《The Glass Wizard - The tale of a somewhat depressed wizard》 Prologue
The darkness crept in like a thief, stealing away the light and leaving in its wake only fragmented shadows. It was an absence that swallowed everything, an all-consuming abyss, a sinister chasm of bewildering proportions. And within this shrouded phantom, a terror lay in wait, an enigma of nightmares. Spawned from the very heart of nothingness and nourished by the essence of the forsaken, the creature took shape in perpetual flux. Its grotesque form contorted and writhed, a macabre dance of defiance against the laws of sanity, a maelstrom of chaos crystallised into corporeal shape, a primordial terror clawing given form and voice. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! Sorcerers who sought it were blind to their instincts, and those who saw it were blinded by fear, for once the creature had captured their gaze and set its sights on them, escape became an illusion. It would pursue across the tapestry of dimensional planes, manipulating the threads of reality to entangle its quarry within an inescapable snare. And as it closed in, it unfurled arcane secrets, revelations incomprehensible to the frail mortal mind. Echoes of ancient deities and forsaken realms wove through its whispers, tales of power unfathomable to the human psyche. Those who succumbed to the allure of its voice it lured, captured and kept in the ethereal world behind the mirrors C in the realm of shards. Here, madness lay siege to their mind, trapping them in a nightmare of their own making, rendering them broken, fractured creatures. Legends whisper of its eternal existence, an everlasting sentinel that has observed the ebb and flow of reflections since the birth of luminance, a lurking malevolence observing yet unbroken existences across the ethereal divide. Across epochs, it lay in wait yearning for the moment they dared breach the barrier, the siren call of the unknown. With each reflection it ensnared, it grew stronger, more terrifying, more relentless, no longer a thief but a predator.
Ch. 1 — Northlands. Cave - Mirror Phantom
A FLICKER OF MOVEMENT crossed his reflection. Yves stared, now observing the mirror intently through his second sight. Nothing should be on the other side. No one should be able to follow him. But he was a Lightshifter, which meant that he did not believe in the tell-tale trick of the light. He had caught the attention of someone. He had just returned from the mirror world, the dimensional plane of shattered energies that he accessed through his ethereal mirror. It was crafted from stolen knowledge and forbidden magic, infused with a witch mother crystal half ball that carried both a dragon heartstring and a moon shard. Through arcane incantations and glass magic, these artefacts allowed Yves to transgress dimensional planes. He had done so many times, but he had never encountered a sentient being in the mirror world, let alone another wizard. Now, however, he felt the emergence of a powerful essence that was not rooted in his reality. He felt it within his mirror, as if someone was standing right where his own reflection stared back at him, the threatening presence growing stronger with each passing moment. And then his reflection grew dark and distorted, a silhouette of shards and shadow pressing itself against the glass and speaking mute words that made the glass tremble.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. I??????????????????????????????????? ?????????????????????? ?????????????????????S?????????????E??????????????????????E????????????? ?????????????????????? ???????????????????????????????????????Y????????????O?????????????????U?????????????????????????????? Yves shot forwards and dislodged the crystal half ball from its socket, thereby breaking all ties to the other plane. As he did, the presence disappeared, leaving only Yves own, horrified reflection staring back at him. Yves did not need to call out. His familiar, a sleek pathera named Midnight, had already returned to his side. Without a word, they left their cave accommodation for the lighthouse.
Ch. 2.1 — Northlands. Lighthouse Hideout - A sorcerer for seven seasons ...
THE LIGHTHOUSE stood as their closest and most refined refuge, nestled in the northernmost reaches of the continent. A hideout accessible only with great difficulty, both in the tangible realm and in the elusive mirror plane. Yves had crossed paths with his fair share of rivals and mercenaries in the past, all seeking the potent magical artefacts he had acquired during his tenure as an artefact hunter. Some of these artefacts possessed undeniable power and value, while others remained shrouded in enigmatic secrets. With many, Yves had not deciphered the true potential they entailed. Most of them were simply trash. To safeguard these treasures, he had devised three discreet hiding places, of which the lighthouse was the most warded against detection. Before his induction into the Emery Thurm Academy, Yves had grappled with his Lightshifter abilities. Much like many young wizards, he had once harboured aspirations of being a Worldbender instead. The art of manipulating light and glass didnt come instinctively to fledgling wizards; it demanded months and years of guided instruction to unlock its potential. At eight or nine years old, the prospect of creating shards or shifting light simply seems far less alluring than the grandiosity of shapeshifting or elemental control. It can be a frustrating revelation to be stuck with your innate spectrum, especially within the halls of a wizarding school brimming with novices who wielded the very Worldbender spectrum you actually yearned for. Over time, most novices come to terms with their once-thwarted childish desires, instead realising their own potential and limitations. With age came a deeper understanding of your own spectrums value genuine or feigned. As a novice, Yves honed his skills in manipulating glass and light, crafting intricate illusions that wove false realities. He quickly discovered the vast realm of magical artefacts potent items infused with arcane power capable of rewriting history itself. Together with his pathera familiar Midnight, Yves travelled the world as an artefact hunter, visiting ancient ruins and studying the magic and history of different cultures. Along the way, he engaged with fellow wizards, scholars and guides, sharing insights and gaining knowledge from their varied experiences. Over the years, Yves had encountered and amassed an assortment of beguiling and mystical objects. Among these treasures was a staff crafted from the heartwood of a sacred tree that held the power to coax objects within a limited radius into levitation and motion by touch. This versatile ability allowed Yves to manipulate his surroundings far beyond the confines of Lightshifter wizardry. For example, Yves could employ his staff to raise and move heavy objects, be it boulders or fallen trees that obstruct his path. He could also use the levitation ability to create makeshift bridges or platforms to access to otherwise elusive terrain. While this power was not as flashy as some of Yves other abilities and did not possess the inherent grandeur of true elemental magic, it proved a beacon of practicality throughout his myriad escapades. The staff became his compass through treacherous landscapes, an invaluable tool to uncover concealed treasures, and a means to outmaneuver his assailants. Yves, of course, recognised that the staffs potency was proportionate to his proficiency. He pursued relentless study and ceaseless practice to unearth its magical nuances. For now, the levitation ability was a valuable asset in his arsenal, and one that he relied on often, steering his path with precision and navigating challenges that would have otherwise been insurmountable. Setting aside extravagant narrations and grandiose embellishments of daring escapades, the staff had made Yves downright lazy in everyday life. He had stumbled upon a shortcut to effortlessness C a philosophers stone for magical slacking, a scepter of sloth that lifted and carried everything from laundry to groceries. That was the true reason why he was particularly adept at handling the thing. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
His most valued possession was the witch mother crystal half ball that was rumoured to grant wizards from the Transcender spectrum the rare ability to peer into other dimensions and glimpse at the shadowy forms and otherworldly beings that traversed these realms. It was this very crystal half ball, infused with the power of the arcane and rendered even more potent by the intricate arrangement of shards that constructed Yves ethereal mirrors, that had served as his conduit into the realm of mirrors. Without the crystal half ball, his two mirrors allowed him to travel between them, from one mirrors location to the others. With the artefact inserted, the mirrors transformed into gateways between his reality and the world of shards. The crystal half balls role was pivotal, a tether between the tangible and the ethereal, an instrument that bridged the chasm between planes with a mere insertion. It was the witch mother herself who had first imparted to him the knowledge of ethereal mirrors. They were artefacts that eluded him a lattice of portals weaving an intricate network of reflective surfaces that crisscrossed the world of magic. With these mirrors, a wizard could unravel the veils concealing the unseen and travel between dimensions. Yet, they held more than mere curiosity for Yves, they were a demand placed upon him by the witch mother, a mandate that set his course. At Emery Thurm, the academy where he had studied and developed his Lightshifter dispositions, Yves had embarked upon a covert odyssey to obtain access to the banned Tome of the Ethereal Plaine, a repository of cryptic truths sought by the witch mother. It had been a challenging feat, as much orchestrated coincidence as it had been accidented fate. The academys fortifications were formidable, safeguarding its hidden knowledge within labyrinthine chambers ensconced deep below its venerable grounds. These chambers were sealed with ancient runes, shrouded in illusions, and ensnared with cunning traps, individual sections often only accessible to wizards of specific dispositions. Despite that, Yves and two other students had found and unlocked one of myriad concealed and seemingly forsaken chambers during his second year. Within the enigmatic confines of this chamber, they had encountered a runed portal pulsating with latent power. It had read:
A sorcerer for seven seasons shall steer the shattered seas, seek stolen shadows submerged in silver spheres of sun, send song to soaring skies and speak what he not sees.
For over three years, they had toiled relentlessly, deciphering and adhering to the cryptic demands woven into the runes, before the portal had led them ever deeper into a web of hidden passageways intricately threaded through the expansive castle walls. Advancing month by month and year by year, Yves, Prayan and the Prince Regent had encountered diverse and dangerous challenges until they had eventually gained access to the forbidden underground chambers. And then Yves was forced to leave Emery Thurm. A culmination of events had led to his expulsion, but on the day he walked out of the academy grounds, he had taken with him the arcane knowledge to forge ethereal mirrors. After leaving Emery Thurm, Yves and Midnight embarked on a sweeping odyssey that traversed the vast expanse of the Midlands and the rugged heart of the Western Mountain Ranges. The journey wove through serene valleys and perilous summits, as Yves sought out wizards, oracles and time-worn ruins in the relentless pursuit to identify and collect the elusive components necessary to craft the ethereal mirrors. The Midlands echoed with the clash of magic against steel against fang, as Yves and Midnight were not only pitted against the wild forces of nature and primal tribes but also against challengers who sought the same artefacts that ignited their pursuit. Amid these grueling battles, Yves found solace in the pages of tomes and scrolls, diligently deciphering and translating the instructions that held the key to his ambitions. And as the seasons turned, the crescendo of his efforts surged. He studied and battled, he suffered he bled, he failed and he persevered. His endeavour to amass the myriad components required for crafting the intricate mirrors was one of symbiosis. It was a fusion of honed skills, garnered wisdom, and battles that etched scars upon his flesh and spirit, whereby his mastery of light and glass magic culminated in the creation of these enigmatic portals.
Ch. 2.2 — Northlands. Lighthouse Hideout - On Ethereal Mirrors
During his student life, the events from the enigmatic encounter with the witch mother to the discovery of this first hidden room within the academy had set the path for Yves artefact hunter future. From an early age, the trajectory of Yves life had irrevocably shifted. Beyond the rigors of his standard curriculum, he had learned to translate arcane languages, decipher long-lost sigils and decode riddled spells. Most of all, he had learned what power may lay infused in artefacts. He learned that there were dark forces in the world, entities driven by avarice that coveted these relics for the supremacy they bestowed C without ever considering himself as such a force. Would others? Yves considered the possibility that the mirror world stalker saw him as a threat. But who would go through the effort of hunting him in the mirror world instead of in their dimensional reality? He discussed this thought with Midnight, but could not come to an obvious conclusion. When they talk, it is usually Yves who speaks his mind and Midnight who listens. She does not talk back, but Yves likes to imagine that she listens a bit more intently whenever she agrees with him. More horrifying would be the possibility that the presence he felt was not another wizard, but a mirror world existence, one of the many moving, shattered entities that Yves had encountered while exploring the equally fractured plane. But they had never emitted any noticeable presence, let alone intentions to communicate. Yves traversed the confines of the lighthouses chamber, his vivid memory recreating the malicious presence standing right in front of him, in its intensity to be felt even across planes. What if his use of the crystal half ball and his frequent travels through the ethereal mirrors had somehow caught the attention of something dangerous. He couldnt ignore the possibility that his presence had disturbed and caused an unknown entity to consciously seek out him, his mirror and, with that, the dimensional barrier between their planes.
He paced, his steps echoing his mounting anxiety, each stride propelling him deeper into the heart of uncertainty while his much too rich imagination painted unsettling scenarios of their next encounter. The contemplation swirled in his mind, a vortex of questions, doubt, and the frisson of fear. As the minutes bled into each other, Yves restlessness found him drawn before the witch mother crystal half ball. He settled at the timeworn wooden table, his eyes locked onto the reflective surface. His own image looked back at him, the hollow stare of a non-Transcender ensnared by the tendrils of instinctual foreboding. It was a phantom whisper. Was he, to the dimension of shards, not a spectator but an intruder, an anomaly disturbing and disrupting sentient existences in that world? Yves looked away from the crystal half ball. No. He covered the crystal half ball with a piece of cloth. Clearly, it was a wizard who had addressed him. He turned the first of his mirrors face-down on the table. That was the only logical explanation. He turned the second mirror face-down. It was obviously a wizard who had spoken to him. He placed his cloak atop all three artefacts. The voice he had heard was not some supernatural echo, nor a stray entity. No, it had been that of a wizard. Very unmistakably.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. He moved away from the table. If indeed someone else had mastered the art of crafting ethereal mirrors, it had to be a wizard with intimate access to the academys safeguarded underground troves of arcane wisdom, most likely a tutor or erudite sage of the most exalted order. For Yves to create and achieve control over the ethereal mirrors just a few years after nearly completing his academy curriculum was a triumph, but it also signalled the potential for more seasoned wizard to achieve an even grander mastery. If Yves could collect all components to craft the mirrors within a few years, so could a multitude of tutors and scholars who had access to all of the academys vast collection of artefacts and resources. If he managed to create the ethereal mirrors at the mere age of twenty-one, so could those wizards who had mastered their skills long before he was even born. And if he had learned to traverse the mirror plane consciously in just three years of unguided practice and exploration, there was no telling what a luminary could do after thirty. Yves second sight was incredibly poor. Both in the real world and in the realm of shards, experienced illusionists, shrouded by skill and knowledge, could surely conceal themselves from his limited perception. The presence had appeared right in front of the mirror, right on the other side of the barrier, which meant that the wizard must have drawn near undetected while Yves had performed the ritual to return to his own plane. A chilling realisation. Even with the barrier between them, the tremendous resonance of the wizards power had reverberated across dimensions, a power imbued with an unmistakable undercurrent of malice. In the depths of his being, Yves felt he had stood in the overwhelming presence of an unparalleled master. One question hung heavy: why did this wizard not seize him immediately? Why announce his presence instead? I see you, the voice had said. Well, Yves needed to make sure that those words would become an empty declaration. To be cautious, Yves needed to believe that a wizard who understood the intricacies of the mirror plane would sooner or later be able to identify and track him in both dimensions. He would be extremely powerful and skilled, which his presence had attested. If he was sent by the academy, he already knew who Yves was. The lighthouse, desolate, secluded and warded in this plane and blocked off in the mirror dimension, was the safest place to be. Signalling Midnight to rest, Yves walked back to the table and looked down at his mirrors through second sight, which made their strong energies visible below the coat. The ethereal mirrors were a creation of intricate artistry, with a diameter of roughly 40 centimetres each. Yves moved the coat aside and turned his favourite of the two mirrors back up. Its frame, a dark crystal of unparalleled craftsmanship, pulsed with an inner radiance, giving off an almost iridescent glow under the light of the two floating orbs that illuminated the underground chamber. Engraved onto the crystal were ornate sigils, an enchanting display of shifting symbols that seemed to morph and transform with each subtle change of illumination. The centre of the mirror held a delicate socket, meticulously fashioned for the witch mother crystal half ball that was the key to activate the mirrors magical properties. Crafted from the same enigmatic dark crystal as the frame, the socket bore minute, delicate etchings that were infused with an inner light. It was a fusion of artistry and enchantment that bespoke his mastery, a vessel poised to bridge the gap between dimensions. As Yves carefully placed the mirror on the floor and then the crystal half ball into the socket, the surface of the mirror rippled, showing but a distorted, fractured reflection of Yves looking down onto the glass. The warm light of the two orbs casted ephemeral patterns upon the dark crystal. Within this interplay of radiance and reflection, the mirrors surface remained opaque, concealing the ethereal realm that lay beyond. There was always a sense of dread lurking just beneath the surface. This was a realm where the boundaries of reality bent, where the laws of the known world held little dominion. In this dimension, Yves was both corporeal and insubstantial. He existed as an enigma, where his identity teetered between tangible form and ethereal abstraction, where he was never fully real. Despite the vulnerability that came with submitting himself to a realm that he just began to understand, despite the terror of being deprived of his physical form, there was an undeniable undercurrent of anticipation that surged within through Yves whenever he dared to transgress dimensions once more. In the past three years, he had painstakingly honed his ability to navigate this mysterious plane of shards, which meant that he had learned to walk and see in the most literal sense of the words, to roam an uncharted domain teeming with potent magical energies. But now, as he stood before the mirror, dread gripped him. Taking a steady breath, Yves initiated his ritualistic spells, a cascade of his own magic surging through him. He stepped onto the mirror and, with an orchestrated release of energy, vanished from this dimension.
Ch. 3.1 — Dimensional Plane of Shards. Lighthouse region - Entering the Mirror World
THE WORLD HE ENTERED was both familiar and strange, both mesmerising to behold and terrifying. Everything appeared shattered and in constant movement. It was as if the entire world was made of glass and darkness, with vast crystal constructions stretching off into the distance. The sky was a deep shade of grey. The air was thick with an acrid smell and a strange energy that Yves couldnt quite put his finger on. The ashen light was refracted in bizarre ways, creating unreal reflections and eerie, twisting shadows. While Yves could never focus clearly on the shattered silhouettes that every so often passed him like fractured shades, he never failed to hear the ominous swelling of soaring sounds that penetrated the air. It was the thundering of mountains breaking apart in the far distance, of rushing sand constantly underlined with indistinguishable mechanical ticking and clicking. Yves felt the sounds revebrating within himself, but, looking down, could hardly recognise his body. To his own eyes, he appeared like one of the many grey shadows that existed here. Some emitted a sensation of beauty, with wings that in this monotonous world had the faintest traits of colour, while others were grotesque, with twisted limbs and teeth that gleamed in the strange ashen light. Where he was now, there were only few that he could vaguely spot in the near distance. Feeling reassured after a thorough assessment of his surroundings, Yves bend down to pick up the crystal half ball, which had entered this world with him, and then left the immediate vicinity of the mirror. His spell kept it anchored in place. With his poor eyesight, Yves had to be careful not to confuse the wandering entities with his surroundings, as they often seemed to blend into one another. His presence never seemed to bother them, but it startled them greatly when he touched them by accident. None of them had ever emitted a noticeable presence like that which he had felt just after returning, and they had never interacted with one another or himself. As he delved deeper into this strange land, Yves discovered structures that defied logic and imagination. Despite its name, the mirror world did not reflect a reverse image of Yves reality. There were shadow constructions that twisted and turned in impossible ways, and structures that seemed to be made entirely of fractured ashen light, with twisted tree-like poles and jagged mountain formations jutting out of the ground. Yves couldnt help but feel a sense of awe and wonder at that which he might not perceive. While he honed his skill as a glass wizard to near perfection, he was no longer able to become a seer or visionary. By day, he was a decent light shifter, but he could not see or capture light in the dark, as other glass wizards could. Not anymore. Likewise, as these skills are directly connected, he struggled to recognise the otherworldly and outerworldly without the help of his artefacts. It was a disturbing disadvantage.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Yves reached an overarching grey and fractured structure that appeared to him as a narrow tunnel surrounded by vast, thick, impenetrable grey masses. The dread of an unknown observer made him more anxious the further he moved away from his mirror. He entered cautiously, his eyes darting around as he searched for any signs of the eerie presence. While his reality and the mirror world differed greatly, he had often found that elemental forces coincided. He had entered the mirror world several times from within the lighthouse and it was here that he had first learned to see and walk this plane. By now, he recognised the thick, suffocating wades of grey that surrounded him as the ocean. Regardless of where he entered the mirror world, lakes and oceans always formed barriers as a high as heaven. He believed this unusual passage in between to be the narrow and flooded path of land that connected the lighthouse with the continent. He did not know about the pursuers abilities, but Yves himself could only leave the lighthouse area through this slim passage, and even here, movement was difficult, as if fighting against invisible forces. He looked for changes in the structures around him, hoping not to find any traces to the pursuers presence, any hints that he had already crossed the tunnel. But everything seemed untouched. If the wizard was still pursuing him, he did not yet find him in this isolated part of both their planes. Yves would not leave their next encounter to chance. He decided to block and hide the path that led to the lighthouse area. However, he had needed three years to learn how to enter and navigate his mirror world existence and had never succeeded to use his energy for anything beyond that. The rules were different, the energies more elusive and capricious. In this world, reality was twisted, warped, creating a partial reflection of the elemental world that was both strange and perilous, while harbouring unknown beings and energies that Yves could hardly grasp. To cast magic, a wizard had to connect with the essence of the world itself, absorbing the energies that flowed through it and then channelling them through himself. Yves was a Lightshifter. His core disposition was glass magic. All other skills that he developed in casting lights and illusions also belonged to the Lightshifter spectrum. The spectral division of magical potential meant that he was unable to realise abilities that wizards from the two other spectra possessed naturally, such as influencing and utilising the elements, but it gave him the unique ability to enter this world as a fractured shadow of his physical self, a being that was both physical and incorporeal, caught between two dimensions. Even though Yves did not originate from this plane, existing in the mirror world was proof that he could use magic in this dimension. He utilised the energy that he brought with him to uphold his form, to see and to move. Now he needed to extend this influence from his body to his surroundings. In any dimension, casting magic exhausted a wizards magical energy. To manipulate the mirror world would demand more of his energy. The Tome of the Ethereal Plaine had warned him of exhausting his innate energy to a point where he needed to absorb that of another plane that was not his. Yves had translated the riddled words as a process of consuming while being consumed. This would be his first time altering the mirror plane. However, everything Yves had done within the last ten years, from obtaining the tome and all necessary pieces to creating the ethereal mirrors up to mastering basic control of his mirror world form, would have eventually lead to him casting magic in the mirror plane. It was necessary to fulfil his agreement with the witch mother, so he might as well start now.
Ch. 3.2 — Dimensional Plane of Shards. Lighthouse region - Shifting Shards
Yves had spent years mastering glass and light magic, and he refined his illusions with every day. There were, of course, periods where he did absolutely nothing with his life, but Yves did well to omit these weeks from his memory when looking back on his training. He was not always good at life, but he was good at magic. In his reality, he was adept at compressing light and using the properties of glass to amplify and focus his magic, generating devastating attacks that could shatter the very fabric of an opponents reality. He would create complex illusions and that were both beautiful and deadly. The magic he used was not just limited to visual effects. He could create illusions of sounds, smells and touch. Now he needed to adapt his knowledge to the unique properties and energies of this dimension. He was a Lightshifter. He was disposed to master this plane. This world was already fractured. All of this was shards and light. All of this was glass and light magic. All of this was possible. Standing within the narrow tunnel, Yves raised his hands and touched the thick, impenetrable grey masses to his right and left. He would block the narrow passage that connected the lighthouse with the continent by pulling the solid sides to a close. To change and destroy the tunnel, he had to find a way to connect with the fractured barriers that were its walls, to feel them with his magical energy and influence them. He simultaneously needed to grasp and distinguish, mentally and magically, what was shards and what was light. Yves could extend his senses but struggled to do so with his energy. He recognised the walls, their weight, their texture, and their shape. But he could not get a hold on them. His magical energy slipped off them like water off a ducks back. It was so difficult because this was not his original body. He was physically reduced to a fractured shadow being. Like an infant, he had spent years learning to see and to walk. Like a child wizard practicing to cast magic for the first time, Yves had to re-learn how to consciously direct his innate energy and how to extend his range of influence beyond this altered physical form. He tried again and again, centering himself, listening, feeling, visualising, growing his awareness for the energies within him and reaching out for the world around him, making his energy pulse within his chest and from there expanding the radius ever so slightly with every beat until it reached and then exceeded his hands, and whatever else you would suggest to the frustrated child wizard who was at the brink of throwing a tantrum because he was just not getting it. After an eternity, Yves could feel his directed stream of energy pushing against the weight of the grey walls just below his hands. With every ounce of his magical strength, he compressed his energy to impact and alter the reality within the mirror world. He pushed his condensed energy into that of the wall, penetrating the structures to feel and grasp the shards that were the grey tunnel walls. But nothing was as he expected. The shards were there, but as he tried to merge his energy with them, they moved. They did not resist, not in a conscious or directed attempt to evade his influence, but they were in constant movement.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Shards did not move, not by themselves. In Yves'' world, shards were magical substances given physical form. They were constructed by wizards. But in the mirror world, everything was fractured. In this plane, they were the world. They were, for the lack of a better word, the elements. Yves could not believe what he was thinking. In this plane, these shards that framed the passage between the lighthouse and the mainland correlated to waves. There was a mesmerising order in their chaotic dance. Yves focused and felt, until he recognised circular patterns in their movements. Painstakingly slowly, he adapted the flow of his energy to this pattern to then imbue and infuse it into the shards as they moved. He meticulously adjusted and expanded his grasp until he gained control over their movement, and then he pulled. The resistance was staggering, the strain alarmingly painful. He could hear a faint hum, akin to the sound of the rushing sands but resonating much deeper, growing louder and louder until it was deafening. The pressure on his arms intensified, the strain became excruciating, threatening to rip them from their sockets before he would shift the grey masses. Pain and exhaustion closed in on him at an alarming speed. Yves dreaded to lose consciousness, but he could not stop. He needed all his senses to fixate on what he was doing. As he manipulated the thick barrier, the mirror world retaliated with unprecedented power. The forces of this plane sought to compromise his very essence. They bore down on him with unprecedented strength, distorting his fractured, shadowy form. The more energy he expended, the more he depleted himself, the less substance and resistance he posed for the surrounding forces. They surged towards the vacuum that he created, the vacuum that he became. To separate his essence from the mirror world energies that tried to fill the emerging void, Yves needed to uphold a protective barrier around himself, a fragile shield against the encroaching chaos. The dense, impervious walls began to shift and converge before him, closing off the narrow passage ahead. What took mere moments in his world was millimetre work in this plane. The pressure grew suffocating, the strain pushing him to the brink. Panic threatened to overwhelm him, but he knew he was on the verge of success. With the tunnel narrowing, Yves prepared to interlink the opposing sides and weave the shards shut. However, the sudden clash of shard-waves caught him off guard. Instead of harmoniously aligning and melding together, the two parts of the wall violently repelled each other with astonishing force. Yves was thrust backwards, losing his footing and control over his fragile barrier. The sound of the collision was a deafening clash of crystal, its echoes reverberating through the tunnel and hammering in Yvess head. In that instance of vulnerability, the mirror worlds energy, which had so fiercely sought to fill the void shell that was his shattered silhouette, broke through. It was the most undulated energy that Yves had ever felt, raw power that he did not know existed, a torrent pushing into his fractal body to the point of bursting him. He fought to channel, capture, incorporate and control it, he fought to restore the barrier between what was him and what was not, but he was an unstable vessel amassing unsurmountable forces. They broke out of him within seconds. The surge did not stop. In and out, the immense river of energy now ran through him in a deadly cycle that ripped him apart from the inside. Yves could not breathe in this world, he had no air to scream. The world was screaming for him, the rushing sounds of sands now roaring within his mind, churning and shattering his consciousness.
Ch. 3.3 — Dimensional Plane of Shards. Lighthouse region - Well okay thats really all I have
On the ground, on his knees, Yves bent forwards and curled up into a tight ball, pressing his chest and forehead against his knees and his arms around his head. It was a purely instinctive reaction. If you tortured wizards by circulating energy rush, they all did the same thing. In the feeble attempt to preserve itself, the body understood that this pose restricted energy flow as much as possible. From there, Yves training in the duelling arts took over. He took in the pain and countered all instinct to fight the deadly torrent. With all the power he could muster, he used glass magic upon himself. He focused his remaining innate energy to rebuilt and strengthened his fractured physical form. From his core outwards and, simultaneously, inwards from the outermost layer of his body, he weaved the already broken shards of ashen light that built the intricacies of his body back together into a more solid structure. It was brutally painful work, but ever so slightly, he could feel the paths of the stream narrowing. His own energy was not enough, so Yves turned the shards that surrounded and protected his centre inwards. As he did, he heard horrible, long-drawn screeching and realised that he was screaming. It was the first time that he screamed, the first time that his fractured body had ever made a sound. It felt as if he was cutting himself into pieces from within. But with the shards turned just right, Yves could split off and capture and redirect fragments of the rushing energies into the core of his form, ebbing their flow, anchoring them within, using them to further shape and strengthen his own form shard by shard. The fractured shadow silhouette that he had been in the mirror world began to shift, becoming more solid and substantial, until the intrusive torrent subsided and Yves had regained full control over his energy flow. When Yves got back to his feet, it was as if he had transformed himself from a broken reflection into a being of condensed ashen light, a creature that was too substantial to be penetrated or moved. And while he gained substance, his connection to the mirror world deepened. His core was no longer the essence and energy that he brought with him, no longer a foreign body, but in its origin an essence of the mirror world. This new being was no longer a fractured shadow but a creature of light, with ashen glass skin that caught and reflected the dim glimmers of light from the surrounding structures. Yves had managed to stop the immense flow of energy that was surging through him. He had succeeded in controlling it, and he had emerged from the experience stronger and more powerful than ever before. He also for the first time realised that he had a shadow; flickering fractures of dark grey that lay at his feet and scattered across the glass. It was an observation that was as odd as it was random, yet it made him pause. Had he always had a shadow? Was he just never able to see it with his old vision? Or did his transformation, the intake of mirror world energies, change how his physical form was affected by this world? The surrounding shard structures emitted distorted, fractured streams of light, which touched upon the eerie grey mist emerging from the towering waves and now also on Yves. At his feet lay the dark overlay that he called shadow, hardly visible amidst all the fractured chaos, and yet more attached to Yves than to this world. Looking at the tunnel walls now, Yves could see. This was the most overwhelming change for him. Without touch, he recognised the wave-shards structure and pattern of movement. And for the first time since childhood, Yves could see true light fragments. This changed everything. Fixating his vision just right, he recognised their incredibly intricate and dense constellation and further noticed how some of the longest and most complex chain structures were anchored to the wave-shards right and left, some even passing in and out. With that, he understood that not the two walls of shards had clashed against each other, but that Yves, unseeing and unsuspecting, had compressed, pierced and ruptured those anchored light fragments that could not make way. He knew quite too well about the destructive forces of compressed light. Slowly waving his hand through a chain in front of him, he observed how his shimmering arm passed through the frail bonds, which reformed right after. These light chains were the reason why it had been so difficult to walk through the tunnel passage. Yves absorbed their energy and watched the fragments and bonds dissipate and all surrounding elements stir and swirl. Prior to the explosion, this must have been an intricate, yes, even a perfect net. An incredible rare sight in his dimension, as they only formed where no wizard or other existences had absorbed worldly energies for years. Yves straightened up, extended his magical energy and grasped both the wave-shards and the chains of light anchored to them. Recognising his new insight into this plane, he knew that he had the strength to hold and shift both structures. It was an incredible feeling. He had become an existence more of this world, which in turn made this world feel much more natural to him. Using magic felt almost familiar. With the never-ending supply of mirror-world energy to replenish his energy supply, Yves did not have to hold back. It still took practice, but he eventually managed to align the tunnel walls without trapping light fragments between the wave-shards. Grasping and pulling the walls left and right, Yves walked backwards, thus literally closing off the whole tunnel step by step.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Despite the incredible effort it took to accomplish this feat, Yves believed that it was only a temporary solution. He had sealed the passage for now, which should hide it from anyone on the other side. However, the mirror world could not be accessed by an inexperienced wizard. With that, Yves could not be sure that a master of the seer spectrum would not be able to spot this feat of manipulation. There was also no guarantee that another wizard from the glass and light spectrum would not find a way to undo his blockage. But for now, Yves felt incredibly powerful, and well okay thats really all I have hidden. He wanted to remain and further explore his new form, but he was also greatly shaken from the experience. Attentive for all changes in his physical form and, most noteworthy, his sight, Yves returned to find the ethereal mirror that would lead him out of the mirror plane and back into the lighthouse. As he walked, he kept his eyes peeled for any signs of a pursuer. Yves was no stranger to having a stalker, and he was quite familiar with believing to have a stalker. He actually felt stalked and watched more often than not, especially when Midnight was not around to reassure him with her senses that there was no beast, or rival, or witch. Or elf. If you must know, he was currently stalked by a quite horrible witch curse; in his dimension, that is. But all of that paled in comparison to this moment right now. This now was simply horrible, even for the experienced stalkee. With his surroundings more refined, the distinction of grey shapes was much clearer, but he kept seeing nothing out of the unordinary. This did not put him at ease. It just raised his anxiety. And the fact that he really needed a distraction to calm down while he should not leave his guard down raised it even more. But there was nothing except the fractured shadow beings. They seemed to avoid him and flock to the closed path. With his improved sight, Yves could recognise their movement several steps in the distance and their shapes more distinguished. He could also see, for some reason, that they were engulfed by countless layers of nets of light. It appeared as if the nets were not breaking as they passed, but remained attached to the creatures like harnesses. It was an eerie sight to behold, and an equally disturbing explanation for their sluggish, heavy gait. Yves looked from them back to his imminent surroundings. The world was full of extensive, perfect nets of light fragments. In contrast to the creatures, he could pass through them. They opened and closed around him as he walked. This is how light behaved in his world, too, though you would have to travel to the rarest of unspoilt places to find it in such elaborate and natural structures. The nets were countless, spanning the clearing from end to end and reaching far off into the sky. Yves needed to regulate and limit his second sight to not get lost in the sheer geometrical beauty they brought to the fractured formations they framed and adorned. His mirror, too, stood out more. Yves saw it in the distance, shimmering ever so slightly amidst the overwhelming towers of impenetrable ashen waves, its smooth surface a wondrous drop of clear light in this fractured world. What slowed Yvess step was the singular straight path of broken nets that led directly from the mirror past him and further along to the tunnel entry. With no fractured creature in sight, Yves wondered if he had been equally restricted in his old form as these creatures were. Was this why moving had been so strenuous before and now, after his transformation, felt so light? Did his pursuer simply stalk him by following the obvious broken nets of light that Yves had left behind? Also, if Yves could pass through the light nets after absorbing mirror world energy but not with the outerdimensional energies from his own plane that had comprised his first original form, what did that make the fractured creatures? Reaching his mirror, Yves focused on the here and now. He had sealed off the tunnel and only left traces within the clearing. With that, it should not be able to track him. Stepping onto the mirror, he placed the crystal half ball in the socket at the centre and began the ritual to exit the mirror world. However, he stopped abruptly and stared. Now close to the all-encompassing wave-barrier, he recognised distinct patterns in the dark grey surfaces that were, in his plane, the ocean. There was no passage like the one he just closed and in all the times when he had entered the mirror plane from the lighthouse, he had never seen anything but the impenetrable grey matter. But, straining his second sight, Yves now recognised lighter patches that hinted at passages or even an open clearing amidst the barrier, far, far away and then again much further in the distance, where there should be nothing but ocean in his reality. Yves looked around, but the patches seemed to be distinctly concentrated in one area only. He was intrigued, but he did not dare to dwell on this observation. He had already placed his crystal half ball on the mirror, which put him in a most vulnerable position. He was too cautious to delay his departure any further and began his incantation anew. The mirrors light began to fade, losing its soft white light, and Yves felt a tingling sensation in his feet. And then his mirror cracked.
Ch. 3.4 — Dimensional Plane of Shards. Lighthouse region - The Somsaraa
Yves froze. It was the faintest of sounds, barely audible amidst the everlasting noise of rushing sand and mechanical clicking, but to Yves, who had heard thousands of mirrors break during his lifetime, it was unmistakable. It was the most dreadful sound. Looking down without moving or shifting his weight, he observed how his faint shadow flickered across the mirror, but could not recognise any distortions in the glass. Yves looked back up, looked around intently, and then carefully stepped down from the mirror. He bent down to examine the glass closely. There it was. Edged in the smooth surface was the faintest of hairline fractures. This should not have happened. This mirror was extraordinary, designed for ethereal travel. His ritual had been flawless. He had executed his spell precisely, as he had done countless times before, and yet he was looking at a breach in the unbreakable. Was it his new form that had caused this? Had the infusion of mirror world energies, as opposed to his native planes energy, caused this damage? Had it altered the spell itself? Would the mirror shatter again if he attempted another crossing? Oh gods, why did he know fucking nothing about otherworldly energies? Yves broke the emerging downward spiral of petty and panic before it could trap him in a labyrinth of his own ignorance, and forced himself into meditation. He kept his eyes open. Could he reverse his transformation by depleting the mirror world energies within him? Would that leave him with enough of his original energy to sustain his existence? And atop of that, would he have enough left for his ritual? Or would this reckless act of expelling the vast majority of his energy just invite another torrent of mirror world energy, either further distorting his being or shattering his form and existence? As he knelt and stared, both inwards and outwards, he suddenly recognised faint ripples of light and dark greys atop the mirror''s surface. Had it always done that and he just never saw, or was this the mirror breaking right before his eyes? Alarmed, he dislocated the crystal half ball from its socket, upon which all erratic movement stopped. His focus shifted. He did not dare deplete his free-flowing energy, so instead he attempted to forcibly undo his transformation. He tried to deconstruct his altered form, stripping away the mirror world''s influence and reduce his body to something built only from his original energy. It was an audacious effort. The foreign energy was woven into his new existence like tendrils of smoke that had infiltrated every corner of a room nearly void of breathable air. Yves felt as if he was trying to breatheo---just these faint traces of air--------------that had not been enough to begin with,--------------------that were insufficient to sustain life,-----------------------------without inhaling any smoke. The struggle was suffocating,-------------------------------------the process seemingly suicidal. It was-------------------------------------------------------------------------------senseless -------and------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------downright stupid. With each -------------------futile attempt, ------------------------------------------------------Yves realised he could ----------------------------------------------not ----- ----- ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------do it. ------ He needed ------------------------------------------------------------------to stop ---------------------and breathe --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------the smoke. --------He conceded ---------------------------------------------------to the inevitable. ----------He couldn''t strip away --------------------------------------------------the mirror world energy, --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------couldn''t reject the essence that now ------------------------------intertwined with his very being, ---------------------------------------------------------------------couldn''t resist --------------------------------------------------------------------------------the transformative tide -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------that had already claimed him. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------The mirror world energies --------------------------------------------------------------------had intertwined with his existence. --------------------------------------------Depleting himself from the only force ---------------------------that now held his ethereal existence together ----------------------meant destroying himself, --------ripping himself apart from within. And as he caught ---------------his metaphorical breath, he realised that his existence now had become akin to that of one of the most petty races in his world. Humans, a primitive and mortal race,The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. sustained themselves solely through food and drink. Unlike wizards, they could not absorb world energies. Wizards could certainly partake in eating and drinking, but they also had the potential to exclusively nourish their life force with energy. There were numerous records of wizards surviving without physical sustenance for decades. Already during his time at Emery Thurm, Yves had learned that his kommilita had a sheer endless supply of great-great-grandfathers who had apparently set or broken all those legendary records. Yves didn''t see the point of such pride. It was not an accomplishment; it was a choice. If Yves practiced his magic or engaged in quests and duels, he depleted himself of world energy through spellcasting. If there was not enough left to sustain his body, he needed to eat and drink, simple as that. If, in contrast to that, he were to hide out in the farthest corner of the world to do absolutely nothing with his life, he could comfortably and safely sustain himself on world energy. He failed to see how that counted as an achievement. Mastering magic was an achievement, and so Yves used the world energies he harnessed for spellcasting and anything but his own body. Also, eating was far more pleasurable. Well, the key distinction was that humans had a physical body they could only maintain by consuming the tangible world. Some could go for weeks without food, depending on their physical build, but their bodies would decline and consume themselves with every day. More striking was access to liquids. Several independent studies confirmed that there was hardly a human who could survive more than four days without water. In Yves'' dimension, he had a physical body too, but he could sustain it through the non-physical world energies. He could do so willingly. Humans ate, and then their body digested their food on its own. His body did the same when he ate, also on its own. But what he could control was energy. He could actively control when to channel these non-physical world energies to nurture his physical form or, alternatively, to utilise them for casting magic, such as the manipulation of shards and light. Now, the mirror plane was a world of shards and light. There were no other tangible components. Yves'' mirror world form had become just like that, a body constructed entirely of a substance that in his dimension was non-physical energy. He wasn''t composed of flesh or bones; he was made of shards, crystalline and insubstantial. Yes, he had proven that he could mold and reshape his form, but distinguishing his original energy from what he had absorbed within the tunnel seemed an insurmountable challenge. These energies had merged, intertwined, and become an integral part of his being. He had consumed and incorporated them, just like the human body consumed food. They now were his body. Unable to deconstruct the microscopic shards that constituted his current form or differentiate the absorbed energies from his original essence, Yves could not isolate these energies after they had merged. Instead, he turned his focus towards the free-flowing, so to speak non-digested currents required to cast the Somsaraa, the intricate ritual for activating the ethereal mirror. He sought to consciously segregate the mirror world energies from the small fraction of his original essence that remained, a task that felt like trying to sift grains of sand in a relentless desert storm. It was like telling a human: Well, you drank a glass of water. Then you vomited up all the water except for one drop. Then you drank five full jars of poison. Now make it so that your stomach does not digest the poison, but don''t even think about throwing anything up. You see, that last, inconsequential droplet of water is all that stands between you and certain death on your journey home. Lose it, and you might as well start counting out your four days. A mere drop of water and shitloads of poison. The analogy was far from perfect, but who was there to judge? Only the most useless of wizards would venture into the realms of literary arts. If one aimed to shape or subdue the minds of the people, it was a Transcender wanderer they would seek, not a poet. Regardless, the crux of the matter was clear: Yves possessed a minuscule trace of energy crucial for his spell, alongside a colossal reservoir of energy that could potentially shatter his ethereal mirror. Forced to cast aside thoughts of regurgitation and poisoning, Yves urged his body and mind to relax. He envisioned a radiant stream of light cascading from the top of his head, coursing throughout his body. It attracted his original energy while repelling the newfound energy he had absorbed in this dimension. He imagined his own energy following this luminous path to his chest, where it condensed into a compact sphere, with the mirror world energy forming a separate, darker sphere enveloping it. During this intricate process of energy manipulation, the two energies began to take on distinct qualities. The disparity was stark his original energy, though familiar, felt frail, while the mirror world energy was wilder and denser, exuding raw, unspoilt power. Every fibre of Yves'' being revolted at the insanity of intentionally evoking such instability, and his instincts screamed against shifting the most sparce and fragile parts of his essence into his core, but he knew that he needed to maintain, direct and apply only his original essence for the ethereal spell. It did not suffice to separate the energies when they were stationary within him. To prepare for channelling only his original energy into a spell without touching upon the foreign energy, Yves delved into the arcane art of Shyftinge of the Cathalyste, a branch of magical study that he was well acquainted with. To cast magic, a wizard drew energy from his core and then channelled in accordance with the desired spells requirements, commonly to your hands or eyes. Altering or affecting his catalyst allowed a wizard to adapt to such requirements but this was neither the time nor the place to again get distracted with lectures on theoretical complexities. The requirement set by Yves was that he needed to channel the meagre remnants of his original energy through his body without touching the mirror world energy. He needed borders, and for that, he built a glass shard barrier within his core. These shards were directed inwards, their surface structure designed to capture and consolidate his own energies. He used them akin to a filter which only permitted the metaphorical pure air to pass through, while shielding his core against the overwhelming onslaught of mirror world energies. Yves could not alter his mirror world form, but his past experiences of separating and condensing free energies through glass shards allowed him to prepare a barrier gateway right from his core to what were his hands. He knew the Somsaraa by heart, so he knew exactly which path his energy would have to take, but barricading and sealing off every last microscopic segment of this path was difficult, delicate and demanding work. He failed several times. It was straining. It needed to be perfect. Foreign energy must not get drawn into the surge of his own energy once he initiated the ritual. Without pause, Yves placed the crystal half ball back into the socket and stepped onto the mirror. Standing once again on the mirror''s surface, he channelled the core of his being, the scant remains of his original essence, into the Somsaraa. He could not change his form. His form did not change, but he did. He became something smaller that lay within, something that did not exist without momentum, something that could only emerge with and through the spell, to pass through the gateway between two dimension. And while that which was Yves detached from its form, the spell took shape. In this altered state, Yves felt his movements stiffen, his vision blur, and his senses grow dull. And then he felt his surroundings shift. Every time Yves returned from the mirror world to his own dimension, he was subjected to a moment of unfathomable horror. During the transition between planes, as the worlds around him began to shift and twist, the grey and fractured mirror world fading away, there was an instant where he was suspended in absolute nothingness. In this harrowing moment which was too short to measure but too intense to not imprint on all of his senses, Yves experienced an overwhelming fear and dread, as if the entire world had ceased to exist, leaving only himself as both a solitary entity and the entirety of creation, both the only thing and everything that existed. And while he suffocated from the horrendous feeling that the universe imploded into his soul, a reflection of himself would appear. He would see his fractured mirror world silhouette, which was at the same time HIMSELF looking at his tall and slim human form. But because he was everything that existed and there was nothing else C meaning there was not anything more C the other him did not appear in front of him but within him. And yet, for this inescapable eternity, he would witness himself through the senses of both existences looking into the hollow fractured eyes of the silhouette while simultaneously perceiving his own green eyes, which were spotted but not entirely consumed by silver. Only this time, the once fractured form had become much more substantial, a creature of ashen light looking back with silver spotted eyes as well. As he recognised the transformation from the outside, Yves perceived his own reality while simultaneously witnessing his reaction through the eyes of his mirror world self. His very essence was torn apart, cleaved between two dimensional existences. He was being pulled apart with the disappearing mirror world, and put back together all at once when nothingness was replaced by the world he knew. Yves emerged from the mirror plane, his return this time more intense and prolonged than ever before. Returning was always an unsettling experience, leaving him shaken and disturbed for hours, but now he fought to stay conscious, the sensation of something drastically altered within him lingering. As the immediate intensity faded, he stepped off the mirror, feeling a sense of uneasy relief wash over him. With his second step, he collapsed onto the ground, exhausted and drained, yet relieved that he had successfully returned. He knew that he had pushed his abilities to his absolute limits. He had exhausted his energy and felt that he took none of the mirror world energy back with him. He needed time to rest and recover before attempting any other feats of such magnitude. Lying on the floor and breathing heavily, he turned to look back at the mirror and swiftly removed the crystal half ball. Now there was nothing, just a finely crafted piece of glass on the dusty wooden floor. Its surface reflected the spider-infested ceiling and part of the elegant black pathera that lay on a cushion nearby, though not touching the magical object. As he teetered on the edge of losing consciousness, Yves saw Midnights massive body cross through the mirror image. She rose to grab the energy crystal which Yves had prepared and positioned on the table prior to his departure. Carrying it in her mouth, she placed the crystal in his right hand. She nudged Yves with her paw until he responded and began absorbing the crystals energy. Then she lay down by his side. I made sure that we are difficult to find, Yves curled up next to her and placed one hand across her shoulders. She did not object, allowing him to draw comfort from her presence, while he listened to the stormy sea crashing against the lighthouse''s foundation, which sounded much too similar to the rushing sands of the mirror world.
Ch. 4.1 — Northlands. Lighthouse Hideout - Potion of Shame
THE STORM DID NOT CEASE. The stormy sea threw itself against the rocks below, sending ever higher waves crashing against the lighthouse''s foundation. The lighthouse, dating back three centuries, bore the marks that time left on all neglected things. Its stone and wood had weathered, taking on a distinguished, mouldy grey hue. Inside, it was filled with broken machinerary and rotten, forgotten equipment. They were a remnant of those novelties and innovations that Tairan cultures once brought to the Northlands, before they had been subdued and extinguished by the sheer masses of primitive, warfaring humans who had roamed the lands back then. Humans had multiplied and spread like insects until the Humans Restrict Act initiated the strategic containment and control of the human race. The closest monitored human habitat was 140 kilometers inland. No other peoples had settled the coastal region since then. The harsh land was saline and void of wildlife, the winds and winters cruel, and fishing impossible without provoking the wrath of the territorial sea beasts. World energies were extremely sparce. On the desolate coast, wanderers and adventurers were an uncommon sight. Few journeyed to these remote shores, and even fewer still made their way to the abandoned lighthouses and ruins that dotted the coastline. There was no treasure here. Everything had been picked clean decades ago. There was no life. You came here to die, or you came here to disappear from the world, like Yves. Despite the decades of neglect that had taken their toll, Yves had stored his most valuable artefacts and tomes within the lighthouse, safeguarded by layers of protective magical seals and potent illusions. At first glance, the aging structure appeared as nothing more than another weathered ruin, an easy illusion considering its true state of disrepair. This exterior fa?ade was maintained by a glamour spell, obscuring the alterations Yves had made from within: Beneath the veneer of abandonment lay spells that held the structure together. The glamour spell hid all those protective spells that Yves had cast over the building to prevent it from truly falling apart. Similarly, the ground floor held more than met the eye; it was a bastion of illusion and secrecy. A potent anti-detection spell veiled the entryway to an underground sanctuary. To access it, Yves had to enter a narrow gap between the inner and outer wall, originally constructed for a system of pulleys and mechanical workings he never fully comprehended. Within the narrow passageway, he could reach a concealed trapdoor hiding a slender stone staircase that wound its way down to an underground level. Without prior knowledge, an intruder would walk right over it. Even if someone had a genuine reason to search for treasures and actually found the veiled passage behind the inner wall, they would still need to consciously look for the trapdoor. Even a determined treasure-seeker would walk over it, for their attention would be drawn to a ladder conveniently placed beside the entrance. With this ladder, the curious trespasser could climb up between the lighthouse''s inner and outer walls. The original staircase leading to the upper levels had long since collapsed, rendering all but the ground and first floors inaccessible. Any intruders entering the lighthouse would typically explore these two accessible levels and then naturally wonder if there was more to find at the top. Before discovering the hidden entrance and ladder, they would have already concluded that if any treasure remained after centuries, it would be found on the uppermost floors. It was the most obvious and logical assumption, making the discovery of the secret ladder an equally enticing prospect. Anyone attempting to ascend the narrow space between the walls needed to be of Tairan-like or slim humanoid build, effectively deterring most races and adventurers bulkier in physique. Others were left with no choice but to shed their armour or weaponry to avoid breaking the fragile ladder under their weight unless they dared to climb the lighthouse from the outside to then force their way in from the beacon. This tactic was a deliberate strategy aimed at further challenging and impeding any potential intruders. Yves had intentionally sabotaged and weakened the ladder, having removed or tampered with several crossbars for precisely this purpose. These measures might appear insignificant and even rudimentary, given that intruders must already possess the skills to navigate to the coast and decipher the elaborate magical disguises. However, if there was one thing that Yves had taken from his own experiences as a treasure hunter, it was that things should never, suddenly, feel too easy.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. Those who proceeded without getting stuck or breaking their necks would reach an intermediate floor situated just beneath the lighthouse''s beacon. They would not be able to ascend further, since too many ropes, pulleys and mechanical chains obstructed the climb to the top. They would also not be able to access the actual floor. Inaccessible by any other means than from below not counting the obvious Berserker move of breaking through the wall , this floor featured a narrow walkway between the inner and outer wall. You couldn''t go completely around the tower in this secret passage, but you could take several steps to the left or right from the ladder before the walkway thinned out and the inner and outer walls merged. After all, it was not a deliberately designed hiding place, but just space for the mechanics. Well, this walkway now served as an elaborate decoy hideout. Yves'' intent was to both challenge and captivate, to exhaust and excite and eventually satisfy those determined enough to come all this way. Anyone who made it this far must possess determination and magical prowess. Yves made sure to cater to their expectations by actually hiding a modicum of genuine treasure, complete with an array of spells. His web of enchantments included an advanced perception filter that rendered these valuable items indistinguishable from mundane mechanical objects such as clockwork and chains that hung everywhere without discernable order or purpose. Yves had also replaced singular bricks with boxes that held fragile trinkets and coin. Set right into the wall at the most difficult places to reach and coated with the right glamour spell, they appeared and, upon touch, also felt indistinguishable from the other bricks. Worthless objects in turn appeared like moderately well hidden treasure. This layer of final misdirection was essential to make this treasure hunt appear coherent. Yves expected an intruder to exhaust himself unravelling these illusions, eventually finding excitement in figuring them out, rake in the decoy rewards and subsequently depart, never suspecting the existence of the real sanctuary lying far beneath. While the deluded would leave content, only the genuinely skilled and sceptical, those who anticipated and successfully unveiled the hidden underground sanctuary, would prove a real threat. This hideout was Yves'' stronghold, where he safeguarded his most potent and enigmatic artefacts, and where he would prepare for battle against such a foe. In their underground hideout, Yves and Midnight found themselves surrounded by a gentle, dim radiance that emanated from the rock walls. The chamber had been carved from the natural rock formations, its stone surfaces adorned with intricate runes and symbols that glowed with sealed energy. The heart of the room was a large crystal structure, which emitted a soft, soothing light. Ever so often, Yves approached the structure and rested his hand upon its surface. A deep tranquillity and renewed clarity would immediately wash over him. This was his meditation crystal, a well of magical energy he harnessed to center himself. Next to it, Yves had placed a cauldron that was imbued with an enchantment that rendered both the cauldrons magical properties and its contents immune to detection. He got that one from a witch and was not proud of how that came to be. He gathered an assortment of dried herbs and began brewing a potion. Yves followed a recipe he had learned from a witch during his youth, even before entering the academy. With care, he combined various herbs, including moonwort and sprite''s blood, over a roaring silver fire. As he stirred the mixture, he incorporated powdered Sawaya horn and the sinew of a Fairy Butlers wing, which gave the potion a luminous, iridescent quality. This potion was to dissipate into the air, serving as an enchantment to ward off any scrying attempts and prevent any unwanted ears from overhearing his conversations with Midnight. Yves was well aware that this potion, while highly effective, was an unorthodox choice for a wizard. It was shameful for a wizard to use witches magic. The complex animosity between wizards and witches was steeped in history and tensions. Wizards were the more refined and potent spellcasters, while most witches were primitive and superstitious. Despite their animosity, Yves recognised that witches possessed unique insights into natural resources and potion-making that even the most accomplished wizards lacked. Using witch magic was deemed taboo in all respected magical circles, but oh well, so was stealing arcane knowledge from the academys forbidden library or striking deals with witch mothers. Witch magic had its rare advantages, particularly when it came to the intricacies of detection and concealment spells. Yves knew that witches enchantments were difficult for wizards to detect and solve, since they rely on fundamentally different principles. He had learned this the hard way, after spending months unravelling a witchs curse that had been placed on one of his artefacts and from there had moved onto him. As Yves finished his Potion of Shame, he carefully poured it into several small vials and sealed all but one with a cork. Placing the latter on a stand on the table, he stored the others for later use. With the one remaining vial from his last brew, he now had nine vials in total, which would last for eleven hours each. If you asked the witch who had taught him, she would indignantly insist that the potion lasted for 11 hours, 11 minutes and 11 seconds, but Yves, being a wizard, simply had no patience for such number games. Now that everything was well concealed, he needed to rest and to prepare for his upcoming departure. The next thing he did, though, was to use the witch cauldron to make mashed potatoes. He still had potatoes from his visit to the human habitat. Though Yves had restored his energy to great amounts with his energy crystal and was able to soothe his mind with the meditation crystal, something inside him compelled him to eat if only to feel that his body was indeed physical again.
Ch. 4.2 — Northlands. Lighthouse Hideout - Mashed Potatoes
Yves ate sitting on the floor in a narrow alcove of the cavern wall. He could easily create a physical illusion of a chair or simply grab the chair from the nearby table beside his meditation crystal. He could also just sit directly at the table like a normal person. However, against all logic and convention, he preferred to sit here, squeezed into this nook, on the cold ground with his back to the rock wall, his legs bent, and his feet pressing against the opposite side. His bowl rested on his stomach. It was as illogical as it was absurd, but in a peculiar way, it felt different and oddly comforting to view this entirely familiar space from such an unfamiliar and limited perspective. Almost as if, for this brief moment while he huddled there, he was temporarily removed from the world. He could not quite put it into words, because he still had no inclination for the literary arts, but standing always demanded action. And when he sat so impractically, he rendered himself incapable of doing anything. As long as he ate, he did not have to do anything else, because he could not do anything else. As Yves fiddled with his mashed potatoes, his gaze settled on the three weapons beside him. Along the walls of the hideout, he had stored his collection of magical artefacts. In this alcove, he kept his three lightgiving weapons: a Lightgiver Wand, his Bow of Light, and a Lightning Staff. In core, you could distinguish two types of wands: Those which amplified a wizards spell and those that bore their own intrinsic spells. The Lightgiver Wand belonged to the latter category, living up to its name by conjuring light independently of the wielder''s spectral abilities. Yves could infuse it with his own energy in times of rest and then call upon its radiant light when the need arose. It was vital for compensating for his inability to perceive light in the dark. For the same reason, he had the Bow of Light. This longbow was crafted from materials almost translucent, shimmering like nacre. Its string served as a channel. To draw this bow, the wizard-archer had to transfer his energy through the string. However, unlike the Lightgiver Wand, the bow did not store this energy for later; instead, as the string was drawn back, it wove the wizard''s magic into ethereal arrows. Much like the wand''s ability to conjure light, the bow manifested razor-sharp arrows, held at the ready for precise firing. Furthermore, these arrows were no ordinary projectiles C they erupted upon impact, adding an element of explosive destruction to their mystical properties. In terms of rarity and value, this longbow stood as one of Yves'' most distinguished and treasured artefacts. Its craftsmanship was close to unparalleled, and it managed to conserve every ounce of energy during the transformation, setting it apart from the many inferior channelling devices that suffered from energy loss. This was a weapon suited for a luminary or a warlord. It was not a weapon for Yves. He did not know how to handle it. Well, he knew how it worked, in theory, but he could not do it. The bow demanded an immense amount of concentration for effective use, and in the hands of an inexperienced archer, it was difficult to aim. In the hands of the not-at-all-experienced archer who had no business even considering himself an archer, it was no more effective than something one could cobble together from a stick and a piece of string. Despite owning it for six years, Yves could count on one hand how many times he had bothered to practice with it. And the only reason that he could still use his fingers for counting was that he had worn very good gloves when the first arrow had exploded in his hand.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. In his defence, both figuratively and literally, Yves was a Lightshifter wizard. When mastered, glass magic was versatile and highly effective, whether for long-distance or close combat, targeting a single adversary or a large group. Atop that, shard constructions were equally potent for defence, serving as formidable shields. Thus, while the bow held remarkable potential for a wizard not disposed towards duelling, Yves could unleash hundreds of shards with a simple flick of his wrist before the next Worldbender shapeshifter or Transcender could even meddle the bow from his back. In short, dedicating time to learn archery had never seemed worth it. Plus, Yves hated lugging around bulky things on his expeditions. Yves had never intended to wield the bow or any of the other two lightgiving artefacts as weapons. Originally, he had acquired all three as self-sustaining sources of light back when coping with darkness had been his paramount concern for survival. The bow''s arrows emitted light when drawn, which Yves could harness. The Lightning Staff had the ability to summon lightning, a power that was both a weapon against his enemies and a threat to himself. It was a means of last resort, and since the common glass wizard had no disposition for elemental magic, there was hardly anyone less suitable to wield it than Yves. While travelling, he ultimately carried only the wand and two enchanted daggers. Daggers were the only physical weapons Yves could somewhat handle, but even these were just a last resort, in case all his energy was depleted or his magic rendered ineffective by an adversary. That said, he stored no other weapons here. The rest of the underground chamber, except for the narrow pathways and the central table beside the meditation crystal formation, was stacked with shelves and containers holding books, scrolls, and ancient texts. For some reason, the lighthouse had also become Yves prime storage location for junk artefacts, bunched together in an elongated chest that doubled as a resting spot for Midnight. Done with his potato mash, Yves opened the chest and inspected his trash collection, even though he knew exactly what was in there. In his early days as an artefact hunter, he had fallen for many scams or false hints. He had been young and inexperienced, driven by false pride and unhealthy enthusiasm that frequently led him astray. In his pursuit, he would come across peculiar items, many of which turned out to be either worthless or even dangerous. Yves'' first significantly disappointing discovery was a small, shiny rock rumoured to bestow immortality. After carrying it around for weeks and, just to be sure, even eating it, he came to the stark realisation that the rock was indeed nothing more than a polished pebble. Though he was very absolutely certain that it was just a random, absolutely ordinary stone, it was still here. For decoration. Another oddity he had stumbled upon was a whistle that supposedly summoned witches. However, the issue he had with this artefact was that no sane wizard would ever dare provoke such an encounter. Thus, he had yet to test it and to this day questioned its authenticity. By keeping it hidden, he was doing the world a favour. Then, there was a glass orb that was said to reveal visions of the future. All it ever showed him was his own reflection. To this day, he was not sure if the thing was trash or if his trash ability as a seer hindered him from using it properly. He once discovered a quill that should transcribe dictated text, regardless of the language used. Unfortunately, the writing it produced was entirely illegible. So while Yves wanted to believe that, when provided with ink or ink-like substances such as blood, the quill copied everything that was dictated in its immediate vicinity until the ink ran dry, he did in fact not actually know what it was writing. He knew that it listened. And then it did something. A year ago, he stole acquired a key with the promise that it could unlock any door. An exasperating period of trial and error revealed that the key only unlocked doors that led to bathrooms. Months later, when Yves delved deeper into his studies of ancient runes, spells, and their respective languages, he came across a vexing revelation. In Byrmir, the word bathroom literally translated to anything room. So to whoever failed that enchantment, there you have it. The stupidest thing he ever bought was a necklace that supposedly granted the wearer the ability to breathe underwater. However, the necklace only worked for a few seconds. Its massive centrepiece was an enchanted jewel. Once underwater, when in direct contact with the wearers skin, this jewel transferred an air bubble of its own size right into the wearers lungs. Yves had no clue what the enchanter had tried to achieve, but he had obviously been ignorant of basic humanoid physiology. There was a ridiculously small chance that the necklace was designed for a specific race, but it certainly was not wizards. Yves kept that one as a murder weapon. There came a point where a heap of trash treasure transitioned from amusing to downright embarrassing, and as Yves rummaged through his Chest of Useless Artefacts, he could not help but feel he had long passed that moment. The fact that this was the largest chest he owned spoke for itself. If Yves bent his legs, he could even lie in there himself. He had tried; that one time when he had felt like a particularly useless tool himself. Yves rose to brush off and sort the clothing he had stored in the adjacent Chest of Disappointing Discoveries, which was filled with similarly dumb and deficient pieces.
Ch. 4.3 — Northlands. Lighthouse Hideout
After his expulsion, Yves needed to remain hidden from the academy, wherefore he had first concentrated his endeavours on artefacts that could disguise the wearer or conceal his magical or physical presence. The amount of false trails and disappointment with this endeavour were beyond measure. He first found a hat that was claimed to make the wearer invisible. However, it only worked for the part that actually fit into the hat. So when worn, the hat would turn invisible and make it seem like half of Yves'' head had been severed right off. Holding up a mirror, he could then look at his own brain whenever he pleased. It really never pleased him. Eventually, he stumbled upon his first Cloak of Concealing. It was a dusty old cloak made from moth-eaten wool. When worn, it did make the wearer invisible to moths. Only to moths. Its singular, somewhat random power was to repel insects attracted to wool. However, it only worked when being activated by channelling energy, so any other time it was as defenceless as any regular coat, and thrice as shabby. For some reason, Yves could not find it in himself to part with the Socks of Invisibility. They worked, but only on the feet covered by the socks, while the rest of the body remained in plain sight. Unlike the similarly frustrating hat, the socks possessed a remarkably rare attribute they also concealed the wearer''s feet from a wizard''s second sight, effectively erasing the hidden wizards energies. The cloth had once been part of an actual cloak with the same rare power. It had belonged to a wizard who had tragically succumbed to a curse while seeking refuge in a secluded human habitat. The villagers, unaware of the dying visitor''s true identity and the nature of his ailment, buried him without knowing that a deceased wizard must always be sent off into the void with the Ritual of the Dead. After the man had been laid to rest and no messages or inquiries came from friends or family, the villagers eventually distributed the few belongings and pieces of clothing he had kept in his backpack. The cloak, now in the hands of a farmer''s wife, ended up serving a practical purpose. As her husband was in dire need of socks and several of his pants required mending, she cut the invaluable artefact to pieces. In this way, the powerful cloak met an unexpected fate, its extraordinary abilities going unnoticed by the unsuspecting humans who repurposed its cloth. Yves, in his search for magical artefacts, arrived much too late. All that remained of the magical cloak was a single pair of seasoned socks. Though the cloak had intricate magic that worked without draining the wearer, it required a specific incantation to activate its unique powers. To his surprise, Yves found that the socks still retained their magical abilities. He bartered these remnants of what was once an invaluable artefact in exchange for three pairs of new winter socks made from the finest wool. At least that was the official and very, very twisted story. Despite the fact that the socks were not what he originally sought, Yves was intrigued by the persistent irony that seemed to mock his endeavours to wander the world unnoticed. These comical artefacts only concealed the wearer''s feet. When combining them with the long moth cloak, he could pretend to be floating in mid-air, and if he also wore the Hat of Invisibility and pulled it really hard all the way down over his face, he would turn into a floating headless phantom, but that was really all there is to it. This had the opposite effect of what he originally intended, which was to discreetly evade the academy. Also, if he wanted to genuinely unsettle people, Yves could come up with far more disturbing illusions than such foolish dress up. He was starting to get good at creating monsters and weaving together illusions and shard mirrors to construct entire false landscapes, yes, gruesome settings. He could plunge you into a physical nightmare of unfathomable horror, a place where you would beg to do anything for the peace of mind that a mere floating phantom would bring you.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Well. Anyway. For better or for worse, giving up on concealing artefacts had forced Yves to rely on his glass and light magic and to hone his sealing and illusion abilities to ensure he remained one step ahead of any pursuers or rivals. With his inventory and maintenance completed, Yves eventually found himself in front of the last small corner shelf. Here lay one of the most intriguing artefacts in his lighthouse collection, a set of enchanted feathers. When waved in the air, the feathers emitted a gentle melody that had the power to soothe even the most restless soul. When he had first learned to use his ethereal mirrors, or rather, when he had begun to experience the sickening sensations of returning to his plane, he needed these feathers for hours on end. After he had seen and simultaneously been his torn mirror self for the first time, he could not close his eyes or sleep without being overcome by terrible anxiety. He had locked away his mirrors and had not dared to use his second sight or any magic, for that matter, for days. As he got better, he was left with a deep and unreasonable fear of darkness and silence, along with an absurd addiction to the feathery sounds. Nearly three years had passed since then. After a depressing period of self-re-discovery, Yves had learned to control his fears and suppress his urges, reasonably. Nowadays, whenever Yves approached the leathery case concealing the feathers, Midnight''s observant eyes followed his every move a bit too closely for comfort. Today, she did not even attempt subtlety. Regardless of where she rested, she would leap up and trail Yves for every trip to and from the meditation crystal, which inevitably led past the corner shelf. She was not even polite about it, but made it her obvious obligation to walk between him and the shelves, to insert her presence squarely between Yves and the feathers. Yves really wanted to prove that Midnight was exaggerating, but eventually, after several hours of researching tomes and books, he gave in. He had tried. Since morning, he had conjured a total of ten slumbering ducks, but they did absolutely nothing to calm him down. His mind was racing non-stop, continually returning to his fractured mirror, the transformation he underwent, and the split of consciousness he experienced. What was beyond comprehension was the fact that since his return, a never-seen storm raged around the lighthouse and the singular rocky path between the mainland and the promontory on which the lighthouse stood had disappeared, now fully flooded. He had moved waves. This was groundbreaking. It shattered everything Yves knew about the fundamentals of reality and magic. He had impacted this world from another dimension. Yves found no answers, and the incessant waves of tumultuous questions threatened to pull him under. Midnight voiced her disappointment and anger through aggressive whining, but he was perfectly able to tune out her protest in anticipation of the soothing melody from the feathers. Given the recent events, Yves felt he damn well deserved a feather, thank you very much. He took of his gloves, which were essential for working with arcane tomes and an invaluable habit of any wizard who had made educated experiences with handling artefacts. With care, he plucked the enchanted feather from its leather case. It was a vibrant blue with a soft, velvety texture. Just the sensation of finally touching it made Yves shudder. It had been so long. He had waited for so long. He had waited for much too long. As his fingertips brushed its delicate fluff, a tingling sensation coursed through them. The feather began to absorb his energy, but it was so subtle that he would hardly notice if he were not intensely fixated on the sensation. He brought the feather to his lips and blew gently, and a beautiful melody filled the air. Yves had stood to keep the feather out of Midnight''s imminent reach, but as soon as the melody emerged, he lost all strength in his legs. He did not make it to the alcove but simply melted onto the floor. - - - -
Ch. 4.4 — Northlands. Lighthouse Hideout - Midnight - The other one
As Yves succumbed to the enchanting melody of the magic feather, Midnight watched him intently. Her silver eyes widened as Yves'' breathing deepened and his body relaxed. Midnight''s tail twitched with unease as she sensed Yves slipping into the feather''s spell. She too felt the pull of the melody, but her instincts kept her alert and watchful. As the feather''s melody intensified, Midnight paced back and forth, her claws clicking against the stone floor. She arched her back and hissed as the magic in the room thickened. Yves remained ensnared in the feather''s song. Midnight kept her vigilant watch, her eyes shifting between the feather and Yves. What disturbed her was the other one. She was meant to be Yves'' sole familiar, the only one bonded to his essence, yet there was another. The one who had saved them both, but who also clung to Yves and emerged and meddled with his energies ever so slightly whenever he lost control of his senses.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. She growled, but the enchanting melody only grew more irritating. Midnight let out a yowl of frustration, continuing her restless pacing around the room. As Yves sank deeper under the spell of the feather''s melody, Midnight grew more vigilant. She kept a sharp eye on their surroundings, poised to react to any potential threats. Her keen ears picked up even the faintest of sounds, and her nose detected any trace of an intruder. Midnight was not immune to the feathers allure. When Yves had first started to use them, she had succumbed to their addictive magic, just like he had. In contrast to him, however, she had fought against the enchantment ever since. After months and years, her discipline and training kept her conscious. She refused to lose control over her senses. She was her senses, and losing them meant losing herself in the same way she lost Yves whenever he used the feathers. She did not recognise him when he lay there, enchanted. It was very different from when he was resting or sleeping or healing from severe injuries. It was even worse than those weeks when he did little more than sleep and eat and waste away. In that miserable and shameful state, he was still present. He was still there. But when he used the feathers, his essence was gone. To Midnight, he was gone. For hours, she could not feel the bond with him, and every instinct compelled her to leave, because her wizard was just not there anymore. It disturbed her. It disturbed her to be in the presence of the something that was left. It disturbed her to feel the other one emerge and meddle. It took conscious effort to remind herself that Yves would be back. Amidst these disturbing feelings, she focused on protecting the something and their hideout, ensuring their safety against any potential harm. Her senses stayed sharp, her claws were ever-ready, and her fangs bared, as she endured the haunting feather wailing. As the feather''s melody began to fade after four hours, Yves returned. He blinked repeatedly and shook his head, looking around the room disoriented. As he sat up, Midnight finally stopped her pacing and lay down on her cushion. She felt that Yves noticed her just then. He smiled and scratched the slick fur behind her ear. Midnight snorted, turned her back to him and closed her eyes.
