He was, by all accounts, the most gifted vessel I had seen in these last two millennia. I had to tap into the reservoir before I had him, but like all others he fell before my iron control on the Gia. Knowing it to be a waste of such a fine biological specimen, I had to make some... alterations. I shut his access off to the unclotted Gia, leaving him only capable of drawing on his own source. For all his capacity, he was even better than the Garru at storing my Kraken , and for a time I was sane again. For a time.

Dorian woke up but was too tired to jump up. He knew his nightmares might be vivid, but they were not real. As a side note, he was sick of dealing with Danny and his pissy mood, so much so that Dorian was able to keep himself from jumping up. After a time, he slipped back to sleep.

The flashing green light that woke him always innervated him to movement. Dorian popped up and tapped the Giastone at the door. Dorian let out a hiss as the switch died at his touch. “Kressor's blackened balls,” Dorian cursed as he made his way to the edge of his bed. Danny whined about something or other, but Dorian did not care. He just wanted the light to stop flashing.

Lining his feet the other way this time, Dorian crouched at the edge of the bed, heels hanging off the edge. He squatted and leaped, tapping the light ever so lightly. This time, however, instead of dimming it went out. He landed in the center aisle between the two beds, not waking Danny as he landed.

Now, the general routine, and decorum, dictated that he should wake Danny before he left and inform a monk about the broken light. Dorian readied himself for the day, hurrying out to get breakfast, and leaving Danny to snooze the morning away. Dorian had informed a monk, but knew the monk wouldn't get to the light any time soon.

The lights were a relatively big deal, when you live in a stone room with no windows, time becomes questionable. Without a sun to gauge the passage of time, Dorian was regularly in the dark, pun intended, as to what time it was. Dorian grinned sheepishly to himself at the thought of Danny missing his first class, a class he had with Dorian. When he thought about it, he didn't even know what Danny was primed in, he honestly stopped caring after Dorian overheard Danny talking about his new roommate one day in the hall.

“Yeah, at least you don't have to bunk with the fat one. I bet he stinks. I wish we could trade out.” Danny had said to one of his friends as they walked between classes. Dorian realized later when he moved in with Danny that he was talking about Dorian. Since then, his general thoughts about Danny were mentally labeled under the category of “fuck that guy.”

Dorian made his way down the hall up the two flights of stairs to the dining hall. Dim lights strewn the walls, relatively “pure” Giastone. It radiated a brighter color, bright enough to be considered near-white, Dorian didn't think he had ever seen a pure white, not in this place. The dark dreary hallways were usually so tainted with a deep moss green from the Giastones that when a light was half-way white it seemed absolutely white. The stark difference became jarring at times, it gave off a bit of an emphatic field. Dorian wasn't sure how he had noticed it, and when he had asked another initiate, Milo, about it the young man scoffed, said that Dorian was just looking around for rumors. Children and their games were amusing and all, but Dorian had been insistent. When pressed, the kid said something about some empaths say it is there and others don't. This was a concern because Dorian was not empathic, nor telepathic.

However he had noticed it, it really didn't matter. The deep green lights gave him the creeps, and he swore that sometimes they darkened around him. It was disconcerting in a way that made him yearn to be outside, even if he had to read he'd rather have to do so outside of these lights and their influence. It scared him in a way that made him feel foolish, but every time the lights shifted in the corner of his eye it sent a cascade of fear down his spine.

Thankfully, the dining hall had the best lights. As he approached, the lighting noticeably improved in quality, becoming brighter as he neared the dining hall. As the lights grew brighter, so too did his appetite. He wasn’t hungry honestly before getting there but felt famished by the time he came to the open doors. It was at the center of four hallways, so pretty much every path to class branched out from there. A perfect place for a meal.

After getting a healthy scoop of eggs, sausages, and hash, he found his usual spot. There, already eating, sat Ken and his older brother, Benny. Benny faced more challenges with puberty than many others. His had manifested as acne and used to be much worse before he started getting twice weekly treatments from the monks. Despite the treatments, Benny would have new acne daily and the days between treatments could get pretty bad. It made him a bit of an outcast when it came to the other kids near his age, Dorian didn't mind, he liked Benny. Benny wasn't as bashful as his younger brother, despite his rough state, or perhaps because of it. Though still polite, he didn't have the knack to roll his shoulder as well as Ken did. That kid was the master of politeness, he could etiquette the robes off a Sister but never did so. He never had the boldness of his older brother, which was okay to Dorian too. The brothers were good folk, and Dorian was happy to be friends with them.

They like to play card games at breakfast, which Dorian objected to at first, but later found amusing. Some mornings he'd join but more often than not he just watched. Today he watched as he ate.

“No way, eight or more.” Benny said.

“I say eight or less.” Ken replied coolly. Then slapped three cards down.

Benny raised an eyebrow, taking all his card piles and dropping them in the center pile, “I say seven or more, topsy three, all in.” Benny said.

Ken smiled, “you're on.” Ken dropped his cards face up, presenting a one, one, and four, great luck. Dorian didn't really understand the game, just knew that the lower the card the better, the more you could get your opponent to bet piles. Benny dropped his hand, displaying one of the other aces and a pair of twos, making five and winning the wager. Ken's jaw dropped just as Dorian finished eating. He almost laughed out the last of his sausage, a travesty so great he dare not consider.

Dorian smiled as he chewed, mirth written across his face. Just as he was getting up, their usual fourth finally was heading over to sit. Jack smiled like a goof when he saw Dorian making his way out to deliver his tray, Jack's own tray stacked with more food than even Dorian could manage in a single meal.

Dorian smiled at his friend, “little snack before class?”

“Just a little one, need to save room for lunch.” Dorian just smiled and shook his head, heading over to where the other trays were stacked. There were cliques in every level of the monastery, and it seemed to Dorian that they grew more acute as the ranks grew. Anybody could step down a level, but you couldn't eat any higher than your year. Because of this they consistently ate with their youngest, Ken, and didn't mind a few flights of stairs to eat with their friends.

Jack was, like the rest of them, a bit of an odd case. He was near enough to seventeen, more than half a year older than Dorian was. Jack hit puberty at an early age, in fact when Dorian first met Jack in their thermodynamics class, Dorian thought he was the instructor. His thick goatee was roughly cut and Jack regularly looked like he could use a shave, which was enough of an oddity to remove him from the most socially savvy friend groups. He was half Kressian, Dark in hair with a natural tan, and was built like he had been moving stones his entire life.

Once, Dorian had thought it a bit of a joke and felt comfortable enough with Jack to joke with him about it. Despite Jack's height, a few inches taller than Dorian, and Jack's muscular predisposition, he was usually a gentle giant. That day, however, he learned the other reason Jack was a bit of an outcast.

After Dorian had said something along the lines of, “And so the god's made Jack, because someone had to make the stones feel jealous,” Jack had gotten outright irate. Say this for the genetically gifted teen, he could probably break a mountain, but the guy simply couldn't take a joke, even one under the guise of a compliment.

Of course, Dorian came to find out his last name was Quaré, his entire family had been stone workers in the Kressian hills, had been for generations. This wasn't something most people got to know as most of them had no memory of their childhood, unless of course they were born in the monastery. It was common knowledge in the libraries however, and Jack had figured out his lineage all by himself within the first year of his attendance at the Monastery.

Inspired by Jack's initiative, Dorian had attempted to reference his own last name, but had found no histories of the name “Hook” in any of the separate floor libraries. He was confused as to why, but didn't fight it, assuming he likely came from a nobody family. No bother, he was at the Monastery now and last names didn't really carry any weight there.

Dorian returned to the table, catching glares from a few initiates as he walked back. He was never able to comprehend why he experienced a sense of visual overwhelm whenever he stood before a large audience. He was self-conscious about his size, something he was regularly judged for before anyone ever knew him. Dorian believed he possessed the ability to befriend anyone, provided they afforded him the opportunity. However, such opportunities were infrequent.

Dorian returned to the table, enjoying the company before the first class of the day. It was the fourth day of the week, which meant today he would be doing “physical education” for the morning class and private tutoring with Sister Brenda in the afternoon.

Dorian hated how they called it “physical education,” because there really wasn't anything taught once you learned how it all worked. The first hour was stretching and cardiovascular exercise. The next hour would be spent under personal preference but only had a few options: deep stretching, gymnastics, or weightlifting. Then there would be a snack break, another warm-up, and finally a random sport for the last hour or so. Teams were usually picked, captains were picked at random, but Dorian didn't really believe that. There seemed to always be four or five of the same people to take captain, and there simply was not any way that could be random. Still, the sports were always fun, there was something about competition that always seemed to bring the best out of Dorian, it was one of the few things that made Dorian feel... not awful. Not awful was a general step up, as he always secretly felt like he was doing something wrong, like he was stepping on everyone's toes but didn't know any other way.

Thankfully, Dorian had finally begun to spin himself a reputation as a surprising competitor, despite how overweight he was. When it came down to it, he simply didn't let his fat hinder him in the moment. He was regularly afraid of being judged by others because of his size, and slowly it had been eating at his self-worth. He was aware of it, aware of the pun, but still let them both run rampant through his mind whenever he was alone. That is why he had begun looking forward to the class, it was a chance for a brief escape from the reality of who he was.

Deep thoughts aside, he was ready to get on with the day. He grabbed Jack's attention and gestured for them to set off. Since a vessel couldn't use their abilities inside the gymnasium, each physical education class was only based off age and not prowess with their abilities. It was a great equalizer of sorts, and though Dorian was a big doughy boy, which was hardly a hindrance compared to his lackluster abilities as a vessel.

