《After All》


 1-1: Lament, my Children

    Once, I was a god.


    My children, you were born from my dreams, naked and wondering at the world I made for you. I gave you the secrets of stone and fire, and you rose up to exalt my name. Over long centuries of honest toil your worship went from wicker mannequins to grand temples, your homes from rude shelters to shining towers. All in my name! All to my glory!


    I remember those wondrous days, and the memory is agony.


    Please understand, my children, that omniscience is not as useful as you might think. Knowledge and sight of all things seems a mighty tool, but it leaves one vulnerable if it can be compromised. Such was my weakness. I saw all, I knew all, except for one unseen shadow that entered my realm. I had not even the conception that there was something I could not see. Thus, I was blind to it as it grew, as it took in villians and malcontents, as it claimed the innocent and helpless as sacrifices. By the time I realized the extent of the threat it had already gained great power and was posed for war.


    My divinity was pit against the darkness of the shadow. You, my children, were my faithful bulwark against the legions of the fallen for so long. You might have been victorious, if not for my¡­ ignorance? Hubris? Perhaps both. I failed you, my children. I believed the intentions of the enemy to be those of a conqueror. What else could be the goal except domination of all of creation? Again, my presumed omniscience was my weakness. I assumed my world was all there was because it was all I had ever seen. It never occurred to me that this shadow had come from somewhere else, not as a conqueror, but as a raider.


    The enemy gleefully set the world to burn, and lost nothing as my creation turned to ash. I, however, grew weaker with every act of rampant destruction, less able to act. The conflict reached a tipping point, and on that dark day the shadow swept out and consumed the remnants of my world. While I was reeling from that blow, it reached out again and tore my power from me.


    My world, ruined. My children, extinct. My power, broken.


    I know you are gone, my children. It gives me some comfort to dream that you are with still me somehow. I believe I am sane enough to recognize this as madness, but it is a gentle madness.


    I watched the shadow as it fled with the stolen life of my world, and was thus enlightened to the truth that my world was not everything. Mine was just one world of many, separated by the thinnest of veils and my own assumptions. I found the discovery that life would carry on elsewhere to be of no comfort.


    I chased in the wake of that ravenous shadow. Through the feather-soft curtains of false reality, past so many living worlds with their own gods, past worlds drained of life and purpose like my own, until the shadow came to this world, the Oruke. I slipped into this realm like a thief in the night, but I had no power to take vengeance. It was all I could do to stay hidden and occasionally prey on inhabitants of this place that were fool enough to be isolated. There was some small belief to be had in being a dark fable that elders would use to warn the youth against sin and wanderlust. So it was for many years, as I learned what I could of my enemy.


    I learned my enemy was no shadow, and I learned my enemy was not alone. Two gods wearing the mantles of Order and Chaos ruled this alien place, and took it in turn to reign. One would go forth beyond the curtains, and become the enemy of some other world. There it would rend and tear away whatever worthy trophy it could, dragging the prize back to strengthen the Oruke. While one was gone, the other would wax mighty and the servants thereof would dominate the servants of the other. Eventually the raider would return to take up the crown while the other went abroad, and dominance would cycle in favor of the resident deity. In such a manner the Oruke grew by leaps and bounds.


    I learned that gods, even in tandem, have limitations. The Oruke grew so large that every time a god went forth the edges of the realm would fray. These two gods had a solution in hand, though. Each following raid came back not only with stolen life but with a defeated divinity in bondage as well. Fallen gods were taken into unseen places, broken, and broken, and broken again until they were far from what they once were. My children, the gods that emerged from the darkness were but loyal slaves, tasked to hold the edges of the Oruke and enforce the will of their masters. So it was that three gods and three were taken, broken, changed to be slaves to Order and Chaos.


    All through this I consumed unwary mortals, keeping to the shadows, and took what belief I could from the fearful legends of my prey. In truth, my existence became easier with the advent of the new gods. They were made wild by Chaos, obsessive by Order, and they had no tolerance for those beholden to the other. Under their influence the small wars and triumphs that occurred when one of Order and Chaos were away instead became vicious conflicts and near genocides. Each conflict was rife with opportunity for predation on my part.


    It is to my shame that I do not understand all of what happened next, my children.


    I know that there were beings that were not sworn to endless war. Instead, some strived to grow stronger through peace, while others instead sought easy power by scavenging the battlefields. The peaceful ones found themselves prey to all sides when the wars escalated, and their losses were legion.


    I know that despite these losses, exceptional beings emerged. They did not come to my attention until their quest was well underway. They named themselves the Claimants. There was the Dreamer, the one who birthed mad schemes no other would consider. There was the Paragon, who was the stabilizing presence, the steady hand that carried on past distraction and frustration. Last, there was the Traitor, who provided knowledge and power before failing in an attempt to seize everything for themselves.


    I know what they carried with them, my children, for I saw them carrying an orb, a map, and a knot of magic. I know the six new gods were pursuing them, for that very pursuit cut my own observation short. So it is that I do not know how these Claimants ended the Oruke.


    End it they did. Everything, gone. The curtains had fallen. Not just the Oruke, but all the worlds were undone! No light, no dark, just oblivion. In those moments I was but a fading spark, burning dimmer and dimmer in the face of annihilation, and it was wonderful. Peace, at last, to rest alongside you in sweet nothingness, my children. Oh, to be gone with you forever!


    Yet before the end of all, there was light and dark. The spark of my self grew again, and I watched a new world being born.


    Picture, if you will, a glass-like orb floating in an empty void, belted by a plane of roiling smoke. The smoke was the stuff of chaos made manifest, a cloud that churned with bursts of energy and matter, riven with coiling lengths of unthinkable life that would gel and swiftly dissolve in the turmoil. It was the most nightmarish of creatures swept from the depths of the sea, warping and melting among impossible geometries, all mercifully shrouded in its own steaming, burning detritus. Distinct from this writhing horror was the grand orb, perfect in curve, a translucent sphere rendered opaque by its very mass. The orb would be much simpler for mortal minds to survey, though it was just as terrifying in truth. It was the defining power of order triumphant, where all things end in final, unmoving death. Such were the divine mantles of chaos and order, rendered through the lens of mundane senses.


    That I could see those wonders at all was due to a distant light. Low and far away shone an orange sun sunk deep into the plane of chaos, blazing wildly with sweeping flares of solar fury. A massive vortex circled the sun, leaving a wake of nothingness as it carved through the chaotic plane. Through the blur of passing months the sun would rise up out of the chaotic plane to shine down from high in the void. As any months passed again to see the sun set back down in the swirling cauldron. All through this cycle the vortex orbited the sun, spinning in a comparative blur that obscured in flickering cycles of light and dark.


    Time was passing, faster and faster.


    Over blurring decades the orb and the smoke made contact, and where this happened matter would accrete. Nearest the orb, order dominated, defining potential into a mountainous shell of stone. The shell was riddled with pockets of trapped chaotic energy, just stable enough to form into endless flows of fire and water. These flows built tremendous pressure within the stone, splitting and melting the surrounds to vent out into the void. The shell grew further out in towering formations of stone. Over the passing years some spires collapsed under their own weight as the burgeoning mass achieved its own gravity. Only near the soon buried orb, where the influence of unbreakable order was at its greatest, did the spires stand strong.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    These spires hung below the orb as well. They were defiant and precarious as the roots of some vast tree digging into the uncaring void. The underside was a landscape only blessed by the light of the sun for a few days each year. It is here I found that the act of observation had consequences. I had seen the sun-kissed side of this spreading mass and believed that to be the surface. This belief had imprinted upon the reality of this place. Below, in the cold and the dark, the masses of stone too weak to resist gravity spiraled away into the void rather than crash to rest. In places those falling spires tore away whole swaths of territory, leaving the median of the world exposed. Within these breeches were rivers and seas of roiling chaos, vomiting forth water and fire in uneven measure.


    Matter churned out of the tides of the far reaches of chaos. Things alive, things never alive, things that should never have been, the land was pushed ever outward from the central orb while chaotic detritus washed upon the shores of the upper world. The incursion of order had stabilized the edges of chaos into turbulent seas and occasional pockets of endless flame. Deep below the waters the primal chaos vomited forth strange structures from places that never were, shattered towers drunkenly leaning against each other in the deep. They created a seabed made of broken dreams and ruined nightmares beneath the spreading sea. Living masses borne misshapen from the liquid womb of chaos were pushed relentlessly by the waves toward land. They were doomed horrors, nightmares of flesh and bone that were gasping in death before they even fell shuddering on solid ground. The beaches of this world were open graves, where the gathering carcasses would gently desiccate under the flickering glare of the sun.


    So it went, until a tiny shard of life succeeded within the charnel wreckage. I do not see it myself, but I saw its wake. Rot took hold, turning the mounds of dead into a riot of putrefaction. Ghastly as it was, it was assuredly life, and it begat life. The rot grew thick, innovating with the empowerment of chaos. Plants and fungi began to bloom in lethal competition. Massive leaves that hoarded the sun¡¯s blessings challenged roots that tore the hardest stone. Floating masses of acidic algae raced against grasping carnivorous kelp to be the first to consume the endless bounty of death upon the waters. Parasitic growths, ambulatory foliage, incendiary secretions, this world became a long emerald war that never truly found ceasefire.


    It was inevitable that once plants had taken hold, higher life would follow. Small creatures of chaos struggled against their own bizarre biology in the spreading verdance. They were so unstable it took scores of generations for bare handfuls of the beasts to develop any strains of stability, and always new abominations came tumbling out of the waves. My observation was a blur of years where life would haltingly take hold under starless skies, beaches were checkered white with flesh-stripped bones, and the land beyond grew green.


    The push of green toward the central mountains slowed, grinding down, finally halting at the foothills of those peaks of crowned stone. It was not that the march of life had reached a limit, but that the march of time had slowed to what you, my children, might consider a normal pace.


    So it is that now I look out on a virgin world and feel only despair. I see past the illusion of that sun and that vortex and instead behold my enemies, two gods dancing contentedly in the firmament. The curtains that separated the worlds remain fallen, and all other worlds are gone. This is all there is, one place, one time, one song in the void.


    I hate it so, my children. For one blissful moment, everything was gone, and now there is this fresh heartache. I want this misery to be over.


    I gaze from the point of one of the great central spires, watching as new lights shine in the celestial dome. They are points of radiance shining down in a plethora of colors, and they are moving. These lights trace grand arcs across the vacant sky, drawing toward this fledgling world in ever tightening spirals. The lights shine so brightly as they approach the collective glare creates a false dawn. Recall that time has slowed to a mortal pace, my children. These lights are moving at unthinkable speed, and they are coming closer.


    I can taste three of these stars. I know them. One is the Traitor, who provided knowledge and power before failing in an attempt to seize everything for themselves. One is the Paragon, who was the stabilizing presence, the steady hand that carried on past distraction and frustration. Finally, the Dreamer, the one who birthed mad schemes no other would consider. Those wonderful heralds of destruction, those self-styled Claimants.


    My children, let us depart this spire. We take flight down bloodcurdling heights, past a trapped node of chaos spewing boiling water down the mountainside, wreathing the stone in thick steam. We descend where the waterfall was trapped for an age by the foothills before the relentless flow ripped a path free. We follow the path, now a river, moving inevitably onward toward the girding ocean. At times small creeks meander away, but the river does not cease, encased in thirsting green growth as it drives through the land. We fly above it all, to where the river finally breaks to flood the plains and sands at the ocean¡¯s edge. There! A handful of these stellar sparks, coming down in the heart of a delta.


    Legions of stars land all over this world. They touch lightly upon solid earth, and halt, and the world moves beneath us as if struck with force. Shadows peel away from what we have observed, duplications and variations of the land and of time. Each is a potential now, all of it less real than when this divergence began. There is no true reality bar the great crowned mountain at the centre of it all, and the far reaches where the tides melt into chaos. Ah, and the stellar masses that bring night and day to it all. Alas, those seats of power remain unshaken, for now.


    After many hours of travel from that spire, now lost in the distance, we are near enough the array of fallen stars that we pursued to give them scrutiny. Lying flat on the sands they resemble crystalline jewels, if jewels were commonly two meters long and a meter wide. Oh, how they shine, blazing bright as the great vortex orbiting the sun is at its furthest from this world. That solar sphere is bordered by the visible darkness of the vortex. The result is a black halo that heralds the point when the might of Order is at its nadir. What better time for the Claimants to awaken?


    Do you see how within each crystal is a singular shadow? And this one! The shadow contained within is moving, my children! The shadow lashes with one limb against the inside of the monolithic structure, the other limb clutching some object. The pounding goes on for a time, growing weaker with each blow. The encasing star gives way before whatever is within succumbs. The top slides to the right, just a crack, and there is a gasp as the thing inside scrambles desperately for air. The revealed panel is forced further away, and¡­


    Oh, me. He looks so much like you did, my children. He is unlike the creatures of Oruke. He is of flesh and bone, limbs and senses. He looks so much like you did.


    Existence is endless, mindless cruelty, my children, as evidenced by this egregious insult. I would crush this mockery of your grace into dust! I would bring my divine wrath upon him! Yet I achieve nothing, and when my impotent fury passes I realize this man is not even a Claimant. The Claimant I sought remains trapped in one of the crystals, these Manifest Chrysalids.


    The man tumbles helplessly from his crystalline cradle onto the sand, a tangle of limbs in awkward positions. After a few moments his boneless flailing puts him onto his side, revealing a small wooden box that had been clasped to his chest. His legs continue to kick weakly, slowly levering him over onto his back.


    Look at those eyes, my children! The dilation is such that the irises are tiny slivers. The body twitches in tiny increments, the breathing shallow yet labored. As the minutes pass, he seems to be trying to gain purchase against the sands with his right hand. He makes increasing headway and nearly an hour after having fallen he manages to sit up.


    His jaw hangs open, slack. A trickle of swiftly-cooling saliva dribbles from his lower lip and lands in his lap, eliciting no reaction whatsoever. This lasts for but a moment as the weak momentum from sitting up fails him, and he falls back, prone once more with an audible thump. The wooden box tumbles nervelessly from his left hand, and in doing so the lid loosens. There is a burst of multicolored sparks from within, and then a silence only disturbed by the quiet shifting of sand as the man turns his head. The eyes seem more normal now, and¡­ oh! Sentience! That was not there before.


    It is unfortunate that this is not the Claimant. This one cannot teach me what I need to know.


    In defiance of all reason, the least of beings rose up and succeeded in shattering the very foundations of the Oruke. One of those aforementioned beings is cradled in a yet unbreached chrysalis, here on this ossuary shoreline. So close! Yet for now, I must remain hidden from the eyes of those who conquered us before, my children. A movement on my part at the right moment will see the Claimant awakened by this vile parody that apes your likeless. With that awakening, I will watch, and I will learn. I will find the strength I need, and I will be the ruin of the gods and their slaves, of this new world, of everything. In the end, when there is nothing else, I too will embrace the end. My children, all of reality will be our honor guard and our funeral pyre.


    I love you so much, my children. I promise you that we will be together again, after all.

 1-2: Uncommon Knowledge

    He spent a day and a night sprawled on the bone-strewn sands, insensate as the tide washed in and out.


    There was thought and reason within him from the moment he awakened, but it was sentience absent of knowledge. No name, no history, no context. His trembling hand clutched at the sand, brought it up to his line of sight, and knew nothing of what he held. He gazed blankly at the sand for a time, focusing on single grains and fragments of detritus in childlike fascination.


    The sand slowly slipped through his fingers to be scattered by the wind. When all of the sand had passed through his grip, he took up a larger object for examination. It was a large, singular fragment, pale and shadowed as he turned it this way and that. There was something more here. This thing was something other, something that was not him. There was still massive absence where his identity would be, but now floating in that void was the primitive concept of not-other.


    The fragment had the whole of his attention. It was long and narrow but still had strength despite that. One end was ragged and sharp, the whole piece worn. This thing was incomplete, a broken shard of something larger. The fragment still in hand, the man rolled onto his side to gaze across a vista he was utterly unequipped to understand. In a way this made his search easier, as he focused on the only thing that seemed familiar. There was another long shaft nearby that seemed a twin to the one he held. Crawling over to it, he seized it in his other hand. It was not the same. This new length was unbroken, though just as well worn as the first. Long, and narrow, and white, the ends flaring to smooth knobs that suggested links to things yet unseen.


    The idea of other was, in a moment, precariously joined by a new revelation. Bone. This was bone. The word bone sat in his mind, something that he could focus on. Time passed as he explored the concept of bone. Over hours, from meditation on bone came marrow, and blood, and flesh. The idea of flesh led to the concept of survival, though it was crippled by the incomplete concept of not-other that was his being.


    Still, survival was a treasure trove of new information, a crown of passing time bejeweled by three ideas. Three hours without shelter. Three days without water. Three weeks without food. Engraved like an epitaph in that conceptual crown was the grim promise that failure to survive was to become as these bones: death. The man was not in any state to dwell on the matter, as more information was coming unbidden from survival. Explanations of time, tool-use, geology, botany and zoology flooded in as a cavalcade of facts. A day and a night passed before the man was finally informed and coherent enough to lift himself from the sand.


    He found himself thirsty, hungry, and very lucky. He had fallen in the shade of one of a number of large blue structures, which had spared him exposure and possible sunburn through the long day. The concept of time caused him to consider this more fully. At some point he should have been scorched by the sun¡¯s journey while he was helpless on the sand.


    Further exploration was interrupted by an assault on his senses.


    It was a stench so thick it struck his unprepared nostrils like a physical force. The stink was that of rancid oils and sun-baked rot, the filth of death on the wind. His guess as to the source was a fleshy, lumpen carcass he could see further down the beach. There was the suggestion of movement around it he found concerning. He focused on the movement, and the distance seemed to close on a singular entity. His vision locked on a writhing thing over a meter long, resembling a serpent¡¯s tongue that was forked on both ends, laden with insectoid legs like a centipede. His focus grew ever tighter, drawing so close he could see it was covered with papillae like the tongue of a cat. He could see individual papillae as the thing slithered across the unnamed mass. Each movement tore up tiny bits of blood and flesh from the corpse that seemed to absorb into the tongue-beast. The horror of it was somewhat lessened by his confusion at suddenly knowing of serpents, centipedes and cats.


    He shook his head to bring his attention back to his surroundings. Whatever the great mass was, it was well and truly dead. This came with a new definition attached to the idea of other: Imps. The corpse was crawling with scavenging Imps. The idea of Imps was a new root in the forest of knowledge that was growing in his mind. The act of delving these ideas seemed to risk immobility, so it seemed unwise to explore this knowledge too deeply with vicious things the size of his torso within line of sight.


    The air became blessed by a warm breeze, keeping the miasma at bay as he began to stagger away from that mysterious reeking mass.


    He was on a beach of pale sand, made paler still by endless fragments of bone and bordered by the gentle wash of blue waves and foam from the churning ocean. Over the water a sphere of flame blazed brightly enough that it hurt to look at. For a moment he thought it some bizarre sun until he realized it was in fact nearby. It was hard to judge the size of the orb from the shore. It was not floating on the tide but over it, unmoving while spitting bursts of steam when the occasional wave would splash water into it.


    In the opposite direction, the view inland saw the beach gave way to green grasses and distant trees.


    His immediate area of shoreline was graced by a collection of large blue slabs, crystaline and dazzling in the sunlight. They were laid out in what seemed to be some regular formation.


    Finally, all around the beach were strange spurs of white, some in rows of great curves that loomed with impressive height.


    He moved toward one of the white protrusions to verify what he already suspected. These were racks of massive rib bones, bleached and broken in varying degrees. They were not the bones of any being like himself. Whatever this dead thing had been, the ribs were markedly taller than he was. They looked old and worn, and he gave one a light push to gauge its strength.


    With the touch a new concept linked with the unexplored idea of Imps. These were the rib bones of a Shambler. There was a great deal of information in his grasp now, whole paths of knowledge branched out like veins and capillaries. Why did he have this information in his head? What was a Shambler, beyond the obvious explanation that it was any large chaotic creature made unique by the array of random features that made up its existence? Why was that suddenly obvious? What did it mean that the bone had a durability of eleven? How did one put a numerical value on durability?


    Branching off of the facts about Shamblers, there was a plethora of information about other creatures of Chaos. Imps, Shamblers, Daemons and Maddish, all manner of creatures which had no commonalities beyond being misshapen grab-bags of various limbs. Well, perhaps not the humanoid Maddish. The images in his mind showed them to be much more regular than the other things of Chaos. Some of those images were oddly compelling, in truth.


    There were more digressions from the initial topics. From the idea of Chaos, there was a somewhat less cumbersome array regarding Order: The mindless Slimes, the three species of reptilian Ornian, and the bizarre Dragons.


    The details about chaotic Daemons and orderly Dragons were nightmare fuel. His thoughts revealed Dragons as reptilian nightmares with savage powers on an enormous scale, while Daemons were living globes of flesh that could orbit the world like small moons, raining down all matter of mayhem.


    He did not know how long he had been standing there, lost in a sea of trivia. Not too long, it seemed, for he looked high in the sky to see the sun had not visibly moved. Yet looking back, the mass that had drawn the scavenging Imps was much reduced. Some incongruity regarding the passage of time seemed to be in play. All the more reason to seek safety, for when those beasts ran out of flesh to feast on they might seek other sources.


    The key was to keep moving and not panic. Unsteadily marching away from the bleached bones, he gathered his thoughts. The experience that came from touching that Shamber rib was disturbing yet enlightening. The question was if it was repeatable. A self-inspection on the run seemed in order.


    First and foremost, the backs of his hands had sigils on them, golden in the light. He ran his fingers over the back of his left hand. Nothing wiped away, and there was no irregularity in texture. It seemed this symbol was part of his skin: a circle with two lines within, crossing each other to form equal quadrants. The quadrants near his fingers and his wrist were further bisected by another line each. He knew this was the Brand, that it was important enough to bear capitalizing. This knowledge was unique in what he had gained thus far in that it came without further detail.


    He further observed he was adorned with some soft white material, open in the front, with a length of similar material drawn through loops around his waist. As he walked he reached to intentionally take it in hand. Clearly, this was an Innocent Robe, white, full-body with extra pockets inside and out, featuring a sheath for his knife, and a securable pouch for his box. The robe had a duration of one hundred and sixty eight hours. Why this was suddenly clear was¡­ unclear. He simply understood the item.


    He marched onwards inland, reaching the first sparse grasses as he assessed this information. How did a robe have a duration? Why didn¡¯t it have durability like those bones did? More importantly, he had a knife? Yes! On the left side of the robe he was delighted to discover a fabric pocket that secured a blade. He drew it out, knowing at first touch it was an Innocent Blade: as long as his forearm, single edged, heavy at the tip, with a metal handle that fit comfortably in his grip. The pommel was cylindrical, the flat circles facing outward and bearing that same Brand he had on the backs of his hands. The whole thing was as if made of one solid piece of metal. That same duration of one hundred and sixty eight hours was attached to the blade, a repeat of the bizarre anomaly with the robe.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    Now, there was mention of a box in some pouch? On the right side of the robe he found a large pocket with fabric bindings, those bindings flapping loosely in the breeze. No box. A dire sense of foreboding took him as he looked back toward the blue crystal slabs.


    Nothing for it. The definition of the robe referred to ¡°his box¡±. He had no idea what, if anything, might be in that box, but thus far his meager possessions could only be described as chronologically dubious. Thoughts of survival floated up in his consciousness like a pod of breaching whales.


    Three weeks without food. Three days without water. Three hours without shelter.


    Outside those limits his life was in danger, and even within them there was the risk of becoming too weak to do anything to save himself. Worse, he was not sure how much time had already passed, only knowing he was pained with both hunger and thirst. What if that box contained a fire kit, or clean water, or any number of possible lifesavers?


    With any luck, the risk in going back to search for the box would be minimal. Steeling himself against returning to the stench, he turned with intent and swiftness. In the meantime, the assessment continued as he systematically laid hands on his meagre belongings.


    Momentary consideration of his foot coverings revealed them to be Innocent Sandals, white. Each was a footprint-shaped block of unknown material held on with simple strap that ran between two of his toes, then split to cover the top of his feet. It seemed they joined the knife and robe in the one hundred and sixty eight hour club. Consideration elsewhere revealed his modesty was defended as well. One of the many branches of the survival data was that of clothing, and thus he understood that in the struggle between boxers and briefs he held the neutral ground of Innocent Boxer-Briefs in white, but exceptionally without mention of duration. Yes, boxer-briefs: a profound insight into his character, and one he treasured as it was the only clue he currently had as to his identity.


    His memory started with sitting up in the sand beside those blue crystals. His head now was laden with ideas and definitions coming to him fully formed, completely coherent, and without an iota of background. It was a solid foundation but ultimately flawed because of the lack of actual context. None of the ideas that had thus come to him had any clues to his own identity as yet, though the concepts of flesh and survival seemed promising leads in that regard. However, each idea seemed to put him in a daze, as he realized he had come to a halt while examining his clothes. He hurried on while trying to keep his attention undirected so as to avoid being pulled into any new quagmires of thought.


    The unthinking dash back to the crystals went quickly enough. He could see they were laid out in an orderly pattern whose nature he could not parse from his ground-level view. In the middle of the cluster was one that was open, and he knew it was a Branded Chysalis. Marvelous. More mysterious information, this time about the crystal, though much like the Brands on his hands it came with no further detail. He could see the so-called Chrysalis was not a solid block, but rather a long basin with a lid that had fallen away onto the sand. On that lid was a brown box, laid out as if casually discarded.


    A quick scan of the area showed the stinking mass was now but a framework of bones jutting up out of splattered gore, still the centre of Imp attention. Feeling somewhat secure with their appetites occupied, he swept the box up. One Innocent Box, carved within and without. The box had a sliding lid that was already slightly ajar. The box and lid alike were of a rich, deep brown wood with red tones, quite smooth, about fifteen centimeters square and five centimeters deep, with ninety-eight durability.


    The new concept of measured distance left him dizzy. A centimeter was a unit of length, one hundred of which made a meter. Why did he know this? Why could he hold his fingers up just so and know that the length between was a centimeter? For that matter, why did he know what a meter was?


