Of those memories, I hadn't thought that the history of science was key to understanding how the abnormalities had not yet manifested. We had begun with a diverse stock of genetics, but how were any of us to know how long it would take, how would any of us have known what impact the unveiling would have on our very genome. Life is so boundless in its aptitude to change, adapting in ways the scientists of old could never comprehend.
The next day was consumed with the departure of most the village. About forty people stayed behind, of which were mostly infirm, elderly, or those caring for either. Dorian's responsibilities as lone cook was relatively simple, he had to prepare soups and breads, but only every two nights. It was expected that people would be taking anything left over for themselves, which lightened Dorian's workload significantly.
His mother’s time was spoken for most days. She had been needing the spare time to coordinate and organize her responsibilities for her upcoming time away from her post. Master Trapper was a big role for their village, as the entire valley received their furs and leathers from Metan. It not only meant that she needed to plan all contingencies, but that she also had to ensure the continued success of their whole village in the eyes of the rest of the valley. Dorian also overheard his mother say she had to make a new plan to acquire Steelfyre as none of their current endeavors had panned out.
Dorian suspected that the subject was a sore spot, so he avoided all conversations about it. He didn’t even want to be caught eavesdropping about it. He had noticed that as her pregnancy grew more advanced, so did her fiery temper. It didn't take much, Dorian knew, so he had prepared himself to walk on eggshells all week long. Luckily, his recent injury seemed to keep him out of her direct sight. He intended to keep it that way.
Dorian made his way to town to see his father and brother off. His mother had already arrived earlier that day, which made for an odd circumstance. If Dorian had any guess, most of his days over the next week would be relatively free. There were several books he'd been wanting to read at home but had been neglecting. Besides, the town would soon be more vacant than it had been since Dorian could remember. Realizing this rare opportunity, he intended to find a quiet place and figure out what he could do with his abilities. Furthermore, how exactly to keep himself from the priests. Priorius priests.
Most of his life he had been strictly monitored, he couldn't really experiment without running the risk of discovery. He experimented a little with telepathy, but only with his brother for fear that others would start to pick up on it and figure him out. Outside of that and the strength that made him sick to his stomach, he wasn't all-too sure. He wanted to see if he could pick up on that rhythm again, how he had with the Line trees, but didn't have any bright ideas how to figure it out.
He avoided the truth of what he was like spoiled milk. Confronting the issue wouldn't make him a normal kid, it wouldn't keep his family whole, it wouldn't keep him safe. So, cowardly as it was, he didn't like to confront his abilities. That cowardice, however, was a coiled parasite and it was starting to eat at him. He'd noticed how much focus he had to pay to keep things quiet in his mind, or to not rip a door off its hinges when he felt upset. Some emotions seem to tip his mind to applying whatever pressure it was that caused him to use his abilities. Since he had taken the supplement he had stolen, his abilities had become significantly harder to keep a handle on. It was akin to knowing you must vomit but doing everything you can to keep it down, all the while understanding that you'd feel better if you'd just let it go. That's what his senses were telling him, and for most of the night and that morning he struggled to keep it under control. Now with a distraction, heading to the village square, his mind seemed to relax.
Upon his arrival, Dorian spotted a surprising crowd. It consisted of more outer residents, hamlets and other small communities. Dorian knew that their homes bordered the inner ring that Metan was primary to. The “inner ring,” as only Dorian called it, being the small area within the Wilds where the speed of growth was manageable enough for living. The Wilds had a tendency to grow at an alarming rate, sometimes weeks, sometimes days, and the landscape itself could shift. That’s why mapping it was such a challenge. Despite this, the people would mostly be gathered as the main party passed through. Metan proper was just the start.
As the procession travelled they would meet with other smaller groups, gathering many more before their arrival in Gwendon. From there, they traveled to the festival grounds, usually held in the arena for acoustic purposes.
Dorian entered the village square, orienting himself amongst all the strangers. It was odd, that so many people lived nearby, yet Dorian seldom met them.
“Oh, Dorian!” Sang Kurt, strolling up to him. “What's got you in such a brooding mood?”
“Didn't sleep well.” Dorian replied tersely.
“Dreaming of Q?” Kurt poked Dorian in the side as he said this. Dorian frowned and replied, “no, maybe I shouldn’t have-,” he cut off when Diana walked up with Quena in stride. Shit.
“Wow.” Quena said in astonishment, looking at Dorian. “I can't even believe you're up after yesterday.”
Diana spoke next, “He was a great patient, Q, so don't give him a harder time than he's already had.”
Dorian could hear his brother's thoughts without reading his mind, and simply gave him a frank look. Don't do it, Kurt.
Kurt coughed into his hand, clearing his throat he said, “thank you for taking such good care of him yesterday. We've done our best to keep him drugged, but the little bastard keeps getting up.”
Quena chuckled a little at that, while Diana gave a more subtle laugh.
Quena said, “About that, yesterday.” Dorian put a grim look on his face, not wanting to think about it he shook his head. She spoke, regardless. “I came out the gate pretty heavy yesterday, I shouldn't have, it wasn't very sporting.”
Realizing that she wasn't talking about his embarrassing experience, Dorian calmed and shrugged. “No big deal. You're lightning fast though, Kurt should be on the lookout.”
