Some thought that the darkness of a lightless room was absolute. I know better. Real darkness is expansive. Eons of pure void, that's the closest thing to pure darkness that exists. And then, there was the vat. True darkness is never ending. A simple idea, but almost impossible to truly visualize. There are the blind, yes, but even they have tiny beams of light at least touching them.

Floating, falling, and struggling to swim upward in the nothingness around me. The pain hasn't come yet, but it will. It always does. It always will. That was another thing many didn't understand, the true ever-presence of pain. A small ache here or there, a sore tooth, a stubbed toe, a stabbed artery. Pain is constant. It has the patience of stone and the ferocity of flames. Pain will always find you.

Just as it has now found me.

Like the first time I entered this personal hell, it began in my skin. All at once I was alight, a living pyre devoid of flames.

Then came the whispers. Strings of sentences half indecipherable and half composed of words I had come to know through sheer repetition and intent. They described my pain, taught me it's intricacies and gave voice to the avalanche of responses my suffering body was forcing upon my mind.

Someone is screaming, though I can never tell if it was myself or the substance-less ink around me.

Then, comes the cold. As the fire sinks into my core, it becomes enveloped in a cold so biting and invasive that the inferno consuming me ignites ever stronger to remain the dominant sensation assaulting my every thought and moment.

There I hang, a sun held within my chest as I become shrouded in a galaxy of ever-condensing cold.

As the lightning begins, the voices said a word for the fiftieth time and finally it clicked. Electricity. Then, electrocution. Finally, electrocuted.

I am being electrocuted, a storm the size of a continent is -another word clicks- funneling all of it's rage and lighting into my body, shattering the ice, causing shards to lance through me and into the fire.

The mixture rejects each other, and an explosion of steam and pressure forces itself out from my soul and through my skin, my form contorting and feeling as though it was ripping from every conceivable seam as the electricity and sheer pressure within me wage a desperate war for control of my thrashing limbs and muscles.

The whispers are snickering, chiding my weakness and anguish. Even as quietly as they speak, I can hear them over the sound of that now-raw shrieking.

My fingers have found my skin, sharpened nails sink into soft flesh and a contraction causes a squeeze. I'm holding a chunk of flesh for but a moment before my hand spasms, dropping the piece of skin and tendon to dig further into my ribs before my every muscle and sinew suddenly straightens with an overwhelming contraction that leaves my spine aching and begging to snap.

My eyes are useless in the darkness, but the whispering becomes insistent that I open them. Perhaps some would have the composure to refuse, but as soon as the suggestion was made my eyelids snapped open so suddenly my head jerks back.

In the distance, so far that the word became irrelevant, there was something. A blur, a slight change of coloration amidst the endless absence of anything.

It begins to move closer as I feel my muscles begin to dissol-"Felidrus!"

.....

Torchlight flickers behind green hair hovering just above my face. Most of my mouth feels dry, but the slickness in my left cheek says one of my fangs tore flesh.

"Good morning, Ophelia. I woke you again. My apologies."

The copper-toned girl leans back and huffs. "I don't understand how you can scream for twenty minutes and then wake up and suddenly be a plank of wood."

Sitting up and wiping off the sweat from my face, I place my feet on the ground and take a deep breath. "As I fail to understand how you sleep with a stuffed manticore yet refuse to be within thirty feet of the wolf enclosure. The Teachers will likely force the issue eventually."

I duck to the side as said stuffed animal is unceremoniously swung, thunking against the stone wall behind me "You leave Millie out of this!"

Glancing back, I click my tongue upon noticing the strike had smudged one of my drawings. It was an easy fix, but would take away from my most recent project.

"...you know, Felli..." Turning to Ophelia, the look of concern I had seen when I first awoke had returned. Small, wispy blue and grey tendrils of emotion want off of her. The physical manifestation of emotions was usually reserved between people that both held psychic ability, but the two of us have been around each other long enough that I had acclimated to her aura and mind, "sometimes it's really hard to believe we're the same age. Are you sure you aren't a few years older and just...short?"

Tilting my head at her words, I raise an eyebrow before answering. "I doubt that the god that chose me would make a mistake in the print of my Mark. Also, I am not short. My species is simply smaller than most others. We live in caves, or I suppose they do. I've never been in a cave."

Her deadpan stare says quite a bite, and the sigh she releases afterwards finishes the sentiment.

Walking the several paces required to reach her side of the room, she pulls the heavy curtain hanging from be ceiling partly across the tracks it hangs from.

"It took you to long to wake up, we probably have ten minutes before we're supposed to be at class.", Ophelia called from through the partition.

The lightning, no, electricity in my dreams was certainly powerful, but the jolt of panic that filled me was enough of an incentive to have me dressed and combing my hair by the fifth minute. Running my fingers through to straighten out my unruly curls, I grimaced.

