His birthday! He woke up from a nap to carnage and slaughter! His friends and family attacked by horrors!”

Violet was shaking with so much rage her skin was getting lighter.

“Violet,” Merrygold whispered and put a hand on her shoulder, “you knew the trials would be bad. The thing about them is they’re meant to bring out the worst one can imagine. Some of us have seen some pretty bad things.”

Violet’s rage seems to ebb out of her as she almost starts to sob with me tucked inside her robe.

I stop eating - this is more important - and reach up wrapping my arms around Violet’s tiny neck.

“Mawwick.” I whisper in her ear. “Magic good. Magic bad. Magic is Magic.” I babble. “Vawweb swafe. Happy.”

Whew. Talking is so hard. I hope she knows that I don’t care about the trial and am just happy to be here with her right now.

That seems to have done the trick because, with a small sob and a big hug, Violet stops shaking, fixes her clothes, and stands back up with the strength I’m used to seeing in her tiny spine.

“Apologies for losing my composure, Council.” Her insecurity completely forgotten.

The four look at each other, then incline their heads. The dwarf with the full-face scar speaks, “Your outburst is understandable Sister. We know how hard these trials are, especially on those who love the children most. I must admit though, I am bewildered by the child’s countenance. If he experiences what you claim he did, and I see no reason to doubt you, then his composure and behavior are worthy of note. You said his name was Ratel?”

Strongjaw’s hand leaves the altar, the image vanishing and the light spilling out of him gone. He staggers back and gasps heavily. “I could not maintain that any longer. I do not know why but that was draining me far faster and deeper than any time I’ve activated the record of a trial before. I tried to go deeper - to move past just his image to show the trial itself - but it wouldn’t budge. Apparently his self-image was the only part of him that left an imprint.”

The elf with burns spoke next. I like when people talk in turns, it makes it easier to follow. “You spoke of two scenarios. Yes, both gruesome, but the trial will continue to run through scenarios until the one taking it has been so wrung out by their fear as to become unable to even breathe. It has always ground one down until there is nothing left of them. The longer one can last the greater their resolve - but it does not leave one whole. Every one of us in this room takes this trial every year and not a one of us has ever come out smiling.”

He pauses and takes a deep breath before continuing in his slow deep voice, “What happened after those two scenarios?”

Strongjaw, Lady Wisemore, Merrygold, and Violet all share a look. I’m honestly surprised that Greyward, Patricia, or Peach - at the very least - haven’t come charging down here yet.

Lady Wisemore speaks up, “We honestly don’t know. The scene changed to an event that happened a few months ago, the day after Ratel received his name, when the Sisters played music in the park to celebrate.”

The goblin-orc on metal stubby feet replies, “We are familiar with the event. Continue.”

Lady Wisemore takes a deep breath, and blows it out slowly, “I don’t know. The scene started, then there was a feeling of wrongness, I suppose - it wasn’t very clear and didn’t have a picture - before the image just went blank. No image of Ratel’s inner self, no scene. The magic seemed to have just cut off or something. We assumed it was some fear of the dark, of loneliness as is common with babies, but it was too heavy, too solid. It lasted for the better part of three hours. Then the trial simply ended. We rushed down here, just as you did, when we felt the presence of The Fist. But other than that, I don’t know any more about what happened.”

Strongjaw, looking like he’s about to collapse, with a slightly vacant stare on his face, speaks up, “I have a guess. It’s just that, a guess. Council. Ratel is the child I told you about. The one who only lasted 17 seconds under Clark’s spiritual tempering. The very same child that withstood the full strength of my intent. He did so without crying. No. That’s not even right. He fucking laughed in my face as blood leaked from his eyes and ears. I think that whatever was in the final challenge was something none of us can imagine.”

He sighs deeply, before his features crystalize into a feral smile, “When I first laid eyes on this child he was dead. Stilborn. His mother having died during the childbirth. I was called in to make sure that there was no lingering resentment and to ensure neither turned into undead or were possessed by daemons, demons, or devils. I performed the rights, sanctified the bodies, and was on my way out of the establishment when the midwife came screaming to me that the baby was alive. This child, dead and sanctified, rose. I know not by what means, but when I tried to commune with The Fist in that moment, I was instructed to give him to one that could raise him well, with love. My first thought of course was the Sisterhood, for what do I know of raising children. I handed him over and assumed that things would play out as normal. I was amazed when I came back in six months and found that they, one and all, had claimed him as their child and wished to be his mother. That was why, when he only lasted 17 seconds under Clark’s domain I offered to make the deal with you to attempt to kill him and, if he survived, he was in the care of the Sisters to raise. Well, this is the result of that deal - of this child - of that one night I just happened to be in a bar nearby a brothel when a mother died while giving a stillbirth to a child of a father who died foolishly looking for treasure in the wilds.”

Why is everyone looking at me like that? Do I have something on my face?

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

Nope, no mess here. Hmmm… OH! I bet they want to see my new mark.

With a wave and a smile I pull down my clothes thing and show the little fist I have on my chest.

Taking a deep breath I explain, “Dwa Fiwbst woes mwah a fabow.” Elegance.

“What did he just say?” The human woman missing an arm asks.

Grumping, I point to the little fist, “Magic!” If they can’t figure it out from that, then it’s no longer my problem.

Violet and Merrygold both look at the tiny little birthmark of a fist on my chest. “That’s new.” Merrygold says.

Lady Wisemore turns to the Council, and opens her arms wide, palms up. “I think we can all agree that whatever is happening with Ratel, we should just accept it as the Will of The Fist. I think the question for now is, how do we train him?”

The elven man with the burn-scarred face locks eyes with me, “I think this is a question that requires all his mothers to be present as well. Come, let us gather in a more comfortable place where we can discuss his training at length.”