Ch. 5.1 — Northlands. Lighthouse Hideout - Witching hour
Curses, Yves took off his gloves and rubbed his eyes. He opened and closed them, repeatedly switching to second sight and back, but that did not change anything. It was getting worse much too fast. He stood once again hunched over sheets of his own notes scattered on the table, surrounded by a pile of tomes and artefacts that were essential for deciphering them; a vast sea of knowledge to navigate his research an unconquerable expanse. He felt utterly lost, treading water, dreading time. Curses on all elves, his harsh voice was but a whisper in the storm''s uproar. The elements raged on with relentless force, the howling wind battering the lighthouse with great fury. Waves crashed against the rocky shore, sending plumes of spray high into the air. Thunder added its voice to the chaos of the night. Midnight remained unaffected by the battling elements that hurled their forces against the lighthouse. She lay stretched out on the artefact chest with her eyes closed. But Yves, seeing how her ears flicked, knew that she listened. His gaze drifted from her along his shelves to the corner shelf. Midnight lifted her head. Yves eyes darted back to the tomes in front of him. He halted his mutterings and put his gloves back on. Im fine. He was not. He had not been fine for a long time. What he really meant was that he would stop whining and get back to work. He knew that she understood it that way. Still, Midnight kept staring. And as Yves did neither respond nor look at her, she sat up on the chest, filling the room with her presence, demanding acknowledgement. There was pride in her composure. Understanding that his harsh tone was unwarranted, Yves straightened up and turned to her. And in that moment, his posture truly conveyed I will keep my shit together for now, and his strained eyes said, Thank you. Midnight laid back down, her presence fading and her form once again merging into the shadows on the chest. Yves returned his attention to his tomes. "What if everything I do in the mirror dimension always also affects our plane?" Eventually, it all came down to this. "What if every shard structure has a correlating counterpart in our reality?" And if that were true, what were the witch mothers secret intentions with their arrangement? What did she really seek to gain from the mirror realm? What would the mirror world do to Yves if he dared to take in its energies again, if he dared to alter it? He rubbed his eyes again, this time using his sleeve. He could not be bothered to take off his gloves again, but he did not yet feel suicidal enough to touch his eyes with the same fabric that had been in direct contact with the tomes. Regardless of the witch mothers intent, their arrangement had always seemed the only way for him to stay alive. Now, with his recent transformation, Yves was not sure whether he would even remain alive long enough for her to honour her part of the arrangement.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. His transformation in the mirror dimension had caused unexpected consequences in this world. Yves had not only influenced this world from the mirror dimension. After his return, his eyes had changed. Yet again, his fingers drifted through the weighty pages, lost in the frustrating and fruitless research from this night. For the following hours, Yves was so immersed in his own drowning, that he closed his tomes only seconds before the witching hour. From 1:41:42 until 2:22:22 a.m., he and Midnight sat silently. Cautioned by the echoes of those countless nursery rhymes that Yves would still recall when even the last spell had long faded from his memory, they remained attuned to what may linger concealed amidst the storm-stirred world energies. Even in these most desolate expanses of the Northlands, they strained to catch the whispers of witches, a vigil shared by every other sensible wizard on the continent. - - - THE WITCHING HOUR WIZARD NURSERY RHYME - One-forty-one, the witching hour''s begun, When Teharun rises and darkness is spun Witches emerge, sinister and cold, With malice and mischief, their curses unfold. One-forty-one-forty-two, dread the dark brew, Of potions and hexes, where shadows accrue. Wizards, take heed, for danger''s afoot, Under Teharun they dance, spells that none refute. Wise wizards hush until two-twenty-two, No words to be spoken, no magic to strew. The witches are cunning, their tricks hard to see, In this silent vigil, true safety shall be. From one-forty-one to two-twenty-two, A pact with the night makes the deadliest shrew. Wizards, stand guard, your senses be keen, For in this darkest hour, the witches convene. Let not your spirit be twisted or swayed, By their sly incantations in the moon''s serenade. A whisper, a cackle, a rustle, a hiss, Signals the hour when in greatest power they bliss. In shadows they linger, in secrets they revel, To thwart their deceptions, stay quiet, stay level. For the witching hour is a precarious feat, Within Teharuns reach, where witch mothers meet. So heed the warning, oh wizards so wise, From one-forty-one, till Teharun leaves the skies. Protecting your magic, your voices, you might In the silence of night, keep safe from their sight.
Ch. 5.2 - Northlands. Lighthouse Hideout - Vicha
The witching hour wove its final threads, the dark veil of Teharun thinning. Midnight, attuned to the nuances of the raging energy currents, suddenly straightened, her sleek body tense with anticipation. Yves mirrored her tension, fingers clad in gloves ready for swift response. Her heightened senses detected what eluded him. He reacted with her, observed her. He understood instantly it had returned. The Vicha. The hideous thing that had trailed Yves and Midnight since they crossed the Bahatu, the Whispering Moors. The insidious echo of their ill-fated encounter with the coven that had settled in these haunted realms. The curse. Without a moment''s hesitation, they ascended the narrow stairs, Yves trailing Midnight with his pouch of ground poltin already at hand. Tossing the powdered sagen roots generously, Yves sketched a warding semi-circle around the lighthouse entrance before he threw his weight against the creaking door. The storm outside raged, winds and waves colliding with the lighthouse like thousands of specters demanding entrance. Yves forced the door open without magic. It yielded slightly, enough for the storm''s fury to thrust its way in. Yves, his body soaked within seconds, made no move to shield himself. The witching hour restrained him from employing shard shields to repel the weather onslaught. Amidst the downpour, he couldn''t help but rue the timing of course, it chose now to catch up with them. Midnight needed to make sure. She ventured outside, crouching low, her claws gripping into the rocky ground, her body pressed tightly against the lighthouse. She remained frozen in her posture as the wind and rain battered against her, fur swirling in the tempest. Yves lingered in the doorway, holding on to the frame for dear life. There was no point completing the wardening circle from the outside, as the winds would sweep the poltin right out of his hand. He strained to utilise his second sight. Yet, all that he could capture was the harsh panorama of the coastal battleground, where the storm obliterated the boundary between sea and land. His compromised eyesight, coupled with the storm''s interference with the magical currents, rendered him useless. Where his second sight long faltered, Midnight could spot the curse several kilometres away. Despite the howling wind, turbulent waves, and Teharuns enveloping darkness, she found its presence. "Curses on all witches," Yves muttered, instantly feeling a chill run down his spine and panic rush through his veins as the words escaped his mouth. Before him, Midnight whirled around. It was still witching hour. You did not speak during witching hour. You did not speak. You did not speak. You did not speak. What worthless wizard speaks during witching hour? Shut up. His words were worthless, of course. Not meaningless. They carried great meaning, profanities coming straight from the crevices of the heart. But they were ultimately powerless against any actual curse. Only witches could convey such malevolent spells. Yves wanted to believe that this reflected their pettiness, foul character and utter inferiority. Wizards did not engage in such underhanded ploys. They killed each other face to face. And yet, despite his disdain for their methods, Yves found himself envious of their abilities to manifest their malice when all he could do was yell into the wind. Having been cursed a shameful eleven times, three by the same witch, this was the latest manifestation to his shame, the second Vicha that ever haunted him. The weight of the curse pressed upon him, its irritating mark woven into his right shoulder. How was this possible? How could it already be here? It was incredibly enduring and so much fucking faster than the last.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Yves expression blanked. Was someone feeding it? The Vicha was a malevolent force that relentlessly pursued them. The curse moved slowly, but it never wavered, never rested. They needed to outpace it, outrun it for at least another full moon before it dissipated unless some damned witch was trailing and feeding it! Back inside, the air felt charged. Midnight guarded the door, while Yves rushed underground. They needed to leave the lighthouse immediately. There was no more time to sift through the jumble of tomes and scrolls scattered about. With haste, Yves tossed out all the bulky artefacts from the Chest of Useless Artefacts into the Chest of Disappointing Discoveries. The time for sentimentality had passed; it was survival now. He stuffed the chest with essentials tomes, artifacts, his meticulous notes and clothes critical for the journey ahead. Crystals, valuable jewels, a handful of coins, and even three potatoes were thrown into the mix, the latter an impulsive addition born out the fleeting desire for real sustenance. The Lightning Staff was too long to fit even diagonally, wherefore Yves secured it externally using the chests various straps and buckles. Attaching the Bow of Light in the same way would be too inconvenient, so for now, Yves just threw the weapon next to the chest. His belts and pockets filled with the indispensable the Lightgiver Wand, his daggers, potions. He already wore his most versatile warding chains and four rings. Two additional rings, plucked from a metallic jewelry box, represented a negotiable currency in a world where gold could bend the law. In unpredictable and hostile surroundings like this, you never knew whether you could hold on to a travel chest, so you always needed exchangeable valuables at hand, quite literally. He also pocketed the leather case from the corner shelf. Despite the urgency, Yves took a moment to ensure the energy reservoir sustaining the lighthouse''s core protection and illusion spells was intact. It did not take long. Midnight had not yet called out to him. Uncertainty lingered like a specter in Yves'' thoughts. The lighthouse, a testament to his illusionist craftsmanship and resilience, stood exposed to the unknown. Would he come back with healed eyes, no longer dependent on anything he stored here, or would he not return at all? In some twisted way, the undefined future did not change the feeling of pride that gripped him right now, a silent acknowledgement of the sanctuary he had built, and an innate desire to keep it hidden. If you had any self-respect as an artefact hunter, you did not want an intruder to find your prime hideouts protection half-assed. Even if chased and cursed, you need to have at least some pride in your work. On a more fundamental level, it was easiest to see yourself in something that reflected you. You needed a place that belonged to you, and a place you belonged to. Even broken things, existing almost invisible between the most desolate lands and the deadliest seas, could serve such a purpose. Even if this place was only yours because no one else wanted it, you took care of it. Yves heard Midnight growling from above and realised he had stopped in front of his chest. For another long moment, he could not tear himself from the spot. He felt for the inner lining of his multi-layered overgarment, finding the small but oh so distinct square outward bulge of the fabric. Midnight roared down at him from the trapdoor opening. She roared, despite the witching hour. Yves sprang forward, slammed the chest shut, secured the buckles and straps, and threw on his coat. He had a custom backpack for the ethereal mirrors, each mirror nestled in its own protected compartment. Over the flat and sturdy backpack, he secured the Bow of Light. It was tied to his back with a belt system that ended in an elongated plate that ran from his shoulder to his hip, from which the bow could be released without having to remove the entire belt system. The straps and plate doubles as a secure fastening for the backpack. The chest, now bearing the weight of Yves'' most vital possessions, awaited transportation. Yves tapped it with his Levitation Staff, and it responded obediently. It trailed behind him as he rushed up the stairs and exited the door. In his wake, the floating light orbs extinguished, leaving the broken lighthouse without light yet again.
Ch. 5.3 — Northlands. Lighthouse Cliff - The Onslaught
Outside, the storm''s ferocity paralleled the urgency of their departure. The winds enveloped him, reaching, clawing, rising, howling. Within seconds, he was thoroughly drenched. The chaos matched the turmoil within Yves. Even he could now see the Vicha through second sight, a creeping obscurity against the backdrop of the night, sprawled across the distant storm-torn energies. It had come this much closer in just a few minutes. He saw no witch and understood that neither did Midnight. That did not mean that they were safe. It just meant that if a witch was there, she was powerful enough to cross the Northlands and hide her presence. The dark witch moon had just begun melting back into the horizon. It would take another six minutes for the witching hour to pass. Every act of magic beneath Teharun''s domain held devastating consequences for the wizarding race; a truth Yves and Midnight could not afford to respect. They could not wait. With the narrow passage between the mainland and the lighthouse promontory now erased and overtaken by raging waves, Yves needed to conjure a bridge of shards. It was forbidden. The individual''s defiance against the prohibition of magic during witching hour condemned generations of wizards, but Yves faced a more immediate threat. If a witch was trailing the curse, it would lead her right to the lighthouse. If she fed it to make it grow and speed up just at the right moment, it would block off their escape. Fighting against the storm''s fury, Yves pressed toward the edge of the rocky promontory, knowing that Midnight would follow. They rarely talked when travelling. There was no need to share questions like Are you ready?, or insignificant pleasantries like Be careful, they will attack as soon as I begin, or even personal philosophies such as Fuck this weather and I hate everything about this, lets just go back inside. Most of the time, they understood each other without words. Also, with the current storm, Yves'' voice would hardly travel. In his final steps, Yves began to weave a bridge with glass magic, a transparent pathway suspended in the stormy abyss between the lighthouse ruins that provided the illusion of safety, and the desolate mainland that promised death. In seconds, shards wove into a lattice extending high above the raging sea, though wary not to transgress into the taboo realm of the dragons. Simultaneously, protective walls materialised, shielding the bridge against the battering winds and The onslaught began. Serrated fins of colossal creatures sliced through the water, as a twisted menagerie of grotesque sea beasts burst from the churning waves. A serpentine beast, its form distorted by arcane turbulence, surged upward and lunged toward the bridge. Obsidian scales glinted with a sickly luminescence, and cruel, blade-like spines adorned its back. Yves conjured shards, layers of protective walls blocking and breaking the momentum of the beast''s assault. As the serpent rammed into the barriers, shattering them with one ferocious attack, he retaliated with a condensed energy disc that expanded its diameter in flight, cutting through the serpent and splitting it from head to tail. The bridge quaked as the massive body crashed into the raging sea. With the second serpent came the galebiters, ferocious sea creatures with grotesque avian features. Their elongated fins doubled as wings for gliding long distances, and their hard beaks tore through stone and shards. Hundreds descended on the first serpents remains, and an equal number targeted the intruder that was Yves and his magic. He decapitated the second serpent while shooting down galebiters with condensed shard projectiles. Their sheer number and agility demanded rapid successions of strikes; the air hummed with tension. Yves found an odd satisfaction in the slaughter, a momentary diversion from the ice-cold water creeping under his skin and all impending consequences. As Yves continued his rampage, he and Midnight traversed the transparent bridge, the floating travel chest in tow. Focusing on the killing, he ignored the realisation that he fed the witch moon, pushing aside hesitation to advance. They had no time to spare. The serpents and galebiters were just the beginning, frantic creatures lured by the first traces of foreign energies. They were the ominous heralds harbingers of greater, more formidable beasts that waited to be stirred by unleashed magic.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. The galebiters kept coming in ever greater masses, breaching his projectiles, assaulting the bridge, crashing into the structure and breaking the shard fragments with their beaks mid-flight. The structure quivered above the roaring sea. Yves, relentless, turned the bridge into a weapon. Shards shot out of the beams, walls and roof, piercing the massive fish in layers, a macabre defense against the onslaught. Elongated shards sliced through the air, striking the opposite cliff where towering crustacean beasts emerged, each several meters tall. Their grotesque forms were amalgamations of the morbid, all claws, rows of feet, and layers of impenetrable carapace. Defying Yves'' attempts to pierce them, they blocked the path to the mainland. Four of these colossal crustaceans confronted Yves, their enormous bodies scuttling around the bridge entry and their massive claws either hammering onto or thrusting into the narrow opening of the bridge, clipping its winding structure. Yves unleashed a barrage of condensed glass projectiles, now targeting vulnerable joints. The attacks plunged the creatures into a frenzied state. Amidst the chaos, Yves worked tirelessly to mend the damaged bridge and shields. His next array of shards threw the front crustacean off balance, providing Midnight an opening. In a daunting display of speed, power and agility, Midnight soared past Yves, evaded the rampaging claws and leapt onto the mainland, where she attacked the creature from below. Darting back and forth, she ripped its elongated underside and legs with her claws and teeth, her movements borne from calculated ferocity, a symbiosis of raw power and deadly precision. Yves felt her anticipation for the enemies reactions before his own senses could catch up. He supported her aggressive maneuvers with temporary shields that intercepted the crustaceans'' lunging claws and impeded the movement of their trampling legs. Together, he and Midnight orchestrated an array of precise attacks Midnight targeting the weak points of the beasts, Yves unleashing shard projectiles with strategic precision. With three giant leaps, Midnight retreated from the battleground, just as a pair of winged aberrations shot down from the sky. The clash that ensued was a battle of beaks and claws and storm, as the hookbilled Wyrren tried to snatch up the crustaceans. One avian beast succeeded in capturing the injured creature Midnight had been fighting, while the other was ripped out of the air by the combined onslaught of the three remaining crustaceans. While the screeching beasts tore each other apart on the ground, Yves rushed forward, onto the mainland. Midnights instinct to wait, to remain sheltered below the bridge, hammered against his mind like physical pain. She was no coward; she understood the strength of beasts. Yet Yves knew that they needed to leave the bridge immediately, or even deadlier creatures would be drawn to the amassing energies. As he ran, Midnight followed. They fought and ran and stumbled with the storm winds to gain distance from the cliffs. The remnants of the bridge dissipated into the ocean abyss, while ever more wyrren dove from the storm-laden sky to snatch up the emerging crustaceans and galebiters hurling themselves at the foreign energies. By then, the lightless lighthouse had already vanished from Yves vision. His illusions hid it equally well from second sight. With the promontory gone, there was not a single trace of the lighthouses presence. It was even more isolated than before, no longer offering unexpected shelter to the once-in-a-decade desolate wanderer, but only accessible by those who knew that it existed and risked their life to get there. They needed to get away. Yves wove a tapestry of physical illusions and energy overlays, attempting to conceal himself, Midnight, and the floating chest as best as possible. It was an effort, nothing to rely on. His illusions only worked if he could tailor them to the sensory perception of his adversaries. He had scant experience with sea creatures and no noticeable practice deceiving beasts from the air, especially of this size. At best, his illusions might bewilder, but even that could provide unexpected salvation, if only to delay the first assault of a wyrren. The avian beasts took no notice, but two relentless crustaceans pursued Yves and Midnight, unaffected by Yves illusions. They were too fast C Despite the danger that more energy brought to the fight, Yves needed to block their path with several shard walls. Then the earth shook. Rocks and entire formations that had shaped the cliff broke and crashed into the sea, revealing an undulating, pulsating mass beneath. Deep under the rocky plateau lay a monstrosity covered with roots, rotten mosses and foul mushrooms, and littered with gnashing mouths that opened into seemingly endless abysses. Yves had faced giants, but they could not compare. This abomination was the land itself. Each swelling mouth exhaled a multi-layered, soul-chilling drone that shook the earth and scattered all birds and sea beasts. They were not fast enough. From within the mouths, hundreds of netted tendrils shot outward with such force that not even the storm could deviate their path, capturing everything within reach, tearing at crustaceans and galebiters, ripping wyrren from the sky. Yves got caught, ensnared within the tendrils sticky net. As the tendril recoiled into its gaping maw, the net constricted around him, strangled him, choked the air out of him, countless pores dousing him with their poison.
Ch. 5.4 — Northlands. Lighthouse Cliff - Cliff Behemoth
Midnight dodged vigorously, contorting and twisting her body in what was instinct given form through raw power. She sprinted by his side, leaped onto Yves and tore through the tendril with claws and teeth just before the monstrous maw captured them both. The acidic residue of the ruptured tendril sprayed over them, penetrating the protective layers of Yves'' enchanted clothing and Midnight''s fur. As the tendril ripped, others shot forth, a grotesque display of multiplied aggression. Pressed to defend, Yves conjured a dome of interwoven glass shards, encasing himself and Midnight within a protective cocoon. Within the second that it formed, the muscular tendrils coiled around the crystalline fortress and pulled the whole structure in. The gaping maw of the monstrosity expanded grotesquely, swelling to engulf them whole. The shard dome grew equally, a translucent shield against the howling opening, which in turn generated an incessant cascade of tendrils that ensnared and tore at them. Yves felt their pressure on his structure, as they threatened to break it through brute force. They needed to get away. Within this ephemeral refuge, Yves grappled with the limitations of his arsenal. Shards, his usual instruments of offense and defence, were inadequate for the monstrous threat, not suited for the annihilation required. What he needed was raw firepower. Light, the essence of any destructive magic, eluded him in the shroud of night. The Lightgiver Wand, the illuminating conduit that compensated for Yves disability, had no room to produce enough light within the limited confines of the shard dome In a swift motion, Yves unslung the Bow of Light from his back. A weapon of unparalleled craftmanship, the bows string was a formidable channel, the perfect artefact for most compressed and explosive energy releases. Yves drew an arrow, infusing it with a surge of power that resonated with the depth of his reservoir. His fingers trembled. The memories of the last arrows exploding in his hands were much too vivid, painful, disfiguring, disastrous bursts, yet Yves channelled more, drawing upon his own reservoir of energy and supplementing it with what was stored in an energy crystal embedded in one of his rings. His whole arms shook as he wrestled with the burgeoning energy, a volatile concoction held in the much too delicate shape of an arrow. It was not yet enough C no, it was too much, it was already way too much. Shut up, its fine. Yves was crouching in a confined shard prison that left no way for emerging energies to disperse. Stop thinking. Center yourself. And he was growing what could only be described as a bomb of pure, raw, volatile energy condensed into the unstable shape of a fickle arrow. Center yourself. An arrow was one of the worst forms imaginable for compressing energy. Center. Center. Center! -------------------Calm down. Center.---------------Center.-----Dont lose focus on the dome. --Keep the dome intact. --------Strengthen the dome. ------------------------Center.-------------------------------CENTER. And now channel more. ---------------------------I am centered.----------------------I AM CENTERED. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------My shoulder is centered. ------------------------------------My arm is centered. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------MY HAND IS CENTERED ----------------------------------------------------I can channel more --Hold the dome-----------------------------------------------My fingers are centered -------------------------------------------------------I AM IN CONTROL--------------------------I cannot --------------------------------------------------My channel is centered----------------------------- hold ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------this -------------My channel is centered ----------------------------------------------------If this explodes now, IT WILL KILL MIDNIGHT -----------------------------------------My channel-------------------------------------------She knows -This will--------------------------------------------------Is---------------------------------I willEnsure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. kill us both----------------------------------------------------Centered--------------------kill us both ----------------------------------------------Centered---------------------------------------------What is --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------the point? --------------------------------------CENTERED -----------------------------------CENTERED Spikes of shards shot from the domes outer wall, a barrage that impaled the encroaching tendrils just in front of Yves. These lethal projections bent outward with an inherent force, compelling the fleshy masses aside and carving a minuscule opening in the protective shard barrier. In the fleeting moment before another tendril could seal the breach, Yves unleashed the arrow. The arrow, a manifestation of unrestrained power, streaked through the monstrous maw, wreaking havoc upon whatever lay below. An explosion of cataclysmic proportions reverberated through the cavernous space, clashing with the creature''s thunderous rage. The shard dome, unable to withstand the unleashed force, was hurled away by the shockwave, with Yves and Midnight enclosed within. Internal illusions, a blend of firm yet flexible webbing, kept them centered and shielded from the violent impacts as the structure somersaulted through the storm and repeatedly crashed into the ground. They came to a tumultuous stop within a crater-like depression, distanced from the immediate reach of the monstrous and ever-howling threat. Yves was battered and heavily disoriented. His body had not realised that he had stopped spinning. The ground beneath them trembled, a repercussion of the distant roars echoing through the storm. Dispelling the inner netting of the dome, Yves sought assurance that Midnight was unharmed. However, in his disoriented state, she and everything else still seemed to rotate out of focus. He could not see clearly, but sensing Midnights conscious presence and understanding that she detected no imminent threat in their surroundings, Yves scattered the shard dome into countless fragments. Then he vomited up the remnants of his last mashed potatoes meal. It was a far cry from a glorious escape, not the stuff of tavern tales, but then again, true battles never were. Nothing could have prepared Yves for this colossal subterranean behemoth. He did not even know that a monstrosity of such magnitude existed bigger than giants, bigger than dragons. He had not even seen all of it. What was it? What had spurred its ascent to the surface? Had he triggered it, awaken it with his shards? A surge of dread gripped Yves as he climbed the slope, putting distance between himself and the crater. The earth beneath him continued to quake, the disturbing resonance of the creature''s never-ending roars and rampaging. Midnight followed and overtook him in the climb, her fur bristling in shared horror. His energies, however potent and exposed, could never have summoned forth such a monstrous entity. This creature had lurked deep beneath the surface, possibly dormant, its tendrils or maws perhaps occasionally emerging to seize sustenance. It had sculpted the entire coastline, it had been the very terrain Yves had traversed for three years. The only anomaly this time, the sole novel element that had wandered the coast with him, the one singular entity that could truly stir the land with its grotesque malevolence, was the Vicha. Somewhere along the vast coastline, the revolting cliff monstrosity had ensnared the Vicha and now, the Vicha was consuming it. Yves stood at the edge of the crater, his gaze fixed upon the distant cliff. His second sight strained against the grotesque spectacle unfolding before him. Tendrils, like veins, now covered the whole coastline, thrashing wildly. The ground continued to shake violently, forcing Yves to his knees as the monstrous form writhed and ascended from the depths, growing and growing and growing into a living mountain range with no end. The dreadful roars of countless maws echoed its aggression, a discord that drowned out all other sounds. The creature fought desperately against an overwhelming force the Vicha. Its viscous black mass gradually enveloped the behemoth. It crawled across its veins, scaled the massive body, and burrowed within, a relentless onslaught of consumption. A Vicha was the amalgamation of a witch''s hatred and skill, a manifestation of torment that shackled wizards to isolation and ceaseless flight. Born from the noxious brew of loathing and malevolence, it materialised as a tangible entity, growing stronger with each infusion of the witch''s dark energy. This curse had a singular purpose to pursue and devour the cursed wizard, a relentless hunt to drain his every ounce of energy. Once touched, it became an inescapable parasite, growing, overtaking, suffocating, and ultimately killing its unfortunate host. Yet, within its existence, a paradox prevailed. As the Vicha hunted the cursed wizard, it expended energy. The longer the chase, the weaker it became. If the wizard but managed to elude it for long enough, the Vicha would wane and fade into the void. However, this offered little solace, for the cursed became a harbinger of danger, his presence threatening everyone who crossed or shared paths with him because the Vicha''s consumption was not confined to the cursed alone. It touched and consumed all creatures in its path, leaving a morbid trail of desolation. This forced the fleeing wizard to avoid crowded places and to abandon any companionship, leading a shunned existence in perpetual isolation. Even in such a forsaken state, the curse was never your only enemy. The Vichas insidious reach extended beyond the immediate threat. Even with a weakened Vicha, the wizards prospects were daunting, for the curse rendered him a target for all witches. To evoke this powerful curse demanded true hatred that only the most vengeful of witches could manifest, but once it took shape, any witch could feed the Vicha. And feed they would. Witches, divided as warfaring covens, were united against wizards. Beyond the prospect of killing a wizard, individual witches had motivation aplenty to strengthen the Vicha for their own ends. They could sow chaos as it traversed the land, or follow in its wake, anticipating the moment it claimed its victim. In doing so, they could reap the spoils left behind the possessions and remnants of the fallen wizard. With that, even the most destitute witch could become a harbinger of doom if her meagre Vicha was continuously fuelled by others. It could be sustained indefinitely, forcing the cursed wizard into unending flight and fugue, forever uncertain of when or in what form the Vicha might reappear. Even if the adept wizard managed to evade the Vicha, it left behind a destructive trail. In this unforgiving world, no mercy was extended to a cursed wizard. Allow enough time to pass, and if not the Vicha or witches, it will be headhunters seeking your life, solely to halt the nightmarish cycle perpetuated by the malevolent entity. In the grand scheme, your life held no weight against the Vichas ominous potential for endless growth. It was a foreboding entity with no known limits, capable of swallowing villages or, in the chaos of war, entire armies. And Yves, clinging to the hope that the desolate expanses of the Northlands would exhaust the Vicha, had instead birthed a colossal desert monstrosity. The very terrain he believed would eradicate the curse had now become the breeding ground for an escalating nightmare. Yves struggled to fathom the aftermath of the Vicha fully consuming this living mountain. Staring at the merging horrors the dreadful curse that he had tried to evade for the last two months entwining with the behemoth creature that had nearly claimed their lives moments ago a dire realisation dawned on him: We need to stop it.
Ch. 6.1 — Northlands. Lighthouse Cliff - Parting
How to stop this monstrosity, how to overcome a curse that defied all conventional means of confrontation? Running was not an option. Once merged with the colossal cliff behemoth, the Vicha would have absorbed months'' or even years'' worth of energy. In that time, Yves would lose his eyesight entirely, each passing day rendering him more vulnerable. Regardless of how fast he fled, any pursuit would inevitably end with Yves succumbing to the Vicha in the most desolate state, blind and devoid of magical defense that is, unless the Northlands'' lurking beasts did not get to him first. Should he manage to reach the Barnstream villages in the North-East, rulers and adventurers would brand Yves as the harbinger of doom a threat, a villain, or simply an egomaniac prioritising his survival over others. There was no in-between when people benefitted from your death; you were either good or bad, which meant either too good for your own good or not good enough for them. In this otherwise so complex world that was apparently oh so rich in diverse cultures and philosophies, such a crude dichotomy came surprisingly easy if the need arose; Yves was either virtuous, sacrificing himself for the greater good, or malevolent, an obstacle deserving removal. The grim expectations of noble self-sacrifice loomed over him, and failure to meet them justified any dirty hands reaching for him. No one would aid Yves, for no one could neither wizards nor fellow adventurers. The Vicha could not be killed or imprisoned. Yves knew from experience that it proved impervious to magical assaults. All energy hurled at the Vicha either failed to affect it or was absorbed. Attempts to impede its path or to restrain it with physical barriers were futile, as it seeped or broke through them. Traditional weapons proved equally useless against its resilient mass, and direct confrontation risked lethal contact. It seemed invincible, driven relentlessly by the unabated malice that spawned it. In the vast expanse of knowledge acquired under Emery Thurm and the trials of artifact hunting, Yves had never found a strategy to conquer these extraordinarily potent and brutal curses. Even surviving his first Vicha had left him in the dark. It had been much weaker and slower. Yves had fled and evaded the curse until it faded on its own, dissipating into the void after a mere six days. The search for answers had become his relentless pursuit ever since. Yves'' path of life had been crossed, entwined, directed, and twisted by a myriad of witches. These encounters had ranged from fleeting glances and negotiations to outright battles, once even culminating in the binding power of an Unbreakable Oath. He was one of the few wizards on the continent who had acquired a witch tear and, in one unavoidable twist, also a disturbing form of comradery. At Emery Thurm, he had delved into the craft, customs and covens of witches deeper than any other novice, learning to navigate the treacherous landscapes of these perilous engagements. Yet, this extensive repository of understanding, gathered from books, mentors, comrades, fellow travellers and firsthand ordeals, held no answers on the annihilation of Vichae. Could a witch destroy her own creation? The Vicha emerged from the depths of vengeance, but could the curse be retracted if the witch forgave the wizard? Unlikely. The Vicha was materialised malice that acted autonomously from the moment of its conjuring.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. The disparity between wizardry and witchcraft was stark. The distressing abilities of witches were not grounded in logic or bound by recognisable rules or systems; they were incomprehensible, disturbingly impossible. Regardless of a wizard''s spectrum and disposition, his magic required conscious sustenance, either directly or through encapsulated energy, as provided by energy crystals. Witches wielded a more elusive power. Their spells were self-sustaining, moving and perpetuating themselves. Curses, such as the Vicha, were one aspect; equally terrifying were summonings that drew energy from the environment. While a wizard impacted the world for as long as he lived, the continent held an amalgamation of magical traps, forsaken places, and even cursed dungeons that long-dead witches had created centuries ago. The most potent among them drew from recurring forces like wind or rain, or from ever-growing natural entities, such as the root systems of vast forests a link beyond the reach of wizards. Everlasting spells were those connected to Teharun, invoking its sinister energies to replenish their relentless existence every night. They would not fade from the world as long as the dark moon rose to shroud the sky in its dark veil. For this night, the witch hour had passed. While the black veil of Teharun had faded, is was the Vichas sheer mass that now threatened to devour even the stars. And it was closing in to devour Yves. Midnight, Yves tore himself out of his mental gridlock, You need to go. Still on his knees, Yves grappled with the tremors coursing through the ground, echoes of the beast''s rampage. His clothes were soaked with the mud stirred by the torrential rain. Midnight stood beside him. They were at eye level, his face close to hers to make his voice heard. Midnight stared toward the coast, her gaze fixed, refusing to meet his eyes. Yves knew she had heard him. You need to go. The Vicha could not be stopped by magic. Fighting it directly was not an option. You either outran it or let it catch you. Midnight could outrun it. Midnight. She did not look at him. He did not touch her. Midnight. You cannot do anything here. She stared ahead. For a moment, Yves stared too. Can you? he asked. Midnight glanced at him from the corner of her eye. I want you to go. Ahead. Yves retrieved two messenger strings from his hip pouch and imbued them with his energy. Pass these on to the Albweiss Mountain Guild and to the Barnstream Harbour Guild. I am attaching two rings as well, which you can use for coin. Still on his knees, Yves pulled the rings from beneath his gloves. He threaded the messenger strings through them and then leaned towards Midnight to tie the strings around her neck. For an impulsive instant, he thought she would jerk her head to the side or leap backward. We cannot delay our departure to sea, so we need the Crimson Circle to be prepared to leave immediately. You will be there weeks before I am. She remained motionless as he leaned against her and pulled his arms closer around her muscular neck, sealing the strings close, like a chain. Her slick fur was soaking wet, but on his freezing hands, Yves felt the faintest traces of warmth radiating from her body. As Yves withdrew his arms, their faces were so very close that he could feel her breath on his face and see his reflection mirrored in her silver eyes. Midnight stared. Take care. Yves stood up. For a moment, he thought she would reveal her true name to him in parting, but she did not. As soon as Yves got up, she had turned away to run inlands, and he slid back into the crater.
Ch. 6.2 — Northlands. Expanse - Midnight - Body, Voice and Words
Heavy rain mixed with the stench of mud and the metallic tang that marked the territories of various beasts. The air was charged with the disturbing energy emanating from the living wades of black mountain that were the Vicha. Midnight ran, a living shadow against the violent backdrop. As a Midnight Stalker pathera, she wielded great speed and agility, which allowed her to traverse swiftly across the treacherous terrain. Her senses were attuned to the unseen, discerning the subtle movements that occurred beneath the surface of the desolation, where myriad beasts of all sizes stirred and scattered in the aftermath of the Vichas emergence. Her wizard would face it. Without her. Midnights purpose was to run and to deliver two messages. Yet, her thoughts remained entwined in the bond she shared with Yves. In the midst of the ferocious storm and the gruesome landscape and the lurking beasts surrounding her, her feelings began to weave their own challenges. They unravelled discerning observations about how different her wizard had become since she had sought him out, and how difficult it had been for her to recognise him when he had sent her away. Of course, Midnight had been different back then, too. While she did not remember that there had ever been a time when she had not been all that she was, with all her strength and all her senses, she understood from observation that this all expanded with every day. It had been obvious when they had lived amongst many other familiars and wizards. The longer they had been at Emery Thurm, the smaller and weaker the new familiars that arrived every year had seemed in comparison to her. Back when Yves first entered as a novice, Midnights all had been smaller and weaker, too. With every day of her life, she had grown, and she had grown stronger. But regardless of how much she had grown, Midnight had always been herself, while Yves had not. When they had first formed their bond, he had shared all his feelings with her outright. He had used his body to communicate. He had used his voice, too, but it was always to underline what his body said, not to contradict it. His body had told her when he was hungry, and when he was tired, and when he was cold, and when he was afraid. He had different ways of screaming for each of these messages, and with that, his voice had always clearly underlined what his body said. Gradually, this had shifted to a phase where the screaming had stopped and the voice had become more complex. He had given Midnight her first name, Sina, and had learned to call out for her with it. He had learned words. He had learned the language of the wizard people, and Midnight had learned that each word meant a different thing, and that she needed to combine the meaning of the word with what the voice itself said to understand him. During the time when he still acquired words, the language of the body, the message of the voice and the meaning of the word almost always supported each other. They built upon each other. Midnight and Yves would be out in the fields where Midnight could run, and when he wanted her to come back, he would wave at her, and shout Come back! and convey with his voice whether he was afraid or tired or simply wanted her at his side to explore another place. When training, his body would tell her I cannot realise my full strength anymore and my senses are dulling, and his voice would say I am in pain, and his words would say I need a break. This was the time where he told her everything outright. The time where he and their bond had still been whole. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. The more he grew, the more his body and voice and words started to contradict each other. While his body would tell her I am exhausted and afraid, and his voice would say I am angry, his words would say I am fine. In some regard, Midnight understood the purpose of this. When she faced an overpowering enemy and felt many things at once, she selected to show pride and fearlessness and the conviction to fight with all she had, even if she, within herself, recognised the other fighters superiority. It was a decision borne from will and necessity. But Midnight often felt that Yves did not consciously decide I want to be fine because I need to, but that his words did not notice or understand or trust his body and his voice. It was a disturbing realisation, because it felt like he was not one wizard, but three parts. He was the body, the voice and the words, but as soon as these split, her wizard that was the whole broke. It agitated Midnight. When he was split, the three parts did not correlate, but contradicted each other. A decision was made when one part took over. But with Yves, there were moments when none of the three parts decided. There was something else that directed, the something that Midnight dreaded so much. Midnight had first encountered the something after they crossed the Sastomian Swamplands. Yves had isolated himself in their tower quarters for over six months. His body had said I'' .a''.m,s`ick''.;:fro,m,.;wa.,sti`ng-a,way`|in'':,the-,.DARK,._andf,rom~`''NO,T,-._movi,ng'',^;.and-,.from''\,.:eating|>too,.mUCH/ever''.y;..day, and his voice had said I am sad and ashamed and I do not want this, and his words had said We WILL go soon for months. That was when the something had first emerged and acted, but not upon the body or the voice or the words that were the different parts of Yves, but upon itself, which was not Yves, which had never before been Yves. The something had immobilised him. It had acted against the body and the voice and the words. It had made him weak and fat and sick. Even after he eventually regained himself, the something never left. It had thrived again with the feathers. And even when Yves did not use them for months, Midnight felt it. It lingered. And she believed that it had infested the bond between the body and the voice and the words. It had infested the bond she shared with the whole that was her wizard. Because now, when his body had tried to tell her I w?an???t t??o? tou?ch??? y???o??u a??nd??? p??r???e?s??s m??y??? f???a?ce? ag?a?in?s?t??? y?o??urs?? b??e?c??aus???e?_? i????t? g?iv?es? m??e c?o??m?f??o?r?t???," the something had frozen his body. And when his voice had tried to explain I re???c??og?n?is???e??? t???h???a?t th?i?s?? i?s? a??n e??n?e?m?y? m?o???r?e_ p???o??w???e?r???f???u?l? t?h?a??n?? I? a???m?,?? the something had distorted and fractured the voice into heavy breathing that had been nothing but fear and shame and weakness and defeat. It had emerged in its full strength. It had been in his eyes, covering what was Yves like the veil of Teharun covered the world to make darkness. It had called out to Midnight, beckoning, speaking her name, demanding recognition and acceptance that she refused to give it. She had refused to look at it. Still, when his body had said I will die, and his voice had said I? w?an??t? y???o?u? to??? s?ta???y??? wit?h? m??e?? b?e???cau??s??e??? I? am?? m???o?r???e?? a???frai???d?? w???i???t???h???ou???t? y?o?u????,??? b??u??t?? I a?m?? al????s??o af?r?a???i?d?? f?or?? yo??u, and the words had said I WANT YOU TO GO, Midnight had left. She had understood that not the demand to go and leave him, but the command for her to go ahead had been his final decision. In that instance, she had understood that the part that was the words had taken over the broken whole to make a decision without the body and the voice, and without the something. A decision borne from will and necessity to show pride and fearlessness and the conviction to fight with all he had.
Ch. 6.3 — Northlands. Expanse. Crater - A Devouring
High above, the colossal construct of compressed shards grew into a solid disc of energy, a blade conjured to cleave through mountains. Somewhere within Yves, a frail flicker of hope clung desperately, the maddening anticipation that the unfolding struggle must be more than mere consumption a clash of titanic forces rather than the one-sided devouring of the cliff behemoth. The world harboured entities endowed with unimaginable capabilities, and Yves yearned for the unforeseen, for an unexpected twist to wrench the course of this ominous encounter. Yet, what manifested was a relentless black terror, ever-growing as it engulfed the cliff monstrosity. The struggle skewed towards a horrifying one-sidedness, witnessed in the creatures transition from chaotic frenzy to steered, enforced movements. The wildly thrashing tendrils now moved with purpose, weaving a deliberate path toward Yves. Once concealed in the depths, the colossal malevolence dragged itself across the terrain, tearing the earth as it advanced and ever more emerged, leaving a wake of destruction. Giant rock masses, entire ledges of the cliff, collapsed as the creature pulled itself inland, rending and smashing all that had once been coastline. Water surged in, torrents carrying waves that flooded the broken formations and threw themselves against the creatures massive, misshapen bulges. Yves knew that if the Vicha reached the sea, it would devour any ocean beast it touched, perpetuating its insatiable growth. Creatures had fled in the behemoth''s wake, even those dwelling at a considerable distance, in the various craters surrounding Yves. Yet, the pull of the flood could force sea creatures right into the giant maws of the behemoth or simply cast them against the monstrous body, where the Vicha would consume them upon touch. Yves could not see past the dense energy structures that were earth and water beyond a few meters. Only now, with the behemoth almost fully surfaced, could he fathom its true enormity, which was crucial for a strategic assault. The intertwined energies of the behemoth and the Vicha revealed themselves through his second sight a distortion of immense proportions disrupted by the Vicha''s dark veins, a complex web of pulsating, growing extensions that undulated around and within the mass that was the cliff creature. As his shard disc expanded, Yves strained to discern the grotesque mass of entangled energies through the storm''s distortion and the impenetrable ground. While he could not distinguish the part of the behemoth that was still concealed underground, the Vicha stood out disturbingly clearly. He traced its veins as they extended further below the surface. At a discernible depth, these extensions curled back up instead of reaching deeper, indicating the full shape and borders of the creatures body. With a clearer understanding, Yves traced the exposed mass of the behemoth from inland to sea, discerning how far the veins had penetrated into the appendages that reached into the flooded remnants of the cliff.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The creatures anatomy remained an enigma. Yves could not define vital centres or organs akin to a brain or heart. The inner physical structures were beyond his perception. Yet, one certainty cut through the chaos the Vicha consumed both from the outside and within, growing while devouring its victim. However, it thrived only on what was alive, and its expansion demanded direct contact. This would be a strike of containment. The enormous shard disc ascended, slicing through the storm as it bore down on the behemoth. It burrowed into the creature, breached the outer layers of the monstrous form above and below ground, carved through hundreds of metres of dense mass but failed to create a sufficiently deep cleft. Fluids erupted, maws roared, and tendrils thrashed wildly, all while the Vicha at the center persisted in its advance. Yves, following the trajectory of the initial assault, channelled extraordinary firepower into subsequent smaller discs. He attacked and attacked the severed body until he cleaved the appendage submerged in water from the mountainous mass claimed by the Vicha. Vigilant, he monitored the veins, ensuring they would not extend towards the severed appendage which now displayed autonomous activity, its mouths and tendrils thrashing with undiminished fury. Simultaneously, the remnants still being devoured by the Vicha retained their energy signature, suggesting both parts harboured an uncanny semblance of life. Failing to recognise acts of higher intelligence, Yves speculated on a self-sustained existence driven by base instincts. To prevent any reconnection between the severed parts, he conjured vast shard projectiles infused with compressed light from the Lightgiver Wand. Precisely aimed between the split sections, successive explosions obliterated the ground beneath the trashing appendage. Water rushed in, engulfed and tore it beyond the Vicha''s reach. The Vicha remained an indifferent force of annihilation. It persisted to consume and move the behemoth along its unswerving path, while Yves bore the brunt of the explosions. He was hit by searing heat blasts that reverberated into the crater, a sharp contrast to the biting cold of the ice rain. Gasping for breath, he steadied his footing, feeling the unsettling consequences of rapidly depleting and replenishing his energy reserves. In a matter of seconds, he rushed to draw in all available energy from his surroundings, exhausted the first of his two crystal rings, and conjured the next disc. Relentlessly, Yves attacked to reduce the behemoth further, hurling disc after disc and countless explosive projectiles to sever every unearthed appendage not yet ensnared by the Vichas encroaching web of veins. What remained was a looming mountain of foul, viscous mass, spilling onto the world like rotten ink, its veins stretching out, spreading, seeking, gaining control over its new form, dragging itself towards Yves, accelerating, a curse tarnishing the stars and poisoning the air with a malevolence so dense that it paralysed and suffocated Breathe. .
Ch. 6.4 — Northlands. Expanse. Crater - Something comes from Nothing
---------------------------------------------------Breathe ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------All these attacks meant nothing -----------------Breathe ------------You knew it would not make a difference ------------------------------------------You were just desperate to feel in control -----------Breathe----------This is how you die------------------------------------------ ----------------------------------This is how you die-----------------------------------This is how you die -------------------------------------------------------This is how you die --------Breathe -This is how you die-------------------------------------This is how you die -------------------------------------THIS IS HOW YOU DIE ------------LEFT AND MARKED FOR DEATH BY A WITCH ---------Breathe ----------------------------------------------------------------------------There is nothing you can do -When you are overtaken ----by an overwhelming enemy----------------------------There is nothing you can do ------follow your training -----------------Breathe -------------If you cannot advance, fall back on the familiar -------------------------------------------------------------------------------You are nothing --------Breathe---------------------------------------------------------------NOTHING ------------------Breathe---------------------------------------NOTHING --------If you cannot trust yourself -----reduce your actions -------------to established patterns ---------------------------------Breathe------------------------------------------------------------This is ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------what you ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------deserve ---------------------Do, what you know to do -------------------------------------Breathe ------------------------Do, what you have always done ----------------------------Breathe ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Why --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------bother?
One, center yourself. What do you see?
------------------------------You are going blind
Yves stood in a crater. It was one of many strewn across the landscape. It stretched about 80 to 100 metres in diameter. It was roughly 20 metres deep. He had never seen the craters before. He could only assume that they were the aftermath of something that happened after he last ventured to the lighthouse. --------All of this not to go blind ------------and now you die anyway
The Vicha was approaching him with recognisable intent and increasing speed, four to five kilometres away. ---------------------------------You could have lived with honour --------------------------------------------Your life could have had value
---------What do you feel?-------Fear -Fear--------------------------Fear----------------Fear------ -------------------------FearThis tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. Yves shivered violently. From exhaustion. From the cold. He was not injured. He drew energy from his ring to recover. He felt sick. He was fine.---------Fear -Fear--------------Regret-------Fear Midnight would be all right.----Regret -Fear-------Regret-------Shame------------------------------------Fear --------------------Fear------------------------Fear
---Fear Two, secure yourself. -Fear-------Regret-------Shame-----------------------------------------------Fear----------------------------- --------------------Fear-----------------------Fear Yves forced himself to take a deep breath and unclench his arms from his chest. He started to build. In the heart of the crater, he constructed a shelter against the storm. He erected a rudimentary shard roof overhead and a protective semi-circle around him.------Fear -----------------------------------------------------------------A pointless death -----------------------------------------------------------in a hole in the ground. Alone.
--------------------Fear Three, assess your resources. The Heartwood Staff lay where the shard dome had dissipated. Yves had held onto it when first caught by the tendrils. He did not have the travel chest, which had dropped on the spot the moment he had lost control over the staff.---------------------------------Fear
Yves unslung the Bow of Light and shed its harness, the cold punctuating every movement. Drenched as he was, his backpack had reduced the flow of water by pressing his clothes firmly against his back. Now, removing it, frozen fabric and water shifted freely over his skin. His body could not stop shivering C Center yourself. Reduce your thoughts. Focus on your actions.------------------Fear --------------------------------Fear ----------Fear-----------------------------------------------------------Fear
  • Check the backpack for acid damage. --Just what - -------------------------------------------------------------------are you doing?
  • Put down the backpack.
  • Feel all chains and rings: energy and warding, Number Abyx, witch tear, shard bearer, string of marbles, timegiver. --------------------------------------------------TThis is what you life amounted to
  • Feel Mirs bracelet.-----------------Ridiculous trinkets
  • Feel all pockets: wand, daggers, potions, messenger strings, heartstrings, folded hat, artefact gloves, notebook, quill, map, dice, feathers.
  • Let go of the feathers.-------------------------No-one lived to tell the tale of how to survive a Vicha -------------------------------------------------------let alone such a monstrostity
  • Stop shaking.-------------------What makes you so special?
  • Let go of the feathers.
  • Do not look at it. ---------------------It''s speeding up
  • Let go of the feathers. ------Nothing ------------------------------------------------can save you
  • Center yourself.
  • LET GO OF THE FEATHERS.
Fuck this. Yves skipped ahead. He knew exactly what he had on him.
Four, assess your knowledge on your enemy. ----------The Vicha is not just ------made to kill you
Common belief held that Vichae existed beyond the laws of nature and wizardry they were a manifestation of witch energy forged into a relentless, vengeful entity. They passed through lifeless matter and even traversed natural life such as trees and plants, yet they devoured higher life forms. Magical attacks had no effect on them, yet they were capable of consuming energy. ---------------------------------It is vengeance made curse. It will end you slowly ---------------------and in the most excruciating way possible
Severing the marked body part did not sever the curse. Yves believed that the curse mark served as an entry point, a conduit for the witch to infuse the wizard with a fragment of the Vicha. Once the wizard and Vicha fragment were devoured, the entire entity dispersed. The aftermath lingered. Even after the Vichas disappearance, distorted energies tainted the capture site, leaving a sinister imprint on the surroundings. No light fragments settled there, and approaching it induced an unsettling feeling, a warning that you were trespassing into a site marked by the dark arts of witches. -------------------------------------You have seen Mir die from a Vicha ----------------------------------------It will be torture ----------------------------------------------------It will be so much worse than the elf -----It does not have to be Five, let go of the feathers. Six, affirm your assessment. ---------------You cannot wager what is already marked by death
Never wager your life on hearsay or blind belief. Appearances, experiences, and expectations were treacherous masters. Lessons etched by battles against witches ingrained this truth: Things were not always what they seemed, not always what they once were, not always all they should be. Initiating his offensive investigation, Yves unleashed the Bow of Light on the Vicha. You would think that a target of such colossal proportions could not be missed especially considering the ethereal arrows were impervious to the storm and capable to traverse hundreds of meters with ease but Yves fell short two times and then his hands shook so badly that he did not dare try again. Well, this at least confirmed that it took more than sudden willpower to turn yourself into a master archer, or even to fling an arrow at a mountain, apparently. ------------------------------------You are too weak to laugh in the face of death -----------------------You are too pathetic to brush off your failure like this
With the Lightgiver Wand depleted, Yves still depended on the arrows. He conjured another, now harnessing its light. His pure light magic was subpar, but sufficient to send a singular beam flying. The light traversed the Vicha without impact. It was followed by various shard projectiles, crafted with different ratios of infused light and shard density. Yves assessment culminated in the formation of physical illusions; six walls, diverse in densities and materials, directly opposing the throbbing mountain.
Regardless of what he threw at the Vicha, Yves perceived the energy dissipating upon contact, which meant that the Vicha absorbed it though not entirely, but in nuances that affirmed the purer and less materialised the energy, the less is was consumed. What lingered unconfirmed was whether the Vicha absorbed free world energies. Amidst the storm, Yves could not tell. The energies of the Northlands appeared too disrupted from the storm and too sparce compared to the overwhelming presence of the Vicha. However, Yves had never witnessed such ability in the initial days following its conjuration. No, a Vicha could not sustain itself by drawing energy from its surroundings, otherwise it would never expire.
Seven, draw conclusions. ----------It will torture you to death
Yves competence as an illusionist hinged on his capacity to imagine and orchestrate multiple complex conjurations simultaneously, all the while adapting to spontaneous shifts in the illusions surroundings. He needed to react with a moments notice to the unexpected, he needed to foresee even the unrealistic and absurd. As a duellist, his survival stemmed from his versatility, and as a novice, he had prevailed for years by rapidly grasping and applying new concepts. All of this, fuelled by the dread of imminent death, directed his analytical abilities. What would take minutes to articulate had already crystallised within his mind the moment the last shard met the Vicha. ------Nothing in this world will save you
I know.
Ch. 6.5 — Northlands. Expanse. Crater - Something left with Nothing
Eight, use the feathers. ----------You won''t even --Eight, act.-You will not feel a thing notice that you die-----------------
Yves gathered all available energy, drawing from chains and his last ring, from crystals in his bags and the sparse environment around him. He depleted everything but one crystal an odd habit, perhaps, but practiced one. If you needed everything you had, it was never enough. So, you might as well give everything but one. That one might be your lifeline in the aftermath. It was also a silent pledge, a promise to himself. This last crystal was dedicated to ending the witch that had fed the Vicha. -------------Who are you trying to fool? ------Do you even believe your own words? With that, he began to build.
Within the crater, Yves covered the ground with a transparent array of shards, aligning them with the natural contours of the rocky terrain. Having depleted the Lightgiver Wand, he relied on the Bow of Light to transform his energy into a condensed light arrow, which he in turn harnessed with his light magic abilities. He infused his shards with so much light that they were better described as materialised light, a radiance crafted into an almost imperceptible, reflective surface. The stony terrain of the Northlands was severely saturated with salt and riddled with deep fissures, so that the heavy rainfall seeped away instead of building up. The depths of the unnatural crater featured the same rock structures as the surface. Where Yves stood, the ground held little earth, all but a knee-high mess of mud. Filling the depression with a few layers of shards was sufficient to prevent him from sinking in. Atop this foundation, he created vertical supports and interconnected them through horizontal structures. They spanned the width like a scaffold of glass growing far and further into the sky.- No monsters emerged. None would. Until now, Yves had spotted no creatures in his vicinity. Midnight, too, had sensed nothing the entire time she had been with him. He forced himself not to dwell on Midnight.---Oh how she must loathe her decision to be your familiar ------------She knows that you are too ashamed to die in front of her. -------------She knows that you gave up. It was impossible. When Yves was not actively thinking about something, intrusive thoughts crept in like alien voices, disrupting, disturbing and distracting. The problem with an illusionists vivid imagination and versatile thinking was the struggle to reduce all those strings of thoughts to one. Whatever Yves did, there was always an endless array of images, memories, and voices demanding his attention. The quiet was too loud. And if it was too quiet for too long, the elf noise emerged. Yves needed to occupy his mind to avoid distraction, so he focussed on reciting his own conclusions, basically lecturing to himself, as he so often did to suppress the clamour. The very existence of Vichae defied the established laws of reality and the doctrines of wizardry the laws that you were officially taught and the understanding that you were given, that is. At Emery Thurm, Yves had been taught that reality comprised physical matter and energies, the latter perceptible through second sight. A wizard could consciously take in Adhar, raw energy, and use it to realise the abilities predestined by his spectrum and disposition. These abilities, the diverse strains of magic, manifested in varying degrees of matter and energy. Worldbender elementers, for instance, wielded control over the tangible elements of water, fire and air, which were in essence purely physical. Lightshifter illusionists, in accordance with their disposition and skill, could materialise illusions spanning from the entirely physical to the solely visual. Meanwhile, light fragments had no matter. They bore the purest of world energies, which is why they allowed unimpeded passage. While both lifeless and living entities could not touch them, Lightshifter light wizards had the unique potential to manipulate these fragments, a magic devoid of any physical substance. Beyond the instructions in magic, Emery Thurm propagated that the world cradled energies beyond the grasp of wizards. Witches harnessed not the raw and free energy that was Adhar but that confined within nature or bestowed through Teharun. At least, that was the doctrine every diligent student internalised, and what got the average wizard through the average wizard life. Yet, in the face of Vichae, this bastion of knowledge crumbled into implausibility. Based on this foundation, it seemed impossible that witches could conjure something that passed through light magic while it partially or fully absorbed all other types of magic. Why did a Vicha absorb energy conveyed into physical matter but, in turn, pass through lifeless and natural things that were fully physical? And in the haunting absurdity that transgressed all that was logical and real, why and how did it selectively touch and consume the energies and bodies of higher life forms? While absorbing energy from his crystals and continuously gathering light from the bow, Yves expanded the field of shards, stretching it far beyond the confines of the crater. With him at the centre, he spanned a sprawling shard floor, its diameter extending for several kilometres across the plateau, reaching out toward the encroaching curse. To prevent any absorption by the Vicha upon contact, the whole structure had to be saturated with light fragments, with only the faintest traces of glass magic.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. The black mountain pressed forward, its ominous advance over the threshold unfolding with alarming speed. If such an enigma could persist within the framework of your reality, then the very foundation of this reality must be flawed, misconstrued instead of uncovered through academy teachings unless you made the forbidden recesses of underground libraries your teachers: Physical matter and energies were not mere components of the world; no, they formed two distinct dimensional planes. One dimension held the tangible, where all physical existences were anchored. The second plane interwove with the first and contained all those energies perceivable by wizards through second sight and sensed by other beings in various ways. The arcane tomes offered a variety of enigmatic names for these dimensions, but Yves simply labelled them the Material Dimension and the Alladharian Dimension, alladharian being his own neologistic shorthand for the obvious this is where all the energies are. There is more. Your body, contrary to the doctrines of your academy masters, was not an outer layer or shell that encapsulated your Rothar, the energy that was you. No, as a wizard, you existed dually within the two dimensions. You were both the tangible substance comprising your body and the amalgamation of energy that comprised your Rothar. The former was anchored in the Material Dimension, the latter in the Alladharian, and somehow, they were linked. The continuum of your existence relied on the integrity of this link. In other words, you did not just die when your body got killed. The entity that was you faced demise if either part was depleted or destroyed. Yeah, about that, Yves panted, his breath frozen amidst the charged air, I need more energy. He spoke not just to himself. He spoke to the Jabarrah, the familiar that had merged with him fifteen years ago. About everything you have, if you dont mind. His words fell heavy. He was burning up from the strain that came with handling such an unreasonable amount of light. He discarded his coat and pushed up the sleeves of his undercoat and shirt, thereby exposing the Jabarrahs long silver beak fused with his lower arm. The two halves of the beak ran from elbow to hand, encasing his left arm like armour. It was the only visible remnant of the avian beast, all that was left after the elf attack. They had no conscious bond like the deep connection Yves shared with Midnight. There were only a few instances where Yves had ever sensed the Jabarrah within him. Yet, he knew he was there, an integral part of all that Yves had become after the attack. The familiar was an essence bonded with him, but he also was a foreign mind and energy existing alongside him. Are you with me on this one? Yves body could harbour only a limited amount of energy; a capacity defined by birth, expanded through training, and currently exhausted. The silver beak, however, held more energy than Yves could safely amass in his entire body an inaccessible reserve, unless the Jabarrah permitted him to draw from it. When you absorbed Adhar, the energy that was you incorporated the energies that surrounded you, be they free, encapsulated in energy crystals, woven into artefacts, or lingering in the physical remnants of a familiars existence. You drew energy across the boundary between what was you and what was not. This transgression of boundaries occurred in the Alladharian Dimension. This ability to absorb stray energy was not what rendered you a wizard; several races could tap into Adhar. What set wizards apart was their capacity to transform and realise this energy across dimensions. This was the true essence of wizardry This was Magic. So when, in the Alladharian Dimension, Yves absorbed Adhar to then create matter, like in the form of physical illusions, the conveyed energy became anchored in the Material Dimension. Such magic, anchored in the Material Dimension, then affected an enemys physical body. Now, this distinction was crucial for Yves'' theory on the Vicha: not all magic operated in the Material Dimension. Unlike magic that manifested matter, light magic did not traverse dimensions. It only affected the Alladharian Dimension. When Yves compressed and directed light fragments into an attack, they remained there. Although a visible light beam traversed the physical world, the true target of the assault was an enemy''s Rothar. Light magic, along with any seals rooted in the purest of energies, exclusively influenced the Alladharian Dimension, leaving the Material Dimension untouched. The Jabarrahs unrestrained energy surged through him. From the outer rim of the shard-strewn ground, excluding the path of the advancing Vicha, Yves wove a dome. Layers of structure emerged from the edges of the shard cover, extending skyward above the Vicha, finding support in the glass pillars rooted in the crater scaffold. Channelling the Jabarrahs vast reserves, he fortified the dome, adding stratum upon stratum of condensed light, each layer pressed to its utmost limit. Shards embodied an extraordinary versatility, possessing a rare duality that allowed them to influence both dimensions simultaneously and in varying degrees. As an ordinary student at Emery Thurm, left blissfully unaware of the underlying principles of reality, this duality was distorted and presented to you as the indeed, very logical as long as you were ignorant Theoriye of Magick Densitiye. Consider, when defending against potent physical assaults, your instinctual response to craft denser shard walls by increasing your energy input. You engaged in your craft under the simple belief that a higher energy input equated to a stronger shard structure, when the deciding factor was, in truth, not the amount but the ratio of energy transferred to the physical dimension. For the most effective shields, you needed to transfer all your energy to the Material Dimension while retaining just enough in the Alladharian to sustain and control the shield. How could you come up with that on your own without an awareness of the duality of reality? You could not. Consequently, you lost half your energy creating a shard wall in the Alladharian Dimension, an absolute waste against any physical assault. The knowledge to consciously control the energy-matter ratio of shards made the difference between a wizard who could block a handful of beasts and one who could halt even the King Brothers'' army. Conversely, when launching shard projectiles towards distant enemies, a novice''s natural inclination was to craft lighter shards in order to gain speed and range. Yes, the slim and transparent shards that you crafted for such purpose were less dense and, respectively, likely to travel faster and farther. However, if you simply used less energy in both dimensions to conjure them, they also became utterly weak and difficult to control. But of course, you accepted this as the natural limitations of your craft, because your masters said it would be so, and because every other glass wizard in your grade had the same experiences as you. And because it made sense. With a mind restricted to one dimension, you would never imagine that the knife you threw at your enemy could or should be as heavy as the massive shield you used to protect your body. However, if you understood how to adjust the ratio of transgressing energy, you could create impeccably dense shards that were close to all energy and no matter. When such a projectile struck another wizard, it penetrated both his material body and his Rothar. You still saw the body suffer or die, but rarely because of a direct impact on the physical form. Rather, it succumbed due to the disruption or destruction of the Rothar tethered to it. Mind you, this secret was well wasted on your petty wizard duels. This world harboured entities who seemed untouchable, immortal even, unless you knew that they, too, bore a dual existence. There were rumours that the purest of energy shards might even inflict harm upon an elf To sum this up, everything had changed when Yves found out that glass magic implied he was, in fact, acting on two dimensional planes. It marked an unparalleled breakthrough in understanding the possibilities of his disposition, in transgressing common limitations. The moment he truly internalised that his shards did not need to be less dense but only less bound to the physical dimension was the moment he discovered the potential for extraordinary conjurations, from blade discs that decapitated sea beasts to enormous structures such as the dome. Yves had taught himself to create shard structures immeasurable in their density yet almost completely anchored in the dimension of energies shards infused with light fragments. Yves suffered from the strain of directly channelling, of ceaselessly absorbing and immediately draining the raw, concentrated energy from the Jabarrah. The familiar''s previous bond had been with a master Transcender, and as familiars accrued power and abilities while aging alongside their wizards, the Jabarrah possessed formidable strength. A wizard of Yves age and experience could not ordinarily endure this level of energy rush without incurring severe consequences. He did not care. He was not done. To complete the dome, Yves directed the expanding structure to descend from the ceiling and to grow left and right until all parts connected behind the Vicha. The curse had breached the dome fully, its immensity occupying over a third of the entire enclosed space. Yves stood at the heart of the defiant structure, drawing in ever more energy. If he could not control what the Jabarrah held, he would not survive what was about to come. Yves was about to stake his life on nothing short of a revolution in his understanding of the fundamental nature of reality a theory formulated, postulated, unwritten, and untested by an academy throw-out who would have to endure another hundred years before hoping to sprout the first stubble of a respectable wizard beard. This daring proposition was grounded in the belief that the Vicha existed beyond the dual dimensions that constituted matter and energy.
Ch. 6.6 — Northlands. Expanse. Crater - Nothing in this world
In a parallel to how light fragments were anchored in the Alladharian Dimension while light itself still illuminated the Material Dimension, Yves assumed that the Vicha must be anchored in yet another dimension. All that he perceived through first and second sight was but a phantom presence traversing his reality crucially untouched by both pure energy and pure matter, yes, unable to affected either. In strict but simplified terms, phantom presences were energies perceivable through first sight. They could be recognised in the Material Dimension. Amongst these were light and also the Rothar of solely ethereal beings such as spectres or sprites. However, while these are anchored in the Alladharian Dimension, Yves believed that the Vicha was not. As Yves confirmed moments ago, when he attacked with light fragments, the Vicha could not consume them. Light remained elusive, passing through the curse unaffected. Vichae demonstrated no inclination to absorb free energy from their surroundings either. Drawing on the hierarchy of magical purity, Yves understood that the Vicha did not consume raw energy and light because they were solely anchored in the Alladharian Dimension, and it was incapable to impact this dimension. The first premise stood: the Vicha could not access the Alladharian Dimension. At the same time, it effortlessly passed through tangible matter rooted in the physical dimension. It traversed objects and even natural life-forms like plants without leaving any trace on them. It did not evade or go around them, like less dense material entities such as wind or fog did, but passed straight through them as if it were nothing but a visual illusion. Yet, it consumed higher biological life-forms, assimilating the energies and somehow incorporating the bodies of all animals and peoples it touched. This was where the established laws of wizardry and the prospect of just two dimensions faltered: If the Vicha was not anchored in the Alladharian Dimension, it should be anchored in the Material Dimension. If it were anchored in the Material Dimension, it should not at all ever be able to fucking pass through things. Yves refused to accept that a witch could wield command over what her Vicha consumed and what it spared; purportedly to protect nature and plants? Even if such control were possible, how the fuck did it work? It was oh so easy to dismiss Vichae as just another inexplicable facet of witchcraft, but no, Yves insisted on logic. He demanded rules. His flawed education at Emery Thurm had ingrained in him the principle that if things did not seem right, the teaching was not right. If none of what he knew offered sensible rules, he needed to unearth them in the unknown. Daring to dig for the daunting, he planted the second premise for his theory, firmly rooted in the conviction that the Vicha did not pass through natural existences because of some sort of a witch''s command, no: it could not affect any matter that was solely or predominantly rooted in the Material Dimension. Lifeless matter had no energies. Similarly, plants carried only minimalistic traces of Rothar, much like how light fragments had but a phantom presence in the Material Dimension. Essentially, the Vicha was not anchored in the Material Dimension. In the dual reality that was known to Yves, the Vicha was but a grotesque phantom existence, a shadow presence of the true curse, now dragging itself to the centre of his dome of light. Yves placed his unbroken ethereal mirror on the shard-covered ground, precisely at the centre of the dome. From there, the mightiest of his supporting light pillars ascended, reaching the zenith of the curved glass roof. Yves slid the mirror into this column of light, ensuring the reflective surface lay directly beneath. The Vicha''s selective consumption was the prime example of all that made witchcraft so utterly non-transparent. It consumed higher life forms. It also consumed those types of magic that conveyed energy into matter, such as physical illusions and shards. In core, it seemed to selectively devour physical masses with strong energies. How was this possible? How could the Vicha consume dense and potent energies without accessing the Alladharian Dimension, and how could it interact with the corresponding bodies without being anchored in the Material Dimension? There was a logic behind this. There was indeed a rule, and Yves had found it: The Vicha only affected dual existences. In the pursuit of the unknown and untaught, this selective consumption directed his third premise: If the Vicha was neither anchored in the Material Dimension nor in the Alladharian, and if it could only consume those dual existences that were anchored in both dimensions, then it affected neither physical matter nor Rothar directly, but the link between them. A wizards body and his Rothar were somehow linked. Magic that transformed energy into matter relied on this link. Even the act of sustaining the wizard body through energy, instead of physical sustenance, was only possible because of such a link. Yves believed that the Vicha, not anchored in either dimension, exploited these links. It could only consume dual existences founded in a link between matter and Rothar, akin to tapping into a vein that was non-existent in lifeless matter and raw energy, and too feeble in simple natural existences and light fragments. Now, if you can still stomach to delve deeper, force yourself to question this third premise on the foundation of all that you experienced and all that you have been taught. Learning in mere paragraphs what Yves needed years to piece together, you have already expanded your limited world view from one to two interconnected dimensions. You have acknowledged that you possess a dual existence rooted in both dimensions, while this curse must be rooted in another, third dimension. But confronted with the third premise, you now realise that again, something does not seem quite right.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. Because when you pick it all apart, you understand that a common beast can kill another beast to then consume its flesh. But you ask: How can a Vicha disintegrate your physical body if it cannot actually access the Material Dimension? How does your body disappear? Likewise, you know that a sprite, whose ethereal existence is anchored in the Alladharian Dimension, can eat off your Rothar. But you cannot explain: How can the Vicha do so, if it is not anchored in the Alladharian Dimension? How can the energy just vanish? Yes, dear novice, you know your words. You understand that consumption means that your physical matter and Rothar go from you to the Vicha. But it is not the same as when you take in Adhar to do your magic, is it? Because what you do is draw energy from a dimension in which your own existence is anchored. Your Rothar, anchored in the Alladharian Dimension, takes energy from the same dimension. And if you realise matter through magic, your energy moves from the one dimension in which your dual existence is anchored to the other. The enigma that is the Vicha, however, takes in your physical matter and your Rothar while being anchored in neither. It took something from dimensions it did not belong to. You ask, exhausted, disturbed and impatient: Well then, what is the difference? What does it mean to access the link? It meant that Yves would never again denigrate witchcraft or believe that he could fathom its limitations. This was dimensional transgression. The Vicha was not an enigmatic, self-sustaining spell. It was an active dimensional portal. Harnessing an ever mightier surge of energy from the Jabarrah, Yves orchestrated the deciding transformation of his dome. Every one of his light-infused shards transmuted into mirrors. Prior to crafting artifacts as distinctive as the ethereal mirrors, Yves had spent years learning the highly specialised craft of mirror making. It demanded an intricate understanding and manipulation of the delicate equilibrium between shards and light. This, now, was his grandest creation. The entire expanse within the dome transformed into one singular mirror the walls, the ceiling, the very floor beneath his feet, and the supporting pillars unfolded in a surreal ambiance. It was no ordinary mirror, not akin to those crafted from silver, nor did it resemble the unique artifacts that were his ethereal mirrors. Instead, the entire structure became an incandescent confine, a colossal one-sided reflector emanating and encompassing a mesmerising play of luminosity. Yves had built an extension of his ethereal mirror. It was established that the Vicha pursued Yves because the witch had infused parts of it into him. When the curse captured a target and regained its missing part, it became complete. It was generally assumed that the Vicha then disappeared into the void since it had fulfilled the witchs desire for revenge. Building on the fourth premise that the Vicha was a portal, Yves believed that it instead shifted back to the dimension where it was anchored. The reason that it shifted only after capturing the cursed wizard must be that he carried the gateway key. With the curse, the witch infused the gateway key into the wizard. It then activated upon contact, just like Yves could only access the Mirror Dimension when using the witch mother crystal half ball on his ethereal mirrors. So when conjuring a Vicha, a witch got her revenge by literally ripping you out of existence. Whether you died right there in the process or after shifting to the Vicha''s dimension, a portal did not dissipate after a shift. That explained the lingering ominous feeling in places where a Vicha had consumed its target because it persisted, existing in a third dimension beyond the reach of first and second sight. Yves assumed that from this third dimension, the faintest of phantom presences still touched upon the dual reality, not visible, but still perceived by what may be defined as your instinct or intuition, the ominous bad feeling. Was all of this a terrible idea? Oh yes. But unfortunately, it made more sense than anything else. Yves knew less than the bare minimum about dimensional travel, heck, he did not even understand how exactly his body and energy transitioned from their dimensions to the Mirror Dimension. Yet, whatever link existed between his body and his Rothar, and however his consciousness was defined and connected to both, his mirrors somehow accessed and altered this link. As a wizard, he could draw energy from one dimension and convert it into matter in another. His ethereal mirrors exemplified this interdimensional transfer, shifting his body and Rothar into a mirror world form within the Dimensional Plane of Shards. The moment he entered the Mirror World, his matter and Rothar disappeared from their respective dimensions, just like anyone who fell victim to a Vicha. And as he shifted, the infused Vicha part within him, the gateway key, came with. Yves had sensed it when transforming after closing the lighthouse tunnel. Now, then, did that not make you wonder, what would happen if the whole Vicha was connected to him, and his ethereal portal were just much, much bigger? As Yves gazed at his reflection in the ethereal mirror, he found himself bathed in a cascade of brilliant streams of crystalline light, as if he was cut out from this world and placed upon a sheet of unspoilt nothing that still tried to flicker anything substantial into existence. Approaching, spilling and spoiling this sanctuary, looming ever higher above him, the Vicha remained a black enigma amid this opus of brightness, a rotten mass untouched by the symbiosis of light, unrooted in this dimension. The dome mirrored only endless, seamless layers of the light it incorporated, like celestial fragments of the most star-strewn sky. The tempest outside lashed against the dome, rain and wind converging with thunder into a haunting, harrowing melody, gradually turning resonant, almost captivating, if you dared listen beyond the chaos. Every flash of lightning transgressed through the transparent yet reflective mirrors, casting streaks of endlessly reflecting beams of gold across hundreds and hundreds of meters of radiant surface above, below and around Yves. Amid his creation, Yves recognised the beauty that could be wrought by magic. In a world so marred by ugliness, beauty needed to be crafted. The thought carried strange solace. This was not the worst place to die. In his hands, he cradled two objects. In his right hand, a feather so weightless it was almost imperceptible; in his left, the crystal half-ball, a relic burdened with familiar weight. One was to forget, the other a reminder of past commitments and present convictions. Confronting his reflection in the mirror, Yves witnessed the looming mountain advance over the platform, veins of shadow surging like tendrils, seeking the edge of the crater, pressing forward. With deliberate precision, his left hand inserted the witch mother crystal half ball into its socket. Taking and dropping the unpacked, singular feather from his right hand, his left hand then intertwined his fingers in the initial gesture for the ritual. Well then, a shitload of poison it is. As the Vicha bulged in, cascaded down the crater, veins extending toward him, Yves completed the ritual. He paused just before drawing the last sign, enduring endless seconds for the veins to spill over him. Breathe.