I need to cut it soon, Alfos liked to grab it during spars if I let it grow to long. The human boy is an impressive fighter in his own right, but mostly relies on his weight and height to bully me into submission during our matches.

Teacher Milthed says I need to learn to deal with overbearing force before I begin with more 'sophisticated' pugilism. It's odd how the words taught to me by the whispers come with understanding over time, yet the 'vocabulary' I learn while awake is something I have to put concentrated effort into comprehending. I had first heard sophisticated last week, and had grown to rather enjoy the idea of being sophisticated myself one day.

Maybe Alphos and Kirrian were right, and I really am just a weirdo. Like Ophelia said, I'm certainly not the type to act my age, and I can be rather...wooden. Looking at my pinkish-yellow eyes in the small mirror given to me, I try to smile.

I stop. I looked...wrong.

The simple tunic and pants given to us fit correctly, but still manages to look to big on my frame. The smile looked to sad to be happy.

Abruptly, Ophelia pulls back the curtain and my nails catch on my scalp in surprise, still tangled in my hair. The wood elf gives me a once-over and nodded, doing her best to put as much authority into her six-year-old shoulders as she could. "We need to run." "Aye."

And run we do, though with how..small we are it can't be called impressive. Luckily our classes weren't to far away, just a few short hallways and we managed to skid into the room just before my mental timer ticked over the limit.

Before us, a draconian humanoid stood dressed in an emerald toga-like outfit, though with shorts and a bracer on his exposed arm added to the ensemble. His scales are a pale blue, reminiscent of the noon sky, and his yellow pupils seemed to already be tracing our path as we managed to trip ourselves into the small classroom.

He chose to adorn the singular yellow horn left on his head with a copper-beaded tassel today, the sibling to it having been sliced off in a long ago battle according to our Teacher. The things you notice while falling.

"Why'd you put your foot there!?" Ophelia asked on the floor beside me, our ankles still entwined though our bodies had fallen into a roughly V shape.

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"I think the better question is why the two of you are late to class, " said Teacher S'veil, "by six minutes and forty two seconds at that. It's almost as though you've forgotten our conversation...yesterday...and the day before that."

"Oh....I...thought....heh...oops?" Ophelia manages to say, rolling on her back to look up at him. We should probably get up, but Teacher S'veil is a very intimidating man.

The way he has his arms crossed behind his back usually means that we were about to be punished, but the set of his jaw suggests it won't be too bad...yet.

The look Ophelia sends my way is a clear "This is your fault.", but considering my dreams are the main reason this keeps happening...

"I had another nightmare, sir. The...place. Ophelia had trouble waking me. This is my fault, and has been." The sharp eyes gazing down on us soften slightly and the man turns away, simply waving one of his hands to motion us to follow.

Scrambling to get up, Ophelia uses my head as a support and I do my best to remain rigid rather than faceplant to the floor again.

Since I had managed to already get into a kneeling position by then, I simply pushed off with my left foot to assist. My pseudo-sister being nearly a head-and-a-half taller than me was often a bit demeaning, but this was a well-worn practical application after all these years. A small part of me considers it a kind of neck workout.

Our classroom is roughly twenty feet on each side, though the majority of this space is reserved for storage of teaching materials. We wind through a few old wooden shelves and quickly reach an area mostly defined by a large rug without anything placed on it and a large slab of flat stone wall bordering it's far side.

Just off of the rug is a cabinet woven from the branches of a darkly colored wood that contains brushes used to 'write' on the wall using water. I haven't learned the name of the material yet, but it holds the liquid for about ten minutes before it starts evaporating over the course of another three or four minutes.

I'd love to be able to paint with them, but Teacher S'veil was rather strict on the idea that play is not allowed in a room of learning.

As he approaches the wall he stands before and and takes a moment to rub the bridge of his snout. Our Teacher is an older member of his species, and for a moment he looks like it.

Ophelia and I each take our places on the carpet, the rough fibres grating slightly against my skin as they always did. We sit on our heels, knees to the floor and cross our hands over our laps. This will be the position we remain in for the better part of four hours. According to Teacher S'veil, this was meant to hone our self control and better adjust our minds to the intense and detailed lessons he provides.

Personally, I think it's because he gets distracted easily.

As the draconian looks over our forms, then gives a slight nod before making his way to the utensil cabinet. He pulls out several brushes and a few jars of pigment, indicating he would be utilizing images for this lesson. A pleasant thing, and a better start to class than the beginning of the day.

It was watching my Teacher's hands deftly working through a portrait of King Lelatha the Third's headless corpse on the battlefield of Evedi Plains nearly six hundred years ago that first inspired me to begin my own artistic pursuits.

He had been there personally, and the details he was able to work into the ground around the body, as well as the armor that it wore was very impressive given his 'canvas'.