    He returned his focus to the box before he could get too lost in the thought. The box was already open, but even so he couldn¡¯t help pause with a certain sense of trepidation. Survival brought him back to the box in the hope it held some aid, but it was also possible the box held some danger. Caution was the way forward. A tentative shake of the box resulted in silence from within. The lack of rattle did not answer any questions on its own, though. Pointing the opening away from his face, he gingerly pushed the lid completely off and flinched as it landed on the sand. No reaction from within. Looking within revealed no contents at all. An empty box. Less than what he might have hoped for, but not without use.


    Yet there was reason to believe there was more to this box than just the contents. The wave of information regarding this box said it was ¡®carved¡¯. Where were the carvings?


    Reaching down to regain the lid, a carving was revealed on its underside. On opposite ends were two patches of color. One patch was a circle with irregular points radiating out, silver with the carved lines in black. The other patch was a broad sweep of many colors. Both bore rows of mysterious marks. In the space between the two patches was a meandering line that ran from one colored patch to the other. The line had a number of smaller lines that peeled off, all pointed roughly in the direction of the multicolored sweep, until it finally split into a handful of lines that terminated in a final wavering curve that ran roughly perpendicular to the rest.


    The alien thought that followed his focus on this image was still infuriating despite being expected: this was a simplified regional map. Along with this came a cavalcade of related trivia about topography, linked to the idea of distance. Compass roses, map legends, and most staggeringly of all the written word, all of it practically useless due to the lack of detail on the carving. Perhaps the spiked circle was supposed to be a compass rose? If so, it was a rose that had been used as a hammer at some point. The radiating points on that circle made no sense whatsoever, which did nothing to ease his worsening mood. Those unidentifiable marks were now resolved as words: in the multicolored area, ¡®Here there be Daemons¡¯, while the silver circle sported ¡®Here there be Dragons¡¯.


    Dragons and Daemons. Several deep breaths followed. A thought occurred to him, one that was strangely comforting as it felt natural rather than some intrusion. If he let everything grind to a halt every time he was confronted with the possibility of body-devouring and mind-shattering horrors, he thought, he¡¯d never get anything done. Nothing for it but to soldier on.


    After further inspection of the inside of the box in hope of finding some hidden prize, he slid the lid back on. Easier to carry the thing as a solid piece, he thought. However, before stowing the box in the purpose-built pocket on his robe, he had one more question to resolve. He¡¯d found a carving within, but there was also mention of a carving without. Several minutes passed inspected the surface. It wasn¡¯t until his fingers brushed something on the bottom that the mystery was solved. He had to bring the box so close that it was nearly touching his nose to see the carving, being remarkably fine lines not readily noticeable against the dark grain of the wood. Nine letters. ¡®F O R S Y M E O N¡¯.


    For Symeon?


    If this box was a gift he bore for someone else, the party was already well over. Whatever was within was gone. The information he had gained thus far named this as his box. He had no reason to believe the information was misleading. While the contents were lost or consumed, the conclusion from the box itself was that his name was Symeon.


    For the first time since awakening on this ruinous shore, he had a fundamental concept complete in his mind. Not-other was finally replaced with self, with Symeon, and the entire solar system of knowledge in his mind rotated and twisted to let this idea become the blazing sun at the centre. With this came an interruption, in the form of a glowing blue panel that had materialized in his field of vision.


    What was presented to him was an azure square. At the top left, the corner was adorned with an orb, containing within a red qestion mark. Beside that orb was a single word: Symeon. The border was made of a collection of lines weaving around each other, beginning and terminating with the orb. Within was an array of more red question marks, resting above eight bevelled squares. The squares gave the impression of absence, and drew his attention in a way that felt¡­ wrong. Wrong was the wrong word, though. Unnatural seemed more apt, though he lacked the context to judge what was normal. He forced his attention away from those eight holes, and then struggled to remove the blue panel from his line of sight. Physical contact seemed impossible, as it remained at distance regardless of his movements. Frustration built, and was dispersed by a feeling of resonance. The panel was part of him, as much as an arm or a leg, and now he could feel it. A thought that took less effort than blinking silently collapsed the manifestation into nothingness.


    The revealed view was again that of the ruined thing on the beach. He was reasonably sure it was cousin to the Shambler bones he had interacted with. What little was left of the corpse was now stripped bones and smears on the sand. The crowd of Imps seemed to have largely dispersed, and it seemed he was in luck once more. The participants in that seething mob had apparently moved on without seeking to trouble him.


    The wind shifted then, and left him gagging. Despite being stripped nearly bare, the smell from the cadaver was still so strong to nearly be a physical blow. It was as if some unclean thing had crawled into a hole, died in agony, came back to life out of sheer bloody-mindedness, vomited profusely, and then died again in the stew of its own filth. As far as Symeon was concerned, the only part of that description that was inaccurate was that the thing did not have the decency to actually crawl into a hole before dying. Symeon began to flee inland in an attempt to escape the reek, his footsteps crunching loudly as the rocks and detritus became less granulated. It was the clatter of his passage that caused him to almost miss something else: a singular click, like two stones coming together, from the direction of the carcass.


    Symeon looked back at the crystals, and beyond them the Shambler corpse. Silence. More silence. And then another click. Symeon quickly narrowed in on the sound. He was confident it came from the direction of the corpse. Still, nothing else of note in sight. Carcass, crystals, sand, bones.


    "Hello?¡± The word came out without thought, but it was trailed by another blast of information. The knowledge of the written word was now joined by language and communication both subtle and overt. The wave of information dominated his attention again. Being overwhelmed previously seemed to have toughened his resolve, and he kept his gaze fixed toward the Shambler corpse. This served him well, for when he had spoken something leapt up from the beach, lunging a great length toward him before landing with that same click, louder this time. Symeon went very still watching it. It was still some distance away. While unmoving on the sand it resembled a large, brown rock, but Symeon was sure it moved. In fact, he was sure it had outpaced him with that leap. He backpedaled away in silence, for a few moments hopeful he might manage to slip away. Then the thing leapt again, closing a terrifying length of the distance and landing with that singular click.

 1-3: Heartbreaker

    The thing approaching Symeon on that bone-strewn delta was clearly an Imp, and it was not indescribable. Rather, it was the sort of thing he didn¡¯t WANT to describe. The bulk of it resembled a heart the size of his torso, if that heart had been left to dry in the sun and had turned leathery and discolored. Various veins and arteries were present in the form of tapered, half-meter long tentacles that churned languidly on the sand. While it had no obvious sensory apparatus, the Imp did sport a fist-sized, serrated beak jutting toward Symeon from the center mass. Said beak was currently spraying an impressive amount of mucus onto the beach with each razor sharp gnash, and this was evidently the source of the clicking noise. The heart-body was held low above the soil by the pair of large, barbed legs folded beneath it, chitinous and powerful. The underside of the creature seemed to be armored or embedded with fragments of bone. As a final incongruity, a single leathery wing sprouted from top of the heart, like a feather in a hat if that feather was flailing wildly and was utterly grotesque.


    Symeon¡¯s mind tried and failed to come up with a better explanation or name for what he was seeing. The word ¡®Imp¡¯ really undersold the moist horror of the thing, and in this internal hysteria he dubbed the monstrosity ¡®Flappy¡¯. The intial shock yielded to the idea that Symeon did not want to be devoured by something that looked like it had been stitched together as a demented prank.


    Symeon drew the chopping blade from the sheathe on his robe, though he was reasonably convinced that getting close enough to use it was not a winning scenario. Flappy, on the other hand, seemed to think getting stuck in was just fine and leapt again. As suddenly as that, the gap between them was reduced to scant meters. Blade in one hand, the box in the other, Symeon scrambled away toward the cover of one of the lines of giant ribs. He spared a glance over his shoulder as he fled. Flappy was methodically working its legs, one awkwardly stepping forward while the other stepped backward, thus executing a laborious turn toward its fleeing prey.


    Some relief there. The horrid thing was great at accelerating but couldn¡¯t corner. That seemed to Symeon to be a feature ripe for abuse. If he could get close and keep circling he could stay well clear of that nasty beak, though such a plan did nothing to deal with the tentacles. It occurred to him that he could perhaps break loose one of the bone ribs as a spear against the abomination.


    With another leap, the beast covered the distance and crashed bodily through the jutting ribs, shattering a pair outright. His previous query about the relative value of ¡®eleven durability¡¯ was firmly answered, that answer being ¡®not nearly enough¡¯. The tentacles thrashed short of Symeon as he swatted back at them with the box. Insectile legs tensed to leap again. Symeon dodged away in time to avoid the thing plowing right through him, though the aorta tentacle did slap him across the brow in passing. The blow had him reeling, but not enough to keep him from a zig-zagging sprint across the sands, desperately stifling his panicked screams as he fled. He glanced back to see Flappy was slowly turning in his direction. Symeon had gained some distance in his retreat, which would surely be torn back when the thing continued its leaping pursuit.


    He sought cover back among the field of crystals, each a welcome barrier between him and the beast. The stench in the area had gone from eye-wateringly horrendous to only mostly unbearable, likely due to his nose shutting down in self-defense. All and all, Symeon felt things were looking up and would be for, oh, maybe a handful of seconds before the horrid thing was back on his heels. Outrunning it was not a viable solution. Symeon dove down to fast-crawl among the cover of the crystals, looking for a way to escape unseen, or lay hands on something with some length he could use as a weapon.


    His frantic search of the beach was set to the disturbingly rapid clicks of the Imp leaping closer, ending with one loud click that set his nerves aflame with its proximity. Flappy was among the crystals now. Still with no weapons beyond the knife and the wooden box, Symeon scuttled in a low crouch to his right in an attempt to flank the area where he thought the warped predator was. If he could get behind it he might force the thing to make a comparatively large turn, buying more time.


    There was no sign of it. The fact it travelled by long leaps meant there were no meaningful tracks. The thing made no noises louder than the tumbling waves, barring the click of that slavering beak, and clearly the creature had the sense to be silent on the hunt. Symeon did his level best to control his own breathing in an effort to be just as silent. This was complicated by the reality of having just sprinted across the beach, and being in a state of near panic. Symeon focused on slowing his breathing and being calm. The blow from that tentacle was more surprising than harmful, and the beak looked rather awkward, so really, what was the worst that could happen?    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    That thought was swept away as Symeon crawled past the corner of a crystal, only to find himself face to beak with the heart-shaped abomination. Time seemed to slow as in desperation he dove flat onto the sand. The creature¡¯s leap went clear over him, but the trailing legs raked jagged hooks across his back. Symeon felt those barbs pull at the robe, but little else. Flappy, for its part, found its momentum disrupted. Symeon turned his head just in time to see the trailing hooks tangled oddly in the robe, followed by the cloth going taunt. The creature¡¯s forward momentum came to a tumbling halt. It crashed gracelessly to the ground, sprawled on the sand in a pile of flailing tentacles. Symeon leapt to his feet and pulled violently at the still-entangled robe. There was an awful tug of war for a moment before his greater mass won out. The robe came loose, and the monster was tossed further along the sand..


    Symeon did not require any more encouragement than that. The wooden box was thrust forward to bat away the flailing tentacles as Symeon pounced on the thing. His first strikes were stabbing blows that failed to pierce the rubbery hide in any meaningful way. Symeon found himself in a losing struggle as more tendrils came to bear. They did not bring strength, but raw numbers could see him bound and consumed. Three, four, five tentacles grasped at him as he desperately pulled the weapon away from the tangle. The chopping blow that followed evicted a pained grunt from Flappy, but failed to break the leathery hide. The tendrils pulled at once, failing to shift Symeon but dragging the snapping maw close enough to spray rank saliva on Symeon''s leg. The blade was nearly lost in the thrashing melee, and in desperation Symeon raked the edge across the Imp¡¯s flesh, finally opening a wicked rent. With a damp squawk Flappy''s lashing tendrils went momentarily rigid, and then fell still.


    Symeon scrambled to his feet, panting as he scanned the area to see if the conflict had drawn the attention of any other scavengers. The rotten cadaver down the beach was still abandoned by the Imps, and barring Flappy the Imps still seemed to have moved on. No movement could be seen around the crystals. All was calm and quiet.


    The moment was so obvious Symeon wasn¡¯t in the least surprised when Flappy stopped playing dead and snared his legs.


    Despite expecting some ploy from the Imp, Symeon found himself nearly falling from the blows delivered by the whipping tendrils. The creature was laid out on its side and evidently disoriented, and despite this Symeon was still failing to end the horrid thing. A pair of tentacles snared his right leg, followed by a shockingly strong heave. The Imp¡¯s mass was insufficient to pull Symeon down, instead bringing the clicking beak closer to Symeon¡¯s flesh once more. The beast pulled that maw toward his entangled leg. The clicking went silent and the beak spread wide, making way for the emergence of a mass of wriggling grubs, each sporting its own snapping beak. The mass seemed to be impeded by the raw number of emerging grubs tangled in the chokepoint of that grotesque aperture.


    Symeon kept enough wits about him to stifle a panicked scream. Making noise could only draw more predatory attention he did not need at this moment. Instead, he laid in with hard kicks from his tangled leg in an attempt to keep the grubs away from his flesh. Flappy being on its side worked to Symeon¡¯s favor, as the only leverage it had was the grip on his leg, and so the beast¡¯s beak was being shoved further away with each kick. To his relief, the growing distance seemed to be causing the grubs to slowly recoil back into the Imp. With each further kick Symeon was trying to figure a way to break the grip the thing had on him, though in a pinch simply stomping it to death seemed a good bet.


    During this momentary lapse in attention, it was very much as if he had been roughly shoved from behind. He tripped forward, catching both hands on a neighboring crystal to help regain his balance. The opportunity was too good to pass up. Symeon pulled hard on the crystal in hopes of bringing it down on the Imp. His hopes became an unexpected reality as the top slid with surprising ease, a lid that fell into the taunt tentacles that gripped his leg. He successfully jumped back in time to ensure the Imp was alone in being struck by the crystal, which struck Flappy with a remarkably ineffective impact. Despite the lack of expected harm Symeon capitalized by bringing his foot down hard on the lid.


    ¡°Ya think I¡¯m stupid? One little nick and yer done? WRONG!¡± This was punctuated with the first of a series of hard stomps on the fallen lid covering the beast. ¡°This! Is! What! You! GET!¡± Midway through this assault there was a satisfying crunch from beneath him, though he was far too furious to stop, and his last word saw him leap onto the lid with both feet. At last, silence reigned on the sands, marred only by the gentle churn of the tide.


    It was at that point the man that had been lying inside the basin of the newly-opened crystal sat up.

 1-4: Second to None

    If Symeon had to pick one word to describe the fellow newly emerged from the crystal, that word would be ¡®vacant¡¯. The eyes were unfocused, the jaw slack, his whole body swaying limply in the ocean breeze. The experience was all too familiar. The fellow was even wearing a white robe, currently open to reveal, yes, white boxer briefs. He had flawlessly youthful skin, was shorter than Symeon, and utterly bald. His pudgy, unlined face lacked even eyebrows. Symeon paused in surprise, precariously balanced on the crystal lid, while the odd man utterly failed to react in any way.


    Symeon carefully stepped back, regarding with passing satisfaction the viscous, milky splatters on the sand radiating from Flappy¡¯s battered form. Moving around to the foot of the crystal, he stepped in direct line of sight of the other man. The only movement from the strangers was a long, slow blink, an uneven offering that started with the right eye, with several seconds before the left eye caught up.


    ¡°Hey. Buddy. Are ya alright?¡± The query generated no discernible response. After a few moments, Symeon nervously tried a low whistle, glancing about for unwanted Imp attention. The whistle didn¡¯t draw any result from the newly emerged man. Symeon sheathed his knife, and secured his box in the pocket on the robe.


    Before truly focusing his full attention on the fellow, Symeon gingerly reached out with his foot to lift the near end of the fallen lid for a clearer look at Flappy. The concept of survival included a rather strong compulsion to ensure fallen foes were truly fallen, and Flappy had tried to play dead once already. One of Flappy¡¯s chitinous legs was pulverized, the other fractured, and the bulk of the creature generally squashed. It appeared the knife-wound Symeon had inflicted had split wide open under Symeon¡¯s stomping barrage and was the source of the creamy splatter polluting the sand. Additionally, there was a distinctly fecal smell now added to the overall stench of the area. Symeon wasn¡¯t sure where exactly an oversized predatory heart would excrete waste from, and swiftly banished the thought before the information might come to him involuntarily.


    It seemed a safe bet that Flappy would flap no more. Flappy¡¯s ruined remains could potentially draw attention, though. The scavengers that had been worrying at that stinking corpse further up the beach might return from whatever they did when there wasn¡¯t a ruined Shambler to feast upon.


    Symeon felt a rising panic, an urge to do something, anything, and pushed it down. Instead, he stopped to consider the situation. In front of him was a fellow human being, apparently helpless. Meanwhile, it was all too likely the surrounding area or even the ocean itself concealed a legion of ravenous Imps. It was clearly in Symeon¡¯s interest to be well away, but he couldn¡¯t in good conscience leave this poor stunned man to be devoured. Symeon was unsure of his own strength, but he was willing to try to carry the chubby fellow away to safety.


    That left the issue of the other crystals. The orange sun created dazzling refractions on their surfaces, but now he had the time and perception to examine them it was clear each had a silhouette within. Those shadows were man-sized, yet utterly unmoving. Symeon¡¯s mouth drew into a frustrated rictus as he considered this. If there were more people in these Manifest Chrysalises (and he cursed internally at yet another name with no definition), if those people emerged as helpless as this other man, Symeon couldn¡¯t move them all. Here and now he could help one person, and that assumed he could handle the man¡¯s weight. A course of action, then. Get the short fellow away from the immediate threat, and see if there was some way to cure his insensate state. Then, recruit him to help solve the mystery of these remaining crystals, and resolve the contents within. Perhaps find an answer as to why they were differently named from the previously identified Branded Chrysalis he had evidently emerged from.


    ¡°Buddy? What¡¯s yer name?¡± Again, this drew no response. ¡°Look, we need to be anywhere but here right now. I¡¯m gonna try to pick ya up, okay? Just¡­ I dunno, I¡¯d say go limp but¡­ yeah.¡±


    With a sigh, he gently lifted the slack form over his shoulders, using the fellow¡¯s limbs to help secure the weight. Symeon nearly stumbled at first, finding the fellow an unexpectedly light burden. After adjusting for the ease of the weight he set a brisk pace away from the water. The limp body he carried was blocking a fair range of his field of vision, so an abundance of caution had him stopping regularly to turn and check his blind spots for threats as he moved deeper inland. Every step gave growing relief as he gained distance from the Imp-haunted beach. Bleached sands gave way to lush grass on gentle slopes, with stands of trees both along the nearby river and beyond the grassy fields. Symeon pushed for many minutes at a grueling pace, until he was near the trees at the river¡¯s edge. There, as gently as he was able, he laid the insensate man down on his side in the shade. Task completed, he flopped onto the grass himself.


    Minutes passed with only the gentle wash of the river flow to disturb the quiet while Symeon laid there catching his breath. Once he had regained his wind he looked over at the fellow, who was unmoving but for gentle breathing. ¡°Hey. Hey, anyone at home?¡± This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Was that a twitch of the hand?


    Symeon moved closer, getting to his knees beside the recumbent form, and pressed his index finger gently into the man¡¯s palm. ¡°Do ya feel this? Move your fingers.¡± This elicited more movement, stronger this time. ¡°There we go! Keep wigglin¡¯ man, ya got this!¡±


    It was strange, seeing a person go from a drooling vegetable to consciousness over the course of minutes. Moreso because there was a very visible shift to sudden awareness, where the man went from slow, weak movements to sitting up with wild eyes and a shouted ¡°WHAT?!¡±


    The man¡¯s hands flew to cover his mouth, and as quickly were brought up to his eyeline with a quieter ¡°What?!¡±


    At this point Symeon had gotten to his feet, and taken several steps back to give the fellow some room. ¡°Ya doing okay there?¡±


    ¡°Am I okay? Am I okay!?¡± The man scrambled to his feet, howling with glee. ¡°I¡¯m FANTASTIC! We did it! WOOOOOO!¡± Symeon went wide-eyed at the loud, celebratory hoot, waving his hands as if to ward off the sound while looking around for anything that might be drawn by the noise. The fellow himself didn¡¯t seem to notice any of this, too busy with a clumsy victory dance where at any moment it looked like he might tumble over his own feet. ¡°We did it! Oh Angtosid, you wicked old curmudgeon, I told you! It was all going to work out, I said! It was all going to be worthwhile, I said! AND HERE WE ARE!¡± At this point he leapt high into the air with surprising dexterity and impressive altitude. The descent was not nearly so graceful. Symeon flinched as the fellow completely failed to take any action to secure his landing, instead falling as if he was going to splash safely in a pool of water. The crumpled heap of his impact was evidence of his error in judgement.


    ¡°Wow. That musta hurt.¡± Symeon came over and extended his hand. ¡°Ya think ya can walk that one off?¡±


    The fallen man stared in confusion at Symeon¡¯s hand, then gingerly reached out to clasp it. Symeon helped pull him upright. ¡°Oh my! Thank you dear Angtosid. That was most unexpected! Quite a surplus of Presence hereabouts, isn¡¯t there? Let us away to somewhere more conducive to stretching our wings.¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ well, there¡¯s a lot to unpack there.¡± Symeon counted off on his fingers as he spoke. ¡°One, neither of us has wings. I think? Two, what do ya mean by a surplus of ¡®Presence¡¯? Three, I¡¯m fairly sure my name isn¡¯t Angtosid.¡±


    The man stared at Symeon for a moment, and then took a step back. ¡°Oh, I¡¯m most dreadfully sorry. You¡¯re right, of course. Your lines are nothing like Angrosid¡¯s. Alas! Where are my manners?¡± The fellow struck a pose that was clearly intended to be heroic. Sadly, it was rendered awkward by his clumsiness causing the robe to flap open, revealing a physique that would be charitably described as ¡®doughy¡¯ in both complexion and tone. ¡°My friend, you stand amazed in the presence of Istroama Claimant! Conjuror of light and time, and, yes, the savior of Alsualsu! Indeed, savior all of sentience! Please, remain calm, I know it¡¯s a lot to take in all at once.¡±


    At this point Symeon had noticed that Istroama¡¯s words didn¡¯t match the movements of his mouth. Very strange, and Symeon wasn¡¯t sure what to make of it. Pursuit of that issue was sidelined as Istroama fell to his knees with a shocked cry. Symeon¡¯s gaze flicked back and forth, looking for the source of Istroama¡¯s distress.


    ¡°The plane of chaos, the orb of order, the cords! It¡¯s all here!¡± Istroama was gesturing wildly at the empty space in front of him.


    ¡°Uh¡­ is it? I don¡¯t see anythin¡¯ at all.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t see this!?¡± Istroama got back to his feet, but stumbled as he tried to come over to Symeon. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s an inconvenience. I can¡¯t quite...¡± and with this Istroama was shifting around from side to side, as if sidestepping around a barrier, ¡°it¡¯s quite persistent, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Whew buddy! Yer just a handful, aren¡¯t ya? Slow it down a bit. Seriously, yer seein¡¯ somethin¡¯ I¡¯m not. Are ya gonna be okay?¡± The answer to this was Istroama tripping over his own feet. Symeon was close enough to catch the man in his arms. As he did, the area was shaded in a blue hue from something behind him. He turned to face it as he helped steady Istroama.


    Looming near and askew was a panel of blue, though this one had the name Istroama Claimant in place of Symeon. As he helped the man upright the blue field straightened with him.


    ¡°Well will ya look at that? Yeah, I have one of those too. Just think about it going away for a moment, and¡­ yeah, that¡¯s the stuff.¡± The blue screen collapsed in utter silence, taking the blue aura with it. ¡°It¡¯s somethin¡¯, isn¡¯t it? Comes right back up if ya want it. I figure if nothin¡¯ else it might be handy at night.¡±


    ¡°Remarkable. It looks so much like the Pax Manifest. You say you have one too, friend¡­?¡± Istroama paused with a slight nod of the head.


    ¡°Oh! Right. I¡¯m Symeon, allegedly. Symeon is what¡¯s written on this here box, I think the box is mine, but I¡¯m not totally sold on the idea.¡±


    ¡°Then well met, Symeon Allegedly!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, no, it¡¯s just Symeon, not¡­ ya know what? That¡¯s fine. Allegedly. Ha! That¡¯s actually pretty funny. Let¡¯s go with that. Yeah, so. Blue screen. That¡¯s somethin¡¯ else, ain¡¯t it?¡± Symeon¡¯s face grew grim as he proceeded. ¡°It¡¯s not important right now, though. I woke up with a whole lotta nothing in place of actual memories, I keep getting weird ideas outta nowhere, there was this tentacle monster I stomped, and then I carried ya up here to get away from those Imps on the beach. What I¡¯m sayin¡¯ is this has already been a long day and I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s even noon yet. Any idea what¡¯s goin¡¯ on here?¡±


    Istroama stood up straight, hands on his hips. ¡°Well, certainly, friend Symeon. You are most wise to consult with me on the matter! It just so happens that I ended the world.¡±

 1-5: Walk and Talk

    Symeon was carefully deadpan in his response to Istroama. ¡°Ya ended the world.¡±


    ¡°Not THIS world, obviously. The last world, the Oruke.¡±


    ¡°Ya ended a world called the Oruke?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely!¡± Istroama smiled brightly as he went on. ¡°Oh, Angrosid helped. I do hope she¡¯s well, wherever she is.¡± Istroama paused for a moment while he considered Symeon¡¯s blank expression. ¡°Clearly knowledge of the Oruke must be part of those missing memories you mentioned. Well, I realize the whole world-ending thing might make you uncomfortable, but I want to assure you the Oruke was really terrible. Honestly! You wouldn¡¯t have liked it. Very violent, very grim.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well, this one hasn¡¯t been exactly relaxin¡¯ so far, what with the tentacle Imp and all.¡± Symeon scrubbed at his face with both hands while he tried to process what Istroama had said. ¡°Man, I can¡¯t even BEGIN to ponder a claim like yours right now. There¡¯s a load of crystals just like the one ya came out of back down on the beach, and I got no idea if there are people trapped in them or what. Plus, so far there¡¯s no trustworthy food, no clean water, no shelter, and no fire. So! Are ya planning on ending THIS world?¡±


    ¡°Well, no. Not at all!¡±


    ¡°Great. I like that ya think this one¡¯s a keeper.¡± Symeon placed his hand on Istroama¡¯s shoulder, gently pointing him toward the beach. ¡°Like I said, I think there might be more people trapped down there. I say there¡¯s a better shot at helpin¡¯ them if we do it together. Whatdaya say?¡±


    Istroama regarded the sands in the far distance with a thoughtful look on his smooth features. ¡°Yes. Yes! A noble goal indeed. Let us away with all haste, friend Symeon.¡± With those words the area was lit by another floating blue field, again appearing without warning, hovering at an angle where both could view it comfortably view it.


