It was too hot out. Sorrinn headed out with Asammirr after breakfast to continue training his execution of spell conditions, but he was drained of his will to live by the fifth minute beneath whatever that sun-resemblant mass in the sky was. The day was dreadfully clear and dry, he applied too much sunblock, leaving him feeling like a greased up sausage, and the insects were out in the plain in full-swing. It felt like he was spending more time swatting buzzing bugs from his ears and fleeing from curious, big-eyed, fuzzy white-haired pollinators drawn to the oddly sugary scent of his perspiration than focusing on spell-casting. The only good thing was that something about his blood was unappealing to the mosquitos and the ticks. While Asammirr’s Human, Beast-blood, and Eldradimon friends were getting bitten to hell, he returned home after ten minutes of being out without so much as a bite. The perks of being part Elven kept piling up.
It was settled: no way was he going to get anything done during the hot season. He had no clue how any of the village people were working out there. Maybe it was just his Asuuriian constitution making the summer so unpleasant.
It was the first period in his life where he was lucid enough to observe the transitioning of the seasons, so he was curious to learn how it worked there. Considering the sun wasn’t genuinely the sun but was some cosmic deity unleashing Their resplendence over all existence, he had a lot of questions. Since The Sustainer rose and set over the northern and southern horizons, did that mean the world he was on was a planet? He never thought about it, but the world he was in could've been anything. With how strange things functioned there, he wouldn’t have been surprised if everyone resided on a really big island and someone truly could fall off the edge of the world if they sailed far enough. There weren't so much laws of physics as there were symptoms of the Paragons’ influences trickling down from Them and defining reality.
In the meanwhile, he figured since it was an ascension task, he’d keep indoors and train [Ethereal Surge]. His mystic capacity and diffusion efficiency both increased whilst he channeled the skill as a byproduct of his Arcana increasing by ten percent. Focusing on training it in lieu of his Arcana attribute while it was hot out had tangible future benefits. He was going to do it anyway since The System told him to, but that was his means of justifying leaving mystic cultivation on the backburner for a while to himself. Shifting gears like that was jarring for him, for some reason.
Asammirr was out with his friends.
Orrillimmirr set out to the northern woodlands once more to continue investigating the Celpis’ odd behavioral patterns.
And Maeve was hard at work keeping the house and everyone in it in shape, cleaning, organizing, and repairing, all the while preparing for the evening’s dinner. Even her downtime was spent sewing Sorrinn and Asammirr clothes intended for them to grow into. Observing her go about her day, he thought she appeared content with the life she lived—like she was at peace. He needed to ask her about her life in the past before meeting his father one day when he was older. He doubted she’d open up to him while he was still so young and the details were so somber.
Sorrinn settled in his favorite spot, splayed across the general room’s rug on his back. It was so hot outside, but the inside of his house was nice and cool, almost as if a gentle chill emanated from the walls in the way heat echoed from the fire pit. There wasn’t any air-conditioning, he didn’t believe. That was something curious to ask Orrillimmirr about when he made it home.
The prismatic flame at the core of himself grew ardent as the relaxation set in, permeating its influence through him. When he wasn’t focusing on the strain [Ethereal Surge] placed on his body, the sensation of that energy coursing through him was rather pleasant. The more he relaxed, the deeper he submerged into the depths of himself. The walls of his mind’s darkness were painted with the scene of a golden sand beach enveloped in the pink-orange hues of a grand sunset. He lay on the sand with tented legs, fine grains shifting against his nude back, settling between his toes as he basked in the all-permeating warmth, listening to the susurrations of the perpetually climbing and receding tide. It was a peace incarnate so engrossing and enrapturing, that when he opened his eyes, the smell of dinner wafting from the fireplace occupied the house. Orrillimmirr and Asammirr were home then, and the dimming light of the evening sponged the orange illumination out through the general room’s windows. A system notification awaited his attention:
[+2! Spirit has increased to 43!]
It felt like an eternity and a second at the same time. Everything dealing with the Spirit attribute was so trippy. Had he fallen asleep and dreamed it all or had he been lucid the whole time and that experience was simply something honing his Spirit entailed? He did feel more refreshed, though he was never tired to begin with. It was just something he was drawn into.
The interesting part to him was that he wasn’t any more fatigued either. He remembered feeling like he was on the backend of a full-body workout after using the skill for a minute when he was younger. That made sense, in hindsight. Spirit’s role in RPG terms was sort of like an all-arounder support. It had sway in many of the other attributes and enhanced them. So if [Ethereal Surge] bolstered his effort, it would make exerting activities more exerting and recuperative activities more recuperating. So long as he took it easy while channeling [Ethereal Surge], the physical fatigue wouldn’t ever hit him and he could ride through the heat season while farming skill levels.