Moving behind a row of shelves next, he soon returns carrying a ceramic jug of water I could easily fit in. As happens every day, I feel a shiver run down my spine and do my best not to look at the container. As he sets the vat to the side of the stone wall he stretches and then turns to the two of us.

As he normally did, Teacher S'veil officially begins class by clapping his hands together. It is a custom from his tribe, and until he clapped again he was to have our complete attention and focus.

I saw merit in the practice, as oftentimes everything in the world would slowly be blurred out aside from his figure and voice as his lessons went on.

"First off, in light of Alphos' first Trait manifesting yesterday morning; it is time to move our studies from exclusively language, history, and mental honing to also include the basics of magical theory. Ophelia, you do remember what the word theory means, yes?"

"It's when you think about something you don't actually know the answer to and make guesses." The words were spoken with enough confidence that I was almost convinced she had taken to her 'special' study method of repeating the same thing over and over until her answer became an instinctual response.

"Roughly, so I'll allow that explanation to suffice until you are a bit older." Ophelia deflated slightly, but a semi-stern glance quickly straightened her back once more.

"As both of you have already been taught of how the spirits interact with the world, I will refrain from broaching the subject once more. However, the applications and nuances of magic stretch far beyond elven, or even mortal recognition.

The Meister's of Sheer Hold are well renowned for their ability to naturally host pure elementals within their bodies after generations of the practice, and the contracts they form with spirits and beasts are the basis for all magical contracts in the world.

The Valkyrie orders are feared for their mastery of using magic to mold their bodies into armor and their psionic manifestations of weaponry that can rival even the most well crafted steel swords, some of the older Valkyries are even said to be able to duel with those welding mithril weapons. Felidrus, do you remember what mithril is?"

His eyes are expectant, and I take a moment to fully gather my answer before speaking, "It is a metal formed in areas of both intense magical saturation and extreme pressure. It can both easily channel spells as a wand or weapon once it has been around someone's magic enough, but in return rejects foreign magic. This makes it very valuable both offensively, and defensively.

Nobody is sure what metal is needed to form mithril as a basis, but magical energy untainted by the elements is the only kind that causes the reaction, making the circumstances for it to form extremely rare." I receive a nod from the draconian, then he continues.

Ophelia is giving me the stink-eye look she does when she's calling me a teacher's pet in her thoughts, but the subtle yellow around her head suggests she is proud of me.

"The Cultivators of the Imperial Sunblessed Plateau continent have developed a process of growing special organs within themselves to better temper their body in the pursuit of a Dao, a counterpart to the elven concept of Truths. Over time these 'meridians' allow them to manifest incredibly powerful-if sometimes limited- techniques in their early life. Later on in life, after a few centuries, they can greatly diversify their use of magic to the point of being seen as gods amongst the mortals they rule over.

This is very, very rare, granted. They've developed a sort of ranking system similar to the Adventurer's or Mages guild's of most other continents, starting at the Foundation Realm and ending with what they call 'Immortal Sovereigns'. the vast majority of cultivators never 'break through' the fourth of their twelve stage ranking.

They're also very prone to irrational violence and overly exaggerated personalities due to the 'unnatural' nature of the meridian's affect of their body and mind. " From the firm set of his mouth as he finished speaking, I doubt Teacher S'veil has had many good encounters with this brand of magic user. Would they be a wizard, a sorcerer, or a mage? I know there's differences but I'm not sure what they are. That, and Teacher S'veil only really goes into the specifics of a faction if he doesn't like them. Probably a by-product of all of his research on how to kill them.

As he spoke next a small gust of wind blew through the room, and one of his scales begins to glow with a pale light before flaking off. The wind manages to ruffle our hair and his toga, but little else.

"Dragons and their descendants naturally produce an excess of what many races call 'mana', or an internal reserve of magical energy. This excess seeps into our bodies, strengthening us over time, and allowing us to naturally use magic without an outward ritual to do so.

Though this comes at the cost of losing some of our internal reserves and having to naturally replenish them over time," idly, he scratched at a small crook in the scales of his jaw before adding, "I should clarify that cultivators also possess a kind of internal mana reserve, though they require outside energies to pull into themselves and purify before they are able to be reused. The process comes with hazards, but it is an imitation of the process many 'fae' races use to extend their lifespans. They also refer to this energy as ki, or qi, essentially the same and only different bases of dialect, the difference being a K or a Q. Some scholars argue that Qi with a Q is referencing external energy, whilst the other references the filtered version cultivators hold within themselves. Admittedly this is mostly a moot point, but lives have been lost to the argument."

As he speaks, his hands never stop moving, a hair-tipped brush in each as he creates simple yet detailed portraits of each faction he touched upon, at times adding a flourish of color to bring focus to the more magical details. From previous lessons with Teacher S'veil, these were likely people he had actually met over the course of his near-millenium long life.