    Despite a sudden concern that the answer might be no and suggest a deterioration of his mental state, Symeon was first to venture the question. ¡°You see that?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Istroama whispered as if he was afraid a loud noise would frighten it off, ¡°another manifest. No idea what it in the Oruke it¡¯s on about though.¡±


    The blue screen was familiar by now, with the orb in the upper left corner and the wire border. This one, unlike the others, had no bevelled indentations, and had actual words instead of question marks. ¡°Form a contract - limit one day. Awaiting confirmation from all parties.¡±


    ¡°Huh. Ain¡¯t that excitin¡¯ ¡®n new.¡± said Symeon with the sort of tone one would take after stepping in an unspotted animal dropping. ¡°Well, it says this contract thing has a one day limit. Even if sayin¡¯ yes is bad, it¡¯s only a day. I¡¯m game. You?¡±


    ¡°I believe we are of like minds on this. Forward to glory, friend Symeon, forward to glory.¡±


    Together they each reached for the word ¡®yes¡¯ under their respective names. They didn¡¯t get very far before the two words lit up without physical contact. A large number ten in a circle appeared in the centre of the manifest, switching to a nine¡­


    ¡°A countdown. That¡¯s a mite worryin¡¯.¡± Symeon turned to put himself back to back with Istroama. ¡°I got our six, man.¡±


    ¡°Nonsense, friend Symeon, it¡¯s only on eight. Courage! You have Istroama Claimant on your side! Has anything gone poorly since we met?¡± Istroama didn¡¯t pause for an answer. ¡°Of course not! We¡¯ll take on all comers and give them a solid thrashing. Oh! Three! Two! One!¡±


    The manifest vanished with the end of the countdown, and Symeon¡¯s field of vision changed. It was as if someone had placed a blue border at the periphery of his vision, one that was present without obstructing his lines of sight. It seemed to slide away when he tried to look right at it. On a hunch, he focused his will on it, and in doing so brought the details of the border into fine detail.


    There were two circles in the upper right, one stacked above the other. Both were ringed by curved bars of yellow, blue and red. The top circle contained a picture in profile that was clearly Istroama¡¯s chubby, smiling face. The lower circle had a different face, and the logical conclusion was it must be his own. Seeing himself this way was disorienting. Square-jawed, heavy-browed with deep-set eyes, as utterly hairless and unlined as Istroama, the picture gave him no sense of familiarity. Symeon found himself only mildly discomforted by this. It wasn¡¯t like anything else thus far had any context. Why would his own face be any different when he wasn¡¯t even sure of his own name?


    The left side of the blue border was home to another mystery. A larger circle in the lower right, perhaps the size of both portraits stacked together, and was filled with patches of green and brown centred around a pair of faintly luminous blue triangles.


    Istroama piped up with enthusiasm. ¡°I say, is that how I look? I¡¯m really quite striking, aren¡¯t I? And there¡¯s you as well! Isn¡¯t that fun?¡±


    ¡°You got it too, huh? Makes as much sense as anythin¡¯ else so far. C¡¯mon. Let¡¯s get back to the beach, daylight¡¯s burnin¡¯. Oh, and we¡¯ll need these.¡± Symeon moved over to some flowering bushes and tore a double handful of blooms loose, placing some in his wooden box and pressing the remainder on Istroama.


    ¡°Need them for what?¡±


    ¡°Just trust me on this one. Yer nose will thank me.¡±


    Together the men set a fair pace towards the beach, moving in awkward silence for a short time while they settled into a matching pace. It was Symeon who chose to speak up first. ¡°Would ya mind answerin¡¯ some questions, Istroama? Istroama.¡± Symeon repeated the name as if tasting it and finding it bitter. ¡°Can I just call ya Issy?¡±


    ¡°Well, certainly Symy!¡±


    Symeon issued a sharp exhalation as if he¡¯d been struck as they continued walking toward the sands. ¡°Istroama it is. Istroama, I¡¯m still not ready to deal with that endin¡¯ a world business just yet, but ya seem to have some facts I¡¯m sorely missin¡¯. You said somethin¡¯ ¡®bout a surplus of Presence before?¡±This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    ¡°Ah, yes. It does seem to be remarkably consistent, doesn¡¯t it? Both gravity and life in abundance, though it¡¯s the gravity bit that¡¯s giving me trouble.¡±


    ¡°And does that have to do with ¡®Presence¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Hmmm. How much do you know about magic, Symeon?¡±


    ¡°I know pretty much what ya mentioned before.¡±


    Istroama¡¯s stride slowed as he pondered this. ¡°I¡­ I only really mentioned that my magic was failing.¡± His face fell. ¡°You know nothing of magic?¡± With that,  his face lit up with enthusiastic glee. ¡°You know nothing of magic! Oh, friend Symeon, how I envy you! To learn from first principles under my tutelage? You¡¯ll be an icon of battle magic second only to myself. Look! I¡¯m actually having a physical reaction to the idea!¡±


    Symeon looked over with a deep sense of dread, followed by deeper relief when he saw Istroama was simply holding his arm forward to show off goosebumps.


    ¡°To answer your question, Presence,¡± and here Symeon could hear the capitalization Istroama placed on the word, ¡°refers to powers of gravity and life. My commentary was in regard to the first of those. It seems to be inescapable hereabouts. Haven¡¯t been able to fly at all! I¡¯ve been trying repeatedly, mind you.¡±


    Symeon¡¯s question in response dripped with cynicism. ¡°How exactly do ya TRY flyin¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Oh, the usual ways. Force of will usually does the trick. I choose to fly, I fly! Except that hasn¡¯t been working with all this ambient Presence.  I¡¯ve been attempting to produce actual wings for the last few minutes, but this form seems disturbingly immutable.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re used to somethin¡¯ that¡¯s more... mutable?¡±


    ¡°Well yes. Mind you, this body is very sound. Two limbs for locomotion and stability, another pair with appendages for fine manipulation, and an array of senses mounted up high where it¡¯ll do the most good. A solidly utilitarian set-up, though I usually prefer four lower limbs for stability and speed.¡±


    Symeon¡¯s reply to this was a quiet grunt. They walked on through the grassy fields for a time, Istroama in amiable silence, Symeon with his brow furrowed in thought. ¡°I¡¯m tryin¡¯ to imagine what it must¡¯ve been like where you came from, and all I¡¯m comin¡¯ up with is flyin¡¯ magic blobs bein¡¯ blobby ¡®n magical at each other.¡±


    ¡°Excellent! Your memory is starting to return!¡±


    ¡°No, I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯ve never been a flyin¡¯ magic blob. The whole idea is just¡­ weird to me.¡± Symeon grew thoughtful as they walked on. ¡°Ya seem pretty upbeat, considerin¡¯. I mean if ya used to fly around ¡®n makin¡¯ limbs on demand ¡®n whatever, suddenly yer a walkin¡¯ human with no magic.¡±


    ¡°I have always been human, friend Symeon,¡± Istroama stated with a seriousness he had not shown before, ¡°and there is magic in abundance. I see the lines running through everything. It¡¯d be helpful if I could get a good look at myself, it might give me a clue as to why I¡¯m having difficulties at the moment.¡± His manner reverted to his previous cheerful demeanor. ¡°Still, mustn¡¯t grumble! I¡¯m sure it¡¯ll work out.¡±


    Symeon couldn¡¯t help but be quietly impressed by Istroama¡¯s optimism. Symeon was frustrated with his own predicament, specifically the chunks of knowledge that would take over his thoughts without warning or context. Istroama, for his part, seemed to have no knowledge about the current world beyond this unproven magic he spoke of, and still the man was consistently upbeat. That said, questioning Istroama, while intended to solve some mysteries, was creating more questions with every answer. This magic business was a prime example.


    ¡°You said somethin¡¯ there about seein¡¯ lines. That¡¯s somethin¡¯ ta do with magic?¡±


    ¡°Well, yes. As I said, the lines are everywhere. I¡¯m¡­ wait. You don¡¯t see them?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t think so.¡±


    Istroama¡¯s face fell in genuine sorrow. ¡°You poor man! I cannot fathom what that must be like. Your stoicism in the face of this disability is to your credit. I promise that through your training we shall overcome it, together.¡±


    ¡°What? Yeah, nah, I ain¡¯t disabled, you just got a trick I don¡¯t. It¡¯s not like you got information poppin¡¯ up in yer head outta nowhere, so we both got our things.¡± Symeon¡¯s voice dropped to an aggrieved grumble. ¡°Even if my thing is seriously tryin¡¯ my patience.¡±


    ¡°A fair point. I apologize for any offense given.¡±


    ¡°Eh, none taken. So what¡¯s it like, seein¡¯ lines?¡±


    ¡°Magic, friend Symeon, I see magic.¡± Istroama quickly looked around the area they were walking through, and with restored cheer dashed over to pick up a fallen branch. ¡°Everything has lines and flows. This remnant, for example, is thick with fire lines.¡±


    ¡°That one specifically?¡±


    ¡°No, in fact. All the remnants of this nature I¡¯ve seen so far are quite fire-heavy.¡±


    ¡°Huh. Deadwood is full of fire magic? That manages to be sense n¡¯ nonsense at the same time. Can ya do anything with that stick then?¡±


    Istroama¡¯s underlying frustration was clear in answering this question as he swung the branch in question back and forth. ¡°No, nothing. Nothing I¡¯ve tried so far has generated even an iota of output.¡±


    ¡°Output. Output.¡± Symeon clicked his teeth while muttering the word. ¡°Output? Why is that familiar? Output.¡±  He felt sure the word had recent relevance. It wasn¡¯t in conversation until now. Had he read something about it?


    With an effort of will he brought his manifest back up. There, near the top, was the word he recalled: Outputs. Beneath it, the words Force, Style, and Grasp, and accompanying numbers. The manifest was dominating his field of view, requiring him to come to a near halt. Istroama, for his part, walked right through the blue field without any sign of having noticed it at all, vanishing from Symeon¡¯s sight. A moment later, Symeon heard Istroama ask, ¡°Symeon? Why are we stopping?¡±


    Symeon was focusing on the manifest, willing it to push away while keeping it visible, and his mental effort was rewarded with the field moving away a couple of meters. Istroama reappeared, the manifest passing through him as he stood there unheeding. ¡°Istroama, c¡¯mere and call up your manifest.¡±


    Istroama stood beside Symeon, and concentrated. ¡°Done. Magnificent, isn¡¯t it?¡± Symeon didn¡¯t see Istroama¡¯s screen until Symeon reached over and put his hand on Istroama¡¯s shoulder. At that, both screens were visible to him, his pushed away while Istroama¡¯s loomed directly ahead.


    ¡°Oh I say, that¡¯s your manifest, isn¡¯t it? It even has your name on it. Symeon Allegedly! I say, how did you manage to get yours to be over there?¡±


    Symeon started to explain. ¡°Just think about movin¡¯ it n¡¯...yeah, ya got it.¡± The second manifest had slid away to hover beside his own. ¡°Good stuff. Let¡¯s keep walkin¡¯ while we sort this, now that we won¡¯t be trippin¡¯ all over the place.¡± Symeon lent action to his words and continued toward the beach, albeit at a slower pace. Istroama joined him, beaming with silent delight in the azure glow of the two manifests.


    Symeon was grumbling, mostly to himself, in regards to the strange references before him. ¡°We both seem ta have the same stuff. Buncha weird slots at the bottom, our names up top. That¡¯s new though.¡± Symeon pointed at the orb on his panel, which no longer had a red question mark within it. Now it featured a profile of his face, much like the contract border. The orb now had a tri-color border, three lines encircling it in red, blue, and yellow. Further, there was writing within the panel, though minimal. Male, Human, Branded. Istroama¡¯s was similar, but listing Male, Human, and Manifest.


    ¡°When did that happen? Not much help from that stuff, huh?¡±


    Istroama didn¡¯t respond. Instead, he ducked low and came up with a fist-sized rock, which he flung above Symeon. Symeon couldn¡¯t help but duck away from the throw, falling backwards onto the sand, his gaze drawn up to the looming claws that had breached the top of his manifest.

 1-6: The Contained

    As he scrambled away Istroama took up another stone, turning and hurling it with impressive force. The thrown stone went wide, but Istroama didn¡¯t even notice. He was already sweeping up another projectile from the beach, this one apparently a broken fragment of a skull. ¡°Move, man, move!¡± This command, directed at Symeon, was accompanied by another throw. The skull fragment was relatively flat, helping the throw stay relatively true to course. The impact resulted in a hollow thud but no other reaction from the struck claw. Regardless, Istroama was already readying to hurl more projectiles.


    The shouted order to move broke Symeon out of his shock. As the skull fragment made contact Symeon was scrambling away while focusing on bringing his obscuring manifest down. It vanished during Istroama¡¯s fourth throw, the stone being no more accurate than his first, revealing the projectile sailing harmlessly over one of the giant rib cages that littered the beach. It was the tips of the ribs that had pierced through the top of the blue field.


    Istroama¡¯s confusion was evident, though he kept a rock he had picked up ready in hand. ¡°Wait¡­ that thing is dead. It has been for a very long time.¡±


    The following silence didn¡¯t last long before it was broken by Symeon¡¯s laughter. ¡°Well, we just got ourselves ambushed by a pile of bones. Glad it¡¯s just us buddy, we¡¯d never live that down otherwise.¡±


    ¡°Quite. Not exactly a shining moment of triumph. Still! A valuable learning experience.¡± Istroama gestured toward Symeon with the rock in his hand. ¡°You, my friend, we need to work on your reactions. You froze up.¡±


    ¡°We need to work on yer aim.¡±, Symeon countered. ¡°What was the plan? Throw at the sky ¡®n hope gravity dropped the rock on target?¡±


    ¡°Be fair! I¡¯m not used to such mundane means. Hurling chunks of crude matter in a high Presence field? Who¡¯d be able to¡­¡± Istroama trailed off. Symeon had just picked up a fist-sized rock. With a glint in his eye, Symeon squared up toward the offending bones, drew back, and whipped the rock forward. The shot was a touch off centre, but still tore a hole in one of the desiccated ribs, which proceeded to crack and tumble onto the sand.


    Istroama¡¯s gaze lingered on the damage for a moment, and then turned to Symeon with a broad grin. ¡°Well! That¡¯s promising. If I can guide that talent for mundane mayhem into magical chicanery, you¡¯ll make a most excellent artillerist, friend Symeon!¡±


    ¡°What? It¡¯s just throwin¡¯... man, we¡¯re both bein¡¯ stupid.¡± Istroama¡¯s smile fell away as Symeon continued. ¡°Mostly me. We¡¯re makin¡¯ too much noise, I got us wanderin¡¯ around with screens blockin¡¯ our lines of sight. Might as well just close our eyes ¡®n yell for the Imps ta belly up for a meat-snack.¡±


    Istroama had nothing to say in response to this.


    ¡°I wanna figure all this weirdness out, but now isn¡¯t the time or place. I¡¯m gonna stop distractin¡¯ us. We¡¯ll end up makin¡¯ camp sooner or later, we¡¯ll probably have time to catch up on readin¡¯ then.¡±


    Istroama was already moving toward the beach again. ¡°Fear not, friend Symeon. Our inevitable triumph over the mysterious manifests will be all the sweeter for having defeated the¡­ uh, what did you call those things on the beach?¡±


    ¡°Chrysalises.¡±


    ¡°Chrysalises! Will be all the sweeter for having defeated the menace of the chrysalises!¡± Istroama proceeded to stride confidently past the giant ribs. ¡°Forward, friend Symeon, forward!¡±


    ¡°Uh, we¡¯re not really lookin¡¯ to defeat the chrysalises, buddy. And they¡¯re at about two o¡¯clock.¡±


    Istroama came to a halt at this, his confidence replaced with confusion as he turned to face Symeon. ¡°They¡¯re at two what now? I¡¯ve no idea what you mean.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s a way of tellin¡¯ direction. It was part of the thing about time. Came to me early on with all the survival stuff.¡± Symeon gestured with his hands by way of demonstration. ¡°Twelve is straight ahead, three is right, six is rear, nine is left. Numbers in between are, well, in between.¡±


    Istroama spun back to his original facing, and pointed out in front of himself. ¡°So, twelve?¡± Without waiting for an answer, he pointed to his right with his other arm. ¡°Three.¡± Then he brought both arms closer together, concluding, ¡°Then that¡¯s one and this is two. Hmmm. That works fairly well. OH! That¡¯s that six thing you were on about before! Though I don¡¯t understand why you¡¯d have twelve in the high position instead of one.¡±


    Symeon wasn¡¯t sure himself, now that it was mentioned out loud. The fact that the information seemed to be incomplete was a development that left him deeply unhappy. He¡¯d come to realize his questions often didn¡¯t stay unanswered, and while the answers sometimes put him something like a fugue he got answers. Moments passed without further revelation regarding the genesis of the terminology.


    ¡°Huh. Well, for some reason I don¡¯t know why that¡¯s the way it is. Weird.¡±


    ¡°Weird indeed, friend Symeon. Still, we¡¯re well on our way to this ¡®two o¡¯clock¡¯ business. I daresay we¡¯ll have it well in hand by three!¡±


    ¡°No, no, it doesn¡¯t¡­ eh. Ya know what? This is a later conversation.¡± Symeon gestured ahead as they drew closer to the crysalisises. ¡°Looks like the coast is clear.¡±


    Indeed, a cursory perusal of the area around the glittering slabs seemed to be free of Imps, barring the pulverized carcass of Flappy. Symeon led Istroama to the central area of the chrysalises, where the corpse was still pinned beneath the lid of the chrysalis Istroama had emerged from.


    ¡°Your handy work, friend Symeon?¡± Istroama lifted the lid with both hands to expose Flappy¡¯s remains to further scrutiny without waiting for an answer. ¡°I don¡¯t know what it looked like before, but it certainly seems like you gave it a proper seeing to. Well done!¡±This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Symeon was well back, regarding the body and surrounding filth with obvious distaste. ¡°Just leave that thing alone. It tried to cough up a wad of nasty worms when I was scrappin¡¯ with it. Might still be crawlin¡¯ with ¡®em.¡±


    Istroama stepped back, placing the fallen lid back on the battered corpse. ¡°I¡¯m not terribly alarmed, but ensuring it is not further disturbed is fundamentally sound. I would ask the same of you while I investigate the lines of magic hereabouts. Please, refrain from touching anything! Most of these structures house intense magics.¡±


    ¡°So, you¡¯re manhandlin¡¯ that lid because?¡±


    Istroama glanced at the lid with momentary alarm before his usual bravado returned. ¡°Because I am an expert on matters magical, friend Symeon. You can be sure there is no cause for alarm. Regardless, I would ask that you remove yourself to a safe distance while I consider the powers at play here.¡±


    Symeon had no idea what a safe distance might be, but further away seemed better in general and so he retreated toward the ocean. The downside to this was that he was left to watch while Istroama alternately walked and crawled amongst the chrysalises, humming and hawing as presumed lines of magic caught his attention. It didn¡¯t take long before Symeon found himself frustrated by his own nervous energy. This was the first point since waking beside one of these very crystals that he wasn¡¯t in action in some way. Of course, he took the precaution of being on the lookout for more Imps, though it seemed moot at this point. The feeding frenzy that had been at the distant carcass earlier had remained dispersed to wherever knee-high abominations went when rotting meat wasn¡¯t ripe (or more accurately, overripe) for the taking.


    With little else to do, Symeon¡¯s attention turned to the blazing, steaming ball of fire he had previously seen hovering over the waves. It was still difficult to look at directly, but it wasn¡¯t as if it was blinding like the sun. Shading his eyes with his hand helped greatly, but regardless he didn¡¯t get any rush of information. Instead, it felt like a vague pressure in his head, something that was just out of reach.


    ¡°I say, friend Symeon! Your attention, if you please?¡±


    Symeon realized that he¡¯d gotten lost in examining the distant flame. ¡°Sorry. What?¡±


    ¡°I have a theory, but I need you to move closer to test it.¡± Istroama paused while he considered the footprints they had left in the sand. He tentatively scuffed his heel into the sand, shifting some aside. Seemingly satisfied with the result, he then dragged his heel to make a line. ¡°Right here will be a good spot to start. Move to this mark, slowly, on my word.¡± Istroama turned back to face the crystal slabs, gazing intently at the cluster. ¡°Now.¡±


    Symeon advanced with a pause between each step, while at the same time Istroama moved away from the chrysalises to take in more of the view. Symeon saw the look on the doughy fellow¡¯s face as he passed, and while Istroama¡¯s lack of eyebrows made it challenging to be sure he thought the look was one of surprise.


    ¡°Now that¡¯s very interesting indeed. Please be so kind as to move¡±, and here Istroama paused as he quickly counted to himself, ¡°same speed, nine o¡¯clock. Nine o¡¯clock is that way, yes?¡± Istroama pointed to his left, and Symeon nodded in confirmation. ¡°Ha! No trick of time is too twisted to topple the triumphant Istroama Claimant!¡±


    Symeon didn¡¯t have much to say in response to that, limiting himself to a gentle shake of his head as he sidestepped to his left several times. Istroama¡¯s attention moved to the left as well, leaning in closer to a seemingly empty space in the air that roughly matched Symeon¡¯s pace.


    ¡°Tell me, friend Symeon, when you were struggling with that horrid beast, did you make physical contact with the structure I emerged from?¡±


    ¡°Well, yeah. I fell onto it, ¡®n then I smashed Flappy with the lid.¡±


    ¡°Flappy?¡± Istroama moved a few steps to get a clear line of sight on the ruined creature. ¡°It had a name?¡±


    ¡°I kinda called it Flappy in my head. It¡¯s got this wing on top...¡± Symeon trailed off with a sense of vague embarrassment.


    Istroama did not respond to Symeon¡¯s discomfort, instead moving quickly around the collection of chrysalises as he spoke, having to shout as he passed the far side. ¡°That chrysalis was the only structure you made contact with?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re Manifest Chrysalises, actually, but yeah, I¡¯m pretty sure that¡¯s the only one I touched. Hey, could we not shout? This beach was crawlin¡¯ with trouble earlier.¡±


    Istroama was coming back around the other side of the cluster, no longer shouting but muttering. As he came closer Symeon could hear Istroama more clearly. ¡°Six, six again, and six again. Can¡¯t say I¡¯m happy about that.¡± Istroama pointed to Symeon. ¡°I don¡¯t think this is your doing, but you¡¯re linked to this ensorcellment in a very serious way. More accurately, it¡¯s linked to you.¡±


    Symeon again found himself at a loss for words as Istroama hooked his thumbs near the shoulders of his robe and took a deep breath. The pose was clearly intended to express gravitas, but the combined activity caused Istroama¡¯s robe to fall open, revealing the Innocent Boxer-Briefs identical to Symeon¡¯s own. Symeon found it hard to maintain eye contact as Istroama proceeded.


    ¡°First and foremost, the chrysalises themselves. Twenty-one of them, laid out in the formation of an equilateral triangle, six to a side. That¡¯s some very bad luck, by the way. Threes and sixes? Positively reeks of the divine. The chrysalis I surmise is the one you emerged from isn¡¯t central, not that there¡¯s a true central position within such an array. Rather, yours is in the middle of the third row. Mine is just behind it, at¡­ hmm.¡± Istroama faltered for a moment as he thought. ¡°Five o¡¯clock? About five o¡¯clock, in row four.¡±


    Istroama turned toward the crystals as he continued, obscuring the contents of his open robe to Symeon¡¯s relief. ¡°Each one of these chrysalises is holding staggering amounts of both ordered and chaotic power, and each appears to be housing a living being. As far as I can tell the order magic is keeping the occupants locked in time and space, while the chaotic magic is keeping them alive. I mean, look at Flappy there.¡± Istroama hurried over to the corpse. ¡°His flows are broken, primarily the red ones, and his cycle is ruptured. You can clearly see the various young he was carrying are dead too, though they largely broke in the yellow.¡±


    ¡°Uh, these flows are somethin¡¯ yer seein¡¯ with that magic line trick?¡±


    ¡°Correct. Now you, conversely, are very much alive. No broken flows, though your reds and yellows do seem a touch worn. The beings trapped in those chrysalises have flows of much like your own, and I assume like mine as well. However, their flows are frozen in time. I would say as long as the chrysalises are closed, they will remain just so.¡± Istroama turned again to Symeon, robe waving languidly in the breeze. ¡°The part that I find most interesting is that all of the aforementioned workings of Order and Chaos are linked to you. Your blue flow, to be precise.¡±


    Symeon was about to ask what Isroama meant when he was hit with a wave of mild nausea. New information had been acquired, answering the question before he could ask it. The colorful flows Istroama was speaking of were the same colored circle that he had seen around his image in the panel¡¯s orb. He willed the blue frame into his vision. Symeon¡¯s gaze was directed up and to the right as he stared at the blue portion of the circle as if daring it to react. ¡°That blue bit on my picture frame is Power. Magical power. You said it¡¯s the Chrysalises linked to me, yeah? It¡¯s not actually costin¡¯ me anything?¡±


    ¡°Correct. While I don¡¯t know why you seem to be at the center of this ensorcellment, I theorize that those chambers will only open for you. Alternately, if you cease to exist they would likely all open at once.¡±

 1-7: Shore Leave

    In the moment, Symeon bunched his hands into fists at his sides. Istroama, while seeming a decent fellow, was still very much a stranger to Symeon. The casual speculation as to the results his death would bring was cause for alarm, though Symeon saw no malice in Istroama as he said it. He unclenched his hands and let the matter pass. Instead, he began pacing back and forth on the damp sand as he considered all of Istroama¡¯s statements. ¡°So how sure are ya about these people bein¡¯ frozen?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m quite sure, but I understand your concern. A correct theory withstands the rigors of experimentation.¡± Istroama rolled up the sleeves on his robe, not noticing that they flopped right back down as he walked up to the nearest chrysalis. Before Symeon could react Istroama had seized the top of the long crystal and started pulling.