Quena smiled at him but only with her lips, meanwhile Kurt looked back at him in mock offense, “I'll have you know, I'm always on the lookout little brother. Speaking of lookouts, I have to take my spot up front, guarding the first wave. Care to join me?” He was looking at Diana, and he thrust an arm out for her to take. She did so, and when she did, she beamed which made Kurt glow.
Quena and Dorian looked at each other, and almost on cue, their eyes rolled. Realizing they had both done the same thing put a smile on Dorian's face, and he could swear he heard the telepathic equivalent to laughter echoing from Quena. They followed behind their older siblings and pointedly ignored their conversation.
Feeling nervous, and not sure what to do, Dorian opened his mind ever so slightly. He focused intently on Quena, hoping he could keep his conversation muted. He was worried he might send too hard, having recently taken that supplement made him feel concerned about his control.
“Suppose we can talk now? Err, think now? Should be private enough.”
Quena looked up, shocked at first but calmed quickly. “Might as well.”
Now that Dorian had her attention, he didn't know what to say. “How long have you known?”
“Since I was born, I remember all of it.” There was a sad undertone to the statement, like it was regretful. “You?”
“The same.” Dorian replied. Feeling jovial, he said, “Do you know why it's so much better to be born a girl?” She frowned, so Dorian replied, “when you're born you don't have to learn what the word “circumcise” means.” She snorted, and not mentally.
“What all can you do?” She asked him.
“Not sure, I can be really strong when I need to, I grew some plants before, but only once, and this. I don't really have a lot of time to practice, if I'm not being supervised, I'm usually with somebody. I try to keep a low profile after the night the priest made the new refinery.” He paused a moment, then said, “I think he can sense us, I know I could sense him.”
That caught her off guard for a moment. “How much do you remember, from before?”
Dorian furrowed his brow, “before?”
“The life you had before, do you remember any of it?” She asked.
Dorian had no clue what she was talking about, so he shook his head. Her mental voice spoke, and as she did images began to play through Dorian's mind. “I remember before, not all of it, but little pieces here and there. I remember the sea, and unending plains that just seem to roll on and on. I remember not living in this valley.” Dorian never thought about it, he was usually too worried he'd mess up and ruin his family. Instead of sending this, he asked, “How do you remember before?”
“I don't know.” She scowled, “So you don't remember?”
“I've had some random memories, or pick up skills entirely too quickly, but nothing like what you've described.” This left Dorian with little to say. “Well, I wanted to tell you to keep a low profile, and I can't stress this enough, stay away from the priest.”
She raised an eyebrow at that. Dorian focused on his sending, keeping it tight, he funneled his memories of the announcement night to her. The images of the Priest ran through him, his glowing green eyes, his expression, and the tinge of madness that emanated with the sense of his overwhelming power. She took a deep breath, then shaking shot a look at him. She paused for a moment, looking Dorian up and down, then nodded slowly without any further comment.
Did that really work?
The two older siblings continued their walk to the front of the march. The two younger siblings, following behind like lost pups, found a mutual quiet. Plodding along, they passed by the smithy. Despite most of the resident tradesman having packed up for the journey, Bo was still there working on something. Judging by the fresh black eye, and the awful expression he wore, he was doing drudge work. He looked up and caught Dorian looking. He let his eyes wander away, though they did want to linger. The violent act from the day before was resonating in his head, and now that he thought about it, his arm hardly hurt. It was starting to itch though, and Dorian knew it would drive him crazy before the cast came off. Self-control was a problem he had, and much like his problems with overeating, he knew he would itch himself raw.
He was just being self conscious, the older boy had beaten him soundly and he was pretty embarrassed about it. He wanted to simply think on it and deal with it, but was worried he'd have a break down if he did. Not wanting to make a scene at home, and especially not out in public, he bottled up his humiliation and trudged onward.
Finally approaching the front of the line, Dorian spotted his father. Kurt was too enamored with Diana and he didn't think his company was desired by Quena any more than necessary. So, he made his way towards his father, but sent a mental message to both Kurt and Quena, “be safe.”
Part of Dorian knew that he walked away abruptly because he didn't want to interrupt his brother, and didn't feel too much warmth coming off of his fellow Priorius, but most importantly, he was bashful. Interrupting Kurt and his interested party wouldn't be appreciated, and he felt like he mostly bothered Quena, both of which made him feel like a pest. At that moment, head foggy, and face aching, he simply didn't want the added attention.
He plodded over to his father, noticing the large man’s new Line staff he felt a bit jealous. Dorian's staff had some of the alterations, but the thing his father bore was a regular work of art. Thin lines had been burnt into the stave, incredibly intricate swirls and crosses were placed for support when converting it into a long bow. It had to be seven feet tall, with a sharp obsidian stone wedged in the top, it looked like he was ready to take on a bear.
“Dorian!” His father hollered from a distance as Dorian approached. “Good to see you moving.” He smiled down on his son. “Lets have a see at ya.”
Rand took his son by the chin, moving his face back and forth. He pressed his thumb to a few spots, one of which made Dorian wince in pain. Satisfied, Rand said “He got ya good, but give it a few years my boy. That quill-necked piece of waste will have to crane his neck to look at you, and he'll regret having ever laid a hand on you.” He squatted down, resting his elbows on his knees. He spoke conspiratorially, “Just between us, I had a word with his father. That boy wont dare come around while we're gone. If he does, I left the cookery shed open.” He winked, then stood to check the position of the sun.