The Meister was a muscular older man, his head shaved and intricate swirling tattoos covered his exposed arms and chest. His pants had little armor to speak of, but he wore what looked to be sabatons and simple knee-guards. Behind him, a swirling cloud of wind formed a large humanoid shape, thunder coursing through it's body and spreading over the being's human host. They looked to be posed for battle, perhaps preparing to strike at some invisible foe to the portrait's left.

The Valkyrie was a woman, as all of them were from what little I knew from previous lessons, and she stood posed to block the entrance of a door whose detail's were hinted at in the background of the illustration. She looked to be wearing a kind of form-fitting armor at first glance, detailed with swirling designs and engravings of some runic language that even through the medium of water seemed to hold weight within the fabric of reality.

The way the armor melded into her skin and seemed far to intricate to be functional gave light to what it truly was, some kind of chitinous substance that had grown out of her flesh, or perhaps calcified bone that had risen through her skin and overtime became stained with the color of her chosen element, in this case light, leaving the gold's and yellows of the armor to contrast with the gray stone behind it. In her hand, casually yet firmly held diagonally across the inferred door, is a spear that has faint wisps of water emulating rays of energy emanating from the weapon.

The last portrait, since Teacher S'veil was here to act as an example for his own race, was a man far older than the Meister. He wore a simple robe, with Teacher S'veil using only a slightly darker shade against the grey wall to darken the shadows around him. A hint of an insignia is peeking from the cloth folded over his chest, but I can't make it out. On his lap sits an unsheathed sword, simple and unadorned.

He sat in a meditative pose amongst a bed of what could be sand. His eyes were closed, but even through the burry imagery he seemed intently focused, a glowing vortex sits in his chest as traced pathways in his body meet in smaller balls of multi-colored orbs along his limbs and spine. Around him, motes of light and strands of what was likely meant to be 'qi' was funneled-

Suddenly, I feel a rush of violent energy course through my body. I have enough mental ability to bemusedly notice it was along the same path of the cultivator's 'meridians' as I begin falling to the side. I see Teacher S'veils look of concern as he notices what's happening.

I'm fully aware, I simply can't control myself. My muscles give out, my legs spasming enough that when my head finally cracks against the floor they flail uselessly and only serve to jostle my body enough that I feel the plant-like fibers of the carpet digging into my skin as my vision spirals down to a single point before winking out.

...........

Everything is a void. All but the faintest hint of discoloration in the furthest reaches of this endless space. It drifts ever so slightly closer. Gleefully, the next whisper informs me with sadistic thrill, "I can see you now, child."

I drop, falling endlessly, yet the strange apparition never seems to move further away.

......

I awake to the ceiling of a room that is not my own. The white, or at least this version of what people call white, indicates I'm in the medical building of the compound I call home. I had to come here often enough, usually after a spar with Alphos or Vitori.

I wasn't in excruciating pain, just a headache that felt like I had taken a practice sword to the skull again. As another benefit, the strange nightmare had ended with only the fire being able to creep it's way into my skin.

Remembering the nightmare, I begin to recollect the sudden 'seizure' immediately prior to it. I don't believe I have the Shaker's disease, as the one nice woman that helped the cook did, but the overwhelming stimulus that triggered the shaking and landed me in my current predicament is very much like what she sometimes went through. I'll need to ask her if she feels that violent energy too.

After a few minutes of useless thoughts, it occurs to me that my mind simply isn't all there. Even now, looking down at my hands and clenching them into fists I feel far to light and floaty. There's a buzz in the back of my mind that I can't quite shake away, almost...like....

Almost like the whispering has followed me out of the dream.

Reaching up to rub my throbbing temples, I instead receive two new pricks of pain for my effort. Bringing my hands back into view, I see two small droplets of blood on either finger.

Quickly turning and sliding out of bed-an action my head did not appreciate in the least- I grasp for the edge of the metallic water basin used to clean gauze that I knew was kept on the table beside me.

Pulling the shallow bowl to the side of my head and bringing my fingers more gently back to the epicentre of my pain, I feel my nail snag. After a few moments and a bit of angling, I get my first clear view of what has to be the begining of a barbed horn forcing it's way through my skin.

I suppose this means Alphos isn't the only one that gained his first Trait this week. He is going to pummel me during our next spar, his competitiveness won't allow anything less.

Releasing a sigh, I slump back onto the bed and stare at the painted white boards of hardwood above me, soaking in the gentle noises of the healers going about their business. Gradually, the texture and grains of the planks above me begin to warp and shift as my eyes lose focus.

A question emerges and lingers in my mind, one I had pushed away far to many times in the past; "Who...exactly is whispering to me?"