    ¡°Hey. Hey! Yeah, naw, don¡¯t¡­¡± Symeon trailed off to watch bemusedly. Istroama was struggling mightily against the crystal, wrestling back and forth with gasps and grunts. The chrysalis sat unmoving, despite his efforts. After a minute of this, Istroama walked back over to Symeon while shaking the gathered sand from his feet and hands.


    ¡°Not a conclusive test, but certainly indicative. There¡¯s still the possibility that some temporal or environmental factors could be involved, but I see no evidence that would support that.¡±


    Symeon sighed and ran his hand over his hairless scalp. ¡°That coulda gone bad, ya know. I mean, we don¡¯t actually know what¡¯s in these things. What if some bloodthirsty murder-beast came out?¡±


    Istroama¡¯s response to this concern was cut short by his strangled gasp. Both hands came up to his face to cover his nose as he groaned. ¡°What is THAT?¡±


    Symeon was struck by the same problem almost immediately. The wind had shifted, revealing the ravaged Shambler up the beach was still shatteringly pungent. Symeon reached into his pocket for the flower petals and brought them to his face, gesturing to Istroama to do likewise. After some confused hesitation Istroama retrieved his own collection of petals to cover his nose. ¡°Oh, that is so much better, friend Symeon. I thought we were under some sort of Air-based assault, but I couldn¡¯t see any workings.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just rot. Well, not just rot. That thing over there¡¯s been stinkin¡¯ since I woke up. Don¡¯t worry ¡®bout it too much. Yer nose tunes it out after a bit.¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s something of a relief. Anyway, to your point. The flows I see inside those chrysalises are fairly similar to your own, which in turn are markedly different from your Flappy.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not MY Flappy.¡±


    Istroama dismissed this with a vague wave of his free hand. ¡°It would have been helpful to have more than your singular example and Flappy¡¯s remains to compare against. Regardless, I¡¯m confident the people contained within are, in fact, people.¡±


    ¡°So the question is, do we let ¡®em out?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m shocked that¡¯s even a question. Of course! We must expedite their release with all haste!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, naw. Comes back ta the big three. Three hours without shelter, three days without water, three weeks without food. Right now, you ¡®n me got a ton of work to do, because we got nothin¡¯. The ones in those chrysalises are frozen. They¡¯re not gonna be grubbin¡¯ around tryin¡¯ to lick mornin¡¯ dew off of leaves the way we¡¯re gonna be. Might help ta have more hands to work, but that also means more mouths to feed.¡±


    ¡°Ah. I assume you don¡¯t mean forming more hands and mouths? I mean, we wouldn¡¯t HAVE to make mouths as well. That¡¯d just be silly.¡±


    Symeon shook his head with a rueful smile. ¡°No one¡¯s changin¡¯ shape, flying-magic-blob-guy. This is what we got now. We need ta figure out if there¡¯s enough forage ta feed us before we drop anyone else in the same mess.¡±


    Istroama looked over at the glittering crystals with evident stress. ¡°We¡¯re coming back, though. Once we can meet these three rules of yours, you¡¯ll let these people go?¡±


    ¡°Not my rules, just reality. Yeah, we¡¯re not leaving these people locked up. Worst case scenario, if I die they all get out anyway, yeah? Yeah.¡± Symeon hesitated at the thought. ¡°Let¡¯s call that Plan B though.¡±


    ¡°Do we have a Plan A?¡±, Istroama asked with a blend of curiosity and concern.


    ¡°Not dyin¡¯.¡±


    Istroama nodded at this. ¡°Fair enough. I fear I am unfamiliar with the details of how to avoid death in this form. I trust I can rely on your judgement and guidance on the matter.¡±


    ¡°No worries buddy, we got this. Let¡¯s get outta here. Might be able to dig up some molluscs or somethin¡¯ on this beach, but that won¡¯t do us much good without fire. That river is a good bet, so¡¯s the greenery, so we¡¯ll head thatta way.¡±


    Before getting underway, Symeon took another look around the area, on the off chance he¡¯d forgotten something. His gaze fell on Flappy, and on the crystal lid that had been instrumental in defeating the horrid thing. Carefully picking his way among the chrysalises, Symeon lifted the lid. It was remarkably light for this size, and endured the crushing stomps he¡¯d laid into it without so much as a fracture. It was also easily two meters long and a meter wide, making it unwieldy despite the lack of weight. On a hunch Symeon gave the item his full consideration, and to his satisfaction information about it came to his mind. Manifest Chrysalis Lid. No mention of duration or durability.


    With a contemplative hum he examined the lid from the chrysalis he believed he had emerged from. It was a Branded Chrysalis Lid rather than Manifest, but still lacking duration and durability. Finally, he focused on the remaining structures and found them all to be of the Manifest variety rather than Branded.


    A solid, flat panel could have some uses as a door or a table, but Symeon wasn¡¯t planning on building anything so extravagant in the short term. Instead, he gave an experimental nudge with his foot against the Branded Chrysalis Basin. To his satisfaction he found it to also be comparatively light for its mass, as he was able to shift it on the sand with moderate effort.


    ¡°Hey Istroama, c¡¯mere ¡®n help me carry this thing. Might come in handy.¡±


    Istroama dutifully came over to help, and they quickly had the original lid back in position on the basin. Symeon took the front with Istroama at the back, and under Symeon¡¯s direction they lifted the thing up and over the other Chrysalises, taking care not to touch them. From there they began a leisurely march toward the border of the sand and the grass, in the general direction of the river.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    The conversation lapsed for while they moved inland, with Symeon thinking ahead to the needs of survival. He planned to point Istroama at some simple jobs like gathering deadwood and foliage for an A-frame shelter, while Symeon himself would forage around the river in hopes of turning up useful plants. Moss, leaves, anything edible, with any luck something like bamboo they could use for immediate water, the list went on and on.


    When they had gotten past the white sands to the first grassy growths of the inland, Istroama broke the silence. ¡°Lucky break for us the emissions from that corpse weren¡¯t harmful, eh Symeon? Those flowers were a most excellent idea. A fine thing that you knew they were safe to use that way!¡±


    ¡°Naw, yeah.¡± Symeon muttered as thought of the petals. He had simply grabbed the nearest blooms to obscure the stench without considering if the flowers themselves might be dangerous. It seemed to have worked out well enough, as neither man was foaming with poison or thrashing through a hallucination, but the reality was Symeon just hadn¡¯t considered the risk. He resolved to do better, and with that resolution came an idea. His focus had previously granted him basic information on various objects. It was possible that focusing on specific plants might give him enough information to avoid the unpleasant business of finding out what was toxic the hard way.


    ¡°This Chrysalis of yours, I must admit I don¡¯t understand why we¡¯re taking it with us.¡±


    The question brought Symeon back to reality again. He had barely noticed how close they were getting to the forest that girded the river¡¯s banks. Looking toward the sun gave him no indication of how much time had passed, as it still seemed unmoving in the sky. Symeon resolved to deal with that issue as soon as they made camp.


    ¡°We need water. Shelter is more important if the weather turns, but shelter¡¯s pretty easy to deal with. A few logs, a solid stump, some branches, leaves and moss, boom! We got ourselves an A-frame. Dig a hole with a stick, more branches, a little effort, boom! Good ol¡¯ fire-hole if we want it. Or just swap a buncha rocks for the diggin¡¯ to make somethin¡¯ less fancy. Hold up here a bit.¡±


    They came to a halt as Symeon took a look around. They were well into the green grass and shrubbery, close enough to the forest¡¯s edge that Symeon thought he could hear the river ahead. The beach was still within sight, though the Chrysalises were far enough away as to have vanished in the distance.


    ¡°Let¡¯s set it down here, Istroama.¡±


    With a little fumbling they got the slab placed, gently crunching the more sturdy portions of the wild scrub. ¡°This¡¯ll do for now. We¡¯ll need ta clear some space before we get a fire goin¡¯. I¡¯m hopin¡¯ a bit of knife work will fix it.¡±


    ¡°Excellent! One question. What¡¯s a knife?¡±


    Symeon¡¯s response was delayed as he scanned Istroama¡¯s expression for signs of mockery. Istroama, for his part, seemed utterly earnest. Symeon reached down and retrieved his own Innocent Blade from his robe. ¡°One of these. You¡¯ve got one too.¡± Istroama patted his robes to find his own blade, and extracted it with a smile on his face. ¡°There ya go. We¡¯ll have a go with these ta cut away fire hazards. Might have ta dig a fire hole if it doesn¡¯t work.¡±


    ¡°Ah! A permanent matter-based tool! Yes, now you point it out it¡¯s quite obvious, isn¡¯t it? One doesn¡¯t always have the luxury of forming a specialized cutting edge, after all.¡±


    Symeon shook his head, unable to come up with a useful response to the statement. Finding himself stymied, he swiftly changed the topic. ¡°Anyway, this Chrysalis. I¡¯m thinkin¡¯ it might work for clean water. The big issue with water is gettin¡¯ it safe to drink. If we don¡¯t, we end up makin¡¯ ourselves sick. Might be some plants we could tap, but there¡¯s no guarantee we¡¯ll find that sorta plant around. Maybe we could use the basin ta catch rain, but that puts us just waitin¡¯ for rain.¡± Symeon looked up at the clear blue skies with ambivalence.


    ¡°Yeah, naw, best ta assume we¡¯ll need to boil water, so I¡¯m bettin¡¯ on is this big tub. Says it has no durability, ¡®n I¡¯m hopin¡¯ that means this thing isn¡¯t gonna get wrecked if we build a fire under it. Still gotta fill it, but I think the lid¡¯ll be the solution ta that.¡±


    Istroama, for his part, simply smiled and nodded, despite having absolutely no idea what rain was. Istroama was a man of no small intelligence, and had realized how utterly lost he was in this new world not long after being awakened by Symeon. He knew he felt hunger. In the Oruke he would have simply taken some lesser life and absorbed it for sustenance, but thus far nothing he had touched had yielded any nutrition at all. He was clearly well out of his element. On the other collection of digits, this Symeon fellow was well intentioned enough, and seemed to have an idea of what needed to be done.


    Symeon pulled the lid off the Chrysalis, and began carrying the lid toward the forest. ¡°Shelter, water, food. We got two knives with a duration, robes with a duration, our hands, ¡®n this here Chrysalis.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand what you mean. Certainly the idea of durability in regard to permanent matter makes sense, but duration? What happens to these ¡®robes¡¯ when the duration runs out?¡±


    Symeon shook his head in reply, because he had the very same concerns Istroama had just voiced. ¡°I dunno. We¡¯ll find out in about a week, I guess. It''s durability that¡¯s really got me scratchin¡¯ my head, though. It could mean that the knives ¡®n the sandals ¡®n such are indestructible until the time''s up. Not that I¡¯d want to risk any of our stuff testin¡¯ that idea.¡±


    Symeon clapped his hands together as if to clear his thoughts. ¡°Here and now, though. I¡¯ll see what I can forage from around the river. You check around the woods for branches. Keep an eye open for a flint, too. Clean water is still an issue. We¡¯ll need every edge we can get or we¡¯ll be stuck suckin¡¯ the dew off of leaves. Stay in line of sight of each other, just in case. Any questions?¡±


    ¡°Well, yes. Just a few. First, what¡¯s a flint?¡±


    ¡°Uh, it¡¯s a kinda rock.¡± Symeon suddenly realized the troubles in describing a specific type of stone to someone who seemingly had no context at all. ¡°Okay, don¡¯t worry about flint, I¡¯ll see if I can scrounge one up by the river ¡®n show ya.¡±


    ¡°Understood. Now, what¡¯s a river?¡±


    Symeon pointed over his shoulder toward the turgid flow on the other side of the treeline. A rueful sense of despair was growing in his gut.


    ¡°That collection of fire-aligned growths?¡±


    ¡°What? Yeah, naw, I think you¡¯re lookin¡¯ at the trees for that one. A big cluster of trees is a forest. I¡¯m talkin¡¯ about the water on the other side of the trees bein¡¯ the river. Usually runs down from the mountains.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I see! Matter and liquidity! That seems very right to me, we had something very much like that in Alsualsu.¡±


    Symeon¡¯s face was carefully blank as he finally began to realize the enormity of experience Istroama simply didn¡¯t have. ¡°Wow. Okay. So I¡¯m gonna get ya gatherin¡¯ wood until I can get ya up ta speed.¡± Symeon ducked down, gathered a handful of fallen branches in various states of decay, and presented them to Istroama. ¡°This is what we¡¯re lookin¡¯ for. All sizes, lots of it. Don¡¯t pull it off of the trees if you can help it, just get it off the ground. Straight ones are better, thick as your wrist for preference. Don¡¯t break them up, just spread ¡®em out by the Chrysalis ¡®n we¡¯ll sort them out for fire ¡®n buildin¡¯ later. Don¡¯t go out of light of sight, we gotta be ready to have each other¡¯s backs if there are more Imps around.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Right. May I venture one more question?¡±


    ¡°Ya ask what ya gotta ask, man.¡±


    ¡°You mentioned rain before...¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s, ah¡­ water from the sky.¡±


    Istroama was genuinely alarmed by this, and gazed with a wary eye skyward. ¡°That sounds rather dangerous.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s got its upsides and downsides. Look, don¡¯t worry too much right now. The chance of rain is part of why we¡¯re gonna make a shelter. We got this, okay?¡± Symeon pressed the handful of sticks to Istroama. ¡°For now, just follow the plan ¡®n get more branches.¡±


    Istroama gazed intently at the deadwood Symeon had given him, and then with a smile and a nod left to move along the treeline. To Symeon¡¯s delight, Istroama seemed to have a talent for the job, beginning to gather wood at an excellent pace. Maybe things would work out after all, he thought, as he prepared for his own tasks.

 1-8: Anonymous Vegetation

    The very first thing Symeon did after getting Istroama underway was seize a sturdy branch, one relatively straight and strong, and break it in half. One half was driven into the earth to point skyward, while the other was carefully laid to match the shadow of the first. Symeon had had quite enough of the apparently unmoving sun, and with this primitive sundial he planned to get some answers.


    After that, Symeon had a very simple agenda for survival. He intended to build a basic A-frame from the wood Istroama was gathering, as well as a controlled fire of some description. Beyond that, he wanted to see if he could exploit the crystal basin to boil water in, and he was going to forage for edibles as he went. He had a direction in mind: the goals of acquiring water and food would likely be greatly advanced by getting access to the river.


    With that in mind he spent a fair amount of time exploring the treeline, seeking gaps and animal trails, examining the various plants for anything useful. To his delight, individual plants yielded detailed information regarding their nature under his extended attention, though the experience sometimes threatened to pull him into a fugue state.


    The forest was dominated by specific species of trees, briars, and ferns. Most immediately were the extensive briars, thorny vines winding in the sunlight along the inland treeline. They were ripe with firm fruit, yellow in hue, each roughly the size of his thumb. In his mind was an array of useful facts regarding them: edible, faintly luminescent at night, apparently ¡®rejuvenating¡¯ as well, though the seeds were a moderately toxic irritant. Aymeon wasn¡¯t clear what rejuvenating actually meant in relation to the fruit, but frankly the description had him at edible. He gathered enough of the fruit to fill his wooden box while pondering the detail that the briars were apparently dubbed ¡®Unnamed Plant¡¯, much to Symeon¡¯s bemusement.


    Regardless of local vegetitive anonymity, Symeon was confident that a small section of the briars could be cleared without impacting his foraging. With that in mind, he had returned his cargo of nameless edibles to the safety of the basin, and ventured forth once more, this time with the long lid in tow. Said lid was soon stood on end in his grip as he paused before the dense foliage. The trees in the area were primarily tall and thin, blooming great clusters of broad leaves up high in a verdant effort to horde the sunlight. His well of knowledge told him these were ¡®Lasle trees¡¯; a light, waxy wood that grew buoyant nuts in temperate climes. Oddly, the roots of these trees were massive knots bunched up on one side, causing the trees to notably tilt at an angle. Some of the briars had grown a small ways up the trunks of the Lasle trees, but the results were unhealthy and stunted in the encompassing shadows.


    Symeon felt he was missing some details, but couldn¡¯t put his finger on the problem. Regardless, getting water wasn¡¯t going to be served by being on the wrong side of the brambles. Thus, he gave the lid a firm shove, causing it to crash down onto the briar. The lid itself was too light to do much damage, so he stepped onto it and bounced on his heels a few times to a series of satisfying crunches. Then, he stepped back out of the bush and pulled the lid behind him. The underbrush had been crushed to a satisfactory degree by his weight, leaving a gap in the briar. Several more repetitions of this action carved something of a path to the area deeper in the treeline.


    What Symeon found past the brambles was a forest floor with rich, dark soil. He scanned the area out of an abundance of caution, but didn¡¯t come up with anything he hadn¡¯t already learned before. ¡®Ostrich ferns¡¯ that he had previously only barely glimpsed over the briar were in abundance, with huge fronds curtaining the forest floor in green. Past them was a tantalizing glimpse of open space and the sound of splashing water.


    Tempting as it was to press on, he¡¯d stressed to Istroama how important it was to stay in line of sight. Symeon was on the wrong side of the briar for that. He backtracked out of the ferns, taking up the lid as he passed. Unfortunately the light weight made little impact on the scrub and grass as he dragged it along, but as far as he was concerned every bit helped in carving a path.


    Back at the small camp based around the basin, he saw the grass had been beaten down and the worst of the scrub removed by Istroama¡¯s dedicated cutting. The area was crowded with a generous supply of branches, spread out to dry in the sun. Symeon was delighted by this. Isroama might be in a world he didn¡¯t understand, but after pointing him at the task the lad had gone above and beyond. This was more than enough wood to start. It was time to bring Istroama in and get him on something a little more involved.


    Istroama, for his part, dropped the current bundle of sticks in shock when he heard a short, piercing note from the direction of the clearing. He turned to see Symeon waving him over, accompanied by another short note. He regathered the wood and hurried over.


    ¡°I say, that was you, wasn¡¯t it? What was the noise? How did you make it?¡±


    ¡°Naw, yeah, that was just a whistle. You get a little moisture, pucker up and blow. Like this.¡± Symeon proceeded to demonstrate with a single low tone, much to Istroama¡¯s utter fascination.


    ¡°Oh, I simply must try that. Moisture, pucker, blow.¡±


    ¡°Right. Anyway, reason I brought ya over was so we can move on ta the next job. Ya did great with all these branches, couldn¡¯t be happier. Now we need ta check out the river, ¡®n I want ta make sure we both go so we can help each other out if things get weird over there.¡±A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Istroama, for his part, was making quiet ¡°pffft¡± noises as he tried and failed to whistle, slightly cross eyed as he attempted to see his own lips.


    Symeon shook his head at this, but further comment was interrupted as his gaze fell on the branch-sundial he had constructed. The vertical branch was still sticking straight out of the ground, the branch he laid in its shadow still touching the base. What alarmed Symeon was the shadow had not moved at all.


    ¡°Istroama, did ya mess with this? Maybe bump it with yer foot by accident?¡±


    ¡°Pffft. Pffft. Hmmm? No, I don¡¯t think so. What is it supposed to be, exactly?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a sundial. The sun shines on the pointer, casts a shadow, ¡®n ya can get an idea of how much time has passed from how much the shadow moves. Except the shadow is right over the marker I put down, ¡®n I put that marker down¡­ what? Must¡¯ve been an hour ago, easy. Ya sure ya didn¡¯t touch it?¡±


    ¡°Pffft. Quite sure. I recall seeing it when I dropped off my first bundle of wood, and took pains to leave it be. I assumed it was your work, after all. While my recollection may be imperfect, I believe If I had dislodged your creation by mistake it would be more obviously damaged. Pffft.¡±


    ¡°Naw, yeah, I guess yer right on that one. It¡¯s just so weird! That shadow shouldn¡¯t be right on the spot like that.¡± With that, Symeon scanned the area. On seeing a batch of hewn scrub nearby, he grabbed a handful of the long, wiry grass and twisted it into a crude knot. He then skewered the knot with the shadowed stick, and replaced it on the ground.


    ¡°Right. Ours is the stick with the big wad of weeds on it. Give it a good look. If it looks weird when we come back, we know somethin¡¯ is messin¡¯ with us. Ya with me?¡±


    ¡°Pffft.¡±


    ¡°Seriously?¡± Symeon clapped his hands together, bringing Istroama back to the matter at hand. ¡°Istroama, man, focus! Look at my sundial, get it yer head. I want a second opinion ta prove I¡¯m not goin¡¯ insane.¡±


    Istroama looked down at the simple structure for a moment. ¡°Yes. Yes, I do believe I¡¯ve got it. Ah, Istroama and Symeon! Solving mysteries, braving the unknown! Very inspiring stuff.¡±


    ¡°Only thing I¡¯m inspired to do is to get some food. Oh, right!¡± Symeon moved over to the basin and pulled the lid off. ¡°I harvested a bunch of this fruit. The words in my head say they¡¯re edible. I wish we could wash ¡®em but I don¡¯t know if a splash of untreated river water would be an improvement. ¡±


    ¡°Well! Who am I to gainsay such a reliable source?¡± Istroama sauntered over while Symeon leveled a narrow gaze, trying to decide if the smaller man was mocking him. ¡°Lovely! Very yellow. So. What exactly do you mean by edible?¡±


    ¡°Uh. I mean we can eat ¡®em. Well, not the seeds, watch out for those.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. I take it that ¡®eat¡¯ is a verb. How, exactly, does one eat?¡±


    The narrow gaze left Symeon¡¯s face at that. ¡°Oh, wow. It¡¯s gonna be tiny steps all the way, ain¡¯t it? No worries Issy, I¡¯ll get ya through this.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Symy.¡±


    Symeon reacted with a long slow, blink and a shake of his head. ¡°Yeah, naw, we¡¯re not doin¡¯ that. My fault, I know, but let¡¯s not do that Issy - Symy thing. Just¡­ no. Look, ya see this thing I was whistlin¡¯ with earlier? It¡¯s a mouth. Inside the mouth? Teeth and the tongue.¡±


    ¡°Oh, come now. I¡¯m not THAT daft friend Symeon! I know of incisors and jaws.¡± Istroama raised one arm in the air, waving and thrusting it about. ¡°Yes, sometimes one wishes to make a blade and duel in honorable combat. Sometimes, though,¡± and with this his eyes took on a heated frenzy, ¡°sometimes you want the kill to be more¡­ primal. Yes. Nothing quite like shaping a maw to rip and tear! Sinking your fangs into the belly of a hated foe! Spraying the fields of war with viscera!¡±


    Symeon silently resolved to keep a closer eye on Istroama. ¡°I don¡¯t think this fruit is gonna fight back, so let¡¯s just start with little bites ¡®n keep the viscera in the belly where it belongs.¡± He took a pair of plump specimens out, and deftly split them with his knife. The insides were hollow, just a thin strand of plant matter with clusters of tiny red seeds as a core. Symeon cut the cores away and flicked the seed-laden core into a fairly neat pile. ¡°I guess we eat the outside.¡±


    Symeon handed one over to Istroama, who turned it in his hands for a moment before gingerly bringing it to his mouth and taking a delicate nibble. As before, Symeon found it hard to read some of Istroama¡¯s reactions due to the lack of eyebrows, but it seemed like Istroama was pleasantly surprised. This conclusion was rapidly confirmed as Istroama devoured the rest of it. Symeon rapidly followed suit and found the fruit crunchy and mildly sweet, and afterwards found himself feeling full of vigor.


    ¡°That was quite satisfying. I daresay better than how we did it in the Oruke. We would consume magic and matter by simply absorbing lesser beings directly. This though, this is¡­ would we be able to have some more of¡­ what did you say these were called?¡±


    ¡°Fruit. They haven¡¯t got a name. Bit weird, nothin¡¯ else so far hasn¡¯t had a name.¡±


    ¡°Really? Well! Firm yet sweet. Delightfully energizing! What else would do but to name them Istroama?¡±


    Symeon felt something click in his head. With a rising sense of dread examined one of the fruits in the basin. The ¡®unnamed plant¡¯ was now an ¡°Istroama Pepper¡¯.


    ¡°No. NO. What? How?¡±


    Istroama was positively giddy at Symeon¡¯s distressed reaction. ¡°Yes? YES! They¡¯re called Istroamas, aren¡¯t they?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re called Istroama Peppers, ¡®n shut yer pepper hole. I found ¡®em, but somehow ya claimjumped me on the name? Just¡­ throw some peppers into yer box and let¡¯s get to the river.¡±


    ¡°You mean these Istroama Peppers?¡± Istroama was now beaming with smug pride and satisfaction.


    ¡°Pepper hole. Shut it. I¡¯m namin¡¯ the next thing. Let¡¯s go.¡±

 1-9: Riverside

    Symeon led the way toward the path he had carved through the briar, with Istroama furtively trying to whistle as he followed.


    ¡°So the area past the briars-¡±


    Istroama swiftly interrupted. ¡°The Istroama Pepper briars?¡±


    Symeon looked back over his shoulder, but found few words he wouldn¡¯t regret later. Instead he returned his attention back to the path ahead. ¡°The area past the briars is undergrowth. Lots of ostrich ferns, I¡¯m bettin¡¯ lots of moss ¡®n mushrooms too, all good foragin¡¯. Ferns ¡®n moss will be a big part of our shelter, mushrooms might be edible. Even if we find toxic mushrooms, they might be useful. That said, don¡¯t eat anythin¡¯ ya see without checkin¡¯ with me first.


