Alve’s fingers danced in the air, twisting through patterns half symbolic and half meditative. In their wake trails of power bent and knotted into spellwork.

The strands floated for a brief moment before being inexorably drawn to the faded pattern already present. The vibrant animus channels underlined and merged into the degrading spell.

I could see thousands of minuscule tears overwritten by the retracing of the complex spell. Those flaws would return again once the newly replenished animus ran low. But now the working was likely stronger than the day it was first woven.

It was difficult to follow the significance of each pattern even with my true body and the most advanced detection spell I could manage. My relative inexperience at forming animus into spellwork was no help.

In all fairness, I was not relying on the shoddy detection spell I had learned in my fortnight of bedrest. My presence permeating my surroundings gave acute awareness of the spell anchoring the outpost’s defensive barrier.

But seeing animus the way alma did had surprising benefits. It was not exactly that their spell provided more precise awareness.

Instead the spell I had been taught automatically flagged patterns it recognized as relevant in spellwork and organized them for my use. It was half diagnostic tool and half training manual. Combining it with my far superior awareness of the animus channels forming the spell allowed me to gain much appreciated insight.

Alve slowed his weaving and tied off the recasting. “I’m done here.” He turned to the ritual components spread in a semicircle around him and began returning each to the hardy leather satchel by his side.

I uncrossed my legs and stood. Starting at the other side of the arc, I picked up the remaining objects and passed them for Alve to sort into separate padded pockets.

The movements, words, symbols and items involved was one of the strangest parts of alma magic. It was something completely absent from the animus fueled animals I had observed weaving spellwork and appeared to not even be necessary.

That was not simply my assessment. All three magic specialists in the alma outpost had agreed that no physical actions were needed to perform magic.

As I understood it the scribbles my boots were scuffing and crystals, twigs and scraps of dried small animals I was gathering up were nothing more than a kind of mental shorthand. A shorthand that felt far more confusing to me than the thing it was meant to be short for.

It seemed that alma did not naturally sense animus. Despite all of them possessing the organelle to manipulate it, they needed to develop it through years of work to perceive animus directly.

Gam did not have that problem. My descendants hatched fully aware of their own essence. Learning to use it was little different from learning to work with their hands.

I had severely jeopardized my disguise by asking Saræ about the diagnostic spell she was using on Rekon’s body. Knowing the animus construct was moving through his intestines showed a level of proficiency that qualified an alma as a mage.

I was saved by the coincidental convenience of Rekon as a disguise. The alma male appeared to be infamous.

Many of the outpost’s residents knew his name. Yet not even his companions knew anything significant about his past or personal life.

I destroyed my chances of imitating his demeanor within the first few days. Being polite, agreeable and non-obtrusive felt like my best option for establishing a presence. But I had come to learn that Rekon had been well known to express none of those traits.

No one had openly jumped to the idea of an imposter. Instead the soul-trauma Saræ diagnosed me with was upgraded in severity. The nebulous awareness of who Rekon was became amended to include magic proficiency he had never revealed to his subordinates.

This gave me a marvelous excuse to show interest in alma spellweaving. Saræ was willing to humor me as part of her regular visits to confirm Rekon’s body was healing.

Alve tolerated me watching him work. But he initially had little interest in answering my questions. It was the outpost’s third alma mage that proved truly helpful.

Alve lashed the satchel closed and started down the narrow path to the next anchor point. I followed.

Tall grass brushed against me. But my attention was focused on the relatively diffuse weave spreading out from the anchor Alve repaired.

My detection spell pointed out junction points where the influx of new animus pooled and numerous sensors reaching out in search of any object moving fast enough to necessitate an opposite and greater kinetic discharge.

I did not know how the much simpler working I had created could identify and report so much. But it was excellent practice for recognizing them myself.

The grand working of force magic extended over the entire outpost. It had been constructed long before Alve was posted here.

But the majority of the animus channels composing it were concentrated in eight anchors around the perimeter. And repairing those anchors routinely was enough to maintain the entire spell.

We reached the next patch of cleared and packed ground marking the immaterial presence of an anchor point. The anchors themselves had no effect on their environment. But Alve and his predecessors coming through every three days for decades had stomped out all vegetation and flattened the soil beneath.

I slipped ahead and began carving the framework for Alve’s ritual into the earth. Alve would have to do the symbolic steps himself, but I could assist with the geometric lines marking where each symbol or item belonged.

Each of the symbols Alve proceeded to scribble was a manual sensory representation of a spellwork macrostructure he associated with the action of drawing that symbol. The same applied to the distinctive objects he placed before himself and otherwise nonsense sounds he vocalized.

It took a lengthy and frustrating inquiry to understand why this association helped. An alma’s unconscious mind was better at controlling the organelle used to weave animus threads than their conscious mind.

Most alma could develop small repeatable tricks that were strictly spells. Lighting a fire at will, becoming briefly stronger, moving an object at a distance and countless other specific actions were all things an alma might learn to do.

But they were not consciously aware of the complex structures that went into creating such effects. And they could not easily adapt or improvise with their magical talents.

