The next time Ori’s eyes opened, the bright midmorning's sun streamed through the narrow windows. The sounds of an entire town's worth of people crammed into a courtyard, seemed shocking and unfamiliar to his half-awake state.
‘Good morning apprentice.’
“Morning Sera? Did you even sleep last night?”
‘One of the many benefits of the ethereal form; the wonders one can accomplish without the distractions and fallibilities of mortal flesh. Speaking of which, how do you feel this morning? Well rested?’
“Actually, yeah,” Ori yawned, arms stretching to the ceiling as he took in the room. “Could’ve sworn I’d just fallen asleep but I feel pretty good.”
‘Wonderful. Then it is time to continue your Mana manipulation training.’ Sera said as Mana flooded the room, Ori felt it first as a tingle that brushed over his exposed skin before his efforts from yesterday's training kicked in, and he saw the cloud of glowing, smokey blue mist emerge from his soul-bound artefact.
“Did you just summon the wand into my hand.”
‘I did,’ Sera sounded pleased with herself. ‘Long productive nights lead to lots of opportunities for experimentation. I hope you don’t mind the liberties taken?’
“Er, no, it’s fine. As I understand it, we’re kinda sharing it, as our souls are literally bound to it, aren’t they?”
'More or less. Now, how much do you remember from yesterday's lesson…’
Ori successfully moved the cloud of Mana on his first attempt. Unlike the evening before, it was far easier to focus his intent on the cloud of nebulous, invisible gas that surrounded them. Sera expounded upon this phenomenon.
‘Always be mindful of your mental state, while Mana reserves and physical stamina are paramount, there is a seldom seen, mental limit to the amount of spell crafting one can do over a period of time, this is tied to the strength of ones will and spirit, and while the values for these characteristics in your case are freakishly high for a mortal, they are bound by your rank, and will only grow with practice and increasing your rank.’
While blowing around Mana vapour as Sera lectured was fun, it didn’t actually start to feel like real magic until Ori condensed the cloud of Mana to a point, and with his will, told it to become light.
‘Seraphs above!’ Sera mentally exclaimed. A prismatic hole in reality hung in the air above Ori’s bed. While it outshined the light cast by the midmorning sun, to call the energy pouring out of the dot light would be to diminish all other sources of light to mere reflections of its radiance. Colours beyond the chromatic spectrum pulsed brighter than white in time with the very heartbeat of fate. Ori could feel the twisted, tension between order and chaos within, the power contained at the boundary between the astral and celestial, and how it teetered upon the finest of tipping points as if it were nitroglycerin given arcane form. And even still, that was just the merest fraction of the secrets held within.
“I take it that’s not normal?”
‘No. Those with an inherent light aspect often express their affinities in reality for the first time with this spell working. However,’ Sera whispered, her voice reverent. 'I have never seen such an expression of light, never even heard of such.’
At first, Ori stared in bemusement, then after several minutes half expecting the light to be close to exhausting the small supply of Mana in the room, Ori started to inspect the light more closely, using Mana sense and his beyond-Awakened perception. He could see the spray of aspected Mana radiate from the ball of light before somehow being swept back in, its alignment changing from light affinity to neutral before being consumed for fuel once more to complete the cycle.
“It’s like it’s self perpetual?”
‘Mana Permanence.’ Sera said reverently as if the words should have obvious meaning to Ori.
“What does that mean?”
‘It’s normally an advanced spell-casting technique.’ Sera sighed. ‘Mana doesn’t behave like mundane gasses or liquids, it doesn’t naturally mix, defuse, dissolve or disappear, only the alignment changes. That’s not to say that you can’t force it to do one of those things, you can, it just requires intent. Without intent, or other paracausal forces working upon it, Mana just lingers and can be reused if you can realign it to your will.
‘Powerful spellworkings do this on their own, the spell containing its own source of will, enough to realign Mana to perpetuate the spell. When this happens, it’s said that a spell is seen to be displaying Mana Permanence. That your inherent affinity does this automatically is unprecedented and reveals an important facet, one you’ll need to study and gain comprehension over. Now please, if you would excuse me as I enter enlightenment.’ Sera explained primly.
“Okay,” Ori said dumbly, his inner engineer screaming at the floating, glowing, perpetual motion machine above his bed.