Putting a hand on Dorian's shoulder, Rand said, “Take care of yourself and your mother. She's an awful cook, and she's starting to get picky about her foods. If she hasn't come by the cookery by five, I'd like you to bring a meal over to her.” Dorian sighed, but his father wasn't having it. “She's got a lot on her mind right now, a hot plate of food can do wonders for people too busy to remember their appetite. Be a good lad now, go find some trouble.” He smiled, turned, then shouted “First wave to Gwendon! Departure in five!” He left to speak to a few others that Dorian recognized from yesterday's stave practice.
Watching his father go, he looked back over to his brother, to find him missing. Diana and Quena were gone too, and for the first real time in his life, he knew he was on his own. At first, he got a thrill from the thought, but as he made his way towards the cookery, he couldn't hold down an increasing sense of dread. He had never been this alone, he knew his mother would be there most every night, but outside of his commitments to cook for a few days, he had roughly a week to himself.
Making his way, he saw most of the villagers getting their packs together, some going as far as to haul carts by hand. He saw one family, Shoemakers he thought, hooking their patriarch to the front of a cart. He was a grizzled man, gray bearded, and had a healthy weight to him. He looked oddly excited, as though he had been looking forward to marching a cart nearly three days north. Seeing this, Dorian inspected his boots, wondering if it was time to get a new pair or not.
Under the looming shadow of the old smithy, Dorian's brief lapse into distraction nearly spelled disaster. An unexpected shout from the archway, harsh and demanding, shattered the illusion of safety, jerking him back to the harsh reality of his predicament. It was then, in the periphery of his vision, that he spotted Bo—a figure emanating pure rage and intent. Bo's presence was like a dark cloud, his steps measured and full of purpose, a predator closing in on his prey.
Dorian's mind raced, instincts screaming for escape. He bolted southward, his heart pounding a frenetic rhythm against his chest. The community park loomed ahead, a potential maze of salvation through which he could lose Bo. Yet, every glance back revealed Bo's unwavering pursuit, the distance between them shrinking with every stride. Dorian's feet barely kept up with his desperation, his breaths coming in sharp gasps as he navigated the throng of families and vendors, their oblivion to his plight amplifying his isolation.
The park's expanse offered a fleeting hope, a green canvas on which Dorian could paint his escape. His decision was swift, propelled by the raw instinct to survive—straight across, where openness promised freedom yet exposed him to Bo's relentless chase. He hurdled over benches with a grace born of sheer necessity, the adrenaline surging through his veins masking the pain of his recent injuries. Each leap, each landing was a testament to his will to evade capture, even as Bo's scornful laughter—"Go ahead and run, you tub of lard! I'm in no rush!"—echoed across the distance.
The stark realization that he was alone in this chase, Bo's singular focus, sent a chill down Dorian's spine. The park, once a place of leisure and laughter, had transformed into a stage for a macabre dance of fear. Dorian's flight took him beyond the park's deceptive sanctuary, the cookery his next beacon of hope. Yet, the reality of his solitude struck hard as he found the door locked, the safety he sought just beyond reach. Desperation clawed at his insides, a momentary despair threatening to engulf him.
Forced to retreat to the stairs, Dorian's racing heart began to slow, the adrenaline fading to leave behind the dull throb of his injuries and the reality of his situation. It was only then, in the shadow of defeat, a memory emerged through the fog of fear—his father's words, the shed left unlocked. With tentative steps, Dorian approached the haven, every creak of the door amplifying the tumult of emotions within him. Inside, the darkness enveloped him, a temporary shroud from the world outside. Leaning against the door, Dorian allowed himself a moment of vulnerability, tears mingling with sweat. He could taste salt, which swelled his shame to no end. Alone in the dark, light breaking its way through the cracks in the old shed, he wept.
After some time had passed, he stood. The shed wasn't entirely dark, a few windows on each side were installed and the sunlight that beamed through was more than enough to see by. He started inspecting the tools and equipment, each of which had been meticulously organized. Etched into the stone wall were labels for each item, but the rest of the small room was smooth to a polish. He noted the axes, hedge trimmers, various shovels, and a few other miscellaneous tools, until he came to a work bench of sorts. On it were some wood shavings, his staff and a folded piece of paper. He picked it up and a set of keys fell out, which he deftly grabbed out of the air. Hanging on to them, he moved over to where the light was a touch brighter, then read.
“Dorian,
I forgot to hand you over the spare set of keys before morning came. You're more than old enough now, so I've decided to let you keep these keys permanently. This is a responsibility that few are trusted with, so make sure to keep them safe. You'll be expected to cook every other day while were gone, but I had several meals prepared in advance. Just get them warm and put them out, the people left in the village all know what to do. Lock up the kitchen every time you plan on leaving.
I know that boy gave you a pretty rough thrashing. It happens, just don't let it get into your head. I spoke with his father, and from what I understood, he'll be getting plenty of punishment over the ordeal. Do your best to avoid him, his father has never been stable, more than likely the apple didn't fall far. I've taken the liberty of preparing your line staff with a few additions. I've applied a paste to the sides that needs to be fired. Make sure it's on the ground before you shoot any sparks at it, the paste is made with Gwam dust and will burn hotter than you might realize.