Sorrinn crawled to his feet with a pained groan. His insides were twisting in knots and the back exit was screaming bars of death metal.
“You okay, lovely?” Maeve asked from the pots dangling over the fire. “You’ve been on the floor all day. Feeling ill?”
“No, I’m okay, Mama…” he softly moaned, shaking his head as he grimaced in pain. Holding his stomach, he scrambled off in that panicked, ‘about-to-blow’ way further into the cottage to the godless throne.
The place didn’t have any plumbing, but there was a place to take care of business indoors. There was a room at the end of the left hallway on the base floor that contained two ceramic basins inserted into the floor—squat toilets. One was built with a slope and a grate, while the other didn’t have a slope and a grate and was filled with chalky clay gravel. One for peeing, the other for pooping. They were separate because the number one toilet’s grate led to a funnel that was attached to a collection receptacle hidden beneath the basin. Number twos were manually scooped up with a poop scoop and deposited into a separate collection bin that was tightly sealed to contain the odor.
As for why: as far as he’d been told, the village recycled everyone’s urine and feces for fertilizer. One of his parents took the material outside to outdoor collection receptacles every night, washed the urine basin with some of the day’s spare well water, and replaced the poop basin’s gravel.
It was different, but the fact it was hygienic was enough for him. And his boisterous gut didn’t care where it went so long as it was coming out. He was able to make it in time before he soiled his shorts. He slammed the door, dropped his pants, and squatted, groaning from the guttural depths as he waged a godless, unspeakable war. Once his inner demons were exorcized and expelled, he simply shimmied over two steps to the number one basin, angled the boy down, and let the river flow. Following that, he tidied himself up with a splash or three of water from the nearby clean-up bucket and wiped the twin hills to perfection with one of the unused cleanliness cloths.
He was grossed out when his mother first taught him how to use the toilet and handed him a reusable butt rag. Although, learning the cleanliness cloths were washed and boiled every night as part of the washroom cleansing ritual assuaged him from the ledge of disgust. A layer of water and a rag were far more effective and efficient than toilet paper ever was. It stopped being something he thought about the more he did it. In fact, it'd actually become his preferred method of tidying himself up. Toilet paper felt so wasteful and laborious in comparison.
With all of the isekai and reincarnation anime he used to watch, none of them ever mentioned how the protagonists used the bathroom or bathed. Perhaps if they had, he wouldn’t have been so shocked when he ended up in a similar situation. Much of it was primitive, but the village people’s creativity in the absence of technology always impressed him. For example, the way he and Asammirr took hot baths every other night was via Maeve boiling a potful of smooth, pool ball-sized stones aptly dubbed bath stones. She dumped the boiling water and the scalding rocks into the cool water drawn from the well, left it to settle for a minute, and when they got in, it was the perfect bathing temperature.
The village life had shed him of many of his modern notions. The first solid memory of bath time he was able to grasp, he was horrified when Asammirr showed up, stripped, flashed him, and hopped in with him. He felt like some sort of pervert just being mutually nude in his brother’s vicinity. Then? He didn’t care in the least. It was what it was. He’d caught enough of all of his family members’ bits and bobs to not even blink anymore when Orrillimmirr or Asammirr turned up to share the bath with him for water-conserving purposes.
Orrillimmirr didn’t have nipples, a belly button, or testicles, for some reason. He found that many-times more shocking than catching a few stray glances of his father’s o’ Danny boy. He was too stunned to even ask about it at the time, which was unfortunate because he was incredibly curious about it—and Orrillimmirr was the type to answer honestly and wholly without hesitation. Was it an Elven thing, Sorrinn wondered? He and Asammirr had nipples and belly buttons, but neither of them had discernible ballsacks either—undeveloped or otherwise—despite having penises. Then, it felt like the period for bringing up the topic had passed him by.
And don’t even get him started on the great breastmilk crisis of olde again. Every time he was struck by a hunger pang, he was thrust into flashbacks.
All of that said, strangely, he couldn’t say he bore any complaints about his life. He reveled in its simplicity and the close-knittedness he shared with his family.
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It’d been more than five years since he’d reincarnated into the life of Sorrinn. Time surely had a way of flying. And with time, everything changed. There he was able to cast genuine magic, a million lightyears distant from where Caleb once stood scorned and pathetic—alone. As he returned and claimed his place at the dining table, he was euphoric to be able to wholeheartedly think he loved his life.
“See, he’s all better now,” Asammirr said to Maeve, succumbing to a bout of childish chuckles. “I told you he only had to poop, Mama.”
Their mother passed Asammirr an arched brow. “Please don’t talk about pooping at the table, Sam.”