    ¡°Except the Istroama Peppers.¡±


    ¡°Yer workin¡¯ my last good nerve, Istroama.¡±


    ¡°All right, all right, just having a bit of fun. You get to name the next thing. It¡¯s only fair. So. Ferns, moss, and mushrooms. I trust you to point them out to me, because I haven¡¯t the slightest what they might look like.¡±


    "Easy ta fix.¡± Symeon pulled at a fern as they cleared the briars. ¡°Ostrich fern. Not edible except when it¡¯s just a sprout, but the sprouts ain¡¯t enough food ta be worth the effort. The big ferns will make decent shelter material in a pinch, but I¡¯m really hopin¡¯ for those big leaves from the trees for that.¡±


    The ferns were prolific enough to dominate the undergrowth, but gave way before Symeon¡¯s chopping blade. This exposed more of the forest floor, revealing the previously predicted moss. Symeon felt information swirl into place regarding it, identifying it simply as inedible ¡®green moss¡¯. He reached down and pulled up a clump, which he handed back to Istroama. ¡°Green moss. Not food, not dangerous. We¡¯re gonna pull whole sheets of this stuff, it¡¯s our top pick for weatherproofin¡¯ our shelter short-term. Better than the ferns ¡®n easier than the leaves.¡±


    ¡°I see. What exactly is this weather that we¡¯ll be proofing against?¡±


    Symeon halted for a moment at this question. ¡°I keep forgettin¡¯ how much of this has ta be new ta ya. Okay. Right now, the sun shining down? Light, heat? That¡¯s a kind of weather. Sunny. The risks with sunny weather are exposure and dehydration, mainly, but I¡¯m more worried about rain.¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes, I recall you mentioning rain before. Deadly water falling from the sky.¡±


    ¡°Well, sorta deadly, if we end up sittin¡¯ around in it. Three hours without shelter means three hours of any really bad weather can do us in, dry or wet, hot or cold.¡±


    Istroama was uncharacteristically silent regarding this point. Symeon didn¡¯t think much of the matter as the riverbank was swiftly coming into view, and looked very promising. They were emerging from the undergrowth into a shady bend where the river ran clean over smooth rocks. A few fallen Lasle nut-pods littered the area. He was graced with the knowledge those seeds held edible innards and some potable water, but the ones fallen here were mostly rotten from being caught in the rocks for too long. In the water beyond the shadow of the trees was an odd collection of squat, round plants that dominated the deepening waters. Symeon pushed onward, stepping lightly from stone to stone, while Istroama stopped at the water¡¯s edge, his attention on movement in the air along the shore.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s not good. Myriads.¡±


    Symeon had a fairly good view of what Istroama was talking about, though it took a moment to connect the word to what he was seeing. The shore was home to a number of flying insects of remarkable girth, cruising lazily around the edge of the squat plants. On occasion one would dart down with unexpected speed to seize wriggling things out of the water, to be devoured by grinding mandibles. The fact that these giant insects could fly at all, yet alone move so quickly seemed unlikely to Symeon, but he could hardly deny the direct evidence of his senses.


    One of the things was meandering toward him, and proximity revealed it to be excessively unpleasant. It was similar in shape to a dragonfly, scaled up to the size of his forearm and fist. Beyond the divergence in mass, it was covered in a solid sleeve dark chitin, with trailing tendrils like boneless fingers dangling in a meaty curtain beneath it. Most alarming was the tripartite maw, working mindlessly to reveal a nest of tearing barbs within. ¡°Myriads, huh? Ya already got a name for these nasty things? Ain¡¯t it my turn ta name somethin¡¯?¡± Symeon was already pulling the machete from his robe as he asked.


    ¡°Well, yes, but they already have a name. They¡¯re Myriads, I can see they have the same lines. They¡¯re physically changed from how they were in Oruke, but I take that as a given at this point. I say, you really shouldn¡¯t¡­¡±


    Istroama got no further with his thought, as Symeon took a long, sweeping cut at the insectoid horror with his machete. To his surprise, the beast exhibited none of the haste it used in feeding from the river. The blow caught it firmly in the side with a wet crunch. The shattered thing tumbled out of the air, striking the top of one of the plants and triggering a spray of blue mist from the cap. Finally, it slowly tumbled down between the plants before rolling into the water. That same water came to a virtual boil as the cousins of the creature he had previously seen preyed upon by the bugs swarmed the carcass. Symeon turned back as he gloated over his kill. ¡°Heh. Ugly freak. Really shouldn¡¯t what?¡±


    Istroama stood, breath held and fists clenched near his mouth, quivering as he scanned the skies over the river. Nothing exceptional occurred, and as whatever Istroama was waiting for failed to materialize he unclenched with a relieved exhalation. ¡°Well! Not how I wanted to test my theories, but I can¡¯t argue with the results! Huzzah, friend Symeon, huzzah!¡±


    ¡°Huz-what now? Test what?¡±


    ¡°Those are Myriad. They¡¯re sacred creatures. Untouchable! Yet you just slaughtered one without reprisal.¡±


    Symeon turned back to where the cloven Myriad was being rapidly disassembled by the needle-like fangs of the eel-squid Implets, the water churning to foam with their efforts. ¡°What would somethin¡¯ that ugly be sacred to?¡±


    ¡°Well, everything. The Myriad are blessed by both order and chaos. Endless repetition and endless variety. I always worried that they were tasked with replacing us poor mortals in the fullness of time.¡±


    ¡°Ya don¡¯t seem real upset that I just walloped a sacred animal.¡±


    ¡°Being sacred doesn¡¯t exempt them from being largely awful. I mean, laying out some poor sentient as a sacrifice is also sacred. Sacred, friend Symeon, is not the same as good. I wouldn¡¯t kill a Myriad myself, but here we are and none the worse for it! It¡¯s rather encouraging, really.¡±


    Symeon¡¯s attention never wavered from the vanishing remains as he listened to Istroama, until the final chunks were pulled under by the aquatic horde. ¡°Encouragin¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Yes. I was actually intending to try some experimental blasphemy when we had a spare moment. I wasn¡¯t looking forward to using myself as a test subject, obviously, but needs must when the powers that be slaughter your kin.¡±


    ¡°Uh, is that a thing that happens for swattin¡¯ a bug?¡± Stolen story; please report.


    ¡°It is a thing that has happened previously. I did say the Oruke was grim and violent. Myself and the other Claimants did not set out to end the world on a whim, friend Symeon. Still! Not the time or the place for further temptation of divine wrath. Maybe later we can work up some really intense heresy and see if anything turns up to smite us.¡±


    ¡°Man, I honestly can¡¯t tell if yer messin¡¯ with me or not.¡±


    A few of the eel-creatures in the water were still scouring the area for scraps, and Symeon noted the lower halves of the eels were sporting squid-like tentacles rather than the expected tail. His consideration caused information to float to the forefront, naming these as Chthonic Implets. ¡°Well, bein¡¯ able ta take the bugs out might mean we just landed dinner. Seems these Implet beasties are edible, ¡®n they¡¯re reckless for food. We can probably bait a bunch pretty easy.¡±


    The swirling Implets drew the attention of another Myriad dragonfly, which was languidly cruising toward the aquatic scrum. Symeon lashed out again, carving through the paired wings on one side, sending it into a diving crash among the rocks. Chthonic Implets came pouring out from under the sheltering plants, to flop bonelessly across the stones in savage pursuit of sustenance.


    ¡°Argh! Friend Symeon, could we PERHAPS pace ourselves on slaying the Myriads? Just give me a little time to get used to the idea.¡±


    Symeon stepped over and away from the feeding frenzy, clicking his tongue in thought. ¡°Yeah, naw, have ya seen the mouths on those bugs? I¡¯m not gonna risk one gettin¡¯ close enough ta chomp on me. Istroama, we¡¯re gonna have us a fry-up. Get over here ¡®n help me snag some of these things.¡± Symeon pulled his box from the pocket of his robe and turned back to the snapping melee on and around the wounded Myriad. Istroama saw the Implets snapping at Symeon¡¯s fingers as he tried to pinch one from the edge of the scrum, drawing a snarl from the man. ¡°Oh, ya wicked little biter. That¡¯s how it¡¯s gonna be, huh?¡±


    By the time Istroama was squatting down with his own box out, Istroama had laid his box aside in favor of poking likely targets with the point of his knife. A singular stab seemed thoroughly ruinous to the health of the eel-squids, and was followed up by Symeon scooping the hand-length body with the blade, to be flicked into the waiting box.


    ¡°Good stuff! We¡¯ll need a fire ta cook ¡®em, ¡®n water to clean ¡®em properly, but that was gonna be a thing anyway. Just stab ¡®em ¡®n pop ¡®em into the boxes ta start. I¡¯m gonna make sure we don¡¯t miss anythin¡¯ before we head back.¡±


    Istroama pulled his blade and carefully administered a probing stab into the roiling mass, giving a satisfied hum as he levered the stricken Implet to join the one Symeon had taken. As Istroama continued assaulting the Implets with growing enthusiasm, Symeon stood up and stretched. His blade stayed in his hand as he noted more Myriad edging around the area.


    ¡°Gotta say, at least the Implets have some fight in ¡®em. These bugs of yers,¡± this thought being interrupted by another lunging swat to strike a Myriad down into the plants. ¡°These bugs of yers must¡¯ve gotten all fat ¡®n sassy with no-one willin¡¯ to give ¡®em the sharp end. Ha! Maybe we¡¯ll end up beatin¡¯ the stupid outta ¡®em.¡±


    ¡°Ha! HA! That¡¯s three, and no reprisal! Nothing! I¡¯m tempted to strike one down myself at this point. Back in the Oruke, slaying even one was a risk. You¡¯ve slaughtered three in short order. If divine attention was forthcoming, three would have drawn it for certain. Oh, this is most joyous, friend Symeon! Once we¡¯re back at camp I¡¯m going to denigrate the gods at length!¡±


    ¡°Well, good ya have a hobby to look forward ta, I guess.¡± Symeon¡¯s attention left the conversation as facts about the surrounding flora and fauna came to him. The aforementioned Implets seemed to shelter beneath the barrel-like bodies and spreading conical tops of the plants. From Symeon¡¯s pool of knowledge he knew they were not edible, they were unnamed, and to Symeon''s delight they apparently contained potable water. Taking care not to step into the deeper water and the gnashing forest of Implet fangs, he hooked one of the plants with the curve of his blade and tore it toward the rocks. The plant came free, but again sprayed blue mist from the top as it did. Symeon finished batting the plant out of the water before examining the substance that clung to his machete.


    The blue substance ran like water, but water that was bright and azure. As per his expectations details came to him quickly. ¡®Unnamed Plant Spray¡¯, a fluid utilizing the more esoteric aspects of Water magic to stop things in time. Symeon quickly washed the offending substance away in the river. He scooped up the one he had extracted, carefully pointing it away as he began to pry up more. ¡°Well, now there¡¯s proof ta back yer talk about magic. These weird hut-lookin¡¯ plants throw some sorta magic time mojo in that blue stuff. Plus, they¡¯ve got clean water in ¡®em! I¡¯m not sayin¡¯ life¡¯s gonna be good, but I will say we¡¯re probably gonna be okay here ¡®n now.¡±


    Istroama muttered as he flipped one last dead Implet into his box and slid the lid home. ¡°Of course, my ¡®talk about magic¡¯ is without error. It¡¯s just a frustration that I don¡¯t seem to be able to do anything more than see magic.¡± He waved his blade over a nearby plant and triggered the blue mist. ¡°Yes, most assuredly Water magic. The effect disperses quickly, though. Might be of some use as a reagent, if you¡¯re the sort to use such primitive aids.¡±


    Symeon had torn up three of the plants in total, and laid them upside-down in the shallow water to wash the spray away. ¡°Well, they don¡¯t have a name, so they get ta be named for me.¡± There was that distinctive click in his head that indicated a change, followed by the plant now being newly dubbed as ¡®Symeoncane¡¯.


    ¡°There it is. Symeoncanes? I dunno if I¡¯d have picked that, but good enough. Istroama, I¡¯ll need ya take my box and knife when we had out. I¡¯m gonna test a theory of my own.¡±


    ¡°Oh? I don¡¯t mean to sound condescending but you don¡¯t strike me as a man of science. You seem, oh, I don¡¯t know, head down, charge the foe, woe to the first to cry yield!¡±


    Though this, Symeon was stripping out of his robe. It occurred to him he¡¯d been wearing the thing nonstop throughout the whole day¡¯s labors, and yet it was still spotless. ¡°Well, I do my share of thinkin¡¯. See, nearly everythin¡¯ inanimate that I¡¯ve taken a deep look at has a durability value. Those big bones on the beach had eleven ¡®n they fell apart with no effort. The only things that haven¡¯t had a score are the Chrysalises, our sandals, our boxers, our knives, ¡®n our robes. The robes, sandals and knives actually have a duration value of about a week, which is just weird ta me. Anyway, so far all the things with no durability have taken every bit of mayhem we¡¯ve thrown at ¡®em ¡®n are still fresh as when we woke up. I mean, look at yer sandals.¡±


    Istroama lifted one foot to inspect the footwear. ¡°Seems normal to me. Assuming they started in a normal state.¡±


    ¡°My point.¡± Symeon spread his robe out on the stones, and then began stacking nearby rocks in the center of it. ¡°We¡¯ve been all over the place, stompin¡¯ around through sand ¡®n briars ¡®n rocks, the sandals don¡¯t have a scratch. My theory is, if it doesn¡¯t have a durability score, it¡¯s indestructible. If I¡¯m right, I¡¯ll give out tryin¡¯ ta lug these rocks before my robe does.¡± With that, he folded up the corners and sleeves into an improvised bag, and lifted the load with both hands and a grunt of effort.


    ¡°Not a single thread torn. I¡¯m tellin¡¯ ya, indestructible. Don¡¯t know how or why, but if there¡¯s any way ta abuse this I¡¯m all over it. Oof, this is heavy. Let¡¯s get back to camp.¡±


    The march back to the camp was uneventful, beyond Symeon trying to avoid contacting the remaining thorned greenery that poked out of the wreckage of the path. It was nearly impossible to avoid harm completely with the weight of the rocks inhibiting his movements, but he managed to avoid anything more than a few scrapes on his ankles.


    The camp was just as they had left it, the Chrysalis at the center holding their foraged peppers, the wooden detritus drying in the sun, and the sundial sticking up like a middle finger personally directed at Symeon. As soon as they reached the camp edge he dropped the burdensome rocks out of the improvised robe-bag and headed straight to the sundial. ¡°Are ya seein¡¯ this, Istroama? This is what I was talkin¡¯ about!¡±


    The grass-entangled stick was just as he remembered it, including the fact that the shadow laid directly on it as before. Istroama set down his own burden of boxes, knives, and plants before coming to stand beside him, looking down at the pristine sundial. ¡°Seems fine to me. It clearly hasn¡¯t been disturbed.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well, I¡¯M disturbed. We were gone for at least an hour. There¡¯s no way that shadow should be on the same spot.¡± Symeon looked around the area with great suspicion. ¡°There¡¯s some serious shenanigans goin¡¯ on, I¡¯m tellin¡¯ ya. Only thing I can think of is ta sit here guardin¡¯ this thing ta be sure, but we don¡¯t have time ta stare at a stick.¡±


    Symeon continued talking as he shifted the rocks out of this robe.  ¡°Forget it. I¡¯m gonna get a start on the A-frame. I got a job for ya, if yer up to it.¡±


    ¡°Well, certainly! What did you have in mind?¡±


    ¡°We need some plants from the undergrowth ta put over the A-frame. Big strips of moss, maybe some of the ferns too. I¡¯d say load some more peppers into yer box but we¡¯ve got enough for now. No point pickin¡¯ food when it¡¯s fine on the vine. Just get me moss ¡®n ferns, ¡®n we¡¯ll build some good cover.¡±


    ¡°Done and done, friend Symeon. Do I need my box and knife?¡±


    With the rocks unloaded, Symeon gave the robe a shake to dislodge a few pieces of grit and put it back on. ¡°Just yer knife. Use it ta cut the moss. Ya good?¡±


    ¡°I believe so. I¡¯ll be back shortly with the plants.¡±

 1-10: Alas, my Children

    I recall a time when I could shake the very foundations of the world. My will was law, my desire ascendant. With but the least touch of my divine presence I could upend all that was.


    Not that I would have ever done such a thing, my children. You were far too precious to me to toy with your lives so irresponsibly. Yet it is to my shame that when the moment came when such power was warranted, I was too lax in my stewardship to know it. When the time came that I would shatter creation to save a remnant, our world was already too far gone. I failed you, my children. Even in ensuring that when the end came you died well, I failed you.


    Now, I would happily send all of existence hurling into the void so long as I went with it. Yet I was utterly spent by the simple act of unbalancing a mortal in a key moment. Worse still, my power waxes with unbearable slowness. The crops of fear I planted in the Oruke are uprooted. There are those who have awakened in this new world who still recall me as the eater of the fallen, but even they no longer truly fear me. Why would they? In ones and twos they stumble on the truth that the gods no longer hear and react to every utterance of their names. A new kind of faith is ascending.


    I am aware of one small, far-off band of elves who have placed my likeness from Oruke on their war banners, and from that I glean a bare trickle of belief. Thus I am reduced to existing as a dream of myself while my strength marshalls.


    So it is I lurk around this nameless strip of verminous sand, guessing at the role this so-called Claimant had in a conspiracy that broke a world. Is this the Traitor? If so, he is a master of deception, burying every clue behind a veil of affable oafishness. Is this the Paragon, silently devoted to the task at hand and nothing more? Is the Dreamer so lost in the dream as to sleepwalk through life? The only spark I have seen from Istroama was when he spoke of battle, where for a moment he exulted in the destruction of his foe.


    If I was in the fullness of my power, I would make Istroama my Champion, simply so he would be sure to endlessly survive the tortures I would inflict upon him. Would that I could crack his mind open like one of those ludicrous Lasle nuts. Symeon, for his part, is a last dance whose every step I can know in a moment, but Istroama, there is a hardness to his thoughts that is largely impenetrable to me.


    I hover over their littered clearing while Symeon labors with wood and stone, assembling a simple structure I would be generous in calling a hovel. It is more a mound of branches propped up with random rocks. As he sorts through the stones he places some in a circle away from the shelter, exulting when one of the stones sparks his interest. For his part, Istroama wanders the undergrowth near the river, knife brought to bear against moss and leaf. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    The forest canopy casts all in shadow, obscuring the comforting presence of Grandfather Chaos. Istroama¡¯s pace slows as a breeze pushes through the tangle of massive ferns, and I can begin to see within him, my children. He recalls the Oruke, where the radiance of Chaos or Order was always present, sometimes both in the rare times before the next sortie saw one going forth into the unknown. There was no obstruction to the sight of the gods; it was only when this gift was shared with less benign divinities that things went wrong.


    Istroama had been in the undergrowth just a few minutes ago, but that was with Symeon taking the lead. There were new things to see, things to do, and Symeon¡¯s casual fearlessness. Now, Istroama is alone, in the shadow, in a place so alien to what he has known. The knife tumbles from his hand, he falls to his knees and begins to weep. He weeps, and the tears themselves mystify him for he does not understand the ways of his own flesh.


    His mind is open to me now. That hardness was pure will, a determination to not show weakness, to not succumb to encroaching madness, and that hardness has peeled away in the drifting shadows of the forest.


    I can see, but the failure of will that has let me in shows me naught but a mind utterly overthrown by shame. His thoughts are a loop where he tries to assure himself that this new world is better than the last, that the Pax Manifest was not a mistake. Even in his wildest dreams he could not conjure such as the world has now become. He prays within himself to the two gods who will never answer that when his people are released from the Chrysalises they will find it in themselves to forgive him.


    All though this, his heart howls for help, even as he crushes the urge down. He already shows so much weakness before Symeon, but there is no-one else to turn to. His pride will not allow himself to be seen by another this way, even in this deepening well of confusion that comes from simply not understanding the sobs that wrack his frame.


    The sound of his sorrow is lost in the wind that plays among the ferns.


    Eventually there are no tears left, and as he realizes those tears are not some sort of strange new harm he calms himself. The light of Grandfather Chaos is merely obscured, not absent. The world is greatly changed, and if it is not a better world for his people then he will make it better. Slowly, the thoughtless smile returns as a front for that impenetrable will. He brushes the dampness on his face with the sleeve of his robe, though the robe absorbs nothing. It simply smears the moisture about into a muddy patina of fluid and dust. He regains his knife from the forest floor, and returns to hacking into the greenery with vigor.


    I have heard him speak of this in passing before, my children, this Pax Manifest. There is now a thread, to be pulled with the utmost caution, and a promise of the mystery unravelled.

 1-11: Experimental Blasphemy

    Istroama made a robust roll of a few sheets of cut moss, along with many fern fronds and a few fallen Lasle leaves, and emerged back into the sunlight. ¡°I¡¯m back. How¡¯s this for a start?¡±


    Symeon considered the delivery with seriousness. ¡°Might need more moss, but we¡¯re sure set for ferns. Now set it all down ¡®n get a look at this.¡± Symeon picked up a stone he had separated from the rest. It was pale grey and rough looking on the surface, but a small portion had been broken away to reveal a glassy grey-green interior.


    ¡°I see no exceptional lines, but it appears to be a variant of Earth.¡±


    ¡°Earth? Flint, friend Istroama, flint! Oh, look at this beauty!¡± With that, Symeon laid a wet kiss on the side of the stone.


    ¡°Are you trying to consume that flint-thing? Seems rather solid for such an endeavour. Oh, I say, I believe that¡¯s the first time you¡¯ve called me friend!¡±


    ¡°Naw, yeah, I¡¯m feelin¡¯ pretty good right now. Tell ya what. I¡¯m gonna carve up some wood ta start the fire, ya just hunker down ¡®n relax. We¡¯ve done some good work today, don¡¯t think I haven¡¯t noticed ya goin¡¯ above ¡®n beyond either. We¡¯ll have fire, I¡¯ll gut those Implets, clean ¡®em with the water in one of the extra Symeoncanes, ¡®n we¡¯ll have us one fine fry-up.¡±


    With little else to do without direction, Istroama sat near the wooden A-frame Symeon had constructed in his absence. A straight branch with a sturdy fork had been driven into the ground and bracketed by a collection of stones, the branch poking upward much like the gnomon of the previously constructed sundial. A second, longer branch was elevated on one end by way of resting in the fork of the first, with the end on the ground again being bracketed with stone. This second branch bore the burden of an array of more sticks on both sides, running up the length of it. All together it formed a pyramid of wood that was open on one side.


    Istroama gently prodded one of the sticks on the side, observing how the structure reacted. It seemed it relied on constant gravity for what little stability it had. Istroama pondered this while Symeon carved thin slices from a large piece of wood.


    ¡°So that moss substance you had me gather will be added to this construction of yours?¡±


    ¡°Yep. We¡¯ll lay it on top ta proof it against the elements n¡¯ help hold the whole mess together. The ferns go inside so we¡¯re not just roughin¡¯ it on the bare ground. It¡¯s a temporary fix, but it¡¯ll do until we can whip up somethin¡¯ better.¡±


    ¡°And you cutting bits off of that piece of wood is in aid of?¡±


    ¡°Fire. Between this knife ¡®n the flint we¡¯re in a pretty good spot, but I¡¯m not fool enough ta try ta light up a whole log. Some kindlin¡¯ is just what we need.¡±


    ¡°This would all be so much easier with my magic. Just about any power could be used to cut through those plants, perhaps Air or Absence to move them in bulk. Fire, obviously, for your current task.¡±


    ¡°Naw, yeah, we got what we got, we do what we DAMNIT!¡± The knife went tumbling from Symeon¡¯s hand as he clutched at his thumb. The blade had slipped while he was unfocused and notched him. Symeon turned his hand to inspect the injury, signing with relief at the shallowness of the wound. The slip had resulted in a patch of skin being torn, leaving a spot damp with plasma, but no actual blood. ¡°Man, that was close. Would¡¯ve been real bad news if I¡¯d really opened myself up. Hey, are ya alright?¡±


    Symenon was reacting to Istroama¡¯s posture. Istroama had gone from sitting with his legs sprawled out in front of him to having scrambled back a couple of meters. He was now crouched on the far side of the shelter, vaguely warding unseen danger away from his face with his hands. After a few seconds Istroama relaxed a little, venturing a question with a slight quaver in his voice. ¡°Oh. Well. When you were pronouncing that curse, did you have a particular deity in mind? Or a specific target?¡±


    ¡°What? Man, I just jabbed myself is all. I was just, ya know, expressin¡¯ myself. That was a hair from bein'' a bad slice.¡±


    ¡°Interesting. The sample set is small, but the evidence has all pointed one way thus far. Would you mind if I did an experiment? There may be some danger if my theory is incorrect.¡±


    ¡°I dunno what yer talkin¡¯ about, man. What theory? What danger?¡±


    ¡°I believe the gods are no longer willing or able to strike at will. There are signs they may still be present, as evidenced by the recurrence of the number three and the presence of the Myriad. However, you were able to brutalize those same Myriads without reprisal three times! In the Oruke, such an act would have seen you pulverized by divine wrath. Just now you invoked damnation, with no result. Based on the available evidence I intend to proceed with my aforementioned experimental blasphemy. I¡¯ll see myself away from the immediate area in case this goes poorly, of course.¡±


    Symeon stammered in alarm through his response, trying to process all Istroama had said. ¡°What? That¡¯s not really a thing, is it? Are threes really a sign? I mean, if ya gotta do this then ya gotta do this, but it¡¯s not really a thing, gettin¡¯ pulverized, right?¡±


    Istroama smiled gently and he stood up. ¡°I¡¯m sure it¡¯ll all be fine. I¡¯ll just be over by the trees for a moment.¡± He turned toward the treeline, and marched away with his chin high. Symeon stood up to watch, mouth agape as Istroama moved away from the camp.


    Istroama picked a spot near the path that had been cut into the thicket. There, he took a deep breath as he steeled his will. How strange, he thought, that revelation would take place amidst such alien beauty. There were hints of how the Oruke was in it, but all rendered static. It was like a still image of what once was, somehow fully alive despite being still. This world was horrifying and wonderful and strange and new, and it was time to find out if it was a world his people could live in.


