Aven had succeeded on the eighth try. Not the usual fifth, the uncommon sixth or the rare and universally derided seventh, but he had done it. He, and the few Master Creators who had bothered to oversee what was likely to be another failure, watched as the automaton of mud and stone began to twitch. First the right leg, then the left and the torso as lines of blue arcane symbols spiraling up its form before burning themselves into the construct. The energy was growing so impatient as it rushed towards the upper body that both arms and the head activated in unison, the initial flash of energy lowering to an intermittent hum.
Now fully contained within the shell of earthly materials, the magic sought release, spreading out to pop each digit and wrench every joint in search of an exit. The golem was modeled after a human, with a glass gem embedded in its forehead in place of other discernible features, and its violent twitching enchanted Aven. While he had witnessed others create their tribe’s birth-right before, as was standard for any Nepol old enough to walk by themselves, the excitement was much more tangible. Real.
Aven did not register his steps toward the golem until the forceful grip of his mentor brought him back to the present. “Leave it be, boy,” Creator Fernon said with a shake of his head. “While it is not a perfect activation, what lies before you is still a golem. Let the magic take its course.”
His master’s voice lacked its usual flint, and his perpetual scowl had morphed into an appraising thin line as he studied Aven’s creation. The body had yet to stabilize, the blue glow of magic still at odds with its new cage. Creator Fernon had often lectured him on the nature of the golemancy, and the differences between magic and magical constructs. Magic was wild and ever present, the cornerstone of every mountain and the breath that gave rise to the wind. Golems were subservient and limited, forced into the service of their masters until the latter died or the former broke. Two competing forces chasing each other in an endless struggle resonated with Aven, something in his chest compelling him to speak.
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“Is it always like this, Creator Fernon?”
His mentor’s eyes remained locked on the golem as he replied. “In what way do you speak?”
“The first activation. Is it always so…” Aven began, wrinkling his nose before rewording his question. “Wild?”
“No, it is not. Most would have succeeded by this point, and even then yours is a special case. Obedience of a bound golem should be immediate, with little to no rampaging mana. Either the runes inscribed upon this construct lack the commanding edge to reign in the wild magic, or your own spirit remains too weak to order the golem to rise.”
Aven knew which his Creator Fernon himself believed, as he was not the type of teacher to allow inadequacy in his pupils' education. But even with the frankness of his mentor’s words, he could not stop himself from appreciating the fact he said them at all. Many other Creator’s would not have entertained their proteges' attempts after the first five failures, and did not, as a glance around the tent showed three other Creator’s instead of the usual ten. It was more than could be said of his parents as well, and maybe that is why he spoke those next words.
“It is almost like it is alive.”