Don't tell your mother this next part, she'll have my head if you do. In fact, burn this note after you've finished reading it. If any of those skinny bastards give you trouble and you can't avoid it, then confront them directly. Any time you deal with an enemy, the best place for you to be is the place you're least expected to be. Bullies always back down, and if you can beat him at his strongest point, he won’t have the testicles to try again. Once again, don't tell your mother.
Be safe,
Da”
Dorian chuckled a little bit, then went to inspect his line staff. It was covered in the paste his father mentioned, much in the same way his father had done his own. Looking around, he found some flint and took his line staff outside. He placed it down over a burn pile they used for garbage, then went back into the shed to find some metal to strike against his flint. He found a few scrap metal chunks next to where he found the flint to begin with, slapping his forehead and saying “duh” aloud.
He went out to ignite the paste on his stave, rather excited for the upgrade. It took him a few tries, but once he had the trick of getting the flint to spark, he lined up and shot the sparks out onto the paste. It ignited almost immediately, and Dorian had to shield his eyes from the white light the burning paste put off. He squinted at his staff as he stepped away, not wanting to get burned.
The light followed the paths of the paste in a mesmerizing fashion. Captivated, Dorian watched as the bright light danced around the staff in swirls and circles. When the light finally cut off, Dorian was impressed. He mused whether his father had intended him to enjoy the light show, which he emphatically did.
Dorian used his new set of keys to go inside the back door of the cookery. He rummaged about for some oil then, assuming the staff had cooled by then, picked it up to coat it and wash it. It looked good, and he inspected it thoroughly.
The bottom of his staff had no point on it, instead a circle had been burned around the bottom of the base and instead of a point it had a kind of bulb. He brought it to the back of the cookery and went to the sink. He was grateful for the wonder of working water, his house had the same feature of a well that had been somehow pressurized to push the water upwards, something he wondered about but not enough to compel him to research it further. He opened the valve to get some fresh water, it usually took a moment, so he left to find a rag. When he returned the water was running freely, and he whetted his rag to get to cleaning his new and improved stave. Nearly done, he wanted to get rid of the ugly bulb at the bottom, so he soaked it in the water before it made its way down the drain. Once it had been aptly soaked, he moved to get rid of the ugly thing.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
Grabbing the soft bulb, he found there was something hardened inside the thing. Squeezing at the bulb pushed out a blackened and charred point. Ah, that made sense, the bulb was a way to remove the point in case you wanted to avoid stabbing somebody to death, very clever. Realizing the bulb had a purpose, he reshaped it but made it a bit less bulbous, functionality aside the bulb made it look outright ugly and it offended some sense of aesthetic that Dorian couldn't abide.
After he had finished up, he cleaned up the watery mess he had made. While he did so he thought at what he could do with his free time. He mused as to whether he should just ambush Bo and eliminate the problem before it could fester but decided against it. Not because it was immoral or cowardly, but because he knew he wouldn't have anybody to save his ass if the teenage menace lost his temper again.
Sighing over the issue, he decided to let it go. There wasn't any sense in tormenting himself over it, and every time he thought of the boy, he couldn't help but have small but violent flashbacks. The image of Bo's bloody fist coming down seemed to echo through his head, and it made him feel lowly. Furthermore, it had happened only the day before, and he knew he wouldn't feel any better about it any time soon.
He finished cleaning up, and placed the rag in a woven basket that was usually brimming with aprons. Dorian found his staff and left, locking the back door behind himself. Not sure where to go, he figured he could go bother his mother. It was roughly noon already, and most of the processions had already left. From a distance Dorian could make out a few groups of people through the various trees that decorated the village, but they couldn’t have numbered more than twenty.
He started his trip to the trapper's house, when he realized that it would take him right past the smithy. Not wanting to bother with all the stress that could entail, he decided he could go exploring instead. He knew most of the wilds behind his home, but anywhere past roughly a mile and he would be in new territory. Figuring he could either do that or sit around the house reading, home was his next destination.
On the walk home, Dorian’s mind wandered. It wasn't a long walk, but on the trip home he managed to run through what happened to him yesterday several times, then managed to set his thoughts on how lonely it would be for the next several days. He sincerely wished he wasn't a Priorius, because if he wasn't he would have likely found other friends than his brother. He could spend time with them, they could spar with their staves or go exploring, or anything really. But being what he was always made him feel like an outsider, and the knowledge of hurting his family by admitting it left him with a continual burden. The secret had a weight to it, and sometimes he just wanted to be done with it and leave.
The thought had crossed his mind before, but what had Quena mentioned earlier? Life outside the Valley? It was all wastes, as far as Dorian knew, with the one exception of the destination left for Priorius when they ascended. Still, she remembered? Was it like the other washing memories that would lapse over himself? Or was it from something different? She obviously wasn't afraid of using her abilities, and likely hadn't clamped down on them like Dorian had. Was it something to that effect, using it more often woke the memories? Would there be memories of life outside the valley, or would they be a reiteration of the life he'd led so far? If there were memories from outside the valley, what would they be like?
While lost in thought, Dorian, with the grace of a dancer, stubbed his toe on a protruding rock, which caused him to stumble forward. Trying to regain his balance, he took two heavy steps, and completed the motion by landing on his hands. Doing this without thinking, the pressure from inside his cast went from dull ache to violent agony. Dorian turned to his side, clutching his broken arm, and wincing until the pain subsided. Getting up, Dorian poked around until he located his lost staff, which had somehow landed off the edge of the path.