    He took another deep breath, struck what he felt was a suitably heroic pose with his fist raised defiantly against the skies, and shouted. ¡°Drain and decrease to the Last!¡±


    The wind blew gently past, the leaves of the trees swayed in the breeze, and the murmur of the river continued on. Istroama¡¯s eyes darted back and forth, scanning the area for approaching threats that failed to materialize. Istroama took another breath and shouted again. ¡°Curses upon the First, most hated vanguard of filth!¡±


    The calm of the area continued unchanged as Istroama¡¯s visage broke into a wild grin. This was interrupted by Istroama scrambling madly when Symeon yelled from back at the camp. ¡°HAVE YA DONE THE THING YET?¡±


    ¡°BLAST IT SYMEON! I¡¯M HAVING A MOMENT HERE!¡±


    There was a pause before the reply came. ¡°SORRY!¡±Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    Istroama pulled himself up off the ground and brushed off some clinging detritus while he tried to recover his dignity. He struck the hopefully heroic pose again, fist once more menacing the skies. ¡°I damn you thrice, Long Reach! I damn you as a tyrant, a monster and a coward! Damn you, Long Reach!¡±


    Again, no change, no reaction. Istroama couldn¡¯t help himself at this point, practically jumping as he ran while waving his arms. ¡°Symeon! SYMEON! I WAS RIGHT, SYMEON!¡± He charged back into the camp, cackling like a madman. ¡°Oh, this is glorious! Nothing! All that and not the least hint of a smiting! I stand before you thoroughly unsmote! Quickly, do you know any good swears or rude gestures?¡±


    ¡°Uh, ya could stick up your middle finger like this,¡± and Symeon demonstrated the gesture, ¡°or you could use your index finger too. They¡¯re both disrespectful, though I can¡¯t rightly recall why..¡±


    ¡°Fantastic!¡± Istroama began waving his middle fingers about, spinning around to confront all directions. ¡°Be ruined, you unwanted divine malignancies!¡±


    ¡°Huh. Well, glad yer havin¡¯ a good time, I guess. Uh, tell ya what, when yer done, you wanna take over shavin¡¯ strips off the wood? I wanna get the shelter done. If it¡¯s gonna come crashin¡¯ down I want it to be because I botched it, not because I half-assed it.¡±


    Istroama kept making rude gestures for a minute before settling down. ¡°Cutting the wood. Yes, yes, I can do that. As you were doing before, I assume, but without the self-harm?¡±


    ¡°Ha ha. Yeah,''as I was doing before but without the self-harm''. I¡¯m fine by the way.¡± Symeon began unrolling the moss, inspecting the various pieces before laying them gently over the sticks that made up the A-frame. ¡°So yer experiment went well?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes, friend Symeon. I cannot prove the presence or absence of the gods, but that in itself is an addition to my evidence they are not in a position to bring punishment against heretics. Do you understand how¡­ immense this is? No more living in fear! This can be a world for humanity! And the dwarves, too, of course.¡±


    ¡°Wait, ain¡¯t there more races than that? I learned about some bunch called the Maddish early on.¡±


    Istroama hadn¡¯t settled down to the task of whittling wood, instead pacing around the camp and gesturing animatedly with every sentence. ¡°The Maddish? Yes. They¡¯re the soldiers of Chaos. Not a bad bunch, really, compared to Ornians or Elves. Still, they can all get ruined as far as I¡¯m concerned. It would have been us Humans and the Dwarves for the chop if me and Angrosid hadn¡¯t ended the world. Ha! Well it¡¯s our world now! HA! And it¡¯s my turn to name something.¡±


    Symeon was too busy processing new information that came to him with the mention of Elves and Ornians to object. While Symeon was flooded with images of glamorous fae and massive lizard-men, Istroama stood with his arms outstretched and a wide stance as if to encompass everything around him. ¡°I name this place Alsualsu, in honor of that which once was. We shall raise the City of Spheres to glory again!¡±


    ¡°Oh, come ON. Seriously? What, anything we build here is called Alsualsu? That doesn¡¯t count, does it? Oh no.¡± Symeon felt something shift in his knowledge, and knew the new name to be true. ¡°Well, fine. Anything we build here is called Alsualsu. Might as well put up a sign or somethin¡¯. Alsualsu, population two.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the spirit! Soon to be population twenty-one, once we get the others out.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well, we gotta talk about how that¡¯s gonna go before then. Gotta balance havin¡¯ extra hands against how many people we can actually keep alive. Speakin¡¯ of which, get to carvin¡¯. Fire isn¡¯t gonna light itself, and we¡¯re wastin¡¯ daylight. I think.¡± Symeon looked over at the sundial again, the shadow still locked in the same place. ¡°Seriously, I can¡¯t even be mad about that anymore. It¡¯s just too weird ta stress about.¡±


    Istroama began to carefully work the wood with his knife while Symeon finished draping moss over the shelter, followed by placing the ferns inside as a token cover over the ground. Symeon stood back to examine his work. ¡°Naw, yeah, that¡¯ll do. It¡¯ll be for one of us at a time, but I want us keepin¡¯ a watch anyway.¡±


    Symeon sorted through the various remaining stones from the load he had carried in his robe. Having come from the river they were largely smooth and flat, which worked well for him as he placed them in a circle a couple meters from the shelter. He was not entirely pleased with the result, and used more stones to stack a second level on top of the first. This was followed by a long sigh.


    ¡°This is gonna be a risk, but I think we can manage it. We¡¯re gonna need more of a firebreak or we¡¯re likely ta torch everythin¡¯ ta the horizon.¡± With that, he gathered up one of the Symeoncanes and carefully began sawing to separate the top of the plant. With a little effort the top came away to reveal the barrel-like interior and the water within.


    ¡°There it is, drinkin¡¯ water. Half each, and then we¡¯ll go get some more stuff from the river. Watch me now, it¡¯s kinda like with the peppers.¡±


    ¡°The Istroama Peppers.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m never gonna hear the end of that one, am I? Just watch.¡± Symeon did his best to demonstrate how to drink water with exaggerated actions and slowness, nearly choking in the process. The stuff out of the Symeoncane was by no means pure water, imbued heavily with the arboreal flavor of the plant itself, but it quenched a thirst Symeon hadn¡¯t realized he had. ¡°Right. Yer up. Take it slow, take it easy, little sips ta start.¡±


    He handed the opened Symeoncane to Istroama, who after a few sputtering attempts successfully managed to get a mouthful down. ¡°Ugh. I think I like the peppers better.¡±


    ¡°Naw, yeah, not a taste sensation, is it? But it¡¯s safer than unboiled, it''ll do for now. Grab some peppers ta munch on the march, we¡¯re goin¡¯ back ta the river. I want more of these Symeoncanes, and we¡¯re gonna use some to haul muck.¡±


    The walk to the river was uneventful, and the Myriads were conspicuous by their absence when they arrived. Symeon began using his blade to pry up more of the strange barrel-like reeds, taking care to avoid the blue mist they would cloud the area with. Istroama joined him, and soon they had a dozen of the things on shore. Symeon opened a pair of the larger ones up, and used them to scoop mud and gravel from the river¡¯s shore. Immediately the water in the mix began to drain away through the holes. He handed the pair to Istroama before removing his robe to use as a bag for the remainder. ¡°Yer gonna carry the muck, I got the water. We¡¯ll probably need a couple more trips worth for the muck, but we¡¯ll do that together. I want ya with me ta learn when I make the fire n¡¯ I shouldn¡¯t get that goin¡¯ until we do something¡¯ ta keep it from spreadin¡¯.¡±


    Istroama was rather quiet through all this. The shadows of the forest still unnerved him, though the presence of Symeon quelled the worst of it. Symeon broke the silence on the way back. ¡°Okay, so before ya went ahead ¡®n called our camp Alsualsu, ya mentioned Elves and Ornians. I got more information off of that, so lemme see if I got it right. The Ornians are reptile-men and work for Order?¡±


    The question brought Istroama out of his fugue. ¡°I¡¯ve no idea what a reptile might be. In the Oruke they were kin to the Dragons, so if that is what you meant then you have the right of it. Nasty creatures. Powerful, but thankfully few in number. They hate everything that isn¡¯t Ornian, but at least it¡¯s an honest hate.¡± Istroama practically began snarling after that. ¡°It¡¯s the Elves you have to watch for. Rotten, oath-breaking scavengers of misery! If an Elf isn¡¯t stabbing you in the back on first sight it¡¯s because she thinks there¡¯s more to be gained by doing it tomorrow..¡±


    Symeon was once more somewhat alarmed by Istroama¡¯s sudden fervor. Before, it had been in regard to biting a foe to death, and now a similar sort of violent passion was in his attitude toward Elves. It didn¡¯t quite match the rather attractive image of Elves that was in Symeon¡¯s head.


    ¡°Okay, so Maddish are for Chaos, Ornians for Order. Humans are...?¡±


    ¡°Borne of Chaos, devoted to freedom. Much like our Dwarven cousins, borne of Order, seeking justice.¡±


    ¡°...and the Elves?¡±


    ¡°Parasitic, opportunistic filth.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, naw, I mean what were they about? Order or chaos?¡±


    They had reached the campsite by this point. Istroama didn¡¯t respond to the question as they unloaded the water-filled Symeoncanes, and quietly observed as Symeon carefully dumped the two filled with gravel and muck around the perimeter of the stone circle. Much of the water had spilled off, resulting in fairly solid clumps that formed a bulwark around part of the construction.


    ¡°C¡¯mon, Istroama. One more trip and we¡¯re set.¡±


    They began the march toward the shadowy undergrowth once more, and silence reigned until Istroama was before that dim forest. He found himself unsure if he could bear the absence of Grandfather Chaos without a distraction.


    ¡°Elves.¡± Istroama muttered quietly, then continued with growing vehemence. ¡°To understand Elves, you have to understand magic.¡±

 1-12: The Fry-Up

    Istroama scooped up a fallen branch as they entered the forest, and swung it against briar and fern as he walked. ¡°Elves are different. Every sentient can use magic, but Elves? Elves make it look easy. They¡¯re not actually stronger in magic than the other races, mind you. No. They¡¯re just remarkably skillful and knowledgeable with what they have.¡±


    With a rictus grin he swung the stick hard against a Lasle tree, breaking the branch into fragments. He frowned as he considered the paltry chunk that remained in his grasp before letting it drop back to the forest floor. ¡°Magic is the friction between Order and Chaos. Chaos makes everything possible, Order creates a path to enact possibility. Tap into the interaction there and you¡¯re able to conjure wonders. Except I¡¯ve been trying to do just that and I¡¯ve generated exactly nothing thus far. Regardless, Elves don¡¯t follow either Order or Chaos. Instead, they have natural finesse in manipulating the friction between the two. I would say that¡¯s why they¡¯re so self-absorbed, scheming, and gluttonous.¡±


    Istroama moved up beside Symeon as the path opened back to the riverbank. Symeon looked over at Istroama with the hint of a smirk. ¡°So yer sayin¡¯ ya don¡¯t like Elves?¡±


    Istroama gave a sharp, singular bark of a laugh at the comment. ¡°Friend Symeon, Elves don¡¯t even like Elves. Why should I be so presumptuous as to disagree with them on the matter?¡±


    ¡°Fair enough.¡±


    Symeon came to a halt as they reached the stony bank of the river once more. ¡°Okay, we get two more Symeoncanes each, pop ¡®em open ¡®n fill ¡®em with muck. Try ta get lots of pebbles ¡®n gravel, just like the loads I scooped up before.¡±


    ¡°Consider it done.¡± Istroama moved to the edge of the river proper, surveying the array of rotund reeds with his blade in his hand. He found a large one to his liking and pointed at it with the machete. ¡°You¡¯ll do.¡±


    He stooped down and jabbed the blade in the mud of the river beneath the plant, prying up on it as he had seen Symeon do before. An Implet leapt from the water, flailing and biting toward his hand. Istroama reflexively pulled away before slicing repeatedly at the spot where it fell back into the river. He was rewarded with the sight of a slashed Implet floating to the surface before swiftly it disappeared in the froth of being swarmed and savaged by its kin.


    Symeon, for his part, had already extracted a Symeoncane. He chuckled as he watched Istroama take a cautious step back from the feeding frenzy. ¡°Ain¡¯t they vicious little biters? Here. Quick ¡®n smooth is the key.¡±


    Symeon placed himself near a second plant, and drove the blade into the mud beneath it. Then, he gave a sharp pull. The broad blade worked like a shovel, resulting in a water-muffled crack as the roots shattered and tore. The Symeoncane tumbled into the river, spraying blue mist ineffectually as it sank beneath the water. He reached out and caught it in the curve of his blade, pulling it onto the bank. Istroama looked on as Symeon stepped back with his prize and took a bow.


    Istroama nodded slowly, and turned his attention to the river once more. The aquatic skirmish had ended, with the only sign that anything had occurred being a scrap of Implet flesh that had ended up in the rocks. Istroama picked it up with a flourish, extending his arms out from his sides with the meat in one hand and the machete in the other. He stayed in that pose, unmoving, as a Myriad came buzzing out of the treeline, drawn by the proffered scrap.


    As the chitinous horror flew near, Istroama swung his knife around and up into the maw of the thing, skewering it. The backswing was brought over the clustered plants, triggering a massive outpouring of blue mist. A short flick of his wrist flung the carcass free, hitting the water in an immediate frenzy of Implets. Istroama sheathed the knife in a smooth motion, stepped forward to put both hands on a discharged Symeoncane and tore it loose to fall behind him. A second lunge secured another, which joined the other as he pulled back to the safety of the shore before the blue mist could settle low enough to touch him.


    Istroama turned to Symeon with a smug grin, and took the same spread-arm pose as he had before. ¡°You know, it¡¯s not easy being me, but it¡¯s oh so satisfying.¡± He took a long slow breath through his nose, as if inhaling the perfume of some rare flower. The exhalation came with a luxurious hum. ¡°MMMMMMMM, Istroama.¡±


    ¡°Are ya done?¡±


    ¡°Not quite, I believe I have one more in me. Yes. MMMMMMMM, Istroama.¡±


    Symeon couldn¡¯t help but laugh. ¡°Alright, alright. That was pretty slick. C¡¯mon. Let¡¯s go get that muck.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Right.¡± Istroama brushed his damp hands off on his robe, which largely failed to achieve much as the robe absorbed none of the liquid. ¡°Muck it is, then.¡±


    Soon enough they were back at the camp with four more loads of mud and rock. Symeon dumped out three of the loads near the stone circle to finish the firebreak, and with a shrug used the last to top off the occasional gap.


    ¡°Okay, firebuildin¡¯. There¡¯s a buncha ways ta do it, most of which are a pain. We could grind a pair of dry branches together ¡®n try ta start a burn with friction, but that¡¯s for poor suckers who don¡¯t have this gorgeous specimen¡±, he gloated as he hefted the large flint off the ground.


    ¡°So that shard of Earth creates Fire? I don¡¯t see any exceptional lines of magic in it. How does it work?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, nah, no magic to this. We take one of these knives, yeah?¡± Symeon drew his blade and waved it vaguely at the stone as he explained. ¡°We strike it hard on the rock. Flint is actually harder than the steel, ¡®n if ya do it right it¡¯ll make sparks that¡¯re actually bits ¡®n pieces of the steel comin¡¯ off. Rough on the steel, so we don¡¯t use the bladed side if we can help it, but in the end fire is more important than a pretty knife.¡±The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Symeon put the knife and stone down while he gathered his ample collection of dry wood shavings and twigs in the circle of stone, while Istroama observed and commented. ¡°So the wood fragments, we¡¯re using the lines of Fire within them as a catalyst to this flint and steel magic?¡±


    ¡°Seriously, there¡¯s no magic ta this. The wood¡¯s the fuel, but that¡¯s not magic. This is force ¡®n preparation.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough. Still, lucky for us these knives are indestructible, if this would normally break pieces off.¡±


    Symeon stopped moving midway through forming an orderly cone with the kindling. He took up the knife and rock once more, staring at them in an infuriated silence.¡±No. No no no. If that¡¯s right then¡­ NO! I¡¯m doin¡¯ this anyway! This is gonna work!¡±


    Symeon was rather frantic in his efforts as he brought the back of the machete down against the flint, one, twice, and on the third blow there was a spray of sparks that danced over the kindling. He flung the knife and stone aside to carefully feed the growing flame more shavings, more twigs. Soon larger chunks of wood joined the flames, and Symeon slumped back in a blend of satisfaction and relief. Istroama looked on with a broad, knowing smile that Symeon found somewhat alarming.


    ¡°What are ya smirkin¡¯ about, man? It¡¯d better be yer happy for us havin¡¯ fire.¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes, yes... but that was magic.¡±


    ¡°Shut up. That was pure, manly woodcraft.¡±


    ¡°I fear it was not. I was watching the lines, friend Symeon. The first and second blows primed a mote of Fire, and the third called it into being. I can see it clearly.¡±


    Symeon inspected the blade, chuckling. ¡°Yeah, naw, no magic. Workin¡¯ as intended, my friend, workin¡¯ as intended.¡± His chuckle died out as Istroama drew his own blade and gestured for the flint.


    Symeon stood up and handed over the flint, crossing his arms as he watched Istroama take a bow with the stone. With an elaborate flourish, Istroama brought his machete down in an uneven blow, and another. He paused and adjusted his grip on the blade before starting a long, languid sweep that barely touched the flint. A burst of sparks rained down to join the existing flames.


    "Ya only grazed it on that third swipe.¡± Symeon chewed on his lip for a moment in consideration. ¡°So. Magic. That''s good, yeah?"


    Istroama handed back the stone with a shrug. "It''s a wonderful proof, but it¡¯s not quite throwing elemental bombardments. Those sparks aren''t going kill an Elf in a timely manner. I''d be better served poking it with the flint."


    "True. Well, no Elves here to stab anyway, so let''s focus on food. Take a seat, ¡®n I¡¯ll show ya how to clean the meat.¡±


    While Istroama settled in, Symeon brought the two boxes over near the growing fire. Opening them let loose a mild, fishy smell, and revealed the fallen legion of Chthonic Implets within. ¡°Right. This here? Meat. Kinda like the peppers.¡±


    ¡°The Istroama Peppers.¡±


    Symeon took a long, slow breath while leveling a stern gaze at Istroama. ¡°Anything we plan ta eat should be cleaned first, at the very least. The peppers, we can get away with scrubbin¡¯ the surface. We skipped that today because I¡¯m willin¡¯ ta roll the dice on eatin¡¯ bug bits over goin¡¯ hungry in a crisis.¡± He pulled one of the dead Implets out of a box with his fingertips, while pulling his blade from the sheathe with his good hand.


    ¡°Now, meat. Meat is somethin¡¯ that needs more work. A carcass like this, we gotta clean it inside and out.¡± A deft flick put a cut in the side of the eel-squid, and he laid the body out on the edge of the knife. ¡°These nasty bits here? Organs. They¡¯re mostly not for eatin¡¯. We clean those out. Huh.¡±


    Symeon paused, examining the organs. He had expected more. Still, this was a very alien thing, and he was coasting on the equally alien knowledge in his head regarding it. He had some context in knowledge of other beasts, but that too was from the same source. With a shrug grabbed a Symeoncane still aden with water.


    ¡°Do me a favor ¡®n pop this one open. Right. Nasty bits out, same with the beak. What¡¯s left? Raw meat. Eatin¡¯ raw meat is NOT recommended. We¡¯re washin¡¯ the worst of the muck off, cookin¡¯ it thoroughly. Don¡¯t let meat sit! It goes bad.¡±


    Istroama handed over the freshly bleached Symeoncane. Symeon scrubbed the meat in the water for a moment. ¡°Not sure if there¡¯s a point ta this. None of this is sanitary, I¡¯m probably just spoilin¡¯ good water. We¡¯re really leanin¡¯ on fire to make this right.¡± His next action was to put the morsel of implet meat back on the flat of his blade, and push the blade out into the fire.


    ¡°The joy of an indestructible knife. We let this little nugget cook up, and we¡¯re laughin¡¯. Yer turn.¡±


    There were some partial failures in Istroama¡¯s attempts, but they were all recoverable with a little effort. The innards were dropped in the empty Symeoncane they had first drank out of, the meat fried on knife-edge. There was some dismay while Symeon worried about handling a blazing-hot knife, but a little prodding revealed the blades to have no notable heat at all. This made for more difficult cooking, but showed another aspect of the knives'' immutable nature. The final results of the fry-up were declared ¡®better than goin¡¯ hungry¡¯ by Symeon and devoured with haste.


    ¡°Right. That¡¯s food done. We should get the guts away from camp before they draw attention. We should probably start diggin¡¯ a midden somewhere.¡±


    Symeon started gathering some of the litter, handing a few pieces to the confused Istroama. ¡°What would that be, exactly?¡±


    ¡°A midden? Well, what I got in mind short-term is a little pit away from our water supply where we can drop our trash ¡®n deal with our unmentionables.¡±


    Istroama paused in preparing his share of the litter. ¡°What unmentionables? Is there some taboo I need to know about? Say, here¡¯s fun. Let¡¯s violate it!¡± Istroama shifted his load to free a hand and waved his middle finger around at random. ¡°This is for you, rotten divinities!¡±


    ¡°Okay, bring it down Istroama. I mean our¡­ hold on. Ya wouldn¡¯t know about this stuff, would ya?¡± Symeon put his burden down as laughter overtook him. ¡°OH! Oh this is it. This is one of those moments I¡¯m gonna be chucklin¡¯ about when I¡¯m a toothless old coot. Okay, so all this food and water goes in, and later the bits ya don¡¯t need go out.¡±


    ¡°Fascinating! How does that work exactly?¡±


    ¡°Well it goes out yer¡­ oh, no. Ya wouldn¡¯t know THAT either. Ah, this just went from funny memory ta thing I drink ta forget. Right, ya got a hose in the front for fluid and a hole in the back for solids.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t follow, Symeon.¡±


    Symeon scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to think of a way to resolve the matter. ¡°Look, just¡­ take a look inside your boxers.¡±


    Symeon was looking away when Istroama said, ¡°No, I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t understand.¡±


    Frustration boiled in Symeon¡¯s veins, and he turned with gritted teeth. Whatever words he might have said were lost as he looked upon Istroama, standing with his boxers around his ankles, and a featureless blank between his legs.

 1-13: Eight Seven Six Zero Zero

    Symeon was sitting by the fire with his legs spread, gingerly examining the featureless area heretofore hidden by his boxers. The initial shock of seeing Istroama without genitals had blunted the result of his own, more personal investigation. Said investigation had expanded to a more detailed examination, wherein Symeon had realized a further lack of both nipples and belly button. He was now working up the nerve to reach back to check one last feature.


    ¡°Nope. I¡¯m not doin¡¯ it. Issy! Issy, do me a solid. Do ya have a butthole?¡±


    ¡°A what?¡±


    Symeon shook his head in despair. ¡°Of course. Nevermind.¡±


    The final leg of his exploration revealed a final but not unexpected absence.


    ¡°How does that even work? I was hungry earlier, where¡¯s it all goin¡¯? The human body can¡¯t be a closed system, it makes no damn sense!¡± Symeon was sure he saw animal spoor and bird droppings when he was foraging earlier, as well as the death-expulsion of Flappy. ¡°Istroama! Somethin¡¯ we¡¯re gonna do tomorrow is hunt us somethin¡¯ big enough I can check it for a dong!¡±


    Istroama, for his part, was completely unaffected by these developments. As far as he was concerned, any issues with waste could be hand-waved away with magic as an explanation. Instead, he was more interested in the gathering gloom as the vortex that was Grandmother Order began to eclipse the sun of Grandfather Chaos. He wasn¡¯t a proponent of Order, but seeing both the elder gods at once was comforting. There was also the anticipation of when Symeon would finally notice. Istroama was of the opinion that Symeon was an untapped vein of exciting new curses and blasphemies just waiting for the right moment to spill forth.


    "Ah, I need time ta ruminate on this. It¡¯s gettin¡¯ late anyway. I¡¯ll take first watch, ya get your head down.¡± Istroama just sat there and smirked, waiting for the moment. Symeon¡¯s words caught up to him, as he looked back and forth between the unmoved sundial and the swirling darkness that was obscuring the sun. ¡°Huh. Ya see that? Naw, yeah, it¡¯s not buggin¡¯ ya at all.¡±


    Symeon looked down at the blank area between his legs again. ¡°I got bigger issues right now. Get some sleep.¡±


    Istroama quickly overcame his disappointment over Symeon¡¯s relative calm. ¡°Sleep. Of course. Could you remind me where we stored the sleep?¡±


    ¡°Ah, damnit. Naw, yeah, just lie down in the shelter. Go on, lie back. Good. Slow, deep breaths. Relax yer toes, slow, slower. Relax yer¡­¡±


    Symeon stopped. Istroama was asleep moments after he obligingly laid down in the A-frame, gently snoring in the gathering dark. Symeon carefully added a pair of wooden logs to the fire, and settled with his back to the flame to watch, and think.


    Three hours without shelter. Three days without water. Three weeks without food. Downside, the shelter was a heap of deadwood. Upside, between Lasle nuts and Symeoncanes they had a decent amount of clean water, and the peppers and implets seemed abundant.


    In terms of exposure the sun wasn¡¯t moving, which was hard to fathom, but apparently there was some celestial body orbiting that could mimic night. Yes, that body was a swirling darkness that hurt to look at directly, but you didn¡¯t look at the sun directly either, right? Then, there was the lack of stars. There was no light pollution to speak of, and the utter darkness of the ¡®moon¡¯ made for what should have been a spectacular night sky, but there wasn¡¯t a single star out there.


    The night was deep, time measured only by the slow disintegration of the wood on the fire. Only the gentle crackle of the flame as it touched some damp branch broke the silence. Symeon sat there with his back to the fire, feeling the heat and light dance around him in defiance of the dark and chill. When he felt sore from sitting he rose up and quietly moved around the fire, flexing his limbs with dull pops from his joints. He felt no urge to rest, instead feeling a profound warmth from the hearth behind him.