It seemed trained mages overcame this by developing many separate components of spellwork that could fit together in numerous ways. Each of these building blocks was learned like an alma would normally learn a single magical talent. They could then piece them together to make a wide variety of different spells.

The material and manual components came in when an alma mage was facing the challenge of organizing and tracking a vast number of different consciously triggered actions that were primarily automatic in their performance. It became hard for them to intentionally activate each piece in the needed clinical setting.

The training sounded a lot like a learned manual reaction. A gam who trained to deflect a strike coming for them enough would be able to deflect an oncoming strike faster than they could consciously choose to do so.

The stimulus for the trained gam was a reed dancer whip coming at their neck. The immediate reaction was to bring up an armored forearm and twist away.

The stimulus for Alve at the moment was a dried salamander in his palm and clicking sound from his tongue. The immediate reaction was his soul weaving a long series of receptors involved in checking for damage to the outer reaches of the existing spellwork.

The strangest part was that mages supposedly lost the need to rely on manual aids once their soul acclimated to casting complex spells. They reached a point where progressing further in their abilities required weaving more directly.

That was what I had inadvertently revealed I was capable of before knowing better. There was some significance I did not entirely grasp to that shift.

Rekon appearing to be beyond it had further complicated my cover and placed Rekon as a notably experienced mage. There was nothing I could do about it now.

My best option was to continue pretending everything was as much news to me as anyone else. That was made easier by the fact it usually was.

Alve finished the eighth and final anchor. We proceeded to collect the material aids and smooth the dirt.

“What did you notice?” Alve did not look up while asking. Experience guiding each stone and vial back into its proper place.

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I considered the question as we started back towards the outpost. “The anchor points have their own diagnostics. They all separately check the entire weave against the model at the anchor’s core. But the influx of magic should already heal the channels?”

We walked in silence for a moment. “You’re referring to the guardian protocol. Few spells have them. But anything at risk of sabotage will.” He finally responded.

“It’s looking for deliberate changes.” I rephrased as my observations fit together. “But why wouldn’t a saboteur go after the model?”

The guardian protocol clearly checked each piece of the weave against a compact non-active copy of the greater spell. A saboteur that changed that would effectively alter the greater spell.

“Two reasons. It is hard to find and alter that model. And you would need to sabotage all eight anchors.” The first part made sense.

My detection spell had not recognized what the spell model did. Only my own senses revealed the compacted diagram of intricate animus threads.

“Couldn’t they just change the last one you activate? It would think the unaltered spell had been tampered with and apply the saboteur’s changes as it fixes the damage.” The guardian protocol only appeared to trigger when Alve renewed the anchors.

“That would work in a mono-anchor system. But each anchor checks its model against the other seven. If one differs from the majority, it is overwritten with the pattern of the majority. Four or more anchors would need to already be compromised without me realizing.” I had missed that function entirely and now was hoping I could study it in a few days time.

“If someone managed that, I would still see the error reporting a corrected model.” We left the brush surrounding the outpost and stepped onto well-trodden earth.

“And if they changed all the anchors, so there was never a report?” We reached the cluster of workshops and sheds outside the main building.

“Than we would be facing a mage with no need to sabotage our wards. They could simply pull it apart or bypass it entirely.” There was clear amusement in Alve’s often placid expression.

I laughed in response. “That makes sense. I guess an infallible defense was a bit much to ask.” We normally split up and headed to our respective quarters at the outpost proper. But neither of us were in any particular rush.

“The gods might be infallible. We certainly are not.” Alve paraphrased an expression I had heard from other alma.

The common phrasing was the gods are or sometimes the gods are and I’m not. The subject could be changed to a third party including other people, objects or concepts.

It seemed to be an acknowledgment of the subject’s flaws and a way to point out that the subject was still the best option. The meaning was analogous to I’m doing my best or they’re doing their best.

“You aren’t sure how fallible the gods are?” He scoffed at my question.

“I haven’t met any. I wouldn’t want to assume.” I smiled at his tone.

The relationship between alma and their concept of gods was still a little vague to me. Gods were akin to leaders or respected individuals. Except they were distant in some manner.

Saræ worked for a god named Nala. But the relation was strange and did not actually involve direct contact with Nala. At least I did not think it did.

We separated and headed towards our respective dwellings. For me that was a sturdy tent on the edge of the impromptu camp ringing the outpost.

Rekon’s status as the refugee leader was sufficient to acquire a private tent. That had proven vital.

I slipped through the flap and buttoned the canvas door closed. The abundance of essence patterns ensuring privacy and watching for anyone approaching were obvious to me. But alma did not seem to be able to sense essence.

The tent was large enough to stand and furnished much like the living quarters inside the outpost proper. The bed was really just a cot with more substantial bedding over it and table taken from one of the workshops.

But the sheets were smoother than anything the gam could make. The standing mirror against the wall was an unnecessary touch clearly born out of an attempt at good hosting.

I untied my belt and the lashes holding my poncho against my body. The poncho landed on my single chair and my undershirt joined it a moment later. Pulling off my pants left me naked.