“Why? Papa told me it’s okay to poop because everyone poops. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Right, Papa? Tell her.”
Then, forehead creasing, she was passing a questioning look Orrillimmirr’s way.
Their father returned a charming smile, offering a brief, declining show of his hand. He wasn’t going to be the fool who stumbled into that trap. “I’ll have to kindly abscond in favor of Asammirr not regressing into his coprophobia, my dearest. Discussing ordure at the table may lay beyond the bounds of etiquette, but it is ultimately harmless, I would deem. Fascinating factoid: Fecal matter acquires its tint from dead red blood cells and bile whilst its odor hails from gasses emitted by microscopic organisms known as bacteria.”
Asammirr puffed.
Maeve puffed.
Elven society had already discovered microorganisms? That was news. There he was squatting in the boonies while the Elves were over there getting free healthcare.
Sorrinn puffed.
“Did someone forget to seal a window by chance?” Orrillimmirr inquired in jest, searching around. “I believe I hear a breeze.”
Wearing a big smile, Asammirr facepalmed as he shook his head. “Papa… You’re so corny.”
“Well, is anyone going to volunteer themselves in inquiring of me what bacteria is? Any curious, inquisitive minds here at the table, hm?” Orrillimmirr’s eager stare drilled holes through Sorrinn, but the boy was too busy in his own thoughts to even notice. Once that focused look narrowed Sorrinn’s eyes staring off into the nth realm and his fingers began subconsciously writhing like restive worms, it was over before it ever began. Thus their father turned his gaze to Asammirr. “Hmmmmm?” he inquired louder.
Sorrinn’s desire to visit an Elven society increased tenfold. If they knew about microorganisms, they were probably quite advanced. Humans could’ve been advanced too. He’d never seen anything other than the village, after all, and nothing else was around it but nature for who-knew-how-many miles out. But if that world’s Humans were anything like his old world’s, he doubted Nislaann would’ve still been an isolated and independent entity if they were advanced to that point. Humans liked discovering things. The only thing Humans loved more than discovery was subjugation, and The Giving Tree was an otherworldly miracle any red-blooded Human belonging to a proud, patriotic nation would salivate at the idea of claiming as their own after laying waste to the people standing in their way of conquering it.
Orrillimmirr continued passing rapid glances between his partner and two children. The fidgeting of his limbs grew more ardent by the second.
Eventually, Asammirr gave in with an exhale, eyelids hung low, mouth set in a flat line. “…What is bacteria, Papa?” His enthusiasm wasn’t convincing, for some reason.
Features expanding with delight, their father excitedly tapped the pads of his fingers together. “Excellent question, Asammirr. One your father fortunately harbors the answer to. You see—”
Maeve dropped the dinner platter onto the center table. Just like that, Asammirr was dragged a mile out of reach from his father’s sage words. She teasingly smiled at Orrillimmirr before taking her seat next to Sorrinn. “You boys could sit here talking about poop and bacteria, or you could have dinner before it gets cold.” She sat back and made herself comfortable, shrugging with a smug look. One which already declared her victory. “Your choice. I leave it up to you.”
It wasn’t ever a contest. Sorrinn and Asammirr were like a pair of emaciated hounds with gaunt faces and ribs showing through splotchy, leathery skin. Once that glistening display of food came down, the depths of their comprehension of reality was as deep as a puddle that started and ended with the savory aroma permeating the air.
Poor Orrillimmirr deflated over the table like a wacky inflatable man forsaken of its air. He donned a fussy pout.
***
The next morning, Sorrinn decided to be a bit more productive while training [Ethereal Surge]. Channeling the skill while stimulating his wealth was too much of a task at present, but there wasn’t any reason he couldn’t keep at his language studies. The skill would bolster his skills of comprehension and intellectual assimilation as well as his hand coordination, making him even more efficient.
Even though it wasn’t a reading/writing day, he gathered his rudimentary-level books, his scribing slate, a chalk pencil, and reaffirmed what he knew in his father’s absence. He was there every day of that bothersome season through heat, rain, and booming claps of dry thunder, reading, writing, and tunefully enunciating his summer days away.
For the while, Elven Common had become his new hyperfixation. He was able to pursue a kindred sense of mastery in that subject the same as he could with the mystic arts. That seemed to be what truly allowed him to pour every fiber of himself into something. Learning something new, cementing it in his mind, then assimilating with it until it was polished to perfection. Seeing the numbers go up week by week, becoming more capable, it was what he hungered for most. And, of course, it was nice affirming to himself that he could become the person he aspired to become.