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“I’ll be right out!” Ori shouted in reply to the knock that broke him out of the trance. “Sera? You there?” Ori whispered as he wondered how to dismiss the white hole in reality. After receiving no response, he wasted little time getting dressed and presentable, before leaving the room in a way that ensured little of the strange light spilled out through the door.
Soon, he was outside and deep into the bustle of busy spaces between stoney keeps. He had been following a boy in his mid-teens towards the rally point for the ten thousand or so troops who’d be marching with him to confront Eltitus. Behind him, the presence of the guards who had been by his door throughout the night did little to assuage the fears of being exposed and vulnerable amidst a mass of foreign people in this strange but somewhat familiar land.
As they walked, the sounds of countless hammers joined the smell of coal and hot iron. Intellectually, Ori knew that the logistics of a marching army required at least as much as he saw, but to actually see it, to feel and smell and taste the smithing required for a nation at war was another thing entirely. Instead of streets with stone forges arrayed in orderly buildings, several football pitches worth of mud field was turned into a smog-filled, triage, except instead of flesh, Steel was wrought and refashioned under the discordant chime of anvil under hammers, thousands of hammers.
It was all Ori could do to gape.
As he wandered, some order to the chaos emerged with mass-produced items and something resembling a chainmail production line congregating towards the centre, with smiths working on patching up plate armour and more bespoke pieces while the owners waited.
An orderly workshop distinct from the furnaces and forges around him displayed a bespectacled elven man wizened with liver spots and wrinkles. His wispy grey hairs exposed ears Ori could only stare at until a familiar build-up of Mana caused his skin to bristle and a bloom of power to sear his Mana sense. Blinking away watering eyes, he saw something, perhaps a sword, form from nothing. Beyond the amber glow of the metal, there were no glowing lights, no swoosh of magical sounds or anything dramatic, at least to his normal senses and yet the sight of the humbly dressed old man in an open-walled workshop forging a sword in midair with nothing but magic was one of the most incredible things Ori had witnessed so far in this trial.
Turning a corner, more sights caught his attention and without realising it, Ori stared at a man missing an arm, armoured plate still covering his shins and thigh, his top exposed except for a bandage wrapping across his chest. He sat, head tilted towards the sky as his palms rested on the sheaved sword lying across his lap.
Staring back was a preteen boy, with a bright lock of blonde hair contrasting a face covered by soot and the darkest eyes Ori had ever seen. He sat on the ground just before the bandaged knight, his hands absently polishing a shield. The gaze was unblinking and not altogether there as if the boy was in shock.
“This way Sir Summons.” Ori pulled himself away to focus on his guide, only now realising he had stopped.
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With the city walls coming into view and the clang of hammers dulling to a background din, a road leading to the gates showed a steady stream of people, mostly bedraggled families carrying their worldly possessions on carts and dusty rucksacks, it was a scene that felt familiar, their dead-eyed stares, the caked on mud of travels taken entirely on foot.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
‘Refugees.’ Ori thought to himself.
At the wall was a building built into it, one that appeared to be more religious than martial, one that wasn’t grand enough to be a temple or cathedral yet possessed more presence than a simple church. Outside, hundreds of armoured men loitered. Planted spears cast a forest of shadows in the midmorning sun while pieces of armour lay scattered between soldiers and squires in various states of gleaming, muddy or bloody. The scent of churned grass, stale sweat and clove oil lingered in the mid-morning stillness. Many men, and indeed a fair number of women sat on the mud, or knelt, or prayed. Given the circumstances, Ori supposed the latter made sense.
As he drew to within a dozen yards, conversations stilled and a ripple of gazes turned towards him. Ori fought his shoulders from curling in, an instinctive response to their unspoken queries and forbidding judgemental stares.
Heavy oak doors revealed a church-like interior, stained glass portholes illuminating a central isle flanked by rows of empty modest wooden pews. Towards the altar, voices from half a dozen individuals were heard arguing with a restrained intensity that seemed to suit the moment.
‘Sera, am I seeing Grace?’ Ori asked internally, unsure if the thought pushed towards her would reach her as she had been conspicuously quiet in the hour or so since their morning magic lesson. As Ori suspected the word enlightenment held a special kind of significance, he was unsure whether Sera was present or still absent.
‘Hmmm? Oh, what do you see?’ Sera said as if returning to herself.
