I take the snake in and with a swing of my hand a clean cut appears in it, separating body and head of the creature as keep going, knowing that there is still work to be done before I can stop and rest.
The next to be cut is a wild – and of previous unknown specie for me – bird, it has dark feathers that shine with a strange, almost iron like glow as I give myself a few spare seconds to study them. Not only that, but they are hard as dry leather against the skin but still as light as any other – if not more – in my hands, giving it the feel of a beast’s more than one of an animal’s.
It is not of course, but only because it’s too young to have fully absorbed enough essence to be called a beast, still, as true born of Briddell that would be only a matter of time, so it’s no surprise that it already shows some changes even if it’s not one yet. That aside, the six small night-black claws and its golden eyes complete the small figure of the little Òir bird.
They said that its name comes directly from the language for “gold” and was given because of its golden eyes – a distasteful choice I would say if asked as I can think of about five better names in a few seconds, but practitioners are practitioners.They told that the word was discovered a few dozen ten-years ago when a variant Earth practitioner got it as her true name, and since no beast of the bird species had ever crossed to the middle levels and got to understand or speak our tongue to let us learn its given name, people just started calling it “gold bird”.
And they started doing that simply because it was easier to warn others of the danger that the black, golden eyed bird carried if it had a name. They said that this small bird, if given a few more years to fully mature and enough time to absorb enough in its claws and wings to level, would be able to cut through both air and iron alike, too fast to follow with the eyes, and too small to properly hand a hit as it cut through armor and flesh in small and not more than a few centimeters deep gashes again and again until its prey fall prone, be it by pain, blood loss or resignation.
Well, that’s what they said at least, and although I’ve heard stories of how fearsome beasts are, I’ve come to know that they tend to be a lot more in them. Still, here, inside the death forest itself I can hardly keep myself from shivering, the thought alone making me nervously glance around in search for what beast could be preying me, hid, and waiting.
But I soon shrug the thought out, even if there is a beast hiding out there it’s not like I would be able to see, or react to it, so I just give myself back in the task of cleaning the bird. Not that I stop thinking about it, it’s a monotonous task and I can hardly move my thoughts of how a simple bird can turn into a deadly killing machine of a beast.
On a side view however, I should not be surprised with a bird that turns into a killing beast by absorbing essence as I’ve seen people turn into worst things by doing the same for years. That’s simply how essence works I think, it’s only a shame that people won’t naturally turn into practitioners just by living long enough like animals do, because it would sure make it harder for those people make us slave if they couldn’t stop us from being practitioners ourselves.
Harder, but far from impossible, I correct myself. Even if we could absorb essence like the animals, the amount of time needed for them is in the decades, and for what the chief said, mot simply don’t live long enough to turn into beasts, dying long before even getting close to it. We would simply be less lasting slaves.
Again, giving things another glance, animals have it hard too. They are just like us, the weaker ones, unable to fight the beasts back and left to live on fear and to hope that they will eventually turn into beasts themselves, only to die because the chances are too small.
Small, but a chance still, and if by luck one eventually succeed its descendants would find easier to do so, and so would find the descendants of the latter, until after some time a new species of beasts would be birthed. Born true from the womb, with strength and wisdom towering its original species by far and with a name to call their given by the Four themselves they would make hell on wherever they born, until either they get killed or killed everything slow enough to not adapt to the new rulers, as the chief said.
Just like us, it seems that animals have their dreams too. It’s almost make me sad for the two that we’ll be dinning tonight but before I can start the pitying the cold and characteristic winds of Briddell bite my face, suddenly blowing hard and non-stop even this close to the fire, calling my attention to the realproblems such as the dead bird in my left hand and not the delusions of a wandering mind.
Going back to work I finish plucking the bird, cutting cleanly its head soon after as the wet sound is followed by the dry one of the knife finding the cutting board. Afterwards and in quick succession I gut the bird, taking out everything inedible and taking it by the legs, hanging him “head” down so I can drain it’s blood.
Usually it would have been done right after the killing as it would have been easier, now the blood is already idle and moving it will take a longer time. Thankfully they are both small animals with not really that much of blood in them to begin with, but still, doing it will not only make cutting the meat easier but the blood can be used to flavor the food later on.