Jack nodded at him, having scarfed down his meal in record breaking time. “Sure you're not gonna have an upset stomach after all that?” Dorian asked as Jack stood.

“Nah, I'll be hungry again in an hour.” Jack smirked to himself, rubbing his belly.

Dorian shook his head, “where you put it, I'll never know. Some of us actually have to pay a price to eat like that, and the results aren't pretty.” Dorian patted his own belly.

“Some of us just aren't made of the same stuff.” Jack said, offhanded but not joking.

Dorian knitted his brow, “Class-ass act Jack, remember we talked about this?”

Suddenly angered at being criticized by Dorian, his eyes widened, and he spoke with a heated tone. “What the hell does that mean?”

Putting his hands up and pushing them down, Dorian spoke precisely. “We spoke about the code word, we agreed on it, remember?”

A flash of realization ran across his face, but then he put on a concerned look. “You agreed to that being our code word, I didn't.”

“That's only because you didn't offer one up!” Said Dorian, now grinning boyishly.

“What are you guys even talking about?” Benny chimed in as he stood to join the larger two. Their classes were all upstairs and they would typically walk together until they veered off to whichever stairwell or hallway they had to take.

“I've been making a point to our stern, stone-faced friend here, that he's entirely too serious.” Dorian replied to Benny. Ken spoke up as he was gathering his things. “You can be serious about certain things, Jack. It's okay, we love you for who you are either way.”

Putting on a smile, Jack mockingly said, “come on guys, I'm laughable, heck I like to laugh more than any of you!” Jack gestured his arms out, like he was inviting the world to challenge him on this statement. Dorian loved his friend for that. Both Jack and Dorian were competitors, even if Jack was naturally gifted, Dorian was never afraid to take up the challenge. Jack almost always won everything he did, so when he gestured outward like that, Dorian understood what Jack was doing.

Dorian sighed, “Jack, it's not that you can't laugh, you just get a little touchy about certain subjects.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Jack asked, exasperated. He began the walk down the hall, summoning a bit of fire to light their way.

Despite the hard time they seemed to be giving him, Jack was a good guy. He could be an elitist at times, and he never really flaunted his superior build but still presented it as factual information. It wasn’t cruelty that had made him that way, it was more of an inability to bend the truth. Jack was an honest person, honest to a fault really. Sometimes his honesty put him in a poor light because he was incapable of avoiding or bending a truth in any way. That was the root of the problem, that, and the serious elitist thing. It could be disastrous, or hilarious at times, but you just had to know Jack to understand it.

One time, Dorian had gotten worked up over some game, having lost the last point of the last bout in a tournament they had for their age group. It was a game with a feather ball that they would racket back and forth. It had been a class favorite game; one Dorian had taken to well. In front of the cheering crowd, close matched, he had lost in the final bout. He had never come so close to tasting total victory like that, and he had botched it. He granted his opponent an advantageous opportunity during the exchange and pursued multiple spikes in rapid succession. Despite executing several remarkable saves, he ultimately lost.

Dorian held his composure until he could be alone. He was in the changing room when he broke down, found shortly after by Jack. After Dorian had calmed down, they had spoken about it. When Dorian said, “I know I lost because of something I did, I could have won.” Jack's rebuke was immediate and cold. “You lost because she's better than you.” That was it, he didn't have any more to say on the matter. It was an abrasive truth, one that Dorian wasn't ready to handle, it left him feeling inferior. It was a good while before Dorian had figured out what Jack was trying to do. Unfortunately, the man simply could not say anything but the blatant truth.

Despite how this had affected Dorian's self-esteem, he decided to educate the man on some basic rules of propriety. Maybe influenced by Sister Brenda, Dorian believed he could assist. It became clear to Dorian that his friend was so honest that he had never considered there might be situations where telling the truth was not appropriate. It is possible that Jack either found it difficult to lie or failed to register the concept. Not in simple lies, of course, but instead of more subtle things, such as guile, debauchery, disregard for social order, or any of the other more interesting aspects of life. To ensure his friend was not devoid of such rich social concepts, he had taken it upon himself to educate his friend on the fundamentals. The first step was helping his friend to stop being such a stick in the mud.

“Firstly, Jack, you need to learn how to take a joke.” Dorian said, gesturing at Jack as they made their way through the stone corridor.

Getting defensive, Jack replied, “hey, I love jokes!” Benny snorted as a response, Dorian and Ken flashing a knowing grin.

“Yes, you love jokes, but you only love them when you're not on the bad end. Take Ken for example here.” They all slowed, taking the measure of Ken.

Feeling scrutinized, he half guarded himself, crossing his arms and bunching up.

“Ya see? Ken is the nicest person I've ever met, but it's an easy target to make fun of that kindness. Just because we can make fun of Ken for being way too nice doesn't mean he's any less of a person for being at the bad end of a joke.”

Benny nodded, “But you, on the other hand, can't be on the end of a joke or you get all up in arms.”

Dorian waved away at Benny, “What arms, those little toothpicks he's got there. I can barely see them.” Dorian was gesturing back to Jack, Jack's scowl at Dorian was one that could scare a hell hound. “Do you see what I mean Jack, we all know you've got arms like a great ape, but the moment someone jokes about how small they are you're all defensive.”

“Yeah,” Ken chimed in, “You've got arms bigger than the adults, even the P.E. Instructor is envious.”

“Brother Michael?” Jack asked.

“Yep, heard him talking about you the other day. “Boy is as big as a barn, strong as any beast, and hard working.”” Ken's imitation of Brother Michael wasn't half bad, Dorian had tried to imitate the Brother's voice before but just couldn't get the short words out with that much pointed exaggeration like Ken did.

It seemed, for the moment, that Jack was beginning to comprehend what they were talking about. Seeing the rare expression of contemplation on Jack's face was an invitation to continue, an opportunity Dorian pounced on. “There are a few other things I think might help, a bit of empathy perhaps?”

Ken nodded, “okay Jack, just relax for a moment and I'll make a link.” Ken nodded at his success.

“Alright Jack, who would win in a fight, you or Ken?” Dorian asked.

“I would.” Jack replied flatly.

“Even with your primes in play?” Dorian asked.

“Yes.” Jack replied just as quickly. His brow furrowed, then asked Ken, “and the reason why you feel like saying that is because you believe it to be the truth.”

Benny, obviously having fun with this, said, “Well, under the right circumstances anyone could beat anybody. Ken here could make you so sad you'd have to sit down for a moment, and when he did, he'd bind you in weeds.”

Jack shook his head, “not possible. I'd burn them or rip them apart, he couldn't stop me.” Jack’s eyebrow raised, “you think you could?”

“Maybe, maybe not. If we're playing hypotheticals, I'd just put you to sleep and poison you. No need to fight.” This angered Jack, he didn't really seem to be picking up the lesson.

Dorian got between them, “hold there, Jack, it's alright. He's not threatening you and you're forgetting why we're doing this. Ken feels this way because nobody wants to be told they'd lose in a fight, or be beating hands down by somebody else, it belittles them.”

“Why would it belittle them, it's just the truth.” Jack replied.

“Jack, there are some truths you just don't speak of, especially to the people you care about. There are some truths that nobody wants to hear.”

“I prefer the truth, being honest shouldn't belittle anybody, it's just a fact. Dishonest people are immoral, and I am not immoral.” Jack was getting a bit worked up again. “Dorian, some of us like to live in the real world, hiding from it doesn't make it go away.”Dorian sighed, hoping he was making some headway. “I agree with you, I do, but announcing it doesn’t make it go away either.” Dorian tucked his chin and raised his eyes. “Then we agree.” Jack said, absolutely flat. Dorian shook his head in awe. He just couldn’t get a win against the guy. Dorian shrugged, and grinned, “class-ass act, Jack.” Jack laughed.

Once the tense moment had passed, the small group walked through the halls, engaging in casual conversation and practicing their Primes. Most individuals did this, using their abilities without concern. Normally, one could only practice in designated areas under supervision, but these guidelines were often ignored. People would make superficial efforts to appear as though they were adhering to the rules by setting up or taking lunches to safe practice areas, but in truth, everyone practiced and used their abilities when unobserved. The passages in the Monastery were complex and infrequently used, allowing for five to ten minutes of uninterrupted movement. Remaining stationary for a minute or two would likely result in encountering another student, though most of them were also practicing. This behavior was treated like an open secret, suggesting it was considered improper to take advantage of every opportunity, or at least to be caught doing so.

Eventually, Jack and Dorian left the group as they passed the right corridor, shoving each other as they said their goodbyes to the brothers. As Jack strode with Dorian, he seemed to come alive. They began posture themselves up obnoxiously, doing their best imitation of a strutting bird. Arms held out, they began a subtle competition to see which one could be more irritating to the trope. Even if Dorian wasn’t broad the way Jack was, he still got a kick out of the act every time. Dorian eventually gave up as Jack began quacking every step. Their laughter was bold, and they held no remorse. They were young and larger than life, nothing could bring them down, not even the scrutinizing stare of Brother Michael as they finally made their way to the changing rooms.