Bending down to pick up his staff, and chiding himself for not balancing with it, he spotted some movement in a nearby shrub. Dorian got his staff, then poked around the shrub, curious as to what had been there. Not finding anything, he continued his trek back to his house.
The front door had apparently been locked, something he couldn't remember doing. Frustrated, he went to his window that wasn't entirely too far from the ground. Shimmying between a tree and the wall of his house, he managed to get up high enough to open the window. He knew he should lock it, but who ever came out there anyways? He managed to climb most the way through the window, but had to stop midway to raise it a few inches as he was apparently too round to make it through.
Sighing out of frustration, and a little disappointment, Dorian managed to get the rest of the way through the window. He closed it, then started rummaging around for his pack and leather pant covers. In the process he found an unused journal his mother gave him a few years ago. Oh what the hell, he thought, and packed it with a few other simple supplies. A small knife, flint he had forgotten to put back, Gwam sticks, and a thin woolen coat just in case it started to get cold.
Having a sudden inspiration, he recalled the place where Kurt and he had planted the line trees and figured it wouldn't be hard to plant an entire harvest of them. Additionally, that spot was relatively beautiful, and figured he could relax a bit there, possibly try to grow the line trees like he had last time.
Excited at the prospect of having something to do, he made his way to the kitchen to pack some food and grab a bite before he left. He found some goat cheese and smoked sausages that were questionably close to expiring. Well, they'll expire even sooner now, he thought before eating three of them and storing three more with his cheese. He kept them wrapped in cloth, then placed the cloth inside a small woven bag which he attached to his hip. Storing away his food, he found an empty water skin and filled it, then drank his fill of water. Refreshed, fed, and excited to be doing something on his own terms, Dorian left the house leaving the front door unlocked.
Taking his time, Dorian trekked the same way he went with his brother, finding the thin animal trail that headed eastward. Since most of the leaves had fallen by then, the tree line looked outright menacing. Like a story of evil things that come out of the woods at night, the shadows cast by the dead-looking trees danced in his peripheral vision, which had him spooked at nearly every turn.
Thankfully, most of the brambles had since died, and if any managed to get caught on him he hadn't noticed. The brush pants his brother had given him were exceptional, and he noted to himself to one day return the favor.
The trail, though giving him the creeps, did give him enough issues to keep his mind relatively occupied. Despite the challenging trail, whenever his mind wandered, it wandered back to the flashes of a lean body striking down, and the humiliation associated to the visage. He wasn't really bothered by the outcome of the situation, it was the fact that it happened at all that was most unsettling. He had never been anyone's target before, with exception to the pranks his brother played on him and even those were just harmless fun. This was different, somebody had the direct intention of causing him harm, and Dorian really didn't understand why. Yes, he had insulted the ugly bastard, but that wasn't any excuse for the viciousness of Bo's retribution. Now, however, he was still obviously upset with Dorian, probably for being punished for his own actions, something Dorian had no fault in. The more he thought about it, the more he felt both victimized and outraged.
The storm cloud of his thoughts distracted him for a time, the process of which altered his mood significantly. Lost in his own head, he nearly walked right past the spot he had come for. The boulder had roughly half the trees harvested from around it, and several that had ax marks at the base. It was at that moment that he realized he hadn't grabbed a hatchet before leaving his house.
“Oh, gods damn it!” he shouted and kicked the closest object to him, an old and decayed stump.
The stump exploded in a spray of rotten wood and black earth, uncovering a excessive amount of insect life from beneath. He heard his echo shout back just as the dirt showered across the dry leaves, sounding almost like rainfall. Frustrated after stewing on his new and only enemy, Dorian decided he should just take a seat and calm himself.
Feeling a bit chilly, he figured he could make a small fire. He found the location of his last fire there and gathered the dead leaves surrounding it to the center. He found a few sticks that seemed to be dry enough and stacked them in a stout little structure over the top of the leaves. Brandishing his flint and his knife, he shot sparks at the leaves until enough caught to blow on.
Fire up and warm, he sat back and enjoyed it. There was something comforting about a fire, something inexplicable. He could catalog the emotions he attached to it, but despite a fire raising so many comforting and entrancing feelings, he realized that no number of words could ever truly capture what a fire invoked in a person. I wonder if I could make my own word for it, but what? Fireplace is already taken, though it doesn't imply viewing a fire. What I need is something more specific to the condition it elicits.
Dorian watched the flames lick and whip upwards, scratching and flailing at the sky in a beautiful yet chaotic dance. In an odd sense, he could understand the fire, could commiserate. It simply does, it is, and in a predetermined fashion, it moved through the lifetime of its existence. It ebbed and flowed, and even though one could expect the flames to lap upwards, that person could never know the exactness of its motions, just that it would.
Lost in his thoughts once more, Dorian sensed the fire the same way he knew the way to his bed in the dark. Stretching his hands outward to warm them, he accepted the fire, and to his surprise it streaked to his hands.