Ch. 7.1 — Dimensional Plane of Shards - Northlands Plateau, Crater.
Everything happened in the breath that bore the final word of the Somsaraa. The Vichas veins surged across the crater. Just before they reached Yves, the silvered beak of the Jabarrah transformed, extending over Yves arm and over the curse mark on his shoulder, intercepting the Vicha''s initial touch. In that fleeting fraction of time where the Vicha bore into the physical remnants and Rothar of the Jabarrah but had not yet reached Yves, the ethereal mirror initiated a cataclysmic shift. The portal entwined all entities tethered to Yves. Though their individual wills persisted, Yves and the Jabarrah were one entity. With that, the curse became bound to Yves the moment it consumed the familiar, even without direct contact. In an ethereal blink, they vanished from the dual reality Yves, the Jabarrah, and the rotten mass of a curse that had ensnared itself into the expansive dome, a mirror crafted to shift a mountain. Amid the dimensional transference, a torrent of overwhelming pain enveloped Yves. The Jabarrah held the onslaught at bay for only this moment, provided Yves with but a fleeting reprieve before the mountain of destructive energies spilled over and broke through the barrier posed by the familiar into Yves own existence. The Vicha, feared as the harbinger of hatred, an embodiment of vengeance, was believed to inflict a torment beyond the realm of mortal understanding. And it did. Not because of exaggerated superstitions, but because it was an active conduit between dimensions. The pain Yves felt was an all-encompassing seismic upheaval that shook his consciousness. It inflicted more than physical injury; it was an unnatural, excruciating assault on Yves'' essence, the tearing apart of his very being. The Vicha bore into him and unravelled his existence, seeking the part infused within him the gateway key to his destruction. It grasped onto Yves the same time he transformed into his mirror world form. In the depths of this existential maelstrom, Yves clung to consciousness. He fought. He fought like he had fought the rushing energies when sealing the tunnel. In this dimension, he could fight, because he had learned to breach the limitations of his being. At his core, he clung to the fragile bit of energy that was his own, his essence, his lifeline, tainted by the foreign disturbance that was the gateway key, but still untouched by the Vicha. The encroaching curse framed itself around this core, filling and feeding on the vessel that was Yves. The curse was the smoke, it was the poison, breaking and incorporating, swelling and overtaking what was him. But as the Vicha within him grew, so did Yves. With the pivotal moment of shifting, he harnessed the potent mirror world energy, preventing the curse from exhausting and breaking him. 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V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A?????????????????????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????_????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A?????????????????????????V?????I??CH?????AV?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A????????????????????????? V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A?????????????????????????V?????I??CH?????AV?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A?????????????????????????V?????I??CH?????A??????????? V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A?????????????????????????V?????I??CH?????AV?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????_????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????V?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A??????????? V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A?????????????????????????V?????I??CH?????AV?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?A????????????????????????????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A????????????????????????? V????????????????????????????I???????????????????_?????????????????????????????????????????_??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????C??????????????????????????????????????????????H?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????_??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????A??????????_????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? _??????????????????????????????????????V???????????????????????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????C??????????????????????????????????????????H??????????????????????????????????????????????_??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????A??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????_V?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????I??????????????????????????????C????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????H?????????????????????????????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????V????????????????????????????????_???????????????????????????????????????????????????I?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????_????????????????_??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????_???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????C??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????_?????????????????????????????????????????H???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????A??????????????????????????????????_????????_????????? -- -- -- -- -- Expanding from within, adding layers of compressed shards around his core, Yves pushed back against the invasive veins. Simultaneously, he directed raw energy toward the Jabarrah, encasing it in the purest of shards. In this silent offering, he felt no reciprocation; the familiar neither took nor opened itself to the merging of energies. Since traversing dimensions, the Jabarrah had eluded the Vichas grasp. When shifting, he always shed all material essence, transforming into an ethereal presence confined and embedded within the shard structure that Yves became. This presence was diminished now, after sustaining the dome and intercepting the Vicha. Yves felt this reduction, but still, the familiar made no move to absorb mirror world energy. Yves needed all he could grasp; it was a harrowing race against relentless consumption. Each intake of energy to fortify himself was met with the Vicha''s predatory advance a perilous cycle where his internal growth was counteracted by the Vicha''s external devouring. The curse grew with him, through him, within and ever deeper into him. Yves strained to interpose layer upon layer between his core and the encroaching veins, but breaking free demanded more than fortification he needed to sever the Vicha from himself. The transformation into the ashen being marked not an endpoint but a crucial juncture, the one chance to survive this horror. With this ashen form, Yves gained heightened senses, particularly attuned to light fragments. The Mirror World held no true matter, only more material and more ethereal shard formations. All else was light fragments and raw energy. As soon as he could perceive them past the black mountain that engulfed him, Yves honed in on these fragments and immediately set to harnessing them. Drawing on his Lightshifter abilities, he infused light into the dense shards that comprised his being. If he could become entirely ethereal, like the Jabarrah No, he could not infuse his entire form at once, not in the immediate struggle for the ceaseless growth required to stave off the Vicha. It was too much pressure, the challenge too complex, his own sickening screeching too distracting. Yet, Yves managed to alter the outermost layers of his form, those about to be devoured by the invasive veins. In this metamorphosis of layers, the Vicha faced a limitation it could not touch upon light, neither in the dual reality that was Yves origin nor in the ethereal expanse of the Mirror World. Yves had hoped for this. He had suspected a link between the energies of his reality and the Dimension of Shards after realising that shifting the grey wades of the latter impacted waves in the former. His hopes held true. In a critical turn of this battle, the Vicha continued its relentless consumption of Yves'' shard body without touching on the light he incorporated. And with that, the curse suddenly became his greatest asset. Because now, it extracted only the most material elements of his being, the least ethereal shards. Veins, finer than hairline fractures, carried away these impurities, leaving behind the purest forms of compressed light as they breached further inwards. While the Vicha progressed, Yves prepared subsequent light-infused layers of shards to be purified. Simultaneously, he pulled in the purified light structures, building them up around his core. It was mentally gruelling. A relentless endeavour that threatened to overwhelm him with each passing moment, yet he continued to pull and purify, to expand the ring of pure light around his core while thrusting ever new layers of condensed ashen shards outward, toward the Vicha. -- -- -- V?????I??CH?????AV?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????_????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?????????????????????????????A???????????????????????????????? V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????_????????H??????????????????????????????????A????????????????????? V?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????_????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????V?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????A ?????????????????????????V?????I??CH?????AV?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????_????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????V?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A????????????????????????? ???????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????AV?????I??CH?????AV?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A?????????????????????????V?????I??CH?????AV?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????AThe narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. V?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????_????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????V?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????_????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A?????????????????????????V?????I??CH?????AV?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????_????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????V?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A??????????? 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VICH H?_????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????AV???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H ????????????????????????? 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V?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????_????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_?????A???????????????????????????? ??????????? V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A?????????????????????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????_????????H??????????????????????????????????A????????????????????? 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V?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????_????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????V?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????A????????????????????????? V?????I??CH?????AV?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A?????????????????????????V?????I??CH?????AV?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A??????????? V?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????_????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????V?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????_????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A???????????????????????????????? V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A?????????????????????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????_????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A?????????????????????????V?????I??CH?????AV?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A????????????????????????? V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A?????????????????????????V?????I??CH?????AV?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A?????????????????????????V?????I??CH?????A??????????? V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A?????????????????????????V?????I??CH?????AV?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????_????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?_????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????V?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???_???????????????????????????????????H????????????A??????????? V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A?????????????????????????V?????I??CH?????AV?????????????????????????????????????I?????C???H????????????A???????????V?????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????C????????????H??????????????????????????????????A?????????????????????V???????????????????????I?????????????????C?????????????????????????????????????????H?A????????????????????????????????V????????????????????????????I????????????_???????C??????????H??????????_?????A????????????????????????? V????????????????????????????I???????????????????_?????????????????????????????????????????_??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????C??????????????????????????????????????????????H?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????_??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????A??????????_????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? _??????????????????????????????????????V???????????????????????????????????????????????I???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????C??????????????????????????????????????????H??????????????????????????????????????????????_??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????A??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????_V?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????I??????????????????????????????C????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????H?????????????????????????????????????????????????????A????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????V????????????????????????????????_???????????????????????????????????????????????????I?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????_????????????????_??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????_???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????C??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????_?????????????????????????????????????????H???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????A??????????????????????????????????_????????_????????? -- -- -- -- In the midst of this transformation, Yves assumed an unprecedented form. In a dimension that held minimal traces of matter, Yves had begun as a fragmented existence. Incorporating ever-growing layers of light, he gradually altered his matter-energy ratio, turning himself into a less and less substantial being. Growing within the rotten mass that had engulfed him, he evolved from a dark ashen being to an entity of almost pure ethereal light. As he expanded to rival the Vicha in size, defying the ties between matter and energy that defined his existence, Yves dared to direct the light that was now him inwards, painfully weaving it into his core. He sensed the transformative threshold becoming light, fully ethereal, beyond the grasp of the Vicha and at the brink of separating the gateway key from himself. Yves felt it, he felt it emerge, the Breath of the Light that silenced the distorted screams emerging from his form. It was an extraordinary sensation that he thought he knew, he thought he experienced once before amongst soldiers in the heart of battle, where each breath encapsulated their entire existence. Past, future, and identity faded, replaced by an all-encompassing focus on the singular moment, living the battle one breath at a time, each breath the embodiment, the singularity of life. This profound connection was often associated with elemental magic, where Worldbenders felt their element as an intrinsic part of themselves, transcending ordinary senses. What Yves felt was so much more. Weaving light into his core did not just feel like a controlled or easy or natural act akin to breathing, no, there was a shift where the light became breath, where it became life, where it became his consciousness. It was a heightened awareness of his being and the shifting structures within him. It unfolded and expanded as Yves outgrew the Vicha, the curse engulfing him no more, as it became ever easier to amass more energy and light to keep the Vicha at bay. He made light his core and fought to force out the last impurity that was the gateway key. Yves felt that he could beat the curse, that he could do it all at once discard the last ashen shards within his being and the key. The Vicha would touch the gateway key the same second it became unable to hold onto Yves anymore and so shift dimensions by itself. And then everything shifted, everything spiralled out of control. Tension transformed into an overwhelming sense of dread; just as Yves crossed the border to the ethereal, a palpable danger gripped his existence. He felt it with his entire body, for his body was of the same essence as this world raw energy and compressed light. Suddenly, the well of free energy and light in his surroundings vanished from all his senses, leaving only him, the Vicha, and the void. And the voice. I??????t???? wa??????s? a l??o??n??g???? t??im?e??????? s?????in?c?????e? a w?????it?c???????h??? c????a?????m???????e??? t??o??? c?????h???a????l???????l???????e??????n??g???e??? t??h???e? G????o?d?????s??. It echoed in Faramyr, the language of witches, distorted and multi-layered as if borne from the rushing sands. The presence was close, circling him, separated from Yves only by the Vichas black veil of distorted energy. It was the Stalker. Yves was suffocating. As the voice had appeared, so had a barrier of black light. The void. Yves could not access any energy, not draw upon the light fragments that he knew were right there, just behind the Vicha. The Vicha still fed on him. With his faltering resistance, the curse needed mere seconds to outgrow and again engulf him in its rotten mass. ? ???? ?? ????????????. They were the first words that came to Yves as he felt his control breaking, his form losing stability, fracturing just like the voice he did not know he had. His breathless words resonated in Byrmir, the most arcane language of higher wizardry. ?????? ??????, ?????? ?????????? ?? ?????????? ???? ?????????????? ?????? ?????????????? ?????? ???????? ???? ?????? ???????????????????? ???? ?????? ????????, responded the rushing sands from all around.
Ch. 7.2 — Dimensional Plane of Shards - Northlands Plateau, Crater - Run now
The presence circling Yves was a being of the brightest ashen light. But only at first glance; then Yves realised that everything was fundamentally wrong. The Stalker appeared distorted, roaming amidst the shard structures emerging behind the colossal Vicha, at a greater distance than the voice implied. He was not much taller than the wandering entities but lacked their geometrical intricacy of shards and light. His form had the fluidity of smoke, which in this fractured world appeared surreal and false. Yves felt him more than seeing him; his presence was raw energy compressed into a fluid form, not insubstantial like mist, but a silhouette so potent that it seemed severed from the world, now expanding and rapidly obscuring everything around Yves.
???????????? ???????? ?????????? ?????????????? ?????? ????????, the Stalker said. As this energy enveloped him atop of the Vicha, Yves faltered under the pressure. The weight of the Stalkers presence bore down on the Vicha, the sole barrier between them. Through brute intensity, the heavy liquid energy forced the rotten mass further into Yves. Yves strained to maintain awareness, to perceive his form in its entirety, to delineate the boundary between the energy that was him and what was not, what was within his control and what tore into him. The Breath of Light was long suffocated and his voice again reduced to horrid screeching. The compressed light within him burned through his core, out of his core, where pain took its place.-----RUN! ????????? ??????, ????????????, the Stalker said.-RUN! ---------NO!-RUN-- -----RUN The raw energy emanating from him was so powerful, so intense, that it disrupted all that surrounded Yves. He fractured shards. He bent light. He forced the Vicha into Yves. He was watching Yves die. ? ???????? ???????? ?????? ???????? ????, the Stalker said.-------NO! ---RUN!----------------RUN! Everything in Yves screamed.--NO! ------RUN! He had no time to struggle with words. No time to justify himself or seek answers. He had the mirror world stalker around him, the Vicha between them and within him, and only seconds until the curse would breach his last outer shard layer, pierce through his many layers of light and touch his core. And he had his mirror right below him. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.--RUN NOW! Yves initiated the Somsaraa ritual. Fears surged through him that his mirror might shatter upon attempting to return with mirror world energy, but reducing his form was impossible. He was breaking, he was losing his mind under the pressure and the pain, and yet, he pushed himself further to forge a path for his original Rothar like he did last time. It was crude, unfinished, insufficient, but it directed the ritual to first draw what was truly him, his core and the Jabarrah before pulling on the mirror world energies comprising his form. His senses constricted drastically. The process was messy, rushed, and wrong, yet he felt his essence surge, the Vicha reach his core, his mind fracturing, and his reality shifting. During the dimensional transition, the stalker''s lingering presence pressed upon Yves. The return to his reality, the shift from one form to another, was more disorienting than ever before. As his consciousness split, his ethereal form, now a towering distortion of broken light, bathed the void in disturbing radiance. It stood in stark contrast to his frail humanoid body. In a fleeting moment, Yves glimpsed the injuries inflicted by the Vicha''s veins visible on exposed arms and part of his neck where clothing and the Jabarrahs silver form offered no cover. The sight and sensation were jarring; Yves no longer recognised himself, neither in this distorted figure of a wizard nor in the ethereal amalgamation falling apart above him. All the strength and power that surged through him moments ago now abandoned him, replaced by a mess of exhausted energies and flesh that felt painful and wrong the aftermath of the Vicha''s touch. Brought back to the muddy crater, Yves found the dome, shelter and shard platform gone. He had left nothing energy-sustained, wary that lingering foreign energies would attract beasts after the shift. The mirror lay in the mud and rain, the unstable ground shifting under the additional weight as Yves appeared on top of it, from where he slipped and fell right off. The pain from the fall was nothing against what was already there. Agony radiated from flesh wounds where the Vicha had touched him. His dual existence bore the marks where the veins had ruptured flesh, muscle, and insides, inflicting deep damage just before the shift. A dimensional shift did not erase or fix injuries, and the pain had never relented; Yves returned to the exact same body he had shifted out of, as if frozen in time. His body screamed as Yves hastily scrambled to his knees and dug for the mirror in the mud, but his fear screamed louder. The stalker''s presence loomed right above him, his appearance discernible in the shattered mirror. Yves tore the crystal half ball from the socket. While the Stalker''s presence vanished, the dark aura of the Vicha persisted. It had not shifted with Yves; yet he still felt it surrounding him, in its full, expanded size from the Mirror Dimension that reached far beyond what had been the cliff behemoth. Overwhelmed, Yves collapsed at the epicentre of this unsettling mark of a witchs touch. A cascade of sensations had shifted with his transformation. His shard body did not register sensations the same way as his wizard body, but everything translated into pain. Pain from being torn apart by the Vicha during the shift. Pain from the Vicha surrounding him, rotten blackness that just kept ripping and ripping and ripping him apart. Pain from shifting shards within himself, of filling himself with terribly compressed, burning light and reshaping his body. Pain from suffocating in the presence of the stalker, a force even more potent than the Vicha. Yves had screamed in the mirror dimension, from within the confines of his mind and manifested in the anguished screeching voice of his ashen form, and the scream continued now, lost within the confines of the crater, met by the storm that screamed back at him with haunting indifference. Everything was wrong with him. The Jabarrah beak had extended over his arm and shoulder and chest like flat silver armour to intercept the Vichas first touch, but the curse had broken through. Grotesque external wounds marred his body deep furrows like ripped-out lightning-strikes, missing flesh exposing bone. He had been ruptured as he shifted to the Dimension of Shards but survived because he had fixed, filled, and fortified his mirror world form with energy. He had been strong, ethereal, and radiant, but now reverted to a weakened, frozen, broken, and dying body that had been even further damaged by his faulty ritual, now twisting and trashing in the mud, in the desolate plateau, in the torrent; a body that could not stop screaming and cramping and bleeding and vomiting blood. Then he felt more. He realised the Jabarrah shifted, extending into his body, its silver beak melting into his wounds. It stemmed the bleeding and sealed his wounds, saving him for the moment. And then he felt someone else Amidst the anguished cries, Yves attention suddenly shifted a grand barthar familiar and a rider appeared climbing up the crater around 60 meters away. They struggled against the elements, slipping and breaking rocks in their fall. A witch! Without hesitation, Yves threw a physical illusion at them, an undefined mass that hurled the witch off the familiar, both falling back into the crater. Shards followed the very second, imprisoning them separately where they landed. The witch he impaled, shackled by shards through her left thigh and both arms from shoulders to hands, binding her against the crater wall. The familiar he left unharmed. The animal sat up without resisting its ethereal cage. Yves drew himself up, his senses on high alert, wary of potential traps, illusions, or any form of sensory distortions associated with witches. He scrutinised the surroundings, feeling for hidden presences, but the overwhelming sensation of the Vicha drowned out any other subtle nuances. He approached. I am sorry. I am so sorry for fleeing, Sir, but your sudden appearance frightened me before I realised you were in pain. She looked young and weather-worn, clothed in the furs of beasts. Her barthar, a muscular beast with thick fur, was fitted with saddle and travelling sacks attached to it. She fought with the pain of the impaling shards and still asked him: Are you all right? Yves fought with his own pain, still feeling the Jabarrah settling within him, supporting his stance. In his right hand, he clutched his last remaining energy crystal. He did not speak. Please, Sir. My name is Halia, Halia from Valdin Mountain, she said, I meant you no harm. I am a beast shaman. I travel here, or sometimes in the Albweiss Mountains. I travel, and sometimes I collect rare plants for medicine. I I understand why you are wary ... and why you dont speak, Sir. Please know, I am no witch, I dont belong to any coven or mother or kingdom, I only live with my beasts. I do not have my horns yet, but please look here, at my arms, my arms, Sir, I carry the marks of the Shamans, I started my transition. I have renounced any witchcraft and anything I did was an accident, I am so sorry! I saw this unfamiliar black creature. It was so feeble, so weak, I thought it was dying. I am so sorry, Sir, was this your familiar or companion or something you fought? I mean it did not look conventional, but I am not one to judge. I did not knowC I did not expect to find another person I mean, I just wanted to connect to it, so I reached out in spirit like I do with the beasts, and I could feel that it responded and regained its strength. I thought I was helping. It started to move again, away. But it was not running from me. Its path was so determined that it almost seemed that it wanted to lead me somewhere, and so I followed until it ate the Underferl, and still I followed until what must be your light magic appeared and then, along with the creature, suddenly disappeared. And then we found all these artefacts in its path, and when I reached the crater there was no-one, and when I climbed down I suddenly felt the spirit of a dangerous beast appear, and I fled before I saw that it was not a beast but you Her hasty, trembling words broke off. Yves trembled, too, but his stare did not weaver. He was well aware that she did not cry. Sir, I promise, I will leave. I will go the other way from you. I wander from ruin to ruin, I will just go back, Sir, and never bother you again. Or if you like, I can show you safe passage, I know these lands, but then Im sure that you dont need me for that. I can just go back, and if you are here because you needed to be alone or unseen, I swear, Sir, I will never mention it, not to my beasts or anyone, Sir, I already forgot that I ever met you, Sir."
Ch. 8.1 — Northlands. Expanse - Yves || Northlands. Albweiss Mountains. Base - Midnight
Yves had forgotten most of the last days. He was travelling. He was crossing the Northlands plateau. As he did, he existed in a state of automated near unconsciousness. The Jabarrah kept him alive. Energy scavenged from the barren surroundings served as a meagre sustenance for his battered form. His mind, with none to claim for itself, became a void severed from coherent thoughts. Every once in a while, the blurred memories of the past week emerged. Elusive and indistinct, they slipped away just as quickly, like shadows drowning within in the dim recesses of his mind. He was quite content for them to disappear there. After the shift, Yves had eventually emerged from the crater, where he was met with a bewildering sight. There was his Chest of Useless Artefacts, hurled onto a makeshift wooden sled surrounded by a bunch of other poorly secured artefacts. He understood that the sled was fitted for the barthar, and then he realised that the spillage of artefacts was a bounty of items collected from the cliff behemoth. The Vicha''s consumption of the colossal creature had birthed an unexpected trove. The curse had shifted the living mass of the behemoth to another dimension, leaving everything material it had ever ensnared with its tendrils. All these artefacts must have simply fallen out of the behemoth as the creature itself had lost substance. It was, literally, unearthed history a mountain full of treasure. Yves could not estimate the lifespan of the behemoth; it must have surely existed for centuries or even millennia, shaping the cliff region long before it had turned into the desolate landscape of today. As far as Yves discerned from first glance when finding the sled and from various semi-conscious second glances throughout the week of travelling, the artefacts were an amalgamation of bygone eras of forgotten seafaring voyages, Tairan cultures, and remnants of those ill-fated adventurers whose journeys met an abrupt end in the behemoths maw, whether on land or where its tendrils had extended into the ocean. Yves, though in dire need of a healer, found himself caught between exhaustion and the compulsion of an artefact hunter''s curiosity. He felt pulled by an urgency to scrutinise the spoils, to dissect the arcane. Items that resisted the corrosive innards of the behemoth hinted at exceptional quality or potent enchantments, most likely both. Yves did not know what the witch had done, but from the order of things, it seemed that she had basically trailed the Vicha and picked up whatever fell out left and right. That was so stupid that he could not believe it. It was absurd and sickening, a display of reckless ignorance. You did not simply pick up random artefacts from the ground and then tossed them into a chest or pile with other artefacts, and then expected that absolutely fucking nothing would happen or activate. This was a surefire way to prematurely retire from your artefact hunter career. It was foolish to carry the unknown without understanding. Proper examination demanded a controlled environment, protective measures, time, and above all, a presently non-dying body. Yves had none of those things, and none of the things he could pick up would be of any use if he died before reaching the north-eastern settlements. Sensibility screamed for a pragmatic purge of the witch''s sled and all that did not belong to him. And yet, despite the risk for arcane disaster, the hoarder in Yves could not bring himself to abandon the tantalising pile of treasure. He needed to make some alterations to fit all his luggage; rearranging his chest, tossing a trunk of herbs and repurposing a small chest of furs, but in the end, he had kept every single artefact the witch had collected. As he sought distance from the crater in the days that followed the Vicha confrontation, Yves''s mind, occasionally shaken from its numbness, returned to the behemoth. A creature capable of swallowing sea creatures and ships whole, it had embodied a living dungeon, a mountain brimming with treasures. In eras long past, it could have overwhelmed entire armies or seasoned adventuring parties. The witch, in the haste of the storm and the short time it took for her barthar to catch up, could not have scavenged every item strewn across the expansive path from the lighthouse to the crater. It was impossible for the familiar to zig-zag back and forth from one end of the wading mountain mass to the other. Most likely, they had randomly picked up whatever they stumbled across, and still they had gathered 21 items. Considering that the sled was filled to the brim, they might have even left some things behind. The thought made Yves mad. Hundreds of artefacts must lay littered across the path between the lighthouse and the crater C an insurmountable trove of precious treasures and unique weapons just waiting for the next dumb-luck-idiot to stumbled upon. It was an infuriating waste. Over the past eight years, Yves had crawled through dungeons, swamps and forests. He had braved battles with beasts, sprites, and giants, brushing death left and right, to maybe eventually find one singular item which more often than not turned out shit painted gold, not even worth enough to end up in the Chest of Useless Artefacts. And now, he could have collected more than he had amassed in his entire lifetime and probably ever would by doing fucking nothing, by simply walking up and down the plateau. He could have gathered everything. He could have taken everything back to the lighthouse for proper examination. He might have found something that would have aided him in travel or with all his other issues But he had left, incapacitated and drained, incapable of action. He could not even walk properly. He felt that the Jabarrah was the only thing that kept his body from collapsing. But the Jabarrah was no healer. With each passing day, Yves body and eyesight deteriorated further, the latter a regression again aggravated after shifting back from the Mirror Dimension. And so he traversed the Northlands, seated on his chest, which was in turn placed on the witchs sled. His Levitation Staff could not affect living beings, but nothing stopped Yves from making the sled float forwards while he sat on top of it. Yet, a pressing need to cover ground remained. Even with the Levitation Staff, the journey to the settlements stretched dauntingly long over two months by foot, not significantly hastened by magical means. His advances were hindered by the ferocity of the savage Northlands storms, assaulting the cart and forcing Yves to remain low and move at a sluggish pace. At times, he drew up protective shards, but such walls, though they offered fleeting reprieves from the rain, demanded too much mental focus. When deployed as barriers and roof attached to the sled, they became additional vulnerable surfaces for the wind''s assault. When conjured as floating shields, unattached, they were difficult to maintain. Yves needed to consciously move them along in tandem with the sled, while simultaneously balancing out the unpredictable shifts in wind direction and intensity. Yves had never before used magic to travel the plateau, because any traces of foreign energies alarmed the buried and winged beasts that made these dead lands their territories. But now he dared, because his injuries and deteriorating eyesight left him no alternative, and because the heavy presence of the Vicha was still with him. The mark of the witchs touch was not on the crater. It was on Yves. The gateway key to the cursed portal still resided within him; he had not been able to separate it in time before the shift. And with that, the Vicha still moved as Yves did. The horrid mountain mass continued to trail him; a sinister affirmation of the connection between the Mirror Dimension and his own dual reality, evidenced by the ashen wades corresponding to oceans and lakes. It was a dark, oppressing presence. Yves did not know whether time exhausted it in any way. But he wanted, he needed to believe that it could not devour the shard structures constituting the Mirror World. What about the roaming entities that were so much more substantial? And what about the stalker? Yves remained uncertain whether this powerful entity actually touched the Vicha. The stalker had not touched Yves, that was for sure. The Vicha had been a barrier between them. It was all a painful blur. - ---------------What had he said to him? -- ????????? ?????? ???????? ???????? ?????????? ---------------Yves broke off. He could not revisit the moment. He could not go back there. He could not stomach the memories. He could not stomach anything. His stomach felt shredded. --- -----------------------------------------Still, he had survived. - -----------Yes, he had beaten it. He had BEATEN. A--FUCKING.-- VICHA.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. -- Was it still there? Yes. Did it still chase him? Yes. Did it feel fucking horrible to be in the literal middle of it? Most definitely. But it could. not. touch him. And what was more, what mattered even more, its dark presence kept all beasts at bay. If you broke it all down, then Yves had basically DUMPED the curse in another dimension a dimension that the stalker had proclaimed the birthplace of the Gods. Well, happy birthday! Here, have a Vicha. Yves laughed at his own joke. He laughed for much longer than anyone should, but somehow, in the midst of burning lungs and aching body with every shaky breath, it felt like an immense relief. He could not recall the last time he had laughed, and he had weeks of desert travel ahead to entertain himself, so he might as well make every moment count for two, and pretend to enjoy his own company. Well, he was not entirely alone. The barthar had followed him from day one, and so did the two marrels. After emerging from the crater, Yves had directed a set of shards to cut the barthar free from his saddle and then removed the overall shard prison. He had not been in any condition to safely examine the witchs travel sacks. Though he should have destroyed everything she had on her, he had left the saddle and sacks within the crater untouched. It would have taken too much time, of which he had already wasted more than had been good for him on her. The marrels, confined in a cage on the sled, seemed harmless. However, you could never be sure with anything that had been touched by a witch, even small critters. Instead of directly opening the cage, Yves had placed and fixed it on the ground. He had gained distance with the sled, before using expanding shards to bend the struts from several metres away. Ever since, the marrels, along with the barthar, had trailed him, the critters perched atop the sturdy beast. Yves had left all three animals unharmed. He had reservations against killing familiars, so as long as they maintained a safe distance, merely following without displaying hostile intent, he let them be. He had expected them to return to wherever they belonged, or to wherever they wanted to be instead. They could have run for the next best coven or for their freedom, depending on whether they sought out the company of witches voluntarily or had been spellbound into servitude. In the end, Yves did not know the circumstances under which the barthar came to be the witchs familiar and why the marrels were captured. You never knew with witches familiars. For now, Yves assumed that they trailed him to remain within the Vichas radius, and thus shielded from potential predators. Somehow, their presence made everything worse. There were simply no words and way too many reasons for the surges of anxiety he felt whenever something or someone stalked him. Their silent presence also became a haunting reminder of Midnight. While witches obtain, bind and command their familiars through arcane rites, wizards are chosen by their familiars. Deep-rooted in fundamental wizarding lore lies the profound belief that every wizard is granted a familiar at birth. As a newborn draws breath, a familiar seeks him out. Most make their way into the infants room undetected, others, more politely, appear in front of the mothers dwelling, patiently waiting to be introduced to the child. It was, in some way, comforting to know that even if a wizard child is born amidst the bleakest corners of existence, even if his mother does not live to hold him but leaves the earth as he enters it, he would be sought out, protected and cared for by his familiar. The familiar is considered a reflection of the wizard''s innermost being and a guide through his journey for power and purpose. Their first encounter marks the forging of a profound bond whispered to endure a lifetime a pact not of servitude, but of shared destiny. Midnight traversed the night unseen. As a pathera, her lithe form was an embodiment of speed, agility, and endurance, granting her the ability to travel swiftly through the vast expanses that separated the coastline from the forbidding Albweiss Mountain range. On her fourth day, she had left the heavy storms behind and entered the scorching desert lands. While small farming villages and isolated dweller settlements speckled the far North-Eastern landscape, the rugged terrain that made up the Northlands plateau between the ocean and the mountains was too treacherous and too barren for any humanoid races to endure. It belonged to the beasts of the wilderness. To evade predators and potential pursuers, Midnight embraced the shadows and moved silently, her sharp senses ever alert. She manoeuvred through the rough terrain with ease, racing over rocks and roots jutting out from the ground with swift and nimble footing. Her nocturnal prowess extended to a reliance on keen olfactory senses to detect shifts in the rain-laden air that hinted at antagonising presences, while deep-rooted instincts, honed by a life of travelling in the wild, guided her to avoid even the most elusive threats. When alerted, she would pause, melding seamlessly with the darkness. Here, she would assess the scents and markings in her surroundings, meticulously placing each paw with deliberate care to avoid spreading her presence. She tread lightly for not to stir the beings that dwelled beneath. Yet, she was not always the sole fleeting shadow. At times, she felt detected or treaded upon the territory of an overwhelming individual or a powerful pride, and altered her path respectively. Sometimes she had to fight, facing her adversaries with a fierceness borne from survival and obligation to her wizard. Like any familiar, Midnight transcends the realm of common beasts. Beyond being a pathera, she belongs to a kind known as midnight stalkers, beings endowed with the extraordinary ability to conceal their presence within the depths of the night. Her mastery of this ability allows her to vanish into the shadows and move undetected by both humanoid peoples and other beasts. Midnight stalkers exist in various forms and have been known to roam the shadows of the world for centuries. They are highly coveted by wizards, as their unique abilities make them ideal companions for those who seek to explore the unknown and uncharted. Legends enshroud the origin of these abilities. Some whisper that they were a divine gift from the elusive moon goddess Seyfara. To this belief add rumours of the midnight stalkers preference to emerge in the darkest of nights to then seek out wizard children born under the next full moon. Contrary tales paint them as offspring of Myr, the goddess of night. In these tales, midnight stalkers are destined to roam the world and capture moonlight to create the darkest and most magic-infused of nights. Yet, other narratives dismiss the existence of such goddesses entirely, leaving the true origin of the midnight stalkers cloaked in ambiguity. You can distinguish midnight stalkers at first glance. They are imbued with potent Rothar from birth. Regardless of the common colours of their original species, their fur, scales, or feathers are always of a deep midnight black; a matte coal black that does not shine or show structure, but instead absorbs all light around them. Their eyes, akin to those of wizards who used second sight, gleam silver like the moon. Midnight''s dark fur transforms under the moonlight, which brings out elegant streaks of silver. When Yves was born, her silver strands concentrated just around her eyes, barely visible. As she matured, the silver fur gradually became more pronounced and extended from under and above her eyes to her throat, shoulders and the back of her head. This silvery adornment is not merely aesthetic; it is an integral part of her magical prowess. The strands act as conduits for Adhar, naturally channelling and integrating raw energy into her body, which in turn manifests in her ability to merge seamlessly with her dark surroundings. Aligned with her role as the familiar of a Lightshifter, her fur can absorb light, rendering her but an indistinguishable, blurry shadow even when spotted in dim environments. Beyond her camouflage, Midnight wields an array of other abilities. Midnight stalkers, whether avian or terrestrial, move with an uncanny silence, their wings making no sound, their land-bound steps exceeding the natural stealth of their common species. Midnight''s padded paws, featuring thick, velvet-like cushions, facilitate such silent movement. Her eyesight, adapted for nocturnal settings, allows her to distinguish a variety of colours and ethereal energies that are imperceptible to the humanoid eye. This renders her not just a companion but a formidable scout in the service of her wizard, whose visual senses are sub-par. Despite her innate abilities, the journey was strenuous. On the morning of her seventh day of ceaseless running, the towering presence of the Albweiss Mountains emerged behind the desert fogs that enveloped its base, where the plateau met the mountain. This expansive mountain range separated the Northlands from the Midlands, stretching for hundreds of kilometres from west to east. At the base, Midnight traversed unyielding rock, eventually shedding the diverse hues of the plateau for the glistening white canvas of the Albweiss Mountains. The vast range of towering peaks stood as a steep bulwark against the tempests of the Northerlandic Ocean and the ferocious desert gusts of the plateau. Clouds and salt-laden rain, captured by the mountains, bestowed a chalky veneer on their northern face, settling in crevices and casting an otherworldly pallor. The climb was steep. Footholds were scarce, forcing Midnight to constantly alter her chosen path. Zig-zagging across kilometres, she fought for each precious meter gained. Finally, she reached a height where she sensed the boundary of the desert beasts'' territory. In the neutral area between this border and the slopes marked by the mountain dwellers, just where the desert fog lifted and the breath of the mountain seized the air, Midnight found a moment''s respite. She rested through the scorching midday heat before commencing the arduous climb once more as the afternoon sun waned and the moon started to rise in the north. Her most significant ability is this connection to the moon, which has an impact on the development of the midnight stalkers'' magical abilities. You cannot foresee when or if a familiar will develop distinct magical abilities. Some show initial competence at 15, others at 150 years. Both the race and age of the familiar, as well as the spectral disposition of their wizard, influence this. Midnight has only just begun to tap into this power, but as she grows in strength and experience, her connection to the moon will become stronger. While they have unique abilities and can sustain themselves through Adhar, midnight stalkers are not invincible. They are sensitive to sunlight, and exposure to fire can cause them great pain and even blindness. They are also vulnerable to certain types of magic, particularly those that disrupt their ability to harness energy or blend into the shadows. Midnight relied on crevasses and breaches in the rock formations to forge her path across the terrain. Scaling the Albweiss Mountains was a perilous struggle, with the summit proving far more treacherous than the base. The peaks reached into the clouds, where the air thinned and temperatures fell drastically, along with ice and hailstorms retaliating against any intruders from below. The skies were not a domain for Midnight to trespass. She would climb the summits under her wizard''s command, but given a choice, the earthbound caves were her preference. The skies belonged to the winged beasts and to the dragons. Midnight belonged to the shadows of the night, to the dense foliage of formidable forests. A natural hunter, she craved open expanses to roam and run. Yet, faced with the decision between exposing herself to the capricious skies or delving into the constricting depths of the subterranean, the latter always held sway. On her ninth day, having spent two days scaling the labyrinthine mountains, Midnight entered an inconspicuous crevasse that proved more than a mere forge between the rock face. It unfolded into the entrance of an expansive tunnel system. Sensing the ebb and flow of air, along with the myriad scents of numerous inhabitants, Midnight intuited multiple exit routes. The darkness of the subterranean tunnel beckoned, and she ventured into its depths.
Ch. 8.2 — Albweiss Mountains. Underground Passageways - Midnight - Taking Darkness
Stalactites and stalagmites delineated the entrance to cavernous tunnels, gradually replacing the fractured mountain face with shades of grey, silver, and purples oscillating from nacre to profound violet. Moonlight, daring but feeble, reflected off walls that glistened with moisture, exuding a damp shimmer. The walls bore the scars of countless ages, the passage of time etched by gentle but ever relentless streams of water. Distinctive scents of earth and minerals coalesced with stagnant humidity, all underscored by subtle traces of decay. Beyond lay only impenetrable darkness. For two days, Midnight navigated tunnels that offered no respite, narrow serpentine passages wound with unpredictability. They twisted and turned with erratic logic, falling into fathomless depths and rising abruptly. Often, the rocks pressed in, forcing Midnight to contort her lithe form. She squeezed through crevices so constricting that her fur scraped against the rock, some passages demanding she retract her shoulders and belly to slide through. Always, she followed the breath of the cave. In the profound stillness of the subterranean expanse, Midnights heightened senses attuned to every ominous nuance the echoes of distant sounds, the scent of unseen creatures, and the subtle vibrations beneath her paws. Traces of diverse beings lingered in the air; insects, small creatures that had traversed the tunnels before her, and the scent of larger, unseen beasts concealed by the unyielding darkness. Some emanated hostility, others fear, many the indifference prominent for lesser beings. Deeper into the heart of the mountain, where the walls shed their clammy exterior, Midnight found remnants of a webbed structure. Broken strands of silk clung to the cave walls, evidence of an arachnid species that once wove traps or nests in concealed recesses. Devoting five harrowing hours to this singular passageway, Midnight found the initial traces faint and frail, signs of long abandonment. As she delved deeper, new constructions emerged. Her path ended in an intersection that branched into three tunnels, two of which were adorned with fresh webs. Each tunnel bore meticulously anchored webbing, threads bridging the walls but not entirely sealing the way. In the middle tunnel, the net hung overhead with just enough space for Midnight to crouch beneath. The right tunnel featured an elongated structure that shrouded only the right half, leaving a gap for Midnight to pass on the left. This was dangerous terrain. There was strategy behind this design. The webs beckoned with the illusion of navigable passages, tempting Midnight to believe she could traverse them unhindered. However, in both tunnels, subsequent nets lurked behind the first. In the middle tunnel, where the first net spanned overhead, the second and third were cunningly placed to the right and lower down, creating a layered trap. In the right tunnel, the complex structure extended along the right flank before converging with a distant structure on the left, completing the treacherous design. These nearly imperceptible constructions wove a multi-layered trap. It was a trappers challenge any prey unable to perceive the nets unwittingly ran into them. If the prey discerned only the foremost structures or fell for the illusion of navigable paths, the layered trap lured it deeper. It would advance until it was rendered immobile, incapable of retreat or resistance without succumbing to further entanglement. Midnight strained against the oppressive stillness of the cavern, searching for predatory presences that eluded her. The air clung to the space like a deathly shroud, devoid even of the faintest skittering or scuttling of insects. No stealthy breath added to the sparse, morbid flow of air. The breath of the mountain still lingered, a feeble current weaving through the middle and left tunnels. The latter, nearly obscured and barricaded by a massive rock, bore no visible threads of webbing. Despite the absence of audible or visible threats, Midnight suppressed any surges of confidence or impatience. Frozen in place, she invested several minutes, waiting for time to unveil what her senses could not a breath, a shift in temperature, a mere suggestion of warmth. Nothing manifested. Her predatory instincts beckoned her to discard caution, urging immediate action. She took a few silent steps towards the left tunnel. Her gaze scrutinised the entrance, the rock, and the ceiling. The rock had fallen from right above, and she sought to discern whether it was a natural occurrence or a deliberate act of disruption. The absence of obvious signs of aggressive force left her uncertain. Respectively, she questioned the rocks purpose a barrier to ward something off or a containment for something within the tunnel? The boulder did not obstruct the tunnel directly but sat at a slight angle. Scratches on the ground hinted that it had been pushed outward from the other side, creating a narrow gap of 30 to 40 centimeters on the left. It was too narrow for Midnight to pass through, and the boulder''s weight deemed it improbable for her to shift alone. Contemplating the challenge, she envisioned climbing atop the rock, then crouching low to potentially slide through the narrow crevice between the rock and the tunnel ceiling. Cautiously monitoring any changes in her surroundings, Midnight ascended the rock. She examined the ceiling, crouched down to peer through the gap into the tunnels obscured depths, and scrutinised the surrounding rock. She jumped back down abruptly This tunnel was part of the trap. A beast attuned to the dangers lurking in the middle and right tunnels would inevitably be coerced into choosing the ostensibly safer left tunnel. Midnight, too, felt the compelling pull toward that deceptive safety. She was a predator, disposed to stalking, hunting, and fighting, not trapping. Her commitment to caution, her capacity to resist these primal instincts, and her ability to discern traps were skills honed through her wizard. By nature and disposition, he was a trapper, cultivating acute awareness of traps as an artefact hunter and weaving deceptive realities both to safeguard their hideouts and in the heat of battle. More often than Midnight would ever want to acknowledge, he even trapped himself with his own illusions. A crucial lesson from all he shared resonated in her mind things should never, suddenly, feel too easy. This paradoxical wisdom struck Midnight as she surveyed the rocky obstruction. It posed as an obstacle, yet, in its devious design, encouraged progression by not making it too easy to advance. A tunnel too readily accessible would arouse suspicion due to the lack of webs. The rock allowed her to reason against this suspicion. It provided a plausible barrier that could readily be misconstrued as a territorial boundary. In addition, the breath of the cave suggested the prospect of an exit. Midnight, too, felt the growing allure of the left tunnel as the best of her three choices. Fixating onto her trapper''s acumen, she forcibly suppressed the instinctive pull. With a decisive turn, she retraced her steps, selecting the fourth choice: to go back the way she came. The catalyst for this decision lay in the disturbing discovery she had made from atop the rock. While examining the side of the boulder facing the tunnel, Midnight had discerned a chaotic tapestry of claw marks marks not of purpose or precision but of panic, etched with desperation rather than intention. In these frantic impressions, she had read the fate of countless creatures venturing into the tunnel but driven back by fear towards the intersection, where they had been trapped by rock. The scent of dread and death, however, was conspicuously absent, a void that should have lingered through the months. Immediately, Midnight had wondered whether no beast had dared the tunnel for so long, or whether an adept predator had masked their every trace. Again, she had forced herself to strategise. Creatures dwelling in perpetual darkness were commonly blind, relying on senses beyond sight. The eyes of surface dwellers were of no use within the heart of the mountains. Midnight stalkers, who could see even in the absence of light, stood as an exception. For blind prey, the multitude of claw marks needed no cover; they could only be felt from within the tunnel, from within the trap. For Midnight, seeing them without descending, they served as a warning. Life here was likely not absent but regularly claimed. The absence of other sensations hinted at a predator confident in shrouding not only her presence but also any olfactory traces of former prey. Midnight, a being that could hide within darkness, recognized a superior predator, a beast that lived within darkness. To evade an encounter with such a cunning trapper, Midnight retraced her steps, intending to backtrack to an earlier intersection. This earlier division into an alternative path lay hours away this, too, might be part of this predators strategy. Placing traps in a manner that made retreating a laborious and dauntingly time-consuming task coerced prey to forge ahead, especially those struggling with hunger and fatigue. Midnight, sustained by energy, remained impervious to the demands of rest or sustenance. After 30 minutes of traversing, her progress was abruptly halted. Her retreat was barred. Layers of fresh webbing sprawled across her path. Her retreat sealed off, Midnight was caught on the edge between instinct and strategy. Her instincts were a frenetic pulse urging her to gain distance from the immediate threat, to rush back to the intersection, where the allure of multiple pathways echoed louder with every heartbeat. Yet, against this primeval call, Midnight resisted. Forcing herself into the mindset of a trapper, she reasoned that the intersection, with its myriad uncharted tunnels, presented a perilous disadvantage. Four paths, two inaccessible to her, would render her vulnerable to the yet unknown number and kinds of predators, while offering them various options to attack and retreat. Still, her primal instincts compelled her to go there. It was a disconcerting realisation. She held her ground. The tunnel she occupied allowed attackers only two openings the retreat to the intersection and the now web-sealed passage in the opposite direction. Furthermore, the three tunnels at the intersection featured meticulously prepared traps, adorned with webs that could stretch endlessly, structures potentially perfected for years with every prey that fought and fell victim before Midnight. In contrast, the webs around her were fresh, their extent constrained by the limited time the trappers had to erect them. Though Midnight was confined, her movement restricted, her position also limited the number of beasts that could attack simultaneously. Midnight listened, smelt and felt. Was the web structure still expanding, shifting in movement, or has it settled into a static trap? Where were the trappers? Around her? Above, ready to drop down? Behind the foremost net structures, biding their time waiting for her breaking through? Midnight strained to discern the disturbances caused by foreign presences. She strained to delve deeper into the darkness that concealed these skilful predators. In the recesses of her consciousness, as her senses spanned her surroundings, Midnights thoughts, like a web of their own, wove observations into a strategy. It contradicted her intrinsic nature, but her first conclusion was that she should remain motionless. Drawing sustenance from the energies that enveloped her, she could endure a vigil for however many hours it took for the trappers to unveil their presence through a restive stir or an outright assault. However, the passage of time, a double-edged blade, would also serve as a breeding ground for more elaborate webs, extending their hold on Midnight from both ends of the tunnel. Increasingly disturbed by sensory deprivation, Midnight realised she might as well make noise. She considered to run her claws across the wall, to tear out rocks and hurl them into the webs. The ground was unnaturally spotless and smooth, but the uneven surface of the walls was etched with promising cracks. If nothing else, she would clear a path. If the trappers wanted to contain her, they would eventually have to reveal themselves. If they interpreted her actions as disorientation or panic, they might see an opportunity to attack. Even if they chose not to react, Midnight could use the tumult to localise them. Midnight knew that beasts who melted seamlessly into the shadows could still betray their existence through their Sayra, a phenomenon known as sound shadow. Her training at Emery Thurm had unveiled these sound shadows not as audible occurrences, but as the opposite as areas of muted ambient noise. Sayra could only be spotted through sound. They were imperfections where incoming sound shifted in volume or, with inexperienced midnight stalkers, met an abrupt hush. Where disturbances reverberated, and echoes betrayed their own discordance, beasts hid within the shadows. Midnight was skilled in discerning these auditory subtleties in the same way that she had learned to reduce the anomalies caused by her own Sayra. Her plan unfolded to clear a path while revealing distortions and deviations of sound. However, sometimes the grand stages of strategy simply collapsed into the chaos of coincidence. As Midnight threw her claws into the wall, she touched upon a grand arachnomorph camouflaged as rock. The Rockshade Weaver, an arachnomorph of formidable stature, possesses a flexible, elongated body that may grow to surpass the size of a pathera. With mandibles poised for lethality, legs nullifying vibrations, and a light-absorbing carapace, this subterranean terror has adapted to navigate darkness with unmatched prowess. It operates in absolute silence, exhibiting sinuous movements that coalesce with sensory acuity beyond even Midnight''s keen instincts. Mastery in stone mimicry renders the Rockshade Weaver indistinguishable from the surfaces it inhabits. Its exoskeleton replicates the colours and textures of adjacent rocks, thus crafting impeccable camouflage. Disguised, it remains motionless until the opportune moment to strike its unsuspecting prey. The weaver''s predatory arsenal comprises intricate web structures and a venomous bite inducing paralysing torment. The weaver had lain in wait on the upper left wall, prepared to ensnare Midnight once she advanced past the first net, rested, or succumbed to panic. Two more of its kin had remained on this side of the nets, perfectly merged with the rock wall, while others waited within the fresh web structures. If she had retreated to the intersection, the weavers would have followed and sealed the tunnel behind her. Midnight had not sensed it. And the arachnomorph had not anticipated that she would get on two legs and throw herself against the wall. In the moment her claws made contact, chaos erupted The confined space became a maelstrom of violence. They tore at each other on the ground, ramming into the walls and webs, clawing, ripping, trampling, and biting, devoid of strategy, driven by primal instinct and brutal aggression. A second arachnid dropped down from the ceiling and a third jumped at her from behind the web, intensifying the battle in the darkness of the subterranean tunnel, now bursting with the feral war cries of merciless deathbringers.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. In the brutal fight, Midnight, seasoned in arachnid combat, avoided biting into the acidic bodies. Amidst the whirlwind of claws and bites, she tore off the first arachnid''s head and shredded the second. By the time she had killed the third, her body had suffered brutal trampling, and she bore multiple bites. Her fur was marred with her own blood, acid, and webs. They had been formidable fighters. Rising amid the twitching corpses, Midnight realised her predicament she found herself confined by nets on both ends of the tunnel. Some were remnants of the fray, torn in the chaotic struggle, while others were freshly spun. More weavers lurked. She had won the battle, but the pack had won the hunt. Wounded but defiant, Midnight twisted and turned, attempting to discern any approaching arachnids. Growling and provoking, she sought to draw them out. She took the severed arachnid head, clamping its elongated mandibles between her teeth and thrashing it wildly against the nets, tearing through the silk with ferocity fueled by rage, overriding the pain that coursed through her body. Her rage subsided too fast. As she moved, her breaths grew shallow, her body heavy. The arachnid''s head slipped from her grasp as she lost control over her movements. Midnight recognised the insidious sickness coursing through her, a paralytic venom meant to cripple, delivered by the arachnid bites. Yet, while her body faltered, her senses did not wane; they shifted. In the aftermath of the brutal fight, the tunnel lay silent but no longer muted. It held a different kind of stillness that distinguished true darkness from that which had been disturbed. A subtle change at one end of the tunnel caught Midnight''s eerily heightened awareness the faint displacement of air, the slightest vibrations. Something daunting approached from the intersection, a predator so dangerous that all remaining arachnomorphs scuttered for retreat. Midnight sensed lethal intent. This newfound sensory awareness was unsettling. Midnights body and senses had always been the same; two inseparable facets of the whole that was her. If one faltered, so did the other. But now, as paralysis tightened its grip, her awareness surged. Her body succumbed to the venom, and her thoughts, instead of equally withering from within, began to observe her demise from the outside. They swelled in mass and complexity, spanning more time, drawing in a multitude of memories. Expelling poison, secluding it, separating it her wizard had imparted this wisdom upon returning from the mirror in the lighthouse. He spoke of splitting essence, distinguishing what was him and what was not, tearing the foreign from the self. He had described this ability as manipulating smoke or poison, a metaphor that surfaced now in the midst of her affliction. When the energy torrent had rushed through him, he had internalised it. When the mirror world energies had threatened to shatter his body, he had not succumbed but integrated them. He had made them his own and then, when it had been necessary to return through the mirror, again separated from them. At the brink of death, he transcended the boundaries of his existence, manipulating his essence, weaving and unweaving the threads of poison energy to suit his will. Midnights body was on the edge of breaking. As venom and memories surged through her, a sinister vision emerged the need to absorb, adapt, and emerge stronger, mirroring the path her wizard had tread before her. This is what her wizards did; he gave her knowledge that surpassed instincts. And if Midnight trusted this knowledge over her instincts, she would become more like him forsaking beast intuition for wizard insight. This marked the essence of the bond between familiar and wizard; through repeated trust, they transferred and cultivated each others abilities. At Emery Thurm, familiars delved into their own capabilities. Midnight had been thrust into the awareness of how she would grow in size and strength, just like her wizard. The masters spoke of dormant magical abilities, a potential coiled within every familiar''s existence, though only Midnight would feel it stir. Alongside the familiars of Yves commilita, she had endured arduous training with master wizards and their familiars. Beyond that, she had autonomously sought out other pathera and midnight stalkers, with whom she had delved into the shadows. Each quest beyond the academy''s walls had provided an exploration of her innate abilities tethered to the shadows. Observing familiars from other wizards during their artefact hunts, Midnight had gleaned as much as she could about who she might become. Still, she had never before witnessed the arcane potential that lay beyond her innate midnight stalker abilities. From the cryptic knowledge she gathered, these abilities might birth at random, be triggered in moments of great peril, or emerge through her wizard''s actions. His growth and prowess affected her. It was understood that wizards excelling in their craft shared bonds with more potent familiars, whose abilities were unravelled earlier than the average of their race. In the desolate entrails of the Albweiss Mountains, caught within the weavers trap and marked for the hunt by the impending predator, Midnight was overtaken by existential dread. The passage of time, once a steady stream, now rippled with a disquiet that clawed at the adequacy of her being; the distortion between her body and thoughts that became a reflection of her insufficiency. Midnight had wondered when that time would come for her and how she would know. She needed it to be now. Her truth, the belief that she was always herself and her whole, shifting over time yet anchored in the present, was grievously disturbed. Now, her body died because she had not been enough. As time had festered, she grew too little. While her wizard had changed, she evolved too slowly. She needed to be more, even though she had never been less than her all. Can you? Yves words had asked her when facing the Vicha. I understand that you want to do something, his voice had acknowledged. I know you cant do anything, his body had solemnly stated. Midnight had wrestled with the weight of his words. In the face of an overwhelming foe, the battlefield was, for her, a physical space shrouded by the uncertainty of time. She lived and fought in the present, perpetually and intuitively re-evaluating her course of action as her present morphed from second to second, ever again shifting into a new present with new circumstances and new insights about her opponent. For Midnight, it was the aftermath of the fight, not the initial throes, that revealed the impact of her actions, whether she could do something. However, she acknowledged that wizards thought differently. Her wizard had repeatedly displayed a foresight that she did not possess. He had the ability to transcend the immediacy of battle, to envision the end before the first strike. She had last witnessed this prescience when they had crossed the bridge from the lighthouse to the mainland. As winged beasts descended upon them, Midnight had sought refuge within the bridge. She had felt the beasts strength and fixation on each other, sensing the crustaceans'' hostility towards the magic yield to primal survival instincts. She had strained to impart these instincts and insights onto Yves, knowing he did not possess them, and she had felt that he understood. Still, he had rushed off the bridge. And Midnight had followed because, in the same way his humanoid senses recognised only a fraction of what the present unfolded for Midnight, she needed to trust in what her wizard envisioned about the future. It had thrilled her to witness the evolution of his instincts over the years, forged in shared torments and conflicts. Indeed, in the crucible of battle, there were instances when he mirrored precisely the primal tempest raging within her. These were the most intense moments between them. Moments where Midnight did not need to transfer her feral intuition, where what emanated from him reflected and amplified the unrestrained storm within her. These were ecstatic, exalting experiences, where Yves felt less like a wizard and more like a beast. Where he felt like her. However, these moments were grotesquely scarce. The first unfolded at Emery Thurm. Midnight had been a youngling and a neophyte in battle, utterly overwhelmed. As she abruptly sensed, from Yves, the exact resonance of the internal tempest surging within her, the sheer ferocity of their shared emotions engulfed her. He had felt like a beast, like herself. In the heat of that moment, she had felt herself beside herself, consumed within him. In that intense sensation, Midnight had lost herself. Until then, she had only known hunger and hunt and fear. As she lost herself, these feelings had merged into an oppressive force so unbearable that Midnight felt nothing but an overwhelming compulsion to obliterate, to destroy it. She had lunged at Yves with unrestrained force, hurling him to the ground, pressing her weight onto him, and sinking her fangs into his flesh. She had bit into the throat of her wizard. She had torn at his flesh. She had tasted his warm blood. It should have repulsed her, should have stemmed her assault, but in that moment, nothing had ever tasted more intoxicating. It was her darkest shame. As Midnights body writhed on the tunnel floor, the thoughts surged uncontrollably. She could not stem the flood of all these words. Amidst them, an even more sinister memory emerged from the deep recesses of her mind. He had wanted it as much as she had. At that time, she had known only the gnawing of hunger, the horror brought forth by the most instinctive of fears, and the ecstasy of the hunt. As she lost herself, she had acted upon an confluence of those primal urges. But what she had felt was more. It was something that drove her ever since. Something she needed to feel again and more. It had driven her to the brink of madness not knowing how. Consumed by an insatiable craving, she had sought to etch her instincts onto him, to share and share and share incessantly until he could once again be like her. Yves trusted Midnights senses where his own faltered to understand the present in its fullness, and in return she relied on his wizard ability to envision the future. Because as she shared, so did he. And as he learned, so did she. Over the years of symbiotic exchange, her thinking had expanded beyond her instincts. Glimpses of the future seeped into her consciousness. Merging her innate abilities with those learned from her wizard, she developed the competence to re-evaluate her actions based on a myriad of potential futures yet to unfold. She had learned to reflect and to envision and, from both, to strategise. However, when faced with the Vicha and confronted with the words of her wizard, foresight deserted her. Now, suffering from the venom, the looming helplessness persisted. Her all was insufficient; she, the primal beast, was at the precipice of succumbing to the venom. There was nothing she could do, unless she could be more. This comprehension of the future, the urgent need to be more, and the relentless drive to fortify the bond with her wizard carved a new path. The echoes of her wizards knowledge reverberated, pulling her to an intersection of her own making a crossroads where primal instincts clashed with the capricious threads of wizardry. One assured demise; the other demanded transformation. Midnight sensed the energies within herself shift, distinguishing the absorbed light in her fur, her innate darkness, which emerged when she merged into the shadows, and the venom causing agonising pain. Trusting knowledge over instinct, she discerned the insidious foreign element within her. To become more, to be more like her wizard, she was determined to sacrifice her entirety. But what was their path? Within her surged light and shadows, the raw energy bestowed by the moon and the pull of the darkness. Amidst the shifting and changing currents of her mind, she comprehended that both these powers lay dormant, awaiting her conscious command to rouse one over the other. What stirred within her wizard? He was a Lightshifter, but struggled to discern the elusive fragments of light, lost in the shadow of his growing blindness. This struggle had woven the fabric of their shared path. For him, Midnight could be the light, wielding the radiance he lacked and sought. She envisioned herself, fur aglow in radiant silver, like the moon but never wavering. A perfect complement to his deficiencies. No. Midnight refused to be a mere reflection of his desires, she would be what he needed. She would not compensate for his losses. She would not be a regression to what he had been, a reminder of his past. Because then her presence would only revert him into what he tried so hard not to lose, and not into what he could take and be instead. Midnight would be the catalyst for his potential. She would never tread alongside his path as an illuminating crutch. Their paths would converge. To be what he needed, she must not be a giver, but a taker. In the shroud of his blindness, she would embody the darkness. If others disturbed his mind, Midnight would not be a voice amongst them to offer soothing words, but the pervasive silence that drowned them. In the realm of his illusions that he so often conjured for companionship, she would stretch infinitely, a presence that brooked no intrusion. Where he felt nothing, she would be all. Midnight''s commitment was resolute. She would be darkness and she would be silence, an omnipresence consuming and expanding. If Yves recognised her whenever he saw and felt nothing, she would even kill the something. This was the path she embraced, a covenant for the entirety of their existence. Deep within, an intuition grew and whispered ever louder that both Midnight and her wizard craved this enveloping darkness. She was not the companion to a wizard who lost and longed and lived for light. Midnight was the companion to a wizard who could take like only the shadows could. He delved into forbidden realms and exploited secret knowledge. He harnessed forces like the other one and the poison mirror energies to become more. Like shadows, he shifted out of this world to gain many forms. Her wizard traversed the unseen, the same as her. Midnight realised she had made this choice days ago, descending into the stygian depths of the mountain instead of ascending its sunlit peaks. The darkness had beckoned, and in that call, she found her purpose. Light, she could only give, but through darkness, she could take. And from what she took, right here and now, she would become more. The creatures of utter darkness had imparted their venom to her, and from that, she seized their essence. She did not expel it, despite instincts compelling her to vomit, her body long reduced to a frantic, cramping mass. Instead, she embraced and wielded it with intention. Her actions were not framed in the arcane language of wizards; it was visceral understanding she fractured, split, and assimilated the venom with her energy. She cleaved the fragments that so much heightened her awareness from the parts that sought to destroy her body. The former transmuted into an eldritch energy that surged through her being, leaving her body to fight through the broken venom remains. Midnight did not acquire this ability from instinct or reason, nor were the explanations from her wizard sufficient to instigate her transformation. She could not articulate parallels between her changes and his experiences with raw energy, light fragments, and shards. Yet, she knew this ability came from Yves. This was the essence of sharing a bond with a wizard. He had learned to alter his essence, to split poison energy, and through their bond, he had passed the potential for this arcane transformation onto her. With her transformation came an unsettling awareness for her altered self. As Midnight saturated her Rothar with the venomous essence that had so profoundly brought her senses and thoughts into disarray, she felt herself fracture, an eternity unfurling in the chasm that opened with the venom and brought forward the darkness. She merged and emerged as more than the sum of these fractured parts; she was more. And yet, a lingering schism remained etched within her, a split marking the first time she felt herself as two entities. The body, the past and primal; and the words, the awareness that came from within but existed outside of her physical form. Midnight knew that these two parts would now forever differ, but they would also, both, be darkness. And as soon as she felt this duality, she believed that she had always been these two things but just never acknowledged it, because once you were, you could not imagine that you had never been. Acknowledging the split meant shedding the pure essence of a beast to become more. It was the conscious decision to not merely follow the path of her wizard, but to embody it. To live it with everything she was and would be. Midnight took in the darkness and the knowledge, and elevated them over her nature and her instincts. She offered the whole that had been her, and acquired in exchange the arcane path that defined her magic. The darkness resonated within her; it was hers. As Midnight merged with the enveloping shadows, she no longer diminished her presence and hid her body; she fed her energy to the essence of darkness within. And as all light within her faded and her senses ever expanded, she became the darkness. And as the darkness, she had no limits. Shifting through the shadowy veils toward the intersection, she encountered the ominous presence that had drawn close. It was a stygian serpent, almost as wide as the tunnel itself. He had awaited her in the left passage and then, enticed by the tremors of her struggle with the weavers, hunted her. As they met, his initial hostility dissipated. A superior being of darkness, he still sensed her presence, but no longer considered Midnight prey. When she asked for a fragment of his essence, he gave his venom willingly. Midnight continued through the middle tunnel, paying deference to the territory of the serpent. In the hours that followed, she traversed past other beasts of the mountain heart, creatures deeply intertwined with the darkness. Some sensed her, but none pursued. No longer an intruder from the surface, Midnight treaded the darkness to where the breath of the mountain led her.