‘It’s like there’s a sheen of gold coating their skin.’ Ori answered.
‘I believe… thanks to unlocking Mana Sight, you’re now able to see the effects of Grace upon their foci, it’s a rare talent for a newly Awakened but with your two-by-four fold perception… Oh Seraphs,’ Sera interrupted herself. Now looking around for what must have caught her attention, he saw something large and gleaming behind the altar. ‘The Arsenal of the Maker… Ori, it seems…like the chapel has blessed you with an opportunity. Listen, be present and follow your instincts—’
‘Err’ he began after Sera’s mental voice was suddenly cut off. Just as his eyes had accustomed themselves to the relative gloom of the chapel interior, light filtered through the stained glasswork as if hit by the sole sunbeam on an otherwise overcast sky. Distantly, he noticed how the animated conversation between higher-ranked Awakened ceased as he was propelled by an irresistible force down the aisle towards a shrine of gleaming weapons.
Each item was similar only in their level of meticulous craftsmanship, they shined as if made from silver, even the parts made from wood or leather carried with them a preternatural sheen. From spears and polearms that stood from his six foot plus of height to monstrous, impractical weapons suitable only for war, which were double that length or more. Round shields, tower shields, kite shields, heater shields, pavises, targes, bucklers and more barriers Ori couldn’t name formed a wall around the foot of the forest of spears. Meanwhile, racks of edged and blunt weapons reflected the sudden multi-hued light rays with even more variety.
There was a part of him, an all too large a part of him to be honest, that wanted to pick up every single weapon, to swing and prance around like a child fully aware that this divine armoury wasn’t quite real but an astral dreamscape descending upon reality like mist rolling down a mountain.
If this was a dream, was his will not law?
Yet there was another part of him, that sensible part of himself he almost always listened to, one which often held him back and was now insistent. Yes, perhaps he was in no danger here, perhaps he could move through this dream instance as he wished and leave if he wanted to. But why was he here in the first place?
There was likely danger, unknown rules and pitfalls, but what if there was something else? Why was he here? These weapons weren’t real, were they? And if they were what use would he have today for a sword or shield he didn’t know how to use?
Were these soul-bound items that could help him in future? Following that logic, were there any other benefits that could be obtained by playing along with this strange dreamlike armoury? What knowledge could he learn? What prizes could he win?
If there was an opportunity to be had, it would be a waste to abuse this dreamscape without at least trying to gain something through an honest interaction with it. It wasn’t purely avarice that drove these thoughts but that newly honed survival instinct, his bloodyminded desperation to take all that was offered and if no opportunities presented themselves, to invent them, fight for them or steal all within his grasp.
Looking around to catch the faces of the others, Ori was unsurprised to see that those in the chapel, including the boy he’d been following were distant, blurry and frozen echoes of the individuals he saw before. Perhaps they saw all within and could judge his actions. All that mattered was that he was here, and they were not.
As altered as his mind state was right now, with only Sera’s distant words of advice to fall back on in this dreamlike runtime, Ori held out his hand and allowed a faint sense to propel him through the display.
First, he scanned the assortment for Staves, Wands and other arcane tools with his recent experiences biasing him towards items that had some magic, before casting his gaze for ranged weapons like a bow or quiver. There were bo-staffs, but they seemed like the purely mundane, blunt-force melee weapons used by monks. Testing Mana Sense within the dreamscape revealed nought but a hazy blur of shapes, doing little to confirm one way or another if the items before him were magical.
With his arm still outstretched and relying on what Sera described as his autonomic nervous system’s response to mana, Ori felt little magic, either from the environment or the artefacts or magical tools like staves, sources or focuses. However, some weapons did pulse with the faintest of auras. Mana strongly aligned with potent affinities coated a collection of knives and daggers that seemed to drip with venom or death, tower shields that gleamed with the might of the earth, mirror sheen bucklers that promised to reflect physical and arcane attacks as well as reflected light. As his hand neared each, Ori experienced a visceral reaction, as if caught within the briefest of memories, before being yanked out of one daydream or nightmare into the first dream.
> With a spear, he stood upon a blood-drenched field of mud, the aura of death pervading an endless sea of armoured, twisted corpses. They surrounded a frozen mountain of polearms bowing before a single dominant spear. The inert iron-shod pole stood there triumphant as if declaring to all that if this world was the only one where it could be king, it would reign over blood and ash, everlasting, uncontested, proud and alone.