His strides in the language picked up pace once he decided to dedicate himself to it wholly. Through many lessons and lectures from his father, he found himself gradually able to extend his reach deeper and deeper into the tomes bedecking Orrillimmirr’s study.
There were some truly fascinating works in there. Most of it centered around his father’s personal great fascination—the Great Forests. Tomes which covered the forests’ long history that was said to precede the emergence of faunal life itself. The more he read, the more he grasped why Orrillimmirr was so riveted by it. The mystical forms of life it sheltered weren't found anywhere else on the continent, the eldest and wisest of which were old enough to have observed the first embers of life spark and flourish. Everything from the titanic beasts of its deepest depths to the trees, flora, and the insects living in the soil were hosts to incredible mystic phenomena and wondrous gifts descended from the Twin Archfey, Oberon and Titania. The forest was an uncharted trove of secrets and myths. Only a teeny-tiny percentage of it had ever been observed by the eyes of the sapient races risen from The Illumination’s embers of wisdom cast into the world.
As the tomes he devoured the knowledge of piled up month after month, he lay hooked to the ever-turning pages, he dreamed with innocent eyes reflecting the universe itself of exploring the Great Forests himself one day. There must’ve been some long lost magic hidden somewhere within it. If the Great Forests had ties to The Mystic Force, then surely one of those ancient, immemorial beings hidden within its depths had wisdom of magic not even the Nine Luminaries were privy to. Because The Mystic Force itself was hypothesized by Elven scholars to predate the emergence of its counterpart—The Illumination—by millions of years. Before The Illumination imposed order upon the primordial energies of the arcane and ushered the dawn of sapience, it was believed a wild and primal form of mystic life had arisen from The Mystic Force’s innate chaos. He wanted it for himself—to assimilate with it and master it all.
As it would turn out, the Elves did believe the world to be a horizontal plane contained within a dome as opposed to a planetoid. Their world maps all depicted a collection of three massive continents separated by vast stretches of ocean. All of which were settled upon a great disc ever-spilling water over its edges.
He wasn’t absolute, but he was convinced they were right. Orrillimmirr helped him get through some of the more advanced segments upon his request. The authors of the tome he read discussed concepts such as gravitonic distortions and the appearance of odd, reality-bending fog which never drew close warping the travel of light across vast distances, and how using powerful ocular tools enchanted with truesight did, in fact, permit one to gaze across the ocean at landmasses thousands of miles away unobstructed by any obstacle.
The occurrence was attributed to the influence of something they referred to in both intrigue, reverence, and existential fear as The Overseer, which they hypothesized was an entity kindred to the likes of The Sustainer, The Origin, and The Mystic Force. The Overseer was said to define and maintain the rules of their reality behind the cosmic curtain draped over the bubble containing their world.
Even Orrillimmirr had lines he wouldn’t cross, Sorrinn supposed. Because it was around then when his father refused to read deeper and forbade him from reading the rest of that particular book until he was well into the years of adolescence.
Considering his age and the subject, Sorrinn thought it was fair. Introducing a young mind to difficult things like that too soon rarely ended well in typical cases.
By the time things began cooling down three months later, the general room had become his new home. From the dining table to the comfort of Maeve’s lap while she sat on the couch in the sunlight and did some sewing. [Ethereal Surge] acquired its two levels—plus an extra—through his perpetual channeling of the skill throughout the days. His Intelligence was making progress, but was starting to drastically wane in increasing the nearer he drew to the PV threshold. His Wisdom was absolutely soaring. His Dexterity was really starting to come along from all of the scribing practice, and he’d passively managed to acquire a lone point into Arcana from [Arcane Absorptive] despite his neglect of the attribute, which was neat. Furthermore, [Thought Processing] had climbed to level three and [Focus] had risen to level two amidst his many consecutive days of binge reading the charted wisdoms of the Great Forests.
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{Attributes}
[Available Essence of Ascension: 0]
(Body)
—Vitality: 75 / [75] / (0)
—Strength: 10 / [38] / (0)
—Constitution: 11 / [39] / (0)
—Stamina: 16 / [41] / (0)
—Dexterity: 30 / [44] / (0)
—Agility: 30 / [56] / (0)
(Sense)
—Precision: 22 / [53] / (0)
—Perception: 54 / [54] / (0)
(Mind)
—Intelligence: 61 / [71] / (0)
—Wisdom: 58 / [90] / (0)
(Force)
—Charisma: 51 / [51] / (0)
—Arcana: 47 / [92] / (9)
—Spirit: 43 / [77] / (0)
----------------------------------------
He’d only then noticed some of the attributes he wasn’t actively honing had been increasing in the background. His body attributes and his Precision had all gone up slightly. Made sense. He was growing every day even when he wasn’t training himself.