Ch. 9.1 — Northlands. Expanse. Zwischenland
-- - - - Yves forged through the desolation of the Northlands, on the cusp of the Zwischenland. The weather this far east was a disaster, a battleground where the ceaseless tempests from the northern shores fought the searing desert sun of the east. Today, he had weathered relentless shifts from scorching heat to torrents of poisonous rain that obliterated any semblance of larger plant life with ruthless efficiency. Although the sky remained a perpetual maelstrom, this day marked the first time in months he experienced a few fleeting moments of respite from the rain. If it was not rain, it was shitloads of sand blowing in his face. - - - - - - - - The landscape, perennially ravaged by the winds, bore the scars of eons, with jagged rock structures thrusting from the ground like sentinels petrified in eternal agony. Life dared not linger. Sensibility withered. Bizarre phenomena littered the terrain root patterns stretching like desiccated veins for kilometres, alien mushroom-structures defying the hostile environment, and rock formations disrupted with holes and patterns that you would not believe were natural. You should not. If anything, what you saw were the territorial markings of beasts or perhaps the concealed mouths of their hidden lairs. - - - - - - - For the past two hours, the rain fell heavy, dissolving the boundaries between earth and sky into oppressive grey. The ground beneath the sled had turned into a quagmire of northern rocks and eastern desert sands. Yves was desperate to escape the rain for good, yet he also hated the extensive heat, which made all weather shifts equally horrible. It would take Yves another week to get through and out of the Zwischenland, to where the arid eastern dunes stretched all the way to the Barnstream settlements. The rain was a barrage of needles in his face, but Yves rode without magical protection. He needed all his reserves to sustain his body and keep the sled moving. He had long stopped adjusting his coat or scarf to shield his face, or stretching his legs, or shifting his position at all. He was so far taken by the weary travellers trance that he could not be bothered to do anything, really. He sat hunched forward, supported by the staff, staring ahead. Aware that his greatest peril lay in his injuries and that every day, every hour until he reached a healer counted towards survival, Yves had pressed on without rest for the last twenty days. During these days, Yves had done this thing where he told himself, I will take a break when I see some suitable ruins. Yet, with every approaching set of ruins, he had found reasons to dismiss them. It was self-deception disguised as determination. The first he deemed unsafe for rest, confident to find more secure shelter with the next. Bearable weather deferred respite at the subsequent ruins. He had thought something like, It would be a waste to stop now. I should press on and rest when conditions worsen. This pattern persisted. After two more days, when he yet again discovered discernible stone structures, he convinced himself, I feel halfway allright. I should continue until I feel really sick again, only to acknowledge, upon reaching the next ruins, that he was in so much pain that he believed moving his body, let alone getting up and stepping down from the sled, was an insurmountable task. As much as Yves struggled with the pain on some days, there were equally as many when he did not consciously register anything, neither within himself nor any changes in his surroundings. By the end of his twentieth day, he reached both his breaking and braking point. At the brink of physical and mental exhaustion, losing control of the Levitation Staff and sled, Yves reached a moment of reckoning. He could not sit any longer. He could not stay awake. Yves understood he should not stop. Rest could mean surrender. He might never rise again. However, as he now came across another scattering of ruins, he knew they marked the end of the line. Stone remnants of ancient Tairan settlements, overtaken first by humans and now by time, stood as simplistic caves. They whispered of respite. Passing these rocky echoes of a bygone era just past midnight, Yves brought the sled to a halt. He resolved to rest through the witching hour and resume the journey the moment the veil of Teharun would lift, no later. As he halted, Yves gave but a fraction of energy to the Ardimian chain on his neck. The pendant pulsated fiercely, signalling the presence of three nearby beings. Numb and cold, he barely felt the signal, even though the chain rested directly on his skin. The Vichas influence distorted the artifact significantly, but Yves had still used it whenever he felt particularly unsafe. In these desolate lands, he preferred to err on the side of excessive caution. Straining his second sight, Yves discerned the lurking threats. Two paigen skulked around the rock walls to his left, while another lay hidden within hardly discernible remnants of what had once been grand stone structures. The first two remained frozen, exhibiting a stillness that betrayed predatory intent, while the latter had already inflated and coiled into a defensive posture that was all spikes and no mercy. These grotesque desert-dwellers were twisted manifestations of the land''s malevolence. Their elongated, sinuous bodies were held upright by over a thousand needle-thin appendages. Reaching heights of up to three meters, these aberrations were covered in a chaotic array of spikes, indistinguishable from their limbs, all writhing in unsettling disarray. Yves needed them gone. Until now, all land creatures had avoided the Vichas presence. In the initial days after leaving the crater, Yves had feared potential attacks, but even the grand biscaan had maintained their distance. Some observed from afar, barely lingering beyond the Vicha''s radius, as Yves had discerned during the first rainless periods of today. Some briefly trailed him, though always out of the Vichas reach. Yet, none dared attack him or the persistent barthar and marrels. Underground dwellers had remained equally cautious. At times, disturbances rippled beneath the floating sled. Yves had felt tremors and heard distant rumblings. He had envisioned serpent-like creatures, burrowing arachnids and grand insectoids lurking just beyond the range of his second sight, hidden within sand-filled crevasses that moulded the mud-laden terrain. None had breached the surface. Yves understood that the three paigen had sought to stay unnoticed within the ruins, likely anticipating the passage of the Vicha. He descended from his sled and took slow, deliberate steps towards the foremost cave, revealing his intent. The first paigan emerged from behind the wall ruins, the second from within the dwelling. Yves relied on his second sight to perceive their movements, since the downpour obscured his first sight, even with just a few meters between him and the beasts. The creatures found themselves torn between brutal aggression towards his injured, suffering form, and fear of the overwhelming Vicha presence. Conflicted and struggling to reconcile these unnatural, contradictory impressions, they engaged in an intense staredown. Yves struggled----- also, ----------------------------controlling ---------------------the precarious ---------balance --------------------------------------between -------asserting dominance -------------and ---------------------------avoiding -------------------------------------------------------------------------------provocation. - -- His m i ? ---------------------- ? -- ? - ? ------ -- ------------?? فB ? ----? --hurt - -------------------------------------------------------------------------He was about -- ---------------------------------------------------------------------to pass out - -- -- Stay awake. ----------Center yourself. - - -------Please, ---------not now -- One, center yourself. What do you see?-------------------- - Nothing-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- - ------------------What do you see? - ------------------------------Paigen - What do you feel? - ---I cant C - What do you feel? - .------ - - - - .-------------------------------------- --------------------------------. - Paigen. - Two, secure yourself. --- - Paigen. - Focus. Secure yourself. - --------------------This is - -----------------------------------as good --- as it gets.----------------------- - Three, assess your resources. - What?------------------------------------ Three, assess your resources. - I am-------------------------- -- - - ---------so - - - - - - - - - - - --tired-------------- - - - Four, assess your knowledge on your enemy. - - Paigen. - Four, assess your knowledge on your enemy in detail. - - ----------------. - - - - - - - -------. - -- - - -- - - - - - - - - -- -------. - - Five, stay awake. - - ---------------------------------Yves - -------------lifted ------------------------------------------------------------------his hands - -----------------------------to his ---------------upper ---------------------body. - ------------------------------Forming a fist -------------------------------------------------------------------------------with one -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------and supporting - ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------it -------------------------------------------------------------------with the other -- ------------------------------------------------------hand, ----------------------------------------------------------he --PresseD - ------------------------------------------------------------------------his hands -------------------------------------------------------------------into ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------his - -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------->->stom.ach---???????????????? - - - to combat----------------------------- - -- - - ---------- ------------------------------------------------It ----------was - ------------------------------------------------------------------a - dumb thing - - - ------------------------------to do. - - - - ------------------------------------By now, - - - - - - --------------------------------it barely - - ----------------------------worked - --------------------------------------------------anymore. -- - He had------------------------------------ ??, ??, . ?,??,??, -??,-- ??, --??,---- ??, - - ----the effect, ----------------------------------------and also, - --------------------------------------------pain was - - - -------------------------------------------------------------by now -- -----------------------------------------------------------------his general state of existence. - It did--------------------------------------------- not---------------------------------------------------- - - work.---------------------------------------------------------- - He drew in------------------------ - ------------a -------- - s - l - o - w - - d - e - - e - p - - b - - R - E - ? - T - ? -- delib..erat..ely..swal..low..ing - some------------------ of the--------- - //////////////// >T ? ?? IC< //r/a/i//n/--------------------- - --- -------------- - brought him ----back. - Yves grasped at the first discernible thought that came to mind------------------------ Paigen ---------------------------and focused on that to maintain his consciousness.------- - Their harsh and twisted nature reflected the barren landscape they traversed. Unlike other Northlands creatures, paigen neither burrow nor hide in rock crevasses; they freely roam the desolate expanse. When confronted by larger predators, they coil into an impenetrable ball of spikes. For protection and hunting, they manipulate their spikes, moving them flexibly or hardening individual spikes at will. Prey smaller than them is ensnared and pierced to death. Instead of consuming their prey directly, paigen impale and then carry it on their spikes. Through corrosive secretions, the prey dissolves, and both the acidic discharges and the liquefied prey are consumed by cannamophs, a type of anthropod living symbiotically with paigen. These cannamophs reside on the paigen''s bodies, nestled between spikes and legs like ever-hungry pearls. They consum the decomposed prey and then secret nutrients directly into the host paigans body. Paigan spikes, acid, and cannamophs find versatile uses in potion-making and crafting high-quality jewellery. The spikes, when processed with expertise, can create exceptionally flexible yet robust armour. Properly melded and merged, this armour flexes but autonomously hardens under pressure, offering protection against strong impacts. Respectively, these components are highly valuable. Numerous north-eastern settlements have met their demise attempting to breed paigen for economic gain. Seven years ago, when he had first sought out The Wizard With Six Arms in the Barnstream Mausoleum, Yves himself had hunted paigen. By mastering the intricacies of how these bizarre creatures had adapted for survival in the unforgiving Northlands, he had earned both coin and the basic respect a foreigner amongst ker and bormen may hope to gain. In his current condition, Yves was in no position to fight. He did not even have the energy to conjure a few shards. His focus waned. He could not recall any more paigen facts. As the beasts stared at him, buffing up their bodies, rattling their thousands of legs, and tensing up their spikes, his consciousness slipped back into the void, and no amount of toxic rain would bring it back again. If Yves was ever going to do anything, it had to be now. Fuck off, he said, moving right towards the foremost paigan, closing the distance, deliberately getting within reach. Because sometimes, all you could do is bluff. With his injuries, the words did not come out properly. His hoarse voice did not travel through the rain. Spikes tensing, legs rattling, the beast recognised that Yves was now within immediate reach Giant claws shot out of the storm above, spear-like appendages that slashed through the air, tearing just above the ruins, accompanied by a high, bestial screeching the norlak, an avian beast, the natural predator of paigen. It killed paigen with brutal efficiency, slashing them dead mid-flight or thrashing them against rock formations. Its long claws provided formidable defence against the paigen''s spikes. The norlak shot out and vanished into the storm within the same heartbeat, narrowly missing the foremost paigan. Its deafening screeches hinted at an impending descent for another strike. With that, the dynamics between Yves and the paigen abruptly shifted. One of the creatures behind the walls leaped up, whirled around, and bolted. In that same moment, the paigan closest to Yves, in front of the dwelling, also turned and fled. The third followed right after. They were incredibly fast, gone in a blink. It had been a poor visual and auditory illusion. It had been all Yves could muster. He had scraped together some last reserves of energy; he really did not know where they came from, probably from the Jabarrah. At this point, Yves was too exhausted to discern the differences. Well, it had been enough. Yves had enough experience with paigen to know how to manipulate and intimidate them. No wizard would have recognised this norlak, but then, the illusion had not been crafted for wizard eyes. During his attempts as a paigan hunter, Yves had figured out how to create deceptions that appeared realistic through a paigans visual and auditory senses. It was a Fuck off they understood. The Jabarrah supported Yves faltering steps as his body, stiff and weary, hobbled towards the dwelling for refuge. The broken stone structure resembled something of a cellar, barely wide enough to accommodate one tightly curled up paigan, or four un-curled wizards, respectively. The ceiling hung so low that Yves needed to bow his head to enter. It did not matter. He could not stand straight, anyway. He struggled to walk, to remain on his feet, propped up by the Jabarrah and the Levitation Staff. A stony layer on the ground formed a slightly elevated floor. Everything was wet, water and wind penetrating through the open entrance. Still, the stone dome above shielded Yves from immediate rain and wind. Using the staff, Yves maneuvered the sled directly in front of the entrance, within reach and serving as an additional barrier against the weather. With no strength or thought left to prepare for comfort, Yves could not even manage to pull a piece of fur from one of the chests. Instead, he sank down to his knees right where he stood, hands on the staff for support. Collapsing onto his side, he somehow arranged himself into a sitting position, leaning against the wall to the right of the entrance. Stretching out, un-bending his stiff legs centimetre by centimetre, he observed as the heels of his boots scraped over the stone and mud. Mud and freezing rain filled his boots and socks and every crevice of his trousers. Everything was wet and dirty, his clothes stained with the smell of rain-soaked dirt. Well, at least all the blood had washed out by now. For one last time, Yves shifted to second sight. By then, he could not sense the paigen anymore. Beyond 100 to 200 meters, the storm distorted all energies of the plateau so much that any lesser presences were concealed from his fading sight and dulled senses. Yves leaned his head against the wall, activated his Timegiver, and closed his eyes. His body was too exhausted to shiver. It took a few deep breaths, then he completely slumped into himself. He listened to the rain. Amidst the relentless downpour, he could not distinguish anything else. It was not just because of his exhaustion, the storm, or the looming Vicha presence; it was the stark absence of Midnight. Yves and Midnight were rarely apart, inseparable since his birth. Her absence left a void deeper than what the Vicha had consumed. Midnights senses were more refined than his, and Yves had grown accustomed to perceiving the world through her. She possessed instincts and intuition that allowed her to recognise hazards in a way Yves could not, detecting disturbances and concealed presences in their surroundings faster and better than him. Through her, he understood danger with a precision unmatched by his second sight. Feeling her instincts was more than simply hearing, seeing, tasting, and smelling more; it was a complex fusion of all senses, creating the automatic understanding that was primal intuition. Yves had intuition, too, marked by the ominous good feeling or a bad feeling, unexplained yet distinct sensations that something was either just right or very, very wrong. He knew that his body had somehow refined these feelings through Midnight, ever learning from the impressions she conveyed to him. However, Yves often reasoned these feelings into existence. He analysed what he perceived from his present surroundings by adding his knowledge of the world, his understanding of his circumstances, and his expectations from past experiences. He thought about how these present impressions and his reason fitted together, and from that, he concluded the most likely explanation. Midnight''s intuition operated more naturally and swiftly, beyond Yves conscious reasoning. When she shared her intuition, he felt the results of her instincts without receiving an explanation. He had learned to trust this intuition instead of demanding or trying to dissect individual sensations. For Yves, sensing what Midnight felt had become an additional sense, as natural and prominent as any of his own. Respectively, with Midnight now gone and the overwhelming Vicha presence obliterating all other energies, Yves perception of his surroundings had greatly diminished, which he felt intensely, along with his deteriorating sight. The dark veil of Teharun enveloped the world. Everything around Yves plunged into suffocating darkness more potent than the night herself. He kept his eyes barely open, mere slits, wary. He could not completely dismiss the notion that the barthar might seek vengeance, waiting to strike in a moment of vulnerability. Yves had observed with his second sight that the beast and the marrels had huddled up in another dilapidated shelter. Yves had no feeling for how much time passed. He could never tell during witching hour. Teharun would tell. And so, he rested. Sometimes, he closed one eye or the other, to give them a moments reprieve. Perhaps, at times, he closed both, but he remained awake throughout at least, so he thought. Yet, within a blink, the storm vanished. Yves straightened up, alerted by the sudden stillness. The clouds had shifted. The thrashing rain around his shelter had ceased, though its distant echoes lingered in the damp air. Through second sight, Yves recognised the distorted storm energies in the far reaches of the plateau. What was happening? Had he slept? Immediately, Yves honed his senses on his surroundings. His sled appeared undisturbed. Aside from the barthar and the marrels, he sensed no other presences in the aftermath of the storm. The darkness lingered. How could he have slept during the witching hour? His stiff fingers retrieved the Timegiver, an ornate artefact bearing two strand of Yves own heartstrings, one from each heart. When activated through raw energy and triggered by the veil of Teharun, the Timegiver created a resonating pulse exclusive to the perception of the bearer; a phantom heartbeat that safeguarded against the dangers of unintentional sleep during the witching hour, be it from fatigue, injury, or any other cause. The sensation was subtle yet powerful, a rhythmic reminder that cut through a wizard''s dreams and anchored his mind back to wakefulness. Yet, it had not stirred Yves. On this disquieting occasion, the pulsations remained silent. Yves examined the crystal-encased heartstrings, finding them intact but devoid of their rhythmic vitality, signifying that the witching hour had already passed. What time was it? Had he fallen asleep after the witching hour? If so, why persisted the profound darkness that so much resembled the veil of Teharun? Yves deactivated the Timegiver and struggled to his feet. With two odd steps, he reached the entrance. He stared over the sled and surveyed the desert and debris landscape. No rain, no storm, no clouds. First sight offered no sign of Teharun, and second sight failed to unveil any traces of his veil. The witching hour had ended, yet an impenetrable blackness enveloped the sky. Inexplicable. No storm loomed overhead, no distorted energies writhed through second sight, not even a hint of mist lingered in the air. This marked the first instance in almost three months when the sky remained entirely clear. However, this newfound clarity offered no revelation. Sey and Burs, the moon and her child, along with all celestial bodies, were conspicuously absent. Dread seized Yves as he entertained the specter of illusions or a potential intrusion, a malevolent manipulation of his mind or senses by an unseen adversary. Yet, he sensed nothing, and his Ardimian chain remained silent. Then again, if he was already under the influence of a Transcender or witch or specter No. The truth was much simpler and much more terrifying. The sky was lost to Yves. The sky was dark because his first sight could no longer grasp the moons and the stars. It was a harrowing realisation. For a very long time, Yves just stood and stared. Ever since Yves commenced his education at Emery Thurm Academy, the world had dimmed around him, casting an ever-growing shadow over his once-potent second sight. The deterioration progressed gradually. Over the months and years, it had unfolded as a slow and measurable process. He had first lost the ability to see true light fragments the radiant structures visible to Lightshifters in the dark, which is, not in the Material Dimension but in the Alladharian dimension. In other words, he had lost the ability to discern light fragments through second sight. Among Lightshifters, this impairment was crippling. A wizards second sight is paramount for all forms of lightshifting. Mind you, not all Lightshifters have the innate disposition for all Lightshifter magic. Even if they do, they generally possess strong potential for one particular disposition, with varying potential for all other abilities on the Lightshifter spectrum. It is rare to find a wizard with two equally potent core dispositions. You generally have one core and then lesser or no potential for the other abilities on your spectrum. With that, it is absolutely acceptable for a master light wizard to lack seer abilities, or for a glass wizard to conjure advanced visual illusions without the ability to materialise them. Yet, despite their predispositions for specific magical domains, every Lightshifter can see light fragments. This ability comprises the essence of their spectrum. To this day, a small part of Yves hesitated to fully embrace glass magic as his core disposition. What if this classification arose from a simplicity inherent in glass magic, requiring less reliance on light than other Lightshifter abilities? After all, the most rudimentary shards originated from raw Adhar alone, which Yves could still perceive. Yves had demonstrated proficiency in producing such shards since his early days at the academy, while he had struggled with other facets of lightshifting. Falling increasingly behind, he had pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion to learn basic light and illusion magic, to tap blindly into abilities that eluded him, while his commilita advanced effortlessly on well-lit paths. By the end of his first year, the gap between them had grown into an insurmountable chasm. While others mastered the foundations and finesse of harnessing and wielding light, Yves had struggled with the void, a haunting echo of a world that had once radiated unparalleled geometrical beauty, as it could only be bestowed by true light fragments. During his initial two years at Emery Thurm, Yves found himself among the academys least accomplished students. And oh, his commilita had made sure he knew. Ever keen and conditioned on reinforcing hierarchies, these arseholes had made certain that those who falter and fall behind were well beaten to stay down. To rise above the torment and overcome his own weakness, Yves was forced to expand his abilities beyond the confines of glass magic. He had clung to the vestiges of light. Turning night into day with countless sleepless nights, he had delved into the exploration of phantom presences. Phantom presences represented the light perceivable through first sight. Through artefacts similar to the Lightgiver Wand and by tapping into natural light sources such as fire, he had learned to access light even after losing the ability to conjure it independently. Two mentors, unconventional in their methods yet champions of his progress, played pivotal roles in expanding such unconventional attempts at light magic. Once he had gained knowledge on the duality of reality, Yves had understood that a Lightshifter conjures light that was visible in the Material Dimension by rearranging and compiling light fragments in the Alladharian Dimension. Conversely, powerful phantom presences like fire or lightning in the Material Dimension correspond to densely compressed light fragments in the Alladharian Dimension. Each individual phantom presence comprises distinct shards arranged in an equally unique structure. Yves could no longer perceive or sense these clusters of light fragments. To access them, he needed to discern their structure from their phantom presence alone. Reaching blindly, Yves had to rely on guesswork and accumulated experience to harness light fragments from the Alladharian Dimension. It is demandingly delicate work. Picture it not as the Alladharian equivalent of thrusting your hand into the open flame of a torch, proudly exclaiming, There it is, I got the light! Oh please, there is really no need to subject your metaphorical self to harm for such a preposterous comparison. For each phantom presence, for each source of light such as your torch, there exist thousands of light fragments. Envision a thousand microscopic, uniquely misshapen beads scattered at your feet in all possible angles. Then, imagine being able to pick them up only by inserting a needle through the hole that ran through each individual bead. Mind you, you have one solitary attempt for each bead, as the slightest touch of your needlepoint would break it. As a novice Lightshifter, you start with one metaphorical needle, scrambling for beads with openings large enough to fit, desperately searching for those positioned just right, at angles your trembling fingers can handle. As a skilled academy graduate, you wield a thousand needles in one hand with ease. You make these needles of energy extend and bend to your will, effortlessly picking up thousands of beads without a single glance. Now, if you lack second sight or the superior visual perception of certain peoples and most winged beasts, you might find yourself frustrated with the seeming physical impossibility of filling the small space of your torch''s fickle flame with such a large number of beads. Again, please do not strain yourself, and no, this example is not an exaggeration. Through second sight, a wizard''s perception of space and the ability to adjust for depth, detail, and distance are far more advanced than what his first sight offers. The thousands of light fragments are there, and they fit well. They are, in simple terms, just very, very small. Their minuscule size posed the exact problem Yves had faced when bound to the limitations of his first sight. If you broke it all down, he learned to guess the structures, sizes and shapes of light fragments from their phantom presences. He had started a blind boy stabbing his needle into the ground at random, breaking a thousand beads for every one that he pinned correctly. Handling the void itself would be no different. He handled something that, to him, was not there, something which was just not there anymore since his youth which is why perceiving light fragments in the Mirror Dimension had been such an overwhelming experience. The nets of light had been so rich in numbers, so perfect in their structure, and so, so beautiful. Well, with years of adapting to such an unconventional method, Yves break-to-pin ratio had shifted for the better. As he studied and trained fiercely to compensate for his affliction, he eventually caught up to his commilita. From there, he began to experiment. He invented creations that combined shards and light. Shards infused with light became his most versatile resources ever since. From them, he crafted potent weapons and vast constructions such as the Vicha dome. His advancing blindness would eventually rob him of all of these abilities, his innovations and nuanced skills anything that set him apart from the novice with the crippled eyes. What had started with light fragments continued ever since. With the deterioration of his second sight, Yves was losing his grasp on the Alladharian dimension as a whole. His tether to world energies, to magic itself, frayed with each passing moment. Yet, it was in the lighthouse, upon his return from the mirror plane, that he had faced an abrupt and drastic decline of his vision. Ever since, the process had accelerated significantly. Days later, with his return to the crater, his ability to recognise energies had again deteriorated with sudden ferocity. He was losing his eyesight much too fast. Just a month ago, he had anticipated at least five or six more years. Now, it felt compressed to mere months, perhaps just a few weeks. Now, it was not just his second sight anymore. As of today, the moons and stars were lost to him. After the drastic dimming of his second sight, his first sight now faltered as well. Without the phantom presences of light, all magic woven with light would slip through his grasp. Once his first sight failed him, any Lightshifter magic beyond the most rudimentary of shard formations would be lost to him. And fail him it did. Now, as the tempestuous shroud lifted, unveiling the sky after months of obscurity, it revealed not the soothing silver glow of the moons and stars, but the horrendous void that had suffocated these celestial lights. Yves had loved the stars. However harrowing his many journeys had been, he had always found solace in serene nights under the starry sky. During such nights, the heavens unfolded as a boundless canvas of transcendent beauty, a gift so generously bestowed upon the world by ?????? [Myr], the cosmic artisan. She was revered as the Goddess of Night and the mythological mother of all Lightshifters, though, amongst scholars, commonly diminished as a mere storybook deity. Yves had no proof or reason to argue otherwise. Like many wizards, he did not adhere to conventional beliefs in mythological Gods. He abstained from the prayers and rites exerted by some peoples. Still, sometimes, he liked to imagine the myths surrounding ??????. Her art resonated with his soul, and when he witnessed the emergence of night with all her mesmerising phantom presences of light that were the stars, he often imagined how ?????? painted them just there and then with her effulgent palette of starlight. Things did not have to be true to convey true beauty. For an illusionist, imagining and believing often intertwined quite seamlessly. Midnight shared his affinity for the night, in particular for the moon. The fact that his familiar was a midnight stalker might even be the reason that Yves was especially captivated by celestial lights. Sey bestowed unique energies upon Midnight, and her feelings of deep contentment resonated with Yves. They had spent countless nights immersed in the silvery glow of the full moons. They had witnessed celestial nights where the firmament unfurled an infinite, incomparably beautiful tapestry of light. Yves felt these shared experiences intensely, especially when he and Midnight experienced the same emotions. Because both of them were so drawn and captivated by their night experiences, their feelings mutually intensified through their bond. In a profound way, Yves associated the mother moon and even light in general with Midnight. But now, the celestial canvas of ?????? lay empty. Yves could not put his sorrow into words. Fuck this, and Curses on all elves was all he got. Three months ago, in a moment unmarked by significance, he had unknowingly beheld the last vestiges of her celestial creations a fleeting beauty now etched hauntingly in his memories.
Ch. 9.2 — Northlands. Expanse. Zwischenland. Ruins
- - - It was not just the sky. As he stood and stared and strained his eyes against the vast expanse of nothingness that surrounded him, Yves realised that he could not recognise any light beyond the radius of the Vicha. He saw nothing beyond its twisted threshold. It was night, so yes, everything was dark. Yet, in the distance, the storm persisted, thunder reverberating through the desolation. Yves knew there must be lightning slashing through the firmament. But no matter where or how long he looked, he did not see a single streak of gold cleaving through the enveloping blackness. How far did the Vicha''s influence extend? A meagre two kilometres, perhaps even less? Yves could not see light past two kilometres. Yves could not see past two kilometres. A mere three months past, he had revelled in the brilliance of ??????s cosmic canvas. He had beheld the radiant stars and the two majestic moons that graced the firmament, oblivious to the impending eclipse that would forever obliterate their presence. The aftermath of the storm left him haunted by their absence. Throughout the tempest that had relentlessly pursued him from the lighthouse, Yves had been oblivious to the decay of his surroundings. Rain and mist, unrelenting in their assault, had veiled his vision to the point where they had swallowed even his outstretched hand, leaving him blind to the encroaching darkness until now. Until yesterday, Yves had relied on his second sight to discern the energies in his immediate surroundings. Even during the previous afternoon, when the rain had ceased for the first time in forever, respite had been fleeting, confined to mere hundreds of meters. The clouds and fog never dispersed between the unyielding rainstorms. Their newfound absence gave him nothing but impenetrable darkness. Yves heard thunder, but saw no lightning which meant that all phantom presences of light were lost to him beyond this distance. In the realm of phantom presences, lightning manifests intensely compressed light. In its potency, it surpasses all other natural phantom presences within the Material Dimension. Its density of light fragments outshines daylight, fire, and anything created by the commonplace lightgiver artefact. Wherever Yves could not discern lightning through first sight, all other phantom presences of light would remain elusive, including the subtle, ever-moving nuances birthed by the sun. He was blind to anything past two kilometres. It could be even less. It was too difficult to tell at night. When did this happen? Since when was he this short-sighted? Since his return to the crater? Did it manifest abruptly, a consequence of the shift, or had it evolved gradually over the past three weeks? Was this diminishing a one-time occurrence C a result of the Vichas devouring, a change triggered by his mirror world transformation, or the repercussion of his harrowing return to the dual reality C or would his first sight continue to decrease at this relentless rate? The world around him had been severed at its edges. Everything was disappearing. Everything was displaced by darkness. Yves hated darkness. He hated darkness even more when he knew that it was not even there, it was not even real. There were radiant stars, and the moon with her child, and, quite possibly, distorted yet beautiful fragments of light embedded everywhere throughout the expanse they existed, tangible energies beyond his perception. Yves had spent days entrenched underground, endured weeks in oppressive dungeons and caves, even delved into the recesses of the Albweiss Mountains. Yet, those experiences differed, for the darkness in those confines belonged to the places themselves. When Yves departed, the darkness remained there. This darkness, now, existed solely for him, a night that felt as if Teharun refused to set. And like Teharun, who took all shifting energies from the world, this abhorrent night left Yves with nothing. Only his personal darkness remained. The expansive sight and energies from the sky realms, once teeming with winged beasts and dragons, were now beyond his reach, transformed into an obsidian ceiling overnight. Its pillars manifested as the ominous sensation of his world contracting, the last vestiges of light fading. It felt as though he again stood at the centre of his dome, as though he never escaped, besieged by encroaching darkness a horrendous nothing closing in with every blink of the frantic-fearful eye, this Vicha born from an elf curse. It was a nothing that took nothing yet left nothing, consuming without taking from the world, devouring from within, impossible to outrun. Leaning, his body pressed against the entrance of his refuge, Yves wrapped his arms tightly around his chest, clutching his drenched cloak against the cold that clung to his skin. He heard the noise. He slid down along the stone wall into a crouch. He trembled, still. His hearts raced in disarray. He heard the noise. The darkness drew closer, the black ceiling and the stone walls converging around him. Darkness and pain on the outside brought forth darkness and pain from the inside, and everything clashed and melded. And into the suffocating vacuum that gave Yves nothing to hold onto, seeped the haunting elf noise. And the noise grew and swelled around him and within him, and it submerged him in a maddening sea of sound. He heard the noise. He could not breathe. There was not enough air. There was no air. He heard the noise. He heard the noise. He heard the noise. He heard the noise He heard the noise he heard the noise he heard the noise the noise he heard the noise the noise ?????? ?????????? ?????? ?????????? ???? ?????????? ?????????? ?????????? ?????????? ?????????? - Yves had crossed paths with an elf and lived. He had seen an elf through second sight, and whatever it was that he had seen, it had stared back at him. He was a fledgling wizard of just half-eights, on his first journey through the dense forests of the Great Western Plains. This venture marked the commencement of his training at the academy, a treacherous path that led through the Veridian Expanse. The Veridian forests spanned a vast and perilous wilderness that served as the inaugural trial for aspiring novices and their familiars. Yves and Midnight navigated a journey fraught with dangers, but nearing the heart of the forest, the towering spires of the academy eventually loomed into view. In the midst of the dense foliage, a harrowing scene unfolded before them two figures racing past; an aged wizard and his familiar, a black Jabarrah bird. The wizard bore severe wounds, and the Jabarrah, clinging to his tattered coat, faltered at the precipice of death, his body battered, with wings broken and feathers torn. They fought the most terrifying battle Yves had ever seen. In the shadows of the forest, Yves witnessed the emergence of dark light, ethereal beams of void, unleashed by the wizard upon his relentless pursuer, the elf. The elf was but a flicker at the edge of perception he moved with such swiftness that Yves only recognised him when he had already closed the distance. The elf ensnared the wizard with an unseen force, suspending him mid-air, contorting and torturing his body, ripping apart the wizards limbs, his presence and magic shaking Yves to the core. Elves are sickly, nightmarish entities of pure, unrestrained and unbearable ????????????????????????? [noise]. Their presence distorts all senses of a wizard. Their existence is a living dissonance, a disorienting and jarring scream that warps everything around them. Their breath is the guttural rushing of flooding fire, their voice the roar of an inferno C both silent to the ear but devastating to the mind. Their being devastates the gentle melodies of the forest; a violent, chaotic clash of sound capable of driving even the most composed wizards to madness. Their laughter erupts as high-pitched shrieks that shatter shards and crystals, and their screams echo like the wails of a thousand tortured specters. Scripture holds that they had once been sensible beings of beauty and grace, but that they were corrupted by ancient and unspeakable forces. Now, they are a wandering plague, obliterating everything they touch and leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. Their touch is a thousand needles piercing your skin, each puncture transferring more terrible noise. To face an elf is to face the embodiment of chaos, the very essence of madness. Their Rothar is an infernal blaze. If you look at them with your second sight, it burns away your sight. Yves had only looked for the blink of an eye, saved by Midnight. If she had not sunk her teeth into his arm, hurling him to the ground that very instant, his sight would have been forever lost. The elf noticed their intrusion and unleashed a blast of energy that sent them hurtling backward. Yves crashed into a tree, the impact fracturing his skull, shattering ribs, and breaking limbs. In agony from his burning eyes, physical torment, and the maddening noise reverberating through the forest and his mind, Yves passed out. - As awareness seeped back into him, Yves found himself in darkness, surrounded by hushed voices. He was in a healers'' chamber. He was at the academy. Both he and Midnight, equally battered and wounded, owed their lives to the intervention of master wizards. According to what he was later told, academy masters had responded to magical energies, likely a signal prompted by Master Raidenbarl. Their immediate arrival had driven off the elf. They had found Yves and Midnight at the brink of death, but the healers had managed to salvage their lives. It had taken years of meditation for Yves to direct his memory past the sickening echoes of the elf noise and to recollect at least fragments of the incident. The initial days of recovery were equally blurry, an agonizing mess of fear and confusion. For the first hours after waking, the elf noise never left him, and he was reduced to an unconscious amalgam of pain and screams and panic that would put any senseless beast to shame. Gradually, the healers subdued his torment, intervening and coaxing his body to preserve its dwindling strength in the fight for survival. As the healers worked on Yves, his panic reactions eventually subsided. He began to rein in his breathing, and to recognise and respond to voices amidst the turmoil within. Far beneath all the noise in his mind, the first subtle thoughts emerged. Fear gripped him He was horrified to feel his body shattered, restricted in his movement, unable to sit up or turn his head. Blindfolded constantly with a cloth that denied even the solace of second sight, he felt the hands of strangers probing and mending and forcing their energies into him. And he was horribly afraid for Midnight, from whom he had never been separated in his life, but who was treated separately from him, by healers specialised in the care of beasts. It took constant attention from the academys master healers to keep both of them alive. - The aptitude for healing stands as one of the rarest magical abilities, second only to achieving the credibility of an Oracle. Healers are, in the terms of spectra, Worldbenders whose disposition lies right between that of a shifter and a creator. - ?????????????????????? - Worldbenders are disposed to shaping the physical world. Like elementers, healers thereby breach the confines of their own being. Yet, while elementers are confined to the manipulation of fire, water and air, healers exert their influence over the bodies of living beings. This ability is reminiscent of the transformative powers wielded by shapeshifters, who alter their own forms. While adjacent dispositions often share characteristics, healing goes beyond mere manipulation, delving into the ethereal realms of Transcender reading and wandering abilities. This connection is unique, as it bridges dispositions that do not touch Yes? Ah, you have not learned your letters yet. Only the capitals? Good for you. Very well, here: ? C C ?? C E ? C I ?? C S The rest you can gather from context. That is one the best ways to learn. Also, please do not hesitate to interrupt sooner. - It is worth noting that the spectra of magical dispositions form a circular continuum. Shapeshifters, defined as creators within the Worldbender spectrum, border on the abilities of Lightshifter illusionists. - ???????????????????????? -This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. On the perceptive end of lightshifting then lie seers, their abilities sharing similarities with the Transcender perceiver. Concluding the circle, Transcender world reading borders with Worldbender shifting. The elemental dominion of Worldbender shifters imparts a fraction of the profound understanding of matter and reality possessed by Transcender world readers. - ?????????????????????? - Against this background, you may now recognise the anomaly concerning healing Yes, of course. ?? C A ?? C O ?? C P This is the one most novices struggle with; actually not a capital letter: ?? C y But really, a novice of ?????????? ?????????? should know better. - The art of healing demands that a wizard possess the perceptual acuity to discern the intricacies of a patient''s body. This encompasses not only physical injuries but also damages to the Rothar. Depending on the healer''s inherent potential, such perception delves into facets of soul and spirit reading dispositions that, within the circular continuum, do not border on one another. Some scholars go as far as to attribute wandering abilities to healers. They argue that the breadth of control required to infuse and direct a healer''s energy into a body suffering from complex, life-threatening conditions mirrors the transfer of consciousness inherent in wandering. Individual healers have demonstrated such nuanced and all-encompassing control over a patients body that their craft can hardly be distinguished from wandering. Well now, consider the infusion of a healer''s energy as a conduit for directing and accelerating a patients recovery. Imagine, in the most simplistic way that is not yet concerned with the intricate and complex design of the wizard body, that you wanted to mend a broken bone. Make it an easy one. Imagine not an injury where half of the bone is shattered to hundreds of microscopic fragments with such a force that these fragments spread from your patients shoulder blade all the way to his lungs, while the other half is strewn across the deepest parts of a forest battleground just waiting for the whims of the next worst fate-distorting witch; do yourself a favour and envision instead a straightforward fracture, a singular, clear-cut break between two pieces of bone. Allow yourself the comfort of not imagining a patient on the precipice of death, who screams and twists and fights back in pain before you can even get close to touching him. Instead, envision a serene and motionless patient who will not bleed dry with every second that you delay doing your thing. For healing a broken bone, it is not enough to shift the pieces back into place. You need to make them stick. Now, an earth shifter can take two rocks and hold one balancing atop the other as long as he pours energy into maintaining their position. If he stops, gravity will have its way. A skilled earth shifter can reshape and fuse the rocks to maintain stability even after he lets go of them. He can take two rocks and turn them into one. And if you look at the other elements, you can say that even the average potato-farmer human could take two cups of water, pour both into one kettle, and thus make one water. Oh, how much we have in common after all. You, however, are not a bone wizard, or a muscle wizard, or a sinew wizard. You do not work with the material, but you make the material work. Your craft lies in orchestrating the bodys inherent restorative processes. For that, you need to channel your own energy into your patient. You use your energy to activate, guide, and expedite his bodys natural healing mechanisms. Extending your senses to see and feel what needs to be done brings you as close to a Transcender reader or wanderer as a Worldbender can get. Essentially, you are a puppeteer for your patient''s body. You put everything into place by deftly manoeuvring his physiological strings. Your patients body mends the broken bone. You help him to do so in days, not months. - For Yves, it had been two month. Every day, he feared that Midnight would die, and that he might never again see or walk or wield magic. He just had half-eights. He had started his journey to Emery Thurm with the illusion of becoming a great wizard, but in the literal blink of an eye, he had been tossed into the abhorrent life of a cripple. There were days where he wished to be dead, and others where he swore to become the most gruesome elf hunter the continent had ever seen. Beneath raw pain, fear and seething anger, Yves could discern a novel sensation emerging within himself. Amidst everything that was wrong with his body and everything that shifted around in his body, something was new. Something stirred. Something unfamiliar yet discernible had taken root, something that wasnt Midnight or the healers energies, something he could not explain. It felt like a foreign presence that was simultaneously him and not him, like a third heartbeat that persisted unyieldingly through panic-induced convulsions and moments of unconsciousness. It took a relentless barrage of skilled hands, numerous attempts, intricate strategies, and unwavering vigilance from the healers before Yves regained his sight. Throughout the painstaking process, the healers opted to keep his eyes shrouded beneath the blindfold, allowing him only brief glimpses of his surroundings during periodic assessments of his progress. During one such test, as Yves reclaimed enough of his regular sight to perceive his immediate surroundings, he saw it. At first, Yves mistook it for an elaborate cast. Then he recognised it for what it truly was fused with his left forearm was the silver beak of the Jabarrah bird that had been Master Raidenbarls familiar. The beak had become one with his body, merged with his elbow like two flat silver bones that grew on the outside. To the unsuspecting eye, it looked like a set of curved and connected armour pieces that ran from his elbow to his hand, but it was not an external attachment; it was an intrinsic part of his arm. Yves felt the rigid, smooth surface of the beak fused with his flesh. And then he remembered the changes he had felt within. In the ensuing weeks, as he explored these newfound sensations, Yves came to understand that the Jabarrah had merged with him in a manner both profound and incomprehensible. Yves could not discern the familiars presence as separate from his own, yet he was more because the Jabarrah was now with him. His essence had entered Yves body and became a part of him. Despite the absence of a distinct bond like that he shared with Midnight, Yves felt an unspoken connection with the Jabarrah a powerful beast that, in a strange twist of fate, had bestowed upon him a second chance at life. The masters at the academy were equally captivated and confounded by this unprecedented phenomenon. The fusion between a wizard and a familiar posed an enigma. Even in the throes of death, familiars did not merge with their wizards, let alone with a stranger. The prevailing consensus among the masters was that the presence of the elf, a being as perilous as it was rare, induced this abnormal occurrence. Master Raidenbarl was a formidable tutor known for his excursions into the forests in search of unique herbs or energies. It might have been a chance encounter. It might have been a hunt. Elves are notorious for hunting familiars, particularly midnight stalkers. Presumably, the elf coveted the unique magical properties of the Jabarrah. The jabarrah is a striking bird of prey that is renowned for its magical potential, and it only ever approaches wizards when establishing itself as a familiar. Its feathers appear in rich shades of blue and green, complemented by deep blue eyes and a long, sand-coloured beak with a distinctive hook-like curve. As a midnight stalker, the particular jabarrah that merged with Yves had possessed silver eyes, while his feathers and talons had been naturally black. The familiars age and Master Raidenbarl''s magical competence had contributed to the transformation of the Jabarrah''s beak into full silver, accompanied by an abundance of silver feathers that allowed for the storage of substantial magical energy. - Yves remembered the battered state of the Jabarrah. While uncertain of the exact circumstances surrounding Master Raidenbarl''s death, Yves had been informed that he had already fallen when the other masters arrived on the battlefield. Everything had happened much too fast, leaving Yves with fragmented memories distorted by pain and fear. It was plausible that the elf had killed Master Raidenbarl before turning on Yves and Midnight. The Jabarrah, however, had evaded capture by merging with Yves. Although Yves could not trust his memories, fragmented images occasionally flashed in his mind. These disjointed recollections hinted at the possibility that the Jabarrah had intercepted the elf''s attack, acting as a shield for Yves and Midnight in the critical moment they were struck. The specifics of their fusion remained equally elusive whether it occurred just before or after the elf''s assault, and whether it was initiated by the Jabarrah or forced by the elf. The familiar might have identified Yves as a novice student of the academy, or sensed something special in him, or recognised a natural connection to Midnight, given their shared midnight stalker nature. It was also plausible that the Jabarrah, in the face of imminent capture or death, simply saw no viable alternative but to merge with Yves, him being the sole living wizard on the battlefield. Whatever the Jabarrah had intended, the masters acknowledged that his impact on Yves had been profound and transformative. The healers went so far as to credit the familiar with Yves'' survival, suggesting that he had played an active role in keeping Yves alive until the masters found him. Yves'' tutors perceived the Rothar of the Jabarrah within him and observed his influence on Yves magic. His shards exhibited greater strength and potency compared to his commilita, coupled with an element of unpredictability in their design. As of today, the illusions that came most naturally to Yves were not copies of Midnight, but birds, particularly those that took after the Jabarrah, with his curved beak, grand wingspan, and imposing talons. While his second sight continued to decline, Yves demonstrated exceptional resilience against the intrusion of Transcender wanderers from a young age, a defence far surpassing the expected protection offered by a young familiar like Midnight. Throughout his student years, academy healers relentlessly attended to his eyes, but their efforts only slowed the degeneration temporarily. Many had tried, but not even renowned masters could halt, let alone reverse the continuing degeneration. The impending loss of his second sight cast Yves into a bleak future where he faced the prospect of severance from all world energies. Adhar and Rothar will be lost to him. The healers warned him that even his first sight would eventually fade, leaving him completely blind. Once blind, Yves might still cobble together meagre glass shards and rudimentary illusions, borne out of sheer routine, guesswork, and luck creations as crippled as he would be, despairing and humiliating. You would never dignify them as magic, unless you took great pity on him. This desperate plight became the driving force behind his pursuit of artefacts. He set out in pursuit of knowledge, seeking tomes and tools that extended beyond the academy''s resources. Conventional teachings and methods had failed him, all that was taught and done offered no salvation, so he ventured into the realms of the lost, the forbidden and the unknown. He sought travellers who had witnessed the obscure and mythical, wizards whose arcane wisdom stemmed from unconventional sources, and other peoples who honed unique skills. He was granted audiences with esteemed healers like The Wizard With Six Arms, oracles, shamans, and, in his most desperate and darkest moments, even witches. The only individual claiming the power to fully restore Yves'' eyesight was the witch mother who reigned in the Yellowtop Mountain Range. In stark contrast to the legion of healers and shamans who had often made promises only to falter, she presented a unique proposition three challenges that, if met, promised the restoration of his eyesight. From the moment her first challenge was issued, Yves dedicated his life to fulfilling her demands. The enigmatic tasks revolved around gaining mastery over the mirror dimension. Under her guidance, he delved into the creation of his ethereal mirrors, the initial requirement she had imposed. Mastering access to the mirror dimension was the prerequisite for the next task. To fulfil her second demand, yet undisclosed, he first needed to see and navigate the dimension, and to wield magic there. Whenever Yves pressed for explanations and transparency, the witch mother had remained cryptic about the purpose behind these challenges, asserting only that they were integral to unlocking the solution for restoring his eyesight. Upon fulfilling her third demand, she claimed the key to fixing his eyes would be revealed. Their pact had been forged many years ago, when Yves had still been young and oblivious to the existence and complexities of dimensional planes let alone ?????? ?????????? ???? ?????? ????????, as the Stalker had called it. Yes, to trust a witch was to court either heresy or folly, contingent on her true intentions. A blind wizard, however, could not blink twice before he was a dead wizard. If his body did not deteriorate on its own without access to Adhar, witches, mercenaries and the King Brothers were all too eager to pick off useless wizards. Whatever atrocity the witch mother had planned, if Yves strayed from their agreement, he would not be around long enough to see the world burn. He would die, and she would find the next best Lightshifter to do her bidding instead. If he endured to see the world through healed eyes, his magic would transcend his current limitations. With the ability to perceive light fragments, his light magic would unveil unparalleled possibilities. Yves had just one-eighths. Seven-eighths of the average wizard''s lifespan still lay ahead of him. He had faced a choice he could opt for a noble sacrifice, confront the witch mother, and risk dying either during the battle or shortly after. Alternatively, he could comply with her demands, see his eyes restored, and live another 175 years of dedicated witch and elf hunting. Naturally, he had tried to learn and prepare himself for whatever lay ahead with the the second Mirror World challenge or a potential betrayal. Since he began collecting the parts to create the ethereal mirrors, Yves had immersed himself in understanding dimensional planes, particularly the correlation between his dual reality and the Mirror World. However, information remained elusive, especially since he was not a Transcender world reader. Deciphering it proved even more challenging. After years of toil, Yves had little more than a few vague snippets on the Mirror Plane. The original scroll of arcane knowledge that enabled him to craft the ethereal mirrors remained hidden at the academy. New information was scarce and cryptic, akin to scattered puzzle pieces refusing to be connected. Unveiling hidden truths required piecing together fragments of information from one end of the continent with those that lay buried at the other, a daunting challenge stretching over decades. If you hoped to find anything not already collected, deciphered, or locked away by the academy or prominent organisations of treasure hunters such as the Crimson Circle, you faced formidable challenges. Greater forces than Yves had long amassed and safeguarded most of this arcane knowledge. All Yves could do, through the messages Midnight carried, was implore their help and services. Since his return after sealing the tunnel, he had meticulously combed through his meagre archives, searching for insights into the correlation between water and the towering ashen wades that were its mirror world counterpart. Broadening his research, he had sifted through and sorted all the information he possessed on the correlation between dimensional planes, but found only general snippets on Transcender world reading, never on the specifics of actual dimensional transgression. He had tried to find anything that could shed light on his transformation. Could he reverse whatever had happened to his eyes after returning? Would it worsen if he dared enter the mirror dimension again? Was there any possibility to make it better? It had been no use. Yves had too little and needed too much. At the culmination of his studies at the academy, he had been an exceptional student. Since then, he had learned the ins and outs of the average artefact hunt. A diligent scholar throughout, he had translated and researched his tomes for weeks on end when seeking respite from injuries or to occupy his mind after a physically or mentally demanding quest. However, the answers he sought remained elusive. The arcane knowledge he sought was reserved for Oracles and luminaries, eminent authorities who had not just eight but more likely eighty years, with unrestricted access to the academy''s immense reservoir of wisdom and extensive resources to research their spectrum. The unexpected arrival of the Vicha had disrupted Yves'' plans, leaving him insufficient time to conclude his research in the lighthouse, even with the limited tomes he possessed. Despite the strain of their journey to the human habitat and through the Northlands plateau, he had felt a flicker of anticipation to see the lighthouse again. It was his refuge. It was broken and not beautiful, but it still stood. It could no longer send out light for the desperate and the daring that were lost at sea or desert, however, it still beheld the lights casted within its rooms. Over the years, Yves had transformed it into a place of his own making. Even though it offered not a comfortable life, it offered comfort. It was centre of calm amidst the everlasting storms that plagued hundreds of kilometres of monster-ridden desert coast the first place Yves thought of when contemplating the concept of home. His initial plan had been to stay for weeks, not mere days. Following that, he had intended to travel together with Midnight, not split up. That was all before the encounter with the Stalker, before sealing the tunnel. Back then, Yves had believed that he had at least five to six, perhaps even another seven years to somehow figure everything out before going blind. He had even felt a sense of optimism, observing the strides he made in controlling his mirror world form. A year ago, during his renewed audience with the witch mother, he had genuinely believed that he could fulfil their arrangement she had at last disclosed the third challenge. Her demand involved the pursuit of the elusive Crystalline Trench, a challenge that had initially led Yves and Midnight to the central Northlands. For a diverse array of reasons, they ended up gathering research from the human habitat. And as a result of what they found, Yves had decided to persuade the Crimson Baerras to take them to sea. If they succeeded in locating and gathering the crystals from the Trench, and if Yves then completed the witch mother''s second demand in the Mirror Dimension, she would restore his eyes. Despite everything, this had not changed. In the midst of losing sight of the present, he needed to envision this future. - Yves struggled back to his feet, then onto the sled. He pressed forward; the moons and stars gone, and the darkness ever closer. - - - - - - -
Ch. 9.3 — Annex / Intermission - Elves
INTERMISSION / ANNEX Through first sight, all wizards perceive the same. However, their second sight varies significantly, contingent upon their spectrum and core disposition. Lightshifters, for instance, see light fragments, while the common Worldbender elementer does not. In contrast, water elementers may adapt their second sight to distinguish foreign energies of beasts within hundreds of meters of water, an ability beyond the grasp of a Lightshifter, who cannot discern anything below four or five meters of depth. The energies of foreign beings appear vastly different through the eyes of different wizards. Yves likely perceived the elf quite differently than what Raidenbarl or the academy masters would have seen if they had dared to use their second sight on the creature. Yves was among the few wizards who survived an elf encounter, and one of even fewer who saw an elf through second sight. During the initial weeks of his recovery, several wizards pressed him to convey what he had seen. Yves'' fractured memory had been distorted by fear, pain, and anger. His mind tried vehemently to suppress the traumatic experience for the sake of mental survival, leading to varying accounts in each retelling within the initial weeks of the encounter and years later, when meditation allowed him a more controlled approach. As a novice wizard with only basic skills, he could not reproduce and visualise the horrendous elf energies in the material world. The perception of energies is a sensory experience of its own. In the same way that sound or smell cannot be painted on paper, energies cannot be conveyed to the material dimension. Illusionists learn to create energy overlays over years and decades, involving the creation of illusions of Rothar in the Alladharian Dimension. When creating an illusion to deceive another wizard, Yves must create both a physical copy in the Material Dimension and an energy overlay an energy illusion in the Alladharian Dimension. Otherwise, his illusions may be easily discerned by switching to second sight and finding no corresponding energies.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. The creation of such energy overlays demands advanced illusionist magic. Given that all humanoid peoples and even wizards of different spectra perceive energies differently, an illusionist must learn how those he aims to deceive perceive energies. Based on this understanding, the illusionist can create illusions that adhere not to his own perceptions but to their expectations. Over the last fifteen years, Yves had attempted only a handful of times to create an illusion of the overwhelming, complex Rothar he had seen, to somehow reproduce the horror he had witnessed. He never came remotely close, his failure stemmed from both lack of skill and abundance of unwillingness to remember. As a fledgling wizard, he had possessed none of the necessary illusionist skills. His mind had been exceptionally warded against any Transcender attempt to intrude into his subconscious and access his repressed memories firsthand. The Jabarrah, for an unknown reason, had fiercely resisted against any attempted intrusion. Therefore, when pressed to recount what he had seen, Yves had resorted to creating pictures. Over weeks, he had, in the most literal and material sense, produced several drawings. While all of them differed, each sketch featured golden rings, erratically shifting spheres of what he could only describe as eyes of light, Rothar far more compressed than even the extraordinarily dense structures that created lightning. In the end, however, all his sketches were nothing but crude phantom presences of the harrowing images etched in his memory. .
Ch. 10.1 — Albweiss Mountains. Underground Passageways - Midnight - Giving and Taking
- But mind you, be wary For in the mountain they sing To dwellers in darkness The darkness will cling Excerpt from a mountain song heard in the Albweiss. -- - -- - - - The darkness enveloping Midnight resonated with her presence, melding seamlessly with her ebony fur, infiltrating and intertwining with her very essence. She embraced it, feeding it with her energy, and as the darkness withdrew, satiated, it moved with a purpose, pulling her along its sinuous path. Midnight followed and led at the same time; allowing the darkness to draw her through the mountain tunnels, while simultaneously feeding those strands of darkness that lay in the direction she desired. In the depths of the Albweiss Mountains, Midnight traversed winding tunnels with a grace born of growing familiarity. Her newfound mastery over darkness unveiled concealed alcoves and clandestine paths, with the darkness guiding her through minute openings in the rock that defied the constraints of a purely physical being. Midnight revelled in the exploration. The manifold paths formed complex web of darkness, resounding with the distant echoes of water droplets and the faint traces of the mountains breath. At times, she encountered inhabitants of the tunnels creatures adapted to the perpetual absence of light. Some acknowledged her presence, offering their venom when asked. She took what they provided, assimilating their essence into her own. Initially, enduring the transformative process proved to be a formidable challenge, yet it was a pain that Midnight learned to not only endure but embrace. When she imbibed the venom, her heart both shivered with the strain and raced with anticipation. It compelled her body contort and twist, yet it also instigated the change and growth she desired. Midnight sought the pain because it embodied her desire to become a creature of venom a being of heightened senses where her mind, sight, hearing, and feeling all intensified in unison. The venom wrought change, expanding the boundaries of darkness within her, and extending her very essence into the all-encompassing nothing that surrounded her. With each immersion into the transformative ritual, as Midnight imbibed more and delved deeper into the awareness and abilities birthed from the pain, the pulsating rhythm of darkness resonated more powerfully within her. Simultaneously, her senses grew more attuned to the ancient heartbeat of the mountains, echoing through the stone. The air grew colder, and the scent of damp rock enveloped her, a reminder that she delved into the very core of the Albweiss Mountains. The lightless tunnels responded to her presence, unveiling and shaping new pathways, exposing both foreign presences as well as those that inherently belonged. In the heart of the Albweiss Mountains, Midnight discovered a cavern bathed in a soft, silvery luminescence. The walls shimmered with reflective crystals, emanating a gentle radiance that created an eerie yet strangely harmonious balance between darkness and light. As Midnight ventured deeper into the cavern, the crystals stirred, responding to her presence with radiant pulses of prismatic light. This crystal heartbeat reverberated through the walls, where it animated once-lifeless forms of warrior figures seemingly fused into the crystals. Violently released, they tore themselves from their crystalline confines, shards scattering left and right as they broke free through sheer force. These were golems beings of enchanted creation, their bodies composed of shards, their hands wielding an assortment of blunt and cutting weapons of crystal. Pulsating witch runes adorned their heads and chests, a clear manifestation of witchcraft, the first overt magical presence Midnight encountered in the Albweiss Mountains. On closer examination, she discerned that the golems were not entirely crystalline; rather, the crystals had encased humanoid beings now trapped within. In one, a wizard''s silhouette remained discernible; in another, the features of a ker adventurer their contorted forms frozen in eternal agony behind the translucent veil of crystal fragments. Even shrouded in darkness, Midnight had triggered the defense. Yet, none of the golems advanced towards her. Instead, they adhered to a predictable patrol, each following a designated route from one end of the cavern to the other. Their heavy steps echoed in the cavern, the distorted clash of shards resonating against the crystal ground. A significant number of golems clustered at the farthest end of the chamber, opposite to where Midnight had infiltrated. It was evident that their collective attention was fixed upon an unnatural chamber entrance hewn into the rock wall. This entrance stood as a crystalline door adorned with additional witch runes, leaving no doubt that it held the key to their vigilant guardianship. Midnight had halted, observing, sensing. The darkness disclosed no humanoid presences; no witches lingered within her perception. The only discernible living entities were an enclave of crystalline insects hovering above the golems, delicate beings strewn across the cave ceiling. Thriving in the presence of the pulsating crystals, they refracted feeble glimmers with their translucent bodies. Their soft, melodic hums filled the cavern, multiplying through dense echoes and reaching Midnight as subtle vibrations emanating from the walls. As she moved along the wall to her left, the insects directly above her fell silent. Midnight first thought they had sensed her within the darkness. However, she soon realised that their reaction differed from the instinctual hush exhibited when insects recognised her presence as she hunted or stalked prey in their immediate vicinity. This silence was not an instinctual response prompted by anticipation or fear. No, it was not that they recognised her; it was Midnight who directed them. They had no choice. The silence did not come from them. She was the silence. She was silence that moved.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. Unhindered by the crystal golems, the darkness and silence that was Midnight passed through the cavern. Remaining by the wall opposite the crystal door, she seamlessly slipped through a narrow crevice no wider than the rift through which she had infiltrated the cavern. She left. None of this concerned her. Midnight had no reason to explore the cavern or approach the crystal door, and no intention of entangling herself in a confrontation with witches. Her duty lay in fulfilling her wizard''s command, swiftly delivering his messages. She had already taken from the mountain what she needed. The rift through which she continued had formed at the culmination of an underground river, its dwindling currents absorbed by the stony ground. As Midnight followed the path upwards, the pallid streams thickened into a small subterranean river, fed by seepage from the surrounding walls. Advancing along the course, the faint rivulets swelled and evolved into interconnected pools, sprawling into grand, hollow chambers. Amid the soft echo of trickling water and the gradual hush of settling streams, Midnight discerned a haunting sound emanating from the surrounding tunnels. Exiting the grand chamber, she entered the weeping tunnels, where the very stone itself seemed to mourn. These passageways were saturated with a melancholic energy that bore down heavily on her spirit. Navigating through this oppressive atmosphere, she encountered sorrowful wails and distant whispers echoing into the subsequent chambers. In one such chamber, where the sorrow reached its zenith, Midnight perceived a haunting melody. The beautiful tune beckoned from the edge of the largest pool, promising solace, while an undertone hinted at concealed secrets. Midnight felt the seductive pull to follow the enchanting voice that so soothingly disrupted the oppressive atmosphere, but she resisted. She suspected the melody to be a trap, a lure seeking to entice those who listened too closely into the river''s depths. Likely a siren. Midnight didnt do sirens. The setting, the melody it all evoked disturbing memories; far too familiar for comfort. She and Yves had gone through exactly this before, and Midnight had absolutely no desire to ever do that again. With no tolerance for sirens and her past experiences granting her great resistance against enchanting sounds, courtesy of the Feathers of Varna, Midnight passed by. She left both the alluring melody and the haunting wails behind, focusing instead on the emerging silence as the distracting sounds faded with every step. A day later, Midnight encountered another odd entity that produced music. It was a being of humanoid stature, yet not a race Midnight could identify. This being played a flute and danced around a rod. A minor serpent, pierced atop of the rod, emitted a soft glow. Midnight observed from a distance without approaching, choosing to pass by. In the adjacent cave, she discovered a figure that bore the semblance of a wizard child, wearing a simple helmet that might well be an artefact. It was not a wizard. Its distinctive energy signature revealed that it was also not a tairan, and most likely not a human either. Whatever its true nature, it had disguised itself, masquerading as a frail and frightened entity that pretended not to notice Midnight. Such transparent deceit held no sway over Midnight, and she had no patience for this cowardly charade. There were several such encounters that disrupted the otherwise silent days spent in darkness. There were also encounters amidst the darkness, with beings that Midnight would not have perceived before her transformation. As she ventured further into the southern reaches of the mountain range, the tunnels became the abode of grotesque creatures, slithering and skittering through the darkness. Bloated arachnids scuttled along the walls, their chitinous bodies pulsating with a sickly glow. Midnight''s fur bristled with unease as she observed these arachnids climbing along their intricate webs. She was acutely aware that they all sensed her presence. Despite their keen awareness, the atmosphere here differed starkly from her encounter with the weavers. While Midnight respected the rockshade weavers as cunning trappers and formidable fighters, these arachnids felt feeble and senseless. Amidst the darkness, they were fundamentally amiss. They seemed to prevail simply due to the sheer mass of their numbers. Their existence left a bitter taste on Midnight''s heightened senses. She did not seek venom from them, nor did she engage with them or interfere otherwise. As a being of darkness, she traversed the webs unhindered, passing through their domain where ensnared critters and larger insects served as stark reminders of her own experiences. As she observed how some still struggled while others hung lifeless, resigned to their fate, Midnight understood that she never again wanted to feel like prey. None but a fledgling fersis took notice of Midnight''s silent passage. It struggled, which only tightened the webs around its delicate throat. Still, bloodshot, golden eyes unwaveringly focused on Midnight, following her every step as she moved past. It did not plead, but it watched her. It was very young, and yet, at the threshold of death, its eyes beheld a wise understanding Midnight could act if she wanted to, but there was no reason for her to do so. Midnight was a transient traveller, not an entity living within the mountain. It was not her place to intervene, and not in her interest to steal another predators prey. However, even though Midnight knew all that, her intuitive disgust for these arachnids and the intense smell of fighting life lingered with her for a long time. At the threshold where the arachnids domain yielded to unclaimed passageways, Midnight detected entities emerging from a depth of darkness far beyond her reach. Though she had never encountered or sensed such beings before, her transformation imbued her with a deeper understanding of the darkness and those who thrived within. Drawing from this newfound knowledge, Midnight recognised these beings by an ancient name, a whisper through the annals of time D??? [dawnings]. They were the living contrast of shadows. Shadows consumed and obscured where light faltered, while D??? arose from the abyss of utter darkness, taking shape where light dared not tread. Slithering along the cavern walls, their fluid, amorphous shapes momentarily coalesced into grotesque visages. Elongated limbs reached out with cold feelers that brushed against Midnight''s form. Their touch, though not invasive, probed and caressed, silently beseeching her for a response. Midnight understood that they sought something from her. They wanted her to give. Their touch enveloped her, a collective strength and power that overshadowed and swallowed her own existence. At a fundamental level, she comprehended that these were the laws of the dark realms, and the D??? had come to imprint them upon her. In the same way that she had requested venom from other entities of darkness, the D??? now expected her to surrender a part of her essence. In the span of days past, Midnight had nurtured the darkness within herself, fostering its growth through the compliance of others to her demands. She recognised that the darkness sought expansion within her and her kindred beings, desiring to spread its influence. By aiding Midnight''s growth, those who had offered their venom had contributed to the proliferation of darkness itself. Thus, to give unto the D??? meant to aid in the propagation of darkness. But Midnight did not want to give. She felt the power and dominance within these entities, and understood that they could take by force much more than what they requested. Voluntarily giving, respecting the darkness and its rules, only required a fraction of herself. Her wizard was waiting. Compliance would grant her safe passage, an immediate continuation of her journey, while resistance might result in a fight to the death. It was the sensible thing to do. Yet, beneath the surface of rationality, Midnight could not ignore the inherent truth to give once meant to give in forever. It meant surrendering to an eternal pact. Offering a fraction of herself would leave her with most of her essence, with almost everything. From that moment forward, she would no longer be her all that with every day would grow into the all that she could ever be. No, if she gave once, she would never again be her complete self. She would forever be almost everything of herself, an existence that would then only grow into almost everything she could ever be. And from there, with each subsequent offering, she would diminish more. She would become less and less, until she would find herself in a situation where one fraction more made all the difference to live with pride, to survive, to fight alongside her wizard. If Midnight gave to other creatures, she would, again, become not enough. Nature dictated a balance of giving and taking, an equilibrium of feeding and being fed upon. But Midnight had set herself above nature. She had done so when forging a bond with a wizard, and she had done so again when embracing darkness to be more. This was her essence, her identity. She was a being of darkness, but she had long before been a familiar, and even before that, she had been a pathera. And she was still. She was all of these things. Refusing to give was an assertion of her identity. Midnight was a born predator, and that meant she would disregard all the rules of darkness, and she would discard all the learned wizard strategy she would fight to the death before allowing another creature to feed upon her. This defiance she conveyed to the D???. A significant shift occurred in their touch. Their grasp became heavier, more insistent. Where they had touched to make their presence known, their numerous feelers now examined every part of her body extensively, measuring her up while pressing for her essence. With all that she was, Midnight communicated that her resistance was not a mark of disrespect but of dedication to honour to a bond forged long before she embraced darkness and long before the D??? had touched upon her. And then, she went further. She asked them to give to her.
Ch. 10.2 — Albweiss Mountains. Underground Passageways - Midnight - Dawnings and Sprites
As the D??? infiltrated her, their intrusion was brutal, an overpowering force that delved into the very marrow of her bones and Rothar. It was a violation that extended beyond the physical, seeping into the core of her being. No negotiation, no subtle appeal; they seized her forcefully, their cold feelers penetrating her, claiming her essence without compromise. Upon realising that they were takers, not givers, Midnight resisted. She strained to repel them, to dissolve into the shadows and evade their invasive touch. Yet, she found herself ensnared in a state of numbness, a paralysing grip that surpassed the boundaries of the physical. In the midst of this violation, she recognised their overwhelming strength, a stark display of the chasm between their power and hers a proclamation of dominance over all beings of darkness. They took from her, extracting fragments of her essence. Frustration surged within Midnight, a visceral emotion echoing through the caverns of her being. However, even in this violation, she clung to a crucial truth. She had not willingly surrendered parts of herself. Her all had brought her this far, and she had resisted with all her might and because of that, she still possessed the potential to become all she could be. The distinction lay in her refusal to yield; she did not let it passively happen to her but bore the consequences of a fight she lost. The outcome remained the same, yet the difference cut deep. Voluntary surrender meant acquiescing to an imagined fate, but Midnight''s resistance represented a defiant struggle for a better outcome. Resisting left the future uncertain, an undefined path where she fought for the entirety of her potential. It was not a defeat willingly embraced; rather, a battle waged against the inexorable. Even when you lost, you grew from the experience. Amidst the repercussions of a lost battle, she clung to the knowledge that she had never given in, but demanded and fought to be more. As the D??? persisted in their invasive act of extraction, the darkness surrounding Midnight suddenly thickened and tightened. An unnatural warmth coursed through her veins, escalating into a searing heat. Tremors wracked her form, a response to the unsettling energy now forcibly etched into the crevice that remained where her essence had been torn. Alongside their relentless extraction of Midnight''s essence, the D??? infused something back into her. It was an enigmatic exchange, a symbiosis of darkness and an indiscernible substance. Midnight struggled with the ambiguity of this intrusion what were they doing to her, what were they giving? Their gestures, their language, their presence if the D??? indeed communicated she was unable to decipher their intentions. They took from her, and in return, they forced something upon her, into her, a cryptic exchange devoid of explanation. As the D??? continued their ministrations, Midnight perceived subtle yet profound changes within herself. A hunger awakened within her, a craving for something beyond her comprehension. It clawed at her insides, demanding something she could not name. In exchange for the stolen essence, the D??? bequeathed her the feeling of darkness lurking beneath her skin, an elusive, pulsating presence. Suddenly, the presence of the D??? intensified, inundating Midnight''s senses with a maelstrom of emotions, complex and contradicting amalgamations of indifference, amusement and desire merged into alien sensations beyond her grasp. It was as if the creatures shared a collective consciousness, an intricate network that transcended her understanding. Overwhelmed, Midnight staggered under the weight of uncountable words bearing down on her. Were they talking to her? Was this a ritual? Abruptly, everything ceased. The D??? released their hold on Midnight, their forms dissipating into the darkness. From one breath to the next, she stood alone in the narrow cavern, trembling, her ebony fur bristling. Midnight drew a shaking breath, her chest rising and falling as she sought to steady herself amidst the lingering haze of the encounter. With each inhale, the oppressive weight of the cavern''s atmosphere lessened, though the echoes of the D???'' presence still reverberated through her. The air now bore a different taste charged with an otherworldly energy that clung to her like an invisible shroud. Midnight took deeper breaths, regaining control. She was changed, marked. A part of her essence had been lost, yet she could feel the pulsating power of something new within. It took her a while to grasp that she was, once again, truly alone. It took even more time until she recovered from the shock and regained control of her body. Afterward, Midnight found herself compelled to wash herself extensively. Her movements followed the same fixed routine she had known since birth, offering a semblance of calm amidst the tumult of her thoughts. She could not shake the belief that she had encountered Gods. Midnight had heard about the concept of Gods, but had never truly comprehended what they might be. She had never been able to imagine anything other than creatures that were simply much bigger and stronger than dragons and giants, something akin to grand females that birthed different parts of the world. Such thoughts were abstract, complex, and unfinished, considering a concept too difficult and beyond her immediate needs. With so many creatures on earth bigger and stronger than Midnight, she had never concerned herself with the invisible and elusive entities that humanoid peoples worshipped. During her fledgling days, even wizards had seemed godlike, with their myriad abilities to shape the world and foresee future events. However, as she observed, learned, and bonded with Yves, Midnight came to understand that wizards were merely different from her. While there were things her wizard could do that she could not, there were also things she could do that he could not. Midnight reflected on the intricate balance of differences among creatures. She surpassed many beasts in height, yet there were others towering over her. Her strong teeth could tear through a rockshade weaver, but those weavers possessed venomous fangs which she had not. Four powerful legs granted her exceptional running and climbing abilities, distinguishing her from avian beasts with only two legs. Conversely, the winged creatures could soar through the air, a feat beyond her reach. Considering this perspective, even a dragon was fundamentally just another beast different from Midnight. Their greater height, robust teeth, powerful legs, wings, and wizard abilities set dragons apart, because they were greatly superior to Midnight in various aspects, but at the core, they were still just different. Was a God not simply a being even more powerful, even more different than a dragon? Where lay the distinction between a beast that was merely very different in the way that she was very superior, and a God? Midnight had shared this contemplation with Yves once. He had very much agreed but added that Gods were considered different from strong creatures because they were creators. Some Gods were believed to be the creators of entire peoples. This response had left Midnight dissatisfied, as it seemed to imply that she, too, could be a God. Like all females, she could create life if she chose to. There were females everywhere on the continent. The pathera females created all pathera. The fersis females created all fersis. The rockshade weaver females created all weavers. All the living creatures on the continent and in the seas existed only because females created new life. During their conversation, several years ago, Midnight had not been sure if Yves understood this. He was just a wizard, after all, and they did not have females. They could not birth their own children. Then again, Yves created so many lifelike beings, and so often treated his illusions as if they were real life, that Midnight believed he was, in his wizard way, as close to being a female as any male could get. When Midnight had wondered whether Gods were just powerful females who birthed an extensive amount of offspring, Yves had expanded her understanding. He had said that some Gods were credited with creating fundamental elements of the world, such as water or stars. From that, Midnight had concluded that Gods were grand females with unique abilities. And they were revered for these abilities by lesser beings, as long as they used them for the benefit of the worshippers. Such a God was, to Midnight, not a beast worthy of respect. Lesser beings had their own affairs, and there was no reason to interfere with them. In her analogy, Midnight might well be a God to any random group of insects. She could be unique and very different for any herd of fersis, if she suddenly decided to establish a territory for them and protect them from any other predator. They could worship her as their protector. If she dug them a stream, they could name her their Goddess of Water. They might even agree to repeatedly and ritually sacrifice one of their own, as some peoples did for their Gods, to satisfy Midnights hunger. And if she did so for decades and without allowing her fersis any contact to prey outside of her territory, there might even be generations that worshipped her without knowing that she, too, was a predator, and that they, to her, were nothing but prey. She would be a God to them, but she would be a lesser beast to any other pathera, because she would abandon her existence as a predator. She would sacrifice her pride as a hunter for the admiration of lesser beings. Being worshipped by prey was to feast on fear and illusion. These unsettling and unsatisfying conclusions had been Midnight''s thoughts on the concept of Gods. But now, her encounter with the D??? had drastically reshaped her understanding. None of her previous assumptions held true. Because now, Midnight believed she had encountered true Gods. The D??? were overwhelmingly different, and, though she did not yet understand what it was, they had given Midnight something unique. But this was not what made them Gods.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. While Midnight acknowledged her status as a lesser being to them, she had not felt like prey, not like a fersis facing a predator disguised as a protector. She had been overwhelmed and overpowered, yet she had not felt deceived, nor that the dawnings acted contrary to their nature. Instead, she had sensed a profound connection, a knowledge embedded within her. She knew their name, even though she had never heard of them before. The knowledge had been there, in her, just like breathing, just like taking energy from the world. It had been there all along, and it had awoken upon touch. Gods were not fallen from pride. Gods were not powerful beings that acted against their nature by overwhelming and tricking lesser beings. They were not predators misleading prey, nor did they act to be acknowledged by such prey. It was the opposite. With this new piece of essence she had received, with the newfound, pulsating hunger coursing through her veins, Midnight now believed that the defining characteristic of Gods was a different nature. They were not predators, or trappers, or prey. No, they had a unique nature it was inherent in them to impact other beings. Gods did not act to be acknowledged by lesser beings: they were the ones who sought and acknowledged lesser beings, as the D??? had done with Midnight. Gods existed to make lesser beings more. The D??? had demanded a sacrifice, yet they had also acknowledged Midnights request. Something new resided within her, accompanied by this insatiable hunger that the surrounding energies could not satiate. Midnight pressed forward, compelled by a sense of purpose intertwined with the dark currents and the breath flowing through the heart of the Albweiss Mountains. With each step, she felt more attuned to the darkness, her ability to follow and direct it becoming more natural. Unlike before, where she fed the entering darkness until it left her, now the darkness within responded to her commands even before being infused with her energy. Within minutes, the singular tunnel leading out of the narrow cavern expanded, revealing grotesque remnants the bones of humanoid peoples and beasts neatly sorted by size, stacked and lined up against the walls like a macabre tapestry. They were the remnants of hundreds of creatures, yet all the skulls were missing. The air hung heavy with the thick scent of decay, death woven into the very rocks. Soft echoes of distant drips reverberated, blood and water slipping along the walls like serpents. Cautiously passing the bone display, Midnight focused on potential dangers hidden amidst the piles. Ever so often, she slowed to navigate past individual bones that protruded from the stacks, their surfaces etched with scratches and grooves from the passage of time. With every step, the lingering scent of decay intensified, revealing an undercurrent of something more, something alive. She sensed the darkness responding to her needs, caressing the stone walls and bones like an extension of her whiskers. Suddenly, the silence shattered into whispers and laughter, distorted echoes of humanoid and high-pitched cackling. Midnight''s fur bristled as they materialised two sprites, ethereal in form, flitted at the edge of her vision just as she reached the end of the tunnel. The path continued but was blocked by layers of large bones. The laughter swelled into a sing-song of overlapping voices. - --------------Wel-come, wel-come, yum-yum, yum-yum ----------yum-yum, yum-yum, Wel-come, wel-come - Midnight did not acknowledge them. Most sprites were malevolent, but some merely observed and mocked unless provoked. All sprites were dangerous. She merged with the darkness to shift past the barrage of bones, when a blast of something surged through her, abruptly pushing her out of the darkness. Disturbed, Midnight found herself back in front of the barricaded path, now in her natural pathera form. - ----Oh no, oh no, you cannot go ----------------you cannot go, Oh no, oh no - The sprites swirled into her path, now dense ethereal forms. One was dark green, and the other was a sickly, poisonous purple, both with grotesque humanoid figures, disproportionally large heads and even larger maws that gave them an unsettling appearance. They darted around Midnight with calculated mockery, surging through the air and slipping between her legs, their ephemeral bodies deliberately brushing against her ears and tail. Midnight''s senses were assaulted by a cacophony of eerie laughter, their high-pitched voices reverberating through the cavernous space. - Wel-come, wel-come, yum-yum, yum-yum We let you come, We let you pass: But if you want to go, Tell us something we dont know. Midnight maintained her stoic composure. She bowed her head once, showing she understood. What, no questions? You know, normally, people go like Who are you? Or: What are you? Very rude. Or: Help! Or: Where do all these bones come from? Or: How can I possibly know what you know and not know? Did anyone ever win this game? How is this fair? Oh no, oh please, I dont want to die! Midnight stared. Oh, and also, you know, if we know what you think we dont know Yeah, if you dont know what we dont know If you think you know what we dont know though we know all you know - --??? ??????? ?????? ????? - And you know there is no thing you can do about it. Wel-come, wel-come, yum-yum, yum-yum Just wanted you to know that. Yes, that was one thing we know you didnt know. Now you can return the favour. Yum-yum, yum-yum, fun-fun, fun-fun Midnight stared. Well, if you have no questions then you have something we dont know? Midnight nodded once. Pause. Well, what is it? What do you possibly know? Midnight flicked her right ear. Speak now. What do you know? Midnight flicked her ear again. What? Midnight flicked her ear again. What is that supposed to mean? Is that supposed to mean something? No fun, no fun, this game is done Midnight flicked her ear again, with emphasis. What is she doing? Is that on purpose? Is she pointing? Is that talking? I dont know, I asked you! Its irritating, that is! - There was quite a long pause. Then they let her pass. And then, to her annoyance, they followed her.