The men's changing rooms were straightforward in design, featuring a series of cubicles designated for individuals to store their belongings. Dorian changed into his tunic and shorts after placing his robes into the cubbyhole, leaving on his cotton undershirt and shorts. Most guys didn't bother with an undershirt, but Dorian was incredibly self-conscious about his body and had nightmares aplenty of being mocked for being shirtless in the gymnasium. Many other men went shirtless if they began sweating enough, a few wearing undershirts for modesty’s sake. Dorian had taken to wearing them more out of fear than modesty, but the notion of modesty was a great concept to hide behind.

As Dorian began putting his tunic on, Jack asked, “where did you get that scar from, anyways? You've never mentioned it, but since we’re being honest today,” he gestured to the scar running from Dorian's upper shoulder near his neck down to the left side of his chest. The four lines were jagged, but Dorian seldom noticed them. “Ah, that.” He took a breath and sighed it out. “Would you believe I fought a nymph.”

Jack gave him a frank look, “no,” he said dispassionately.

Dorian patted his hands down again, trying to hide a grin but failing, “hang on, hang on. After defeating said nymph, I let her live, but in turn she burst out into tears. She said that her honor dictated that she had to commit suicide afterwards unless the victor of the duel made love to her.” Jack was rolling his eyes, “uh huh. What does any of that have to do with the scar?”

“Squeeze your cheeks man, I'm getting there.” Dorian laughed as he got his tunic on and tied his belt. “Afterwards, I felt so saddened by her beautiful visage that I allowed her to seduce me. At some point over the following three hours-.”

“Three hours?” Jack said in complete disbelief to Dorian's nonsensical story.

“Did I say three? I meant thirteen, yeah, at some point over the next thirteen hours she left me with a little love mark. I can't really recall exactly when, it was a blur of desperate passion.” Dorian waved his hand sagely.

“Okay, but really, how'd you get it?” Jack chuckled at Dorian's nonsense. He was good like that, willing to play along when Dorian got long winded

“I honestly don't have a clue. Happened before I came here, and we all know how that goes.”

Jack nodded in ascent, then tilted his head. “I'm surprised it's not more recent, it looks almost fresh today.”

Dorian's brow knitted and he lifted his tunic to inspect the scar. It indeed looked inflamed, red and agitated like a fresh scar. Dorian shrugged, giving a grunt that only vocalized the vowels of an “I don't know.” They left the changing room through the baths and out into the hall. Jack rushed to the doors ahead, opening the door with a flourish he said, “after you Sir Dorian.”

With the most courteous of bows, Dorian replied, “you are entirely too kind, Sir Jack.” Their airs of joviality were short lived, they knew, but they enjoyed it while they could.

They were met, as expected, by Brother Michael's stern expression. They allowed the brief moment of humor to pass, adopted a serious demeanor, and joined the rest of the class for stretches.

The two boys were not the last to arrive, but Brother Michael always preferred they arrive early. While that seemed ideal, Dorian preferred to manage his own time rather than be under the strict supervision of the Sisters and Brothers. Consequently, Dorian often chose to delay, while Jack always enjoyed physical exercise. Dorian suspected this was because it allowed his friend to showcase his abilities, though he never voiced this observation. Given Jack's proficiency at Heat Syphoning, commonly referred to as "Syphing," he was at the top of the class and appeared to have every advantage. Although Dorian was highly skilled at dispersing heat, he could not summon it like his friend. Jack’s other prime skill was in Physicality, a category most referred to as "Brutes.” Dorian considered it logical that Jack's second Prime would be physically oriented, enviously noting how some people seem to have all the luck.

The gymnasium was a large domed room, lights nearly white lined the ceiling throughout, and three quarters of the room's edges had seating. In the open area there was an obstacle course, several structures for them to either vault over, under or through, an area for gymnastics, and free weights off to the corner next to a massive storage closet. Inside the closet were all sorts of sporting equipment; rackets, nets, balls that varied in shape and size, flags, clubs, and much more besides.

After finishing their stretching routine, they all lined up in orderly fashion. Boys to one side, girls at the other, all of which lined up by height. This was the part Dorian hated, the obstacle course. He had a hard time with the monkey bars as he could barely hang on to his own weight, let alone move forward. He had been working on it for the last few months but just couldn't seem to hang on long enough to make it across. Last week he had made it three rungs in before he couldn't hang on, whereas the rest of the class could make it across with relative ease. It was a shame for Dorian, but today he thought he might make it, as his spirits were high. He had stood up to his friend and had been worried about it for a little while now, but the real reason his spirits were high rested back in his room. Danny still wasn't there, and every time the thought occurred to him, he couldn't help but crack a grin.

Not only was Danny a shit roommate, but he loved to chide people. He wasn't breathing if he wasn't spewing insults or taunts at people in physical education. He was wiry and thin, he had an easy time with most everything and was probably the best long distance runner in the age-group. Dorian grinned as he made his way to the bars, knowing the shit the guy would catch. He knew he should feel bad, but he didn't, not one bit.

He came up to the bars, grabbing the second one in, he swung one hand to the next. He halted for a moment there, his feet dangling.“Hook! Hurry up and fall already!” Gods be damned if he couldn't get a break. Dorian moved, letting the momentum carry him, fourth bar, fifth, sixth, reaching the seventh he let go before he had a secure grip. His hand slipped, and he fell flat on his back. The air whooshed out of him, and briefly he saw stars before he saw his friend from a discomforting angle as he passed by on the bars. Bastard.

“Hook! Get your ass up and in line! Move, move, move!” Called Brother Michael before he bellowed at some unfortunate girl on the other side of the room.

The rest of it came and went with regularity, and Dorian had to steel himself for the cardiovascular exercise. He hated this part just as much, but it had to be done. In line they all chanted as they ran around the long loop, up the stairs, down the stairs, and looping back around. Well, everybody else chanted as Dorian did his best to suck up all the air in the room. Life wasn't easy for a fat kid.

Finally finishing the run, Dorian panted and wheezed until he had finally caught his breath. The next stage of training, choice training, was always the best part for Dorian. Weightlifting was usually Jack's choice, and Dorian was more than happy to tag along. The guy had been obsessed about it, learning everything he could about physiology and proper forms. Jack was always stronger, and it didn't matter which exercise, but there was a sweet spot where Dorian could get more repetitions in the weight than his friend could despite Jack's ability to throw around weights disproportionate to his size. Considering that he was 6'1, and roughly two hundred and thirty pounds, Jack could throw around a whole lot of weight.

For all the unbelievable strength of his friend, Dorian hadn't been a slouch either. He had put his time in over the last few years and found a regular routine of it, picking up what he could from Jack's knowledge base, Dorian had put together a training regimen all his own. He secretly had a goal of catching up with his friend, even dreamed of passing him if he were diligent enough. Today Dorian was working on his back, mostly everything that could pull, whereas Jack almost always worked on his already huge chest.

Dorian's perspective on the matter came down to natural progression and being well rounded, not that he wasn't already pretty round. Jack liked to excel, which was good and all, but only working on one's strengths left the weaknesses falling further behind.

So, Dorian started with dead weight, simply put he picked up weights off the floor. This doesn't sound so challenging, but when you were picking up three hundred pounds ten to fifteen times in a bout it got really challenging. Sadly, Dorian had seen people picking up weights close to his own, despite some of them weighing a hundred or so pounds less than he did. So, Dorian had set to repetitions until he felt comfortable doing so with a relative weight to his own. He was almost two hundred and seventy pounds now, but stood only about 5'10, his weight not so well portioned as Jack's was.

Dorian had warmed up and was on his fifth set or so when Jack came over his way.

“Back to working on those pulls, huh?” Jack asked, eyeing the weight.

“Yep, I'd like to pick up the monastery one day.” Dorian reply with a grin, feeling a bit cocky.

Jack gave a “hah!” in response while shaking his head. “Not if I lift it first.”

Just then, Dorian caught the sound of shouting just outside the gymnasium doors. The rest of the initiates there quieted to catch the sound, but it was mostly unintelligible. After a series of curses obviously from Brother Michael, Danny burst into the gymnasium, face beet red. Dorian did his best to hide his smile, but Jack could see right through it. His eyebrows drew together in a quizzical expression.

“Ass-class room-mate.” Dorian whispered.

Realization dawned on Jack's face, and he couldn't help but let out a muffled laugh. This was the only catalyst needed to draw Danny's attention to the two, and he stormed over their way, his face a thundercloud of anger.

Pointing a finger at Dorian, Danny came up close. “You fat fucking bastard-”

As soon as the word fat left Danny's mouth, Jack stepped up, just as close as Danny but standing to Dorian's side. He cut off Danny as he spoke, low but heated.

“What did you just say to my friend?” Jack's head tilted, his eyes going wide.

“You fucking heard me, this doesn't concern you.” Danny's gaze went back to Dorian. “I should kick your ass you cow.” Dorian's expression moved to confused because he had never heard the word “cow” before, but his attention was snatched back to Jack. His chortled laughter couldn't be contained and finally he burst out in uproarious laughter. He started laughing so hard that a bit of a spittle flew out of his mouth, and many others, Dorian included, started laughing with him. His laughter was infectious, and whether everyone else was laughing with him or at him it didn't matter.

“What's so Gods damned funny?!” Danny's voice spoke over the laughter.

Speaking through fits of laughter and gasping for air, Jacks said, “you couldn't” he gasped again, “fight your way” another outburst of laughter, “through wet paper!” He pointed, and bent over double, this time Dorian's laughter boomed out with his friend. Mostly because Jack was well known to be a stony figure and the comical sight of somebody most people knew to be stern doubling over with laughter as spittle flew from his mouth, that was just too much for Dorian. The lessor reason was because, despite Danny's outrage, Jack was right. That was Jack, honest to a fault, Gods bless the man for his faults.

