He had always imagined it like a large marble, albeit one that metaphorically sat in his chest. Lazily spinning in place, Skrakch watched his Core slowly fill itself, drawing the ambient Mana from the air, and attuning it to the Ratling energy.
Turning to one of the Grey Iskrin, Skrakch let out a small sigh. As he bent down to place his paw against one of their chests, he tried his best to avoid looking them in the eyes.
Directing his gaze inwards was an easy task for the Ratling. Some creatures went their whole lives without manifesting a Core, simply instinctively using their Mana when distressed.
The more competent practitioners could use their Mana freely but struggled to picture their Core. Experienced practitioners like Skrakch, could summon their Core, visualizing the ebb and flow of Mana.
But it was the true masters who could directly influence their Core, speeding up the recovery of Mana, or imbuing a spell with extra Mana to bolster its effect.
Staring at his own half-filled Core, Skrakch slowly pulled loose the Mana he needed. Weaving it into the shape of an arcane rune, he filled it to the brim with power. Panting with the exertion of slowing down the process, he was pleased to see he’d gotten the spell down to using just a quarter of his Core’s strength.
The Ratling slowly opened his eyes, taking in the rune in its entirety as it struggled under his grip, wanting to cast the effect and disperse. For a moment Skrakch simply held the Mana in place, before letting loose the spell.
He watched as the feral creature’s torso pulled itself downwards, seeming to sink into the floor as Skrakch could make out the sight of ribs caving under Gravity's pressure.
The beast screamed, no doubt running its throat ragged in desperate pain, but Skrakch heard none of it. Looking over to his Master, he was met with approving eyes as the old Goblin nodded in satisfaction.
Skrakch watched in deafening silence as his spell played out, slowly weakening in power as the Mana fled the rune, dissipating into the air.
Once more, he cursed himself for not taking the easy road. It would be simply child’s play to use his Mana as Winifred did, enhancing his limbs to strike with wild abandon. Even Zacharias’ use of Mana would be simple enough, turning his Mana into living shadows which concealed the Halfling from sight, not that the Halfling bothered using his Mana much.
But no, Skrakch dreamed of one day having the power to do more than mere parlor tricks. The art of runic casting was long and slow, but with practice, he’d be able to thwart the laws that governed their realm.
With practice, he’d be able to fly. To spill lava from nothing, to claw victory from defeat. But for now, this was all he could do.
After all, using your Mana wasn’t as simple as picturing a spell and casting it. To truly influence the world, you needed knowledge. Any beginner could shove a mass of Mana into his arm, hoping to swing twice as hard. They’d have some small success, but if you took a true practitioner… Winifred would imbue her legs, enhancing her stability, then thread some Mana into her waist to enhance her pivot. Finally, she’d use a sliver of Mana to maximize the force of her swing, using less Mana in total for a more devastating blow.
And that was simply enhancing your own body. For a spellcaster like Skrakch, he had to truly understand the forces at play, understand all that came to pass on the mortal realm. Featherfall worked by using Mana to counterbalance his own weight, cutting gravity’s hold on him, for example.
Of course, there were practices that were easier than others. Divine magic came from a treaty with a higher being, who did most of the heavy lifting. How else could Meekknuckle cast anything, Skrakch scoffed to himself. No, knowledge was the main resource Skrakch sought, and there was no price too steep.
So as he sat, watching his Core fill with Mana, he did his best not to look at his practice targets. The poor critters had stopped trying to escape hours ago. No, they simply stared at him with fear in their eyes. Knowing there was nothing they could do to stop him.
Grimly focusing on the task at hand, Skrakch reached out once more, applying the rune onto the feral Iskrin’s chest.
Once more, he slowly watched his Mana and tried to stop imagining the creature’s silent screams.
——————————
With a shudder, a boulder as large as a pony lifted off the ground. Slowly twisting in the air, it hovered off the ground before gravity returned in full force. Crashing to the ground, dust and sewer water splashed everywhere.
Including all over Skrakch’s leather jacket. Wiping off the grime, the Ratling stared at the fallen boulder with pride. Eleven seconds of reversing gravity didn’t seem like much, but he could already think of dozens of uses.
Tossing an opponent's weapon away, scaling a wall, or hell, just throwing the opponent away physically. Each prospect was more satisfying than the last!
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
After two straight torturous days of practicing his magic, his mentor had deemed him prepared enough to dismiss him. He’d happily collapsed into Meekknuckle’s hut, not even thinking about the disgusting mulch he used as a bed or having to survive off of Meek’s laughable excuse for cooking.
Still, he couldn’t get the feral Iskrin’s eyes out of his mind. At first, it wasn’t so bad, the beasts hissing in rage and defiance. After his wounding from their leader, it was pretty satisfying to watch them getting their slow, painful comeuppance.
But hours later, near the end, seeing the look in their eyes…
It was for the best. If they were free, they’d happily rip his throat out, the Ratling reminded himself. They were Grey Iskrin, no real brothers to him. As a brown-furred Ratling, he was all too aware of how dangerous the other colors of Iskrin could be.
But as he walked back towards the Goblin's village, he was still plagued by the look on their faces. Skrakch was so distracted, he didn’t even realize that he’d wandered back to his mentor’s residence.