Ch. 10.3 — Albweiss Mountains. Underground Passageways - Midnight - Do you get it now?
The stench of decay hung heavy in the cavern as Midnight advanced, ethereal malevolence trailing in her wake. The sprites had permitted her passage through the barricade of bones, but had pushed her out of the darkness immediately afterward, their distorted laughter the only explanation for their motives. In her pathera form, Midnight used the darkness to heighten her senses. The passageway was flanked by an array of skeletal pillars, remnants of grand creatures that seemed out of place in the confining spaces. Their size and age spoke of beings that met their end elsewhere before finding a final resting place within the Albweiss Mountains. Persistently shadowing her, the sprites alternated between floating at her sides and hovering annoyingly close overhead. Their ethereal forms occasionally traversed the walls, vanishing momentarily only to reappear from beneath Midnight, a constant effort to disrupt her stride. Their dissonant laughter reverberated through the caverns, unnerving sounds that betrayed Midnight''s presence to any lurking dangers. Midnight attempted to meld with the darkness two more times, but the sprites thwarted her efforts each time, seemingly deriving pleasure from impeding her progress and leaving her well exposed. - - You are doing it wrong! You are wrong. So wrong. Poor little shadow. So, so wrong. Try again! Yes, try again! - She did, and again a burst of something pushed her right back. - Wrong again! Oh, look at her, you nearly ripped her! No, no, I did not. Yes, just look at her face! Shes not all there yet. No, that is just her normal face. Her normal, little, stupid face. She has a stupid face. Are you all there yet? No, she is not. Oh dear, I nearly ripped her, didnt I? Oh yes, you did! Oh yes, I did! - The sprites revelled with shrieks of laughter, jeering in discordant unison. - Try again, little shadow! Do it! Do it! But dont rip her yet! I promise, I wont rip you. Yet. Yes. Yes? Well, yet. Do it again! But dont do the same! Yes, again Not same! Its not sane To do the same Ever again. Yes, dont ever do that again. But do try again. Do it! - Midnight did not do it. She continued on foot, upon which the sprites unleashed a barrage of commentary on her disappointing attitude. They made it a vengeful game to smack her right ear whenever they floated past her head. Their actions sought attention and provocation. They wanted her to succumb to rage and attack. They wanted justification to eat her. Midnight, too, killed and ate other beings. She killed to survive, defend and to sustain herself, but she was never cruel with prey. She hunted fairly and killed swiftly. However, Midnight had many times experienced that what was natural and sensible for her and most beasts demanded great restraint from humanoid peoples. They needed many words to kill. They played with their prey and tortured their enemies, and relied on established rules to be less cruel. The sprites, too, operated by a set of rules alien to Midnights instincts. Their motives remained elusive, but Midnight intuited a pattern in their actions. Instead of outright killing, they posed conditions and demands to exert their influence. They bound Midnights actions to arbitrary demands, before then attempting to trick her into failure. As she had wanted to advance past the bone blockage, they had demanded her to reveal novel information to them, a challenge which was in itself as vague as it was unfair. Still, they had not simply let her answer, but tried tricking her to ask questions that they could obviously answer. Midnight believed that they would have eaten her if she had posed a singular question that they could have answered; in their words, a question they knew. Their latest demand was as indistinct as the first challenge, though much more deceivingly woven into their distracting array of utterances and laughter to shift not wrong. Even if there were a lesson here, it was not lost on Midnight that while the purple sprite had promised not to rip her apart, the green one had not. Suppressing her anger, Midnight remained composed amidst the continuing mockery. Keeping her natural pathera form, she pressed on swiftly through the tunnels, sensing that the sprites whims could transform into cruelty and brutality at any moment. As the tunnels widened, offering divergent paths with the breath of the mountain wafting through both, Midnight discerned traces of witches along the right tunnel. Through the darkness that served as her whiskers, she felt sigils etched into the stone, and the thick tang of witch magic warned of their proximity. Sensing tension and danger, Midnight veered towards the left tunnel. The Albweiss Mountains were infested with the Coven of Shaira, who claimed vast parts of the mountainside lands in the North-East. Since entering the Albweiss Mountains, Midnight had strategically navigated away from the periphery of any witch presence. With the exception of the crystal chamber, she had steered clear of their influence. The sprites, revelling in Midnights discomfort, redoubled their efforts to unsettle her as soon as Midnight committed to the left path. - You sneak around the witches'' den? Did you not come to see them then?This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. You should pay them a visit. Many others paid them a wizard. But you, you are alone. Pray tell, where has your wizard gone? Did you not come to set your wizard free? Or do you not know where he might be? They brought in many wizards just yesternight, Many bound, the rest frozen in fright. - Midnight shook her head, acknowledging what might be a potential intent for sharing authentic information, though suspecting the sprites were likely plotting another challenge. She understood the delicate balance of providing what they sought in order to appease their capricious nature without giving away her intentions. - Why now, do you fret? Perhaps you think hes already dead? Do you so fear their perilous domain? Or do you fear more that there is nothing to gain? Perhaps you dont mind Leaving him behind? Or did he leave you, go off on his own? Did he leave the little shadow all sad and alone? - Midnight really wanted to be alone right now. She did not know where Yves was, and the question of his survival lingered heavily on her mind. She had witnessed the aftermath when other familiars faced the loss of their wizards, but the prospect of Yves''s death added a disquieting layer of uncertainty. Midnight did not know how her wizards death would feel. The transformation wrought by the weaver venom had reshaped her in profound ways, and even her bond with Yves seemed to bear the marks of this metamorphosis. - Go and ask nicely, and you might pick out a new one. And if you dont like him, we take him off your hands Paws. Same, same. Same, same, but differ-rent. -------------Bones much more promi-nent. - Midnight ventured into the left tunnel, the sprites allowing her passage without interference. However, when she attempted to shift once more, they delivered a substantial blow. The impact was profound; for an initial moment, Midnight was engulfed in a void of sight, touch, and perception. Gradually, her surroundings re-emerged, yet the disorientation lingered for several moments. - Oh no, look at her stupid face! I am so looking at her stupid face! I did it again! Oh, you did do it again! But I did not rip her. No, you didnt. Not yet. Did you want to, though? You bet. - Midnight compelled herself to dismiss the sprites antics, recognizing the likelihood that their aim was to divert her attention from potential threats within the tunnel. With the presence of witches looming as a tangible concern, Midnight remained vigilant. Progressing in her natural form, she used the surrounding darkness to amplify her senses and to extend them, searching for any subtle indications of imminent danger. - Does she not get it? She does not get it. Do you not get it? She is too stupid. Are you too stupid? Listen, if you shut up Listen! She is not even looking! Look at me! Yes, shut up and look and listen to him! You are too full of yourself. Full of yourself, get it? You cannot be full of yourself, get it? Get it? Get it? Dont be FULL! Dont be OF YOURSELF! Get it? Get it now? She does not get it. Even when we get it for her. Stupid little shadow. Even when we give it to her. Even when we give it to you. We give it to you one more time. Yes, give it to her again. Stupid little shadow, be ready to do some heavy getting. Appreciate the giving you are getting! Get it now! Listen now! If you just shut up, do you become the same as silence? Or do you stay a stupid little shadow? You cannot be silence By hiding your voice. There is no voice within the silence Silence is only itself. Get it? Silence is where the voice is not. Your voice must be silence. Otherwise, we can make you scream anytime we want. She is so stupid. She does not get it. She does not listen! Listen, how can you be this stupid? Stupid, stupid little shadow. - Midnight halted and looked up at them. Then she gave them a flick of her right ear. It made them mad, bashing her ears several times Unexpectedly, the sprites recoiled, their grotesque, mute grins frozen on their oversized heads. A disquieting stillness descended, thickening the air with palpable tension. The very walls seemed to draw a heavy breath. Then, ripples of darkness pulsed through the stagnant silence. - Here is one that listens. And he heard you. - Their words had not dissipated, as the shadebeast lunged at Midnight right through the wall, his form an undulating distortion of darkness. Reacting with primal instinct, Midnight flung herself to the ground. The shadebeast soared over her, missing by a hair''s breadth. Midnight jumped back and shifted into the darkness and was pushed out again, the ethereal blow accompanied by distorted laughter. - -Little shad-ow, little shad-ow, ----------Where is that flicky-flacky arrogance now? -------------------We let you go, now give us a good show!
Ch. 10.4 — Albweiss Mountains. Underground Passageways - Midnight - Shadebeast
Midnight flung herself sideways, narrowly evading the lunging shadebeast with a desperate twist of her body. A primal roar of frustration and rage tore from her throat as she whirled around to face him. He had the discernible form of a beast on four legs. Twice the size of Midnight, he towered over her, his silhouette a cascade of ripples within the darkness, his hunger palpable in the air. For a moment, he stood and stared, then he surged forward once more, his form elongating into a grotesque manifestation of power and darkness. In an instant, Midnight recognised his intent. He lunged to strike, an outright attack, but he came too close, built himself up too high, as if to strike at something behind her this was a superior predator fighting an inferior one; he expected her to back away, to dodge backwards. Instead, Midnight rushed in headfirst, her movement calculated evasion amplified by intuition. She jumped at him from below and ran her claws from his neck to his chest but struck nothing; there was no resistance, no matter, her paws just went into the rippling black as if it were air. Midnight landed off balance, scurried to the side before he came down on her, weaved past the onslaught of his paws and ran. Overtaken by raw panic, her body reacted before she could consciously grasp what had happened. Her paws were fine, just fine, all there, not injured, but upon touching the shadebeast, it had felt as if they were ripped apart. The shadebeast chased her, matching her every leap, driving her into a frantic race along the narrow confines of the tunnel. She zigzagged between walls, contorting her lithe body to evade the relentless hunter. He pursued with an undeterred determination, not adhering to the twisting path but chasing her in a straight line, seamlessly traversing in and out of the walls. - - - - Midnights breath came in quick bursts that matched her frenzy, her heart drummed fiercely in her chest, and her manoeuvres became increasingly daring as she fought to maintain speed. She could not slow down for any hindrances. With powerful leaps, she sought distance, her body repeatedly grazing against the jagged edges of protruding wall segments, leaving traces of crimson in her wake. As she darted and weaved through the tunnel, Midnight attempted to shift into the darkness several times. Yet, with every attempt, the sprites hurled her back into her pathera form. - -------So full of yourself -------------just beggin for a beatin ------Touch him again -------------and youll be eaten! - The tunnel widened. Midnights darkness sense revealed an expansive cavern filled with towering stalactites that reached down to the ground, where they solidified into dense pillars. The faint layer of salt-crystalline ground crunched beneath her paws as she darted and slithered around the columns. The shadebeast spurred Midnight onward. In her frantic flight, she wove erratic patterns around the pillars, her darkness already exploring potential exits. Even in this harrowing chase, the sprites remained a persistent menace, their ethereal forms constantly flitting in and out of Midnights line of sight. They danced through the air with unnerving agility, obscuring her vision, unsettling her senses and disrupting her concentration with their taunts and jeers. - Little shad-ow, little shad-ow Through the darkness you flee Through the darkness you flow Any yet you do not see And yet you do not know Only true affinity A double-forged synergy A form of full opacity Yet absolute transparencyIf you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Will grant you life and victory - They were sabotaging and simultaneously helping her? What did any of this mean? How was it possible that they prevented Midnight from shifting into darkness? How could she get rid The shadebeast jumped her from behind. Midnight evaded to the right, whirled around in mid-air and threw herself at his side, with her obsidian claws extended into the darkness currents surrounding her. She had to fight darkness with darkness. If she could not shift, she would turn the darkness into her weapon. She had before made it an extension of her senses, using it to touch upon the arrays of bones like elongated whiskers. Now manifesting the darkness around her claws, Midnight unleashed a barrage of savage strikes upon the shadebeast, evading a direct clash by ripping his neck and shoulder before he could turn towards her. The shadebeasts movement faltered, his momentum disrupted and form disturbed, but his rippling darkness closed the clefts right after barely enough time for Midnight to vault upwards. She jumped one of the grand vertical pillars. She had already smelt that the stalactite structures were moist and slippery. With the darkness claws still woven around her own, she threw her paws against the rock at full force. She had attempted to dig into the rock, but while her natural claws made contact, the extended darkness simply slit through the rock as if it were air. The unexpected lack of grip left Midnight scrattering and slipping, her muscles straining as she flung herself to the adjacent pillar, now relying on her own claws as she jumped from one structure to the next. Each leap brought her closer to a platform beneath the high ceiling. The shadebeasts massive form followed with a single bound. He reached the platform right after her, closing the distance instantly, as Midnight dashed into the tunnel that exited from there. --------Could he not have intercepted her and blocked the tunnel? ----Had he let her escape on purpose? Midnight felt the words emerging but was unable to grasp them fully amidst the demanding chase. Within seconds, she reached a junction of diverging tunnels. Struggling to keep her darkness sense at pace with her rapid movements, Midnight chose by intuition, only to feel another junction approaching. The sprites'' commentary added to the overwhelming sensory barrage, each voice urging her to choose a different tunnel and then both complaining about her choice, even though she inevitably did what at least one of them wanted. Midnight rushed into the wider right tunnel, its walls shimmering stalactite. Left, right, left, a small cavern, right, left, high-up right and right again. She raced through the winding passages, her heightened senses attuned to the subtle shifts in temperature and atmosphere. The scent of the mountain''s breath grew stronger, now hinting at the proximity of snow. The darkness flowed forth, discerning looming dangers and viable paths, guiding her through the labyrinthine twists and turns. - - - - Midnight needed to turn this hunt around, but amidst the frantic flurry of senses and actions, she struggled to think. She could not outrun the shadebeast forever, nor could she fight him with her claws alone. She could not face him as long as her pathera body left her vulnerable. Running had been her instinctual response, and it still seemed the only viable action. Yet, she knew that she needed to do more, to understand more, but her thoughts were all chaos and confusion. In the heat of the chase, she found herself reacting purely on impulse, her mind fully consumed by the urgency of the moment. Against all that felt natural, she strained to think ahead, to let her body handle the running and sensing, so that her mind could strategise. Midnight needed to shift C better. It was imperative if she wanted to evade the sprites'' interference. They still swirled around her, manifesting in and out of the walls in an attempt to distract and trip her, ever laughing and shouting misleading directions. Their power over her infuriated her. Before encountering them, every shift into darkness had filled Midnight with exhilaration. Everything had felt exactly right, but they insisted she was wrong. She did not know what that meant. She did not know what they wanted; their many words rushed through her mind with a forcefulness that left her reeling. Midnight''s thoughts became increasingly muddled, drowned in an overwhelming surge of emotions; a flood of rage, a torrent of angst and anger that came not from her body, not from something she sensed, but from her own words. How was she supposed to figure any of this out? Midnight did not understand new things out of nothing; she learned through her body, through instinct and intuition. From the earliest days of her existence, Midnight had relied on her innate knowledge and abilities to survive. She had known how to run and climb and fight. Her intuition had told her what to eat and how to hunt. She had been able to do all of these things while her wizard needed years just to learn how to walk. He had needed to be shown how feed on his own, which had also taken years. It would have probably taken many more, if she had not been there, because if he ever got anything out of their bond, Midnight was sure that it was this necessary independence for basic survival. Nothing wizards did came from innate knowledge. While her instincts guided her to safety, and her senses provided all she needed to know about new places and plants and beasts, her wizard needed to be instructed about the world and about how to behave amongst others and even on how to speak to other wizards. Wizards had so much potential to develop different abilities, but they needed decades of academy schooling to realise them. Midnight had been instructed on many things, too, but even when honing her midnight stalker abilities, she had only ever done what felt natural. She had all the knowledge and all the abilities within her. Practice just made her better. When Yves had practiced his magic at Emery Thurm, he had very often been told that he needed to do things differently from the way he was doing them. To him, the wrong things had often felt good and easy, and the right things had felt difficult. And yet, despite all of this, he could learn and understand and foresee things by himself, out of sheer nothing. Midnight did not learn or feel like this. She only felt that she was doing things right, and because she only did what felt right, she was never in a situation where she had to feel otherwise. But now the sprites told her that what felt so right was wrong, but how could she discern the truth? How could she learn to understand on her own? How could she understand what she did wrong? How could she improve, how could she do something better if everything already felt exactly right? No, there was absolutely nothing wrong with her; she was a powerful beast, imbued with strength and skill and acknowledged by her Gods of Darkness. Yet, these twisted sprites continued to toy with her. This was not a lesson, nor an attempt to guide her, and there was no guarantee that they would ever cease their interference, regardless of what she did. All of this was just another cowardly ploy to get her killed. Midnight had wanted her thoughts to cease reacting to her senses, but now everything was turned around, now the words directed her body instead, drowning both her senses and themselves with the same raw intensity of rage they induced in the first place. The words were supposed to help her strategise like her wizard, but instead, they turned her into a senseless beast. It was a maddening loss of control. Where all senses drowned, the fear of prey found breath. There was nothing she could do. All that Midnight could do was run. She needed to run, she must run, the shadebeast was behind her, she must run, he was reaching for her, she must run, the darkness would rip her apart upon touch, she must run, keep running, run fast, run faster, run, run, run, run, run run run run run runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun - The green sprite sat on her back.
Ch. 10.5 — Albweiss Mountains. Underground Passageways - Midnight - Darkness Core
- - The green sprite sat on her back. - Listen, I can - Midnight roared. She roared and roared, shaking her body and trashing furiously as she ran, yet she could not shake him. Instead, the purple one jumped onto her as well, both clinging to her neck and pulling at her ears with gleeful shrieks. - Poor little shadow So, so sad So stupid and mad And yet she owns Such delicious bones - Midnight roared through their jeering until all the cavern walls roared back at her, with her, and that pushed out all her anger and then all her angst, and that brought her senses back. She would not be driven like prey, she refused to die ridden like livestock. How did her wizard do it? How did he, with his disturbingly poor instincts and senses and close to no innate knowledge understand new things and new places and new enemies and new skills so well on his own, when he had been nothing but helpless as a ------What did she see when she was pushed out of the darkness? Nothing. Midnight did not see the sprites attack coming, and it left no traces on her body. ------------What did she feel? She raced through expanding tunnels, ever-growing chambers and caverns that sprawled wider with each passing moment. The air grew heavy and dank, the walls slick with condensation, and the breath more pronounced. The scent of snow, ice, and herbs hung thick in the air, signalling the presence of the frozen wilderness that shaped the southern reaches of the mountain, but also of witches. She felt the sprites on her back and the hunger of the shadebeast. With each leap and bound, Midnight pushed herself to the brink, but no matter how fast she ran, no matter how skilfully she hurtled through the treacherous terrain, the ripping darkness kept up. He effortlessly maintained pace with her as she twisted and turned for dear life, her heart, breath, legs and thoughts racing. She slithered through confining passages, leapt across rock pools, and vaulted herself in and out of jagged crevasses within the caverns they crossed, sometimes doubling back for several sections when her darkness sense alerted her to narrow passages or dead ends ahead. Could he not close the gap between them? Was she always just out of reach, or was this more than hunting? Was he toying with her? Was he directing her? Where to? Why? Too many questions, the wrong questions, for now. ---------------------What did she feel when she shifted? Midnight shifted but found herself thrown back into her pathera form right after. - Still stupid, still mad ---I guess she wants to be dead - The sensation of being pushed out of the darkness was disturbing, leaving Midnight momentarily disoriented and off-balance. It was as if she had been struck by a heavy blow, yet her body remained seemingly unharmed. It was a strange dichotomy the sprites did not harm her body but affected her still. Midnight grasped the importance of this distinction - Listen. - Leaning against her neck, the green sprite crept forward. His words were a humming whisper in her right ear, a stark contrast to the piercing metallic screeches that had defined his voice until now. - From the darkness he will rip you, as have we. As long as I can eat you, so can he. - With that, he sank his oversized maw around her ear and tore it right off. The searing pain brought another surge of anger, but before Midnight could retaliate, both sprites flung themselves off her, darting to her right and left flanks, where they took turns snapping at her tail mid-flight. - After you, dear friend, one bite for you and one for me After all, shes just so full of herself, full of stupidity Full of herself, full of herself, and no transparency Full of herself, full of herself, enough for everybody - Midnight flicked her tail erratically. Then, suddenly, she realised there was no damage to her ear. What? The pain had been real, but the injury was not. The ear was still there. Midnight could adjust it just fine. Again, the sprites attacks had left no physical trace, their malevolence manifesting only as sensations in her mind. How? Midnight''s mind raced with fragments of conversations and understandings transmitted by her wizard. There was something She had been there when Yves had learned about dimensions. For years, he had shared everything with her. While she had not comprehended every detail at the time, Midnight had always listened, and all that she had heard resurfaced now that her mind was capable of grasping such challenging concepts. Her thoughts spiralled into complexities that felt foreign yet oddly intimate. It was an acceleration, an expansion, an evolution so rapid that this new understanding felt disturbingly foreign. Amidst this mental whirlwind, a distinct fragment of knowledge took shape: as a beast, Midnight was more than her physical form. Her all was two things; her body and her energy. One did not hold the other. Her Rothar could be harmed. It could be harmed independently of her body. This was it. The sprites attacked her Rothar, even in her transformed state of darkness. Every time Midnight shifted, they assaulted her beyond the confines of her body. What did that mean? It was a revelation that struck at the heart of her understanding not all of Midnight turned into darkness. When she shifted, she shifted her body, but not her Rothar. Was this why so many beasts had still recognised her presence? Her midnight stalker ability had been to hide well within the shadows. After her venom transformation her body had truly merged with the darkness, but Midnight had never thought about Rothar. Her focus had been on expanding her senses and travelling swiftly, not on concealing her presence These were the wrong thoughts. Had the shadebeast also affected her Rothar? Midnight had not been able to touch him without her darkness claws, but upon contact with his darkness, she had felt her paws rupture just like her ear! Would the same happen to her if she shifted and then fought him? Yes, if her Rothar remained the same when she shifted, it could be attacked regardless of her physical form. The sprites had spoken of exactly that, of ripping her. Had they actually warned her? Did they mean to say that she needed to shift her Rothar into darkness before fighting the shadebeast? To keep the Rothar safe from harm? To transform with her all? Was that the true affinity she was lacking? Did the sprites mean to say Midnight could be like the shadebeast? Midnight struggled to compare his existence to hers. She did not even know if he ever shifted in and out of the darkness, like she did that was just it. First with the D??? and now facing the shadebeast, Midnight had sensed entities more intimately bound to the darkness than herself, but until just now, she had simply seen this as their innate existence. Because they were so different from her, she had never considered that they might once have been beasts like her. She had not asked herself how she could be more like these others. Midnight only ever thought about how to become a better herself. But this was what wizards did, was it not? The child wizard, who just a year ago struggled with walking and feeding, looked at the 200-year-old Master Luminary who was so different from him and so superior, and yet he asked himself, How can I be like him? And even this most powerful Master Luminary still looked around and asked himself, Why can the witches do what I cannot? How can I learn what they do? How could Midnight be like the shadebeast? How was he different from her? Midnight could not feel his presence as she did with other beasts. He was right behind her, but he had no tangible energy signature. The whole time he pursued her, she did not perceive him as a distinct being but rather as a dynamic distortion of density, a conscious ripple within the very fabric of darkness. He was not restricted by matter, passing in and out of the walls unhindered just like her darkness claws had with the stalactite pillar! So the darkness Midnight controlled outside of her body was unrestricted, like the shadebeast, but the darkness she shifted into, the darkness she became, was not. During the last days, Midnight had shifted to move faster and to access difficult paths, overcoming the traps and silently trespassing the territories of various beasts. She could sift through impossibly small passages and crevasses, but she had nonetheless adhered to the existing tunnel structures. She had never considered passing through walls. Even now, the idea unsettled her greatly, and besides, she was still carrying her wizards messenger strings and the two Rings of Light, which she surely could not take with her but these thoughts were beside the point! Why was he better? Why was he more? Compared to the shadebeast, Midnights merger with darkness was incomplete. Was it possible that she possessed this ability but had not yet felt it, or did she have to acquire it? Midnight struggled with the implications of this newfound understanding. Could she learn to shift her Rothar alongside her body, enabling her to pass through walls and obstacles like the shadebeast? If her Rothar became darkness that split and merged like he did, he would not be able to rupture this part of her. Why did he not reach for her and rupture her already?If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Midnights still could not discern whether he was hunting or skilfully directing her; whether he could not catch up with her or whether he held back and prolonged the chase on purpose but for what purpose? They raced into the grandest cavern Midnight had seen since entering the mountain. Its sheer size dwarfed even the expansive crystal golem chamber. It was a giant pit, its depth exceeding 800 meters, the breath surging upwards thick with the scent of ice. Entering near the ceiling, Midnight found herself perched on a narrow ledge that clung to the caverns rough-hewn wall. She dashed along as far as she found footing, before launching herself into the air, hurtling towards a platform 30 meters below. The impact was harsh, sending a cascade of loose rocks plummeting into the chasm below. Midnight rebounded swiftly and dashed across a series of protrusions and precarious outcroppings that jutted out from the cavern walls at varying heights. -- -- -- -- While the sprites spiralled downwards on their own erratic path, Midnight dashed along the walls with reckless abandon, plunging headlong into the cavern''s depth with daring leaps. As she descended, the temperature quickly fell, and the moisture in the air crystallised into a deceptive, slick layer of ice that coated the jagged surfaces. Midnight struggled with the perilous conditions, her claws failing to find purchase in the brittle sludge. The shadebeast hunted her undeterred by the icy terrain, traversing effortlessly over the frozen surfaces. Did he want her to go there? What was down there? How could she shift her Rothar? Midnight only knew how to feed the darkness with her energy. Before encountering the D???, she had fed the darkness outside of her. Should she do the same with the surges she felt underneath her skin, just feed all her The shadebeast caught her mid-jump between platforms. Midnight twisted to hurl her darkness claws at him, but his towering form of ever-reforming darkness simply fell into her. He overwhelmed her in size, mass and strength, his power amplified by the sheer force of his leap. Without losing momentum, the ripples of darkness surged into her, finding no resistance from her body. With his maw gaping wide, he passed straight through her. As he landed on the platform below, Midnight, thrown off course in her futile attempt to defend herself, plummeted further downward. She had no control over her body, no means to resist the excruciating sensation that engulfed her. What she had felt with her ear and her paws was nothing compared to the agony that now flooded her being. Midnight felt herself being torn apart from the inside out she went limp, numb, senseless, she descended into nothing Her lifeless body crashed onto a protruding ledge one hundred meters below, the impact jolting Midnight back to consciousness. Pain washed over her, followed by a wave of stomach-turning sickness. Her body writhed uncontrollably, her face contorting, her legs convulsing like those of a dying arachnid. Almost all her Rothar was gone, not merely eaten by the shadebeast but so violently ripped from her that it had ruptured her very essence. Midnight felt the devastation with uncanny clarity; it was the first sensation that had reached her after the nothing, it had come with the sickness, it had brought the sickness. Her essence, the core that anchored her Rothar and linked these energies to her body, was destroyed all but the fragment of darkness essence bestowed upon her by the Gods. This part was still there; a mere fragment of Midnight, yet in itself still whole amidst the ruins of her being. - ---Eighty-nine, ---eighty-nine She came around --just one more time --To no avail -----------Shift with your all --------Or fail ----------- and fall! -?????? ??? ????????! - The shadebeast leapt down from high above. Midnight was a bundle of jittering mess. She strained to push herself up and out of harms way, but her legs refused to obey. Instead, she thrashed wildly, her movements erratic and uncontrolled. In her desperate attempt to rise, she inadvertently hurled herself off the narrow ledge. She plummeted almost to the ground, her convulsing body colliding repeatedly with the wall, where ice and stone tore bloody wounds. The shadebeast followed swiftly, landing above her the moment she crashed onto a wide, ice-covered ledge, where he pinned her down with his sheer mass, leaving her incapacitated on her back. Midnight had no means of evasion or defence; her body thrashed and tore without control, and every time her limbs went into the rippling darkness, more pain seared through her. Unfazed by her futile struggles, the shadebeast lunged forward to sink his teeth into Midnight''s throat. In his first strike, he tore the messenger strings from her neck and flung them aside, down the chasm. With his second bite, he sank his teeth deep into Midnight''s throat, ripping Rothar from her with savage force. - Too full of yourself, to fully commit This little shadow is still half-lit Half-darkness, half-fit, an utter dim-wit Of you hell get rid, before you get it - He was ripping her apart, eating her alive. Midnight convulsed under the brute force with which his darkness rippled through her and tore at her Rothar. His intrusion shook her to the core, from where he tore one fragment of essence after the other. - He got you, he got you now Good show, good show But time to take a bow --------So we can take your bones - Amidst all the excruciating pain and the disturbing sensations, there emerged a part in Midnight that wanted to welcome this death, a part that acknowledged she had been bested by a stronger beast of darkness who had hunted fairly and given her many chances to defend herself. This part of her truly wanted to surrender herself to this male, and at the same time understood that he did not need to be given. He was a taker and he had earned her. He deserved to devour her. The other part of her had noticed the torn messenger strings and remembered her bond and duty to her wizard. This part clung to the decision and demand she had made for their shared path when embracing the darkness. In the same way he must not cling to the loss of light and sight, Midnights life must not end with her torn beast essence. She must not lament what she had lost to the shadebeast, but instead emerge from what remained the God-gifted essence. As the shadebeast descended once more to wrench the last fragment of essence from her trembling body, Midnight seized control using the darkness within her. There was no external darkness to manipulate or weave around her; the shadebeast pressed down on her entire form, his massive shape fully engulfing her. But Midnight harboured darkness within herself, all those currents that she had sensed coursing beneath her skin. Just as he surged forth to strike, Midnight jerked her head towards him, shielding her throat with her own maw, their jaws intertwining and interlocking as they both snapped at each other. The shadebeast clamped onto her upper jaw, or rather, onto the darkness beneath it, while Midnights lower jaw embedded itself in his neck. Were they two beasts of equal strength, Midnight would have had the advantage C the ability to tear into his neck while he could only rip at her face. But the shadebeast''s size, raw strength, and the sheer amount of darkness he had amassed exceeded hers. Even as Midnight used her darkness within to direct forceful strikes with her paws and claws, he remained impervious to her thrashing, simultaneously encasing and restraining her beneath him. The struggle raged on, with Midnight exerting all her darkness to maintain her position, clinging onto his teeth as he attempted to wrench her head upward and tear her jaw apart. She was vastly inferior, but in this short standstill, Midnight began to grasp at what the sprites had meant by true affinity. The demand triggered a torrent of thoughts that shifted all the overlapping and overwhelming words into a new mess. Everything in Midnight screamed to block the flood of thoughts and just claw and bite and hold on. There had never been so many words within her. It took every ounce of focus to remind herself that the thoughts were her own, that they were her. She needed to learn like her wizard, learn how she could be more. Until now, Midnight had shifted in and out of the darkness, seeing her pathera form as a default, as if activating and deactivating an ability. She had switched between her natural beast essence and her darkness essence, linking the former to her pathera form and the latter to her darkness gestalt. And while merging with the darkness, she had still retained and carried along her beast essence and all the Rothar tied to it just like she felt darkness surging underneath her skin right now, even though she remained in her pathera form. Midnight had clung to her former self, continuing to draw energy from the Alladharian Dimension and maintaining her Rothar even after her encounter with the D???. But Rothar could not be darkness. In the dimension of energies, Rothar was something, while darkness was nothing. In the Material Dimension, darkness thrived where light was absent, and in the Alladharian Dimension, darkness embodied the void where no energies lingered. Despite this, Midnight had endeavoured to conceal her Rothar within her darkness, to obscure something within nothing, substance within void, to hide a voice within silence. Midnight had decided that neither she nor her wizard must cling to what they once were, that they must not live for the broken parts within and the barred paths ahead of them. And so, as she burrowed her teeth into the shadebeast for dear life, she purged her all from the feeble remnants of her diminished Rothar. The knowledge already lay within her, as did her control. She commanded her darkness to emulate the shadebeasts onslaught; to tear away every last strand of Rother from her original essence. As her darkness obeyed, she surrendered the broken fragments of her beast essence to the singular fragment of darkness essence. Once again, Midnight lost all ties to her physical senses, knowing they would not return. From the nothing emerged the senses of darkness. She felt the surges of darkness within her attach to her darkness essence the link that from now on defined Midnights existence. The darkness wove through the torn remnants of her beast essence, which now felt strangely alien. Within an instant that felt like an eternity, Midnight sensed the darkness essence shift, reaching and embedding its strands into this essence, connecting, claiming, and consuming it. And as only the darkness essence remained, the surges of darkness within expanded from under her skin to envelop every part of her being, from her teeth to her claws, from her fur to her silver eyes unfettered by the sprites, Midnight transformed into a true being of darkness, not by concealing herself within, not by delving into it and merging, but from within, from her God-given core. - Now it was her darkness against his. A surge of emotions coursed through her, a volatile blend of euphoria, determination, and aggression. As the shadebeast now tore and forced his rippling darkness into her, Midnight pushed into him with equal ferocity. Alongside all that had made her more, Midnight felt the insatiable hunger that the D??? had instilled in her.
Ch. 10.6 — Albweiss Mountains. Underground Passageways - Midnight - Wielder of Darkness
- - Little shad-ow,-- little shad-ow Nothing to nobody we owe He could have ripped you apart He could have killed from the start You would notve been spared If we hadnt shared You were but half-darkness With your phantom sprite amiss Too full of yourself to survive The darkness within needs to thrive Little shad-ow,- little shad-ow Now wasnt that something you didnt know? - The cavern echoed with the clash of silence, as Midnight and the shadebeast remained ensnared in a savage struggle. Both embodiments of darkness, they tore, ripped, and clashed against each other, each vying for dominance. Despite her efforts, he still overwhelmed her, delivering massive strikes with his powerful paws that ripped right through her. Each blow tore her form asunder, distorting her senses and wrenching fragments away from the darkness that was her. Once severed, these fragments eluded her grasp, slipping beyond her reach and ability to reclaim. With each assault, she weakened, diminished by the loss of her own darkness, while she lacked the mass and speed to retaliate with equal force. Whenever her darkness lacerated him, he seamlessly merged back into his form, the clefts closing instantaneously before she could sever any part of him. He was too fierce, too fast, and undeniably powerful. Struggling to keep pace, Midnight broke free, propelled herself backward, and surged upwards alongside the cavern walls. Distance. Initially erratic, her movements swiftly gained purpose, as intuition amplified by necessity revealed that she required no footholds or ledges, no contact with the walls at all. For hundreds of meters, she ascended with unprecedented speed, liberated from the constraints of physical weight. The relentless hunter pursued, a seamless cascade of ripples chasing her as Midnight spiralled upwards and dashed across the vast cavern. With each turn, they collided, tearing and ripping at each other. The sprites, momentarily silenced by the intensity of the fight, kept their distance. Midnight had vanquished beasts larger and stronger than herself, and she approached the shadebeast with equal ferocity and determination. Despite the hunger within her to confront him head-on, she refrained from reckless attacks. Aware of his size advantage, she understood that each blow she landed must count for three of his. She bode her time, evading his relentless assault time and again, seeking openings and opportune moments to strike. Several times, she landed skilful hits, tearing at his face and throat but what would be deadly assaults in a battle between natural beasts offered her no advantage in a battle of darkness. She never succeeded in fully severing a part of him; the wounds she inflicted closed instantly, even as she attacked, before she could penetrate him entirely. Conversely, when he seized her, his attacks were brutally effective, further diminishing her with each vicious blow. In this clash of darkness, it was a battle of sheer mass and force. Midnight found herself constantly evading his direct assaults, forced to seek distance to prevent him from surging through her entirely with his immense form. She was still his prey. Distance. The intensity of their battle escalated as the shadebeast surged ahead, ascending to the ceiling before launching assaults from above. Now, he was not merely attacking; with each evasion, each time Midnight dodged, he drove her back down. Midnight needed to think. This must not end like the encounter with the Rockshade Weavers, where instinctual combat had led to momentary victory but ultimate defeat. She could not allow the shadebeast to diminish her any further. Assess your enemy She needed to envision the future as her wizard did, understanding how she could alter the outcome of this battle. She needed to comprehend how the shadebeast restored himself. Midnight needed to match his size, to become more darkness No, there was no need! She did not need to be more than him. She was not restricted to the darkness within her. All the darkness was her weapon. As she dove downward to gain distance, Midnight tapped into the surrounding darkness currents. She had already done so when shaping them into extensions of her pathera claws. Hurtling towards the ground, she seized the swirling darkness with her front claws, compressing it into a concentrated mass. Just before impact, she swung around and slashed through the air with potent strikes. Though the shadebeast loomed directly above, in the fleeting moment of her attack, she remained just out of his reach. With a fierce release, Midnight hurtled the compressed darkness towards him, piercing through the air before he could retaliate. The flying strikes collided with him, shattering his form, distorting his essence and severing several parts of him. In the blink of an eye, Midnight had already dashed beyond the icy ground, putting distance between them. Before he could close in, she unleashed another volley of flying strikes, aiming to weaken him further. As darkness herself, now in control of his advances, Midnight discerned the shadebeast more distinctly. His ripples took the form of a grand canine, a powerful and tempestuous male. He fought with brute force, akin to a wild beast, though sometimes it felt as if he were holding back Suddenly, Midnight realised a critical difference between them: he had never extended his darkness beyond his form. In direct confrontation, he relied solely on his teeth and claws, and his chase had been the same as a natural beasts hunt. He had never sent darkness forth to ensnare her He could not do it! Not like her. The revelation struck Midnight with overwhelming force. The shadebeast was limited to his bestial shape, while she controlled the darkness. He was just a beast, while Midnight had bonded with a wizard who had spent two decades mastering forces outside of his form. Yves wielded destructive discs and lethal beams of light. He must have imparted this knowledge to her long ago, and it had surfaced now. Did he not unleash light just like Midnight had bundled and sent the darkness flying? When discussing his eyes and light, had he not described exactly what she was doing now grasping at something he could not see, something that was not there, controlling the nothing? Had the Gods sensed this potential when they acknowledged Midnight? Had the Gods granted her their darkness essence exactly because they foresaw her innate capacity? They must have known that she would become so much more than the shadebeast the Gods chose her not to be a mere being of darkness, but a wielder of darkness. As she realised this, Midnight became ruthless. Now, there was no need for words anymore, only intuition, only faith. - Rushing, surging, whirling through the cavern, Midnight sent the darkness flying, refining her control with each assault. First she unleashed raging claw strikes, followed by ever denser, longer projectiles that required no touch, steered only through her mind barrages of spears that pierced the air like Yves beams of light. It was overwhelming, intoxicating even, to wield all this power. In her moment of exhilaration and split focus, he caught her. The shadebeasts claws tore through her neck, severing her form, disrupting her concentration and breaking her creations of darkness. They collided, entwined, darkness rupturing darkness until the shadebeast struck her down. They locked again in deadly struggle; Midnight biting into his skull while struggling against his grip on her throat. With his superior size and strength, he flung her through the air with brutal force an attack that was, in a fight between natural beasts, meant to snap her neck through erratic movement, to crush her under the pressure of his bite. In their silent struggle, it was his attempt to penetrate her neck completely and tear her in half A disc of darkness surged through him from bottom to top, almost rending him in two. As he flung himself to the side, Midnight twisted out of his grasp. In the most daunting situations, always save one, always hold onto one C One crystal, one fraction of energy, one shard. She had remembered. The shadebeast reformed, his darkness swiftly closing the rift. Before he could retaliate, Midnight unleashed another barrage of discs. The shadebeast twisted, recoiled, and evaded her attacks with feral agility. Though she held him at bay, she could not land a direct blow anymore. Even though he was confined to his form, he remained swifter and more agile than Midnight, adapting to her tactics with each passing moment, now reacting to her creations as soon as they took shape. So confine him. As Midnight darted around the cavern, she left a trail of darkness spears and discs in her wake, persistently assaulting the shadebeast. She drew upon the darkness with indominable tenacity, saturating the air with her lethal arsenal. Each projectile missed its mark, but the shadebeasts constant evasion slowed his advance, allowing Midnight to maintain her lead. When he drew too close, she transformed the surges of darkness around her into dense tendrils that thrashed like the cliff behemoth and lashed out at him like stygian serpents, generating ripples that disrupted his form upon touch while Midnight produced ever more spears and discs. And as they darted through the cavern, she was trapping him. She was trapping him, and he did not seem to notice the grander scheme. He kept chasing her, his actions suddenly so simple that all tension within Midnight lightened. He was not senseless; he might even understand that she was learning and exploring strategies. Whatever his thoughts, Midnight understood that he simply kept chasing her because it felt natural. Because to him, it felt right. If he could envision a future where Midnight released her trap, or if he could consider that retreating now might save his life, he would understand that continuing the hunt was the wrong tactics for survival but from moment to moment, within every moment of present until the imminent moment of his death, it felt right to him. To Midnight, it felt wrong. It was a disturbing realisation. Deep within her lay rooted an understanding founded in nature: that he, who surpassed her in size, strength and speed, should also surpass her in life. She had felt this as their jaws had interlocked and she had been so clearly inferior. And she had felt it during their direct confrontation, when his grand paws had so easily ruptured her. But now, she dominated because she fought like a wizard and acted like a trapper. It was so disturbing because Midnight saw herself in him. Just days ago, she had felt nothing but rage when the weavers trapped her in the tunnel. And now, in a strikingly similar way, she found it unsettling that the shadebeast was falling into her trap. A grand male like him should not meet his end like this. For many years, Midnight had been just like him. And even now, there was a part of her that wanted to discard all these thoughts and strategies, to simply engage him head-on, trading strikes and bites until one of them faltered. It was the same part of her that would have been truly content with being devoured by him. But even if she gave in to this remnant of her origin, it would not feel right to Midnight like it did to him. Because the beast part was not her all. She was not the same as him or other hunters. She had a wizard who had taught her to recognise the many traps around her, as well as the futures ahead of her. Midnight had never recognised Yves impact on her as much as she did now, in his absence. Surrounded by beasts who were either hunters or trappers, she realised she was both and more. Her wizard had changed her, gradually but profoundly. And because he did, she had been able to change herself. From his experiences with dimensions and magic, she had learned to embody and wield darkness. Now, she fought with his foresight and skills. - - - - However, just as Midnight adapted, so did the shadebeast. Chasing her down to the ice-covered bottom of the cavern, he transformed into a swirling vortex of darkness, openly seeking close combat. His manoeuvres were both skilfully evasive and aggressively daring. As he attacked and thrashed Midnight''s defenses with sheer brute force, her serpentine tendrils fought back, disrupting his advances and thwarting any direct assault on her. He battered her tendrils with his paws and seized them with his teeth, tearing them asunder. But for every one he ruptured, three others pierced through him. If he mauled them before Midnight could fully form them, they tore right upon contact, but those with superior density slashed into him and distorted his form. As long as they were under Midnights control, these tendrils emitted lingering ripples that hindered his ability to reform, until he clawed them off. He adapted immediately, shifting his focus from her tendrils to Midnight herself, using his size and reach to slash at her, even if it meant simultaneously cutting through several tendrils that obstructed his path of attack. He forced Midnight to dodge and defend, to retreat before him, but did not allow her to gain distance. Blocking her every attempt to soar upwards again, he confined her to the cavern floor. Where Midnight was cautious, he became reckless. While she planned ahead, she underestimated just how much he was fighting in the now. As their claws, teeth and tendrils clashed, he suddenly burst right into and through her defences, with a reckless leap and no apparent regard for his own safety. All her serpentine tendrils pierced him, but he reached her. He struck her down before Midnight could dodge or reinforce her position with additional tendrils. Three heavy blows landed right after, severing half, and half, and again half of her form, reducing her to the fickle size of a mere patherren. But Midnight clung to the future she had envisioned. And then did what she had seen her wizard do many times to his enemies, when he had woven hidden threads of shards and light just as delicate and potent as the spears and discs of darkness she had prepared. All of them were still there. Throughout her insistent barrage, Midnight had tested and understood that these projectiles persisted as long as she consciously controlled them, akin to Yves magic conjurations though Midnight felt that she did not continuously hold the darkness, but rather that the darkness acted almost autonomously once commanded. Recalling that darkness passed through stone unhindered, she had directed all the spears and discs that missed the shadebeast to maintain their trajectory, pass through the cavern walls and then halt beyond. There, they had lain in wait until Midnight, now no longer involved in an unpredictable chase but intertwined with the shadebeast in a battle on the cavern floor, summoned them back all at once.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. Almost one-hundred spears and discs, dense distortions of darkness, hurtled towards her and the shadebeast, simultaneously slicing through him like a volley of arrows and blades, cutting into him from all angles. With him looming above, surrounding her, their size difference greatly exacerbated by her diminished form, all of them impaled him. They emerged on the other side, between him and Midnight. Before cutting through her or the ground, all the weapons of darkness were blocked by a shield of Midnights tendrils. These tendrils, along with those already embedded within the shadebeast, immediately merged with the darkness projectiles Midnight did not dissipate them but maintained control over the entire structure; a multi-layered lattice, more grid than web, almost geometrical due to the clear cuts and sharp angles at which the spears and discs had collided. This structure divided the shadebeast hundredfold, encapsulating all his fragments within the confines of her densely compressed, interlinked projectiles. Midnights darkness enveloped and assimilated all these isolated fragments. Everything she had severed from him became darkness under her command. Amongst all these fragments, there remained one she could not control. It was the one fragment that was still him. Just like the shadebeast had repeatedly separated darkness from Midnights form until she was reduced to the size of a patherren, a small part of him remained, though much smaller than even her. It was his essence, captured amidst all the external darkness Midnight controlled. With a single step, she closed the distance, and then she devoured him whole. - As she consumed his essence, Midnight hoped that he could find satisfaction in his defeat, even though it was not a fight against a true beast. She hoped he wanted to be taken by her as much as she had wanted to surrender to him. These fleeting thoughts flickered within Midnight for but a breath, quickly overshadowed by far more potent sensations. Devouring him felt so much better than taking in venom. The venom that she had demanded from other beasts had held but meagre fractions of essence; the shadebeast she took whole. And as she felt his essence dissipate, fracture, and become her sustenance, she felt the intense hunger within her flare anew. This was it. This was what Midnight had been craving. The shadebeast satisfied the insatiable hunger that had obsessed her since the D??? had changed her. Though her size did not increase, devouring him made her essence grow and imbued her with strength. Midnight had been craving essence. It was ecstasy. It was exhilaration. It felt exactly right. Midnight revelled in the sensation. She stood, fully tense, fully engrossed in the incomparable feeling. There was no pain, unlike with the venom. It was raw, concentrated satisfaction; an overwhelming fulfilment that drowned out all her concerns, as she had only experienced a handful of times in her whole life. - Ah yes, oh yes, I see it on your face I see it, too, you are no stranger to the taste An exciting revelation A curious temptation An addictive exploration An irresistible sensation It is quite unique, and incredibly intense ----Does it not remind you of wizard essence? - The sprites voices had lost all laughter and shrieks. They were enticing whispers, washing over Midnight as she revelled in the intense sensations. Amidst the intoxicating euphoria, Midnight experienced rising tension. Until now, her focus had been solely on the shadebeast, but now her senses shifted to the presence of witches. Midnight extended her darkness sense across the ice-covered cavern floor, sweeping, feeling, delving through the masses of ice and rock witch runes lay etched below her, buried beneath layers of ice. They were carvings so vast that it required great distance to visually recognise them as witch carvings rather than random, natural crevasses. Midnight could distinguish between the scripts of wizards and witches. While wizards relied on various languages, witches exclusively used Faramyr, which had reportedly remained unchanged since its inception. Wizards believed that the words themselves held inherent magic, something imbued through time. A single, immutable language facilitated many things, including the efforts of wizards to decipher witch runes. Yves had learned how to distinguish common words, and so did Midnight. She had developed not a literal but an intuitive understanding of Faramyr, likely through their bond. With most words, she felt their general intention, although some she could read on sight. Among them were runes representing various elements, as well as common spellcores. The cores Midnight identified below were for transgression barrier and gester, which had multiple translations in the languages of common peoples and wizards, including energy, spirit, life, presence, and gestalt. These cores were surrounded by several runes, including those for ice and snow. In an instant, Midnight dashed off, surging across the icy cavern floor toward the southern wall. This cavern offered an exit. A way out of the mountain. The witch runes sealed the passage. The sprites followed overhead, their whispers swelling into a deep murmur that reverberated from the grand cavern walls, echoing and swelling in deep tones as if sung not by two voices from above, but by two-hundred invisible spectators all around her. - Stay, little shadow There are many things you still dont know There are witches you may fight Wizards and beasts you may free Come with us, dark beast There are many more upon to feast They walked these parts just yesternight Well show you where they might be Make the mountain your home, shadowbound And we will reveal all that we found Power to behold, unfathomable might Secrets to unfold in the realms that none can see You will return, darkness true Dont you hear the mountain calling for you? - Midnight felt the mountain. She felt it so much stronger than her bond with her wizard. She also sensed that the witch runes were keeping the sprites at bay. Throughout the fight, they had not once descended to the ground. Even now, they hovered noticeably above Midnight''s level, reluctant to come closer Because they could not. The witches had erected a barrier to confine all living beings within the mountain. They contained even ethereal beings like the sprites, preventing them to approach both the runes and the mountains outer walls that framed this cavern, but they could not confine the essence of darkness that was Midnight. Midnight glanced up at the sprites, conveying through her gaze and posture there was nothing to gain from her. There was, however, one thing she still needed to retrieve from the mountain: the two messenger strings. During the fight, the shadebeast had torn them off her and flung them aside. She found them just a few leaps away, lying flat on the ice at the edge of the wall, with both rings still attached. As Midnight lowered her head to pick them up, something caught her senses. In front of her face, right where her strings had landed, the rock wall bore claw marks. Midnight discerned them below the fractured ice. They seemed to trace individual rock fragments, defining their outlines. Discarding the Rings of Light but holding onto the strings, the darkness that was Midnight seeped into the small cracks, past the ice and through the rock. She remained unaffected by the witch magic. - We will wait your return, silent one Your dark existence has just begun- - The words were distant whispers, reduced to two singular voices that faded along with the presence of the sprites. Shortly after, the last echoes within the grand ice cavern vanished, carried away by the eternal breath of the mountain. Most beings, once born or brought into darkness, received their last breath within the confines of the Albweiss, but the silence that was Midnight seeped through the cracks. With her, she carried three messenger strings and a grand beast-wizard sigil ring. - - The night Midnight achieved true affinity, a new song resonated from the mountains heart. - We asked one hundred bones Of one hundred lives Then we would return The one he desires - Find one hundred beasts For us on to feast And we will hold true The word we give you - Though we wont satisfy With any lesser than yours So have all of them be Selected by us - But mind you, be wary For in the mountain they sing To dwellers in darkness The darkness will cling - He will capture your essence But if you take him all in Your trust be rewarded With the power hell bring - In your quest you became A formidable beast You fought eighty-nine And brought eighty-eight feasts - We admire your progress And your resolve to compete But sadly, oh sadly You faced your defeat - We honour your skill You were but so close But this bet is now over And your familiar still ours - Young wizard, now lay Your spirit to rest But rest reassured You were one of the best - You brought us great fun And we will sing of your game When tonight we will feast your familiar in your name - - - -
Ch. 11.1 — Northlands. North-Eastern Desert - Twig and Mushroombird
- - -- -- - - - - What can you do about it? Nothing. What can you do about it? Nothing. What can you do about it? Nothing. What can you do about it? Nothing right now. What can you do about it? The feathers. -----------No way, said Twig. Yes. ---No, said Mushroombird. I could. But you should not. Because they take your energy, said Twig. I can spare some. Because they take essence, added Twig. I can spare some. I will be better afterwards. You might never wake up, said Mushroombird. Maybe. Midnight is waiting, said Twig. There was a long pause. Yes, said Yves. There was another pause. So what are you going to do about this, Mushroombird gestured at him, as a whole. She sat behind him on the Chest of Useless Artefacts, which was set from front to back on the sled. Twig occupied the space to his left, having squeezed in at the front between the chest and the railing of the sled, from where she let her legs dangle. Yves turned away from both of them and faced forward. He looked at the sun-stricken desert, which gave him absolutely nothing to look at. He had left the Zwischenland for the desert five days ago. It was midday. The sun stood high overhead, casting the desolate hills of sand in hues of gleaming white and burning yellow. The sun burned his face. - Part of the Lightshifter illusionist curriculum involved creating humanoid and beast characters. Regardless of how a wizard planned to integrate his craft into his past-academy life, it became standard practice to invent a pair of characters of each major race. Students began by sketching these characters as soon as they were capable of creating grand visuals, to then continue refining and perfecting them over the years. By the time of their final examinations, these characters were expected to be fully-fledged and lifelike illusions, either visual or physical, depending on the student''s spectral disposition. Among his arsenal, Yves had a go-to duo representing every race found on the continent, from wizards and ker to bormen and shamans, and even humans. Except witches. He did not do witches. Not anymore. Because NO. Twig and Mushroombird were his shamans. Yes, you have noticed the weird names. No, this is not how shamans typically name themselves. No-one will be able to tell you why, but for some reason, it became an unspoken rule at Emery Thurm that it was not the student illusionist himself, but rather his commilita, who bestowed the names upon any new creation. And for some other random reason, Yves had found himself surrounded by morons who had turned it into a competition to give the most absurd and denigrating names possible to each other''s masterpieces. That said, Twig and Mushroombird are good names. Believe it or not, they are really good names, especially the former, which is probably the pinnacle of nomenclature you can achieve during your entire student career. Yves had gotten away lightly, as he had typically been among the best and fastest to complete a new illusion deserving of a name. It is simple reasoning, really. If you dared to give a truly horrible name to the creations of the guy who finished the assignment before you, you knew he would be coming for you once you caught up. So you better save all your creativity for the loser who finishes last, because then you can go all out. So while Yves currently endured the blistering sun next to Twig and Mushroombird, there were other wizards out there dealing with Shitstain, Dwarffucker and a plethora of variations of Iam Fake. Yves first human was called Iman Illu-Son. He had never introduced him publicly after passing the assignment. On the subject of dwarves. With dwarves, the dynamics shift. Obviously, for them you want the names of your creations to be as derogatory and humiliating as possible. The common wizard has no reason to pay respect to the common dwarf, and the common dwarf is too much of a Stumpfist Shortstack, Midget Mudbeater and Lowblow Rockbottom to recognise the superiority of wizard society Rockbottom was Yves first dwarf, and he greatly enjoyed the non-existent subtlety of the pun. His other one was Snotbeard Ironshit, who even got a backstory with the name: his father was called Ironchin, but when recording his son in the dwarven Heritage Book, he was too dumb to spell his own name correctly, replacing the "c" with an "s" and rendering the "n" so poorly that it resembled more of a "t". The Prince Regent came up with that gem. Of course, once you leave the academy, no-one stops you from inventing different characters and bestowing your own very appealing names upon them. But the truth is, you never forget your first creations. Imagine dedicating months and years to honing your illusion magic. Envision how, throughout all these years, you struggle and scruffle from initial mental sketching to realising astounding physical embodiments of all your craft and skill. Eventually, you perfect your first powerful, mesmerisingly detailed and so utterly, utterly lifelike ker, with skin that boasts the most unique and outstanding hues of red, nothing short of living art. After investing so much time and effort, he becomes ingrained in your memory, impossible to erase from your mind. He will be the foundation of your mental arsenal for the rest of your life, your reference for all subsequent ker creations, and the benchmark against which all of them are measured. And whenever you encounter real ker, observing their pattern of movement and facial expressions in an attempt to improve your mimicry, you will always think of Bloody Wanker. Well. Regarding Twig and Mushroombird, there is really no need for a Whos Who, if you look at them. - - - - Twig was Yves first shaman and also his first attempt at creating a humanoid female. Up until then, he had only crafted his wizard duo. Shamans offered a significant degree of freedom in their design. You could start with an individual of any race you preferred. It only took slight modifications to create a shaman who had just embarked on his transformation journey. Also, if you still struggle with anatomy and natural movement, you can plausibly cloak your shaman in thick coats and furs to conceal any intricate extremities or complex body parts during motion. Given that shamans originate from various races and undergo diverse transformations in appearance, it is difficult to go wrong. As long as all the requisite body parts are present, you make individuals, not mistakes. Besides, from a more un-academic perspective, creating shamans was simply exciting. It took years of training and guidance to craft complex beings that truly appeared lifelike. After an eternity of theory and countless foundational exercises, of strictly following instructions and meticulously copying the masters'' examples one limb at a time, you could finally unleash your creativity. You could choose the race to start with and freely tailor the progress of the shaman transformation according to your individual preferences. Twig represented Yves'' maiden attempt at creating a female figure, and if he were to be frank, in that regard she had been far from flawless. Yves had just begun crafting lifelike illusions. Following the completion of his two wizards, transitioning to the female form had presented a considerable challenge. Rather than starting from scratch with a completely new frame, Yves had opted to utilise the well-established body of his wizard Atrap as a foundation, and had improvised from there by basically slimming him down. This is why Twig looked so much like a young tairan woman who had exhausted all her bodys reserves in an insane growth-spurt that had left nothing for her to grow into womanhood. When Yves first conjured her into existence, she had surpassed him in height, and even now, she stood just as tall as him, with long and graceful limbs, albeit with conspicuously large hands and feet back then, trimming away portions of an arm or leg had proven much simpler than thinning the intricate structures of fingers and feet. Also, it had been the year of the Tournament, which had left Yves short on time and preoccupied with far more life-threatening matters than his masters potential disapproval. True to her name, Twig''s upper body and hips lacked the feminine curves one would expect from her race, descendants of the tairan. Yves had sold this to his examiners as a deliberate choice to make her something of a wanderer or herder, a beast shaman who spent her days exploring, running and climbing rocky forest terrain. Well, Master Iridin accepted his explanation, but obviously, he did not buy it. He had always been keenly aware of his students'' abilities and their tendencies to conceal imperfections in their creations. Even now, whenever Yves worked on a new creation and encountered a particularly challenging section, one that he either had to master or obscure, he could not shake the echo of Iridins ever-persistent scrutiny: "A design of will or a lack of skill?" Master Iridin had challenged Yves to make his next shaman an obvious female. The result of that challenge was Mushroombird, who also descended from tairan, but stood significantly shorter than Twig and boasted much more pronounced feminine features. Yves had made her proportions count in all the right places. And then, to top it off, he had adorned her with a meticulously detailed coat of feathers. Birds are among the most challenging creatures to imitate. Feathers, with their intricate structure and flexibility during movement, demand intense focus on detail. Yves excelled in conjuring birds, and he had transferred those skills to the design of Mushroombird. He had crafted for her a coat made of white duck feathers, complete with an equally elaborate hood. At the time, he believed there was nothing about furs or feathered garments that could not somehow be justified as shaman''s attire, and so he went all out. While Twig represented an artistic choice born from Yves'' past limitations as an illusionist, Mushroombird, a beautiful female adorned in the most delicate robes of feathers, had been a full-on brag. It had been well deserved bragging, because Mushroombird had been a PROCESS; all capitals. Twig had been right there. Yves had designed her while slimming down Atrap, slapped on some furs, and had been more or less done with her. With Mushroombird, he started from scratch, crafting her natural tairan features first before having her undergo the shaman transformation. His first design was this: - -You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. - -- You can already see the first traces of the final bird design. However, she didn''t like the bird heads. "Bird skulls," emphasised Mushroombird, "Four bird skulls." So Yves picked another theme: - - - - Guess what, she did not like that one either. She liked it even less. "It was a close tie," said Mushroombird, "Bird skulls or a giant insect on my forehead." She exaggerates. It had only been insect wings, and not an actual animal. Also, this was from a decade ago, when Yves was not yet that familiar with common shaman attire. The perfalter wings, her elaborate hair and all the furs were an artistic choice to show off his skill with delicate matter. Yves discarded the insect and went back to the feathers. After a few more variations, he settled for this design: - - - - And with every hour he worked on turning her shaman, the feathers just multiplied exponentially until she finally looked as herself. - - - - Did he perhaps go overboard? Possibly. Yes. Mushroombird stood out. But that is a good thing. Imagine yourself in a room or marketplace full of various different individuals of all races. If you were told that one of these individuals was in fact an illusion, who would you look for first? You would go for the most inconspicuous. Someone trying to hide his falseness, a static figure in the background. You would not start your search with the most exposed and attention-hogging individual. As noticeable as Mushroombird was, you would try your hardest to look past her. - Creating convincing, interacting faces demands concentration and skill. Tairan-descendants are closest to wizards in terms of facial anatomy, which had helped when creating Twig and Mushroombird. However, Yves'' two wizard illusions had been far from perfect back then. He had still been learning. This had made the mask-like faces of the shamans even more appealing, as they helped conceal his shortcomings in skill which is why the illusionist curriculum moves right onto shamans as soon as you are able to create halfway passable copies of your wizard self. Both Twig and Mushroombird exhibited prominent features of the white, rigid, mask-like faces typical of shamans in the early years of their transformation. That said, Yves knew how Mushroombird looked before her transformation and had, by now, also settled on a pre-transformation version of Twig: - - - --- - For those who have never interacted with shamans, it might feel strange to be stared at which such a lack of facial expressions. There is a fine line between feeling extensively judged by such a stoic, frozen expression, and feeling not judged at all, seeing the lack of reaction as an affirmation of neutrality or even disinterest. When talking to shamans, your own perception of which side of the line you are on may change from one moment to the next. Yves often felt that Mushroombird was more social and empathetic, while Twig was the more judgmental of the two. That said, Twig was also straightforwardly direct, no pun intended, which Yves greatly appreciated. Over the years, as Yves designed enticing females of all races, he had never considered changing Twig. Her design had grown on him, and if anything, he had made her figure more athletic, and her strikingly large feet and hands more crafty and flexible, but never shorter. Along with her fitting name, her unusual appearance was her identity. Yves was content with that. He did not feel that the perfection of his craft lay in the perfect replication of beauty. This did not mean that he did not recognise physical beauty or how Twig diverged from the standard tairan-turned-shaman there existed a strong consensus among wizards about which races and traits looked appealing and which did not. During Yves student days, beauty had been a sign of progress, craftsmanship, and artistic skill. Once the creation''s functionality, flexibility, and mobility became a given, an appealing appearance served as a reference point to compare and evaluate the students various works. More importantly, you did not, for dear life, want to be known as the one guy who got off by purposely creating hideous female characters. Thats a reputation you could never live down. In order to create credible illusions, Yves had learned to distinguish and show health, strength, and age through appearance, stature, and posture. He understood how to create imposing males and females for all major races'' eyes which sometimes diverged quite drastically from the common wizards perspective. Interestingly, some aspects were nearly universally appealing, amongst them symmetry. There were illusionists who prided themselves on creating the most remarkable males and females, especially ker and tairan. They competed, performed, and, if you would like to believe the more controversial rumours, entertained. Yves did not share these ambitions. Now that crafting beauty and perfection had become second nature to him, his focus had shifted. You could say that he was spoilt, because whatever ker or tairan you crowned the most beautiful on the continent, he could replicate them and then make them even more beautiful. Any individual you found to be the most unique, he could multiply. He could create the love of your life and the lover of your most intoxicating dreams, as you would never find them in real life. He could design them exactly like you wanted them to be, with all the traits you wished to see. But this was exactly it. It was not just about seeing. You never only wanted to see. Beneath all this distinction, recognition and pursuit of physical beauty lay the longing to touch. Within all this fixation on perfection lay the craving to claim and possess. To Yves, the fixation on external beauty was a reflection of innate desire. Such desire can be satisfied and it can be very much exhausted - especially if you find yourself curious enough to investigate all these controversial rumours. Mind you, it helps quite a bit to be influential and wealthy enough to afford an equal level of discretion. But what remains after seeing and touching and claiming and possessing such perfection? Time may pass, desire may resurge to be satisfied again, but what is the point? What does beauty give you, except for momentary pleasure? There is something like love at first sight, you know, said Mushroombird, amongst other races. Can you honestly believe in love at first sight? Yves deliberately stressed the words. In the literal sense? How do you not see the hypocrisy in this? If you do not even know whether the person you see is real or an illusion, what more is this love than physical temptation, the call of desire in disguise? That is a quite disappointing perspective, said Mushroombird. Disappointment is not a valid counterargument, replied Yves. Rude. Well then, your perspective is not very romantic. How could it be, when there is nothing more superficial than a first glance? What does beauty offer, when I can create as many beautiful beings as I want? Like me, said Mushroombird. Like you, agreed Yves. I wouldnt say that you cant experience love at first sight because you are a wizard or an illusionist, said Twig. But now, hear me out. Sure, the love you feel for a person The love you think you feel, corrected Yves dryly. Please dont interrupt, said Twig. Rude, said Mushroombird. The fuck, thought Yves. Anyway, continued Twig. The love you think you feel for a real person can be false. And sure, it can be something simpler, like lust. But in the same way, it can be real. Even if you fall in love with an illusion, even if the person is fake, the feeling can still be real. If you really think about it, how you perceive a real person is never the same as how the real person truly is. It is what you piece together and come to understand from all that you learn about the person and experience with her. But still, you only ever create your own version of that person. So even if the person is real, with her own body and Rothar and past, you nonetheless make her an illusion in your head. Yves tried to think this through, Still, if you suddenly found out that all the people in your life, all beings around you were illusions, would you not live completely differently? Are you asking me? asked Twig. Me, personally? I am asking myself, Yves was just thinking out loud. To know that others are real restrains you in your interactions. Your consciousness restrains you, said Twig. Feelings of empathy and social obligations. Because you know that you have an impact on people, and the world, in general, added Yves, while illusions are only there to impact and gratify and satisfy you. Eww, said Twig. Rude, said Mushroombird. Disgust is no valid counterargument, said Yves. It is an argument against you, though, said Mushroombird. Apologies, said Yves. She is not wrong, continued Twig. If you want to start nit-picking and distinguish real people and illusions, then why are we here? Think about it, what are you even looking at? Who are you even talking to right now? It might just be caution, said Mushroombird. Not to seek love in what you see, I mean. How so? asked Yves, strangely and strongly relieved that she got this conversation back on topic. Please dont, said Twig. Because you know how easy it is to taint, distort and destroy a beautiful body, said Mushroombird. You look much too nice to say such things, said Twig. Thank you. I also think that it must be quite difficult to think about love if you constantly have to think about dying, continued Mushroombird. Wasnt I supposed to be the straightforward one? said Twig. Love is not natural for wizards, said Yves. It is a call to bond and reproduce amongst lesser peoples. It is easy to resent what you dont have, added Mushroombird. I thought you were the nice one, said Twig. None of what you say negates my argument, said Yves. The amount of personal involvement has no impact on objective reasoning. Yeah, well, can you deny that your lack of good experiences gives you a negative outlook on the whole subject? challenged Mushroombird. I thought we were here to make him feel better, said Twig. Youre just adding emotional pain to the physical pain. It is true that involvement grants experience and insight, said Yves, but an objective argument is not less valid per se because the beholder, subjectively, is less involved in the issue. Or not involved at all, added Mushroombird. You know that he knows these things, right? said Twig. If you want my opinion Which he also knows, interjected Mushroombird. Twig shrugged, I think Its just you. Plain and simple. You like other things than beauty. Yes. Sure. That is the reason. Believe that, said Mushroombird. It was true. External beauty held no sway over Yves. It was voices. Voices captivated him. He felt that he could not reproduce voices like he could reproduce beauty. Yves could perfect anything he saw. He could eradicate any of realitys imperfections, and craft exemplary beauty with no comparison. He could reinvent perfection, but he could not create such voices or music. No, that was the wrong way to put it. Yves could create a myriad of auditory illusions, infusing them with an equally wide range of emotions, both clearly distinguishable and subtle. But while he could acknowledge and even marvel at the beauty of his creations, yes, even create what appeared most appealing to him personally, Yves struggled to capture the truth he sought in the voices of strangers. He crafted people that appeared indistinguishable from the real thing, but he could not do the same with voices. Because appearance, to Yves, was superficial; a body revealed many things, but it did not show the entirety of a person. While external appearance could change drastically over a short period of time, voices persisted in their character. To Yves, what he heard when others spoke held more truth than what he saw. A voice revealed a person from within. Even in moments of calm, you can discern underlying aggression, just as angry outbursts could not conceal inherent kindness. Voices carried characters and emotions more real than anything Yves could convey through a facial expression or pose. Voices were the most real thing Yves could find in others. He could only imitate and pretend. Listening to his own creations felt like listening to his own voice and character, just distorted. While desire may lie in fleeting beauty, love transcended the visual and anything a body could give. For Yves, love was in a voice that gave long-lasting comfort. It resided in heartfelt songs that resonated deep within and in voices that carried kindness they were the rarest of all, and yet, you recognise them the instant you hear them. And even if you hear them just once, you can never forget them. Such voices held the heart, and they healed it. The voice did not have to say I love you, that is not what he meant. Love was deeper, not in the words but inherently embedded in the voice. The words were almost irrelevant. They could be as simple as I am glad you are well, or Take care, or Welcome home. - Why are we even talking about this? asked Yves. It was an honest question. You started off by thinking that you made me exceptionally beautiful, because Twig is not, answered Mushroombird. Twig stared at her. Mushroombird looked away to adjust her elaborate feather coat, Which was, of course, very rude of him. And also very wrong of him. For shame. Now both stared at Yves, with their mask-like faces that were suddenly much too neutral for comfort. Yves turned away from them again, facing forward. He looked at the sun-stricken desert, which still offered him nothing but burning sand. He said, Sure. You are, of course, also beautiful, said Mushroombird. In your own, uniquely-proportioned way. Thank you? said Twig. Yves looked over his shoulder, back down at her. Let me try again, she said, resetting her pose. Thank you????? Now she was just messing around. All right, Twig reset again, now taking on a more confident expression. Thank you. I know. Yves smiled. A decade ago, he had created Twig as a swift runner, a skilled climber and an enduring wanderer, and he never wanted her to change. Over the years, he had gifted her various coats and furs, but he had never concealed her tall and athletic form, nor her uniquely-proportioned feet and hands. He had actually done quite the opposite, highlighting her features with rather well-fitting clothing. Mushroombird, on the other hand, had never lost her duck feathers, because it simply did not get better than that. - - -
Ch. 11.2 — Northlands. North-Eastern Desert - Yves, please.