As Dorian could no longer support himself, he held a hand on Jack's meaty shoulder. Between his own bouts, Dorian said, “Class-ass!” The laughter between the two was beyond control now and Dorian let go of his friend’s shoulder, sitting down next to his weights, hanging on to them as he tried to settle himself. As he did, Danny, still red in the face, walked up to Jack. He slapped Jack across the face, and the laughter died like hitting a Giastone switch.

“Wet paper.” Danny said to Jack, as Jack's head had yet to move from the slap.

Like a great cat, Jack pounced. Grabbing Danny by the shirt he tossed the inferior man to the floor. He was behind Danny in an instant and began pummeling. Haymaker after haymaker, Jack struck Danny across the back of the head as the smaller teenager began to huddle up into a ball. Jack reached out grabbing the back of Danny's neck and began vigorously beating in the back of his skull. Dorian, by this time, had made his way to his feet, pulling his friend off the now defenseless Danny.

“Jack, you'll kill him,” Dorian shouted as he pulled his friend up. Jack moved to get back to it, but Dorian grabbed him in a bear hug, doing all he could to hold back his ridiculously strong friend.

Jack shouted from behind Dorian's shoulder, flailing an arm as he shouted, “how dare you?! If you ever touch me or my friends, I'll snap you in half! Do you hear me you worthless Gwendian dog?!”

When Brother Michael had finally made his way to the scene the damage had been done. Dorian was trying to calm Jack down, he was outraged. Dorian honestly couldn't blame his friend, for all the things Jack was, he was very proud. Jack was a friend, and felt they had a mutual respect, but pride set close to the core of Jack's being where it wasn't so close to Dorian's. Dorian could be proud at times but could throw it away just as quickly if the need arose, Jack simply couldn't do that. It wasn't true to his nature, and Dorian would never fault the young man for it.

“Jack?!” Brother Michael shouted.

“Brother Michael.” Jack responded, unabashed.

Brother Michael stormed over, pulling Jack off to the side. He shouldn't have bothered, the gymnasium had an amphitheater effect which made no conversation honestly private.

“What in the Gods names were you thinking? At the very least he's going to have a concussion, what do you have to say for yourself?” Michael's tone chiding yet authoritative.

“He insulted my friend, myself, and slapped me. He shouldn't have slapped me.” Jack sounded slightly chastised, and suddenly unsure.

“You will apologize to him and leave to see Elder Donavin immediately.” Brother Michael stated as though it were a fact.

“Where is Elder Donavin, sir?” Jack asked.

“Eight floors up, east wing.”

“Can I change and shower before I go?” Jack asked, sounding oddly timid.

He nodded, and Jack turned heading for the lockers.

“Queré!” Brother Michael bellowed. “Apologize!”

In a mellow and clear tone, Jack said as he looked to Danny, “I apologize for beating you like the fool you are. The goat should know not to bite the wolves.” Jack turned and took his leave. Dorian moved to go after him but was intercepted by Brother Michael.

“Hook, you won’t be going anywhere. Your class isn't over, and despite what happened, your friend is the one who acted. He'll be paying the consequences.” Glaring at Dorian he said, “let be a lesson. This is what happens when your friends fight your battles for you.”

Dorian was about to protest when his instructor said, “You know, you should be the one going to see Elder Donavin, not Jack. Go get your snack and get ready for today's sport.” There was a note of disappointment in his voice, and it hit Dorian in a place that felt unguarded.

Dorian was pensive for a moment, and began stewing in self-loathing over how it all went down. Before he had gone far, he asked “Who is Elder Donavin, sir?”

“The Elder in charge of disciplinary action, now go, take your break and line up.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

He joined the class in their break, though not in spirit. Dorian didn't have any other friends there, few cared for resistance training the way he and Jack did, and most everybody looked at Jack when it came to the subject. Dorian had prided himself on his own knowledge base and had done his own research in his off hours. He hadn't done so to appeal to more people, but it did hurt when nobody cared about his opinion on the matter. Furthermore, Dorian never cared for popularity, but he had never noticed how alone he felt in his age group, with Jack gone he didn't really have any place among them.

As Dorian sat alone, he brooded over what had happened, running it over in his head as he ate. He snacked on an energy blend, a paste of what he suspected to be soy and honey that had been sandwiched between two crackers. He laughed at himself as he envisioned his friend laughing hysterically. At that moment Danny walked in from, Dorian assumed, the onsite healer’s office. Dorian had witnessed several injuries during their exercises, but not once had the initiate remained injured, almost always returning to class. Excusing yourself from physical education was tough, as the Sisters and Brothers believed it improved their abilities as Vessels. Hence, they had an on-site healer. Dorian could never remember the Prime's official title; everyone called them healers. Regardless, Dorian knew he’d have to face his unpleasant roommate for the rest of the class, and without his friend’s companionship.

Danny glared at Dorian, but Dorian found that he once again couldn't care less. He raised an eyebrow back at Danny, their eyes meeting, but Dorian refused to look away. Making a disgusted face Danny looked away and joined the other initiates to, presumably, talk behind Dorian's back. Dorian rolled his eyes as the gangly asshole joined his friends. Dorian could be snooty about some things, he had his morals, but Danny was snooty towards everybody he didn't care for and accepting to anyone he thought could win him favor. Danny was as shallow as they came.

“Today will be a special competition,” came the echoing voice of Brother Michael. “Today we have something very special in store for an upcoming event outside the monastery. The details of which aren't to be worried over, however, for those that qualify in the top three there will be perks. This will not have any effect on your current studies, excepting this course. Those successful will be taking a different course for the following few years and will train with other classes that qualify.” The rest of the class had quieted as he spoke, many initiates curious but not overly interested.

“I see I haven't really incited your desire, so let me say this, for the victorious today you will be given the opportunity for glory. You will be given the opportunity to compete in front of the entire valley, in the Colosseum!” A few initiates eyes went wide at the notion. Initiates were never to leave the monastery, furthermore, they were never to be visited by their past. It was against general doctrine and break in that protocol was unheard of.

Some initiates now looked excited. “Finally, and this is key, success in front of the valley grants two rewards, guaranteed ascension,” he paused to let that settle in a moment. There had never been a way to circumvent the final judgment. Some initiates went mad from the anticipation, as the final judgment only happened after the initiates eighteenth year but had no set time. There also weren't any details as to how the judgment took place, only that many of those that ascended were considered knowledgeable, capable, and had a strong grasp on their abilities as a vessel. Those that didn't ascend would stay, becoming laborers or serving slop. The worst had to recycle septic tanks for the rest of their days, including the septic contents for fertilizer. No, a life of cleaning shit wasn't anything anyone wanted, being prepared for judgment was the whole reason they were there. The training in their Primes, the studies, the exercise, the rearing of Vessels, all of it. One reason, the final judgement, and everyone, Dorian included, knew he wouldn’t qualify.

Eliminating the need to worry and train, a guarantee to ascend? That was everyone's goal, and the more Dorian thought about it, the more he realized that this may be his best shot of ascending at all. He was the weakest in both of his primes in each of his classes, even if he was disproportionately strong in the inversion to each, his control of his Primes was equivalent to that of someone five years younger.

After a brief while, Brother Michael continued. “The other reward will be a boon, from none other than the Grand Elder himself. With this in mind, I hope you do your best today but fret not if you don't find success here. From what I understand there will be more than one sport, and since there is time to train, we are seeking the most naturally talented. There will be little training supplied before today's contest, and this is only the first step of several to make your way to the Colosseum, but for those of you that find success,” he raised his hand and made a fist, “you will never come to know a greater rush than holding the center stage in front of tens of thousands.” Brother Michael's grin was savage and reckless, which made Dorian wonder whether the man was speaking from personal experience.

There was a quiet now, a sense of anticipation that ran through every initiate. “Today, we compete with the battle staff.”

Brother Michael smiled broadly, gesturing to the small closet. “Two lines please,” he said as he began walking to the storage room. He unlocked it, and said, “if there aren't two lines, by sex and height, by the time I unlock this door, you'll be doing run aheads for the next hour instead of competing.” That got everyone's attention, “run aheads” involved a jogging line where the one in the back had to sprint to the front before that person could match pace with everyone else. They were a miserable workout, one that was only invoked if someone really messed up. The lines came together in record breaking time, Brother Michael turned looking pleased.

“The stronger sex will take their staves first, I will find an appropriate staff for each of you before we begin. The staff fit for you will be as close as we can come before official training. This class has more than sixty here, and we don't have time to waste. Let us begin.”

The first in the boy's line started walking towards the doors to the storage locker. “Initiate Calisto, what do you think you're doing?” The brother asked, raising his tone and eyebrow together like they were somehow connected.

“Uh, you said the stronger sex, Brother Michael.”

“I did.” A moment passed where nobody spoke. “You presume much young man. You may be able to pick up a few hundred pounds, but do you think you're strong enough to push out a child?”

Calisto's eyes went wide as he shakily looked about the gymnasium. Humbly, he bowed his head to the young Woman. “My apologies, I indeed yield to the stronger sex.” Dorian was dumb, but he could see that set up a mile off. Despite the Grand Elder being male, their society was a matriarch, the lowest of the Sisters still outranked the highest of the Brothers. Though it wasn't always fair, it did seem more functional in Dorian's eyes.