That, and as the mercenaries had nothing close to a stand or table I can only prepare things seated down, using the only cutting board as a make do and needing to hang the animals to make space, wanting or not, doing things that way let me gain something with it. I’m pretty sure that the chief of the mercenaries could make one table of wood in seconds if he wanted, but as he said nothing about it I can only believe that he either can’t, or don’t want to.
By thinking about them I can’t help but let my eyes fall at the mercenaries, all of them are sitting comfortable even in the middle of Briddell itself, the mountain like, dark-brownish trees that pierce the sky doing little against their nerves. With their leafs blocking the sunlight we find ourselves in a constant state of not only darkness, but directionless and still, they joke and laugh around like nothing, truly a remarkable feat.
A few starving eyes instantaneously stare me back like hungry wolfs, urging me back to work as they casually shot their glances to the big pot at the fire, but they can do little more than that, one of the reasons that I learned to cook in the first place. I should not test them however, so disregarding my aching muscles I stand up. I search in the leather pouch that contains our supplies, easily finding the few tasty roots that the mercenaries packed, they will give the stew a nice and deep flavor and the cutting-working motion that those people want to see.
Absent minded I take the blade in hands once more, the perfect balance and the comfortable grip wins me a smile, even if the same work they make it a world of difference between the small, pointy like pieces of iron given me in the manor to clean the vegetables, still, the working is not that different and soon everything is cut and thrown into the boiling pot, sweet smell of good food soon filling the air.
The smell earns me a few more hungry glances with small sparks of curiosity in them, truth is, those people know not how to cook, not even close. They can pretty much do the basics but any other usage of the ingredients if not the most obvious is far beyond their reach, resulting in the same dry, crude tasting dishes, repeated again and again.
Of course, I’m not a master of the kitchen myself and even if the food was a little bland, it was solid, hot and overall pretty delicious – to be honest I would settle for solid and hot only – but that was not good enough for a certain someone and in the end, my little experience and amount of free time earned me the position of cook.
And although I’m glad that I’m now of use and earned myself a reason to my presence, I usually would not just volunteer for such consuming time work when I’m in the middle of level two hunting ground and have yet to get at level, nor did the chief accept that kind of behavior but, to put it simple, the one that was complaining was Eagan, the guy that shot me down and the guy that can put us all dead with a few words to the patriarch of his family.
Because of that and the time used moving I’ve found myself with much less time than I would like to have. Practices were put to early nights, but after a long day of walk, even with them going slower I’m still just a normal person without essence to boost my body or nurture my muscles, even with the help of Eisg and his healing when night falls I’m much past my limit already.
Not that working past my limit is something new, but I have yet to truly get a good rest and that’s weighting heavier with the days. Every night I’ll throw myself on the sleeping bag, tired and sore, wanting nothing but to give in to the cold embrace of sleeping and yet, I’ll not. The fear of beast entering the camp in the middle of my sleep and taking my life before I’ve even know of its presence terrifies me, I tried to force the thoughts out but they’ll come back, again and again until I give up and sit myself to cultivate.
Cultivation will not help though, and nor it’ll progress, so the process will repeat itself until either I eventually black out of pure exhaustion or the early light wakes the rest to another long day of work.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“All because the little young lord can’t eat the same of us all.” I hear my tired mind whispering, pushing me into throwing all problems in Eagan’s account, of how all of this it’s his fault and so on. And as much as it’s and he’s indeed at fault, this is not totally right too, just how I could blame him for hurting me he could blame me for not making my presence known in the middle of the night in a never ending cycle of blaming that I’ll help in nothing.
Not that I’ll not blame or hate him, but there are simply more people that truly deserve to be hated and blamed, and things that I need to do to make they pay back for everything that they did to us, so I can’t keep small grudges like that slowing me down.
He also made the decision easier as I felt his genuine concern and regret about what he did when we talked, making clear that he didn’t do anything with intention to cause me harm. I could almost say that just like the mercenaries he is not the bad kind of practitioner, but to sum up, he has no common sense – better saying – he has the common sense of the riches – although I don’t which is worse. Every time that one of the mercenaries tried to talk him up we got a problem, be it because he can’t understand that they can’t actually do what he wants or in the way he wants, or because that’s simply not how it works.
That’s pretty much how, and why, I ended up with the task of cooking.