    His back to the fire, for to gaze into the flame was to be blind in the night. He guarded the flame just as the flame guarded them. The warmth of the flame gently pressed against his back and became his warmth. The sparks of the flame were the sparks in his mind, he was a tongue of fire licking the starless sky with the power of consumption and change and together they were the fire...


    Symeon was pulled from his reverie when the screaming started.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Istroama was awake, and from the panicked mayhem it was clear he was not a morning person. He had leapt to his feet with a blood curdling howl, and in so doing shattered the flimsy shelter into wooden fragments and clumps of moss that flew everywhere. Symeon reacted by grabbing a Symeoncane, cursing himself for not having thought of filling one with sand to suffocate any rogue flames. Luckily, the bits that landed in the fire were trivial and easily stomped out.


    ¡°Istroama! Are ya alright? Calm down, man, calm down!¡±


    ¡°WHAT WAS THAT?!¡±


    ¡°What was what? Did somethin¡¯ bite ya? Just talk ta me.¡±


    ¡°I just laid down, as you suggested, and suddenly Grandmother Order has moved massively! Time! Time has passed!¡± Istroama pulled his knife in one swift motion, and focused on it for a moment. ¡°Nine hours! This thing has lost nine hours of duration. If we¡¯d been at 12 o¡¯clock I¡¯d have been flanked, backstabbed and flanked again! WHAT VILE SORCERY IS THIS?!¡±


    ¡°Whoa, whoa, easy with the knife. There¡¯s no sorcery, it¡¯s sleep. It¡¯s normal.¡±


    ¡°Having nine hours just vanish is normal?¡±


    ¡°Well, maybe not nine but yesterday was a rough day. But naw, yeah, sleep is a thing. About every sixteen hours up, you gotta spend eight down or things get weird.¡± Symeon looked over at the Symeoncanes and Istroama Peppers. ¡°Well, maybe weirder.¡±


    ¡°So you went through this ¡®Sleep¡¯ thing too?¡±


    ¡°Huh. Actually, no. I should be draggin¡¯ but I feel fine. I was up all night, guess I lost track of time.¡±


    ¡°Well I must say I don¡¯t approve of this sleep business at all. You¡¯re well off avoiding it.¡±


    ¡°Guess so. The shelter is a wreck, so no-one¡¯s sleepin¡¯ in that. Still, today the plan was ta upgrade anyway, at least get some sort of platform off the ground. So let¡¯s eat up, and get ta choppin¡¯ some trees.¡±


    Istroama snarled a response. ¡°Trees. Fine. Before that, are there any other hideous secrets this form holds I should be forewarned of?¡±


    ¡°Well, I was kinda lookin¡¯ forward to havin¡¯ a laugh the first time ya had ta poop, but it turns out that isn¡¯t on the schedule.¡±


    ------


    While Symeon was pleased with Istroama using the timers on the gear as a sort of clock, they didn¡¯t actually tell him what time it was. He was aware that about nine hours had passed before Istroama had woken up. However, in terms of actual time he only knew they settled down sometime after what passed for ¡®sunset¡¯ around these parts, and that he had sort of blissed out on watch until well after ¡®sunrise¡¯.


    Regardless, it was probably morning and there was work to be done. The shelter, tragic as it was, was now scattered about the area, as well as being lightly trampled and burnt. More wood needed to be gathered for the fire, as well as for any shelter they would build, more food and water needed to be gathered. It promised to be a full day. They broke their fast with peppers, gathered their gear along with the Symeoncanes used for waste, and marched back to the river.


    The main purpose for this was to dispose of the waste. There was some value in holding on to it as bait when they went to procure lunch, but the downside was having it stinking and possibly drawing attention at the campsite. The second purpose was to begin chopping wood near the river. Symeon¡¯s thinking was that if they had to move wood, best to do it while fresh, and bringing it from the river would help establish the path through the underbrush. Overnight the vines had come back with a vengeance, requiring more hacking and slashing to clear the path to the river.


    Once at the river, they pried up another Symeoncane and drank their fill. Symeon noticed some new growth in the area, fingertip sized fungal blossoms in dark red. They seemed to have largely popped up on shaded rocks in the river where so many things died yesterday. The strange knowing took hold, and in moments he knew he was looking at Immature Redcap Truffles. Not much more was on offer about them, beyond the detail that they were edible as a spice.


    ¡°Right. Istroama, we need wood. These big knives aren¡¯t ideal, but they¡¯re decent enough choppers as long as we¡¯re not trying ta chop down anything huge. We cut ¡®em so they fall away from us, drag ¡®em out, knock off the worst of the branches and get ¡®em back to camp. Not gonna lie ta ya, it¡¯s gonna suck.¡±


    Istroama was lost on that last idiom, but chose not to explore the matter. Being in the shadows of the trees still unnerved him somewhat, and he didn¡¯t quite trust himself to  speak. Instead he just nodded and watched as Symeon demonstrated how to bring down one of the trees with a modicum of safety. The tripartite nuts had to be dealt with, raining down like clusters of fists, the branches tumbling with bruising momentum, and of course when the tree finally toppled it could swerve toward fragile flesh with seeming maliciousness.


    Still, they managed to down a pair of tall Lasle trees with a minimum of drama, and per the knowledge in Symeon¡¯s head found the wood relatively light. Still, by the time they had reached camp they had abandoned one to carry the other together.


    ¡°Okay, so that wasn¡¯t the best plan.¡±, Symeon said as they broke open some Lasle nuts for water. The contents were far sweeter than the Symeoncanes, and had a passing amount of edible innards as well. ¡°I was hopin¡¯ to do a bunch of stuff at once, but it¡¯s not happenin¡¯. We¡¯re just gonna take trees closest to us and¡­¡±


    Symeon trailed off, blinking as his manifest sprung up unbidden. The empty field now had writing in it, curt notes that were snippets of his day. ¡®Defeated an Organgrinder Imp in single combat.¡¯ ¡®Awoke one Manifest.¡¯ ¡®Defeated miscellaneous animals.¡¯ ¡®Vigil of Fire.¡¯


    Below that, two sparkling squares were like cut gems on a blue velvet sheet, sliding with increasing speed toward the bottom of the field. The first was milky white like pearl, the other a lustrous blue, and both slid into two of the eight waiting indentations below.


    As the white gem settled, Symeon heard a woman¡¯s voice in his head. ¡°Alpha Brand. First to stand against the inevitable and know glory. Time is both your grace and your yoke. Duration: 87600 Hours.¡±


    The blue gem had already settled will before the woman¡¯s voice had finished talking about the white one, and she immediately launched into a second enigmatic description. ¡°Promethean. One who bears the torch, and bears the wounds.¡±


    The voice said no more, the snippets vanished from the manifest, and were immediately replaced with the first relatively straightforward information of the experience.


    Mortal.


    Mana Regeneration massively increased.


    Mana Output massively decreased.


    Access to all aspects of magic.


    Fire Aspect moderately increased.


    Health Regeneration moderately increased.


    ¡°Wait. Does that say I can do magic?¡±

 1-14: Promethean

    Symeon had a grip on Istroama¡¯s wrist, and both were surveying the changes to Symeon¡¯s manifest. Not that Symeon needed to force Istroama to look. Indeed, Istroama had his hand on Symeon¡¯s shoulder and absolutely refused to let go as he focused on a singular line.


    ¡°Access to all aspects of magic. That is immense, friend Symeon. I¡¯ve never heard of any mortal being able to tap all aspects. Even the gods could only use nine of ten, in theory. I mean, I don¡¯t know of anyone having the nerve to ask one about it. That bit about your mana regeneration and output needs exploring too. Oh, this is very exciting indeed!¡±


    ¡°So.. what do I do?¡±


    Istroama broke the connection and paced away across the campsite. ¡°It¡¯s more a question of what do you do first? I suppose some grounding in magical fundamentals is in order, but I¡¯m ever so excited to get you using actual magic!¡± Istroama slowed his wandering to inspect the campsite for a branch, something straight, pliant, yet firm. He found such a candidate and took it in hand with some satisfaction. ¡°Let¡¯s test your instincts. Go ahead. Try conjuring a spark of fire.¡±


    Symeon blinked a few times, shrugged, and tentatively began to wiggle his fingers in the general direction of the campfire. ¡°Spa¡­¡± His pronouncement was cut short by Istroama slashing him across the hands with the branch.


    ¡°NO! No manipulation of digits, no announcing your intentions, and no fetishistic focuses if that was your next idea. I will not have you dancing about to process mana! You will not be shouting spell names like some witless imbecile! HA! May as well publicly beg to be counterspelled! No sir, you are unmarked matter, ready to be sculpted into a masterpiece, and may all the gods smite me if I let you take shortcuts.¡± Istroama¡¯s visage was an alarmingly near-lustful lear. ¡°No, you¡¯ll learn the right way first.¡±


    ¡°WHAT? Man, just tell me you don¡¯t want me doin¡¯ that stuff, you don¡¯t gotta hit me!¡± Symeon was instecting his knuckles, seeing the branch had drawn a little blood, which was a minor concern compared to the strangeness of seeing the same wound heals closed fast enough to be visible.


    ¡°Pain is clarifying. You will remember this lesson and not do it again.¡±


    Symeon shook the ache out of his hands. ¡°Seriously, just tell me next time. Look, what do ya want me ta do?¡±


    Istroama looked directly into Symeon¡¯s eyes, as if looking for something. Symeon leaned away slightly, discomforted by experience. ¡°I need you to be the fire, Symeon. Feel it, call it, make it subject to your will. That seems to be your strength, so we begin there. As you proceed I will explain what you need to know.¡±


    Symeon stood listening, very carefully not speaking or moving as he thought about fire. Istroama continued his monologue, pacing around Symeon as if inspecting a cut of meat on the hook.


    ¡°There are two major factors to be aware of. First, magic is fleeting. It only lasts as long as it¡¯s consuming mana. If you create fire with magic, the fire will vanish when the mana is withdrawn. The changes the spell enacted will remain. To revisit the idea of creating fire, what it consumes will stay consumed.¡±


    Symeon was trying to concentrate, but still asked questions. ¡°So what about the heat? The magic fire burns, it goes out. Does the energy just go with it?¡±


    ¡°No, no it does not. So if you wished to start a real fire, you would create an intense spark to create sufficient heat so as to cause mundane ignition. Oh, I say, well done, that was very quick!¡±


    Symeon was having issues concentrating in the face of his visible results. There was a sphere of visible heat-shimmer an arm¡¯s length in front of him, about the size of his head and radiating sweat-inducing warmth. ¡°What you have there, friend Symeon, is what we call a hotspot. It¡¯s not a real spell so much as an expression of mana, but it is a good starting point for fire magic. Go ahead and give it more mana. Oh, and if you ever actually say ¡®Hotspot¡¯ while creating one, I will whip your flanks until you are very sorry indeed.¡±


    Symeon strained to make more happen. ¡°Man, I can feel it. I got more, I just can¡¯t get it out.¡±


    Istroama sat down to watch Symeon. ¡°Hmmm. Worse than I hoped, better than I feared. Maintain it at this strength for as long as you can, please.¡±


    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Seconds passed with no change, then minutes while Istroama rubbed his scalp, feeling the beginnings of stubble on his brow and wondering at it. With fifteen minutes gone and no variation, Istroama stood again with the stick at the ready. ¡°Do you feel any weakness or strain?¡±


    ¡°Nope. Honestly, I think I could do this all day.¡±


    ¡°Really? Interesting. How about now?¡± The question was accompanied by a probing jab between the shoulder blades with the whippy-stick.


    ¡°OW! Knock that off! Don¡¯t make me use myself on ya.¡± Symeon flinched and the hotspot wavered, but nothing more.


    Istroama jabbed Symeon twice more despite the objection, and seemed satisfied when the spell stayed up. ¡°Right. Well done, you can stop now. I have good news and bad news.¡±


    While Istroama was talking, Symeon had grabbed a branch for himself. ¡°C¡¯mere for a minute, Istroama.¡±


    ¡°Oh ho! A friendly duel! Well, I simply must accepWHOA!¡± Symeon had launched a feinting jab with his offhand, and when Istroama reflexively flinched brought the stick around to strike across Istroama¡¯s hip with some force. The branch was not terribly substantial and shattered, and Istroama¡¯s robe cushioned much of the blow, but the strike still stung.


    ¡°Oh I say, poor form Symeon!¡±


    ¡°That wasn¡¯t a duel, that was payback for wackin¡¯ me over and over. Ya wanna duel?¡± Symeon retrieved another branch. ¡°We can go round ¡®d round if ya want.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. Let us ¡®go round and round¡¯ as you say, in the spirit of healthy competition. Oh, I do envy you, having the opportunity to learn magic AND combat from me.¡±


    ¡°Shuddap ¡®n fight, fancy lad.¡±


    Symeon and Istroama sparred there in the field for a while. Both men were somewhat awkward in their movements. Istroama would fumble on occasion as he forgot himself and attempted some epic leap that was only sensible without gravity, while Symeon seemed unused to his own size, leaving himself open to grazing blows when a block came short of protecting an entire limb. It became clear that Istroama was objectively the better combatant, but Symeon made up the difference in mayhem, using the terrain to his advantage and not hesitating to grapple or throw objects. All the while, Istroama explained his perspective on Symeon¡¯s magic.


    ¡°So, the result is in line with my predictions. Moreso in fact, as I underestimated the severity of your state. You were able to conjure at an acceptable strength for a beginner, but you were unable to¡­ I say, unhand my weapon sir! Why would OW! Abusing my inability to shapeshift, I see. Oh, I shall be using that maneuver for myself, well done. Right. You were unable to increase your flow, which is going to limit your abilities. On the other manipulator¡­¡±


    ¡°Hand. It¡¯s called a hand.¡± Symeon took the moment to kick some stray moss toward Istroama¡¯s face, causing Istroama to backstep. Symeon followed up with a stabbing lunge which Istroama batted away.


    ¡°...hand. Interesting. You were able to maintain that spell for a ludicrous amount of time. I was watching your mana through the process. One data point is insufficient for a conclusion, but I suspect your regeneration outpaces your capacity to use it. That would be VERY interesting indeed. And THIS!¡± Istroama stepped in close and brought his shoulder into the larger man¡¯s chest. Symeon staggered with surprise as Istroama capitalized by bringing the stick down over Symeon¡¯s wrist, causing the man to drop his branch in pain.


    ¡°C¡¯mon now, that hurt. Friendly duel, right?¡±


    ¡°Oh, rub some filth on it and fly it off. You¡¯re the one with regeneration.¡± Istroama began pacing around the campsite while Symeon watched a bruise form on his wrist, turn lurid colors and fade to nothingness in moments. ¡°Here¡¯s the short of it. If I¡¯m right, you¡¯re not going to be hurling meteors about, but you will be able to throw various bolts until we¡¯re both thoroughly bored with it. Well, bursts are more likely, bolts are really a Momentum thing.¡±


    "This is somethin¡¯ else, ya know? I mean it''s great, but if I understand ya right magic makes most of what I know pointless."


    ¡°I don¡¯t follow.¡±


    ¡°Well, I got a whole mess of stuff in my head about survival. I got a stack of ways to make clean water, start fires, I can gut ¡®n skin just a ridiculous bunch of things, but if I can just conjure stuff up it¡¯s¡­ wait. What about water and air? What happens if I conjure somethin¡¯ someone consumes ¡®n then stop the spell?¡±


    ¡°Ah, it¡¯s been tried before. Doesn¡¯t work, I¡¯m afraid. Each body has its own mana, and when you try to pierce that mana your spell tends to fail. It¡¯s why most magic goes for impact over penetration. Water and air would disperse before intermingling with your target.¡±


    ¡°Honestly, that¡¯s sort of a relief ta know. So! I can use magic to make somethin¡¯ as long as I maintain it, but then it goes poof.¡± Symeon rubbed his hands together with glee. ¡°Naw, yeah, bein¡¯ able ta conjure a tool on demand? Bein¡¯ able ta generate heat? That¡¯s a whole bag of shortcuts right there. Hey, can I use magic ta move stuff ¡®n have it stay put?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s a fundamental usage. One could call up a Wall, but it is a constant drain. The alternative is to move existing matter to become the wall, and then you¡¯re done and able to do other things. Assuming the wall can stand without magic, of course.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m gonna abuse this so hard. WOOO! I¡¯d say let¡¯s get ta work, but if I¡¯m right this isn¡¯t gonna be much work. Come with me, yer gonna keep teachin¡¯ while we go get some lumber. Ya said Presence was gravity, naw, yeah? If that¡¯s magic, tell me how I make that work, buddy.¡±


    ---


    The Lasle trees that made the forest by the river were simple plants, with no spark of sentience. This was a blessing, as Symeon and Istroama laid a merciless culling on the tree line. Symeon didn¡¯t call up anything grand, but he never stopped and under Istroama¡¯s direction the variety of magics blossomed. Tree trunks were systematically ground at with tiny, blasting razors of Water, the imperiled tree then seized with a cushion of Air and guided down. The path to the river was purged of growth with a thin sheet of Fire, and Earth used to both bury the embers and smooth the way.


    Istroama found few moments where he felt the need to bring a branch to bear against Symeon for speaking or gesturing while using mana, and was delighted to move on from Elemental magics to the Esoterics. Presence let Symeon lift Chthonian Imps out of the river in helpless, fist-sized clumps, then vanished them into magical space with Absence. Momentum and Inertia were used to great effect in slaying any Myriad that was senseless to draw too close, slamming them violently into the ground or simply locking the insectile wings to cause them to fall into the river..


    Of the last two magics of the ten, Istroama said nothing, content to let Symeon be ignorant of the more dangerous powers for the time being.


    So it was that Symeon carved a swathe through the forest, with a steady stream of wood coming forth to the campsite on cushions of Presence and Momentum. The industry came to a halt for a time while Istroama explained the deeper interpretations of magic.

 1-15: Easy Mode

    ¡°It¡¯s really quite simple, friend Symeon. Each element and each esoteric is aligned with either order or chaos. As humans, we are inherently chaotic, and thus find Fire, Water, Presence and Momentum to be natural fits. Especially Water.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Why what?¡±


    ¡°Why would Water be chaos but Air be order? Why are Humans better with Water?¡±


    ¡°Because Gods, friend Symeon. When in doubt, the answer is because Gods.¡±


    Symeon finished roasting a Lasle nut with a maintained field of Fire, and handed one of the three portions over to Istroama. ¡°Seems damn arbitrary ta me.¡±


    ¡°Yes! You understand!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, naw. I¡¯d say it¡¯s all gibberish but here I am, cookin¡¯ lunch by starin¡¯ hard at it.¡±


    Istroama pointed at Symeon with his uneaten chunk of Lasle nut, a rising fervor in his eyes. ¡°This is just the beginning. We haven¡¯t even delved into complexities, yet. That was my specialty! And with you having unfettered access across the spectrum, we should be able to come up with some cantrips that make up for your limited output.¡±


    ¡°Complexities. What like mixin¡¯ stuff? Fire and Water to make steam or somethin¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Well, yes, you can do that, but that¡¯s not what I mean. Each type of magic has a secondary aspect, a complexity. I would say the complexities are where real power comes from. I myself focused on the complexities of Fire and Water, being Energy and Time. Oh, nothing like stacking multiple explosions in a temporal fragment! Drains the old mana pool dry, but a fine way to reduce the foe to scattered epidermis."


    There it was again. This affable, pudgy little hairless man, now less hairless with a day of stubble built up, would reference lethal mayhem with the same casual tone as discussing the flavor of the water supply. "Yeah, naw, we don''t need ta be blowin'' anything up. Let''s talk walls. I get I can''t just make a wall outta nothin'', but I can shape one outta stuff I had ta hand?"


    "Oh yes. Just a matter of how you wanted to do it, really."


    "Okay. Let''s say a mound of earth. I just drag some over to where I want to build, then use magic to make sure it stays up after I turn off the mana?"


    "Correct."


    "Then we got two jobs today. I need to build us a village so we can let those poor bastards back at the beach loose, and we need to see if we can unlock your magic too."


    "I say, I do like that! How shall we proceed?"


    ------


    Istroama did not, in fact, like that once presented with the fine details.


    Symeon had pointed out three things he had done the day before that Istroama had not. First, the duel against the Imp known as Flappy. Second, releasing Istroama from a chrysalis. Third, keeping guard through the night by the fire. Istroama had no objection to avoiding that fearful ''sleep'' experience again, and releasing a chrysalis was not something Istroama could do.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Thus, while Symeon experimented with shaping soil into hillocks with magic, Istroama had been sent to the beach with the task of "gettin¡¯ some blood on it". There were assurances that if the screams got too loud Symeon would cone running, but these were made as Symeon was engrossed with the complexities of Water, Earth, and Presence. Water to Time, Earth to Growth, and Presence to Life, Symeon was using all three in various degrees to grow and shape plants among the mounds of soil.


    ¡°Naw, yeah, it¡¯ll be fine. If yer not back in an hour I¡¯ll come lookin¡¯. Now get. I¡¯m on ta somethin¡¯ here.¡± This all said without making eye contact, utterly focused on a Lasle sapling that was visibility growing under his attention.


    So it was Istroama found himself trudging toward the beach, a spear of mana-shaped wood clutched in his manipulators¡­ hands¡­ and a vague unease in his heart. It was not so bad as when he had gone into the forest alone, but regardless Istroama found his form reacting in unexplained ways. Sudden quivers, moisture gathering on his exterior, the tiny follicle nubs on his limbs puckering uncomfortably. His body was a traitor against his intent, but he steeled his will against these anomalies and went forth in search of a worthy foe.


    He also completely failed to notice Symeon following him at a distance. To be fair, Symeon was using the complexity of Air, Knowledge, to enhance his senses in support of that distance. He had no intention of having Istroama go out alone, but wanted his companion to feel some level of stress in case that too was a factor in activating magic. Thus, Symeon stalked behind, ready to intervene if matters escalated badly.


    Istroama wandered up the beach, stopping at times to observe the unchanged Chrysalises and the floating node of Fire out over the water. The Fire node was a source of interest not just to Istroama, as the waters beneath it fairly frothed with strange life. Misshapen things reached out to bask in the heat and power, only to be pulled beneath the waves by other beasts with the same yearning.


    A good start, but not the goal. The creatures seemed thoroughly enamored of the node, and Istroama¡¯s presence was doing nothing to change that. Istroama took some time to gather some varied stones, and then completely failed to hurl those same stones with any semblance of accuracy or distance. That is when the cursing started, as Istroama began to vent his frustrations with the situation and the world at large with increasing aggression and volume. His vitriol drifted toward the gods; with surprise and satisfaction he noted one of the larger Imps pausing to consider Istroama.


    ¡°Oh, you didn¡¯t like that, did you? Your gods are bad and you should feel bad! Unfettered Chaos gives suboptimal results!¡± Istroama snarled and kicked some sand as he drew a deep breath. ¡°THE FAR DWELLER IS DAMP AND UNPLEASANT AND DIFFICULT TO TAKE SERIOUSLY!¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes, that¡¯s high quality blasphemy there¡±, Istroama chortled to himself as that large Imp peeled away from the churn and pulled rapidly through the waves toward shore. Istroama took up his spear with glee. So much of this new world was unfathomably alien, often horrific, but violence? Violence was a universal constant he understood very well.


    Symeon was still well back, using senses enhanced by the complexity of Air, Knowledge. This gave him a better view of what approached, and seeing it Symeon began to close the distance just in case. He had seen these writhing things on the long-gone carcass after he first woke. As before, it resembled a serpent¡¯s tongue that was forked on both ends, laden with insectoid legs like a centipede, though this specimen was twice as long as the meter-length one he had seen before. It slithered on the surface of the water like a snake, the multitude of limbs tucked close to its body.


    As the Fleshripper Imp cleared the churning foam, Istroama had his spear at the ready, guiding the tip with the lightest of movements from the butt of the weapon. The tip danced before the Fleshripper like the reflection in a mirror, faltering only when Istroama tried some experimental leaps back. Each time the result seemed unsatisfactory to him, as if he expected to go much further than he did. Soon enough he set his heel in the sand and began essaying a series of short, sharp jabs toward the creature¡¯s swaying mandibles, resulting in aggressive bites toward the spearhead. This did not last long. Istroama lunged in to meet one of these bites and the Fleshripper came away twisting in pain as the point gouged deeply. There was no hesitation in Istroama¡¯s pursuit, lancing into the upper segments of the carapace and out the other side. The beast found itself skewered on the sand, thrashing in agony against the spear to no avail. Istroama kept it pinned until the thrashing faded to twitching and then grew still.


    Symeon found himself in that same mental space he had reached before regarding Istroama; the man seemed naive, almost foolishly upbeat, and then he would exercise lethal mayhem without a hint of hesitation. It was both impressive and frightening, and now he found himself in the position of having to decide what to do next. He decided honesty was the best policy, and went down to meet Istroama.


    ¡°We can sure check killin¡¯ an Imp off the list. Ya hardly broke a sweat on that thing.¡± Istroama beamed with pride as Symeon continued on. ¡°Only thing I¡¯d say is ya gotta double-tap.¡±


    ¡°Double-tap?¡±


    ¡°Give it one more stab to make sure it¡¯s not playin¡¯ dead. These things are treacherous, the one that came after me tried to stick me in the back after it was downed.¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes, of course. Seeing to the survivors.¡± Istroama withdrew his spear and drove it into the head of the creature, splitting it open with a wet crack but eliciting no reaction from the corpse.


    Symeon flinched at the sound of the blow. ¡°Wow. Yeah, naw, I wouldn¡¯t put it that way, but you¡¯re right.¡±


    ¡°Maybe I should hunt another Imp, just to be sure. What do you think?¡±


    ¡°I dunno. I mean, if we could get some useful bits off these things, maybe, but I can¡¯t think much of a use for any of this thing I couldn¡¯t just slap together with magic. I¡¯m not about to eat it, that¡¯s for sure, we got plenty of food at camp.¡±


    ¡°I say, there¡¯s a point. What are you doing here? You said you would be working at the camp?¡±


    ¡°I did, ¡®n I did. Work¡¯s done to my satisfaction, ¡®n it didn¡¯t seem right lettin¡¯ ya go off on yer own. Used Air to stretch my senses ¡®n keep an eye on ya in case ya bit off more than ya could chew. Not that ya needed any help, in the end.¡±


    ¡°Well, that was very good of you to worry about my well-being, friend Symeon. Let¡¯s be off! I do want to see what you got up to at camp.¡±

 1-16: Feels like Cheating

    The camp had changed significantly since Istroama had left on his Imp hunt.