Steeling his courage, Skrakch decided it was best to say something. I mean, surely the old coot wouldn’t oppose letting a few feral Iskrin loose, Skrakch thought to himself. If worse comes to worst, the damned things are hardly a threat to anyone anymore. They were far too cowed and injured and had more than learned their lesson about messing with the wrong creatures.
Pushing past the Goblin guards without a second glance, Skrakch entered the building to see Meekknuckle holding his hands against one of the prisoners' guts. Snarling softly and moving with determination, Skrakch pushed past the pillar that most of the despondent prisoners were tied to, before stepping up beside Blazock who was watching his son impassively. Skrakch knew he was waiting for the poor creature to be healed before wreaking havoc on it anew.
“Oh you’re back,” Blazock greeted casually, barely flicking an eye towards his student. “I’m glad to see it, Rotten One. I’m most impressed by your abilities. It’s almost a shame you aren’t one of my actual sons. Not that most of them are worth anything, the drunken louts. Only Meekknuckle has any aptitude for magic.” The Goblin spoke offhandedly.
Skrakch quickly stomped down on the feeling of pride that blossomed in his chest. “Thank you, Master. Actually, I was hoping you might grant me a request.” He paused for a moment. He wasn’t scared of Blazock as such because he was Skrakch. He wasn’t scared of anything! But, that being said, he needed to keep the Goblin on his side.
The patriarch of the Goblin village was the key to becoming a Chosen and being cast out by him this late in the game would be disastrous to his plans. Skrakch swallowed hard and continued, turning to keep his voice steady. “Perhaps it would be best to let the Grey Iskrin go. If you’re lucky, they’ll spread the word to the other feral Ratlings. Tell them it’s not safe in this part of the sewers.”
The old Goblin didn’t respond for a long moment, just listening to the crackle of the perpetually roaring fire he kept in his hearth. “Isn’t it curious that you’d ask for something like that? Does the life of these beasts stir something in your chest? Do you feel guilty for what you did?” He questioned, his yellow eyes unreadable.
Laughing softly, the normally stooping Goblin turned to face Skrakch, seeming to grow larger in the Ratling’s eyes with each passing moment. “It’s almost droll, Rotten One. You speak of letting them live, but only now that you’ve gotten your practice. And that’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s simple to make the call once you’ve no stake in it. Once you’ve gotten your fill.”
“But know this, Skrakch.” The Goblin Runecaster loomed above the Ratling, the sheer pressure of his presence pressing down on Skrakch to the point where the scared rogue could barely stay on his feet. “Half-measures get you killed in this world. Taking pity on your enemies only once you’ve beaten them does nothing but weaken you.”
Scoffing loudly, the overbearing presence of the Goblin swiftly dispersed, leaving Skrakch shivering in fright. “O-of course, you’re correct. I’ll make sure to keep your lessons in mind.” He said nervously.
Turning on his heels, the terrified Ratling practically fled from the building, only stopping as he heard his mentor whisper one last bit of unsought advice just as he reached the doorway.
“Keep in mind Rotten One, mercy is the prerogative of the strong. So long as you remain weak, all it takes is a flick of the wrist, and the choice no longer belongs to you.”
Looking back over his shoulder, the cowardly student locked eyes with his mentor as the Goblin drew deeply on his Pact. The Mana swirled around him as he muttered a single word that seemed to ring out in a long-drawn-out hiss.
Harvest…
Breaking his gaze away from Blazock, the Goblin Skrakch respected and learned from with all his mental strength, the Ratling warily watched as the bodies of the prisoners began to atrophy before his eyes, their fur sinking into hollow flesh, their mass being drained away leaving naught but gaunt corpses behind.
Shimmering vibrantly to Skrakch’s naked eye, he watched the stolen vitality coalescing into a lump of pure Mana, Mana so bright it hurt to look directly towards it. It didn’t take long before the energy shifted once more, jerkily moving towards Blazock and merging with his flesh. It almost seemed as if the energy was attempting to resist, but could only marginally hold itself back from the Chosen’s magical grasp.
Turning to his mentor once more, Skrakch watched as the old Goblin became flush with life, the very essence of the Grey Iskrin being absorbed into his master’s Mana.
Smiling at Skrakch, the Goblin Chosen smoothed away many of his wrinkles as his eyes danced with power. Offhandedly flicking his wrist, a dozen runes were filled with Mana, activating and grasping the leftover corpses of the Grey Iskrin. Turning away from his apprentice, Blazock stared into the bonfire as he casually tossed his victims' carcasses inside. Softly whispering as the flames licked his face, Blazock once more addressed his apprentice. “Remember the promise you made to me when you were brought here. That you’d do anything for power. Anything.”
Scrambling backward, Skrakch practically fled back to Meekknuckle’s hut. Sitting in the dark, he didn’t even notice the young Goblin had fled with him.
It was nearly an hour later when his heart finally stopped beating so loudly that it was all the inexperienced mage could hear. Staring at his furred paws in the dark, Skrakch let out a low chuckle. Flopping back into the mulch, he muttered out loud to himself.
“I need a fucking drink.”