The weeks before the first practicum sped by. Despite attempts to wheedle out information about the first practicum from Captain Merrin, older guards, and other instructors, nobody in the cohort had any firm idea what was planned. Rumors abounded: they were to be dropped into the mist and then need navigate back to the Tree; they were to go below and fight a mist-twist; they were to step into a world of dreams to beg a boon from a dragon; they were to strip naked and wrestle spectral panthers; they were to go down into the mist and fight in a platoon; they were to enter a planar atrium -- a miniature world trapped in the mist -- and need to escape on their own; or they were to be taken to a wild branch where they’d need to fight off the dangers there.
The day of the practicum started as all days did, with a morning run followed by calisthenics. With each day, Reg got a little bit closer to matching Dun’s pace and staying with him for the full run, but each day saw the fleet-footed elf saying “disappointing!” as he increased his pace beyond what Reg could match. Most of the cohort kept a more reasonable pace during these morning runs and didn’t spend the minutes after the run dry-heaving into the bushes.
Compared to Advanced Arms, calisthenics was light work, but for the rest of the cohort who hadn’t gone through the Instructor of Arm’s daily tortures, the squats, lunges, push-ups, and holds left them wrung out and lying on the uncomfortable bark of the exercise field. In Val’s spot, she had smoothed out the corrugated bark into a smooth surface and had flopped down onto it to catch her breath. Reg found himself staring at the smooth wood; it reminded him of something, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of what it was.
Yeva, to Reg’s right, gave him a glare while bent over and panting, “Mist and ash, you could at least be polite enough to pretend to be tired.”
Reg laughed, “If you tell the Instructor of Arms that you don’t want to be ‘weak,’ I bet he’d be happy to help.”
“I’d rather ask Fenjor for an Arrowkiss Day dance. By the heart, I’m just glad the instructor ain’t killed no one yet. Doesn’t feel safe down in the gloom with him at all, especially after hearing about what happened in your class with him.”
“Has he moved you on from blocking blows yet?” Reg asked.
“Eh, not really. He’s got us blocking blows while moving backwards.” Yeva turned towards Annise, who was a row away. “Annise, what’s the Instructor of Arms’ current thing?”
Annise pitched her voice low and did her best imitation of the unsettling pauses and pronunciation of the instructor, “Retreat. Survive. Delay.” She giggled before adding on a few of her own, “Lunch. Eat. Important.”
Avery, a quick-tongued elf who was a bulwark on Annise’s throwball squad, quickly added on “Walnuts. Are. Tasty.”
The surrounding recruits spent a few minutes suggesting more and more outrageous Instructor of Arm-isms until they were uninterrupted by Captain Merrin’s shout of “Attention!”
The recruits quickly settled down and listened eagerly to hear what the practicum had in store. “We are going to take you down to experience the mist for the first time. You will not be exposed to any mist-twisted monsters down below: none of you are ready.”
Yeva had a stony expression on her face. Reg leaned over and whispered, “They should tell that to the blighted twists.”
Captain Merrin somehow heard Reg’s low whisper, “Reg, is there something that you’d like to share with the rest of us?”
Without a pause, Reg dropped down and started doing push-ups, “No, sir! I was just mentioning that I wish they’d told the twists that. How many, sir?”
Captain Merrin sighed, “I forget that many of you are from the low branches and have experienced loss from storms. Reg, I sincerely apologize. But I still want fifty push-ups.
“For many of you, this will be your first experience in the mist. We shall spend a full day on the ground at the base of the Tree before returning. Before we do that, we need to pair you with your masks. Follow me to the Hall of Masks.”
Captain Merrin led them through a carefully tended garden full of blooming rose bushes and tall poppies to a hall in the back of the Achivian Guard campus. The hall was long and airy, columns carved with vines held up a high ceiling and stained windows high on the walls let in some of the soft mid-morning light. On both walls, small alcoves held the masks of the Achivian Guard. The hall held thousands and thousands of alcoves; from the entrance, Reg couldn’t see to the end of the hall.
Captain Merrin introduced them to the Keeper of the Hall. He was an ancient elf. His long hair was white, wispy, and thin, and he stooped with age.
She then spoke quietly as she explained what she expected of them, “This is the Hall of Masks. In the old days, each mask was made bespoke for a single guard to bear and had apotropaic magic attuned to the heart of that guard.
“Today, we are no longer able to construct these masks, so we wear and honor the masks of our ancestors. My mask,” Captain Merrin said stroking the mask of snarling, horned devil that she wore at her hip, “was borne by three guards before me, one of whom fell in the darkness below.
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“Spend the next hours doing a circuit of the hall. Some of these masks will call to you, others will repel you. Find the mask that calls to you most strongly and bring it to the Keeper of the Hall and me. When bound to you, its magic will help guard your mind and heart when you go below.”
The mood was somber as the recruits fanned out through the hall.
The masks in their alcoves were varied: an owl with tufted ears, carved in such exacting detail that you could see each feather; a panther carved out of a rich, black wood with swirling wood grain and inlaid whiskers of copper, bursts of flowers stained different colors, carved in such a way as to evoke the shape of a laughing child; or a weathered woman with golden tears on one cheek. Most of the masks were animals: goats, spiders, squirrels, opossums, lizards, bears, beetles, and strange mammals that Reg didn’t recognize. Some were more abstract: falling rosewood leaves, sapwood and heartwood flames, or a flat mask covered in bark.