    Central to the changes was the fire pit. Previously a vague oval of loose stone and sand, those materials had been gathered up and fused into a solic mass in the form of a low circular wall, with a larger semicircle bracketing it a meter away. The tops of the walls seemed to be without seam or join, pleasantly smooth to the touch.


    Beyond that, it appeared four Symeoncanes had been planted in the soil and grown to enormous size before having the tops cleanly removed. They were both the size and general shape of barrels, but the wooden substance of them had seemingly been turned into stone.


    Finally, the crude A-frame was gone, and in its place was a cluster of four Lasle trees of equal height and girth. About a third of a meter off the ground they supported a wooden platform, with another platform on a slant about two meters above that. The whole was festooned with vines of Istroama Peppers, full and lush with fruit.


    ¡°Well, this is exciting and new. What is it?¡±


    Symeon swept around the campsite as if he was presenting fabulous prizes to a lucky contestant. ¡°Fire pit! Now we don¡¯t need to worry so much about losin¡¯ control of the fire. Well, mostly.¡± Symeon peered at the pit with a speculative look in his eye. ¡°I¡¯m thinkin¡¯ about replacin¡¯ it with an in-ground fire hole, bit more work ta clean but less smoke ¡®n sparks. Still! Easy! I just shaped all the rocks ¡®n muck with Earth and  fused it all with Fire ¡®n more Earth, ¡®n slapped the whole mess with a dose of Inertia just in case. That¡¯s the trick, Istroama! I can¡¯t make anything big happen in the moment, but I can just keep goin¡¯ ¡®n goin¡¯!¡±


    Symeon continued past the fire, gesturing with great sweeps at the stone barrels. ¡°These over here are my water barrels. Took some Symeoncanes, grew ¡®em with Earth, Water ¡®n Presence, then killed ¡®em stone dead with Earth ¡®n Absence. HA! Stone dead! It¡¯s funny because I petrified ¡®em! Get it?¡±


    ¡°Not in the least, but I¡¯m happy that you¡¯re happy. So. Water barrels. They do something with water?¡±


    ¡°Naw, yeah, we can use ¡®em to catch rain, or store water. Whatever. I can clean ¡®em ¡®n boil ¡®em whenever it¡¯s needed, so I figure we might as well have ¡®em right here. Then there¡¯s the shelter! Look at that, Istroama! Isn¡¯t that somethin¡¯?¡±If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°It certainly is a thing. I quite like the fruity bits.¡±


    ¡°The Istroama Peppers. Naw, yeah, I said it ya smug goof. So, the shelter! I grew these trees just like the Symeoncanes, but without the whole turnin¡¯ ¡®em into stone thing. Best bit is I grew those platforms from the trees! It¡¯s all one big livin¡¯ hut! I wanted walls too, but I haven¡¯t really worked out how ta do gaps in ¡®em. Wasn¡¯t sure about usin¡¯ the vines as a substitute, but I went with it in the end, obviously. I figure anything that might be drawn ta the peppers either isn¡¯t a threat, or if it was a threat it¡¯d be comin¡¯ for us regardless. So we¡¯re off the ground ¡®n the roof is solid!¡±


    ¡°Much improved, friend Symeon, much improved! Does this mean we can open the Chrysalises now?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d say we can pop a couple open tomorrow, especially if ya get yer magic workin¡¯. That means no sleep fer ya tonight!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m quite alright with that. Horrible stuff, sleep.¡±


    ¡°Hmm. Weird that I don¡¯t feel tired myself. Here I am, up ¡®n at ¡®em. Must be the stress or somethin¡¯ keepin¡¯ me wound up.¡±


    Both men had settled onto the semicircle bench around the fire pit. Symeon used a thin stream of Momentum to move random scraps of wood from the pile, floating them leisurely through the intervening space to drop into the pit. Istroama watched this process with an undisguised look of longing. ¡°Ah, let it be that magic comes to me on the morrow¡±, Istroama sighed. ¡°Now, why only two rescues? Surely you can have sufficient shelter for more made over the day?¡±


    Symeon carefully kept his hands down, despite the unconscious urge to snap his fingers or point as he worked Fire into a hotspot that caught the wood aflame. The hotspot dropped, and the mundane fire carried on, making a merry little blaze. ¡°Problem is, when ya came out of that Chrysalis thing, ya were a total mess. I had ta carry ya outta there, ¡®n after that I had ta help ya with the whole ¡®not bein¡¯ able to fly¡¯ shapeshifty thing. I think one-on-one is the best way ta deal with it. If it works right, we¡¯ll be able ta let four out the next day, ¡®n eight after that, ¡®n what¡¯s left the day after that. That said, all bets are off if ya can¡¯t get yer magic workin¡¯. Water¡¯s easy enough to boil with magic, but I dunno if I can feed that many people even if I¡¯m grownin¡¯ peppers ¡®n nuts nonstop.¡±


    ¡°I see. So how can I help, friend Symeon?¡±


    ¡°Well, I can¡¯t make somethin¡¯ outta nothin¡¯. I need more seeds, more water ¡®n more earth. Can¡¯t pull it all out of the area around camp, can¡¯t be buildin¡¯ on a bunch of ditches and pits. We should probably fill in the holes we¡¯ve already dug before one of us snaps an ankle.  Naw, yeah, just keep workin¡¯ until¡­ I dunno what we¡¯d call it. Sunset? The nightly eclipse?¡±


    ¡°Labor until dark. Understood.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Istroama, I¡¯ll be right there with ya.¡±

 1-17: Wander, my Children

    I would tell you, my children, of how Sheila came to be. I think. Time is strange to the divine, and to the incorporeal, and I have been both for so long I worry I am a stone in the river, not understanding the flow but where it touches for a moment. Sheila¡¯s genesis is stranger still, insofar as I understand it. In truth, it was not until Sheila was gone that I could safely follow her path back in an effort to piece together what had occurred. With the looming presence of the Hive Mother, I dared not do anything but hide in the moment. I do not know if I was successful in this endeavour, or if the goddess saw me and simply did not care, but I dared not risk her attention. Thus, my observations of Sheila are passive and posthumorous. Thankfully even my passive attention was more than enough to parse her thoughts, though there were strange untouchable places in her mind, and a point where all of her that might have come before was unseeable to me.


    So, Sheila.


    Imagine you could choose your form with no repercussions, my children. Many would choose to be the epitome of beauty. However, with the ability to be anything on a whim, some might choose to delve into the freakish and bizarre. So it was with the people of the Oruke, whose forms were fluid to their will. What was beauty when you could be anything? Often, the aspiration of appearance was not to be perfect, but to be remarkable.


    Sheila, for her part, was not one of the Oruke, but her options were much the same as the shapeshifters once had. She initially sought the form of the ancient enemies of her tribe, but found no such creatures as ¡®Emus'' existed in Lubuoruke. This did not deter her.


    Her form began so much like yours was, my children. Yet she stretched it to strange proportions to attempt to meet her goal. Her legs were long and thin, dark and vaguely scaled, and ended in wide, flat black feet. Above the too-high knees the legs disappeared into a veritable forest of coarse brown feathers packed densely around a squat, plump torso that sported a virtual bustle of feathers from her rump. The arms were much like the legs, feathered instead of scaled but bearing far more strength than appearances would suggest. A long neck emerged from and continued the feathered mass, tapering down to hold a child-sized head.


    The face was what really exposed what Sheila had done. The eyes, the beak, the feathered crest, black and browns and seemingly mundane on cursory examination. However, when one looked closely enough one would note the eyes were multifaceted, the beak a rotated mandible, the feathered crest and indeed all the feathers were innumerable feathery antennae. Sheila made her desired form from what she had, and what she had was an abundance of insectoid portions. She made her choices and all was darkness. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Her form was like that of yours, my children, and she warped it on a whim to abomination. I hate her, my children. She shall not be spared. None shall be spared.


    I will not be spared.


    Sheila was born from a blue chrysalis at the edge of a hot spring in a place of sweeping mesas, in a different shadow of possibility, and strode from that crystaline womb with purpose. The accompanying chrysalises of her new tribe she opened immediately, and the new Maddish saw the aspect of insects upon her and knelt in awe. They were most pious, these Manifest Maddish, true devotees of Grandfather Chaos, and proved difficult for Sheila to lead without resorting to religious inspiration. She learned her magics within the day, and then aided the rest with their own development. In so doing the Maddish clan proclaimed her Champion of the Hive Mother, and obeyed her commands insofar as creatures of Chaos obeyed any law at all. Sheila, for her part, saw no reason to disabuse them of the notion of having a divine mandate.


    The singular male in the tribe was a true fanatic, and as small slights gathered he distrusted Sheila¡¯s faith more and more each day. He would defy her in small ways to test her, and with each test grew more bold. The apex was choosing to ignore Sheila¡¯s warnings against eating scavenged mushrooms without consulting her. The male died howling peaens to the Hive Mother, with hideous foam pouring from both ends.


    Yet the six slave-gods of the Oruke are not absent or powerless, but simply reduced. And the Hive Mother, the goddess of passion, the sky and the seasons, was close enough to hear the dying supplications of the poisoned believer.


    So it was the remainder of the tribe was visited by that alien, insectoid gargantuan, and they sacrificed to her greatly despite Sheila¡¯s objections. Sheila¡¯s hold on the tribe was largely broken. While they still respected Shiela and her knowledge, this was the Hive Mother, one of the three servants of Grandfather Chaos! And when the Hive Mother began to fly away, the tribe followed in her wake, abandoning all else in thier fervor. Sheila followed behind, trying to gather all they might need for a journey.


    As they chased in the wake of the Hive Mother, Sheila brought them back into her fold in small ways. She ensured the spawned beasts of the tribe bore all manner of useful burdens, she gave aid to the wounded, and as always, she stood vigil through her sleepless nights.


    The Hive Mother travelled far; her influence crossed the boundaries of clashing possibilities and made the places of her transition align. So it was that the tribe of Sheila traversed the shadows of Lubuoruke, crossing from shard of potential to shard of potential in the wake of divinity, my children.


    Until they came here, to Alsualsu.

 1-18: Moving on Up

    Istroama had sat vigil through the night, and while he was happy for having avoided the horrors of sleep, he was not in the best of states for having done so. He labored through the morning fundamentals with frantic anticipation, combined with a lack of rest, which saw him almost backpedal into the fire at one point. Symeon sat him down in one of the Lasle-tree huts, and instructed him to relax.


    Istroama was entirely in accordance with the idea of relaxing, but he found once again his immutable body acting without his instruction in small ways. The very thought of having his magic restored to him found his flesh acting of its own accord, expressing as involuntary movements in his manipulators. Inquiries on the matter to Symeon returned the response of ¡°nervous energy¡±. The term was used with such utter ease that it was a comfort, but still didn¡¯t explain the issue. On the other manipulator, when Istroama actually managed to relax he found his eyelids falling, his whole self sliding into horrible, horrible sleep. This he solved with a sound strike across his owns legs with a handy stick, which set off a round of pointless bickering between Istroama and Symeon.


    ¡°NO! I will not go to sleep, you depraved lout! I have no time or interest to devote to your so-called ¡®requirements of life¡¯! You¡¯re managing to do without, so clearly¡­¡±


    Istroama¡¯s eyes went wide as his manifest appeared before him. ¡®Defeated a Fleshripper Imp in single combat.¡¯ ¡®Defeated miscellaneous animals.¡¯ ¡®Vigil of Fire.¡¯


    ¡°Shut up! Dearest friend Symeon, shut up now! It¡¯s happening!¡±


    A single glowing square, livid orange, was travelling toward the eight indentations at the bottom of the manifest. Symeon had a clear view of the process as Istroama had rushed over and embraced him. Both heard a woman¡¯s voice announce, ¡°Impresario. In the shadows, yet they stand upon his shoulders.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that happened ta me too, now get offa me ya kook!¡± Symeon was struggling to peel himself out of Istroama¡¯s grip to no avail, but stopped struggling as the manifest filled with words.


    Mortal.


    Access to all Chaotic aligned magics.


    Teaching skill moderately increased.


    ¡°YES!¡± Istroama was jumping up and down, still with Symeon in his grip, knocking Symeon about for a few moments before Symeon slipped free. ¡°All Chaotic Magics! That¡¯s immense, friend Symeon, immense! I used to have Fire and Water, but now¡­ oh, Presence and Momentum and¡­ oh, I can set up zones! I can throw proper bolts! Quick, let¡¯s find something to obliterate.¡±


    ¡°Easy there partner, stuff that needs obliteratin'' will still be there later. Small steps first, right?¡±If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    ¡°Yes, right. Of course. I must explore my expanded powers with logic and reason. The analytical approach will see us through.¡±


    ------


    It took an hour to get the fire under control. The time spent was not aided by Istroama dancing around the Zone of Flame he had spread around the once-grassy brush, singing in tone-deaf fashion about ¡°how many things I¡¯m going to immolate.¡± Symeon did his best to suppress the effect with Water and Earth but he simply couldn¡¯t match the area covered except over time. Once Istroama was shaken sufficiently to cooperate the matter was effectively managed.


    ¡°Well there you have it, friend Symeon. I¡¯ll have to put some imagination into this, but no more simple time-linked bursts and sprays for me! I¡¯m going to make my killing FANCY. Oh, I wonder what a Burst of Gravity would OW! You hit me!¡±


    Symeon had indeed slapped Istroama hard on the arm, leaving a palm-shaped redness behind. ¡°Ya said a spell name. That¡¯s a slappin¡¯ in the Issy Training Method.¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t casting you daft brute.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I know.¡±


    ------


    Any animosity in the moment was forgotten as they started exploring more directed magics. The balance of the day was in the attempted manufacture of tools by Symeon, as he used Earth to slowly shape and condense random stone into a hefty mallet, which delivered a pulverizing blow when swung at a stump. Unfortunately the stone haft cracked with the force of the blow rendering the project a write-off. The following  experiments with sand saw the steady production of thick glass. Symeon had thus far only made simple bowls and knives of the stuff, but with a bit of finesse and experience he could see real possibilities.


    Meanwhile, Istroama had conjured a ball of light to hover above him as he marched through the wood to the river. The light drew the insectoid Myriads in for some reason Istroama couldn¡¯t fathom, but he was happy to exploit the situation. Ah, blasphemy! What a delight to indulge in sticking his mid-digit up in divine defiance! It was hard to resist the urge to waggle his fingers like some primitive but he maintained his dignity as a man of culture and unleashed a barrage of Firebolts at the Myriads while standing in what he felt was a contemptuous pose. The insects shattered and burned, and the smoking chunks raining into the river sent the Chthonic Implets into a feeding frenzy. Those Implets were swept up in a Zone of Gravity, hovering helplessly over the river for several seconds as Istroama realized he hadn¡¯ t prepared a way to contain the beasts. As they dropped abc into the river, Istroama considered that Symeon could have likely flown a cluster of the things all the way back to camp. No matter; lesson learned, and Istroama pulled his blade for the purpose of gathering Symeoncanes.


    ------


    The mood when Istroama returned to camp with a pair of large Symeoncanes full of Implet flesh was positively gleeful. While Istroama¡¯s magic wasn¡¯t ideal for creaton, Water and Presence could do a decent job at accelerating plant-growth despite his lack of Earth magic. Symoen, on the other hand, could manage all sorts of tricks as long as the scale was limited and he had sufficient time. They agreed, conditions were ideal to start releasing more of the Chrysalises. Symeon took a moment to curse at the useless sundial with its unchanging shadow, and then they were off to the beach.


    The march was blissfully Imp free. Both men set small balls of Light using Fire magic to ease the way, which did nothing to help them see the crowd gathered around the Chrysalises before the crowd saw them.

 1-19: Trade Deals

    Symeon and Istroama drew up short as the sounds and shapes of multiple beings moved among the Chrysalises. Large beings, oddly shaped in the dim light. One voice sounded out as the rest grew still.


    ¡°Hey, hi! Hi! Friendly! No pivepi, friendly! Look, there¡¯s gonna be a fuckoff big beast floating by, but don¡¯t freakout, okay? It¡¯s harmless. My people are following it, more or less. You¡¯re humans, they won¡¯t aggro on you, okay? I¡¯m hoping I can trade with you while my tribe goes past.¡± Her strange, ill-proportioned form emerged into their light. ¡°Friendly , okay?¡±


    The men exchanged a look as Symeon asked, ¡°I got maybe two thirds of that. What about ya?¡±


    ¡°Less. Still, she claims friendship and the Maddish are usually well-disposed to our kind. If she really wanted to harm us she¡¯d just have that bunch overrun us with no warning.¡±


    ¡°Madish? She¡¯s a Maddish? How can you tell?¡±


    ¡°The lines of magic are clearly evident.¡±


    ¡°...evident.¡± Symeon finished in time with Istroama. ¡°I¡¯m just gonna keep walkin¡¯ into that one, I just know it.¡±


    Symeon wasn¡¯t sure what to expect from the Maddish. Istroama had mentioned them in passing before, In that they were Chaotic and tended to have talent in Fire. This one was bizarre. While taller than Symeon, Sheila¡¯s height was primarily from her ludicrously long thin legs and neck. Her torso was a comparatively small sphere, and her head was child-sized. The whole was covered in odd brown feathers, and her face was dominated by a strange beak that bordered on being serrated.


    Regardless, Istroama seemed confident in the good will of the Maddish. Symeon pulled his knife from the scabbard, and then dropped the blade on the sand before walking toward her. ¡°Okay, I¡¯m friendly if ya are. Let¡¯s talk.¡±


    She dropped her bone spear and came closer with her hands in clear sight. ¡°The name¡¯s Sheila. Sorry to rock up on you like this. My crowd is passing by and we could use some stuff. Containers, if you have them. We can trade weapons, hides, some spare animals.¡±


    ¡°Well, Sheila, I¡¯m plenty happy ta trade with ya. Name¡¯s Symeon, ¡®n this here is Istroama.¡±


    Istroama had approached by this point, and gave Symeon a light shove. ¡°That¡¯s Istroama Claimant, thank you very much! And my friend Symeon Allegedly, of course.¡±


    ¡°Whoa. That¡¯s legit too. How¡¯d you guys earn last names when you¡¯re still in your baby robes? You must have seen some shit.¡±


    ------


    The crowd turned out to be a number of Maddish females, burly and raucous, who set up camp in the burned area near the huts. With them they had a small number of four-legged  pack animals that Symeon¡¯s lore marked as ¡°Bottleos¡±. The Maddish wandered in and out of the camp in small numbers to consult with Sheila on innumerable trivialities and would stare for uncomfortable lengths of time at Symeon and Istroama.


    ¡°Not sure what¡¯s on with the ladies tonight. They¡¯re not usually this nosy around new people.¡±, said Sheila and she took a sip from a crude hide flask. She made to hand the container to Istroama. ¡°You fancy a drink?¡±


    ¡°Well certainly! I must say, most clever use of epidermis in this. I can see the advantages over the barrels we¡¯ve been using.¡± Istroama took a generous pull from the flask, which ended quickly with a violently spraying spit-take. ¡°Curse the six! That¡¯s not water!¡±


    Symeon picked up the flask and observed what appeared to be a fearful gaze from Sheila toward the Maddish camp. ¡°No, that¡¯s the¡­ well, not the good stuff. The stuff. Look, you need to be careful around the girls, right? Me, I don¡¯t care, but the girls would crack the shits if they hear you running down the gods.¡±


    Istroama had retreated to get some water from the barrels, while Symeon took a taste of the flask and flinched. ¡°Woo, that¡¯s the stuff alright. Ya drink this on the regular? How are ya not blind? How are ya not dead?¡±


    ¡°Eh, it¡¯s just a bit of the Bottleo, no worries. Great for getting pissed, cleaning wounds, starting fires. Mostly starting fires. You haven¡¯t seen Bottleos before, yeah? We can trade you one if you¡¯d like.¡±


    Symeon leaned back and side-eyed Istroama going through a couple litres of water in his personal struggle against alcohol. ¡°Naw, yeah, Bottleos are the livestock y¡¯all have, you get this hooch from them?¡± The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Even as he asked the question his strange knowledge was painting a picture in his hindbrain. Great, shaggy things like bison with stag antlers, but not actually mammals. The Bottleos were in truth something akin to ambulatory pine trees. In the wild they would wander about grazing on other plants not to feed, but to brew the chewed mush into high-proof alcohol in their bellies. Given enough of said product, the Bottleo would seek out fire to ensure the pinecones growing among its antlers would have the heat and open space they required to germinate. The violent explosion of the Bottleo in this process saw to it that both the pinecones and the fire spread quite widely. Domesticated Bottleos were ¡°milked¡± regularly to ensure the reproductive instinct didn¡¯t trigger, and were otherwise wonderfully docile pack animals.


    ¡°Oh yes. The girls keep the herd well drained. They¡¯d drink straight from the Bottleo if I didn¡¯t scold them for it.¡± Sheila was looking over at the gently retching Istorama and sighed. ¡°Look, why don¡¯t you and I take a walk to check out the herd? We can talk without the enpeeces making things weird.¡±


    ¡°Ya what now?¡±


    ¡°Seriously, you¡¯re still in the baby robes, I¡¯ve been there. The Bane won¡¯t let us get into it with them around.¡±


    Symeon blinked a couple times in consternation, but came up with the same result. ¡°Ya what now?¡±


    ¡°Are you a ripper? Piece of piss, I can do that.¡± Sheila sounded out in an exaggerated, raised voice. ¡°Huzzah good, sir, I implore you, accompany this fair maiden to the Bottleo herd so you may inspect them at your leisure.¡± She winked at Symeon repeatedly while saying this.


    ¡°Um, okay. Bottleos. Let¡¯s walk.¡±


    ------


    ¡°So you don¡¯t need to tell me, but it''s relevant. How many days on your equipment?¡±


    Symeon considered his options as he walked with her, and couldn¡¯t think of a way the information could harm him. ¡°Five days, give or take.¡±


    ¡°Okay, that¡¯s pretty good. You really should get your people out of those Chrysalises as soon as possible though. More time you have to bond with them before the duration ends the better. I dragged my heels for too long, nearly lost the tribe when the male got a wild hair about the Hive Mother.¡±


    Symeon just nodded and listened. He hadn¡¯t much to add to the conversation, best to let Sheila talk.


    ¡°That¡¯s the thing with Maddish. Soldiers of Chaos. You don¡¯t really get the premise until you are one. Chaos needs a big horde? Lots of ladies and few lads. Short gestations and big spawns. So I wake the tribe up, and they listen to me as the wise woman for a couple days, and then the mojo runs out and they¡¯re just a big old bachelorette party who want to follow the one male in the bunch around. What a bloody fruit loop he was, too. Full on fanatic to Chaos, didn¡¯t like me one bit, just would not listen to reason.¡±


    Sheila took an intimidatingly long swig from her flask, and dropped her voice to a low bass. ¡°The Three provide! Behold their bounty! Watch me eat these poison mushrooms!¡± Her voice returned to normal. ¡°Total drongo, died foaming from both ends and hooting on about Chaos all the way through. My bad luck, Chaos heard him.¡±


    Symeon thought back to the ¡®experimental blasphemy¡¯ of the previous days. ¡°That¡¯s a thing that can happen?¡±


    ¡°Yes it is. Not sure if it¡¯s a servant or an avatar or what, but something the girls think is Hive Mother turned up. Now it¡¯s me following the tribe instead of them following me. They¡¯re good girls, I don¡¯t want them marching off a cliff trying to follow that thing, but that¡¯s just what they¡¯d do if I don¡¯t watch out for them.¡±


    Sheila took another eye-watering swig of Bottleo. ¡°Anyway, get your people out and about soon, if you can.¡±


    ¡°Guess ya can¡¯t talk about this stuff in front of the Maddish.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Hard to know what the Bane will forbid around enpeeces, too.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s an enpeece?¡±


    ¡°C¡¯mon, can we drop the ripping for a bit? Look, you have my advice. Get your people on their feet, get them working. Make some gear to cover for when ACK.¡± Sheila¡¯s speech came to a choking halt, whatever word was in her mouth lost. Her tongue was stuck out of her beak, shining with chitin in the light of Symeon¡¯s magic. A moment passed and her speech returned. ¡°Seriously? One of the girls must be in earshot. Bloody Bane. Look, we¡¯ll hook you up with some hides and a Bottleo if you want one, you churn out a pile of those barrels so I can strap ¡®em to my herd. Zero effort on both our parts, more than fair, really. Let¡¯s get back. Bloody nosy enpeeces.¡±


    ------


    ¡°I say, I hope you had a productive walk. My time has certainly been productive!¡±


    Istroama was by the campfire, smiling widely while crowded by a dozen beastial Maddish. All manner of mammalian features abounded in the pack. The largest Maddish, elephantine both in size and in aspect, loomed behind Istroama holding a staff that appeared to be made of dark resin, with innumerable eggs encased within. Symeon was going from confusion to confusion, while Sheila sighed and facepalmed.


    Istroama continued with evident pleasure. ¡°We¡¯ve been negotiating while you were examining the Bottleos. They¡¯re willing to muck in with the labor while they¡¯re here. Isn¡¯t that right, Enusmung?¡± Istroama gestured to the elephant-woman, carefully avoiding her tusks. ¡°Enusmung has been more than helpful, I must say. Wonderful ladies, all. They have very passable usage of our human tongue, though I fear some ideas aren''t translating well. Apparently they''re looking for... what was it your were looking for, dear Enusmung?"


    The elephant-Maddish thumped the resin staff once on the ground, with force enough Symeon could feel it from across the campfire.


    "GOOD HARD SHAG!"


    "Of course. They''re looking for a good hard shag. Haven''t quite worked out what a shag is, but it seems to have something to do with whatever they have going on down there in the pelvic region. Utterly baffling if I''m being honest, but still! Fascinating stuff."