- - - - - Mushroombird unfurled her coat. Yves watched the delicate feathers shifting as she carefully folded it in her lap. I must say, it is quite hot, she remarked. Did you really need to bring us here? Well, I guess its better than the storms, Twig offered. But the rain was much cooler, countered Mushroombird. You forget that it was freezing. And toxic, Twig reminded her. True, true, said Mushroombird. There was a pause in which Yves just stared at the desert, his focus unconsciously fixed on moving the sled along. There were many pauses like this, but he had long stopped fighting, or even noticing, his blackouts. He was too much in pain and too sick and too fucking stuck with himself in this never-ending, never-changing desert plane, with the burning sun above and the burning sand below and the burning air all around him. A bit of rain would be nice, Twig pointed out. Also not wrong, said Mushroombird. Again, the conversation halted until Yves resurfaced for a few more sentences. At least you can speed up now, with the winds gone, said Twig. Yes, said Yves. Well, there is only so much you can say about the weather, said Mushroombird. In truth, there was a great deal of less elaborate conversation among Yves and his shamans as they discussed all the thisses and thats, and all the whats and whatnots he could come up with in his solitary agony. Most of these discussions would be incomprehensible to anyone but Yves. With each blackout and return to consciousness, his memory conveniently reshaped all his past whining into acceptable concerns and considerations, until they passed for sensible reasoning. After over four weeks, he got quite good at filtering out the angry outbursts and the self-pity and the paranoia, eventually recalling his own utterances with nothing but the coherence and sophistication he expected from himself. So what are you going to do about this? Mushroombird gestured towards him again. Minutes passed, or perhaps hours, in which Yves blanked out once more. By now, he could almost do it on purpose. Somehow, the sled continued to move forward nonetheless. Lets phrase it like this, said Twig. Returning to your earlier question What question? asked Yves. Please dont interrupt, said Twig. We are talking about all these random things because you are distracting yourself. From yourself, added Mushroombird, still gesturing. What question? repeated Yves. And you chose the topic of affection because you ran out of all the other, even more distracting things, continued Twig. What question? You wanted to know why we were discussing beauty and affection in the first place, Mushroombird clarified. Dont pretend you dont know. In other words, said Twig, Why arent we talking about the important things? Should we examine the artefacts? Yves asked. No? said Twig. No, agreed Mushroombird. Youre not even trying to be subtle, remarked Twig. Its too dangerous, emphasised Mushroombird. Its also downright stupid. And too exhausting, concluded Twig. So what are we doing? Mushroombirds gestures shifted from Yves to the desert ahead. First, I need a healer, said Yves. There is no reason to talk about anything until then. Everything else comes afterwards. Yves needed so many things. He felt the strong desire to conjure a duck. He wanted to bury himself in ducks, but his energy reserves were perilously close to depletion. There was not enough Adhar in his surroundings to sustain his body and the Jabarrah. On top of that, he needed to constantly feed the Levitation Staff. Yves was not just terribly wounded; his body was diminishing with each passing day. Like humans deprived of food, his body was eating itself. Even an uninjured wizard who refrained from using any magic would gradually lose his energy if he lingered too long on the Northlands Plateau. It happened to everyone without an adequate reserve of energy crystals. There was simply too little Adhar to even sustain the body. Humans ate to sustain themselves. The thought of food reminded Yves of his potatoes, crammed away somewhere in one of the chests. The craving was intense, but he knew his body would not tolerate it. Oh gods, he would need at least another three weeks to reach the Barnstream settlements. Three weeks is more than half over, Twig pointed out. Its only three more weeks until you reach the settlements, Mushroombird added. Three more weeks to live a full-eights life, Twig reassured. I will not last for three weeks, said Yves. The Jabarrah will keep you alive, Twig reminded him. Focus on that. There will be a healer, said Mushroombird. You cannot be sure, said Yves. The northern Barnstream region was sparsely populated, and even when healers settled there every so often, their presence was uncertain. When Yves had stayed in Bertellems six years ago, there had been only one single healer for the entire array of settlements. He could not rely on him, or any others, still being there. The Wizard With Six Arms is there, said Twig. Yes. He will fix your body. He fixes everything, affirmed Mushroombird. Everything except my eyes, said Yves. And even in all other, more pressing matters, The Wizard With Six Arms was his absolute last oh fuck no there must be another way resort. The Witch Mother will take care of your eyes, said Mushroombird. I am not sure. Of course, said Mushroombird. The mirrors are broken. One is. The other one looked kinda all right? That is just wishful thinking. You made them once, Twig reminded him. You can make them again. But he really did not want to. And even if he did, yes, even if he somehow managed to gather all the components and to build and enchant another ethereal mirror, Yves could not simply enter the Mirror Dimension again. Even if he found the Crystalline Trench, retrieved its crystals and returned to the witch mother before going blind, he would still have to fulfil her third demand unspecified, but something that required him to access and wield magic in the Mirror Dimension. Whatever it was, Yves could not enter. He would shift right into the Vicha. Can you get rid of the gateway key? asked Twig. See? challenged Mushroombird. These are the important things we really need to address. Yves attempted to deliberately black out. Do you think its shrinking, though? asked Twig. I dont know. The presence of the Vicha was overwhelmingly dark. It was far too intense to discern any subtle changes that might have occurred in just over three weeks. Through the cliff behemoth, it had gained size and energy that would take years rather than months to diminish. And that was before the Vicha had absorbed so much of his energy in the Mirror Dimension. Yves could not predict to what extent the Vicha lost energy in this dimensional plane or even if it diminished at all; he could not simply equate the occurrences there with his own plane. All he knew was that it felt horrible. It was horror encapsulated and compressed into the shape of a 4 km sphere. This was his life now; a sickening existence cursed by witchcraft and elfin touch, destined to succumb to darkness at the vile center of what was likely the most twisted Vicha the continent had ever seen. Yves tried really hard to black out, and the unconscious started to backtrack and do some filtering. What about your transformation? asked Mushroombird. Just how weird was that? exhaled Twig. Could you do that again? asked Mushroombird. What was that? asked Twig. Yves said nothing. Can you not seek someones help? suggested Mushroombird. Even some explanations could shift your entire perspective, emphasised Twig. Yves'' first thought was of a Lightshifter luminary at Emery Thurm, a potent glass wizard who could likely learn to traverse the mirror plane faster than Yves had done. However, Abarius Fermeah was one of Yves former teachers, a master deeply devoted to the academy. Consulting him would entail surrendering his ethereal mirrors and would certainly lead to severe punishment for appropriating forbidden arcane knowledge. Seeking counsel from any academy master would entail rigorous interrogations about the very many things Yves should not have done. If he chose that path, his arrangement with the witch mother would crumble. He might as well forfeit his life right here and now. Where forbidden magic appears, as Master Blackmoor had once warned, wizards disappear.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Yves swiftly dismissed the idea of seeking help from or within the academy. It was far too risky. He was not delusional enough to approach his former mentors under false pretences or believe he could sneak unnoticed into the hidden underground chambers. Not a chance, not with all the Socks of Invisibility that this world had to offer. The second wizard Yves considered was a senior artefact hunter named Urumir Vahl. Since Yves'' own tomes did not address his concerns about his transformation and the new abilities that came with it, he wanted to learn from an expert Worldbender''s experience. Besides individual academy masters, Yves had never encountered anyone who compared to Vahl. Vahl was a versatile transformer who could shift into astonishing creatures and even objects. After taking on a new, more ethereal form in the mirror world, Yves felt compelled to explore this disposition to understand and control his changing body. It was an absurd idea. Shapeshifting did not fall under the Lightshifter spectrum. It should be impossible for a wizard belonging to one spectrum to develop abilities inherent to the other two spectra. But then again, the physical nature of the Mirror Dimension differed from the known world, and Yves could only describe his experience as a transformation. When the energies of the Mirror World, the Vicha and the Stalker had quite literally overwhelmed him, Yves had been forced to act swiftly under intense strain and stress. It had not been until after his return that he had started to reflect on what had occurred. The more he thought about it, the more unnerved he became. Like a Worldbender transformer, he had altered his physical form. He had manipulated his appearance and even heightened his senses. There is not a distinct line between different magical abilities, but rather a spectrum that you belong to. Yves was a ?????????? [Siyir], which, roughly translated from Byrmir, comprises the Lightshifter spectrum. From one end of the spectrum to the other, Lightshifters are illusionists, glass wizards, light wizards, and seers. Amongst these capabilities, Yves core disposition lay in glass magic. It came naturally to him, whereas his abilities on the perceiving end of the spectrum were sorely lacking. Apart from being unable to see light fragments, he utterly failed as a seer. Nevertheless, he demonstrated potential as an illusionist, adept at creating both visual and physical illusions. Not all glass wizards share Yves'' disposition as an illusionist, nor do all illusionists possess the ability to craft physical manifestations. A Lightshifter wizard may dedicate two centuries to mastering unparalleled visual illusions, but if his inherent disposition does not lean towards it, he will never materialise these creations physically, unlike Yves, who had displayed such capabilities since youth. Yves'' illusions were experiences. They engaged all the senses, immersing through sight, sound, smell, and touch. With each passing day, he honed his skills except on those occasions when survival took precedence. Recently, he had undertaken specific training to infuse his animated illusions with routine movements such as blinking and breathing. It was an eerie endeavour for, once set in motion, these illusions would continue these actions independently, persisting even when Yves was not consciously envisioning and directing them. For example, a few months prior, he had crafted a fearsome beast intended to deter goblins. As he circled around the creature, meticulously refining the intricate details that made the difference between realistic and real, the beast would inhale and exhale, its eyes ever so often blinking at him in a random, rather unsettling manner. In essence, it was the challenging feat of sustaining repetitive movements through the subconscious. While Yves had ample room for improvement in his actual skill, he seemed to have no limitations regarding his disposition as a Lightshifter creator. The ability to create and manipulate physical matter brought him as close to worldbending as a Lightshifter could possibly get. Both the fully disposed Lightshifter illusionist and the Worldbender transformer are classified as creators, defining the border between the ?????????? and ???????????? [Sempar] spectrums. - - - - The ???????????? spectrum is that of Worldbenders, encompassing those who, from the shifting to the infusing to the creating end of their spectrum, could impact their surroundings, manipulate other beings'' physical forms, and transform their own bodies. In other words, they are elementers, healers, and transformers. In contrast to Lightshifters, who generally harbour one core disposition and additional, less prominent dispositions for the various abilities amidst their spectrum, Worldbenders are known to develop only one of their spectrums three dispositions. Within this disposition, they show varying potential. In the same manner that not all illusionists can create physical matter, a Worldbender elementers disposition, for example, determines whether he can control fire, air or water. Transformers, too, face limitations in their potential for shapeshifting. In general, as a Worldbender''s disposition expands towards the border between worldbending and lightshifting, his potential for versatile transformations increases. As far as Yves knew, the majority of transformers could not deviate far from their core humanoid form. Only those who approach the border to lightshifting in the same way that Yves disposition for physical illusions approached worldbending had the capability to alter their body to the point where they could freely surpass their own physical limitations through the most elusive alterations into vastly different creatures. A fully disposed transformer has the potential to turn into individuals from other races, beasts of all sizes, and even take on the appearance of objects. So while Yves possessed the ability to create and control a temporary physical illusion of Midnight, a proficient and respectively disposed Worldbender transformer could shift into the form of a pathera and retain that shape for an indefinite duration. Now, at this point you might think that these two abilities seem vastly different. You might find yourself wondering why they shared Why do these dispositions define a border? asked Mushroombird. Arent they completely different abilities? Thank you, said Yves. Yes and no. One fundamental disparity separates illusions from transformer magic: Regardless of their skill and versatility, Worldbender transformers cannot detach parts of themselves that then operate autonomously. While Yves could conjure ten patheras simultaneously (each breathing, blinking, and flicking their tails in the most eerie manner), transformers remain conscious within a singular physical form. Your first impulse may be to think that So isnt illusionist magic much more complex than shapeshifting? asked Mushroombird. As an illusionist, you need to handle your own body and, simultaneously, maintain all your illusions. You control multiple bodies at the same time, whereas a shapeshifter merely alters his own body. Your question highlights the core difference between these two types of magic, said Yves. The origin of control. And this is where it becomes intricate. Despite their tangible form and convincing complexity, Yves creations were transient, existing only as long as he sustained them with his own energy. An exception to this are visual overlays and glamour spells, like those placed upon the lighthouse and its decoy treasures. In terms of magical theory, these spells are commonly categorised as secondary illusions, capable of enduring in the absence of their caster by drawing upon stored energy. Primary or true illusions, conversely, are autonomously conjured and actively sustained by the Lightshifter illusionist. Worldbender transformers, on the other hand, used their magic to shift and then lived as the new body they created. From the outside, you see a pathera C But what is INSIDE? It is one thing to shift your wizard appearance; to give yourself different proportions or facial features. It is another thing to change yourself to a race that looks quite similar to wizards, such as tairan. It is a completely different thing to shift into a beast. Think about it. What happens to everything inside your body? And what happens to everything that makes you a wizard? If you became a pathera like Midnight, you might still kind of rearrange your insides? proposed Mushroombird. But what if you wanted to turn into a beast significantly larger or smaller than you? challenged Yves. And what if you became an object? Rude, said Mushroombird. That is not what I meant, said Yves. Who would want to be an object? asked Mushroombird. Guys, focus, said Twig. Please finish the lecture, we need to get back to Vahl. We have three weeks, said Yves. Yes, but will you be conscious and focussed for these three weeks? Tell me just one thing, anything you remember from the last three days and I will rest my case. Fair enough, said Yves. Yves illusions could be hollow or simply filled with random physical mass. Depending on his skill, they could also be realistically detailed, with bones, muscles, organs and all. If he made mistakes or failed to maintain such a detailed pathera illusion, guts and all, it either looked stupid or dissipated. A failed illusion did not harm him because the origin of control was external. No part of his consciousness transferred to his illusions. Yves controlled them from the outside, from within his own body. But with shapeshifting, the origin of control lay inside the creation. A shapeshifter uses his magic on himself. Once the transformation into another living being is complete, the body is his new physical form. But if he messes up when shifting, he dies. Yves illusions could appear stunningly beautiful from the outside and still look like shit from inside, but if a transformers body becomes un-liveable while he shapeshifts, there are no second chances. They just die. It happens. Yves had personally seen it happen at Emery Thurm. In the end, Yves was a Lightshifter, and there was only so much that his Worldbender commilita had revealed to him about their craft. But he knew that even a successful beast transformation harboured great risks. It was said that it may impact your mind to the extent that you found yourself unable to shift back or even forgetting your original wizard existence. There are Worldbender transformers who consciously decide to live as beasts for a prolonged time, often taking the shape of their familiar. There are also those who feel a strong pull to try shifting into their familiar at least once, even when they are far from prepared, and then never make it back. Sometimes, you see them roam the Veridian Expanse in pairs. His Worldbender commilita had been warned about this sensation. It can become an irrepressible compulsion, especially for those who had bonded with a strong-willed familiar you should never forget that a familiar is not the same as a beast, and that their bond entails a shared path, not one that is determined by the wizard alone. Yves, please, interrupted Twig. This is not the time. Right. As a Worldbender transformer, Urumir Vahl ventured closer to the impossible than should have been possible. Not only could he transform into creatures far exceeding his own body mass, but he could also appear as multiple beings simultaneously. As insane as it sounded, these entities were interconnected by nothing more than the subtlest threads of matter, a link that appeared as no more than the faintest of shadows. In motion, he could navigate obstacles by having these threads move over or under them, or by shaping them in a way that they opened and closed around any hindrances, never fully severed. Yves had witnessed this with his own eyes when he had a mere quarter of eights. Back then, lacking the experience and knowledge to fully comprehend the exceptional and incomparable abilities of this wizard, he had been unable to grasp the true extent of Vahl''s powers. But today, he was stunned by the mental and physical strain such linking of multiple forms must entail. It was absurd. As Yves came to know Vahl, it became clear that his character mirrored this insanity. He was a wizard who dared to transcend the natural boundaries of what should be logical, possible, and allowed. Yves could think of no mentor more suitable than Vahl. Yves was a Lightshifter through and through, but in the Mirror Dimension, he had transformed in a way only a Worldbender could. It was highly likely that Vahl was the only Worldbender master who would not immediately dismiss Yves'' request as pure audacity the sheer impudence and impertinence of an expellent daring to draw such a comparison; the outrageous arrogance of a mere fledgling Lightshifter, who was still a century away from sprouting his first wizardly whisker, daring to ask a master or even a luminary for instruction, for insights into a spectrum that was not even his own. It was an offense akin to initiating a Duel of Honour that would most likely end with Yves dead in seconds. And that was all before he could even let those esteemed Worldbender masters know that he, as the ridiculously beardless expellent Lightshifter he was, had moved waves. That he could not only change his form but also impact the Material Dimension like a Worldbender elementer. So its a YES for Vahl, summarised Mushroombird. Well done, said Twig. - - -
Ch. 11.3 — Northlands. North-Eastern Desert - No one
- - - There is more, said Yves. Do tell, said Twig. Upon returning from the Mirror World, Yves had once again experienced the unsettling split in consciousness, a phenomenon he had only heard about in the cryptic context of Transcender wandering. This prompted him to consider an unconventional third advisor, a Transcender ???????????? known as Faroah. Faroah? Twig echoed, disbelief colouring her tone. Thats your idea? He is so weird, whispered Mushroombird, her voice hushed but equally tinged with disappointment. Allow me some time to think it through, replied Yves. Transcenders, comprising the ?????????? [Munai] spectrum, are the only wizards who may develop the ability to shift their consciousness. Bordering the perceiving end of the Lightshifter spectrum, they are perceivers, soul-readers, spirit-readers, world-readers and time-readers. - - - While Lightshifter seers relied on light to access their third sight, Transcender perceivers possess an innate sensitivity to energies and spirits, discerning them through senses beyond sight alone. Soul-readers excel at distinguishing the energies within other wizards or creatures, making them adept judges of character and curse-spotters. Conversely, spirit-readers are especially attuned to non-physical existences, delving into the realms beyond the corporeal. For a master illusionist, crafting an illusion capable of deceiving a spirit-reader posed one of the most demanding challenges. Even after over a decade of training, Yves'' creations were still easily exposed by the average nose-picking spirit-reader novice. It really put a perspective on your craft, if you thought about it. Yves generally tried not to think about it. World-readers, engrossed in the connections between dimensions, and time-readers, delving into temporal planes, stand as the rarest facets of Transcender dispositions. You say that so easily, interjected Mushroombird, but what exactly are temporal planes? Temporal planes are considered Yves, no, Twig cut in. Please stay with Faroah. In addition to their general array of stronger or lesser abilities, all Transcenders could become conscious wanderers, unconscious wanderers or ?????????????? [Oracles]. Wanderers possess the potential to expand and split their consciousness to the extent of entering the minds and influencing the actions of other beings from within. Some can maintain wakefulness in their own bodies simultaneously, while others cannot. ?????????????? capture predestined futures. They are the conveyors of fate and prophecies. While Transcenders are notoriously secretive about their abilities, Yves knew that Oracles excelled in wandering in such a way that they could temporarily connect to multiple consciousnesses simultaneously. The depth of their mastery across the Transcender spectrum determines the accuracy and detail of their prophetic revelations. A Transcender proficient in soul-reading, spirit-reading, world-reading, and time-reading has the potential to become a ???????? ???????????? [True Oracle] a wizard who does not only predict but foretells the future. Faroah stands as a formidable Transcender who can see exceptionally far beyond his immediate surroundings material, ethereal and temporal alike. He has earned official recognition as an ????????????, as he apparently excels in both the world-reading and time-reading disposition. It is said that he had often foretold the future with uncanny precision. However, he is notorious for his eccentricity and cryptic means of communication. Faroah''s revelations manifest as perplexing riddles and disturbing utterances, leaving those who seek his counsel more bewildered than enlightened. You come for answers, but leave with more questions, Mushroombird summarised. Yes, said Yves. He had once sought the guidance of Faroah. It had been years ago, during his travels across the continent to gather the necessary components for crafting his ethereal mirrors. The experience had been quite frustrating, as Faroah''s cryptic revelation had proven impossible to decipher. To make matters worse, Faroah refused to converse in any known lingua magica, instead opting for a series of guttural noises that Yves could neither understand nor reproduce in writing or any other tangible form. So weird, whispered Mushroombird. During a consultation with Faroah, seeking guidance is a solitary affair; no familiar may participate, and no other wizard may serve as an intermediary or translator. An audience with Faroah has a peculiar effect on those seeking revelation. You would enter a sanctified space designated for his divinations, whether it be a temple, chamber, or tent. There, you would present your request and await his response. However, upon exiting the consecrated confines of this audience, a strange sensation would settle upon your mind suddenly, the specifics of the encounter would slip away. You would be absolutely certain that you sought an audience, but find yourself with no recollection of the actual exchange that had transpired between you and Faroah. Departing, you would carry with you either an unconscious insight a strong compulsion to do something or go somewhere specific or a haunting awareness of having grasped nothing at all. This phenomenon is not a scam, nor is it a manipulation of memory. Rather, the effect stems from the nature of ???????????? prophecies themselves. ???????????? prophecies are set in motion the very moment they are spoken. The act of foretelling simultaneously shapes the nature of the prediction and thus the future itself. As a witness to the prophecy, your presence becomes woven into the fabric of its unfolding. You as the seeker and observer play a role in what is spoken by the ????????????. Your reactions and interpretations have an impact on the trajectory of events, influencing the course of the future in subtle yet profound ways. Because of that, a prophecy regardless of the content always also changes the recipients personal future. Such is the depth of this phenomenon that it defies the comprehension and alters the existence of the average wizard. The experience is so profound that you can neither grasp, nor mentally process it. While experienced Transcenders may consciously remember fragments of Faroahs prophecy, the common Lightshifter or Worldbender may only hope to be subconsciously influenced in his actions for the better. This rather enigmatic explanation is likely all you will ever get as a non-Transcender. Cryptic though it may be, this insight had armed Yves with the caution needed to approach his audience, ensuring he would neither miss nor misinterpret the revelations bestowed upon him. With this in mind, Yves had originally sought out the transcription quill that was now lain to rest in his Chest of Useless Artefacts. Dictation quills were commonplace for students at Emery Thurm. However, their efficacy varied greatly depending on their makeup and the enchanter''s skill. While many quills could transcribe one or two common languages of instruction, Yves doubted he would ever find another capable of transcribing all spoken words, regardless of language. It had taken him months, along with a substantial amount of resources, currency, and injuries to acquire what he had believed to be the perfect transcriber quill for Faroahs gutteral utterances. Up until his encounter with the ????????????, Yves had deemed it a worthwile investment. He had fancied himself the one wizard who would outsmart the process, the one to capture all of Faroahs cryptic revelations by transcribing the future onto parchment. Back then, it had indeed worked the quill, that is. Yves had tested it with bormen, ker, dwarves and even witches, and it had never failed to perform flawlessly. However, something in the experience with Faroah had disrupted not only Yves'' memory but also the quill itself. It had taken notes, yes, but to no avail. Despite numerous attempts, Yves had not been able to decipher whatever gabble babble that piece of shit artefact had noted down while Faroah had gutted away, and it had never worked properly since. When provided with ink or an equivalent substitute, it still took notes, it still did something, but it was impossible to read anything into it. Amongst the illegible mess of dots and lines it delivered, Yves could not even distinguish individual letters. Despite this first waste of time experience, Yves recognised the potential value of Faroah''s prophecies in uncovering valuable information about his future about the Dimensional Plane of Shards and the Stalker, the search for the legendary Crystalline Trench, the pact with the witch mother and, in general, about Yves attempt to restore his eyesight. Yet, Yves hesitated. Faroah was known to be elusive, his whereabouts rarely communicated outside Transcender circles. He sometimes resided in a remote location beyond the dense foliage of the Central Moorlands, but there was never any guarantee of being granted an audience, even if he were present. There was no certainty of meeting Faroah. There was also no assurance of tracking down Vahl amidst his multitude of quests, and a reasonably high chance of being killed by any academy luminary he contacted. There were simply too many variables. Pursuing any of the three wizards would consume months that Yves did not have. Not even time was on his side. Yves thoughts ground to a halt. There was no one else he could reach out to. No one else he trusted. ----He had no one. - For a long time, Yves just sat and stared at the sands in front of him, his eyes ever fixed on the point where the sand disappeared beneath the frame of the moving sled. Twig''s legs no longer dangled beside him. She and Mushroombird were gone by now. --Yves had no energy left to comfort himself. He glanced down at his hands, gripping the Levitation Staff. Then at his arms resting on his knees, not really thinking but still recognising -----how much stronger the left silver arm appeared. He hesitated, flooded with shame and exhaustion, -------------but still so, so empty. ------------------------Then he felt for the small case in his coat pocket. ----------He had endured for over three weeks, --------------but the constant pain had become unbearable. ---Yves had tried to suffer through it, ---------------to talk it out, ------------to distract himself, --------------------to simply press forward regardless, ----------but the desert ----------------------------------stretched endlessly, --------------mirroring -------------------------the unyielding passage of time -----------------------he spent -----------------in --------------this --------------wretched --------------------place. ------------His body was ravaged, -----far beyond any prospect of self-healing. ------------The weather was brutal, --punishing even for the non-injured traveller, -------and the oppressive presence of the Vicha weighted heavily on him. ----It felt horrible beyond words, ----------worsening with every day. There had been a few fleeting moments ----when Yves found solace in talking to himself ----or engaging in imaginary conversations in his mind. There had also been moments ----when nothing but rage surged within him, ------directed at everything and everyone responsible for his unbearable plight ------------C at elves and witches, --------at the VICHA and himself, ----------------at the sun and the desert ----------and at all the fucking rock piles that were always, always, always in his way, ----------------------and very much at the whole world in general. --------------------------But these moments were ----------------------------------mere ripples ----------------amidst endless hours, ---------------------------days Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.------------------------------and weeks ------------------------------------------of AGONY. --------Yves felt --------the need to speak, ----to rationalise, ----to plead --------for a momentary relief -------from the ceaseless torment. --------------------------------------------But there was no one here --------------------------------------to listen. ------------------------------------------------There was no one ------------------------------------------------------to challenge his reasoning. ------------------------------------------------------------------And so, ----------------------------------------------------------------------he retrieved one of the three feathers --------------------------------------------------------------------from their case. -- ----Shortly thereafter, the most beautiful melodies emanated, filling the vastness of the unforgiving north-eastern desert with serenity and solace. -- - --As his vision blurred, dark thoughts took shape. ----------------If he lost his sight, ------would he still hold meaning to Midnight? --------------------------Would their bond remain, --or would she leave him once his magic waned? ----------------Would he lose her, forever? He would never ask her to tarnish her pride with pity. Yves would not beg her to stay if he had nothing to offer her, yet he could not fathom how to live without her. She had always been with him, their bond and her senses entwined with his existence for as long as he could remember. -- -- --------But all these thoughts faded into the comforting embrace of the melody. - - -
Ch. 12 — Midlands. Varren Mountaintop. Dwarven Temple - Faroah and Samasira
-- - - - - There is knowledge that is forever inscribed into the consciousness of man. There is knowledge that forever eludes his grasp. And then there is knowledge that is found and lost time and time again. Magic harbours many such secrets. Faroah offered his prophecies not to those who sought them, but to those who needed to hear them. Often, those who needed to hear them were not where he was, though. Sometimes, he pursued and paid them a visit, which was generally a great pain in the ass because he hated travelling, and sometimes he simply uttered his prophecies to the world at large. It mattered little whether people understood him or not, for the world always listened. And, in his experience, the world was kind enough to work out a way to translate and pass on the message, be it through elaborate signs of fate, through subtle tricks of the light, or in more modest terms, such as a chance encounter with a passage in a random book. Prophecies were not bound to a specific place, nor were they confined by time. You would be surprised how often Faroah prophesised something that had already happened. These kind of prophecies were just as important as those that concerned the future, because how else would the world know that these things had been meant to happen? Ah, someone was here. A young witch stepped into the sacred space, her silhouette cast against the weathered stone walls by the shafts of sunlight that pierced through the gaps in the roof above. She hesitated at the threshold, her unease palpable in her skittish movements as her eyes darted from the speckles of light dancing around her feet to the figure of Faroah before her. The light at this altitude possessed a rare clarity, the fragments spanning wide, unblemished nets. It streamed through the broken roof section, revealing the intricate patterns of dust stirred by the witch''s arrival. Beneath the layers of dust, the stone floor bore witness to the craftsmanship, dedication, and grandeur of dwarven stonemasonry. Faroah had been at his sweeping for four days straight, but he had not yet made it to the entrance. This place was simply a lot of work for one old wizard. Resting his broom against the wall where he had just cleared, he acknowledged Samasira''s presence with a nod. As she bowed and introduced herself as Samasira, he welcomed her with a gesture to follow him deeper into the dim interior. The singular, floating orb trailing Faroah illuminated their path and cast warm hues of orange onto the feet of the columns and statues surrounding them, lending a mesmerizing glow to the ancient stone carvings. The air within the temple hung heavy with the lingering scent of dragon fire and the faint echoes of ancient ceremonies. Faroah liked to listen, and every once in a while, when something sounded particularly interesting, he stopped his sweeping and looked back to see what the fuss was all about. Few wizards shared his fascination with dwarven history and culture. Especially those born after the Mountainfell Heritage Wars, who were now the vast majority, had rather opposing views. They grew up with nothing good to remember and that left little motivation for listening to anything that lay beyond the confines of these tainted memories. Faroah did not blame them. After all, introspection was the province and privilege of age, was it not? In your youth, you are consumed by the present; coming to know the world as you live it, navigating the truth as it unfolds. As years pass, you begin to look into the future. You build on your present and plan your path ahead. With maturity comes reflection, the consideration of your actions. You consider how these actions will shape you, and how you will shape the world for the generations to come. And then, with old age, you start to look back, acknowledging the vast changes wrought over a singular lifetime, and marvelling at just how much change had already been there, long before you. Faroah and Samasira arrived at a secluded alcove nestled within the heart of the expansive entrance hall. Here, the juncture between the free stone architecture and the mountain itself was unmistakable. The walls and floor were hewn from natural rock, every column and statue sculpted by chiselling away from the mountain itself. The only man-made addition amidst this natural wonder was the stool Faroah had brought with him. It was a neat little wooden construction that could be folded, with a sheet of leather stretched between the beams. Placed seemingly at random, it seemed out of place and utterly insignificant amidst the temples grandeur. To Faroah, however, it offered a welcome respite during his days of sweeping. Since he never had the opportunity to ask, he felt it would be impolite to occupy the grand thrones and elaborate stone benches that once hosted legendary kings and warriors. He had yet to find a fragment of past where one dwarf said to the other, You know, I wouldnt mind if a wizard sat here. In fact, if one ever wanders into here long after we are gone, he has my blessing. The alcove harboured a crystal altar, flanked by four carved stone benches curving around its perimeter, all facing the central altar. The crystal formations marked the end of a natural vein that protruded from the wall, extending freely through the air before winding its way into the ground. Meticulously carved into intricate windings, the crystal altar captured and refracted the ambient light emanating from Faroahs floating orb, casting captivating reflections throughout the alcove. "It is unparalleled craftsmanship," Faroah remarked as the young witch halted a few steps behind him. His voice resonated through the temple hall with a commanding presence, masterfully amplified by the acoustics of the sacred space. There was no distortion or echo; every word reverberated clearly, reaching even the furthest corners of the hall. Any dwarf, even those standing all the way back at the entrance, would hear him clearly. "The dwarven art of shard cutting rivals even the finest glass magic. If you look closely, you will recognise a small fissure of mountain blood running through the center of the crystal vein." He pointed it out, guiding Samasira''s gaze to the most prominent section. The crystal shimmered in dark hues of ash. There was no dust here; Faroah had thoroughly cleaned the entire structure, beginning from this very spot where they now stood. This was also where he had begun his sweeping. The young witch hesitated, then leaned over the altar, searching. Her hands remains suspended at her sides, not daring to make contact. Faroah observed her closely, noting the subtle changes in her expression as she delved into the energies emanating from the crystal. Few wizards outside the Transcender spectrum possessed the ability to perceive the rare elixir known as mountain blood. Witches, with their innate connection to the natural world, were often more attuned to such phenomena. The most adept amongst them wove the pulse, breath and essence of mountains and forests into their spells, drawing and building upon the very fabric of nature itself. Faroah recognised the moment Samasira found the vein. As her eyes traced the layers and patterns within the crystal, following the vein embedded within, his own gaze traced her. He took note of her torn garments, the raw wounds on her bare hands and feet, and the myriad of cuts and bruises that marred her battered body. Nothing he had not seen before a testament to the toll exacted by the Varren upon those who dared challenge the mountain. It was not that Faroah wanted others to endure such hardships to reach him; rather, some places had more to offer than others. "Did you know," he began, his voice low and measured, "that it is the mountain blood that, over time, gives rise to these crystalline formations? A structure of this diameter likely took over one thousand five hundred years to take shape. If you look even closer, you will see that the altar crystal has grown past and built upon the delicate carvings bestowed upon it by the Dwarves of Hefdahl." But the young witch did not examine the carvings. Instead, she regarded him with growing confusion. Of course, she did not understand him. Faroah circled around the structure and positioned himself opposite her, with the altar between them. Place your hands on the table, he instructed. Using his own hands, Faroah showed her where to place them, atop the etching within the crystal tableau. He then placed his hands on top of hers. She tried to maintain her composure, but Faroah sensed the slight tremor as their hands made contact. He did not take it personally. He understood her apprehension about being touched by a wizard. Faroah, in turn, marvelled at the touch of youth beneath his wrinkled palm. His fingers, calloused and hardened over time, barely registered her softness. Here was youth in its purest form; a delicate hand that would soon toughen from the blisters, cuts, challenges, and exhaustion of the climb. This was youth; striving, struggling, almost killing itself to reach the mountain peak, only to ask, Well, where to next?, while old wizards like him just wondered, Do I really have to get all the way back down again? Eventually, Faroah said, Speak your truth. He looked at her until she understood that it was her turn to speak. She tried to express her gratitude for the audience, but was greatly startled by the amplification of her own voice resonating through the temple''s hallowed hall. After several faltering attempts, she mustered the focus to voice her request. You see that I am a witch, but I am not, she began, her words revibrating with astonishing clarity. I have never wanted to be one. I was raised among humans until I was taken from my parents by witches who claimed that I was a child of theirs." Faroah said: "The passing of time is the result of the flow of energies between the two Genesters of Life. T?????e?????????????????_???????h??????a??????????????r???????????????u??????n? gives to the world while O? [Omaran] takes from the world. This exchange creates change, and change is the essence of time. But time birthed imbalance, where O? ascended and T?????e?????????????????_???????h??????a??????????????r???????????????u??????n? waned, until guardians of the world arose to restore equilibrium. Upon these keepers of balance, T?????e?????????????????_???????h??????a??????????????r???????????????u??????n? bestowed three hearts: one to live, one to thrive, and one to give. These guardians learned to give back to the giver. Some, however, fell victim to O?s corruption. From these, O? took the heart to give and replaced it instead with a fragment of his essence. From that moment forth, all they take from the world, he consumes. You, child, are of your mothers, who gave you three hearts. You are indeed a witch." She strained to listen, to understand. Faroah read on her face that she had expected something different from this audience. Well, if people knew what to expect, they would not need him, would they? With a gentle tap on her right hand, Faroah redirected her focus, prompting her to proceed. By now, he had very much perfected a facial expression, a blend of encouragement and curiosity, that silently said, "Go on." The reason why I seek oracle ... She paused, hesitating Faroah tapped her hand again. The day I escaped the witch coven that had claimed me, I was , her voice was tinged with uncertainty, I was captured and then sold to a wizard. All I wanted was to return to my human family, but he bound my life to his. Can you sense it? I mean, can you feel the seal in me? Tap. I believe that he is bound to die soon, and if he does, so will I. I seek oracle to learn if this is my fate, or to learn of his fate, so I may prolong his life and thus mine. Or, if you can, please tell me how I can free myself and reclaim my life. Please tell me what I need to do to make my life my own again. This is a place that grants change, Faroah said. A legendary sanctuary where dwarven kings once ascended. Many of them stood where we stand. At this moment, you may sense the mountain''s heartbeat extending towards you, its vein reaching out to connect with you. You may offer it a fraction of your giving heart.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. Her hands trembled beneath his touch, yet Faroah refrained from grasping or confining them. Then, with a sudden jolt, she withdrew her hands, but, equally abruptly, halted midway. Only her fingertips remained beneath his touch. What is happening? she whispered. Do not be afraid, Faroah reassured her. Change is a knife with a blade for a handle. Changing your future needs changing yourself. His hands remained suspended over the crystal, unchanged in their position. Through his years of experience, Faroah knew that coercion bred resistance, while the allure of free will and curiosity often merged into to trust. A few moments passed before the witch tentatively slid her hands back under his touch. A part of you becomes part of the mountain. You are forever a fragment of a greater whole, Faroah observed the shifts in her expression as she felt the mountain''s vein extent, reach out and connect with her. And with that, I do not refer to the Albweiss alone. The difference in futures available for you depends on your willingness to embrace this exchange with the encompassing entirety that exceeds your individuality. Your heritage is entwined with humans, your lineage stems from witches, and your future is bound to that of a wizard. Do not mourn your fate by yearning for a return to your past. Often, what we perceive as flawed, lost, or shattered holds the greatest significance for the greater whole." She stared at him, her expression searching for understanding. Consider the entrance, where you first stepped into this temple," Faroah continued. "Immediately, your eyes fell upon the broken roof. The structure surrounding the entrance no longer shelters from the elements, rendering it devoid of its original purpose. However, while this section may appear marred, within the context of the greater whole the encompassing temple that still offers ample sanctuary and protection for this pair of humble wizard and witch, yes, even for hundreds of dwarves, should they ever decided to reclaim the Albweiss it is not a fault. Instead, unintended by the dwarves who fashioned it, it has transformed into something unique, an integral part of the structure. You have witnessed the radiant phantom presences it captures, the beautiful white beams of light. You have marvelled, just as I have before you, at the interplay of light it casts upon the floor. You have seen how the broken beckons beauty." Sir, please. I am sorry, but I do not understand you. I only know how to speak Teh and Faramyr, Samasira said, her voice tinged with growing concern. It did not matter. These truths would reach her. Eventually. She had grasped what was most important. Intuitively, she had allowed the mountain to claim a fraction of her giving heart. With that, she had opened herself up to significant change. Places of change offer many futures, Faroah said while putting on a pair of oversised spectacles adorned with an array of mismatched lenses. Each lens had a different purpose, and was enchanted respectively. Faroah did not need the spectacles to see into the future, but to limit his perception. He simply saw a lot of things all the time, even just in this time here and now; things surrounding him within the temple. Of some, he never spoke, because that would quite terribly frighten people or make them think he was mad. The glasses helped to filter and focus his vision. He adjusted the spectacles on his nose, which promptly slid down to rest precariously on the tip. And then he did his thing, where he looked and listened, felt and smelt, and tasted for the far and distant futures that were open for the young witch in front of him. - Faroah would best describe the future as a complex dish, a conundrum wrapped in an enigma smothered in a riddle and slathered with mystery sauce. Yet amidst bewildering array of components and flavours, there was always a recipe, and if you but found all the ingredients and cooking utensils laid out by the present, you could quite well guess what was brewing. Looking into the witch, Faroah saw who was coming to dinner. Looking beyond her, he discerned what would be on her plate, what would be waiting. In Faroahs experience, most guests arrived and simply accepted their pre-prepared meals without fuss, content to eat what was served. However, there were always a few dissenters who rebelled against the set meal of the day. They might argue out of sheer necessity, insisting on something different for dear life, citing allergies, dietary restrictions and whatnot. They might also argue even if the set course was perfectly fine, simply because their expectations were not met. Some grumbled quietly, their discontent murmurs barely audible above the clatter of plates and chatter of conversation. Others, however, were far less subtle in their dissatisfaction. These individuals made their protests known with boisterous and rude exclamations, seeking to draw attention from their fellow diners. For them, causing a scene was not just an unintended consequence but rather a deliberate tactic to get what they wanted. As for the other guests, they typically either ignored the ruckus or complained about it. Some felt pity for the future that waited on these troublemakers, while others offered support to the dissenters, either to solve the issue with honest intent, or to silence it so they could finish their own meal in peace. In most cases observed by Faroah, these troublemakers were eventually accommodated with the menu, allowing them to choose an alternative meal. There were also those who began content with the set course but then realised that someone else was having something different and regardless of how much they enjoyed their own meal or how full they were already, they wanted it, too. Because it could be had. Out of nowhere, these guests would throw down their fork and knife, shove away their unfinished plate, hammer their fists onto the table, and disrupt the entire dining experience for everyone else until they receive this alternative meal as well. As if the future that waited on all of the world was not yet busy enough, there were times when the collective clamour of dissent reached such a crescendo that the set course for an entire era was cancelled altogether. Instead of adhering to the meticulously prepared course, the future then presented a buffet, a one-for-all allowing everyone to get up and select whatever they wanted. These were rare times; times of great change on a worldly scale. You would assume that allowing everyone to freely pick and choose as they liked would lead to a satisfactory dining experience, but reality proved otherwise. When confronted with an array of unlimited choices, there were always those people who jostled and elbowed their way to the front, hastily piling their plates with whatever delicacies lay within arms reach. If you ever had the misfortune to encounter such people, you knew that they were rarely content with the etiquette of one plate per person. No, they grabbed as many as they could carry, attempting to amass and hoard enough food for their entire lifetime and ten generations to come, leaving little to nothing for their fellow diners. If their plates were brimming before they reached the end of the table, and they spotted something even more enticing, they thought nothing of discarding items from their already overflowing plates. Whether the discarded food fell into a nearby container or directly onto the floor, they cared little for the disruption they caused. In a mere moments, these people could reduce the once meticulously arranged buffet into a dishevelled mess, leaving the table strewn with scraps and discord. Those who came after would have to navigate through the chaos left behind, forced to sift through the spills that had landed in the containers along with what they actually desired. While they might still manage to assemble a decent meal, albeit with some compromise, it might not taste quite as they had hoped. Lastly, there were the silent spectators and all the sad sobs who were either too polite or too timid to engage in the initial pushing and shoving. They ended up with hardly anything. They might be afraid of bothering anyone, starving politely and out of sight, or they might approach the future with the humble suggestion of offering pre-prepared, set meals for everyone. They would reason that, while not everyone would get exactly what they desired, at least no one would be left hungry. And because the future would thus ever again be reminded of the benefit that came with set courses, there would always be a period of well-set, predetermined fates following a time of great change. This was Faroahs take on the era-phenomenon: As a world-reader and time-reader, he ever again encountered transparent periods of rigidly distributed fate, fortunes, and futures, followed by a surge of uncertainties that offered him close to no insight. Now, where was the young witch in all of this? Ah, yes. Taking her left hand into his and turning it over, Faroah said, The future you desire takes another change of heart. - - - - - Samasira left the temple utterly bewildered. As she stepped outside, she felt the gaze of the imposing dwarven heads that were built into the mountain fa?ade on her. The dwarves had shaped the Varren with their liking. Even after they left, their kings still watched over the Albweiss. The temple stood like a silent sentinel against the seasons, its ancient stone walls weathered by centuries of wind and snow, but overflowing with potent auras. Surrounding it, the rugged terrain of the mountain stretched into the distance, while far below, the world lay hidden in shadow beneath the grand mountain peaks. With freezing feet, fingers and breath, Samasira hurried back along the lengthy path to the visitors'' tent, where she found two of her companions awaiting her return. All except for Abar and Kel-Khadar were asleep, their forms huddled together for warmth in a secluded corner of the tent, sheltered by a makeshift partition of cloth and blankets. They had arrived not three hours ago, all in great need of rest, food and healing. Despite her exhaustion, Samasira had insisted on seeking oracle from Faroah immediately. There were two thick blankets in the seating area, one claimed by Abar. As soon as Samasira arrived, she threw herself on a rock-turned-chair, pulled in her arms and legs and wrapped the second blanket so tightly around herself that she became a parcel of fluff, which somewhere, somehow, revealed a pair of human eyes. Abar helped wrapping her, How was it? What did he say? After Samasira was all set, she returned to her own rock chair. She had been studying their map, which she had spread out on the table before her. The table, just as all of their chairs, was nothing more than a large, flat rock. Kel-Khadar said nothing, but observed Samasira with what she believed to be genuine interest. He sat on the ground opposite her, unaffected by the cold thanks to his thick coat of fur. He was sharpening his claws, which had suffered damage during the climb. The borman had carried both Samasira and Abar for long stretches, and she was eternally grateful for his help. As humans, they could not match the toughness, endurance, and skills of any their various companions. Samasira had always known, but after the challenging ascent, she was particularly aware and ashamed of her weakness. Samasira was eager to share what Faroah had conveyed to her. However, she remembered nothing of the encounter and would remember even less in the days to come. They had been forewarned about this by Faroahs attendant, who had greeted them at the end of their climb and led them to the visitors tent. Nonetheless, the feeling of having lost something vital was nothing short of disturbing. And so, Samasira returned from her audience none the wiser but fundamentally changed. All that she retained from her Oracle audience was a singular witch rune, faintly carved into her left palm, hardly readable amidst all the cuts, blisters and blood: - - c????????????????????r?????e?????????c?????????????????e???????c????????????o?????????????r??????a??????????? . - What does it mean? asked Abar, reaching for Samasiras hand to look at it herself. You did that? Or he? asked Kel-Khadar. I honestly dont know, admitted Samasira. Its like Mariam said, I cant remember anything. Maybe you wanted to leave a message for yourself, suggested Abar. What does it say? It is a rune that combines two words, Samasira grabbed Abars pencil from the table and used an empty section of the map, an undefined section of water that outlined the Northlandic Ocean, to draw the rune. It was not necessary for her explanations, but it gave the other two something to look at while she pulled her hands back under the blanket. They are cr??????e????c??????eco???r and c??????o?????r???????a? to raise and heart. The racing heart?, suggested Kel-Khadar. What? No, its raise. The rising heart? Kel-Khadar tried again. No, raise. Raise, Arr-Eyy-Eye, as in to cojure. Or maybe to grow? Like, raise a child?, asked Abar. Are you sure? The growing heart? asked Kel-Khadar. The heart that grows? threw in Abar. Grow a heart? continued Kel-Khadar. You need to get stronger? It could be symbolic. I mean, does it have to do with, you know, your witchcraft? asked Abar, Or was a rune just easier to write than spelling growing heart? Beats me, For several minutes, Samasira tried very hard to remember, but her mind remained blank. With a resigned tone, she eventually turned her attention to the map, Well, that was that. Where to next? Please dont ask, Abar groaned. I really, really dont want to get back down again. - - -
Ch. 13.1 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face - Midnight
-- - - - - She was the darkness. Midnight felt it, as she seeped through the crevices of the rock face. She felt it, and she heard it. She heard a voice that spoke from within her, and this voice spoke the truth about her new existence. Midnight had never experienced such a voice. It was unlike any she had known before. It did not impart knowledge she did not possess, like Yves so often did, nor did it explain facets of the world beyond her comprehension, as the academy masters or other humanoid people had done time and again. Instead, it revealed knowledge that existed within Midnight. And as it did, it conveyed the truth not to her, but for her a subtle yet profound difference. The voice had first spoken during her fight with the shadebeast. It had been but a whisper, yet in the heat of battle, it had startled her greatly. Now, as she wove her path through the dense mountain rock, Midnight remembered. After she had sacrificed her original essence to the darkness, the voice had said: ----I am darkness. Darkness is me. Midnight understood this truth. She had truly transformed. She had severed the bond that once connected her tangible body and her Rothar. Both existed no more. Yet, she existed. She existed in the absence of energies and light. She existed where nothing else could. She existed in the nothing and in the silence. Proof of Midnights new existence was this voice. She believed it was the voice of her Gods, a whisper born from the fragment of essence the D??? had bestowed upon her. And because their essence had first become hers and then it had become her, the voice now spoke not to her or about her, but for her. After the first whisper, the voice had fallen silent until Midnight had consumed the shadebeast. As she had claimed his essence, the voice had whispered again, though it had sounded slightly different. It had said: ----I am change. Change is me. Midnight had not yet understood this truth, for she believed in the permanence of the darkness she had become. She felt that nothing never changed. This belief was why she had severed ties with her Rothar and sacrificed her essence; to stop switching between her original body and her darkness form. Freed from her body, Midnight moved within the nothing. Even in the densest structures of rock, nothing found space, and within such nothing, Midnight flowed, seeping through the mountains stone arteries. The voice within her remained silent, yet she believed that her Gods were with her. Midnight felt a satisfying sense of unity with the darkness and the stone, a oneness that transcended any previous bond. The darkness was no longer just a form she assumed; it was her very being. As she moved, she was both a part of the mountain and beyond it, both a part of the world and apart from it. As a being that thrived in the absence of light and energy; she was everything within the nothing. Not only darkness, void of Rothar, could pass unimpeded. Midnight had collected Yves two messenger strings and also carried the third string and the beast-wizard sigil ring, which she had found behind the rock fragments marked by clawed gouges. These enchanted objects were unique in their composition, allowing her to take them past the witch runes etched into the ice chamber floor and to continue bearing them even now, within the nothing. These objects belonged to a rare category of items that, when properly crafted and enchanted, were impervious to both physical attacks and ethereal forces. Midnight did not fully understand how that came to be, but she knew that high-quality messenger strings and beast-wizard sigil rings were immaterial and warded against damage through magic and curses. Yet, they could be seen and grasped by entities with Rothar. Remarkably, they could also be carried by Midnight, as she had come to realise. This peculiar nature allowed her to transport them through the solid rock without impediment.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. As far as Midnight knew, inanimate nature like rock did not possess Rothar, which is why immaterial beings like sprites could pass through such matter freely. The same accounted for everything that was solemnly anchored in the Alladharian Dimension, such as light fragments and Adhar, as well as the rare objects she now carried. While Midnight had often been able to recognise ethereal existences and objects, they were invisible to many peoples. Wizards could only see them through their second sight. The enchanted objects felt like a strange part of her, seamlessly merging with her essence. As Midnight flowed through the dense rock, they were the only reminder of the ties she still maintained to the material world, a thread linking her to her wizard. Beast-sigil rings served as the only identifiers for those Worldbender transformers who chose to live as beasts. Midnight knew that some never reverted to their humanoid forms, as they eventually became permanently unable to do so. The sigil ring was designed to endure, serving as a lasting mark of identity through decades or even centuries. These rings were crafted to withstand the rigours of life as a beast wandering, climbing, flying, fighting, hunting. When Midnight had first learned about these wizards who intended to live in the body of a beast, she had wondered why they needed to be recognised by others of their kind. While individual reasons varied, such as the sentimentalities of their kin, the core purpose was to identify a dead beast as a wizard. A wizard''s body, regardless of its final shape or state, could not be left unattended. Yves had explained that a deceased wizard''s body, no matter how severely altered, must always be treated with the Ritual of the Dead, one of the practices that governed their lives and deaths. Only a handful of wizards possessed the skill to create these sigil rings, each one tailored to the respective transformer wizard and his chosen animal form. Crafted with the utmost precision, these rings required advanced conjuration and powerful enchantments. In contrast, messenger strings varied widely in their kinds and qualities, depending on their intended use and the expertise of their makers. Yves carried exceptional messenger strings. He had no regular correspondence with anyone and did not use them for those casual exchanges that were common amongst adventurers or artefact hunters who left strings for each other in a guild when they embarked on individual errands. Such strings, safeguarded by the guild, required no extensive protection. Messages could also be sent directly via guilds using particularly high-quality strings. These strings did not need to be bought but remained the property of the guild and were delivered by individual guild couriers. Midnight and Yves had worked as couriers in the Barnstream villages during their year-long stay there. They had never earned clearance for long-distance or sensitive messages, which were reserved for experienced and well-known couriers, renowned adventurers, and older individuals who had proven themselves reliable and trustworthy over many years and decades. However, even though they had been outsiders, Midnight and Yves had been reluctantly accepted as couriers for the everyday exchange of regular post and messenger strings, primarily because they had been the only ones available for the job. At that time, Yves had surmised that the guild had been unable to win over any other adventurer or local from the sparsely populated villages to undertake the strenuous footwork through the rugged terrain and harsh climate. Their skills and reliability eventually earned them a grudging respect, but it was clear that their presence was tolerated more out of practical need than communal embrace. The strings they had carried connected the Barnstream settlements situated around the north-eastern coastline where Yves had stated to reunite with Midnight down the river to the villages in the Northern Midlands, where the Barnstream Harbour Guild was located. At the time Midnight and Yves became couriers, regular boat traffic along the Barnstream, which usually carried the post, had been impossible. The watercourse that originated from the Albweiss and flowed down the mountain to form several lakes, main branches, and a couple of side streams before reaching the sea, had become impassable. As couriers following the river route, Midnight and Yves had predominantly carried regular strings. They delivered routine communications between isolated families, traders arranging the transport of their wares overland, and other exchanges essential to the villages'' connectivity. Yves, in the rare instances that he conveyed messages, insisted on something more reliable, something that could withstand the harshest of conditions. They had learned their lesson four years ago, when crucial messages they had left in the moors had been destroyed, never reaching their intended recipient a mistake they had discovered much too late. Since then, Yves carried quality strings that could endure physical, magical, and ethereal attacks. Depending on their maker and quality, the various types of messenger strings had equally diverse names. The ones he carried were known as lifelines. Midnight could not discern whether it was an enchantment or the fact that the strings were in themselves inanimate objects that allowed her to carry them past the witch runes. From what she had read and felt, the grand runes were designed to ward off intruders and contain powerful forces like sprites, yet they had neither affected the messenger strings nor the sigil ring. While Midnight had left behind the Rings of Light that Yves had given her, since were not entirely ethereal and could thus not pass through matter, these objects seemed impervious to the physical realm. Occasionally, Midnight encountered a faint resistance when passing through areas with sparse traces of vegetation or minute creatures nestled within small fissures in the stone, but even then, the strings and sigil ring slipped through unaffected. Even in her darkness form, Midnight found herself able to interact with these items. She had been told that these particular objects were designed to bind themselves to the essence of the bearer, but this knowledge was just words, not understanding. Yves would be able to provide her with more explanations. The thought took Midnight by surprise. She had never contemplated the nature and powers of the world, as well as magic, in such depth before her venom transformation. She had not reflected with such conscious depth, but felt and acted. And in the way she had acted, Midnight had divided the world into possibilities and impossibilities. Knowing what she could do had been sufficient, and it had never been necessary to understand all the reasons behind these possibilities. Now, however, with her thinking seeming so much more complex, these considerations seemed to come naturally. Still, while all these questions and thoughts and memories were with Midnight, they occupied only a small, rather quiet part of her mind. Ultimately, she was content that she could carry the ring and the strings with her through the stone, and everything else might or might not find an explanation in the future. In the present, Midnight was much more focused on her surroundings, on what she felt from within. As she moved through the dense rock, the world outside of her was a feeling of solidified darkness. Nothing except herself shifted. Nothing moved only the nothing and the silence that was her. The silence of the mountain was absolute; there was no breath to be felt in its arteries. In this profound darkness, Midnight found solace. It was the thought that she could simply remain. That she could just be. Her transformation had stripped away the trappings of her former life, leaving only the essence of what she had become. But somewhere, still, the bond with her wizard had remained. Even if the bond had remained just in her mind, it was a fragment of her past that she still carried with her, the fragment that kept her moving. It was the voice of Yves that she remembered so well that she could almost hear him in that small and quiet part of her mind that brought up all the questions, explanations and memories. It was broken only by the faint, almost imperceptible whispers that came from the new voice within her, the voice of her Gods that would tell her all the truths about who she was now. - - -
Ch. 13.2 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face - Midnight - Emerging
-- - Midnight extended her darkness sense ahead, probing the stone to anticipate where she would emerge. The altitude was immense, so much so that she sensed the looming presence of dragons above, their ancient energies thrumming like a distant heartbeat. Below the realm of the dragons, these expanses belonged to no natural beast. The witch seal maintained its influence, a ward against all creatures imbued with Rothar.