>
> Staring at the spear warlord brought upon him a pressure; the staggering waste of life and potential, the crushing, all-consuming weight of loneliness, a world he’d rather die to prevent and yet this abomination stood proud ruling over desolation. Ori couldn’t breathe, not even to scream ‘fool’ at the menace that stood against all he strove towards.
Ori yanked his arm away as if burnt, the glimpse into the spear nature of incompatibility. With it, the dream seemed to become less stable.
> With a buckler that gleamed to a mirror finish and a wand in his main hand, he dodged and rolled in feats of athletic brilliance as projectiles and lethal spells whizzed and flashed. Unable to dodge a ball of fire, it came careening towards his face only to be reflected by his fist-sized shield. Unknown assailants continued the ceaseless barrage. Despite how magnificently Ori dodged and blocked, he could spend only fleeting moments on the offensive.
>
> Combat continued until a wall of water overwhelmed him, surrounding his paths of escape before enveloping his head and drowning his lungs, his final thoughts of unwillingness and humiliation.
Ori gasped, the buckler had seemed promising, compatible even, but he now had the sense that either he or it, was unworthy of the other.
With Daggers and Maces, scenes where he was unable to even wield the weapons in question were joined with grim atmospheres of loathing, dread, chaos and gore.
With various great and long swords, Ori slashed in wide swings only to be disarmed by a swordsman of greater skill, an arrow piercing his eye, or a bolt of lightning incinerating his nerves.
Ori’s frustration empowered the fear that such weapons weren’t for him, that he wasn’t worthy because he wasn’t a warrior, not truly. Sure he had been in fights before and learned martial arts for a while. But before the events that brought him to Ghigrerchiax, Ori had never considered becoming someone who fought for a living, let alone fighting with such archaic weapons.
But, so what?
He was more than just what he needed to be at one moment to survive. Tomorrow he would be a fighter, the day after he would be something else, whatever he needed to be, every experience forging himself into something new, something better and less limited.
No, the idea that he was unworthy of this dreamscape's opportunity because he wasn’t a warrior, was folly.
He was more. And he believed this shrine, or whatever this apparition was, was more also.
“I come from a world where we could kill everyone in an afternoon, and you expect me to pine over shiny pieces of metal, why? These toys are basic. This test’s a joke.” Ori’s incredulity warped the dreamscape as he shouted, his gaze sweeping above the weapons racks towards the chapel's watery rafters as if searching for something, or someone.
“I see.” Spoke a disembodied voice, ancient and cold and wholly unperturbed by his outburst.
Ori had expected something like this. If the Crucible, an ancient, complex artefact that seemed to challenge all those who entered, had a sentient will, why couldn’t this dreamscape that appeared to work similarly have a sentience behind it also? Although the intention to provoke it was rational, his frustrations drove his provocative choice of words.
“See what, exactly?” Ori asked hiding his uncertainty after the silence stretched well beyond the point of uncomfortable.
“While those may receive some talent with any weapon they choose, my selection is not one for warriors.” The dreamscapes will spoke.
“Who’s it for then?”
“The finest tinkerers, the greatest enchanters, the most brilliant smiths of the age. Those with a maker's soul call to me, as it has done so, with you. Though a fragment of spark your talent may yet be, I sense the same confluence of ingenuity, knowledge and traditions that have overturned epochs within you. Now, if my selection is not to your liking, then here’s what I propose:
“I would have you be my divination conduit into the weapons of your realm. While I have no interest in the artefacts of sieges or mass devastation, I would be made aware of the weapons of your battlefields.”
“Okay,” Ori asked into the silence. “And then what do I get in return?”
“In return, the very same conduit I would use to peer into your realm, will I use to plumb the depths of your soul and the limits of your fate. Together we will make something, if not wholly original, then at least novel.”
Ori had no idea what the entity behind the dream construct was offering but felt as if asking would undermine his negotiating position.
“The limits of my fate?” Ori asked boldly. “My fate was to be kidnapped, abused and discarded. I’m here because I need better.”
“Oh?” a cold amusement replied.
“You search out ones with a makers soul? Tell me, what is a maker, if not someone who reaches beyond the limits of their fate?”
“Excellent.”