Though the opposite sex was becoming more enticing to him by the day, he had yet to grab the eye of any of them. Dorian hadn't tried, and figured he'd simply save himself the embarrassment. He knew he hadn't caught any of their eyes because he was odious to them, overweight as he was. He had heard women were more interested in confidence, but every young man that had that kind of “confidence” was an arrogant selfish ass. If being like them was what attracted a woman, he'd simply remain single. That type of person, like Danny, only really cared about themselves. Even allying with such a person was tantamount to betraying his own morals, something he thought superseded any other law he could think of.

The women filed into the storage room as the young men waited quietly in line. As the women passed, they eyed Calisto with glares ranging from contemptuous to provocative. Say what you would about confidence, but Calisto didn't need it. The women regularly gawked at him, swooning despite him being the shortest in the class. Caitlin, a gorgeous older initiate that was surprisingly popular despite how bawdy she could be, had proclaimed that Calisto was “a fine piece of meat.” One that she apparently wanted to “sink her teeth into.” Though she was a bit crude about her comments, Dorian could tell she wasn't the only one who held such an opinion. Sadly, Dorian always thought that Calisto was polite but about as daft as they came.

The women eventually trickled out one by one, taking their typical places in the open area of the gymnasium. Dorian noted that most of the staves had little to no ornamentation, were thin and straight and likely made of linewood. He had learned that the wood was reputedly rare and known to flourish primarily in the Wilds. They spoke often of the Wilds in another weekly course, History of the Valley, and how it contained a vast expanse of thick vegetation that even the Grand Elders of old couldn't contain.

Finally, the men were allowed to file in. As Jack was no longer there Dorian was one of the last to enter. Each stave had been placed in an upright holster, long racks ran down the walls. He had never seen them here before and assumed they must have been dragged out of some kind of deep storage. He headed straight to the back where the longer ones were, assuming he'd be able to wield them appropriately. Some of the staves, on closer inspection, had lines running down them. Intrigued, Dorian moved to pick one up when Brother Michael spoke quietly behind him.

“No need for that master Dorian, I've already picked your battle staff for you.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow at the man but didn't protest. “Yes sir, may I have it?”

Placid in his expression, a rarity for Brother Michael, he gestured for Dorian to follow. He spoke as they walked. “Seeing as you were the center of the incident earlier, your partial punishment will be competing with the poorest of qualities. Do you know why that is master Dorian?”

“Because when I put myself in front of the class, the class puts me last.” Dorian replied without thinking. This hadn't been the first time his own actions had put him in this boat.

Once when another boy, Atticus, had called him stupid, not directly but he implied it with enough venom after losing that week's sport that Dorian had taken it personally. Knowing Atticus to be confident and frustrated with the stereotype linking Dorian’s size to his intelligence, he had interfered with Atticus's visit to the weightlifting area.

Atticus always had to have the nicest things for himself, since he wasn't very tall he usually had early picks. Dorian had been doing an exercise that involved picking a weight off the floor and bringing up to his chest, the old books on exercise described it as a clean but most people just called them floors, likely because if you did enough in a row that's where you'd end up. Dorian had been showing off, doing floors with roughly half his own weight, about as much as Atticus himself weighed. Dorian had taunted the other boy, inciting him to try out the exercise.

Knowing Atticus thought himself too good to touch the same bar Dorian was using, he had removed the sand from one side of the weights, leaving it disproportionately off balance. When he exploded upwards, one side nearly flew while the other stayed on the ground, and Atticus landed squarely on his backside. Most the other people lifting that week had burst out in laughter, mostly due to Dorian's taunts, but also because others had been tired of Atticus' attitude as well. As he lay on the ground, stunned, Dorian said something along the lines of “who's the fool now?”

Jack was furious with him for pulling the prank to prove a point, but no matter how much guilt Jack threw at Dorian, he could care less. That ass got what he deserved, but when Brother Michael had caught wind of it, Dorian had done he had exacted a price that would be paid in full.

Brother Michael had brought in crude stones, unbalanced, with holes drilled in them to set to the bars. He informed the class that if Dorian were caught using any other weights, he'd spend the next month with the long distance runners. So, Dorian paid the price, using the ungainly weights for the next six months. Even the smaller weights were sacks of cloth that Dorian had to load with smaller stones, hoping to get the weights to match but were never truly even. It drove Dorian half mad and had torn his hands to shreds, but that was how Brother Michael was.

So, as the Brother led Dorian out of the storage room, most the men already lined up, he made an example of Dorian.

“Before we begin, let this be a reminder to those of us that decide to create problems for this class. Physical exercise is crucial for the progression of your gifts. When somebody doesn't take it seriously, she or he will pay the consequences. This line staff was found two years ago. We haven't turned it in to paste as we have no idea what kind of treatment it’s had, and judging by the discoloration on the end, something likely died or defecated on it. Master Dorian, remember this the next time you decide to make trouble for me. Not only that, but your friend is going to miss a fine opportunity. Let this be a symbol of what it costs to let me or your friends down.” His voice carried across the gymnasium, and Dorian's face reddened in embarrassment. Picking up a staff wrapped in linen, he uncoiled it and presented the staff to Dorian, taking ample precaution not to touch the disgusting thing.

It had dark spots at the bottom with a flat stop there, like it had been seared off. At the top a large chunk was missing and it had a distinctive yellow hue. Dorian stared at it, and for a second his vision blurred. The world seemed to spin as he took shallow breaths. He felt like he was going to wretch, he felt like a hammer was pounding out the back of his skull. “It is disgusting. Come now, take it Dorian or you'll be disqualified.”

Dorian shook his head trying to clear it but only managed to make the sensation worse. He reached out and took the staff, as he did the world seemed to quiet. Like coming up for air after a long dive, the pounding stopped, and a calm enveloped him.

Something, as odd as it seemed, niggled at the back of his mind. Like he had forgotten his ink pot before a lecture, something he was forgetting ached and wormed for a time.

Clearing his throat, Brother Michael said, “You may take your place in line, Master Dorian.” He heard a few chuckles at his expense but wasn't bothered. He was usually at the bad end of other people's cruelty, it wasn't anything new to him. He took his staff and got into position but couldn't get his eyes off the staff. The broken bit at the end, the gash that ran diagonally, the spots at the bottom...

“I will give you a brief instruction on forms, of which you will follow along to. On the sporting side, a clean strike with the broad side is worth two points, partial strikes are all only worth a single point, and clean thrust,” He had picked up a staff as he spoke, walking as he lectured. He thrust forward with a well-practiced grace, “is worth three.”

The Brother kept up his lecture having the class space themselves apart and follow along in the various stances. After nearly half an hour, he announced that most people had the basics and that they'd begin the individuals tournament. As they practiced, something in Dorian shifted. He felt good, no, better than good. He felt powerful. As he practiced his thrusts, each one getting cleaner as he went, he felt a kind of vibration from the weapon. A sensation, a dragging, niggling, tickling sensation ran up and down his spine. It felt much like the time he found a hair caught on his teeth. Dislodging it to take it out, Dorian must have sneezed at some point and it had lodged itself up his nose and into his sinuses. The sensation of pulling it out was the closest he could come to describing the vibration from the weapon. Something passed then, a low hum that Dorian could audibly hear. Dorian felt a sense of vertigo, and stumbled as his next practice strike put him off balance. Brother Michael was there however, turning Dorian’s bulk in such a way to keep him on his feet. “That’s alright, lad.” The Brother’s tone wasn’t his normal clipped demanding voice, it was one of concern. Dorian didn’t even recognize the voice until he turned to the man, nodding his thanks. The Brother walked towards the center of their class.

“Since we don't have all day, I've enlisted the aid of two other well acquainted with the staff to referee the matches until we have eliminated most the class. For those that lose out early, you're welcome to leave but I can promise you, you'll find no better entertainment. This is the sport of the warriors of old, a lineage you've inherited from your ancestors hailing from the dawn of the valley. There is a reason that Gwendos and Kressor both wielded the battle staff.”

Dorian tuned out Brother Michael as he noted Brother Faustus, the resident healer, and Sister Brenda, of all people. He shot her a quizzical look with a slight grin, but her only response was the slightest nod of the head. The two elders headed over to Brother Michael and took a sheet of paper from him. Sister Brenda frowned, noting something on the paper. She pointed to it raising an eyebrow. “Ah, yes. We had a little problem earlier, I had to change the expected lineup. This should suffice however.” She nodded and made her way over to the side furthest from Dorian, Brother Faustus heading down by himself.

“Ah, one last thing. If you or your opponent exit the ring, you will recenter, however, whomever does so will lose all of their points to their opponent. At the discretion of the referee, up to five points can be distributed if the one leaving the ring hasn't shown any initiative.” The initiates looked around, confused. One of the female initiates asked, “What ring, Brother Michael?”

“Oh, yes.” He responded, as though he had forgotten. He tamped his staff downward, and three rings of stone rose roughly an inch from the floor, each about fifteen yards across. Gods, that man was a showoff.

Shaking her head, Sister Brenda reached into a pocket set in her robes and tossed something to the floor. Thin tendrils stretched across the floor, and everybody backed off the center floor as the cork padding grew to more than half the height of the rings Brother Michael had shaped.

He heard Sister Brenda saying something, but it was drowned out by Brother Faustus as the initiates resumed their places. “First bout will be between Malik Sheer and Dorian Hook.” Blacked balls, of course he'd be first.