In the ice cavern, the symbols spanned over a hundred meters, encased underneath eternal ice. The unseen barrier was designed to thwart the adversaries of the witches that lived within the Albweiss, ensuring no breach or harm could come to the runes or the protective ice above. Magical attacks, such as fire spells, would be deflected and consumed by the seal long before they could endanger the runes. The ice itself stood as a shield against mundane threats, its thick layers discernible only to Midnight''s expanding darkness, safeguarding the runes from falling rocks and other earthly dangers. The seal had repelled the sprites, barring their descent to the cave floor. Throughout the battle and its aftermath, they had remained suspended meters above. Midnight comprehended the expansive nature of this witch magic. The seal emanated outward from the runes, extending beyond the ice cavern into the stone walls of the mountain face and from there permeating the surroundings of the Albweiss. As she moved through the rock, she sensed its influence extending several meters beyond the icebound contours, integrated into the fabric of the Albweiss like an ethereal fortress. Because of this, no beast or humanoid could seek entrance into the Albweiss at such heights. The seal thwarted any attempt to break the stone by force. Even if one intended to shatter the rock with hand tools like pickaxes, the presence of Rothar would prevent any approach or incursion. The witch magic was absolute, ensuring that not anyone but nothing, like Midnight, could traverse its paths. The witches barricade was not universally felt along the Snowtrail, likely due to the absence of immediate caves or tunnels at such altitudes. Here, the mountain''s stone was said to lay meters thick, impenetrable and devoid of passageways. The mountain range extended endlessly, an expanse of unyielding rock and ice. The few tunnels that did exist, such as the crevice Midnight accessed at the northern mountain face when first entering from the Northlands plateau, required exhaustive climbing and searching to access. Any major entrance a traveller discovered now had likely already been found and sealed by the witches. Witches possessed instincts far surpassing that of wizards. While wizards were born utterly helpless and non-self-reliant, witches had an innate understanding of nature. After encountering several witchs familiars, Midnight believed that from a wizard, you receive foresight, strategy and even magic, but with a witch, you become more of a beast. Despite laying claim to vast expanses of the mountains accessible to humanoid peoples, the Shaira witches did not govern the Snowtrail. Here, travellers climbed along the southern side of the mountain ranges, moving from west to east and vice versa. The extensive forests and swamps at the mountain''s base did not permit safe passage, leaving humanoid peoples vulnerable to the toxic flora and beasts that inhabited these regions. Higher sections of the mountains were equally dangerous, as this was where the grand winged beasts roamed freely. With that, the Snowtrail was the average travellers only option for crossing the Northern Midlands from east to west. Since it was such a significant route, the path was regularly patrolled by adventurers or guild representatives. Such patrols, however vigilant, offered no assurances of safety, passage, or even recognition along the Snowtrail. Often branching into multiple alternative routes, the trail was shaped by steep gradients, icy surfaces, and thick layers of snow. While the northern side of the mountains, where Midnight had initially entered from the Northlands desert, endured the relentless plateau storms and scorching heat that shaped its characteristic bleached, salt-encrusted appearance, the Midland side was buried beneath impenetrable sheets of ice and everlasting snow. The peaks rose so high that they pierced through the clouds, forming a natural barrier between the contrasting climate zones of the Northlands and Midlands. -- -- - ---- -- -- - To the east, the mountains ran all the way to the north-eastern coast of the Northlandic Ocean. Descending sharply just before reaching the oceans edge, the mountains gave rise to the Barnstream villages. Water cascading down from the heights carved deep furrows into the rock and gathered to form the Barnstream, which flowed seaward through multiple branching channels, its journey marked by the creation of diverse lakes along its path. These lakes served as lifelines for the sparse tribes of Bormen and Tairan descendants who had established settlements in these rugged lands.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. To the west, the mountain range extended unbroken towards Mortosta, the western sea, naturally dividing the continent into the Northlands and Midlands. Along the western base of the mountains, Mortosta''s waters grew denser and darker, gradually blending into the expansive Sastomian Swamplands. These swamplands were a realm dominated by wild mudland flora, a stark contrast to the icy peaks and rocky cliffs that defined the surrounding landscape. Midnight had traversed sections of the Snowtrail with Yves in the past. The path from the Albweiss Mountain Guild to the Barnstream Guild was familiar to her from those journeys. They had walked this route extensively six years ago, after spending nearly a year in the northeastern settlements. Now, she would walk alone. As the darkness that was Midnight attempted to seeped through the outer face, she encountered an immediate and potent barrier. It was not the witch magic, but a force external to the mountain, beyond the reach of her darkness sense. Intuitively, Midnight understood. While the darkness had thrived within the confines of the mountain, extending its territory far into the depths and heights of the Albweiss and granting her unhindered passage, the southern mountain face was claimed by the clearest of light. This display of radiance manifested in intricate prismatic patterns and beams that sprang from the myriad of reflections cast by the ice and snow that covered the mountainside. These luminous displays spanned the sky in an exhibition of natural energies that not a thousand wizards, with all their shards and light magic, could imitate. Midnight knew that these energies belonged to uncharted domains. Emerging a few hundred meters below the realm of the dragons yet far above the Snowtrail, she found herself in a place where the boundaries between the physical and ethereal realms blurred. The mountain''s essence seemed to bleed into the sky, where it met the Raja Siena the circular seal roumored to encircle the world like a coat of spells, dividing earth from sky and separating lesser beings from dragons; though three exceptions remained: ??????????????, ??????????, and ????????????????????????, who roamed below.-- -
Ch. 13.3 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face - Midnight - Light Orb
-- - Midnight was confronted with a barrier of a different nature. Anticipating a clash of darkness and light, she believed she needed a form. She needed mass to displace the surrounding light. It took her several minutes, but eventually, the ripples of darkness that were Midnight compressed and thickened. Traversing through the mountain wall, she had learned that she could, to some extent, spread and densify her form, expanding or compressing her presence. Thus condensed, her darkness emerged into the phantom presences of the countless undisturbed nets of light covering the mountain face. She expected her emergence to be an act of force, a conflict between opposing elements. She anticipated needing to displace the light, to become a mass of darkness pushing against a mass of light fragments like one beast trying to repel another. However, as she manifested outside the mountain, the light did not obstruct her like an external force. Nor did it pain her to exit the absolute darkness that had claimed the mountain. Midnight was there. The light fragments were there. They inhabited the same space, and yet, they did not touch. As a beast, Midnight could not perceive light fragments in their complete alladharian existence or adjust her depth perception in peculiar extremes like the Lightshifter wizards could. Still, with her midnight stalker senses touching upon the Alladharian Dimension, she had always excelled at noticing even the faintest phantom presences. Now, as a being of darkness, she felt the world around her with a new body. From what she currently sensed and building on what she had already concluded about her transformation, she was yet again reminded that she no longer had ties to the Alladharian Dimension. No part of her was Rothar. And with that, no part of her existed where the light fragments were. Midnight understood that she was not there, but found the concept exponentially confusing the longer her mind dwelled on it. She decided not to dwell on it any longer. She was an existence of no Rothar and no physical matter, yet when she had compressed her form, she had become a presence. She was not a phantom presence, not a dark shape or a shadow in this light-drenched environment, but she seemed to affect the Material Dimension. Midnight knew because even though she was nothing, the light started to flow around her. Beams of light, formerly prismatic reflections and straight rays, visibly bent in their trajectory towards her as if Midnight herself was attracting them. Unintentionally, she was pulling these phantom presences of light towards her.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. The beams were not like Yves attacks of light, not like spears that had touched her when she had been a beast. Instead, so gradually that Midnight could observe the changes, the light started to form ovals and rings around her. The omnipresent beams formed an intense orb of light with her at its center, encircling the ripples that extended from her essence. There was still no pain, but the phenomenon unnerved her. Midnight had always been a creature of stealth; regardless of the reason behind the disturbing spectacle, this light was a growing target on her. Immediately, she compressed herself even more, condensing into the mass of ripples she had been during the fight against the shadebeast, who had aggressively reduced her to the size of a patherren a cup-sized manifestation of her former self. This intuitive compression not only further reduced her size, or rather, her reach, but also made the beams of light bend even more strongly and from a greater distance. The denser Midnight became, the larger the orb grew. And then, something more happened. Suddenly, the darkness tethered to her essence began to erode. She felt herself being expended, exhausted merely to exist in the light-filled environment. Immediately, Midnight retreated from the light, seeping back into the mountain. The moment she did, the circular orb dissipated. Enclosed within the rock but with her senses extended, she felt the beams thinning and straightening back into their natural form. She attempted to emerge once more, but as the orb reformed and condensed around her, she once again felt her form disintegrate and diminish further. It was disturbing. Midnight was not much to begin with. She had been unable to regain her former size, to grow back. Even the darkness she had split from the shadebeast could not be assimilated; in the ice cave, it had remained as an external force she could control but not consume to reshape herself. After the fight, Midnight had absorbed the essence of the shadebeast, but she did not know if it had caused her to grow in any manner. She had been unable to discern at that moment, and she still could not. She had been too immersed in the intoxicating essence of the beast. She wondered if she would, over time, surpass this diminutive residue of her existence on her own, as she had once evolved from a mere patherren to a full pathera? In the past, her growth had been fuelled by external forces: physical prey and the energy of Rothar. Without a tangible body, she no longer needed to hunt for sustenance. But what about the energy she had once derived from the moon? Could Sey still strengthen her, or had she lost that connection entirely? Was she still, somewhere, somehow, a midnight stalker, or had she become something else entirely? Midnight now understood that her formidable abilities had been entirely dependent on her environment. In the profound darkness of the Albweiss, she had thrived, but in this world flooded with light, she felt weakened and vulnerable. Would she only be able to exist in environments devoid of light? The realm immediately beneath the Raja Siena stood in stark contrast to the subterranean world of the Albweiss. In the depths of the mountain, Midnight had manifested her existence without any cost or compromise. But beyond the underground realm, there were no expanses of uninterrupted darkness. Everywhere was bathed in light, day and night. Even during the darker hours, some source of illumination persisted, whether it was the moons or the stars except, of course, during the witching hour, the period of absolute darkness. A question arose in Midnights mind: Would the dark moon affect the encircling light? Would T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????n influence her?-- -
Ch. 13.4 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face - Midnight - Wax and Wick
-- - The thought of T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????n, the dark moon, intrigued her. Almost every night, T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????n rose to cast his shadow over all that was light and to swallow all Adhar. Perhaps, in his blackening gaze, she could find refuge a momentary shield, a way to move undetected through the omnipresent light. But this was mere speculation. Midnight knew she needed to explore her capabilities and limitations to understand them. Only then could she carve out a space for herself in this radiant world without being consumed by it. While anticipating the witching hour, Midnight went back to what she knew. Instead of exposing herself to the bending light, she shifted through the stone as she had done when exiting the mountain. As she moved within the mountain wall, Midnight expanded her reach and awareness once more. Though she no longer experienced the world like a beast no longer saw, heard, smelled, or touched it she perceived reality in a far more insidious manner, both outwardly and inwardly. The world around her was no longer something to interact with but something to recognise and pass through, while the world within her seemed vast, teeming with thoughts, sensations and power yet to be claimed. -- - - -- - Melding with the rock to progress further downward, she recognised but remained unaffected by the shifting weather that raged just below the clear band of light defining the sky under the Raja Siena. She rushed past fog-flooded storms of snow and hail, where ice fragments as large as boulders hurtled with a fury that could kill any pathera or wizard upon impact. Within the rock, the dangers were of a different nature; sealed areas, witch sigils, creatures like the shadebeast or sprites that prowled the crevices any of these could lie in wait within the very stone she traversed. Midnight moved with a predators caution, her senses attuned to the faintest trace of foreign presences and boundaries. Simultaneously, her mind wandered, stalking the vast territory that was all of her new thoughts. One of them was that if the beams were a phenomenon bound to the Raja Siena, they might not haunt her once she surfaced closer to the Snowtrail. From this idea, countless others branched off, each considering the consequences that could arise from this possibility. However, such thoughts were mere speculation. They were not reality, and they might never be. For now, there was only the present. To roam freely, Midnight would eventually need to find a way to sustain herself, to preserve the remaining currents of darkness attached to her essence. But for now, she was progressing.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. Yet as she pressed forward, a new thought began to uncurl within her, subtle yet insistent a serpent of realisation that slowly rose and demanded her attention: Midnight could live within the mountain. She could remain in the darkness of the Albweiss. Here, she could learn from the creatures of shadow, seek out the D???, and reveal to them what she had become. Among the beings of darkness, she could learn, grow and evolve. She would thrive. She would become more. The thought of seeking the D??? coiled firmly around her mind, filling her with a sense of purpose. She could prove to them that their faith in her potential had not been misplaced. She might. After learning about Yves fate. Midnight could not sense whether her wizard still walked the earth or if he had fallen to the Vicha. Her connection to him was frayed, perhaps severed entirely. Without knowing what had become of him, she could not fully embrace the new path bestowed upon her by the D???. However, if the wizard that she once chose as her companion had indeed perished, then Midnight would return to the mountain and seek out the Gods that had chosen her. As Midnight descended, a shiver of darkness coursing through the jagged mountain face, Sey and Burs emerged. The mother moon and her child began their slow, deliberate journey across the sky. Their pale light faintly illuminated the storm-ravaged mountainscape below, casting long, ghostly shadows over the peaks. Midnight did not see them not as she once had, with her midnight stalker eyes that could perceive their presences even through the fiercest of storms; glowing orbs, like two wandering eyes in the sky. In her former form, Midnight had also relied on an innate sense of time, always aware of Seys arrival and the surge of energy she brought her. That intuitive connection had been severed. Even her perception of time had become unreliable, distorted by her transformation and the time spent within the timeless realm of the mountain. Despite this, Midnight was certain the moons must have risen, since the sun had already touched upon the horizon when she had first emerged near the Raja Siena. Now far closer to the Snowtrail than to the heights of the dragon realm, Midnight slipped once more from the embrace of the stone, her form seeping into the open as she waited for the familiar sensation, that comforting yet exhilarating rush of power she had always drawn from Sey. But it did not come. Instead, it was the light that sought her. Unlike the volatile, ever-shifting amalgamation of light fragments that formed the sun, the light fragments that covered the world from the ground to the realm of the dragons remained fixed, their positions undisturbed unless shifted by wizards or other ethereal forces. Yet now, as before, they reacted to Midnights presence. Again they gravitated towards her, forming a growing spiral that compressed and intensified with each passing moment. The light grew brighter and stronger, creating an almost palpable aura around her. It was an anomaly that marked her, exposed her in a manner that was both disturbing and alien to her new existence; a light so vivid that even those who could not typically perceive the phantom presences of light during the absence of the sun would now see it. For such beasts and peoples, the setting of the sun heralded a plunge into shadow, while Midnight had always been able to see beyond that veil, perceiving the ethereal world with a clarity as natural to her as breathing had once been. Now, as darkness, she no longer saw in the conventional sense she perceived. Her awareness unfurled like a shroud of mist over the land, touching and knowing everything it covered. Yet in that vast and intimate connection, she could no longer feel Sey. The realisation twisted something deep within Midnight, beneath all the new thoughts that had begun to coil around and reshape her mind. She knew she had changed, and while she was eager hungry to change and become so much more still, this revelation also signified a profound loss. The moon, Sey, which had filled her with strength every night, its ethereal light coursing through her like lifeblood since her birth, now remained unseen, distant, indifferent. As a midnight stalker, Seys energy had sufficed to sustain her, much like Yves drew his strength from Adhar. Her consumption of physical sustenance had always been selective, deliberate. Midnight only devoured prey she had hunted herself, creatures of value, untainted by the poisons and rot that infested so many in the barren Northlands and the northern Midlands. But could she still hunt? Could she still consume prey? She understood she no longer needed to tear flesh or gnash bone, but did not all living things possess an essence? Something she could devour, something that could feed the darkness within her? Midnight lingered where she had emerged, despite the relentless beams of light that began to unravel her darkness. The layers of darkness surrounded her essence, the last remnants after her battle with the shadebeast, already felt perilously thin. She knew she could contain far more, that her essence had the capacity to bind and wield a much greater volume of darkness than the dwindling strands that now threatened to dissolve entirely. But the light clawed at her, like fire consuming the wax of a burning candle, gnawing its way down to the wick, her very core. She could feel it, this insidious force, pulling at the essence that defined her, threatening to consume her completely once the protective shell of darkness was exhausted. After the wax would come the wick. Despite the relentless pull of the light, Midnight refused to extinguish the flame. To retreat back into the safety of the mountain would be to cage herself, to confine the potential that pulsed within her new form. Her new form was a profound transformation that demanded more than mere survival; it required mastery, and mastery could only be attained by pushing beyond the confines of the Albweiss. Growth required action. It demanded risks, challenges, and the relentless pursuit of understanding. To become more, she had to expand the territory she traversed, to confront and transcend the limits of her abilities. Yves, too, held knowledge that she would need to acquire. Growth would come from change, from pushing against the boundaries of her very existence. And it would come. She would be more. With a resolve burning as fiercely as the light that sought to unravel her, the nothing that was Midnight moved. Unbound by the constraints of gravity, she soared along the jagged mountain face, a wraith of rippling darkness against the everlasting stone. Exhilaration surged through her as she realised the light could not hold her captive; the beams that threatened her fell back into their original patterns as she left them behind, while new orbs formed where she ventured. As long as she stayed in motion, faster than the light could close in, she could evade the consuming flame. Improving her control with every passing moment, Midnight quickened her pace, gliding effortlessly through the physical storms that battered the mountainside, through the ethereal light fragments whose phantom presences sought to ensnare her, untouched and unbound, like claws raking through air. The world around her was a discord of sensations, starkly different from all that the mountain had grown and held within its depths. As she honed her ability to perceive this new old world, Midnight focussed on discerning what should be the thin, biting air, and the weight of the night wind heavy with the scent of snow and stone. Yet, amidst these tangible impressions, she remained aware of the dangers that might lurk in the dark. Her darkness extended outward, probing the environment for any sign of other entities beasts, humanoids, ethereals. She also sensed for prey. A few hundred meters above where she suspected the Snowtrail to lie, she arrived at an expanse where the stale night wind seemed to weave the heavy storms into a restless slumber. Here, she sensed the presence of life. Winged beasts, their forms cloaked in the colours of snow, nestled in the crevices of the mountain, sheltered by long, horizontal fractures in the rock. Sensing what she could only interpret as the warmth of their bodies, Midnight felt something stir within her a flicker of hunger, perhaps, or the primal thrill of the hunt that had once defined her predator existence. Here, she decided to hunt.-- -
Ch. 13.5 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face. Snowtrail - Midnight - The fiator
-- - As Midnight observed the winged beasts, her understanding deepened. What she perceived was not simply the warmth of a living body, not the heat that emanated from flesh and blood, but something more profound their essence. This realisation brought forth echoes of her wizard''s words, surfacing from the depths of her altered consciousness. Essence was not bound to the physicality of the body, nor was it the ethereal Rothar. It was the thread that connected them, the force that tied body and energy together, and yet it was neither. Essence existed in a realm that was somewhere between, somewhere else entirely somewhere she could access and act? The teeming hunger and thrill of the hunt thrummed through Midnight. This was more than just a test of her newfound abilities; it was a reaffirmation of her existence, a reminder that she was still a predator at her core, even if she had become something more. The creatures she sought were not prey in the traditional sense; they were beings of essence, their lives holding the sustenance she needed to grow her own being. As she closed in, Midnight expanded her darkness, letting it unfurl like the wings of a great beast, enveloping the unsuspecting creatures in her shadow. They remained oblivious to the nothing creeping closer, their breaths slow and steady in the deep rhythm of sleep. Still, Midnight knew she had to be fast before the bending light caught up to give her away. Sensible beasts would recognise the shift in phantom presences long before visible orbs formed. Midnight reached out to the male nestled within the highest crevice, determined to touch his essence, to seize it, to consume it and make it her own. Her darkness surrounded him, occupying the same space, yet for all her reach, Midnight failed to gain a hold on him. As she struggled to make her darkness denser, now repeatedly attempting to wrap it around different creatures, the winged beasts began to stir. Something primal within them sensed the predator in their midst. A tremor ran through the flock, a collective flutter of wings, sudden, frantic, flaring fear the male far above her bolted, launching himself into the air with an impulsive burst of energy. Instantly, the others followed, their sleek forms desperately darting away from the darkness that had invaded their refuge. The hunt was on. Midnight surged after the fiator who had first sensed her presence. He was fast, but Midnight, unbound by the constraints of a physical existence, moved with a speed that defied nature. She streaked through the night more elusive and swift than any pathera could ever hope to be. The birds panic was palpable, a sharp flare of fear mingled with the fierce determination to escape the unseen predator. Despite his small size barely four bites for a patherren the fiator was a marvel of speed and skill. As a mountain glider, he was perfectly adapted to this harsh environment, racing through the treacherous terrain with a grace that belied the brutality of the elements. Darting through spontaneous and constantly shifting wind currents, weaving through fog, snow, hail, and rain, he navigated the jagged contours of the mountain with remarkable agility. The fiators evasive manoeuvres, his sudden dives and rapid ascents, were all observed, calculated, and countered. Repeatedly, he attempted to break away from the mountain face, to soar into the open sky, but the relentless winds and swirling snowstorms always forced him back, confining him to the narrow corridors of safety along the jagged cliffs. While he hugged the steep slopes and cliffs for fleeting moments of shelter, Midnight moved with an impossible speed, neither slowed or constrained by the forces that trapped him within her reach. Midnight''s pursuit of the fiator was an intense exercise in concentration, a test of her newfound abilities against the challenges of this unfamiliar terrain. The birds rapid, unpredictable movements demanded her full attention, forcing her to hone her focus with each passing second. Initially, she had merely recognised the birds essence, a vague sense of its presence. But as the chase continued, her awareness deepened. She began to distinguish between the different parts of the fiator not just the swirling Rothar, the ethereal energy that animated his existence, but also the physical body that followed the directions of this inner force. Together, these components framed the whole being, yet it was the essence that Midnight came to understand as the true core of the fiator''s existence.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. In a sudden moment of clarity, a flickering image of an arachnid flashed across Midnights mind, a revolting comparison that startled her with its unexpected relevance. The essence of a beast, she realised, was akin to an arachnid spinning and spanning a web around its own eight legs. This web was both a part of the arachnid and something separate, a delicate yet powerful structure that connected its legs and claimed the space in between. Anything caught in this web belonged to the arachnid, to be grasped, encased, consumed, or even released at its discretion. Yet, while all that the arachnid caught was indeed its own, yes, in the most primal and incontestable understanding of every respectable beast, of the arachnid, it was not the arachnid itself. The web, though inextricably linked to the creatures existence, was not The Arachnid. Even if the web were destroyed, even if a leg were lost, the arachnid would remain, capable of spinning a new web, of eventually reclaiming its space in the world. Similarly, a beasts Rothar and body could sustain damage, could be reduced or even severed, yet the essence the core of its being might survive, might continue to exist in some form. This revelation struck Midnight profoundly, though she could not discern its origin; it was certainly not from her wizard, who had never conveyed such an analogy. It was an irritating yet strikingly apt metaphor, aligning with her evolving understanding of essence, body, and Rothar. The body might diminish, grow, break, or shift, and Rothar could be depleted, replenished, or altered. Wizards, for instance, gradually expanded their capacity to hold Rothar over decades, which incrementally changed their all with each passing day. Yet, the wizard remained the wizard, even if his Rothar was depleted or if his body was irreversibly maimed. It was the essence that remained at the core of these temporal extensions, the arachnid at the center of its web, enduring through the cycles of receiving and losing, expanding and contracting, while always defining the space that was of the arachnid, tying together the fractured parts that were its whole, that were its existence. This existence-defining space, the web of life surrounding the essence, was what Midnight began to discern in the fiator. She sensed him with a growing clarity that was both exhilarating and unsettling. Like him, all that lived was not a singular entity but, in truth, a fractured whole. The essence was the immutable center around which everything revolved, yet paradoxically, it seemed that it could not exist independently. With this revelation, the hunt had unexpectedly transformed from a mere physical pursuit into a profound exploration of life''s very nature. Amidst the ruthless snowstorms and freezing heights, the pursuit of the fiator became an intellectual and existential challenge, an attempt to understand and claim the foundation of life itself. Moreover though, it remained a trial of patience and adaptation. With each moment of clarity, frustration mounted. Midnight wanted to entwine her darkness with the fiators essence, to rupture it out of him and make it her own. However, unlike the shadebeast, the fiator was not a being of darkness, and no matter how often she tried, she could not figure out how to reach and consume his essence.-- - - - - -
Ch. 13.6 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face. Snowtrail - Midnight - Orks
- - Midnight instinctively densified the darkness that clung to her. As she tracked the fiator through the jagged terrain, her focus honed in on the delicate space between the essence and all that the essence held. Her intent was to sever the arachnids webbing right at its legs, to tear apart the sticky structures that bound the physical form and Rothar to the core so tightly that they seemed inseparable from the essence itself. Midnight aimed to distinguish what was truly the fiator, and what was merely an extension of him. But each attempt met with failure. Midnights darkness, potent as it was, could not hold onto essence, Rothar or matter. The very nature of all that was something resisted the intrusion of the nothing that was her. The fiator, still sensing the preying nothing, fled with desperate agility, his small form darting ever further down the mountainside. Gushes of determination and frustration rippled through Midnight, merging, maddening storms flooding her mind, while the birds movements grew increasingly erratic and unpredictable, driven by a primal surge of survival amidst the chaotic elements. The chase became more frantic as the fiator swooped down, skimming the snowtrail that wound through the mountains lower reaches. Where the air around the birds resting place had almost been calm, the night now transformed into a maelstrom of elements, mirroring the intensity of the hunt. The wind howled with fury, snowstorms screamed through the jagged peaks and valleys, hurling thick layers of snow across the landscape. Dense fog rolled in waves, shrouding the treacherous slopes and steep cliffs. Loose rocks and icy ledges gave way to the ruthless forces, breaking and plunging into harrowing depths. - - - - - - Midnight crossed the snowtrail, her movement swift and fluid. In the fraction of a second it took her to soar past, she registered two batherga, resilient mountain wanderers renowned for their endurance in these barren heights. Their deliberate, cautious movements revealed their purpose they were scouting the trail ahead of a patrol party that followed about a kilometer behind. In that instant, Midnight grasped the full gravity of the situation. The batherga were walking into an ambush; a pack of armed orks lay in wait on a ledge above the trail, poised to descend and attack. To the seeing eyes, their silhouettes were but flickers of shadow, barely discernible against the stark backdrop of the mountain. Their positioning was strategic, ensuring the patrol would be caught off guard in the narrowest part of the trail, where escape or effective defense would be nearly impossible without magic. - - - - - Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.- - An impulsive thought surged through Midnights mind she could abandon her hunt, swoop back up, and warn the batherga. The possibility flickered, the choice to intervene, to change her course and theirs, perhaps even to impact the balance in the ongoing ork invasion that had befallen the Midlands. But as swiftly as the thought came, it was gone. Her decision was made in the brief moment it took her to assess the situation. This was not her fight. While orks were a notorious threat deserving eradication, they were neither her responsibility nor her concern. Her duty lay with the mission assigned by her wizard, and her priority was the sustenance and mastery of the dark existence granted by her Gods. The world of humanoids and beasts was not hers to save or to suffer. Midnight pressed on, her focus narrowing back onto the fiator, who had plunged into an even fiercer battle against the elements. The wind screamed with a beastly ferocity that skinned the mountain slopes of their snow and exposing its everlasting bones of ice and jagged rock beneath. The temperature dropped further, turning the biting rain into sharp pellets of ice, flurries whipping past and through Midnight like millions of shards of glass that struck and ricocheted off the stone with a harsh clatter. They were illuminated by flashes of lightning, stark bursts of condensed light fragments that shot across the dark sky, chased by the deafening roars of the emerging thunder. Driven to desperation, the fiator dove and wove through the narrow corridors of the mountain with frantic determination, his wings brushing perilously close to the rough stone walls as he sought both protection and any possible escape. Midnight, unfazed by the elements wraith, understood that he intended to descend further until the winds would allow him to break off from the mountain, to lose her in the swamps of the northern Midlands. Midnight did not evade the challenge. Obsessed by a mixture of admiration, determination and mounting frustration, she strained to solidify her darkness, to see it coil tighter with every strike. Each attempt was met with failure a manifestation of intent with no effect. The very nature of his existence defied her, slipping through her grasp like water through claws, a core of tangible life that resisted the nothingness she wielded. As they neared the mountain base, Midnights frustration surged, breaching into the prospect of failure. With four to five hundred kilometers left before they reached the bottom, she detected the first traces of potent swamp poison swelling upward with the winds. The sensation was subtle yet distinct, a sharp contrast to the cold mountain air, and while she could not spare the attention to explore this newfound sensitivity in the midst of the chase, it intrigued her. She instinctively suspected that this heightened awareness was linked to her initial transformation into a creature of poison, a lingering connection to the rock weaver poison she had woven into her existence. Refusing to let the fiator slip away, Midnight altered her approach. She compressed her form, becoming more noticeable, and repeatedly closed in from underneath the bird, only to retreat at the last moment. She created the illusion of singular escape routes, subtle openings that strategically steered her prey back upward. She forced the him to ascend once more, back towards the snowtrail and away from the safety of the swamps below. As they climbed higher, they crossed paths with another scene of violence, stark and brutal slaughter a horde of orks, fifty-nine in number, was scrambling up the steep mountain slope. Their movements were erratic. They were a ragged, battered and bloodied force, struggling through the onslaught of snow and hail towards a natural crevice in the rock, a desperate attempt at shelter. The crevice, extended crudely into the mountainside, seemed to have once been intended as a tunnel or a hideout, but for the horde it was but a poor excuse for refuge. The orks were severely injured and agitated, pushing, pulling and trampling each other as they ran, climbed, collapsed, slipped and fell down the slope. The reason for their terror became clear moments later. Ahead, Midnight encountered their pursuer, the creature that had turned their retreat into a massacre a voltera, a monstrous predator resembling a panthera but far more massive, was tearing through the remnants of orks that had fallen behind. His muscles rippled beneath a scarred hide of thick brown fur; his rampage the realisation of raw carnage. In the face of such primal power, the orks were decimated. Their strikes barely left a mark on the voltera''s hide, blades breaking and axes splintering as they connected. Trying to gain distance, the majority of the horde retreated, regrouped and switched their various handheld weapons to their metal spears. It took the voltera but a few moments to slaughter the three fighters that had remained to grant the remaining sixteen the time needed to mount their defense; his claws slashing through flesh, sending bodies flying. Blood and snow mixed beneath the voltera''s claws, drowning his growing territory in crimson as he surged forward and swiped at their spears. Atop the volteras back sat a twisted figure. A bearded wizard, gaunt and sickly, clung to the beast''s fur, hunched over the volteras massive shoulder blades. His body sagged as if on the brink of collapse, barely able to remain conscious, barely able to hold on. Securing and supporting him from behind was a creature even more unnerving a scorchborn; a humanoid abomination born from the decaying swamps of the Midlands. With bodies composed of the diseases and toxins of their birth environment, scorchborn are bringers of plagues. This individual''s skin was a dark, diseased mass, riddled with fungal growths and spore-like protrusions, covered only in ragged, brown cloth and patches of fur. She radiated pestilence, her mere touch enough to rot flesh. Midnight had seen the effects of a scorchborns infection before, how even her wizard had barely survived such an affliction. As the darkness examined the forms of both the scorchborn and the wizard, Midnight understood that this wizard, too, had been marked by the scorchborns disease. His body trembled with the strain of it, every breath a labored effort as the sickness clawed at him from within. Yet still, he held on, driven by the volteras fury. Their bond was palpable, a shared ferocity that fuelled the massacre below. The darkness spotted another creature. Behind the voltera, perched on a jagged mass of stone jutting straight out of the middle of the snowtrail, sat a feathered beast. It was avian in form, yet something about it was wrong. Thick feathers covered its body, but where wings should have been, there were only stumps mutilated remnants of what had once been a creature capable of flight. Midnight traced the contours of its powerful form and recognised the signs of its severed wings, the scars still visible, cutting deep into its flesh. Though flightless, the beast exuded a strange, bitter pride, its head held high despite the humiliation of its mutilation. But his pride and presence was hollow, a vestige of what he once was. It was a creature without power, yet unwilling to hide, its eyes watching the slaughter below with a cold, detached malice. Midnight halted, staring. In that fraction of a second, the bending phantom presences of light caught up with her sudden stillness. It was a brief but crucial lapse in her stealth. The volteras head snapped in her direction, his eyes locking onto the faint shimmer of the emerging orb of light. Above, the wizard stirred, his head lifting, eyes bloodshot and hollow, yet filled with a sudden awareness for the darkness that had long surrounded them.
Ch. 13.7 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face. Snowtrail - Midnight, Nagrak, Gorak
- - Midnights essence compressed, the flickering edges of her darkness coiling in on themselves as the bending light twisted and writhed around her, burning away what belonged to her, consuming her presence. The raw energy of the storm and snow surged around and swept through her, creating their very own cocoon of chaos around the ravenous orb of gold that engulfed her. Yet, Midnight lingered, suspended between the onslaught of the elements, the devouring light, and the violence unravelling below. This moment of stillness was not hers alone it extended to the monstrous voltera and his companions. The wizard atop the beast strained his gaze upward. Though sunken and glazed with sickness, his eyes still held a last fragment of sharpness, revealing the remnants of a once-mighty force. Frail and ravaged by disease, his body trembled, yet a sensibility lingered in his expression, as if he could see beyond the growing orb of radiance. He had not grasped all that she was, but something within Midnight, something of her drew his attention. His gaze followed her, even as she shifted between nearby ledges, momentarily evading the revealing fragments of light The artefact. It was the voice that spoke for her which suddenly revealed the source of her exposure; the sigil ring gave her away. Though a relic that transcended both the Material and the Alladharian dimensions, it had magical ties to both. In that regard, it was the only tangible part of the nothing that was her, latched onto her net of darkness. Ethereal yet potent, its presence both elusive and undeniable, the ring anchored Midnights existence in this world of matter and Rothar. Yet, before the wizard or the voltera could react, the sudden, savage roars of the orks shattered the second of stillness between them. Their guttural cries erupted like thunder, their infuriated faces twisting into grotesque forms, reminiscent of the totemic masks they so often wore in battle faces molded by the harshness of this frozen wasteland, scarred by years of war, and etched with burning rage. Greenish flesh, marred by frostbite, split in jagged cracks across their bodies, streaked with freezing blood that crystallised into sharp crimson lines. Their breath escaped in sharp, angry bursts, misting in the frigid air as they rallied, reformed, and readied for battle once more. Where they had been desperate and decimated, they suddenly revolted in death-defying determination, driven by a primal wrath that was raised by the appearance of a towering male. He came from above, a hulking figure recklessly descending from the cliffs. His body was draped in furs thick with grime and stiffened by ice that had formed jagged spikes. They clung to his body like armour, adding to his already imposing presence, as though the mountain itself had forged him from its brutal elements. His broad, bare shoulders were a mass of sinew and scar tissue, each line carved deep into his flesh. His tusks, one chipped and worn, and the other gleaming with silver, jutted out from a jaw that had been broken and healed too many times to count. He was older than the others, his face lined with prominent wrinkles of age and hardship, yet his eyes burned with a flicker of cunning that belied his savage appearance. His name, whispered with reverence and fear among his kin, was Gorak the Frostblade. His reputation stretched far across the Albweiss Mountains, a legacy of bloodshed and brutality that had marked his decades of survival in the frozen north. His savagery was tempered only by a sharp, calculating mind, a trait that had kept him alive and dominant where countless others had fallen. As Gorak charged down the trail from the rear, the orks parted for him like ice splitting before a raging avalanche. His mere presence rekindled their bloodlust, igniting the smoldering hunger for battle that had dimmed with the decrease of their numbers. Reaching the front of the decimated horde, Gorak hefted his grand axe; a brutal weapon with a blade chipped and blackened from countless wars. He stormed ahead, his voice bellowing commands, guttural and fierce. They translated into a ripple of motion, erratic yet disciplined. Switching from their various blades and axes to long, jagged metal spears, the decimated horde snapped into formation and surged forward, hammering their shields or chests with swinging fists in a rhythmic chant that echoed their rising fury.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! Trailing in the shadow of Goraks massive bulk was a younger, wiry ork. He struggled to keep pace with the krags relentless momentum, his steps awkward and laboured, a stark contrast to the fluid brutality of the warriors around him. While the rest of the orks were hulking masses of scarred muscle, their bodies hardened by war and the brutal cold, the younglings disproportionate figure was painfully thin. Thick black hair, streaked with frost, curled around his head, making it appear much too large for his frail body. His limbs were gangly and awkward and his skin had taken on the sickly, pale hue of malnourishment. He looked like a starved scavenger. His name was Nagrak. He was the runt of the Frostblades horde, a misfit among warriors. Yet, for all his physical shortcomings, Nagraks meagre frame housed a mind sharper than any blade wielded by his kin, and a fire that outshone the blind rage that fuelled the others. Where the rest were driven by innate bloodlust directed by the unwavering commands of their krag, Nagrak was driven by something higher, something far greater a vision of purpose and potential, merged into boundless ambition. At least, this is what Nagrak believed. Because at one point of his misbirth existence, he had been told that the blood of an orich coursed through his veins. From that day on, Gorak had kept him close, offering protection Nagrak had never known. Where once he had been shoved aside, beaten for his frailty and mocked for his runtish size, now he stood in the shadow of the krags brutal authority, and that shift in fortune granted Nagrak a new sense of importance that had gone straight over his oversized head. Nagraks mind inflated with delusions of destiny, convinced that his future mirrored the likes of Bayazak and Tergak, the hordes revered orichs, whose mystical insight into the forces of nature guided the warriors with a blend of wisdom and raw, elemental power. His mind was a steel trap, yes, but the only prey ever caught in that trap was Nagrak himself. Because in the end, not only the truly cunning, but also the utterly daft see themselves as superior to their peers. The difference lies not in their conviction, but in reality. The truly cunning recognise the world for what it is and adapt, while the daft twist reality through their own, distorted perspective. They believe their own fantasies into existence. Nagrak stood so far on the wrong side of that spectrum, that his subjective self-perception had long turned into self-deception. He believed his rise was inevitable. In truth, he was more likely to be trampled underfoot than to guide anyone to glory, but he was simply too stupid to understand just how stupid he was. In his simplisic leader-and-follower mindset, he was convinced that where the other orks were all brute force, he was strategy. One day, Nagrak was sure the horde would see it too. For now, though, he remained in the background, content to follow Gorak into the fray, biding his time for the perfect moment to prove his worth. Even if that moment existed only in the confines of his distorted trap of a mind. Nagraks frustration twisted his gaunt face as he struggled to elbow his way past the larger warriors who closed in right behind Gorak. Their broad, scarred backs had formed an impenetrable wall that he could not breach. They did not spare him a glance. They knew him for what he was a harmless nuisance, an insect buzzing in their midst. Nagraks antics were infamous, but they went largely ignored, for Gorak had made it clear that no harm should come to the runt. As long as krags decree of protection shielded him, the horde let him run free and endured his presence with silent contempt. And so, like a shadow clinging to the base of a mountain, Nagrak trailed after Gorak, blissfully ignorant of just how far out of reach his ambitions truly were. In contrast, Gorak, looking down from the metaphorical mountain peak, was acutely aware of Nagraks delusions. He had made the disturbing experience that the runt did not grasp hierarchies, a dangerous flaw in an ork. Unlike the others, Nagrak never knew when to be afraid, when to show submission, or when to stand down. His irritating persistence had only worsened since the orichs had taken an interest in him, and Gorak found it increasingly difficult to tolerate the runts presence. It had been over seven moon cycles ago when Gorak had first resolved to kill Nagrak, determined to offer him as a sacrifice to the Wronging Rock. But when he had voiced his intention to the orichs, they had stayed his hand, sensing some potential in the scrawny youngling. They had requested nine full cycles to straighten him out, promising to put the runt in his place and perhaps uncover the potential they believed was hidden within him. Gorak had agreed to leave him unharmed for the duration of the orichs'' efforts. But as the cycles passed, he saw no sign of the presumed potential the orichs claimed to see. His patience, once as solid as the frozen peaks of the Albweiss Mountains, was beginning to thaw like the wandering ice sheets of Taltarag Spring, steadily giving way to the rising tide of his frustration. Now, as the horde hurled themselves at the massive voltera with renewed recklessness, Gorak led the charge, his grand axe raised high. Behind him, the warriors surged forward in a frenzy of violent motion, their eyes burning with battle-lust, while Nagrak was pushed to the rear, barely able to keep pace. In his deluded mind, the warriors indifference was not disdain but respect, a silent acknowledgment of his importance. He believed they were shielding him, protecting him until the moment when his hidden powers would finally awaken and reveal his true worth. Nagrak knew that he could not fight until those powers manifested. He was convinced that the krag expected greatness from him, just as he did from the other orichs. Nagraks black eyes, wide and gleaming with nervous energy, darted frantically between Gorak and the voltera. His heart pounded in his chest, every beat amplifying his certainty. Yes, Gorak needed him. The horde needed him. This was his moment. It needed to happen now. Today was the day his magic would manifest.
Ch. 13.8 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face. Snowtrail - Gorak - Battle
- - But Goraks attention was not on Nagrak, nor had it ever been. He was locked in a battle of life and death with the voltera. With every lunge, the beast aimed to crush the ork line and overrun their ranks. Yet each time, Gorak and Baltagar, his brother, met the beast head-on and pushed back with all that they had, their grand axes cutting through the freezing air with brutal efficiency. From underneath, the edges of their chipped weapons bit deep into the creatures neck and chest, forcing it back with every swing. Dodging and striking, the brothers moved as one, instinctively covering each others blind spots. Whenever the beast reared up, claws slashing toward Baltagar, Gorak was there, his strikes relentless, delivering a flurry of blows to keep the voltera at bay. And when the creature attempted to trample Gorak, Baltagar hurled himself forward, deflecting its massive paws and claws with sheer brute force. Yet Gorak did not rely on his brothers strength alone. He utilised all of his warriors. His guttural commands cut through the chaos of battle: Hold the line! he bellowed, Spears ready! Wait for him to rear! His voice brought order to the storm of violence, snapping the hot-blooded orks back into disciplined formation. They understood the strategy, maintaining the necessary distance to keep the beast at a disadvantage. Whenever the voltera reared back, the spearmen jabbed at its exposed flanks, exploiting every brief moment of vulnerability. Goraks tactics turned the battle into a deadly game of timing in unison, the orks figured out when to strike, when to withdraw, and when to press their advantage. Gorak needed to build on that. As soon as the warriors showed the necessary level of coordination, he initiated the next step of his plan. Strategically, he sent warriors scrambling up the jagged rock face. They struggled, their claws and boots slipping on the frost-coated stone, but four of them managed to ascend to a higher ledge. Meanwhile, five others braved the chaos of the volteras thrashing legs and claws, pushing straight through, past him and Baltagar, to flank the creature from the rear. With the voltera surrounded on all sides except the steep slope, Goraks tactics had turned the dangerous trail into an advantage, hemming the beast within the narrow confines of the path. Under Goraks direction, the ork warriors moved with cohesion, spears raised and shields interlocked, driven by deadly, deliberate focus. In coordinated attacks, they aimed for the beasts vulnerable joints, its soft underbelly, its exposed throat anywhere his fur and hide were thinnest. The voltera fought back with primal fury, gnashing its fangs at anything within reach and tearing furrows into the earth with its claws, scattering ice and snow into the storm. Yet each time the beast lunged forward, the circle of orks would pull back. The warriors moved as one retreating, reforming, and advancing again in ever improving synchronisation. They were a deadly tide pulling back and forth, crashing against the beast in unrelenting waves, striking with every surge. The beast tore through the first wave by force, his claws ripping through flesh and sending shattered bodies tumbling down the mountainside. The cries of the fallen were drowned out by the beasts ferocious roars, its bulk smashing through shields and armour. But the orks adapted with exemplary speed. What started as the continuation of slaughter, shifted with every subsequent wave. By the fourth wave, their assaults had become methodical. Whenever one side retreated from the beast''s counterattacks, all other warriors surged forward with their spears. The fight was brutal but effective, each movement calculated to overwhelm and exhaust the creature. The beast, unable to land a decisive blow against the relentless ork tide, found himself flooded by rage each strike born more of rage than precision. - As the voltera lurched and thrashed beneath him, the wizard atop the beast swayed precariously, his frail form bending and trembling with each violent movement. His grip faltered with every sharp jolt, fingers clutching desperately at the volteras fur to steady himself. His face was gaunt, a sheen of sickness and exhaustion coating his pallid skin. Still, his lips moved in a feverish whisper, murmuring incantations under his breath. Rothar ebbed from his body and into a broad stone artefact strapped to his back. To the inexperienced eye, it seemed a cumbersome, oversised piece of armour, ill-suited for the wizards thin frame. The stone plates were bulky, covering his back in a strange, disjointed manner without offering protection to his vital organs. But to those with senses attuned to the ethereal, the flow of Rothar now revealed its magical properties, the way it siphoned energy and stored it within its intricately carved runes. Those who could see even further, beyond the wizards exterior, might also recognise that the many interconnected stone plates were a part of the wizard, fused directly into his skin as though they were an extension of his body. Behind the wizard, the scorchborn clung to him like a festering parasite, her diseased, fungal body pressed tightly against his hunched frame. Her arms coiled around his upper body like twisted vines. The tattered furs hanging from her body were soaked with thick, oozing secretions that bled onto the wizard and into the air like a toxic fog, taken up by the storm that raged around them. Beneath her furs, her bloated, distorted form pulsed grotesquely. Fleshy growths and dripping pustules writhed under her spongy skin; it was her skin heaving and breathing, her whole body exuding poison, both into the air and directly into the wizard through her touch. Her hand gripped his chest from behind, fingers curling around his ribs, while the other dug deep into his bare left arm. The sharp, root-like structures that were her fingers pierced his flesh, the tips of her jagged nails embedding themselves into his skin like thorns growing into the very marrow of his bones. The wizards arm twitched uncontrollably under her touch, yet he did not pull away. Their connection was a strange, symbiotic bond her presence was both protective and parasitic. Every drop of poison fed his corruption and drained his vitality, yet in that moment, what she gave to him also became of him, adding to his Rothar and seeping into the stone plates fused to his back.Stolen novel; please report. Leaning close, the scorchborn hissed into the wizards ear, her voice a rasping whisper like dead leaves scraping across stone. Her words were drowned in the roar of the storm, but they reached the wizards ears and beyond. They were not unheard by the observing darkness; the scorchborn was directing the wizard, guiding the incantations that flowed from his trembling lips. All the while, the avian creature perched on the singular boulder situated right on the trail remained perfectly still. The wind rustled through his thick, dark feathers, but he did not move, did not stir. He was but a grim spectator to the carnage unfolding in front of him. - Goraks voice thundered above the chaos, his breath billowing in clouds of mist. His orders were sharp and decisive, yet loaded with the weight of decades of warfare. Every muscle in his massive body was taut, his icy furs clinging to him, blending his form with the swirling snow and frost around him. Yes, he was as much part of the mountain as the mountain was part of him. He was the mountain incarnate, an unyielding force of nature that understood both the unforgiving terrain and the desperation of a cornered beast. When the voltera, struggling to move within the confines of the narrow path, made an attempt to leap toward the cliffside for higher ground, Gorak''s instincts flared. The beast sought to escape the deadly ring of orks, intending to lure them into single file instead so that he may tear them apart one after the other. But Gorak knew this tactic well, had seen the same desperation in countless foes before. Without hesitation, he surged forward, his massive form ploughing through the deep snow with a grace and speed that defied his bulk as much as it testified to a lifetime of combat experience in the Albweiss. His eyes remained locked onto the volteras retreating form. Cut him off! he roared, sending his warriors scrambling to flank the creature. They sprang into action, scattering across the terrain with deadly precision. Nine orks rushed forward to encircle the beast, moving to block his retreat before he could climb out of reach, while the others, directed by Baltagar, hurled their metal spears at his hind legs. The close range ensured lethal accuracy. Spear after spear struck true, sinking deep into the thick hide and finding purchase between his massive muscles. The beast stumbled, its legs buckling under the sudden onslaught, and its body slammed into the frozen rock wall. The wizard was thrown off upon impact. Ice and snow cascaded down from the cliffs above, tearing him away from the beast. The trail and all remaining warriors were shrouded in a suffocating haze of white. Gorak had no time to waste on the fallen wizard, trusting that Baltagar would handle any threats in his wake. His focus was singular the voltera. He surged forward, closing the distance in a few powerful strides. With a bellowing war cry, he launched himself onto the beasts flank. The spears still embedded in the volteras legs provided just enough grip for Gorak to scale its side, ignoring the warm sprays of blood that splattered his arms and face. The beast reared and thrashed violently, trying to shake him off, but Gorak pressed on, climbing higher. Blood slicked his hands, and the storm made each movement perilous, yet Goraks hauled himself up the beasts massive form, finally reaching his broad back. But just as he prepared to draw his axe for the final blow, the voltera bucked fiercely. Gorak was flung backward, his body sliding off the beasts left shoulder blade. For a heart-stopping moment, Gorak saw himself thrown into the abyss below his hand grabbed hold of the volteras thick fur. With a grunt of exertion, Gorak hauled himself back onto the beasts back, his muscles burning as he fought against the immense strain. Time was slipping away this battle had to end. Now. Without hesitation, he locked his massive arms around the volteras thick neck, pressing into the many gashes already torn into his flesh by earlier axe blows. Gorak could feel the pulsing heat of the blood beneath his grip, the raw, wild power coursing through his massive body. The voltera thrashed wildly, his enormous bulk rearing and bucking, desperate to throw Gorak off again. The beasts jaws snapped, trying to twist his head far enough to sink his fangs into the krags flesh, his hot, acrid breath blasting against Goraks face in ragged bursts. But the krags grip was ironclad, his every muscle coiled, his sinews stretched to their limit as he held firm, his mind focused only on the kill. He felt the beasts struggles weakening, his movements becoming more desperate From the blinding storm, she came, a blackened blur of fury, claws poised to kill. The scorchborn descended from above with lethal precision, her fingernails aimed to pierce Goraks neck in one swift stroke. He had not seen her coming had not sensed the threat. The storm had swallowed her approach, masking her presence in its vicious white howl. But years of brutal survival had taught Gorak to react without thought, to trust the instincts honed by blood and war. In the heartbeat before her claws struck true, Gorak twisted, a brutal shift of muscle and sinew. His arm raised to meet the attack, and though her jagged talons bit deep, carving searing lines into his forearm, he barely registered the injury. Hot blood spilled, steaming as it hit the frozen air, but his mind was not tethered to the pain. Battle frenzy surged through his veins, drowning out the sting with a savage flood of rage. He moved with predatory violence. In one fluid motion, Gorak seized her leg, hauled her up with a brutal heave and sent her frail form sprawling across the volteras back. Shrieking, she was thrown off and out of sight, swallowed by the jagged cliffs below. Gorak almost followed her, his balance faltering as the beast beneath him thrashed wildly, but his fingers found purchase. Teeth gritted, his muscles bunched, iron-strong, as he clung to the volteras massive form, every fibre in his body straining to hold on while he drew his axe once more. There was no battle cry, no shout of triumph, no bellow of rage the final blow, as orc custom dictated, was always delivered in silence. The axe came down. It was swift, a lethal arc cutting through the chaos of the storm. It bit deep into the volteras neck, cleaving through muscle and bone with grim finality. The beast lurched violently to the side, and in that instant, the cliffside beneath them gave way. Ice cracked, snow crumbled, and for a fleeting moment, the voltra teetered at the edge of the Snowtrail, then he plunged, his massive form crashing down the steep cliff. Gorak had only a split second. He hurled himself from the volteras back, the ground vanishing beneath him. The world turned to chaos snow, wind, and jagged rock all blurring into one violent rush. Snow exploded and shards of ice flew in every direction as his heavy frame slammed against the jagged rock. He hit a ledge far below the trail, landing with bone-shattering force. The impact drove the breath from his lungs, but Gorak was on his feet in an instant. Bloodshot eyes turned to track the volteras body careening down the crags. For a brutal second, he watched as the beast scraped along the rock, limbs breaking, flesh tearing apart in a gruesome cascade of blood and fur, before he was swallowed by the storm-shrouded maw of the mountain. For a moment, Gorak stood still, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His expression was one of grim satisfaction, yet he did not indulge in it. The kill, as precious as it was, did not belong to him. It was not his victory alone. The mountain had been with him, had chosen him. It had gifted him the moment when the ledge crumbled, when the volteras weight had torn through the fragile surface and sent it plummeting to its death, and so, the spoils were not his to claim. Goraks people had long known this truth: the mountain takes as it gives. It demands tribute, and those who survive its trials do so only with its blessing. Gorak spat into the snow, a bitter laugh rumbling from his chest. The beast could have fed his horde for many nights. But this was the way of things. He had survived. The mountain had given him that. The krag tore off his heavy armour, leaving only scraps of fur to cover his body, preparing to climb. He would return to claim his place among the living if the mountain willed it.
Ch. 13.9 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face. Snowtrail - Gorak - Orichs
- - Midnight saw everything from everywhere. Her presence saturated the storm, flowing through the very marrow of the Albweiss. The grand male was not yet lost to her. She watched it all unfold: the volteras frantic descent, Goraks resolute stance, the scattered remnants of the ork horde. Her darkness stretched, flowing like tendrils, tracing the volteras fall in grim detail. Every jagged scrape, every desperate gouge in the rock and ice was laid bare before her. The beasts claws tore deep furrows into the mountainside as he plummeted, dislodging massive slabs of ice that tumbled into the abyss below, sending thick cascades of snow in their wake. The mountain reacted violently, avalanches crashing down in suffocating waves, hundreds of metres of raw force plunging into the yawning chasm. The cliffs opened up, revealing a vast, terrible canyon an endless void of shadow and ice. From there, it was a free fall As the voltera neared this precipice, just meters above that gaping void, his claws finally found purchase in the frozen rock, halting his plunge in a sudden, savage grip. The force of its impact dislodged another cascade of snow, which poured down into the canyons depths like a suffocating shroud, but the voltera clung to the cliffside, refusing to yield. His beasts primal tenacity was palpable, his very will to live an affront to the unforgiving elements. Midnights darkness wove itself into the tension of the moment. She felt it the air vibrating with a sinister hum, the mountain itself unsettled by something more than the storm. A twisted tremor, a foreboding fracture in the natural order. It was the wizard. His presence was a rupture in the Albweiss, a pulse of magic deeply corrupted. He moved abruptly, leaping from the crumbling ledge with a speed and power his body could not possess - Two shapes soared past Gorak, cutting through the storm with terrifying speed. The wizard had followed the voltera, propelling himself off the mountain with a leap that defied nature. He plummeted through the air, his descent rapid and calculated, a predator honing in on prey. Behind him, the avian beast followed its head thrust forward, beak like a spear, slicing through the storm without hesitation. Wingless, yet it glided as if the winds themselves bent to its will. As the wizard fell, his body warped and expanded, muscles bulging beneath his skin, bones stretching and twisting in abstruse contortions, legs lengthening into talon-like appendages. His feet gnarled into vicious claws while grand folds of skin erupted from his back, fusing with his arms, thickening and sprouting feathers in an instant; monstrous wings snapping open. His transformation was swift and violent, a grotesque act of primal magic that twisted his form into something both beastly and horrifying. He had become a creature of flight, an abomination far larger, far more terrifying than the voltera. Before the storm swallowed him, Gorak caught one last glimpse the gleam of talons, as the wizard dove toward the avian beast. With a single, powerful strike of his wings, the wizard surged forward. His warped claws reached out, poised to snatch the avian beast in mid-flight. The air churned violently around them, the storm growing thicker, darker. In an instant, the two figures vanished into the swirling chaos. Gorak spun around and raised his corotashell horn to his cracked lips, blowing a long, guttural note upwards. The sound resonated through the frozen air, a mournful call meant to carry upwards to those still on the Snowtrail. It was a warning, a cry to alert the remaining warriors of the unseen threat. But the storm clawed at the sound, drowning it in its howling winds. Gorak did not know if it would reach his brother and his bretheren. Then he started to climb. His brother did not know. None of them knew. They had believed the wizard broken, a broken man at the edge of death, poisoned and drained of power the orichs had assured them as much. But what Gorak had just witnessed was no less than the emergence of a monster something primal and raw, a creature forged in all that was unnatural. Gorak''s mind raced as he climbed. If his brother and the other orks above had gazed down into the depths of the storm, they would have seen nothing but the swirling white tempest. To them, it must have appeared as though the wizard and the avian beast, faced with inevitable defeat, had hurled themselves into death, choosing the abyss over facing the blades of the ork horde. It was the most natural conclusion, an assumption that had held true for years. In the decades Gorak had spent defending the Albweiss, it had always been the beasts that fought to the death to live, and the men and wizards that chose to die even before their lives ended. - The suddenness of the fall stole the breath from the warriors, the momentum of their savage charge broken as the voltera was swallowed by the storm below. Confusion rippled through their ranks, a collective pause as they watched their prey vanish, followed by the wizard and the avian beast plunging into the abyss as well. The wind howled in their stead, each gust carrying the fury of the mountain, laced with ice sharp enough to flay skin from bone. For one frozen heartbeat, even the bloodlust coursing through the orks faltered. The battle-frenzy that normally consumed them, a madness that otherwise drove them into the maw of death without hesitation, was simply muted by the despair they had witnessed. All that remained was the wail of the wind, the distant roar of the avalanche, and the ragged, shuddering breaths of warriors half-buried under snow and stone. That stunned silence shattered by Balthagars roar, a guttoral cry that ripped through the storm and reverberated through the bones of those still standing, his raw force a violent jolt to their senses. He stood defiant, his breath coming in heaving gasps but his stance unyielding. The avalanche had swallowed half his warband, but Balthagar remained, a towering figure among the survivors. He was a mountain of muscle clad in crude armour, by far the tallest among them. His dark eyes scanned the storm, searching for any sign of movement, of his brother, of the scorchborn, or the other warriors scattered amidst the chaos. His warhammer, caked with ice and blood, gleamed as he raised it high, roaring commands to those still able to move. "Warriors, get up!" his voice boomed once more, "Get up, or die! Pull your brothers free now!" They needed to rise before the cold became comfort. Amidst the orks, something else stirred beneath the snow. The ground trembled. The orks, still clawing their way free from the snow and ice, froze as they felt it a deep, throbbing pulse that seemed to vibrate through the very marrow of the earth. It crawled up their legs, sank into their bones, and filled their hearts with a feeling of dread that was more ancient than reason. The snow in front of them shifted, pushed and parted by something enormous that was ploughing its way through the frost-flooded trail towards them. The monolith moved.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. From where the avian beast had perched, a weathered, towering mass of stone jutted forward with violent, grinding shifts. The orks stared. Emerging from the frozen depths was something grotesque, its movements slow but deliberate. As it forced its path through the aftermath of the avalanche, the layered fragments of rock and frost cracked and heaved upward, contorting and ever growing. The emerging entity had four limbs, thick and twisted like the roots of a primordial tree, yet it rose to stand unnervingly upright. Its hind limbs were short and powerful. Its two arms were disproportionately longer, grotesquely elongated. They ended in enormous, articulated hands that bore long, spindly fingers, more like the claws of a skeletal predator than anything natural. As they pushed against the mounds of snow, those fingers flexed in fluid motion, imbued with almost witch-like precision. These hands stood in sharp contrast to its jagged, brutish shoulders and chest, twisted masses of stone built on a torso that rotated freely in all directions, allowing the golem to swing its massive arms like destructive pendulums to clear the snow and ice with sheer force. As it moved, snow and rock cascaded from its form like the shedding of dead skin, the sound of cracking ice mingling with the grinding of stone. The ancient stone underneath was of pure mountain blood, etched with runes. The golem had awakened. Balthagar''s expression twisted between awe and fury. His breath came in heavy, ragged clouds. The orichs had warned him and Gorak about the monolith, had hailed its hidden power. They had insisted on patience, on leaving the wizard untouched while he wove his magic. They believed his spell could be harnessed, controlled, that the artefact on the wizards back, the mountain-blood armour, was the key to unlocking the golems power. And the wizard, just before leaping into his death, had unleashed it. Balthagar had opposed the orichs. He had wanted to kill the wizard immediately. The golem was of the mountain, forged from the stone and blood of the Albweiss. The orks were the mountains guardians, its protectors, bound by blood and ancient oaths. They were never meant to control it, to dare contain its essence within the crude bounds of spellwork. The mountain had no master. But Gorak had listened to the orichs. He had been swayed by visions of an unstoppable weapon that would mark a turning point in their war against the witches. But something was wrong. The orichs had sworn to intervene once the wizard had given life force to the golem. They were meant to observe and then act, to protect the warriors and seize control. Yet no magic has been cast. Balthagars hands tightened around the haft of his warhammer, veins bulging as his fury grew. The orichs had insisted the warriors drag out the fight, demanded sacrifices, all to lure the sickly wizard into desperation to give him the illusion his party could win, but to make the golem the only path to such victory. The orks had held back when they could have ended it swiftly, suffered losses to the voltera just to witness the spellcasting. They had obeyed. They had bled for this moment. And now the golem was awake, and his brother was gone, and the orichs were nowhere to be seen. Something was terribly wrong. All of this was wrong. They were wrong. This was not the first time Balthagar had questioned their plans, but each time, Gorak had silenced his doubts. Gorak had always trusted the orichs, had always believed in their promises of power, and Gorak was krag not only his brother, but his leader. But now, Gorak was gone, and with him, the last tether holding Balthagars doubts at bay snapped. Balthagar blew his horn, urging the orks to retreat, then he hauled himself up the jagged mountainside, climbing, heading for the golem to stop it. But even as he moved, he knew it was too late. He was too far in the back to intervene in time. The warriors at the front, buried in the chest-deep snow, were too close, too exposed. They struggled to pull themselves free, clawing at the snow, some hauling their comrades or weapons out from underneath fallen rocks, but they were too slow. The golem was upon them. Its massive arms swung in devastating arcs. It tore through the snow-covered battlefield with terrifying purpose, each step shaking the earth beneath it. The orks were no match for its raw, overwhelming power. They were trampled, tossed aside, and thrown down the slope like runts, their weapons clattering uselessly against the ancient stone. Balthagar was consumed by rage as he watched his warriors being torn apart. How dare the orichs force them to endure this? The warriors of the Albweiss were not meant to lift their weapons against a being of mountain blood, blood which the most deserving of them came to share. An ork never shies from battle or death, but to see the mountain turned against them, twisted to obey a wizards will, was a blow to their very core. Balthagar would not yield. He leapt at the golem from his vantage point, roaring with rage as his warhammer swung down with all his might. The weapon struck the golems head, and as he landed, it connected again with its leg, sparks flying on impact, but the golem did not even shift. In swift retaliation, a massive arm came crashing down, smashing into Balthagar''s armour, shattering it like kindling and sending him tumbling backward through the snow. He slammed into the frozen ground, his head ringing from the force of the blow. Everything went silent. Balthagar lay still, pain throbbing through his body as his vision swam. Sharp jolts of agony radiated from broken bones, and he felt the dull throb of what must be a shattered skull. He tried to move, to rise, but his limbs were dead weight. Just then, the golems arm came crashing down again But warriors rushed in. Through the haze, Balthagar saw them, the horde that should have scattered. They surged forward, driven not by fear but by the unbreakable bond of kinship. Orks fought as one, and they would not abandon one of their horde, not now, not ever. Swords and axes hacked at the golems legs, seeking any weakness in its stone. Spears jabbed at its joints, but each strike seemed futile, merely glancing off the hardened surface. Two warriors climbed onto the golems back, driving picks and spikes into the cracks between its stone plates, attempting to pry it apart, but the golem shook them off with a violent shrug, sending one ork crashing to the ground and the other flying over the edge of the cliff. Balthagar lay broken and bleeding, his vision flickering as the world slipped away. He watched as his warriors were crushed beneath the golem''s assault or hurled into the abyss. His warband, his brothers, his blood slaughtered by the very mountain they had sworn to protect. He screamed for the orichs, his voice raw and choked with blood, but the howling wind drowned him, carrying his cries away into the storm. No answer came. He had witnessed Gorak fall with the voltera his brother lost to the storm because the orichs had refused to wield their magic against the beast. Now, he was forced to watch as the rest of his warriors perished due to their cursed inaction. It was Maletar who seized the charge and rallied the remaining orks. Circle it! Push it to the edge! His voice was hoarse, barely cutting through the chaos, but those closest heard him. They surged forward, now only four in number. They pressed on, hacking at the golems stone limbs, striving to drive it toward the cliff''s edge. Axes clanged against the stone, spears thrust into its joints, but the golem stood unyielding, retaliating, crushing their bodies beneath its weight or slamming them into the rock wall behind them. Balthagar''s heart could no longer carry his rage. He felt his strength slipping away, the comforting cold seeping into his bones. He cursed the orichs with his last breath, spitting blood and hatred. Someone heeded his call. Instead of an orich, it was the runt who appeared above him. Of all the orks, it had to be Nagrak the most useless of them all, clad in his laughably inadequate leather jerkin adorned with all the precious magical stones the orichs had so vehemently insisted upon, stones that had been nothing but a complete waste of resources on him. Yet, there he was, nervously bending over Balthagar, his jittering hands flailing about, but doing nothing. The coward. The only one not fighting. The only one who might survive. Balthagar struggled to point out the Speran ember to him. His arm would not bend, his trembling hand could not reach up, and his voice faltered. But the runt seemed to understand. He reached for the talisman embedded in Balthagars skull, where it had been for over a decade, and attempted to pry it free with a piece of shattered bone. Instead, a sizable fragment of skull came loose with the ember still attached; Balthagars skull was already broken, the embers bond far stronger than whatever still held his head together. Balthagar needed to speak, to urge Nagrak to take it to Matalyr, his second eldest daughter, who would know its significance. No one else must know. He tried to beckon the runt closer, but Nagraks gaze shot upward, panic flickering in his eyes, and with a sudden jerk, he flinched away. Something massive shot through the blinding storm. A monstrous avian beast tore through the snow-laden sky, its piercing screech cutting through the howling wind like a blade. Its wings spanned wider than Balthagar could comprehend, throwing the battlefield into chaos with each powerful stroke. The terrifying beast descended toward them, talons outstretched. It was the last image burned into Balthagars mind before a colossal boulder of ice came crashing down upon him. The impact was swift and brutal. In that final moment, as darkness enveloped Balthagar, all that remained was the echo of the brave orks dying roars and the agonising realisation that he had entrusted the most sacred of legacies to the most unworthy among them. - For all but the observing darkness, the boulder had come seemingly out of nowhere. -
Ch. 13.10 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face. Snowtrail - Ork Magic
- - It emerged from the void, a harbinger of chaos. The avian beast materialised with a fury, its wings thrashing against the storm''s wrath as it swept across the Snowtrail, just above him. Where Nagrak had been paralysed by confusion, he now teetered between shocked out of his senses and sheer terror. Too many events collided at once, utter chaos enveloping him. Moments ago, Balthagar had seemingly entrusted him with leading the orks, or so Nagrak believed after their brief exchange, especially with Gorak gone. Now, he found himself fleeing not only from the avian beast, but from the golem, which had obliterated the last remaining warrior and was now in pursuit. Scrambling along the trail, clawing and climbing through snow, ice, and jagged rock, Nagrak sought for refuge. He wedged himself into a crevice in the mountainside, a narrow space barely wide enough for his slim frame. It was a fissure too cramped for the golem to follow, a gash where fractured ice and mottled brown rock formed a tenuous shield against the storm. It was less a cave entrance and more a rift between the mountains face and a fallen rock fragment dislodged by the volteras ascent, which had tumbled down the slope and slammed onto the trail. Frost was already fusing the rock and mountain wall together, sealing Nagrak from danger. Nagrak exhaled sharply, sucked in his stomach and pressed deeper into the confines of the gap, a meter deep at most, with no room to glance over his shoulder. He did not need to. The tremors in the earth and the ominous noise of grinding rock behind him told Nagrak the golem was right there. As he crouched for cover, his hand closed instinctively around the ember embedded in Balthagar''s skull fragment. A stray thought cut through his fear-drenched mind, a flicker of clarity amidst the maelstrom. Was now the moment to embrace his magic? Could this be the stone C the one among all those he carried, the stone of all stones C that would unlock his potential? Balthagar had bestowed upon him a legacy, a command to rise as the new krag. Was destiny unfolding at this very heartbeat The golem smashed the rock behind Nagrak, obliterating whatever glimpse of enlightenment had flickered in his mind. The moment was shattered, along with the stone, sending Nagrak reeling from his reverie, shrieking as he bolted out the other side of the crevice into the teeth of the storm. The golems pulverising blows send shards of stone hurtling towards him. The debris struck with brutal force, knocking Nagrak off his feet, and sending him sprawling into the snow. He scrambled for distance, clawing frantically through the drifts, desperate to escape. His salvation came unexpectedly, and terrifyingly so a massive talon descended, claws crashing against the rock, piercing through snow and ice and then snapping shut. He was paralysed, unable to scream or brace for impact. When the claws ensnared not him but snatched up the golem right in front of him, Nagrak was truly, quite literally, scared shitless. Up close, Nagrak recognised an unsettling detail: the creature possessed not two, but three taloned feet, an anomaly that defied reason. Each claw held a captive. One gripped the avian beast, another the voltera, both pressed tightly against its underbelly, secure among its thick plumage. The third claw clutched the golem, lifting it from the ground with a terrifying ease as it rushed past Nagrak, a giant silhouette against the storm-torn sky. As the monstrous form swept overhead, the heavens unleashed a cascade of ice shards, a sudden volley shooting out from the storm above. Three massive ice spears plunged into the avian beast, their frigid tips rending feathers and slashing flesh. More shards struck the mountainside, dislodging more stone. In its pursuit of the golem, the avian beast had flown dangerously close to the slopes, where the assault threw it into disarray. Its left wing, battered by wind and laden with ice, smashed into the mountain, tearing wounds that turned the snow below a dark crimson. The protruding rocks offered no purchase; the narrow path provided no place to land. Another volley of massive ice shards rained down from the storm, their edges slicing into the beasts back and wings. Though many shattered upon impact, sending plumes of ice crystals into the swirling winds, others bit deep, tearing through feathers and flesh, leaving ragged, bloody wounds. The force of the onslaught sent the beast crashing against the steep mountainside. And now, the mountain came alive and fought, retaliating with icy tendrils that surged forth like the grasping fingers of a titan. They grasped at the beast, ensnaring and immobilising it, freezing its massive form against the slope. Scrambling, the beast dropped the golem, the voltera, and the smaller avian beast, mere moments before its talons were captured and fully sealed by the encroaching ice. Dislodged, the golem and the smaller avian slid and tumbled down the steep incline, a brutal descent abruptly halted when they collided with protruding rocks. While the avian creature became lodged in an outcropping, its body splayed and trapped, the golem crashed all the way down to the Snowtrail below.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. The voltera, with greater agility, found purchase halfway down, its claws biting into the cliffside a hundred metres above the trail. However, the shards that missed the grand avian now slammed into the mountainside, dislodging the very rocks and chunks of ice to which the voltera clung. He was trapped, confined to the icy slope with no cover or foothold to escape the continuing barrage assailing the grand avian beast. The encroaching ice ensnared both the voltera and the smaller avian creature. Scraping heedlessly along the cliffside, they froze. Midnight''s senses flared as she observed the assault that unfolded before her. This was no natural storm it was magic. Her darkness surged outward, coiling and unfurling past the bending light, weaving through the chaos, latching onto every fragment of movement and every ripple of sound in search of arcane signatures. She moved with purpose, ceaselessly evading the encroaching light while tracking the ice shards, tracing their destructive path back to their origin. She found him at last. All paths converged on a single figure standing amidst the storm, hidden behind a barrier of reflective ice that rendered him invisible to ordinary sight. To Midnight, he stood in stark relief. His skin bore an unnaturally blue hue, like frostbite made flesh, while deep-carved runes scarred his body, marking him as a one of the rare spell-wielders among ork-kind an orich. The emergence of elemental magic among the orks was a twisted evolution spanning the past two centuries. With the cessation of human expansion into the Northlands, ork magic had begun to creep out from its primitive roots. To wizards, it was a shameful taboo, a transgression against established arcane codes, a grotesque violation of the natural order and the sanctity of magic. Initially dismissed as crude manipulations of rock and earth, their magical capabilities seemed insignificant until, a decade ago, patrols in the Albweiss Mountains uncovered the vast scope of the Haraaks abilities under Gorak''s leadership. The reports revealed a powerful elemental magic calculated devastation realised on a grand scale. Within the domain of the Albweiss Mountains, that very crudeness became an unassailable advantage. The mountains, wild and unforgiving, with their frozen peaks and jagged cliffs, were hostile to all who dared cross them. Here, the cold itself became a weapon in the hands of the orks, with the blizzard sharpening their every strike and fortifying their defences. The terrain granted them an infinite supply of snow and ice, requiring neither crafting nor subtlety, only the brute force summoned by the orichs command. Perched high above the battlefield, the orichs scar-laden hands moved with an erratic rhythm as they wielded his grand staff. Their gestures seemed to tear at the fabric of the storm itself. Embedded within the staff were gems of glacial blue. They were frosthearts, symbiotic artefacts that served as catalysts and conduits for potent elemental energy. Each was a crystallised fragment of the legendary Mountain Eye, bridging the orichs will with raw power. The orich wielded his stones with an uncanny deftness, a skill as much honed by learned discipline as it was founded in an instinct embedded deep his being. His scarred hands moved in a trance of command and control, as incantations slipped from his lips in a language birthed from the mountain itself. The frosthearts responded, resonating with his intent. Their surfaces were etched with runes that glowed with soft spectral luminescence, casting a light that seemed to draw in the cold from the very air. This glow waxed and waned, synchronised with the orichs breath, each surge sending ripples through the storm and transforming the tempest''s fury into targeted blasts that reshaped the battlefield below. In stark contrast to her wizard''s intricate glass magic or the fluid mastery of worldbenders over water, the orichs ice shards were crude, relying on sheer mass to overwhelm rather than finesse and precision. Yet, beneath their raw surface, there was a savage elegance, a strategic symbiosis of elemental force and primal intent. As Midnight delved deeper, she felt something ancient and vast, recognising the orichs magic as far more than mere elemental manipulation. Midnight suddenly understood that he could do what she had failed to master; grasping the elusive. She could feel it deeply through her connection to the Albweiss, through every instinct intrinsic to her darkness this was deeply rooted mastery. His power carried the weight of centuries of bitterness, the raw resentment of ork-kind, amplified by a mastery of magic that had once been perceived as unattainable. He was a harbinger of a new era of ork magic, one that dared to challenge the wizards'' established order and threatened the magical balance of the Northlands. Though Midnight had not grasped it initially, she recalled the initial upheaval when reports of such abilities first reached Emery Thurm a decade prior. The consensus was that where wizardry drew from the worlds free energies with precision and discipline, ork magic drew savagely, as untamed as the beasts that wielded it. Unlike the refined channelling and convergence of energy through a wizards body, ork magic drained the world around the orich. Orks had found a way to tap into external resources, most commonly gemstones such as frosthearts. In realising their magic, both the conduits and the energy sources were irreversibly destroyed, rendering the process one of sheer depletion. Such powers carried a potential for limitless alteration and destruction of nature, rivalling even the most feared witchcraft. The memory was unsettling in how it shaped her perception of the scene unfolding before her. She watched as each of the orichs gestures brought waves of ice upon the beast-wizard. The shards expanded upon impact to form a growing lattice of ice, binding him to the mountain, layer upon layer. There was something fundamentally wrong with all of this. Midnights mind was drawn back to her earlier contemplations lingering at the edge of her mind: the image of the arachnid that had become her concept of existence. In her time spent beneath the earth, she had come to recognise the mountain itself as such an entity. It, too, was layered like a web, each stratum of frost, stone, and snow building upon the last, claimed by the mountain in the same way as the arachnid claimed the threads it spun. The mountain was not the ice, nor was the ice the mountain. Much was thrown off by relentless winds, by beasts and battles, yet everything retained by the mountain became part of it, defining and shaping the eternal frost of the Albweiss. What felt so profoundly wrong to Midnight was the realisation that the Albweiss Mountains C this intrinsic entity of rock and ice and breath and life C could be controlled by an ork. Midnight felt it. She sensed this with a forbidding certainty, a deep unease threading through all that tied her to the Albweiss. He had grasped the elusive. He was not simply manipulating the elements, not taking the snow, ice and wind from the mountain to make them forces of the orich. He was not tearing through the layers that defined the mountain. He did not sever the web to steal from all that inherently belonged to the mountain, from all that was of the mountain. No, he left the web unharmed. With his magic, he directed the arachnid to pull the threads for him. And the mountain complied.
Ch. 13.11 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face. Snowtrail - Sentiments
- - The wizards body contorted under the assault. He convulsed, writhed and shifted. Chunks of ice broke away from his body and crashed down the mountainside, dragging debris and snow in their path, as he twisted in the throes of transformation, his form collapsing into something smaller. The mountain resisted, ice clawing at him as he shrank, striving to reclaim him, but the transformation tore through him too swiftly, violently breaking him down. In the grotesque process that was shapeshifting magic, his body twisted into the semblance of a beast. He was becoming a predator of many legs, distorted and diminished a horrid creature caught between worlds, neither man nor beast, stretching from the unnatural into the uncanny. Scales erupted over his elongating limbs and spine, arching at distressing angles as his body reformed into a crude, disfigured likeness of a lizard-kin. The stone artefact clung to him still. With his size, his presence diminished as well. Life flickered weakly within him, a candle guttering in the wind. He had been broken before the shift, his strength drained in the futile struggle to save his companions and retrieve the golem, blind to the orichs trap. What should have been a grand metamorphosis turned into a grotesque mockery of itself a stunted, misshapen creature no larger than a patherren, something that could do little more than scramble for survival. His dark, bulbous eyes rolled erratically in their large sockets, pupils expanding and contracting, reflecting a mind that was no longer whole. He was incomplete, vulnerable, and fundamentally wrong. The lizardkind creature emerged from beneath the ice, scuttling down the slope on pure instinct. Midnight observed him intently. Despite all that was so utterly wrong, she recognised something deeper within the twisted body, something more than the mere veneer of bestial nature. Unlike the novices of Emery Thurm, who draped themselves in the mimicry of animalism but held none of its truth, the wizard had undergone a profound, intrinsic transformation he had shed his humanity. It was in his movements. They were honed, not conjured but carved from the crucible of raw wilderness survival. It was as though his mind had fully succumbed, leaving behind only the instincts passed down by his familiar bond a haunting, hollow echo of what had once been a mind of sharp wisdom and intricate strategy. What remained was a fragment, a reduced consciousness bound to the form of a beast. The lizardkind rushed downward towards the Snowtrail, its six jointed limbs scuttling with eerie fluidity as it cut through the web of terrain that should have belonged solely to the mountain but now adhered to the orichs will. Its six feet were a complex interplay of fingers adorned with lizard-like suction cups, and equally numerous claws sprouting just above them. The claws, sharp and independently articulated from the suctioned fingers, gripped and released with great flexibility, allowing the creature to navigate the icy rock with unnatural ease. The lizardkind flowed across the mountain''s surface like water, claws biting into stone and suctioned digits gripping onto even the smallest patches of ice. His energy continued to transfer to the golem below, which now burst free from the thick pillar of ice encasing it. While the beast-wizard descended in frantic-fluid haste, the golem surged up the mountain with speed that belied its monumental size. With a torso rotating ceaselessly, stone arms reaching upwards with relentless purpose, and fingers supple yet unyielding, the golem found purchase even on the most challenging surfaces. Where its stone flesh met the mountain, it appeared to meld with the rock; a grotesque illusion of a massive boulder falling not down, but upwards. Each thrust of its powerful legs sent it hurtling skyward in aggressive defiance. Yet, even amidst this display of raw power, Midnight discerned the spell unravelling. The wizard''s Rothar had faded entirely She realised that it was now his very essence that bled into the artefact. With each moment, his life diminished, feeding the golem but depleting the beast-wizards own being. Meanwhile, the orich had transformed the mountain into a weapon of devastating potential. Midnight, now closer to ork magic than ever before, perceived the exhaustion of the frosthearts through a lens of intricate, alchemical transmutation. She recognised the orichs magic not as the simplistic process of energy harnessing, but as a form of transmutation so profound it bordered on evisceration. The frosthearts were not merely depleted like spent energy crystals; they were being altered at a fundamental level. The crystalline structure of the rock was unravelling, its natural stability sacrificed to unleash a torrent of raw energy that impacted both the Material and Alladharian Dimensions. While this orich drained frosthearts, Midnight knew that others channelled their will through different natural sources, each method marked by the same ruinous mark. Ork magic, regardless of its origin, bore the same destructive potential as the arts of witches, the condemned alchemy denounced by Emery Thurm''s tutors an unrestrained manipulation that drained and irreversibly compromised natural resources. In the case of the frosthearts, this magic warped the stones crystalline density, siphoned their thermal inertia, and left them brittle and hollowed, stripped of all resilience.Stolen story; please report. While Midnight had heard these explanations several times, she had never grasped them like her wizard did. She did not learn from words, but from the visceral understanding that came from experiences. Now, as she witnessed the orich''s magic consume the frosthearts, she felt its true nature. It was magic born of hunger and devastation, an irreversible depletion of resources that could never regrow. She understood, finally, that this was a predation upon nature itself a feeding that would scar nature beyond recovery, leaving it forever unable to recover. The orich did just that. In his attempt to halt the advance of the golem and the beast-wizard, he consumed the last of the frosthearts. Pillars of ice erupted from the ground, spears of frozen death aimed to impale. Shards rained down, splintering against the trail and cliffside, forcing the lizardkind to evade recklessly. He scrambled through narrow crevices and outcroppings, dodging death by sheer speed and desperation. Meanwhile, the golem, undeterred, smashed through all that the orich threw at it, its massive fists reducing any obstacle to rubble. The lizardkind reached the avian beast, encased in a shell of ice against the cliff. Though trapped, the creatures form was intact, not crushed. In a swift, calculated leap, the lizardkind launched itself onto the outcropping that held the beast captive. His front limbs shot forward, claws extending like bone spears and piercing the ice between the creature and the mountain. Once embedded, the claws erupted with bony protrusions that shattered the frozen shell, severing it from the cliffs face. In one single, violent fracture, the giant shard broke free. With the avian beast encased at its center, the massive chunk of ice plummeted down the mountainside. As the ice sphere fell, the orich conjured another wave of ice, attempting to snare the shard mid-fall. But the golem was faster. Ascending beneath the falling shard, it intercepted the ice with one arm, shattering the orichs bindings with the other, and pushed itself off the cliff. At that moment, the lizardkind lunged sideways, toward the voltera, chained to the mountain but the golem intercepted and snatched him out of the air mid-leap. Together, they fell, the golem gripping the armour on the lizardkinds back, while the creature, compelled by necessity, clung to the golems chest. The golem rammed feet-first into the Snowtrail, with the massive ice shard pressed against on one side of its chest and the struggling lizardkind against the other. The creature tried to wrench free, but the golem immediately launched itself forward. In one seamless motion, the golems torso spun around on its fixed legs, flipping the lizardkind and the ice-shrouded avian beast to its back. Charging headfirst through the snow-laden trail, the golem now shielded its cargo with its own stone body. As it ran, its lower arms further enveloped and protected the lizardkind against any onslaught of shards from above and behind. Like that, it barreled forward, its form scraping against rock and ice, yet it maintained its momentum, never faltering, never losing its balance. With savage speed, it crashed through ice that had accumulated over centuries, towards the orichs ledge. The golem is not the wizard, said the voice that spoke for her. Midnight had thought that the tranfer of energy from the wizard had granted him control over the golem, but now she understood differently. The golem was something alive, or at least aware. It was an entity driven by its own will, waiting to be fed with energy to act autonomously. Both before the leap off the mountainside and just now, it seemed the lizardkind had wanted to free the voltera from his ice prison but the golem had not. It had acted not as an extension of the lizardkinds will, but as a force unto itself. The golem had decided. It chose to protect, but it also to confine the lizardkind, comprehending what the diminished wizard-mind had failed to grasp; that the lizardkind could not fight from a afar, that survival amidst the elemental onslaught was impossible in his current state, and that he could not sustain the golem for much longer. Unless the beast-wizard had hidden reserves of energy, his essence would not last another minute or two. Midnight perceived it unravel at an alarming rate. And yet, despite his desperate state and his defencelessness against the orichs magic, the lizardkind had attempted to free both the avian beast and the voltera. It was unreasonable. Even if the golem somehow freed the voltera, how could it possibly carry him, the avian beast and the lizardkind to safety? It was unreasonable to such an extent that it made Midnight angry. Had there been any strategy at all, any foresight in his actions, or did the beast-wizard act out of mere incompetence and impulse? Did he not realise the imminent collapse of his own form Would Yves have left her? The question struck Midnight with such sudden force that it disrupted all of her attempts at discerning strategies. It was one of those raw, intrusive thoughts that came without warning, like a whisper from deep within. It felt as though her mind had split, experiencing two realities at once Midnight had rarely experienced such moments almost never before her transformation. She had always thought in the present, grounded in the here and now, observing and responding to her immediate surroundings. But now, increasingly, these foreign thoughts intruded and interrupted; abstract notions running parallel to the world she observed, feelings and ideas incongruent with what she was experiencing in that moment. It was disorienting, as if parts of herself were unfolding in directions she could not fully control, fragments of insight and emotion arising from realities she could not quite access. As quickly as the thought had surfaced, others began to follow. With a peculiar sense of clarity, she understood the connection between the beast-wizard and the avian beast they were wizard and familiar. The monstrous form he had assumed before becoming the lizardkind, though distorted and grotesque, had born an undeniable resemblance to the wingless creature. Despite all the thoughts forming, no answer emerged for the unexpected question, only the awareness for the dualities of survival, sentiment and sacrifice. Yet, deep within her most fundamental convictions, she recalled that Yves, in moments if true consequence, had proven to be a reasonable strategist. From somewhere else she unearthed the moment he had sent her away from the Vicha. .