I take my eyes out with a depressive sigh, despite their strength there is little that even they can do against a whole family. But still, they choose, they were paid for it and they could have refused. Even now, they do not obey Eagan, they choose to work him out because it’s easier and despite doing so, they could have said no. Repercussions apart, there is no one that can order them down.
To be free, it wasn’t for it that I risked all? So what I could not get at level until now and so what I’m in the middle of the death forest itself? I survived worse, and I’ll attain strength to never be ordered again, I’ll bring freedom to my people and swear for the Four that I’ll burn down every single family that stands on my way while at it.
Wait m-
“Hey kiddo, you alright? You staring the void for a while ya know?” – The voice cuts and my eyes and thoughts focus on the brown haired mercenary in front and smiling at me.
“Did you get it Brod?” – I ask, changing topics.
“I sure did, who do you think you’re dealing with? I’ve moved like a shadow, in and out in no more than a few seconds, and I can affirm that he’ll only know late enough you can be sure”
The mercenary speaks, the light joking tone in his voice showing nothing of worry or concern for what we – mostly him – are going to do. He bet with me that I would not have the guts to use a especial thing in tonight’s dish, one that I could never actually get my hands on in my time in the raining skies and one expensive enough that most would not dare to use in such common dish, one that I wouldn’t dare too, if it was mine.
I smile back at him, a small but real one. After those weeks I can say that Brod is a friend already, even if one that likes fooling around and betting too much, but I’ve come to know that so do I. If only every practitioner was like him, things would be great, but they are not – I say to myself, shrugging the thoughts off.
“Well, let’s be fast so, the blood is hardening already”
He has a mute question in his eyes as how do wine and blood can actually taste good but chooses to ignore it just as I chose to ignore his reasons to the bet. Both knowing that the other has a good one, or at least hoping it. It’s too late to regret accepting anyway, the sweat sent of wine coming masked within the sweat smell of the stew itself as we – I – put more and more of it on the pot, first in small mouthfuls but soon enough we find ourselves with less than half jug in our hands. What can I say?
As fast as they came, both the jug and Brod are gone, making his way time saying a joke to a friend, an excuse to another, all of that while favoring his right leg just a bit more than the left. Maybe and old injure aching, maybe a recent painful twist in the tricky ground of the forest or maybe, concealing a little jug in one of his pockets, how would I know? I’m just the cook, moving my stew carefully to not let it burn.
Now with the characteristic dark-red color of the wine, the smell and taste are nothing to be compared and soon, the wine will boil and flavor the stew up. There’ll be no way to hide that we used wine of course, and when they discover there will be no doubt of whom we used it, I’m just trusting that Brod really has a good reason.
In the back of my mind I hear that whispering voice saying that this is a trap, that he’s doing that so they’ll get angry with me. But that would go against everything that I’ve been seeing for more than two weeks already, and I hardly think that they really need that much if they wanted to kill me in the first place.
I hear the voice laughing at me, mocking my thoughts but I ignore it, ignoring the mocking of others is one of the things that I can do better, not saying the mocking of a voice that can’t hit you. That’s probably because I can’t find my sleep, I’ve seeing shadows moving on their own for the last few days, now I’m hearing voices, and just like the shadows they are simply not real.
Still, I need to something abou them fast, but I just don’t know what to. I talked with Brod before about how freeing my mind in meditation has become harder and harder in those last days, with worries about the forest, what to do, and so on but he didn’t really helped. He said that it’s no uncommon to actually hit a wall while cultivating, most find, or will find themselves like this, Brod is in such situation himself he said, no matter what he does his affinity will not go up, blocking his way to the third level and caging him on the second no matter how much his essence grows.
Again, from what he said, people like Eagan that can attain such high level this fast are either the small portion of genius or rich enough to fill the gap with resources. Why lose months of meditation searching for a single insight so you can fuse deeper with your element when you can buy a magical herb that will boost your affinity in a few days?Well, sadly those herbs are not only absurdly expensive but finding one on sale without the right connections is a hard job itself, not a good solution to my problem.
But does it matter? I can’t help but ask, what if I truly get at level a week ago or at the next week? Nothing, it takes years to get in a level like one of the boss, and even so, it would be still not enough. The raining skies have hundreds of practitioners, the strongest being a level for. I closed myself to the truth, no matter if I actually rushed there soon after leveling, even if I could enter and leave without being noticed, how many could I save and how many I would let to suffer?