Jumping up, Dorian tried to whip his hands away from himself, the same way he would if his hands were wet. The flames shot out briefly but went out quickly. Panicked, he inspected his hands, only to discover he wasn't burnt. Grinning like a fool, he reached one hand out and accepted the fire. It tentatively flowed to his hand, engulfing it. Having a sense of remembrance, he commanded the fire out. It shot out in a heavy stream of heat for a few moments. Recalling his conversation with his brother, that everything had a cost, Dorian let the fire go. When he did, the flames that were in the air did something odd, it redirected its course and instead of going out, fell back to the campfire.
Dorian waited a moment and noted that he felt very hungry all of a sudden. Unlike the usual healthy appetite he had, he was now ravenous. Reaching for his pack, he found his stash of food and devoured all but one sausage and a bit of rind. His head clearing from the fog of hunger, he put the last sausage away deciding that he might need it later. Accidentally playing with fire had reminded him to experiment with his abilities, wondering if perhaps his lack of experimentation is why Quena had remembered a supposed past life.
Okay Dorian, you've got a feel on the strongman routine, as well as the creepy ability to sift through peoples thoughts, start there.
Focusing in on his sense of self, he opened to his telepathy as broadly as he could. It felt like entertaining the idea that you and everything else around you are one and the same. He could mentally hear the wildlife that surrounded him, creatures getting ready for the cold winter, finding safe and warm places to weather the next several months. Some creatures were already sleeping, a dazed like feeling where consciousness ebbed and flowed for unknowing bouts of time. Another had a sense of hunger, and excitement. Focusing over to where it was, another creature was experiencing fear and pain. The second creature was odd, however. Most creatures have an overwhelming fear of their own deaths. There was always a sense of urgency emitted by those creatures, an undertone of motivation, giving those animals a reason to be, Dorian supposed. Thoughts didn't always come in the form of language either, most of the time it was just a base feeling. Animals lacked a certain level of sophistication as well, where Dorian might feel brooding or contemplative, an animal might be upset or curious. Most animals were very simplified with exception to this creature. Whatever it was, it didn't just have a sense of urgency over death, it was an elaborate system of concerns and worries. Intrigued, Dorian picked up his line staff and locked on to the creature.
Coming up over a small rise in the terrain, Dorian spotted his target. There was a large rodent nipping at the back of another creature possibly the same size. Dorian headed down the hill as quickly as he could, noting the direction the creature was moving. Finally finding a trail through the brush, he rushed over and shouted at the rodent, hoping to distract the creature. It didn't work, and he still had roughly twenty yards of trees interspersed with brush to get over to the damn critters.
Using his staff to navigate through, Dorian went in. He was nearly there when he caught a whiff of some awful. It was akin to rotten eggs, old people, and a festering wound. He choked a bit, the smell being downright awful but steeled himself and made his way over.
The attacking creature was larger than expected, it looked like an opossum but was almost as large as a Kressian herd wolf or shepherd. Dorian shouted again, and shot out with his staff, striking the ground next to the creature. That got its attention.
The thing screeched and hissed at Dorian, and he retracted, putting his staff up in defense. Most rodents, even large ones, will usually duck out if they feel outmatched, so Dorian was told by his brother. He was having his doubts about that when the gods damned thing reared itself up, all of its hair standing upright. It lunged, jumping through the air at him. He planted his staff and levered the creature away from himself. He followed through, stepping forward and pulling the staff up in the process. He whipped it upward and sounded a “whoop” as he came down with all his weight behind the staff. The creature, just beginning to look up, was smashed in the head. Instead of hesitating, Dorian withdrew, and like his father had taught him, thrust his stave like a spear at the front leg of the rodent. Not having realized he had begun drawing on his reserve of strength, Dorian was shocked as the creature's leg gave an audible snap. It yipped and began to scurry away, and Dorian swatted at the ground behind the vulturous bastard, making sure it was scared off for good.
Never trust rodents, rule one of “Dorian's Hand-Held Guide to the Wilds.” He snickered at the thought, mostly because he had learned a fair deal about rodents, and other wildlife, from a book called “Rex's Wild Hind Book.” According to Rex, short for Rextharmius, rodents are more persistent than you'd ever suspect, you should deal with them quickly and harshly. Dorian took the advice to heart and was doubly glad his parents weren't as cruel as Rex's.
Watching the animal run away, Dorian felt oddly good. Not because he hurt a wild animal, that would make him as bad as Bo, but because he defended something else. It felt kind of rewarding in its own right. Curious, Dorian searched about for the other wounded animal. He mentally searched for the creature that was now emitting fear and unknowing. It hadn’t gotten too far, it was moving slowly. He caught up with the furry creature, it was striped with lines of black on its back and was gray on the underside.
“Hey buddy.” Dorian said aloud in a high-pitched voice. He also sent the message through his thoughts, trying to express an earnest sympathy for the creature. The creature perked up a bit, turning its head, two small antennae bobbed outwards. It slithered a semicircle to face him.
“Yeah, that's right.” He sent calm through his mind, emitting it outwards. It was so odd, it felt like he'd done this before. An almost jarring sense of déja-vu ran through him. Quickly coming to his senses, he lowered his pack and reached in for the remaining food. He grabbed the cheese rinds, and mentally sent “Hungry?”
The creature made an odd noise at that, it sounded like the rolling “r”s that others put on when they were imitating a Gwendian accent. “Ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh” it called at Dorian. Raising an eyebrow he tossed a few pieces out in front of the thing. It crawled over and began making a strange humming noise as it ate. It wasn't the other noise, this noise had an echo of its own, like the sound was resonating in Dorian's own chest.