Malik, fair-skinned with a medium build and uncommonly dark hair for a Gwendian, generally alternated between long-distance running and gymnastics but did not engage in heavy weight training. Dorian, on the other hand, had a keen interest in attempting the gymnastic routines but was apprehensive about potentially embarrassing himself. Malik, on the other hand, only really partook in whatever was more popular. Dorian didn’t really judge him for it, to each his own Dorian figured.

Malik and Dorian made their way to the center of the circle in front of their referee. Brother Faustus raised his hand waiting for quiet. Dorian couldn't hear anything but his pounding heart. The staff in his hands felt so... right, but the fear of further social stigmatization concerned him. He was tired of being the whipping post for everybody's amusements. “Clean bout, no crotch shots, no lethal action. Touch staves,” they did so, holding the position. With a flourish, he whipped his hand down shouting, “Begin!”

Malik wasted no time, likely trying to use his speed to his advantage. In an offensive stance, he whipped out a sideways strike, Dorian moved to block the blow. As their staves met, and the vibration ran through his hands something happened. An image danced across Dorian's mind, an older boy, grin plastered across his face. It spoke of mischief and cunning, of daring like a fool and reveling in the glory of bravery. It spoke of warmth and acceptance, but also of challenge. Not the kind of challenge between rivals, but a playful and whimsical challenge, one that meant the world in the moment but nothing when it was over. Then it was gone, the only thing that remained was the reckless grin plastered across Dorian's own face.

Rebounding from the blow he knew what to do. Allowing the next strike to come at him from the opposite side, he let go of the top of the staff. When the two staves met, Dorian's twisted with little resistance, allowing the momentum of the blow to aid his transition. As the bottom of his staff came up, he grabbed it with his free hand, and thrust between his opponents legs. Now close, he leveraged the end over, and drove forward, pushing Malik off his feet as he tripped over the staff. He tried to roll, but was stabbed three times, as gently as Dorian could, and struck once to tally eleven points. He heard Malik curse under his breath, but Dorian wasn't the kind to gloat. Once the match was over it was over, nobody liked to have their face rubbed in defeat.

Dorian offered a hand to his opponent, and to his surprise Malik took it. They came back to the center of the ring and shook hands as Dorian was declared the victor. Brother Faustus even commented, “good sportsmanship, the both of you. You've set a fine example. Dorian to your place, Malik, you're free to leave or take a seat.”

As they left the circle, Malik asked, “Nice one Dorian, where'd you learn that?”

“I don't know,” Dorian shrugged, “It just came to me.”

Malik gave a grunt of acknowledgment and said, “good luck Dorian, I'm going to hang to see if you do better than I could.” He smiled at Dorian and patted his shoulder before heading over to the seats. Dorian decided that Malik wasn’t so bad as the young man took his place to watch the next bout.

“Kintra Bale and Hunter Wheeler,” Brother Faustus called. Dorian heard him but wasn't watching, down the way Danny was matched up against Calisto. Unfortunately for Calisto, despite his added muscle, Danny's height gave him a distinctive advantage. The way the sound echoed through the gymnasium made it hard to hear what Brother Michael said after each blow, but he also raised a hand after every exchange. The last clash left Danny with three more points and Calisto only one, putting Danny up eight to four. “Begin!” The sound of Brother Faustus's voice was booming, and it pulled Dorian's attention back to the bout in front of him.

Hunter was stiff as a board, unsure in his movements, whereas Kintra was a storm of blows. Kintra was taller than most of the other women but wasn't gaunt because of it. She was well muscled, lean, and generally took to gymnastics like a bird to flight. Her brown haired braid swinging about as she whipped her staff at Hunter. Hunter generally meant well, but wasn't as athletic as his opponent. Hunter was well rounded but terribly average in most capacities, apparently this included dueling staves.

Dorian looked back at Danny's bout, seeing him circle his opponent. Calisto's face had reddened, and Brother Michael was standing between the two competitors. “Minus two points to Smith for unsportsmanlike conduct. If you want to speak ill of your opponent do it after the match, this is no place for that.” His brows were knit together in a thunderhead of disapproval. Dorian grinned, happy to see Danny get what was coming for a change and that trash talking wasn't acceptable. Dorian had a hard enough time doing well in the gymnasium, he didn't need to doubt himself any more than he already did.

Brother Michael raised his hand and dropped it again to restart the bout, and Danny wasted no time. He rushed his opponent with a series of thrusts which led to Calisto backing away until he tripped on the edge of the ring, thus concluding the match. They went back to the center and as Calisto put his hand out to shake Danny slapped it and muttered something. Loud enough that the whole class could hear, Calisto replied, “I'll be staying here to watch you lose, asshole.”

Some of the girls giggled at that, while others looked peeved. Apparently, Calisto wasn't the only one winning favor with the women.

“And match!” Came the voice of Brother Faustus. The two contestants came to the center of the ring, shook hands and parted ways without any bad blood between them.

The following half hour went this way, most matches moving quickly. Dorian wondered whether the matches had been set up to make for quicker time as in most cases there was a definitive winner. Here and there a good match would ensue, but in thirty bouts there wasn’t one within four points of another. Finally, the first round came to an end, leaving thirty of them.

The three adults left the center of the gymnasium and assembled next to the seats. There was a stone “table” of sorts, sitting high enough for them to sit together. They discussed in hushed tones as Dorian waited patiently. Others had come together and were chatting excitedly, a few walking over to the seats to talk with some of the people that had lost. To Dorian's surprise, not a single person had left yet, they all sat and enjoyed the entertainment.

After some minor arguing, Brother Michael stood. “Initiates, the tournament has begun in earnest. The lineups have been produced, and matches will begin shortly.” With a wave of his hand the stone on the opposing wall began shifting. The shapes of tournament brackets merged out of the walls, slightly green in color. As they finished, the Brother clapped his hands and the greenish stone began to glow slightly. The general pale gray of the stone behind was offset by the now brightened color, and though Dorian thought it was neat he was also tired of the older man showing off his skills. Not sure if the bitterness was based in jealousy or the Brother's need to show off, Dorian wasn't sure. Then the names of each contestant flowed from the wall and began to glow as well, which left Dorian sure he was sick of the swagger. As Dorian looked back at the adults he noted Sister Brenda rolling her eyes, likely thinking the same thing.

With a sigh, Dorian found his name and saw that he'd be facing Ingrid, a blonde-haired young Woman of Gwendian birth. Despite her hair color, she had reminded him of Hunter when Dorian first came to the monastery. Dorian wasn't nosy, so he hadn't found a reason to inquire, until one day he had embarrassed himself in front of her by making a quiet comment to Jack about the resemblance. She had scoffed at him and called him a dolt, which is when Jack informed him that they were fraternal twins. Dorian felt like an oblivious ass, and when they were paired weeks later, he had apologized. Yes, she had called him a dolt, but Dorian could be that way about certain things, he knew. “I'm sorry for being oblivious before. I try not to pry in matters that aren't my own.” Dorian had said to her, chagrined. She had accepted his apology but hadn't really cared either way. Dorian still suspected that she threw their match that day on the simple grounds that she didn't want any level of cooperation with him, that she would rather lose on purpose than win paired with him. Later, Dorian found out that she, like so many others in the class, had eyes for Danny.

Despite her twin's average athleticism, she was formidable. It was like she sucked all the talent out of her brother in the womb and in an act of pity left him with enough skills to achieve average marks, rather than awful ones. If such a thing could be true, Dorian wouldn't be surprised. She was cutthroat, vicious, and took every opportunity to lay down a swift victory in most every sport. To make things worse, she had received a bye in the first round as their class was one shy.

“From left to right, the first ten initiates are to the first circle adjacent to the brackets. The following ten to the center, and the remainder to the final circle.” Brother Michael's voice was clear as most of the initiates were busy inspecting their places. Dorian headed to the center circle where Brother Michael would referee. He took a seat to the outside of the circle, laying his battered staff to the side. He began stretching knowing that he had gotten “cold” since his last bout. As he did so, to Dorian's surprise, Malik made his way down from his seat and walked straight to where Dorian lay.

“Tough roll Dorian.” Despite his words, Malik smiled and gave a small chuckle as he looked down to Dorian. Dorian nodded, not nearly as cheerful. “For the sake of saying it, I think I was supposed to win our bout.” Dorian agreed, giving a “uh-huh,” before saying, “you noticed that too? I think they set it up that way to make better time, we've barely got an hour left before lunch and next class.”

Malik's face twisted in surprise, “not as oblivious as you put on.” He smiled, then said, “that's good. It's usually easier to give people what they expect, right?” A black eyebrow rose as he asked, “so, do you have a plan?”

“Go out and do my best?” Dorian shrugged, unsure.

For the first time Malik's smile vanished. “Don't do that.”

Confused by the statement, Dorian said, “do what?”

“That,” Malik gestured, “put on that fat kid docility. You aren't that, maybe a few years back, but you've been changing lately. You're broader now,” Malik gestured with his hands up, “and with Jack gone you're undeniably the strongest one here.”

Dorian gushed at the mere notion of being more than the fat kid. It wasn't high praise by any stretch, but it was better than Dorian usually got. He smirked at Malik, then said, “you're probably right-.”

Malik cut him off, “not probably, you are. Now be confident and think. Just because Ingrid is ferocious, it doesn't mean she's not thinking about how to best you. I wouldn't be surprised if she tried to get into your head before the match. She's faster than you, and more aggressive, but above all she's sure of herself.” Malik squatted down to look Dorian in the eye, Dorian caught a wicked glint there, some conniving thought coming to the fore. “Maybe, give her what she expects.” His smile returned to his face, “it’s how you got me, after all.” Malik stood up as Dorian pondered on his words.