Many of the masks were damaged. One looked melted as if it had been dipped in acid. Another had a burned pattern that looked like a branching bush. Many had long gouges or slices in them.
Each alcove also had a light wood placard with a list of the names and dates of the previous holders. Sometimes the placard marked a bearer as ‘fallen,’ but most only had the dates that the mask was borne.
Not every alcove had a mask. Some only had the placard of names. For most of these empty alcoves, the final name was marked ‘fallen.’ A few times, Reg noticed the last bearer’s dates were current; these must be the masks of the current guard.
In a few alcoves, people had left fresh poppies, carved scrimshaw, and letters for the departed.
Reg wandered through the hall, feeling the pull and push of the masks. It was an overt feeling. A raccoon made of two different dark woods with a mischievous feel repelled him strongly. A roughly carved mask with sharp planes that made Reg think of a sparrow had a slight pull, and after touching it gently, he made a note to return to it if nothing else called to him more.
Reg found his mask near the back of the hall. It was carved of a rich, red wood in the shape of a panther-like creature with a long snout. Strangely, the mask reminded him strongly of Ankie. It had a long gouge across the left eye and droplet-shaped burns across the cheek and forehead. It was dented and scarred everywhere with small slices. One ear had been hacked entirely off. Its pull was strong and clear. Reg knew this was the one.
There were multiple placards all full of names in the alcove. Brint Lightleaf (224-228) fallen, Tilliux Raberos (857-857) fallen, Grinfoot Moonhart (861-867) fallen… Hundreds of names, almost all of them ‘fallen.’ After the initial bearer, nobody had borne the mask for several centuries, but then it had been in active use starting with Tilliux Raberos and continuing to the most recent name, Lillian Yurta née Torhana (1839-1856) fallen. The most recent bearer had died only four years ago and the alcove was full of bright red flowers, colorfully wrapped chocolates, and letters.
Reg picked up the mask with both hands and carried it reverently to Captain Merrin and the Keeper of the Hall of Masks, who were standing near the tall entryway doors. He waited his turn behind Jackoby, a stringy elf with a protruding Adam’s apple who was carefully carrying a mask of woven-together criss-crossing branches. Jackoby, Captain Merrin and the Keeper of the Hall had a hushed conversation, after which Jackoby put on his mask and then wandered into the gardens.
Reg approached Captain Merrin and the Keeper with his scarred, long-snouted panther mask held carefully. Captain Merrin had a sad smile when she saw the mask that he was carrying, “It’s good to see someone pick up Lily’s old mask.”
The old keeper’s face was inscrutable, “Son, are you sure another mask might not call to you more? You should feel a minor call from many of them and it doesn’t mean that the Mask of the Guardian Hound has chosen you.”
Reg’s response was sure and trunk-solid, “This is the one. Others called, but not like this one did. What even is it? What’s a hound?”
“I’m no scholar of the before, but my understanding is that hounds were a type of tamed bear that defended families and flocks.”
Reg nodded, “So, like spiders? A guardian spider of the ancients? That feels right.” Reg left unsaid the small thought that if these hounds were much like bears, they wouldn’t have a venomous bite, webbing, the right number of legs, or be anywhere near as smart as Ankie.
The old keeper’s faded violet eyes fixed on Reg’s, “Hand me the mask and hold out your dominant hand to the captain.”
Reg did so. Captain Merrin carefully pricked Reg’s thumb so that a drop of blood welled up. She guided his hand to press his bloody thumb into the back of the mask.
The Keeper of the Hall of Masks then held out the mask to Reg, “With this mask, we welcome thee to our brotherhood. May you bear it with honor and return it to this hall with your own hands. Please, put it on.”
Reg took the mask in both hands and then slid the silk strap at the back of the mask over the back of his head and pulled the mask down over his face. It fit so perfectly and comfortably that it felt like it was part of his body. The mask was light on his face, but there was still a feeling of great weight while wearing it: great weight, safety, suffering, sacrifice, duty, and welcome. A whole muddled mass of feelings that Reg only felt the faintest glimmers of and that he was only aware of because of all of the meditation and practice in Instructor Mossgate’s class.
“Son, I know that mask and its bearers.” The keeper said while gripping both of Reg’s hands, bringing Reg back to focusing on the here and now. The keeper’s face was serious as he said, “Thy bones to branches, thy heart to seed, thy soul to the wind.”
Reg was shocked. He’d last heard those words at the funeral for the lost crew; they were the last words you said to the dead.
The keeper didn’t explain those words, only dismissing Reg to spend time in the gardens. Reg was deeply unsettled as he walked through the carefully tended flowers. Had that last bit been part of the ritual of handing over the mask?
Reg had been one of the first people to find a mask and walk into the gardens. One by one, more recruits followed: Fenjor in the mask of a roaring panther with fangs of bone that framed his mouth; Annise in a black raven’s mask that completely hid her eyes; Jashal in a mask that looked like a goat from one angle, an owl from another, and a child from a third, shifting unsettling between shapes as the light hit it; and Yeva wearing the mask of the weeping woman with golden tears. Everyone was solemn and quiet as they entered the garden, even the most irrepressible of the recruits.
Thinking about the long list of dead who’d borne his mask before him and feeling its weight on his mind made everything feel much more real. They were about to head down into the mist.