It finished eating, then raised its head. Finally getting a look at it clearly, it had a feline-like quality to its face, it had eyes but they were entirely too human-like in their gaze. It was a little unsettling, doubly so when the creature growled at him. What the hell did I do?
Absent minded, he tossed the last of the cheese rinds out of his hand to grab hold of his weapon. The creature just went back to the noise it was making before and sniffed about until it found its prize.
What the fuck is this thing's problem? It’s not a very grateful creature. Its eyes came up at him then and gave him a look.
Kressor’s charred ass, that is creepy. The creature just went back to the first noise, “ruh-ruh-ruh” it sounded, which gave Dorian the clue he needed.
“You're a Garru!” He said excitedly. The thing got happy at the sound of this. It kept doing it's throaty chirp, but in a higher pitch. Thinking it was pretty neat, he reached in and got his last sausage. Feeling a little selfish, he broke it in half and ate one and held the other outwards as he chewed. The damn thing leaped at his hand. Frozen for a moment, the thing curled around his arm, winding its way over his cast so its head rested on Dorian's outstretched palm. It nibbled once at the sausage, then somehow swallowed it whole. It emitted the second noise again, since he was so close he could feel it more clearly. It reminded him of how he felt the rhythm of the line trees he had grown. Looking at the adorable thing, it looked at him for a moment, belched, and made a “harumph” noise just before it nuzzled against his wrist.
Not sure what to do, he pet it a few times, slowly relaxing from all the excitement. The cat like creature somehow sent him a mental message, which translated roughly to “sleep time.”
Oh no you don't.
Dorian tried to gently remove the Garru from his arm, but the thing just hissed and sent a more firm “Sleep. Time.” Dumbfounded, Dorian had no clue what to do. He thought on it for a moment and decided to make his way back to his fire. If anything, he shouldn't leave it burning in the middle of a dry autumn.
The furry little parasite was sound asleep as Dorian arrived back at his fire. Oddly, his arm didn't feel any heavier despite his stowaway. He considered gathering some more wood as the fire was quite dim. Finally, he decided to stoke the fire a bit more and return to figuring out what a Priorius could do, failing that it was a nice day to just sit by a fire. Barring giant rodents, the natural environment was incredibly relaxing, and the utter quiet surrounding him ushered his thoughts to calm.
He dozed off for a time, not caring about the world around him. It was in the midst of this serenity that he thought he heard a whisper on the wind. Not sure if he was dreaming or awake, he honed his attention on that whisper, and when he did, a flashback played through his mind.
An old woman, sitting in a chair, a slate chalkboard behind her. She wore something kindred to a robe, but more form fitting. She had darker skin, like a deep summer tan. She spoke with an age old wisdom that denoted kindness and acceptance. “Bear the shape of your soul. It’s the first step to everything else you can attain, until you do the rest lacks reason. I shall begin.” She held her palm out, and slowly, a blackness crawled out of her hand. It came together in a globular mass, then began forming itself into a series of stacked circles. The circles split off the side, like the slices off a cake, and reformed, becoming a series of intricate lattices to a miniature tower, then reformed again into a kind of mallet. Then, looking closely as the Woman grasped the mallet, he noticed how it was just a warped version of the original shape. “All vessels, and Priorius, have an innate shape, one intrinsic to the vibrations of one's own soul. That shape may be parceled, or divided, split, warped, stretched, or twisted in any number of ways, but the course Shade takes is always relative to the shape of one's own. Thus, our first step is to present it.”
Coming back to himself, he shook his head trying to clear it. He attempted to do as she had. He raised his left hand outward. Now what, genius?
He concentrated on summoning a shape, any shape. Nothing happened. He focused on the thought, shutting his eyes, and still felt nothing.
Frustrated, but undaunted Dorian continued trying to do what the old lady did for a solid half hour. Try as he might, he just couldn't figure it out.
Dorian stopped feeding the fire after he had first gotten back, and decided to let it dwindle, figuring that by the time it went out he should just give up and go home. It was down to embers at this point, and his frustration mounted as he realized he had been wasting his time. Oddly, however, he could still feel life behind the pile of ash. Reaching out to it, he tried to pull on it again, like he had before. Nothing happened with the fire either. Feeling concerned, he opened his mind to receive, but nothing came of it.
Finally giving up, figuring he had simply run his course for the day, he pushed some soil over the deadened fire. Frustrated or not, he wouldn't be the reason that half the wilds burned down. Gathering his line staff and feeling defeated, Dorian retrieved his pack and started trudging along. After taking a few strides, however, the Garru that had taken up residence finally perked up. It craned its neck to stare at him with those all too human eyes. Thinking he was having a moment, a commune with nature, Dorian had a strange sense of serenity. That is, until the little bastard started to make a hacking noise. It shook a bit, moving up what he could only assume to be a hair ball.
It hacked out a blackened mass all over Dorian's palm. “Disgusting.” He said aloud, scowling at the creature. The creature looked up at him, and though Dorian couldn't hear it mentally, he assumed the Garru was thinking something along the lines of, “What?” As though what it had done was completely acceptable.