Blemished skin warm by alma aging reflected in the mirror. Its yellow and purple patterning encased a frame that had remained strong, but lost definition to a gradually failing metabolism.

Hair I knew was once violet grew in thinning gray wisps from the mottled scalp. It was a quite impressive simulacrum of an alma slowly dying of life animus.

I did not bother with my shapeshifting pattern. Instead I simply healed myself.

My will forced the material I encompassed to return to its correct state. In a moment the reflection shifted from a degraded alma to a hale gam.

Regenerating rather than shapeshifting back to my base form saved essence. However it had taken practice to do so without losing the alma height that was so costly when going from gam to alma.

That was nothing to the effort involved in learning to copy Rekon’s body down to the cellular level. I spent almost two weeks combing over his anatomy and my imitation before I snuck the horse close enough to worm out its vagina and sneak into the tent.

Replacing Rekon’s body with my own fixed several problems and created others. It made observing magic significantly easier.

I could only follow mages around so much in a horse. And I needed both Rekon and the horse together to ask questions about what I observed.

The first problem was Rekon’s mannerisms. His body remembered how to move in response to many desires.

It was not a true copy of his gestures. But it meant I could move him like a normal alma of his proportions and ingrained posture.

I had no opportunity to practice walking like an alma inside the horse. My shapeshifting adapted my proprioception and balance to make new forms feel natural. But it could not account for the way an aged alma moved.

Alma already seemed heavier and clumsier than gam in their stride. I did not know if that was biological or a product of their environment. Either way it made moving like one difficult.

I shifted back to my normal movements as gradually as I could. It seemed better than sticking with the plodding steps I frequently forgot to maintain when distracted.

The other prominent issue was my libido. The alma equivalent of a tail was a bit different to stimulate. I had only interacted with a penis once before.

It spent most of that time inside me. My insides seemed to work as well for pleasing an alma male as they did for another gam or my own tail.

It was still similar enough that I figured out how to orgasm with alma anatomy. The problem was it did not fix the underlying issue.

Male alma genitalia was definitely less sensitive than the tail of an aroused gam. It felt pleasurable. But on a noticeably lesser scale.

And it did not satisfy my desire to lay. Something about the instinct to lay an egg caused it to persist through my shapeshifting.

I could adopt Rekon’s sexuality without issue or disable my mating instinct entirely. There was no need to do so. But I had tested and proven I could.

Yet the impulse to lay eggs did not go away even with no identifiable structure creating it. And masturbating with an alma penis had no effect on the need.

I sat on the bed and bunched the already knotted bedding behind myself. The mass let me recline comfortably as I spread my legs apart.

My folds were already slick. I lightly stroked the tip of my tail against the concentration of nerves at their crest.

I wanted to slide it down and inside. But I did not have the time to fertilize myself.

Even sexually frustrated I would take twenty to thirty minutes to release inside and lay the fertilized egg. It would be more enjoyable. But I had other things to do.

I consciously flexed muscles at my core. A brief feeling of resistance gave way as a pulse of pleasure rippled down to my opening.

The next pulse followed without my conscious intervention. It moved around the egg I had willfully dislodged and forced it forwards.

The fullness of the egg consumed my mind. My walls clenched around it only for each pulse to push it down..

It finally reached my opening. The orgasm blended with the final pulse forcing the egg to crown. The egg stretching my folds apart always caused an orgasm. But the certainty never diminished the experience.

The after-glow was not allowed to fade. Instead I began another egg’s descent as soon as the last was pushed free.

I had found alma arousal and sexual pleasure was significantly changed by how recently they had climaxed. At least that was the case for my replica of Rekon’s anatomy.

But gam always experienced the same level of pleasure provided we were aroused. And we did not lose arousal from reaching climax. Only the impulse to engage in sexual acts was diminished, not the experience itself.

I let the glow fade after the sixth egg crowned. It had taken less than three minutes and my mind felt clear. I was free of the distracting impulse to lay and would be for several hours at the minimum.

The collection of eggs between my legs glistened. And the mattress was damp with the clear transudate that accompanied each of them.

I slid back and triggered the cleaning spell built into the mattress cover. While it removed my fluids I hopped off the bed and went to the corner of the tent.

The floor was composed of a woven mat insulating the inhabitants from the earth. I gripped the corner and pulled up.

It folded back to reveal a panel crafted from five wooden planks fused together through essence weaving. Lifting the rudimentary cover showed a cavity below.

I returned to the bed and scooped up my drying eggs. The hole was not large enough to fit down at my current size.

It had been bigger when I originally excavated it through gradual casting and good old manual labor. But there was no need now.

I rolled my eggs into it and heard them clink against those already below. Returning the cover and floor mat hid it entirely. Minor weavings would remove even the tiny hints that a spot on the floor was disturbed a few times each day.

Shifting to Rekon’s form and dressing was all that was needed to give the impression he visited his tent for a few minutes before heading out. And nothing at all suggested the real Rekon’s dormant body rested amongst numerous eggs below my feet.