Malik turned to leave, and Dorian felt compelled to speak. “Why, Malik?”

“Hmm?” He turned his head to look back to Dorian. “Why help me?” Dorian said inquisitively.

He smiled as broadly as he could, not an ounce of guile in his expression or in the following words. “I can't lose first round to somebody that doesn't get far; besides, I'm getting great odds on you.” He moved to leave again when Dorian asked, “How great? I might want to put in.”

Malik's eyebrows shot up as he tucked his chin, grin growing even wider. He said, “Twenty to one” in a near whisper. Dorian spoke quietly in turn, “I've got three Vega on myself, if you'll middleman for me.”

His arms opened, “If you have the coin, of course.”

“Not on hand, of course. I've got myself a small savings in the event of my loss.” Malik nodded, “Okay Dorian, I'll back you. I'll check on you if you make it to the next round, see if you might want in on a bit more action.” He said the word “action” with a vehemence that Dorian hadn't expected, and worried whether or not Malik was having fun or if he had a bit of a problem with gambling. Then again, he may just be devoted to Kressor as a primary deity, Kressor was said to smile on those that gamble. Particularly, it was said to win a gamble was to also win Kressor’s favor. As Dorian contemplated this, and everything else Malik had said, Malik headed up to his seat with a few others and began speaking in hushed tones. Three of them looked up from their conversation and stared at Dorian. He gave a solemn nod which seemed to appease them, and they returned to a hurried conversation.

Dorian rolled on to his belly and began stretching his calves as others began crowding around him. He couldn't tell who they were, all of them wearing the same exercise clothing as he, a loose wool tunic tied at the waist and wool shorts dyed a deep blue.

A smooth voice came from behind him, the chatter of several teenage girls followed rather than the spoken words of young Woman. “No, he won’t be able to handle me.” The voice was mellifluous, but the tone spoke of stone certainty. A few more garbled words were lost to the ambiance of the gymnasium's acoustics, then Ingrid, Dorian was sure, chortled before saying, “more like a cub. He won’t know what to do, he'll just stand there docile as ever. His friend might have stood a chance, but his friend can't fight for him now, can he?” The teenage chatter erupted, one of them having a giggle that sounded more akin to nails on glass than lilting laughter. Another voice sounded, the lude one, Caitlin. She said, “he'll be happy when he loses, probably the closest he'll ever get to a woman. Just think about it, after beating him down, he’ll probably think about it every time he beats himself down, you know what I mean?” The laughter echoed through the room, the vaulted ceiling creating a cascade of laughter, all of which was at his expense. I can handle this, he thought to himself as he switched to his other calf.

The final blow that Dorian couldn't take came from Ingrid's own mouth. He knew as soon as he heard it that it would ignite his indignation every time it crossed his mind, the kind of blow to the psyche that only a humiliated teenager could understand. Ingrid said, “Nancy, that's fucking disgusting. Not even in his daydreams could docile Duh-rian handle me. If he could even find it” She tapered off, leaving the abruptly rude comment to linger in the air as the others burst out in giggles.

Red faced and humiliated, he felt the small seed of confidence that Malik had set in him wither. No, Dorian thought to himself, that's what she was planning. Just as Malik had said, she was trying to get into his head, crush his spirit and take advantage of either his presumed stupidity or his outrage. He focused on the thought, if she felt the need to do such a thing then she wasn't sure of her victory. He stood a chance, despite her words, he could do this thing. He gripped his staff and that grin, that grin that spoke of reckless mayhem, stole onto his face. The heat he felt lessened as he stood, and he could swear he could feel that hum again.

Keeping to the words of Malik, Dorian put on a face of utter placidity, letting his mouth open slightly, he began twisting his upper torso. The chatter died down significantly as he grabbed his staff at both ends, raising it above his head then behind his back to stretch his shoulders. He lost himself in a routine he had never learned but somehow knew down to his bones. His breathing changed, deep breathes with controlled exhales as he readied himself.

Give her what she expects until she doesn't expect it, he thought to himself repeatedly. Brother Michael finally called for the first fight. “Atticus Weaver and Philomena Smith, to the center stage. You know the routine, clean fight and all that.” The two initiates made their way to the front. Philomena was a bit squat, and though she ran often, she was one of the few women to make their way to the weights section. She was likely the strongest female of their class, and was tough as nails. Atticus, however, was nearly a foot taller than the short woman. It didn't take a genius to see where this was going. Atticus threw off his tunic before entering the ring, he loosened up his shoulders as he came to the center. Philomena was already tensed, but as soon as Brother Michael's hand dropped, they were off.

It was a surprisingly good match, and had nearly removed the butterflies churning in Dorian's stomach, nearly. Still, on several exchanges Atticus was able to distance himself easily. Once when she had gotten too close, he had pushed her, then followed up with a strike. “Hey, isn't that illegal?” Somebody in the crowd had called, but the now stern Brother just waved it off. After the match had concluded, Atticus being declared the winner, Brother Michael spoke to the crowd. “Distancing maneuvers are allowed, such as pushing or forward kicks. Punches intended to deal damage are not. I decided to address it should it come up but not before. Kicking is allowed but isn't worth any points. Remember that initiates, because a kick can leave you exposed and isn't worth the risk. The next match,” Brother Michael kept speaking but Dorian was distracted by someone coming up beside him.

It was Ingrid, suddenly very close. She spoke clearly but quietly. “So, ready for our bout?” She sounded almost cheery.

Dorian looked behind, checking the brackets. They would be after this fight. Dorian looked at her briefly, then to the match, pretending not to care. “I guess.”

She chuckled softly, “think you stand a chance?”

Dorian knew he could have a temper but prided himself on controlling it. This Woman, as lithe as she may be, had deliberately infuriated, shamed, and emasculated him. His rage simmered as he thought of her calling him a cub. He usually had control, but he came unbearably close to losing it right there.

“Of what?” he said, acting out the dumb brute she thought he was. Dorian glanced over, noting her attempt to completely hide her condescending smile. She tried to hide her laughter but failed.

“Oh,” she said, drawing out the word. Voice lilting she said, “you don't stand a chance, do you little cub?” She said it, but she said it breathy, as though she'd inspire any kind of emotional response she wanted from him. Dorian could be an animal, yes, but not the kind so easily manipulated. He thought of his mind to be primitive, but elegant. Animalistic but refined, and though the notions were contradictory, he felt he represented both in fair portions. The way Ingrid was trying to manipulate him made him feel base, and for a moment his inner animal wailed against the bars of his self-control.

Fed up with her mockery and degradation, Dorian turned to her, throwing away his mask of stupidity and standing upright for the first time. Animal but refined, he thought as he squared his shoulders, and looked down at the young Woman. Seeing her this close, he noted that she was quite handsome, the fine features on her face traced her thin but elegant lips, her cheekbones sitting high just below large eyes. As Dorian stood to his full height those eyes widened. The grimace on his face could wilt a harvest, and the intensity of his glare displayed the fire of his very soul.

Voice low, and quiet, he growled, “you don't know me, don't pretend to. You've had your laugh, and I'm glad you have. Enjoy it. Maybe Danny will cheer for you, like he does for the rest of his harem.” Dorian spat as he tilted his head, “maybe you'll be different.” Dorian paused and pointedly looked over as Danny made his way to Sister Brenda's circle, beginning a bout against another initiate. When Ingrid's eyes followed Dorian’s, he whispered out the intensity of his disdain. “Maybe you'll epitomize all the qualities he's ever desired. Shallow, bitter, fickle, and secretly vulnerable for him to prey upon. Maybe you'll be the one, you think, before he tosses you out like every other one I've seen leaving the dorm as I wake in the hallway, hoping he hasn't trashed your heart like the rest. Maybe you'll be the one that I don't pity. Maybe.” She turned to him, her expression somewhere between hurt and insulted outrage. As she inhaled to speak to him Dorian raised a finger, speaking before she could. “But what do I know,” he let his shoulders and head droop, resuming the posture he had before. Mask of placidity back in place, he said, “I'm just docile Duh-rian.” He looked away as if he didn't understand.

She looked at him, inhaled like she'd speak but instead held her breath, moving her head back as if away from something dangerous. Unsure and gawking at him, she left without a word. Dorian moved to watch Danny's match but couldn't care about it. In his frustration at the chaos of emotions whirling in his head, he simply stared off blankly, trying to find a place to land himself in the storm that was his mind.

When his name was called by Brother Michael, he still hadn't landed. The bile he had spewed with his words earlier now completely unattainable, the storm now raged through him, his inner animal nearly free. He had been brooding on the words Ingrid had said earlier, their mockery echoing through his mind. He hadn't even registered that Brother Michael had called for a fight, only that his name had been called and what it meant. No longer thinking, his heart racing, he came in to the now, like feeling a gust of wind while standing at the edge of the courtyard. Fear, indignation, and fury were the rapture of his rebirth, they were the catalyst to bring him life. Docile Dorian they had called him, and they were right at the time. Now it was different, however, he was intent on showing them exactly what he was. He was Dorian become manifest, even if just for a moment, and his shout would not go unheard, nor could his animal be chained.