Ch. 13.12 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face. Snowtrail - Midnight - HUNGER
- - The golem protected the wizard. It had to, since the wizard sustained its existence. Each of its movements radiated calculated foresight, amplified by force and agility. And yet, instead of retreating to preserve the life force to which it was bound, the golem charged toward the orich It did not know. The golem did not know where the orich was. No, not only that. There was more, more than ignorance there was strategy. With a sudden rush of clarity, Midnight realised that from the very first volley of ice, every single attack had been a ruse. Every shard, every spear of frost that had rained down upon the fighting party, had been deliberately angled either from directly above or from a position higher up the trail. The orich had purposely directed the ice to strike as if coming from the opposite direction shards not originating from his true perch but flying towards him. The storm-cloaked battlefield had masked the deception perfectly. To those unable to pierce through the chaos, the natural conclusion was to assume the orichs position aligned with the trajectorys starting point. Just as a warrior traces an arrow back to its unseen archer, the golem had been tricked into chasing a phantom. Midnight had not noticed this pattern earlier, for she had discovered the orich long ago through her darkness, perceiving him hidden behind the thick veil of ice and snow. She needed no physical clues to find him. But the golem, lacking such an advantage, had fallen prey to the orichs deliberate misdirection. And it was falling for it still. As the golem charged along the Snowtrail, the ice attacks changed gradually. The once-lethal spears of frost became weaker, their power dissipating. Shards thinned, reduced to harmless splinters, before failing to reach and ceasing altogether. This, too, was part of the orichs deception. He lured the golem closer with calculated restraint, giving the impression that his power was waning and his range had been exhausted. When the golem reached the path beneath the orichs actual perch, the orichs attacks ceased completely, but his gnarled hands remained raised, not in aggression, but in preparation. Midnight, her darkness flowing through the storm, touched upon him. She recognised that he was speaking. The ambient noise of the Albweiss was muted to her. The howling winds, the grinding of the mountain none of it reached Midnight in the way it once might have. Her transformation had rendered her senses alien to the world of the living. Yet through her darkness, she had learned to make sense of it anew. What she could not hear, she could perceive. While she had failed to grasp Rothar or matter, she could touch upon the everything that lay outside of her own nothingness to such degree, that she recognised sound distortions of the almost nothing that was air; swirling waves that created an echo, not unlike the ripples of darkness that had defined the existence of the shadebeast. With the sprites, communication had been instinctual, a shared understanding of the dark. Midnight had simply understood them, because they had known how to speak the language of darkness itself, how to convey meaning to nothing. But with the orich, his words were beyond her grasp, their meaning lost to her transformed senses. And yet, she felt their weight, the sheer gravity of each syllable. His voice, though inaudible to her, radiated power. Midnight recognised the gravity of what must be incantations, a slow and methodical rhythm building into something grand. This was not right. What was he drawing from? Her darkness swept across the Snowtrail like a searching tide. It seeped into the mountains every crack and crevice, probing the ground around the orich for any hidden frosthearts or other potential conduits. Orichs, she had been told, were shackled to the materials they manipulated. Unlike wizards, they could not channel magic through their own bodies. Their magic was a parasite, utterly reliant on artefacts like frosthearts to function. Yet the frosthearts embedded in the orichs staff and belt were almost entirely drained, their faint glow reduced to a dying flicker. Midnight had watched him deplete them drastically during his earlier assaults, expending their power with unrestrained abandon. Now, only two shards retained the faintest glimmers of residual energy. From what she had observed, they could sustain no more than a few fleeting ice shards or spears. He should not be able to conjure anything substantial, let alone the scale of magic she could sense building around him. Despite the rising tension, Midnight did not intervene, yet she also did not turn away. Her loyalty to her wizard, the failed pursuit of the fiator, and the continuous erosion of her essence by the light clawed at her thoughts, yet she stayed. There was too much to unravel here. The golem continued along the Snowtrail, its broad feet pounding against the frozen path in grand strides. Its advance came to an abrupt halt as the trail was completely blocked by a singular boulder. Midnight examined the obstruction. She had been too far away during the earlier chaos to perceive what had occurred here, but her senses discerned that it was fresh; shattered stone, still raw and jagged, a result of a recent avalanche. Her focus drifted alongside the golem as it reached the obstacle, though she took care to stay in motion as to not let the light catch up and reveal her presence again. Upon reaching the boulder, the golem moved with methodical precision. It dropped the avian beast onto the ground, rotated its torso with the wizard back to its original position, and hammered away at the ice encasing the familiar. Each strike was a concussive burst of power, sending splinters of frost scattering into the air. Within moments, the avian beast was freed, its lifeless form now light enough for the golem to carry along with the lizardkind in a single massive arm. Its other arm now unburdened, the golem began scaling the boulder. Its massive fingers clawed into the jagged surface with ease, hauling its weight upward with two powerful bursts. As soon as the golem reached the top, the boulder folded inward, collapsing like liquid beneath the its weight. What had seemed like solid rock gave way, opening a gaping cavity within itself. The illusion was seamless Midnights senses faltered for a moment as she realised what had happened. It was as though the golem had leapt into water rather than against solid matter. The stone caved inward, revealing a hollow core. Grabbed by his feet, the golem was pulled into the opening. Even as it fell, the golem reacted with startling speed. Its torso rotated violently, aiming to hurl the lizardkind and the avian beast out of the collapsing cavity. But before it could finish the motion, stone shot upward from all sides, sealing the opening in an instant. The stone snapped shut, encapsulating the golem, the avian beast, and the lizardkind within. It was a prison filled with frosthearts. In unnaturally precise intervals, the glowing gems had been embedded deep within the stone walls from the inside. The moment the golem was entombed, before it could even land or attempt to smash its way free, spirals of energy erupted from every frostheart. Threads of magic intertwined, forming an intricate web that spread across the entire stone shell, both along its interior and through the chamber itself. This was no mere containment. It was a binding ritual a seal of power and precision. In the fleeting instant before the spell took full hold, the golem made one last move. It folded inwards, collapsing its torso and limbs around the lizardkind and the avian beast, creating a protective shell of its own body. The effort was final and absolute, as if the golem understood its fate and sought only to preserve what remained within its care. The scene unfolded with a speed and complexity that defied comprehension. The eruption of magic and stone was so sudden, so precise, that Midnight felt the ripple of its power shuddering through her very essence. The magnitude of the trap was suffocating, sending a tremor through her darkness. She recoiled, her tendrils fraying as she reeled, and immediately sought the source of the stone magic. She had been watching the orich all along. He had cast the seal, using the frosthearts embedded within the boulder from an almost unimaginable distance. But it was not him who had controlled the stone. Midnight extended her reach further, her darkness uncoiling across the Snowtrail in jagged waves, widening the net that carried her senses, and then she found him. Perched on a narrow plateau beyond the boulder, concealed behind an impenetrable wall of ice, stood a second orich. Midnight immediately discerned the precision of their coordination. The first orich had not only manipulated the ice to attack but had also used it to shield and obscure the presence of the second. While the first had lured the golem into the trap, the second had captured the golem. While the second had closed the boulder, the first had simultaneously sealed it. They were a terrifyingly effective combination: one manipulated stone, the other ice, and together they wielded the inexhaustible resources of the Albweiss. The mountain had become their weapon, its very bones rearranged to serve their strategy. Their frosthardened stone shell confined even a creation as powerful as the golem. And more, they used seals. Midnight had not known that orks could, but she understood without a doubt that this was advanced magic. The pulsating frosthearts embedded within the boulder fed an intricate web of energy crisscrossing through the stone, threads of magic that completely arrested the golem within the magical lattice. At last, Midnight grasped the full depth of the orichs multi-layered strategy. What had seemed to be fragmented, disorganised defences had unfolded into a meticulously orchestrated trap. Every element of the orks tactics had been designed to lead to this moment. The front group of warrior orks had served only as a diversion. Their role had been to exhaust the beast-wizard and weaken his companions, eventually forcing him to shift into a diminished form that robbed him of his wizard senses and rendered him unable to perceive their energies. For the same reason, they must have eliminated the voltera through physical combat; to assure that his formidable senses would not discern the orichs hidden presence. Meanwhile, the ice orichs early attacks had been deliberately ineffective, serving only to evoke false impressions of the attackers location and presenting a facade of limited reach. The golem, relying on logic and the perceived trajectory of attacks, had been coaxed into the very trap the second orich had laid. It was a cowardly deception, like luring a beast into a cage by disguising the cage as the only escape, yet it was calculated and devastating in its execution. Midnight, for all her cunning, knew she could not have devised such a ruse herself. Considering that the second orich remained hidden and unharmed until the end, Midnight realised that this battle had always been their hunt, a ploy of patience and misdirection. The orichs had weaponised the very fabric of the mountain and exploited the vulnerabilities of their enemies with chilling precision. Despite their victory, both orichs were visibly weary. The frosthearts embedded in their staffs lay depleted. Even the frosthearts woven into the boulder were noticeably dimming, their energy steadily draining to sustain the intricate seal. As the ice orich descended toward the Snowtrail, his exhaustion became unmistakable. He did not summon ice magic to aid his climb, relying instead on laboured movements to navigate the steep cliff. Methodically, his gnarled hands moved across the frozen rock. Whether he was conserving the last remnants of his resources or had entirely depleted his reserves was uncertain, but the strain in his movements betrayed the toll the battle had taken. His figure, hunched and deliberate, carried an unspoken urgency. Whatever strength remained, it was not limitless. While the orich descended, another lone ork ascended. It was the grand male who had fought the voltera, fallen, and now clambered back onto the Snowtrail. He emerged far back where the warriors had fought the beast. - Goraks breath came heavy, his senses on high alert as his dark eyes swept across the snow-laden expanse, searching for enemies or allies. He found neither. The battlefield was silent save for the distant echo of Tergaks signalling horn, a sound that seemed to confirm the orichs earlier proclamation of victory. Gorak raised his own horn, its resonant call tearing through the howling wind as he signalled recognition. Nonetheless, the krag advanced cautiously, his axe ready, each step deliberate. As he moved towards Tergak, his gaze scoured the ground for signs of life. He blew his horn several more times, its mournful notes intended to stir any of his buried brethren who might yet live. But the snow remained still, the trail unbroken, its icy tombs offering no answer. His concern mounted. Though one of the orichs had proclaimed their victory, Gorak had yet to hear the horn of his brother. The krags horn sounded again, this time not as a signal to his warriors, but as a command to the orich and all that were with him. He demanded their presence. His command rang out two times, yet each time the orichs response came not in compliance but in repetition, the same request echoing back at him. Frustration simmered beneath Goraks skin, his tusks bared in a silent snarl. He understood, though, that there may be reason behind this refusal to obey. He did not know whether their enemies had fled, been captured or were dead. He had seen nine orks fall from the cliffs, but altogether, he did not know who among his warriors had survived, where they rested, or if they needed imminent care. Goraks honour demanded that he confirm the fate of every last one of them. If any of the fallen around him yet lived, if any of those buried within the snow still drew breath, they would not survive long against the cold. However, searching blindly was futile. He needed magic to clear the snow, and for that, he needed to know what was keeping Tergak from obeying. As Gorak hastened across the Snowtrail, his path brought him near a narrow stretch of the trail where the snow had piled thick and uneven. He moved cautiously, his massive boots crunching through the hardened crust of ice and powder. Beneath the snow, hidden amidst the corpses of three fallen ork fighters, lay the scorchborn. She had ascended shortly before him, her distorted form a grotesque tapestry of root, lichen, and fungi pressed flat against the frozen earth. Twisted and warped, her humanoid shape had unravelled into a sprawling mass, snaking through the narrow spaces between the ork bodies. There she had remained still, concealed by the layers of snow, her movements deliberate and measured to avoid detection. As Gorak drew closer, her body stirred ever so slightly, creeping with slow precision. Her gnarled limbs shifted beneath the snow, slithering between the fallen orks like roots seeking soil. She coiled tighter, her fungal mass flattening further into the frozen ground between the corpses of the fallen, so that Gorak would not trample her. The krags hulking form passed her by. - Parallel to observing the orks, Midnights focus lingered on the lizardkinds convulsing form. She had found that her darkness could penetrate the seal encapsulating the golem, much like she had bypassed the ice caverns witch runes. The orichs magic, it seemed, could not bind her. Unfettered, she reached beyond the stone lattice and observed the beast-wizard. Confined within the immobilised golems embrace, he was succumbing to the dual strain of poison and spell. His essence was almost entirely absorbed by the golem, which had claimed and exhausted this essence just as Midnight claimed and used darkness. Even as the golem remained frozen in place, its immobility offered no reprieve for the wizard. His essence fed the construct even in its inert state. Midnight was acutely aware that he was close to collapse, and yet, a strange hesitation held her. Her mind was a tangled web of instincts and desires, each thread pulling her in a different direction, vying for dominance in the scant moments she had to act. Should she intervene? Orks were the common enemy among all Midland peoples, wizards included. Yet, this wizard was an unknown individual, possibly even a follower of the academy and thus an adversary of Yves. If she chose not to act, why had she approached in the first place? Her presence demanded justification. Two conflicting reasons emerged, one rooted in cold observation, the other in a darker impulse. The first reason was straightforward: the death of a wizard was a rare phenomenon. Midnight had witnessed wizards perish before, during her travels with Yves, and even earlier, at Emery Thurm. Those deaths, however, had usually been lost amid the chaos of battle, leaving little time for reflection. In more subdued circumstances, respect had often dictated her withdrawal, leaving the wizards final moments to the his familiar. But here, no such respect restrained her. The avian beast was unconscious, even closer to death than the beast-wizard himself. The wizard lay bare, alone in his struggle No. Midnight realised that he was aware of her. The moment she had condensed her presence, drawing her perception closer to him, the encroaching light had begun to consume her darkness. It had been but the faintest of flickers, but within the confines of the golem, she believed the wizard had noticed. The devouring light illuminated the second more unsettling reason for her approach: It was hunger. Midnight craved essence. It had surfaced and stirred during the clashes she had observed earlier; a deep, primal hunger within her, an insatiable hunger beyond her control. In the vast expanse of her mind, the [HUNGER] emerged, weaving its own web of want and need around the failed fiator hunt, entwining it with the knowledge that all beings held essence beasts, orks, and wizards. The wizards withering form stirred a dark curiosity in her: would his essence, elusive in life, become accessible upon death? Might that which she had failed to grasp in the fiator slip from its bond to the body and Rothar when life ceased? If he but died before the golem exhausted him fully, could she claim what remained within him? But this -------------wasStolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ---------------------------a wizard. -----It was ------------------------not ----------------------------------------her wizard. Midnight had seen familiars consume parts of their dead wizards before. At Emery Thurm, some familiars had simply departed, leaving the wizard''s remains to the Ritual of the Dead. Others had consumed a piece a sliver of flesh, insufficient to satiate any real HUNGER serving more as a mere echo of what had once been and belonged. Some had taken a heart. Always one, never both. Midnight had never understood why. She did not know what she would do with her own wizard, what she would feel compelled to do. Would she feel the same [HUNGER] she felt now? . .
Ch. 13.13 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face. Snowtrail - MIDN - Nothing changes
- - She could not fight the orichs; they were as elusive to her grasp as the fiator had been. If she could not fight, what use was she, even if she found a way to free the wizard from the seal? Depending on the nature of the seal and his own abilities, he might even free himself, if only he could regain enough strength. But he was dying, his essence drained by the golem and his body corrupted by the scorchborn. Midnights mind raced through the possibilities. She hesitated to interfere with the spell sustaining the golem. Did the golem, in its inert state, still serve a purpose? It had shielded the wizard and the avian beast, encasing them protectively. Yet, it continued to consume the wizards essence. The spell had initiated the transfer of Rothar and essence via the stone armour to the golem. Midnight attempted to intervene in the flow. Against her reservations to touch upon a wizards essence, the intent to help justified such intrusion. She had never succeeded in grasping the fiator with darkness, so now Midnight sent forth her own essence instead. She sensed the point where the wizards essence began to fracture. As she expanded her essence into the space where he lay, Midnight felt no obstruction, but the knowledge of his physical presence made this an intensely invasive experience. The wizard had shifted into something diminished and distorted, caught between beast and man. His body was grotesquely deformed, twisted beyond the unnatural into the uncanny. There was no Rothar, only the faintest trace of essence left, akin to the shadebeast after its defeat, yet different, for the shadebeast had been of the same darkness essence as Midnight, had been nothing, like her, while the wizard was ... something else. Still, the shadebeast had touched upon Midnight as well when she had also been something, when she had still held her midnight stalker essence. He had torn at her Rothar with his teeth, like one beast attacking another. At the beginning of their fight, when she had jumped him with her claws, her paws had slid into him without touching any matter. Yet, as her material body entered the space his darkness occupied, her Rothar had been ripped apart. There was no other way to describe it. This had not happened with the fiator when Midnight had sent her darkness to rip him from the air. Unlike the shadebeast, she had simply slipped through the bird, seemingly without affecting him at all. If, in her current state as a beast of darkness, Midnight passed through all that had matter, then affecting a beasts Rothar required conscious effort. She needed to actively alter something within herself, something in her approach, to touch upon a natural beasts Rothar. And if the shadebeast could do it, so could she. She had reached the mindset that she would surpass all that he had been. Yet, her convictions and conclusions were not a matter of understanding magic, abstract thinking, or logically deducing dimensions. Rather, this knowledge was embedded within her, all that Yves had imparted over the years. Midnight accessed it intuitively, much like her senses, which absorbed countless stimuli and made sense of them through intuition. She understood that she should be able to affect natural, living beings even if she did not consciously recall individual facts about dimensions, magic, and related considerations. But no matter how she tried, she could not touch upon the wizards essence. However, the spell or artefact did, and she tried to discern how. There was a point where Midnight recognised the wizard''s shifting essence as something distinct from his existence, a point where it was neither fully his nor entirely consumed by the golem. It was not a break, not a severance, but rather a strand being drawn across a threshold. And within this transition, there was an in-between where the essence no longer belonged to the wizard but was not yet claimed by the golem. At this threshold, the essence had a unique presence. It seemed accessible. But what was it, truly? It was unbound, neither tethered to the wizard nor the golem, yet also not free. It is change, the voice within her whispered. And with the words, impulsive intuition swept over Midnight; more of a feeling than any form of literal understanding. The essence at the threshold was not something material or ethereal. It was of itself, yet never not part of either the wizard or the golem. It traversed the strand from one existence to the other, where it was never part of both at the same time, never touched by both simultaneously, while also never free of touch. That made it an impossible existence, something that defied being. It could not be. It was not. This in-between was not graspable. If time were frozen, there would be nothing that was not part of either the wizard or the golem. That was the point There was no point. There was, however, a moment. A moment that was shorter than a breath, shorter than a blink, and shorter still. It was an indefinitely small moment. The essence at the threshold cannot be. It is becoming, said the voice that spoke for Midnight, like me. There was nothing. It was Nothing, like Midnight. It was existence itself. It was the process of the shift. It existed only as time progressed. This is change, said the voice. I am change. The voice had said so before. Midnight was something unattached, ever-moving. She was nothingness that shifted as time progressed. Midnight sensed she was on the verge of understanding something fundamental about her existence, yet the final piece about sustaining herself eluded her. She attempted to extend her own essence towards the Nothing at the threshold, to grasp for what was there when she was there also, in that moment. She reached and reached, for the nothing in-between the golem and the wizard''s existence. It demanded a conscious shaping of her form. Midnight condensed into more nothing within less space. This nothing moved faster and faster within less time, back and forth along the strand in ever shorter distances between where she felt the wizard end and the golem begin. There was nothing in-between, yes, she could almost, almost She was caught by the pull. Suddenly, Midnight was drawn along the strand, finding herself within the golem. She felt the form around her, the actual physicality. Immediately, Midnights essence recoiled, pulling back, disentangling from the spells pull before being captured in her entirety. In the same instance, as she broke the connection, she sensed a second essence attempting to engulf her, as part of everything that flowed in. However, the other existence immediately retreated after touching upon her, and so had Midnight in her bewilderment. Disoriented and unsettled by what had transpired, she needed to literally gather herself. For a brief moment, she had sensed the golem as a stone construction around her. It had felt as if she were dissolving into its shape. It was strange magic. Midnight knew better than to get drawn into it again. - With the wizards consumption progressing, the only other course of action she could take was to attempt to prolong his life and strengthen his body, expecting he might then restore himself. She possessed a unique sensitivity to poison, even to the Scorchborns venom. Before becoming a true being of darkness, she had been a creature of poison. Her transformation began with the ability to dissect the weavers poison, discarding its harmful parts and evolving from what remained. Could she apply this to the wizard? Could she extract the Scorchborns disease, split it, and perhaps even have him regain energy from what remained? Midnight had not been able to grasp physical bodies or Rothar, not with the fiator and not with the wizard. But poison was not the wizard. It was something that had become of the wizard. Reflecting on her understanding of change, Midnight realised that poison brought change to the body and mind. This made it part of the Material Dimension. Yet, poison was more than just a substance. That which was poison was not defined by matter. It was transformation induced through matter. Poison was a process, inherently destructive by definition. The similarities to her thoughts on existence, the parallels between nothingness and poison were startling. Midnight did not know where all these thoughts came from. Her own awareness disturbed her. But it was true. Midnight had experienced this truth. She had turned destruction into something else: after her battle with the rock weavers, she had suppressed the destructive and gained strength from transformation. If the Existence Arachnid did not remain subject to the poison but made the poison something of herself, then destruction was not the end, but the beginning of change. This wizard here, now, was a transformer. He was a shapeshifter, a wizard of change by nature. Could Midnight not guide him towards transformation? Why had the Scorchborn continued to poison him? Was it merely poison, or something more insidious that had been imbued into him? Given his near-unconscious state, could she split the poison for him, or extract it from him? Once more, she sent forth her essence, careful not to be pulled in by the artefact. It needed to be her essence, not merely her darkness. The essence was her, after all, and in the weaver tunnel, she had directed the poison. Still, it was an idea born of reason, not certainty or truth. Back then, she had been a midnight stalker, with midnight stalker essence. Then again I am change. Midnight felt compelled to accept this revelation, but as she attempted to change him, no intuition guided her. No impulse. No sense of right or wrong. She searched within herself for words that might instruct her, but found none. Almost none. A quiet part within her remembered how the D??? had bestowed upon her the darkness essence the core of her new existence, which she had allowed to consume her midnight stalker essence. This act of giving essence was something Midnight had not yet attempted. Though she understood that gifting it to the wizard might sustain his existence, perhaps even enable him to transform as she had, she did not want to. Even if she could, Midnight would not diminish herself to give essence to a stranger wizard, just as she would not do so for another beast. She would not lessen her all. There were many wizards in this world, but there was only one her.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. Midnight saw all her attempts exhausted. She could not change him, she could not direct him to change, and she would not give him change. The issue remained that she failed to touch upon anything material The thought broke off. She could. In one singular way. - - They had all fought. They had all understood that at least one of them needed to survive. If his suffering held any purpose, it was to warn others and to see those still trapped within the witches'' mountain rescued. They had suffered for too long. Twelve years of torment had stretched endlessly, each day eclipsing the life he had known before. But against all odds, they had broken free. After what felt like centuries, Salgier had felt the wind on his face, the snow beneath his feet. He had embraced the cold with tears of both joy and desperation. They had escaped the mountain in the darkest of nights, a night cold and uncaring, yet alive with swirling energy. But it had all been in vain. They could have encountered adventurers who would have offered protection, or guild envoys patrolling the Snowtrail, who could have escorted them directly to the Albweiss Mountain Guild. Instead, fate had delivered them into the hands of orks orks wielding magic in ways Salgier could ever have believed possible twelve years ago. Salgier struggled to rise. He had no energy left to shift, nothing left to move. His body refused to obey, his mind slipping away. Could he trust Barbathara to carry the message? Was she alive, could she survive without him? And what of Sahir? There was nothing left of him but fading thoughts. Salgier had lived for one hundred and nine years, a life unmarked by grand events or accolades, but a fair life nonetheless. His name would not linger with this world. He was unremarkable, lacking the achievements that might etch a wizards name into the annals of history. He had been no-one special to anyone, but a good enough man to rest with a measure of peace each night. The last twelve years, spent in captivity, had been one continuing nightmare, but the years before held fleeting moments of genuine joy. These were the memories he clung to, fleeting fragments that had occasionally surfaced amidst the void left by the witches'' cruel experiments. In every respect, he was a seasoned wizard, with more years behind him than ahead. Yet, in these final moments, Salgier felt like a child helpless and alone. He longed to see his familiar. He wanted to see Sahir, but his vision had drastically blurred and he was unable to switch to second sight. He wished to see him awake, to know that he would be safe, but also, as selfish as it was, to have him at his side, to not face death alone. He was not alone, was he? As Salgier strained to reach out to his familiar, he sensed something else entirely a light, distinct and enveloping. Amidst the oppressive force of the seal, a halo of illumination emerged, drawing near and wrapping around him. This light was familiar; it had been present during the battle, a distant observer that seemed to know his fate. Perhaps it was the primal part of him, heightened by the edge of unconsciousness, that shattered the educated rationalisation of reality he had built upon his instincts and innate understanding of the world. Or perhaps it was the desperation of impending death that made him hope that whatever was with him was a conscious entity, neither sent by the Shaira nor allied with the orks. Whatever it was, he felt a profound sense of presence, a reassurance that he was not alone. He would not leave this mountain, but perhaps his words could. He needed to unburden himself of the truths he had uncovered during his captivity. This was his last chance to reveal the sinister agenda of the Shaira. Wizards needed to know. Their plan to eradicate wizardry, to create a curse that stripped magic from wizards it was a revelation that would irrevocably alter the future. He tried to speak to the light, he tried so desperately, but his body faltered under the weight of exhaustion. Well, then, perhaps the light had come for this very moment, a beacon from legends that spoke of what lies beyond death. Salgier had never dwelled on such thoughts and theories, like many who understood the concept of mortality but could not truly grasp their own finality. He had heard about various beliefs, but never considered what his own final moments might entail. Now, he found himself yearning to believe in the light, to trust that it would guide him as he slipped away. A faint sensation brushed against one of his frozen, clawed hands, so subtle he might have missed it if not for the light shifting towards his fingers. The illumination condensed and intensified, drawing his focus to a delicate object now resting in his grasp. It was a messenger string. ----------------------- There was already something inscribed onto it, a faint etching of another wizards magic, yet there remained space for more. It was a gift beyond measure. Whatever presence was here had offered to listen, to bear witness to his final testament. Salgier poured his words into the string, each syllable a fragment of his essence, to save all wizards who would come after him, to warn those who remained to fight the Shaira, to protect wizardry and thus, the world, from witches. Salgier wrote, - until all of him was exhausted, - leaving behind - a legacy of uncertain hope - and defiance. . .
Ch. 14.1 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face - Midnight - Becoming Not
-- - The wizards death was a cessation of essence so faint that Midnight felt almost nothing as its finality rippled through the darkness. His convulsing form fell still within the inert shelter of the immobilised golems embrace. There was no burst of energy, no last surge of essence to mark his passing only the quiet extinguishing of a life burned away by its own desperation. And with his death, the golem, though still imprisoned by the orichs seal, became an empty construct. Devoid of the essence that had fuelled its movements, it knelt motionless, a towering monolith bereft of will. The frosthearts embedded within the stone prison pulsed faintly. Scattered across the interior walls, they fed tenuous threads of energy into the magical lattice that held the golem captive. Each pulse of dim light sent shivers through the threads. The web of containment hummed faintly, a structure of magic that consumed as much as it constrained. Midnight turned her attention outward. Her darkness slipped through the seams of the seal, unfurling like smoke across the mountain. She sought the world outside the forhardened prison, the movements of the orichs. They descended down to the Snowtrail with a deliberation that exposed their exhaustion. These fighters, who had commanded such imposing power mere moments ago, now hunched and sagged under the strain of their victory. Subtle tremors betrayed their fatigue as they navigated the steep descent. There was no triumph in their expressions, no exultation in their gait. Midnight saw no elation, only the cold resolve of strategists who had always known the outcome of the fight they started. These were not warriors revelling in hard-fought glory, but trappers, their grim satisfaction rooted in precision rather than passion. They had fought not for pride but for purpose, they had orchestrated their trap not with fervour but with calculated ruthlessness, and their victory was as methodical as it was inevitable. Even now, as they approached their prey, their every movement reflected caution. And then, T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????n rose. Unlike the measured grace of the mother moon, or the distant vigilance of the stars, T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????n moved with disconcerting speed. Where Sey was an elegant wanderer, he was a colossal force that swept the sky like an harbinger of bad omen. People called him a moon, but that was a misnomer born of desperate simplification. He lacked the serene surface of Sey, the crimson brilliance of Burs, or even the faint promise of something tangible. T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????n was of such profound blackness that not even the midnight stalkers beasts could discern a structure or surface. T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????n might as well have been a gaping hole in the fabric of the sky, a void masquerading as celestial. This unrelenting otherness was too unsettling, too incomprehensible for mortal minds to endure, and so they called him the witch moon. As T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????ns veil spread across the Albweiss, it brought true darkness. The reflective brilliance of ice and snow, the faint glimmers of the scattered frosthearts, even the subtle pulses of lingering magic dissipated into darkness. T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????n brought not the familiar darkness of night, where Sey cast her pale glow upon the world, but an absolute erasure of light. He swallowed not just the light of stars and Seys watchful glow, but everything from the erratic flashes of lightning that tore through the storm skies to every last glimmer of fire on earth. His rise was absolute. Midnight felt the veil immediately, as though the fabric of the mountain itself had shifted beneath her. The light that formed around her whenever she ceased to move vanished entirely. Relief washed over her, intense and instantaneous, like a deep exhale after holding her breath far too long. But the sensation did not stop there. Midnights senses sharpened with a clarity so overwhelming it almost tore her from herself. The world around her expanded, not into chaos but into startling order, an intricate lattice of existence laid bare before her. This clarity was unlike anything she had ever known. Mas a midnight stalker, Midnight had always possessed extraordinary night vision, a trait that defined her kind and made her a creature of night. Where wizards, under T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????ns veil, failed to recognise the world energies anchored in the Alladharian dimension, Midnight had been able to discerning vague outlines of her surroundings, albeit faintly, as though through looking through a distorted shroud of smoke. Sey had always anchored her, a pale but dependable compass. Even in the depths of the Albweiss tunnels, she had been able to perceive the worlds edges, however dimly. Now, even Seys faint comforting presence was gone, smothered entirely by T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????ns impenetrable shadow. Now, for the first time, Midnight was utterly immersed in darkness and yet, for the first time, she could see everything. This was not vision as she had once known it. It was not the conversion of light into shapes and edges. This was something far more intricate, more raw. T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????ns rise had wiped the slate clean, covering the clutter of fragmented light and chaotic energy that had always surrounded her. The only thing that remained uncovered was essence. From one instance to the next, as the veil of the witch moon swept over her, Midnight perceived the world through essence through the very flows and currents of existence itself.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. The veil of T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????n did not obscure this new sensation no, it enabled it. The moons veil stripped the world of all distractions, covering the chaos of swirling energy and the distorted fragments of scattered light, and leaving behind only the purest core. It was like the stillness of air after a storm, the clarity of untouched water in the depths of the earth. Midnights perception cut through everything, piercing the Albweiss to its very bones. She could feel the strong pulse of life in the orichs as they descended the Snowtrail, as well as the grand male that was their krag, their essence flickering in her awareness like flames. In contrast to them, the last remnants of the fallen ork warriors were a mere echo fading into oblivion. But it was not just the essence of the living C of orichs, orks, and birds C that she sensed. No, something deeper revealed itself to her now. Midnight perceived essence in places she had never before known it to exist. In her limited understanding as a patherren, the mountain ranges were first an accumulation of strenuous paths and life-threatening hindrances, then a discernible entity of nature. Now, the Albweiss appeared alive in ways Minight could scarcely comprehend. Its frozen face thrummed with faintest currents of existence, webs so delicate and diffuse they were barely distinguishable from the darkness they inhabited. They were so faint that they were almost nothing, that the mountain too, was almost darkness. But close to this nothing, there was an extraordinary amount of life. It was like seeing the ripple of vibrations beneath still water, the tremors beneath a surface that appeared unmoving. These energies flowed through the Albweiss, threading through stone and snow like veins, weaving life hidden beneath its frozen exterior. Midnight could feel the faint shifts within the mountain, the way its tension an intentions crept through the Snowtrail, cracks forming imperceptibly beneath the frozen crust. Atop all of that, the frosthearts embedded within the stone trap pulsed in her awareness, their resonance distinct, their hums steady as they fed the seal binding the golem. Yet it was the golem that unnerved her the most. Within its massive stone body, Midnight detected an essence that felt alien, unfamiliar. It threaded through the construct like the roots of a fungal network, spreading and intertwining, knitting the stone together into something alive, yet not alive. Was this the same existence that had so briefly touched upon her when she had been drawn into the golem? Midnight was certain it was not a remnant of the wizard. No trace of his essence lingered in this strange presence that threaded through the golem. It was something other. The threads constituted an existence, yet utterly alien a foreign entity that wove itself through the construct like Midnights essence had embedded herself within the darkness that thus became of her. More unsettling still was the nature of the stone itself. Midnights senses had shifted far beyond the conventional, beyond even what she had once understood through her darkness. The golems surface no longer felt like inert, unyielding rock but something else entirely. As disturbing as it was, Midnight was sure that it consisted of the same essence she now recognised as flowing through the Albweiss itself. The veins of the mountain and the golems form shared the same origin. The entire moving monolith was one big entity of raw essence. It was as if the Albweiss had lent its own being to the creation of this construct, splitting off a fragment of the mountain, an accumulated, condensed part of itself, and then shaping all that essence into something deliberate and potent. And within that form lay the stranger existence; an intrusion that had settled and steered the construct. Midnight was sure. It was this presence, not the wizard, that had truly animated the golem, using the wizards life force as sustenance to enact its will. Midnight could not identify the entity, but she could feel its presence, its threads entangling the raw mountain essence. It was as though the monolith of mountain essence and this alien presence had fused but not fully merged into one existence, almost almost Almost like the other one who has fused with my wizard, said the voice that spoke for her. The moment she heard the voice, Midnights focus broke. She reeled, her essence unravelling into the vastness that surrounded her. No longer confined to a core that simply received impulses from her darkness, her being stretched outward, a tidal wave of sensation that swallowed the world. It was a revelation that both intoxicated and terrified her. She was everywhere, her presence diffused into the smallest cracks of the mountain, the faintest breaths of air. And yet, she was insubstantial, unmoored, the singularity of her mind unravelling and her very sense of self slipping away. The mountain was no longer something she observed she was becoming it. Her awareness flowed into the stone veins of the Albweiss, into the faint hum of frosthearts buried deep beneath the ice, into the residual tension of cracks forming in the Snowtrail. She was part of everything. She was nothing becoming not. A wave of panic surged through her. Midnight clawed her way inward, fighting to hold onto the thread of herself. She forced her focus back, retreating from the pull of the infinite. One by one, she severed her connection to all she touched: the orichs with their purposeful descent, the seals pulsating frosthearts, the potent mountain currents, and the essence within the golem. Each tether fell away as she focused, shrinking back into the singularity of her own mind, where there was only her. Just her. Her, and sometimes the voice. Midnight concentrated on the sharp edges of her thoughts, on her singular purpose. The wizard was dead. Whatever this stranger existence within the golem was, it was not something she could understand now. The orichs were approaching. She let go of the vastness that threatened to consume her, pulling herself together, though the echoes of all she had perceived still reverberated through her mind. The overwhelming clarity began to recede like the tide, leaving her redefined and resolute. Her gaze shifted to the messenger string coiled at her side. Midnight grasped it tightly, her darkness curling around its length. The string melded into her essence, affixing itself just as the beast wizard sigil ring had before. This string was not the lifeline Yves had entrusted to her; she would never risk its integrity by offering it to a stranger. The string she had handed to the beast wizard was the second messenger string, the one she had found within the ice cavern. Whatever its origin, its purpose had now changed. If there was ever a moment to move, it was now. T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????ns veil had blocked all light, freeing her from the radiant orb that had ever again betrayed her presence and burned against her darkness. Her heightened perception made the world clearer than it had ever been, and she felt no tether to the frozen battlefield. For her entire life, she and Yves had been instructed to stay hidden, to avoid the witching hours lightless grasp. But this time felt different. This time felt right. There was nothing keeping her. Midnight began to move. Stretching herself through the darkness, she left the battlefield behind. The sealed golem, the dead wizard, the weary orichs her purpose lay not with them. And yet, her mind was anything but silent. The clarity granted by T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????ns rise lingered like an echo, sharpening every question that captivated her attention. The wizards death had not come swiftly. What had driven him to fight so desperately? Had he truly believed the voltera, the golem and the avian beast were worth such sacrifice? And what was the essence she had sensed within the golem itself the strange, unfamiliar existence woven into its stone and movements? Midnight had always been an observer, a shadow to her wizard, slipping between the cracks of the world, unseen and uninvolved. But now, the clarity she had gained under T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????ns veil made detachment impossible. The interconnectedness of everything she had witnessed, the threads of consequence and decision that wove through the battle, demanded her attention. Yet she could not unravel them, not here, not now No, she would not. The partys fates and struggles belonged to a different web of consequence, one she would no longer entangle herself in. The wizards death, in the end, held no meaning for her beyond the faint interest of having observed it. What value his final message might hold, if any, was for Yves to determine. Her duty lay ahead. The Albweiss Mountain Guild and the Barnstream Harbour Guild the destinations Yves had spoken of with measured certainty, names weighted with rumour and reputation. They were sanctuaries for those who thrived on peril: fighters, wanderers, and adventurers who dared traverse the treacherous expanses of the eastern Midlands and Northlands. Midnights path led to them, driven by purpose, though she did not yet know what form that purpose would take. Among them, she might find a ship or a lead, a fragment of opportunity to serve the course Yves had set for them.--
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Ch. 14.2 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face - Nagrak - Grab Your Destiny
- - There would be questions. There would be questions befitting the situation, and there would be curiosity, too, but first and foremost, there would be restraint. No one needed to be told not to pick up random artefacts, especially not a wizards staff. It was a primal warning etched into the instincts of even the most reckless. Unless you were a wizard yourself or one of the few daring artefact hunters who sought out such relics with obsessive preparation, you simply left these things untouched. It was an unspoken rule, as self-explanatory as avoiding the bite of fire. Everyone with a basic survival instinct understood this. Everyone except Nagrak. - Since the grand avian beast had appeared, Nagrak had been hiding in a narrow crevice, one so tight that only his wiry body could have squeezed into it. The crevice had been a suffocating tunnel of raw brown rock, so constricting that once inside, he had been unable to turn around. The only way forward was through. He had pocketed Balthagars gem, scrambled upward, and clawed his way over jagged edges until he emerged onto a higher ledge overlooking the battle. From his perch, he had watched the incredible display of magic unfold in the far distance. Bayazak and Tergaks mastery of ice and stone had been nothing short of awe-inspiring, their combined efforts defeating the wizard turned avian beast and back, and sealing the golem in a towering boulder prison. It was a moment of sheer triumph, a testament to the power Nagrak would soon wield as well. He had felt his own untested magic burning like a distant ember in his gut; a gem of two colours awe and envy. Then he saw Gorak. Nagrak was utterly surprised and overjoyed to see his krag emerge, and then he was equally surprised and quite as much terrified to see T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????n rise; the Full Dark racing along and swallowing entire mountain peaks within mere breaths. Nagrak immediately scrambled down from the ledge, desperate to return to the Snowtrail before the light vanished completely. By the time he gained secure footing, Gorak was already standing with the orichs. Bayazak was preparing the boulder prison for transport. Nagrak had seen him work magic like this before moving massive stones as though they were no heavier than wapa wool. Racing the encroaching darkness, Nagrak stumbled forward in frantic haste, his wiry limbs flailing through the deep snow. He had barely managed a few steps before his foot caught on something buried beneath the white expanse. The sudden tug threw him off balance, and he tumbled forward, plunging headfirst into the freezing drift. The world turned muffled and suffocating, the snow pressing in on every side. His claws scrambled against the icy layers, forcing the dense powder away from his face with the precision of someone all too familiar with such indignities. By instinct, he fought off the immediate threat of suffocation, pushing himself up to his knees, gasping for air that stung his lungs with its coldness. The last thing he saw before the darkness overtook him was a detail so unassuming yet familiar it struck him like a drumbeat: the feet of a fallen warrior, Ulruk. Nagrak recognised them instantly, even half-buried beneath the snow. From his underfoot perspective C so often stomped upon, dodging blows, or bowing his head in submission C he had developed a quite peculiar talent for identifying his fellow orks by their feet and boots. And there lay Ulruk, or what little was visible of him. Nagrak hesitated for a fraction of a moment, but not for grief or indecision There it was. Half-buried amid the snow and scattered ork remains lay something long and unnatural, a twisted formation of intertwining roots. It was the last thing he saw before the Full Dark rushed over him and consumed the battlefield from one end of the horizon to the other. Surrounded by black and storm, Nagraks pulse thundered in his ears, each beat echoing louder than the howling winds that now grew ever more distant, smothered by the raising surges of his ecstasy. Though the battle had just ended, his mind still burned with feverish conviction. Today, something monumental was going to happen. He believed it utterly, unshakably. So when he stumbled upon the staff, even though he only saw it for a second, he instantly understood that this was the beginning of the grand unfolding. There could not have been a clearer sign. He could have tripped anywhere, or nowhere at all, but he had fallen right onto the staff. This was anything but an accident. Nagraks path had been directed by the Albweiss itself. This was it. THIS WAS. THE. MOMENT.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! So, of course, he did not stop to question how the staff got here between Ulruks legs, or whether it belonged to the beast wizard or another figure entirely, such as a hidden adversary. He simply reached for it. Well, if anyone were to argue against caution, which would be on Nagraks behalf, they might note that it was not entirely unheard of for travellers to lose their belongings along the Snowtrail. Wizards, with all their stuff and staffs, sometimes vanished into the unforgiving wilderness, with the wizards eventually claimed by the elements or devoured by beasts, and their possessions left strewn about in the snow. Stories circulated of young patrol guards stumbling upon pieces of treasure an abandoned artefact here, coin and jewellery there. These tales, of course, often served more as recruitment bait than truth, meant to entice new guards with the promise of fortune. After all, it was quite easy to convince someone to take a job by claiming the previous guard had struck it rich and retired. It was nicer too, to think of them living it up and feasting upon all that their newfound treasures could buy, instead of admitting that they had been long feasted upon by the Haraak. But Nagrak did not know these stories, nor did he bother with such potential perspectives on recovering relics and riches. Such mundane hopes belonged to scavengers that were shackled by the trivial concerns of wealth. These thoughts were irrelevant for a true Haraak and had no hold on Nagrak. He was consumed with the divine, the inevitable pull of fate that had guided every step of his life. Yes, he was convinced that the mountain had chosen him. For this moment, the mountain had chosen him No, in fact, it was the other way around: Nagrak had always been the chosen one, and now, at last, the mountain had chosen THE. MOMENT. to reveal his grand destiny. When destiny called, you did not question its origin, its danger, or its intent. Nagrak, with the kind of blind certainty that only a true believer could muster, did not hesitate to interpret divine will and answer. With the appearance of the staff, he was utterly certain that the mountain had withheld the awakening of his abilities until now because he was destined for more than just the power of gems. His destiny was not merely to become an orich but to transcend even that to be one of a kind, something greater, a figure of legend. He would not just wield the power of the mountains gems but also the artefacts of wizards. Perhaps it was his destiny to unite these conflicting forces, to bridge the gap between ork and wizard magic, between the Albweiss and the arcane, to deliver his horde and all orks from the shadow of witches and wizards forever. He would be the first and only to wield all magic. With trembling hands but unshakeable conviction, his fingers felt for the twisted wood. In the Full Dark, Nagrak the Runt grabbed for his destiny but then, destiny seized him in return. The instant his palm closed around the staff, the wooden lattice writhed beneath his grasp, the intricate weave of roots coming alive as though the staff had not yet recognised its new master. Before Nagrak could react, the staff coiled upward, slithering over his hand and onto his arm. Its movement was deliberate and serpentine, tightening like a predator. He felt the sharp sting as the roots pierced his skin, burrowing into the flesh of his forearm, their jagged ends rooting themselves deep within him. Now, where most peoples intuitive reaction to grabbing for something that turns out quite alive and stinging would be to let go and pull back, the common ork is inclined to do the exact opposite. Where generations of Haraak had survived in the harshest of environments, every sparce trace of sustenance could mean life or death for the horde. Those who could capture and hold onto their prey survived, be it a planned or unprepared encounter. So if you grabbed for a stick that turned out to be somewhat of a mountain snake, a thing that slithered and stung, you better squeezed and shook until it was still. That said, with Nagrak, this impulse was somewhat slower than average. These ingrained survival instincts stood quite contrary to his runaway nature. Torn between these two conflicting impulses and the overwhelming demand for destiny, he simply stood and stared as the staff spread further up his arm. Yes, he had expected his destiny to unfold before him, but not literally, not like this thing did now. The pain was fleeting, a shiver that vanished before it could manifest into anything substantial. It barely registered before it gave way to something far more profound. Warmth. It was not the dull heat of exertion or the searing bite of a wound. This was alien, a warmth foreign to an ork born into the relentless chill of the Albweiss, where even the rare embrace of sunlight was fleeting, stolen almost instantly by cruel, howling winds. This warmth carried a stillness that defied the chaos of his world, a sensation so soft and consuming it felt impossible. It was like the whispered memory of the rarest of sunlit days that the most fortunate of orks may hope to experience once in their lifetime, where no storms tore through the sky and the pale glow of Sey was not scattered by frost and gale. It started in his arm, where the staff had embedded its roots into his flesh, and spread outward like a flood breaking through a dam. Comfort surged through Nagrak, unnatural and absolute. His muscles stiffened, his vision blurred with tears he did not realise he was shedding, and his breath caught in his throat, replaced by ragged gasps. His chest heaved, his knees threatened to give way, yet he did not collapse. The sensation was too consuming, too much to process, filling every corner of his body, every nerve, every instinct. The cold that had defined his existence, the aches from his battered form, the stinging humiliation of his countless failures all of it melted away. He was surrounded by the Full Dark, enveloped in Teharuns darkness, and within it, the warmth became his world. For this moment, it was all he knew. This had to be the staff awakening. There was no other explanation. It was alive, and it had recognised him. It was not just a weapon; it was something greater, something that chose. And it had acknowledged his potential, validated his belief, his purpose. The waiting, the ridicule, the years of being overshadowed and overlooked all of it had been leading to this. This was why the mountain had withheld his awakening. Not because he was unworthy, but because he was meant for more. The staff was his destiny, and it had finally arrived.--
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Ch. 14.3 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face - Nagrak and Barbathera - Chance
- - - - The name of said destiny was Barbathera. - Unbeknown to Nagrak, he had not stumbled upon Barbathera because of divine calling, nor because he was chosen for some grand purpose. No, his discovery was embarrassingly mundane; a statistical consequence of his chronic clumsiness. A creature of perpetual stumbles, he could only trip over so many rocks, roots, and corpses before he would eventually stumble over something extraordinary. Be it a wizards staff, an artefact of power, or, in this case, a withering scorchborn chance, not fate, had brought them together. - Barbathera could not survive without an energy source. She needed constant rooting, an anchor from which to draw sustenance, and there was only so much to gain from the dead scattered around her. Since losing the wizard, she had dwindled. She was withering, starving, freezing, her once-thriving form reduced to a husk. The intricate lattice of lichen, roots, and fungi that had adorned her body was now compressed into a dense, knotted core. She had reduced herself into a survival state, her head buried deep within this twisted mass, cocooned in a failing attempt to conserve the last shreds of energy and long-lost warmth. - She had hoped to endure long enough for a beast or traveller to come close enough. But the cold had seeped into her core, numbing her senses and paralysing her. She was dying, frozen and inert, when chance delivered her the runt. His touch jolted her back into awareness, a shock so sudden it sent ripples of terror through her form. Her body reacted instinctively; sheer panic turned into a surge of relief as she burrowed into him. The witches had fed Barbathera on both orks and wizards before. She knew how to extract from them without outright killing them at least, not immediately. As her roots bore into the runts arm, they spread like threads, thinning into filaments that wove their way beneath his skin. They latched onto his veins and his flesh. She drew with ravenous urgency, pulling greedily at everything she could reach: liquids, nutrients, all that would be energy, life and growth for her. In return for what she took, Barbathera made him compliant. Her roots secreted subtle enzymes, chemicals that softened his resistance, dulled his pain, and lulled his senses into a haze of euphoric submission. The runt did not recoil, did not fight. He simply stood, his body trembling as the warmth and pleasure consumed him. He was so much easier to subdue than the wizard had been. Salgier had been defiant to the last. The runt, this malleable, dull-witted ork, showed no such strength, lacking the cunning or resolve that had defined her previous host. He was weak, dim, and small in every way that mattered. Yet in his simplicity lay opportunity. She had seen the orks of this mountain before their endurance, their ferocity, their connection to the cold and stone. If this runt was even a shadow of that strength, he might prove useful. He could be reasoned with, guided, manipulated. A vessel, a path off this cursed mountain and toward survival. But reason and subtlety would have to wait. Barbathera felt her filaments tightening, siphoning, as she drew from him for dear life, all of it channelled into the withering mass that was her core. As she regained life, her thoughts drifted to those who had lost theirs in their failed escape. They had been a band of refugees, arbitrary in their unity, bound together by circumstance, desperation, and fleeting purpose. They had been prisoners, captured or coerced by the Shaira. Some, like Barbathera, the wizard, and his avian familiar, had endured years of servitude and slavery, their bodies and essence subjected to the Shairas abhorrent experiments. Others, like the voltera, had been new arrivals, their chains barely forged before they had been cast into the doomed bid for freedom. Barbathera had been both a tool and a subject in the Shaira''s experiments. For years, they had used her for their grotesque ambitions, twisting magics to influence and manipulate the bodies of other beings. Magic that forged overpowering new forms. Magic that stripped essence from others or imbued it into empty vessels. Barbathera had borne witness to unspeakable horrors inflicted upon captives, both wizards and beasts alike. She had done nothing to stop it could do nothing to stop it. To survive in that place had demanded obedience. To endure meant to comply. Survivors lived on silence. Even now, there was nothing she could do for those that had remained, nor for those that had escaped with her not if she did not survive. It was a truth Salgier had never learned. He had tried to save everyone, and in doing so, he had failed to save even himself. None of them had foreseen the scale of the ork resistance. None of them had spotted the orichs, nor the trap they had so meticulously laid. Their escape had been doomed before it began, their defiance a spark swiftly smothered. The moment the voltera fell to the mighty ork warrior, Barbathera had felt the battles weight shift, tilting irreversibly against them. Salgier, desperate and defiant, had summoned the last remnants of his strength to transform. His body had twisted, elongated, reshaped a grotesque act of willpower as he became the grand avian beast. Barbathera had not thought him capable of such a feat, not after the years of torment that had chiselled him into the gaunt shadow she had latched upon. He must have harboured this strength where even she had not reached, deep within the marrow of his being. Yet he had risen, wings cutting through the storm-laden skies, the fallen voltera clasped in his talons. He could have fled. As the avian, he could have left the Albweiss behind, gliding down the frozen expanse of the mountains to whatever semblance of freedom lay beyond. But he had not. Instead, he had turned back and tried to gather the others. For one fragile, desperate moment, Barbathera had dared to believe he would succeed that he would save them all. She had seen him, towering and majestic, swooping low over the battle to pluck their broken forms from the snow. All of them except Barbathera. It was then the orichs had struck. Silent shadows beneath the blizzards veil, they brought him down with ruthless precision. His grand form, his fleeting defiance, was torn from the air, dragging with him the last hope Barbathera had dared to harbour. Perhaps he had deemed her unworthy, a calculation made in the raw chaos of survival. Perhaps he would have abandoned the voltera, his familiar, and even the golem too, had known about the orichs. Perhaps he had simply lost Barbathera in this madness of battle. Perhaps he had intended to return for her later. Perhaps, in his final moments, he had not thought of her at all. Whatever his plan had been or would have been, Barbathera would never know. In the aftermath of a battle, decisions always crystallised into deliberate intensions, revealed reasonable strategy, or stood as glaring mistakes. Hindsight gave you time to look back, and to look around for all that had been invisible in the storm of blood and snow, for all you could not have realised or reasoned in the moments between life and death, between the present and the unknowable future. Facing this future, with her roots newly nourished by bitter sustenance, the fragments of Barbatheras scattered memories began to align with a clarity that was both cruel and deceptive. Salgier had tried to save everyone. And in doing so, he had saved no one. Ahrasik and Sahir lay frozen. M, sealed within the golem, would not rise again. Only Barbathera remained. Survival was all that mattered now, be it for her own good or to pass on all she had learned about the Shaira. She could not afford hesitation. If she stayed on the mountain, she would freeze and starve. The only path forward led down, into the swamps below, those forgotten lands she had been taken from so long ago that her memory of them had become all but a blur, warped and fractured. There was nothing now but the mountains inner confines and the vast, uncharted unknown beyond it. She recalled little of the world below, save for vague, distorted echoes. The clumsy, malleable runt was her only hope of reaching it.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. There was no alternative. Barbathera had to descend now, before the other orks noticed her, and before this new source of sustenance that was the scrawny ork ran dry. But she was at an impasse. She did not know these mountains or the myriad hidden paths that threaded through them. Her only reference was the Snowtrail, an untrustworthy guide at best. It offered no guarantees of safety, only a general direction. Even that was fraught with danger. Whispers had reached her of its treachery: markings obscured by time, sudden shifts in terrain, and predators lying in wait at its edges, ready to strike at the unwary. The Snowtrail was not a lifeline. It was a vague thread of possibility stretched across an abyss of uncertainty. Even in daylight, it would have been difficult to follow. Under T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????n, there was no chance. The darkness around her was absolute, suffocating in its vastness. Her vision had always been poor, even during the day, but with T?????e????????_???????h????a???????????r????????????????u???????????????????ns veil still lingering, she could not see anything. She was blind, exhausted, and overwhelmed, her senses battered by the relentless cold, her body drained from the desperate struggle for sustenance. Barbathera found herself trapped in a maddening dilemma. She could not do it alone. She needed the ork to follow her will, yet still navigate autonomously. Her own instincts were useless here. She had no memory of these frozen heights, no understanding of their twisted geography, no familiarity with the labyrinthine routes and passageways the orks had spent generations mapping and mastering. But this was what she had been taught to master, was it not? If the Shaira had imparted anything to her, it was the manipulation of minds. - - His breath escaped in short, ragged bursts, each cloud of steam snatched away by the ravenous wind as he wrestled with the storm of sensations coursing through his body. Nagrak had no idea where it had come from. He had no idea what was going on. But, given that this was often his natural state of being, he simply decided the sensation was the mountain itself pressing against his mind. What a sensation! He could barely comprehend it, but why would he need to? The mountains will was vast and sacred it demanded belief, not comprehension. Awareness trickled back to him like icy water seeping through cracks, slow and invasive. He staggered to his feet, clutching the staff. Though the Full Dark robbed him of sight, he felt its weight, its intricacy. The gnarled roots near the head were dense and heavy, far more elaborate than he had realised. Taller than himself, the staff was a rich and complex creation of delicate, interwoven layers, its surface a labyrinth of twisting, textured patterns that begged exploration. His fingers wandered reverently over it, tracing its endless spirals. The staff had chosen him. The truth of it was etched into his marrow, undeniable and immutable The others had to see this! Gorak, Bayazak, and Tergak, they all needed to see! Nagrak could already imagine their awe, their astonishment, the shift in their gazes as they recognised his ascension. Reaching out with his free hand, Nagrak felt the jagged cliff wall beside him. Its biting cold and coarse texture grounded him, anchoring him against the Full Dark. The wind howled, sharp and biting, carrying with it the metallic tang and the faint echoes of the battle, now swallowed whole by the night. Tightening his grip on the staff, Nagrak steeled himself and pushed forward, determined to return to what remained of his horde. But his knees buckled. Without warning, the world tilted and he collapsed in a heap. A sudden, vile sickness surged through him, twisting his insides into knots. Panic flickered, then flared into full flame, as he clawed at his chest with frozen fingers, searching for some hidden wound or injury. He probed frantically, but his numbed hands found no bleeding, no breaks, no external sign of harm. Perplexed, he writhed where he lay, twisting and turning as though movement might unearth an answer, straining to listen, to feel to find anything at all, yet nothing revealed itself. The sickness churned through him, relentless and formless. It offered no explanation, only agony. With great effort, he hauled himself upright, leaning heavily against the icy wall for support. His breath rasped in uneven, ragged gasps as he tried to gather his bearings. The Full Dark was no place to be alone. The Full Dark was death. He knew this with absolute certainty. He needed the horde, and they needed him. And yet, as soon as he turned towards their direction, the sickness struck again, fiercer than before. It drove him to his knees, doubling him over as spasms wracked his body. This was no mere nausea. It was complete rejection. His body shivered uncontrollably as the cold surged inward, hollowing him out, stripping him of all strength and stealing all of the astonishing warmth within in a flash. Panic surged, an feral roar of instinct. The Full Dark was a predator, and he was prey. He had to return to the horde. Yet his body defied him. Each attempt to turn back met with stronger waves of surging sickness. It battered him into submission, leaving him retching and broken on the frozen ground. Nagrak did not understand. He did not draw the connection between action and reaction, between his movements and this violent rejection. He simply did not get it, and so, with the stubbornness of the dumb and desperate, he tried again. And again. And again. Each attempt ended the same his body convulsing, his strength abandoning him until eventually, he collapsed entirely. He vomited, violently and repeatedly, his frame shuddering with exhaustion and defeat. The staff never left his hand. Even now, it lay beside him, a silent sentinel. - - - - - - SCORCHBORN [not reduced in their form] - - --
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Ch. 14.4 — Northern Midlands. Albweiss Mountains. Southern Face - Nagrak and Barbathera - Chance
Why was this not working? Barbathera struggled to scale the toll her influence was exacting on his fragile body. His bones trembled, his veins pulsed erratically beneath her roots, a chaotic rhythm warning of his limits. He was weak, far weaker than she had anticipated. Already worn down by the cold and the battle, his body was incapable of sustaining both himself and her. And yet, though his body was so susceptible to her influence, his mind was not. It resisted. It rebelled. It refused to yield to the body, to its own failing vessel. He fought to the brink of total collapse. Still, Barbathera pressed deeper, ever more damaging and draining him. She had simultaneously overestimated and underestimated him. His mind was surprisingly strong, far more formidable than his body. She was forced to apply her influence to its utmost intensity, stretching herself to the edge of her control. Later, adjustments would need to be made C she would have to temper her grip, to conserve his strength while maintaining her control C but for now, she had no choice. If his mind would not bow to his body, she would have to reach into his unconscious. It was strange. In most of her past hosts, the impulses of the body and the unconscious were nearly indistinguishable, intertwined as one. For some beasts, they had been one and the same; with the body serving as the unconscious. However advanced a people, Barbathera had found the body to be a crude but reliable gateway to the mind. But here, with this ork, the boundary was stark. His conscious mind stood as an indomitable barrier, severing the ties between her manipulations of his body and the desires that comprised his sense of self. He had readily accepted all the pleasures, all the warmth she had given him, but such influence rendered him passive, useless. To subdue him into becoming her guide, Barbathera needed more than simple control over his flesh. If the unconscious rebelled against all reactions of the body that she provoked with her secretions, she needed to align his mind with her will instead. If she could not control the runt through his body, then he himself had to become the architect of his own submission, consciously believing that her will was his own. With the Shaira, Barbathera had first learned to distinguish what defined a beings mind. At its core, it was impulses layers of them. The conscious consisted of what she could best describe as impulses of spontaneous feeling, appearing and vanishing in bursts. The unconscious, in contrast, comprised of a buried strata of ingrained impulses, which were embedded and always traceable within the core of a being. Barbathera could not read minds, not like a witch. However, by honing her roots to an infinitesimal scale and threading them through the nerves of her host, she could send thousands of subtle stimuli tiny provocations that elicited reactions she could study, interpret, and manipulate. It was a constant interplay of seeking and forcing, of probing, provoking and evaluating, until she could trace and master the impulses she wished to enforce. It was demandingly delicate work. She was fighting against time and cold. The orks instincts, fragmented and disorganised as they seemed, were alive with a raw, feral vitality. Survival was imprinted in his kind primitive, unrelenting, and deeply ingrained. Orks did not think their paths as wizards might. They felt them. Each step upon the mountain, each shift of the wind, each scrape of rock beneath their feet, was embedded into their bodies like a special sense. The runts connection to the Albweiss was almost preternatural in its intensity. Whether it was the urgency of Barbatheras situation C her pressing need for freedom, the threat of freezing C or something unique about him, she could not tell. But it was there: stronger than anything she had encountered in an ork before. She latched onto this instinct, diving into the currents of his deep-rooted awareness, seeking the inherited wisdom of a species forged by this hostile terrain. She did not try to dominate him outright. That would have been too risky, too blatant. She did not strike him with any more pain or sickness, nor with overwhelming ecstasy. Those were tools for brute control, not mastery. Instead, she made her will indistinguishable from his instincts. She blurred the line between her suggestions and the ancient, primal patterns that guided him; luring him with subtle sensations and truths that resonated in the marrow of his being: a fleeting warmth that whispered of solace, subtle euphoria that mimicked the gut-deep satisfaction of instinctual fulfilment. She no longer provoked reactions; now, she cultivated feelings in accordance with those deep-seated instincts that had harboured his people through generations. Barbathera did not make him react. She made him sense. - Nagrak was slumped against the jagged cliff wall, barely able to hold himself upright, his head tilted just above the snowline. He had expelled more than he had eaten in the past ten dawns, his body utterly emptied, hollowed. The sickness had ravaged him, leaving him frozen to the core, unable to distinguish the numbness of his flesh from the empty that seemed to echo within. He was certain he was dying. Then, in the suffocating expanse of the Full Dark, he felt it a touch. It coiled around him like a mantle of wapa fur, enveloping him in warmth, a warmth that was alive. It seeped into him, filling the hollows where his strength had been torn away, replacing the emptiness with something sacred and overwhelming. From deep within, Nagrak understood. This was the [WERISS]. The sacred touch of the mountain. Kneeling within the Full Dark, the wind shrieking around him without reaching him, Nagrak felt the weight of the mountains will. The dead warriors at his feet were his past, the staff in his grasp determined his chosen path, and the that now coursed through him was a mark of transformation. He thought of ork traditions, of the walkabout every ork eventually underwent a solitary journey to prove himself to the mountain, to earn its favour and return as warriors, as protectors, as krags.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. The mountain had chosen him. The mountain had armed and cleansed him. Now, Nagrak needed to leave. A faint but undeniable pull had taken root within him. It called him away from Gorak, from the orichs, from everything he had ever known. The compulsion was absolute. He was never more sure. He needed to leave. Right now. This was his orich walkabout. The staff, the mountain, the within the Full Dark it had all aligned to set him on this path. Straightening, Nagrak tightened his grip on the staff, its gnarled roots writhing faintly beneath his fingers, as though alive. The faint pulse matched his own, a synchrony that steadied him. He did not falter. Keeping the cliff wall to his left, he began to walk. He followed the call, the pull of something far greater than himself. There was no fear in him now, no doubt. The mountains will was absolute, and he trusted it with a faith as unyielding as stone. It was his purpose to make this will reality. He would follow where it led, and when he returned, he would not merely be an orich. He would be a master of all magic, a force to reshape destiny itself. Gorak, the orichs, the hordethey could never comprehend the enormity of what had happened here. But they would see. He would rise as the krag of all krags, the harbinger of the Era of Orks. - Unfortunately for Nagrak, the mountain did not lay out his path as straightforwardly as he believed, in the most literal sense. In daylight, the Snowtrail was treacherous. Under the Full Dark, it was a death sentence. Blind faith got him as far as a hundred faltering steps. No destiny could compensate his clumsy steps, counter his malnourished frame, and cancel out his utter lack of awareness; it was gravity that took over before any divine calling intervened. As he began to navigate the Snowtrail with a confidence that was not entirely his own, his foot caught on a loose rock, sending him reeling forward into an unexpected dip in the terrain. As he twisted to regain balance, his ankle buckled, and a sudden, lancing pain shot up his leg. Instinctively, he clawed at the ground, his fingers scrabbling for purchase, but the snow gave way and the ground beneath was of slick ice. With a panicked scream, Nagrak toppled sideways, tumbling down the slope in a chaotic blur of flailing limbs. As he crashed through jagged ice and rock, the sharp edges tore through his leather clothing and sliced deep gashes into his skin. Each impact jarred his bones and wrung sharp gasps from him. Blood slicked his exposed flesh. The staff he had so proudly claimed was ripped from his grasp, its twisted form vanishing into the darkness. His head smacked against an outcrop, sending bright bursts of agony exploding through his inner eyes vision. The world spun violently, leaving him disoriented and gasping for breath. His descent came to a brutal halt as his body slammed into a narrow crevice carved into the slope. The jagged walls of ice and stone caught him mid-fall, stopping his momentum with a bone-shattering impact. The force of the collision broke through the surface beneath him, the ice groaning and cracking like thunder. A gaping chasm yawned open. The staff crashed through the opening, disappearing into the cavern below. Nagrak did not follow. His larger frame slammed against the edges of the crevice, wedging him in place. The jagged rock caught on his ribcage, pinning him awkwardly against the fissures wall. His right arm was wrenched upward during the fall, the jagged edge of an outcrop catching beneath his elbow. The pressure twisted his limb at an unnatural angle, jamming it so tightly that every attempt to move sent stabbing pain shooting through his shoulder and chest. He hung suspended, his legs dangled helplessly over the void below, offering no leverage to pull himself free. Sharp rock protrusions dug into his chest and back, holding him in place like a vice. He tried twisting his torso, hoping to slide out of the crevice, but the more he struggled, the more the jagged edges bit into his flesh, threatening to crush his arm completely. Breathing heavily, yet only able to draw in shallow, stained breaths with his ribs pressing against the stone, Nagrak clawed at the icy walls with his free hand; futile attempts to find purchase. The icy surface was too smooth and ancient to give in. Somewhere during the fall, he had lost everything: the staff, his dagger, his entire belt all gone. He had nothing sharp, nothing remotely useful, and his frozen fingers were numb and trembling. The only sounds were his own ragged breaths and the howling of the storm above, muffled by the walls of the fissure. The bitter cold wrapped around him, seeping into his very bones. He could not feel the anymore, only horrible, pulsating pain in both of his arms. And then, beneath the chill of the mountain, there was something else. A sound. A faint, unsettling noise that rose from the cavern below. Nagrak twisted his neck, trying to face the void, but his position and the Full Dark left him with no view, only sound. It was a low, sibilant hiss, barely audible at first, but growing louder as it echoed through the jagged walls. Something was here with him. It shifted and slithered across the stone beneath him. Then it started to climb. And Nagrak, arm pinned and body trapped, could do absolutely nothing as the thing from the depths ascended toward him. -- -