Feeling disgusted at what the thing had hacked onto his palm, he tried to whip it off his hands, but the stuff was emulsified in place. Dorian put his staff down, tired of playing this game with the animal. That's when the blackness in his palm moved. Oh, by the gods no.
The mass squirmed and writhed, shaking as it grew in form. The Garru moved its head to look at it when the blackness part way crawled into the animal’s mouth, then stretched out along his cast. It shimmied down, under the cast, and tightened. Dorian, stunned by what was happening, stumbled and fell on his backside. As his ass hit the ground a loud crack echoed from his cast, then another. Not sure what to do, as he had a relatively wild animal cemented to his arm along with an evil black blob hell bent on destroying his cast, Dorian just winced and held his arm away from himself.
The black mass had found the point of greatest agony and decided to start climbing in. It felt like a pressure point had been hit, his entire body felt a jarring jolt of pain. He wanted to remove it but the pain was such that he felt like moving would only make it worse. In horror, he watched as the blackness stuck halfway through his arm and halfway in to the Garru's mouth.
He felt a faint beat, a rhythm that seemed to echo from the creature. With an odd sense of desire, he matched the rhythm in his mind's eye. As he felt his pulse quicken to match, he could feel a tone attached to the beat. As best as he was able, which felt strangely natural, he harmonized with the tone.
Ever so faintly, he could see a bright green light coming out of the Garru's mouth, coiling and wrapping around the blackness, at the same time another green light flowed from his wounded arm, vine like. The two met, wrapping and coiling around each other, until the two lights became one. A bright flash came then, along with what felt like someone standing on his chest, then the sensation of something crawling around under his skin. As unsettling as it was, it wasn't painful.
Wiping his eyes with his free hand and blinking away bright spots, Dorian finally felt like he had a bit of control over his own body. He reached to remove the devilish animal when he realized that his arm wasn't broken, the feline like creature purring as it bound itself to his arm.
Confused, and a little disoriented, he spent a moment trying to figure out what had happened. Why isn't there a “Rex's Guide” for being a Priorius? Well, maybe there was, but it certainly wouldn't be anywhere in Metan. Sighing, he tried to remove the Garru, but the thing immediately got pissy with him.
Dorian sighed, frustrated. Giving up for the time being, he went to pick up his staff when he noticed something sitting in the midst of his discarded caste. Bending down, he remembered that he never took the rest of the supplement he had stolen. He picked it up, inspecting the vial for any breaks. Not finding any, he uncorked it after retrieving his water skin. He poured the rest of the contents in, figuring what the hell, why not?
Dorian discarded the vial and shook his water skin, then took a long drink from it, he was after all, reasonably parched. He felt better immediately, so he took another long drink, corked it, and started his journey home.
The trip back was relatively uneventful, except he now noticed how much pressure the Garru was putting on his forearm. When he noticed the pressure, however, the thing readjusted itself. How thoughtful of the little furry critter.
Approaching his house, he came to a sudden understanding. It wouldn't be a good idea to just waltz in with a wild animal attached to his arm. He tried to send it a message mentally, but his thoughts didn't resonate the way it should, and he knew something was off with his abilities. Keeping his temper at bay, he told the creature. “You're a wild animal, my mom will kill me if I try to bring you inside. Do you understand that?” The creature just stared at him. Dorian rolled his eyes for a moment, but as he looked back motes of blackness seemed to come out of the creature's spine. It wrapped all the way around his arm, and the Garru started snaking itself around his forearm. He felt a pinch as a line of the blackness penetrated his arm. With it came a surge of awareness, an understanding. The being attached itself to his memories of the last several days, and with that Dorian became aware of what the Garru had experienced over the same timeframe. Getting harassed by various animals until one had injured it. It hid in a tree for some time, and when it tried to move the giant rodent had begun assaulting it. The vicious thing was taking little bites out of its flesh, but Dorian came and kept it safe. Dorian came and gave it warmth, and food, and safety unbidden.
The fact that this creature had a concept of altruism spoke of something different, something very human. It wasn't just a carrion eater, or a predator, or prey even. It didn't simply have a task that enabled it to survive, fulfilling some niche in the ecosystem. Dorian understood that it was abstract from the rules and laws of the wild, it was sentient.
As Dorian grew to understand the thing, it grew to understand Dorian. Recognizing his fears, his concerns over being taken from his family, his worry over Bo, and what his mother would think when he walked in without his caste. Recognizing this fear, the blackness surrounding his arm retracted back to the Garru. It emitted a new sound, wrapping tight around his forearm. The fur seemed to fade away, and before Dorian's eyes, the creature became the exact image of his caste.
“Whoa.” He stated aloud. The cast gave a very subtle purr. Smiling at the innocence of the creature, he asked it, “So what should I call you? I can't just keep calling you animal or Garru.” There wasn't an audible response, but he received a sense of curiosity from it. “How about... hmm...” Dorian thought for a moment, but nothing came to him. Jokingly, he said aloud “Dweeb. Dorian's dweeb, quite the title.”
Then came a sharp pain from the underside of his arm, the dweeby little bastard bit him! “Okay, Dweeb isn't proper for you.” The pain subsided. “Well, what is proper for you? I'd call you Harry, but judging by your new look it wouldn't make much sense.” He thought for a while, when an odd name rang through his head, Ohm-maer. “Ohmer?” Dorian said, and it purred loudly in response.