Without thinking he cast of his tunic, giving rise to stares from several around him. He stood tall, proud and unabashed for what he was, an animal ready to be unleashed, the bear poked one too many times. Squaring his shoulders, he felt the muscles at the base of his neck bunching up, with his chin down he could feel them pressing together and rising out of his undershirt. His arms tensed and flexed as Dorian grasped his battle staff and raised it to position, making eye contact with Ingrid for the first time in the ring. The intensity there nearly matched his own, but despite her intimidating look something came over him. He grinned.

Brother Michael's hand dropped, and the world disappeared, leaving only Dorian and his opponent. Ingrid vaulted forward, leading with an overhead strike. Instead of dodging, Dorian moved forward to step into her attack but kept his feet firmly rooted to the ground. Staff held horizontally to contact hers, her face became unsure. As their staves met, he allowed her staff to come close, conceding a point to a partial blow, but in turn granting his arms the leverage they needed. Like a spring coiled, he snapped out with his entire body, all her weight, now resting on Dorian, was flung with all his might. He snarled out the word “docile” as she was flung through the air, though it was incomprehensible in his own ears. She landed with a yelp clearing the outside of the ring. Dorian took a single step back to his starting position, his eyes never leaving Ingrid's, his penetrating glare radiating his fury.

“One point, uh, surrendered to Dorian. Please miss Ingrid, to the center.” Brother Michael's tone was confused, but he kept to his role.

Her face was red, but Ingrid didn't let it shake her composure. She headed to the center, as she did so a now shirtless Danny stepped into his view. “Get that fat bastard Ingrid, he's got nothing on you!” Danny called from the side of the ring. Dorian put on a pensive face, then grinned despite his anger. “Brother Michael, what are those little dogs called, the ones that bark a whole lot and are all fluff?” Brother Michael was staring daggers at Danny but replied to Dorian, “Gwendian foot-dogs?”

Dorian snapped his fingers in mock realization, “that's why Jack called him that. Clever Jack.” Dorian smiled, chuckling to himself. To Dorian's surprise, Brother Michael laughed too, a good hearty laugh before he straightened himself. He coughed into his hand, trying to hide himself. “Yes, that was the insult, I do believe. Not the right place for it, initiate.” His scowl was completely false, anyone with half a mind could read right through it. “Uh, one point reduction on inappropriate conduct. You should mind yourself Dorian.” Dorian didn't mind, he was finally beginning to feel centered again, landing from his mental storm. Thanks Danny.

Though he had landed, his fury was still there waiting to be tapped. He kept it in reserve and decided if he was going to win, or lose for that matter, he was going to have fun doing so. Though he could be serious, Dorian realized at that moment that it was entirely too much work. He grinned at his pretty opponent, and the look he got back surprised him. She was smirking.

They clashed, back and forth, moving with fluidity and grace the dancers at the equinox festivals could never rival. She grunted in exertion as Dorian took another point, sweat now caked onto her head. Dorian's own head was covered, and his undershirt was nearly drenched. Dorian hadn't paid attention but passively noticed that the other matches had switched participants three or four times now. The people around his ring now began to disappear, as the clack clack tap of their staves met back and forth, time seemed to disappear. Only the joy of the moment, the exhilaration of competition, and the movements of his opponent were all that existed and in Dorian's mind it was beautiful.

Ingrid's next series came low, swiping haphazardly as she tired. If Dorian was tired, he couldn't feel it save for a burning sensation emanating from his chest. His breaths were ragged but even, his mind clear and unfocused, the kind of mode that allowed his body to act without his mind getting in the way. Anchoring his staff against his foot he blocked the next swipe with the deadening power of his own weight. Using his foot to add speed, he lifted his knee, bringing the stave up quicker than one would be able to anticipate. Ingrid, however, used the momentum of the block to spin counterclockwise, thrusting forward as she turned back to meet Dorian. The result was an exchange of thrusts, Dorian being struck soundly at his thigh, Ingrid struck against her chest. That left Dorian two points away from victory, Ingrid trailing two points behind him. Despite this, the way in which Ingrid had taken the blow left her... disheveled. Furthermore, the fact that she was actively moving towards Dorian as she had been hit doubled her over, her own momentum forcing the staff to strike harder than it should. She rolled over but kept hold of her staff.

Expecting a blow, she held her staff up preparing to block. Dorian, without a thought, stood over her to block the view of the crowd. Dorian looked away from but put his hand out as to tell her to stop. Without thinking he used his stave to hook his tunic and flung it onto her. It looked like a tent compared to her lithe form. As it draped over her, she shouted, “Why the hell did you just do that?!” Her outrage was palpable, but Dorian wasn't the kind to deliberately embarrass somebody like that. “Ingrid, I'd take no honor in beating someone in, uh,” he looked about and spoke quietly, gripping his undershirt at the chest and pulling it down slightly, “your current state.”

“Like we all haven't seen them before!” Came Danny's voice. A sudden rage came over Dorian then, overwhelming him. “Shut your fucking mouth, Danny!” His chest felt on fire, but the room grew cold. Very cold, cold enough that Dorian could see his breath. The air was thin, and the locked glare between Danny and Dorian was one that spoke of war. A long moment passed when a cough came from behind Dorian. “Forgetting something?”

Dorian turned to see Ingrid tossing his tunic to the side. Now that he was out of the moment, the room returned to life. The air thickened, and in the quiet he noticed the entire class was seated, holding their breath as they watched the match. How much time has passed?

Returning his gaze to Ingrid, she nodded her head and raised her staff in a sign of respect. Dorian met the gesture, tapping staves and returning to their dueling dance.

Dorian grinned at the sound of their clash, the tap tap clack, the jarring vibrations sent down his staff, and the feel of a young man come to life burned through him. Not since he could remember, not since his life began at the monastery had he been this enthralled. Though joy filled him, he could tell that Ingrid's heart wasn't in the fight any longer. Something had come over her, Dorian had no clue what, but he could tell that the match was a forgone conclusion, the final strike dancing in his mind as he parried a thrust and laid another counter.

It ended anticlimactically. Dorian had been circling her, riding the edge of the ring, and as she leaped to catch him off guard, he simply moved around the attack. Her momentum would have shoved him out of bounds, but without him grounding her she stumbled out, though not before Dorian tagged a final light strike against her. It was an all or nothing move, a gamble that she lost.

They came to the center of the ring, shook hands, and Brother Michael announced Dorian the winner. The crowd erupted in applause, but despite her defeat Ingrid stepped in while shaking Dorian's hand. With a curious expression she asked, “Why did you... you know? It would have been an easy win.” She pointed to the back end of the ring by Dorian's tunic. He gave a sad kind of grin before saying “I know what it is to feel... well, like that. It's not worth winning if I put anyone else through that too. I don’t know…” he mumbled and shrugged, at a loss for words. She smiled gently as she met his eye, “thank you, Dorian. And I'm-” Dorian never heard what she said as a mass of force tackled him to the ground.

Rolling about, Dorian only knew of one person that could aptly wrestle him around like that. “Get off me Kurt!” Dorian shouted before he wrapped an arm over an elbow that was cupping his gut and rolled, flinging the young man off him. As Dorian looked up, he caught sight of Ingrid walking away, Danny still shirtless following behind.

“Who the hell is Kurt?” Dorian looked back to see Jack. Then the man-ape-monster lunged at Dorian, laughing uproariously. “And what in the name of the Kressian King was that, Dorian?! By the Gods, that was great!” They laughed and shoved back and forth for a few seconds. Dorian was too tired for it, tripping backwards but rolling back to his feet. Blackened balls, the guy was annoyingly strong.

“Alright, everybody, in light of the surprisingly long show,” Brother Michael shot Dorian a glare, “We will continue our little tournament in three days.” With greater emphasis he said, “during leisure hours. Any that do not wish to participate will be forced to concede, though I doubt many will. Dorian, a word.” Dorian glanced at Jack, but he only shrugged. Brother Michael squatted down, Jack already heading for the baths as Dorian caught his breath. “You'll be meeting with Sister Brenda within the hour, yes?” Dorian nodded. “I'll meet you there, her and I have a few things to discuss. Don't worry, you're not in trouble, but we will have to discuss what happened before the end of your match.”

Dorian, face of concern said, “Well, I just couldn't hit her, she wasn't in a proper state and all-.” Dorian was cut off by Brother Michael's waving hand. “Not that Dorian, though that was the honorable thing to do. I’m referring to when you yelled back at Danny. Don't worry, now hit the baths, you stink.” Dorian stood and gathered his tunic. “And I'll give you a proper staff next time, this thing is beaten to death.” Dorian stiffened. “If I could, Brother Michael, I'd like to keep it.”

“What, this nasty thing? You're joking right?”

“Really, I think it's good luck.” Dorian was suddenly sheepish.

After a long moment Brother Michael nodded and said, “I'll see what I can do about getting it repaired then.” He smiled and shooed Dorian away.

Tired as he could be, Dorian found his way to the baths. The hot springs that ran through the mountain were likely the reason The Monastery had been built there, the ever-flowing hot water a luxury beyond belief. Dorian undressed in his bathing cubicle, set his clothes in the communal hamper, and slowly lowered himself in, enjoying the sliced bit of heaven. The sliding panels allowed privacy if one desired it, people weren't overly bashful about their bodies, unless of course they were Dorian. His mind centered, he couldn't believe he stood in front of his class in nothing more than his undershirt. Above all things, he prided himself on his bravery in that regard above all others. Maybe not completely facing his fear, but it had been a step. He smiled as his eyes began to feel heavy, his arms resting to the sides of the bath, the heavy lids shut despite his resistance and the world melted away.