Fact is, even I did all that, even if I asked the band for help and they actually accepted, in the best of the scenarios we would be hunted, bounties in our heads, living in fear while trying to move further and further from everything and everyone. On the worst, they would send the high troop soon after discovering our act and all of us would be hanging to public torture before dusk.
No matter what I do it’ll take time, and it’s unfair to you that while you suffer I’m here, wasting time with little trickery and pointless bets while making excuses to my failures. But we know pretty well, right? That the world never claimed to be fair.
Sorry.
Sadness and exhaustion overtake me and I take a glance to the pot, seeing the watery texture it’ll take about twenty min before I need to take it out of the fire so I breathe in, out, in, out, letting myself go, letting everything that I can go, hoping only to go away from my own mind.
As the usual, the hearing goes first, the wood cracking on the fire, the voices of the mercenaries, the wind against the trees and grass, everything slowly going as I enter in A-staigh and so, one by one, my senses are gone, sadly leaving me with nothing but my thoughts.
Nothingness, the first state, where one can feel nothing but oneself.
Connection, the second step, to connect one mind and body with the world, and so, with the four themselves.
Submersion, to let the body and mind to not only connect, but to bath in essence, to turn itself in part of it and then, change.
I’m stuck at the first of course, I can’t feel the particles of essence within the world no matter what I do, the reason, my state of nothingness is not clear enough Eann said. That in turn, can be because a lot of reasons being the most likely one the lack of concentration.
I’ve done the same dozens of time already, kept fighting my own mind against the thoughts that rage the void so this time I let it wander, it doesn’t matter, I won’t be able to run anyway. Like torches in the night the thoughts shine, attracting my focus and filling what should be the void, blinding me from the Four.
I let them, knowing that fighting is futile and only concentrating on keeping the filled with thoughts void from crumbling, time passes, I don’t know how much, but I know it does. I should open my eyes, the stew will burn if I don’t, but I don’t want and I can’t bring myself to go back yet.
The thoughts slowly turn easier and easier to ignore – to accept -, the torches slowly turned in candles, fireflies, sparks, and then, nothing. I stare at the total Nothingness for long and yet, for little.
Soon the fireflies are back, shining hard against my skull, burning eyes that should have been closed, I endure it, pain was never something that I was afraid of, worse than the the pain I feel the panic, afraid of losing the state clearness soon after finding it I force myself to calm down and ignore everything once more. But the lights refuse to be ignored.
As I battle against the pain I hear the whisper once more, it laughs loudly at my attempts, mocking me for falling for the same thing again. It’s not much said, but enough to distract and my sense of touch comes back as I doubt myself.
hot pain burning my body, and I feel my fingernails digging deep in my knees, the hot sweat covering my back, my eyes shut with strength, all that, transmitted and discarded in hurry as desperately try to go back with the void. The whisper lies, it has been laughing since I first heard it, I can’t let myself lose the chance because I heard it.
Please Four, I beg the elements as my recovered sense is soon lost again. But so does the void, so I sit there with my eyes still closed as a myriad of feelings fills me, sadness, rage, agony, bitterness and so on, one second of distraction enough to me lose the closest chance that I had after all this time.
Unfortunately without A-staigh I know exactly how much time is passing, so I get up, maybe I can still save the stew and make the day not a complete disaster. I soon notice two things though, the first is that it’s no longer day, it’s too dark to be, even for Briddell. The second, and the most noticiable one, is that green that greets me are not the dark one of the leaves, but a light, almost whitish one.
With hurry I look at the mercenaries, all of them in their sleeping bags, and with a little effort and I see the brownish, blueish and once me green lights in them, my legs lose strength and I see myself staring at the ground in fours, the soft earth being the same light brownish color, only a bit denser.
Then I laugh, really hard and really loudly until I see myself crying and for a second I stop to see if the mercenaries were awakened, but they were not, so I just keep going, breathing lightly for the first time for long.
I don’t actually keep going for much because as soon as I calm myself a little I notice that I’m too hungry and too thirsty to keep laughing like that. But most of all, I notice that I’m too tired so I just lie on the ground, and gain for the first time in long, I sleep.