The three’s eyes halted to a deadlock. Two, stricken with disbelief. Reassessing what they’d just heard from who they just heard it from, and if it were true, how could they respond to something so incomprehensible on the second? Grisla Orlith the Untalented had his days, from way back when, and even had a modicum of respect still clinging to his name by way of his accomplishment; time does erode everything, though. And, the Patriarch’s decree of that day took its time in a slow burrowing into the clansmen’s minds, and, respecting his decree, aligned themselves well in adjusting to the new Grisla Orlith. The boy of before and the boy of now were so different they may as well have been different individuals entirely. That mindset makes it substantially easier to treat him as they do.

He’d never seen these two before, and although they were strangers most guardsmen gave him a breadcrumb of that old respect due in part of his father’s name, and his clan’s. The Orlith’s have slowly weaned out in the centuries: death by accidents, by cultivator woes, chiefly old age though. For whatever reason over time the family has bred less and less of the name, some scattering, becoming assimilated into the other clans through marriage and, over time, one might forget they once carried the name of Orlith at all.

Until his father.

A weak breeze shifted his hair; lifted the hem of their robes. Grisla’s medallion on the sun’s rays could tell an eye it was likely the most expensive item the boy owned. All the clothing he brought with him on the journey to the Well of Wonders and out lay shredded; the most luckless beggar in the village would be hard pressed to be put in comparison to him—but he took what he could. Probably think he’s deluded, insane, or deluded and insane and is baiting for some sort of… “honorable” end, whatever may be running in their head. He almost wanted to laugh.

Once, Seri had told him during his time before the Northern Wilderness that his… “otherness”, as a consequence for adhering and fulfilling his contract with the four entities that changed his life, will isolate him from any chance at a normal life. At the time, he had half a mind to her words and the rest was trying hard to learn the first technique she had taught him. Normal? In what part has his life been since such humiliation, normal? If that is so, then that world was abandoned as he laid in the snow, back then, waiting to die.

Grisla needn’t to be told. The moment he sworn to whatever dubious oaths they forced him to take to be within their presence a whit longer, he’d do it. Reciting it on one foot if they asked. Would they want him to twirl too? Reaching for change, no matter in what it entailed, had plopped power in his lap; and seized in a bloody, calloused fist. That in mind, he’ll deny any who try to belittle his cause; think of him as the same Untalented who hid inside his father’s shadow…

The first guard’s expression simmered down to amusement. Scratching his beard as if he couldn’t decide whether the joke was funny or nay. His black eyes matched his companion, who fingered his sword hilt instinctively, he wasn’t amused, not at all, more of switching on over to a static and calculated disdain. Grisla had as much of a right to call himself as Grittus clansmen as they, actually, even more so—the blood of his family was enough for his Ancestor’s and the Ancestor’s of the other great families to call one another brother, in a past he cannot fathom. These two belonged to neither. By right, he had more than enough reason to haul both by the scruff and a little extra to put his boot in their teeth if his whim talked.

But the Patriarch’s word had invalidated that. To the point where most had forgotten the Orlith family was a member of them, once.

Grittus clansmen are naturally prideful, to a fault. Rank is synonymous with power in their world. Cultivators who serve and, well get to eat the spoils of the clan. For someone like himself, bereft of both, and still being able to claim to a status of a cultivator because of nepotism despite common opinion, he was the walking antithesis to the clan, and what they believed.

“Now,” the first guard said to Grisla, “we don’t know what kind of a place you’ve been slithering around or what hamlet has taken you but remind yourself of where you are child. Your father’s name doesn’t have much weight in the guard as it used to.” As if it did before. The tinge of it was only remembered by and held up by the people who respected his father the most. A slight frown came.Then what changed?

“We’ve nice guests up in our Leimuth this month, and for you to come waltzing back in the way you are will be an eyesore to them, and to the Elders. We don’t have the right to deny you passage back inside, Grisla Orlith, but you will still respect the order we have ‘less you want to be disciplined on the spot.” The second said. It was like he remembered whom he was addressing, and his fingers left his hilt with a flash of disgust on his face. They thought he was acting out a childish rebuttal!

Guests? Grisla let his gaze wander; this road is empty, he remembered; than usual. Did they have something to do with it? He pushed it out of mind. Like it mattered to him, simpering nobility didn’t interest him. Attending those assemblies back when he was part of the fold could bore a man to think an imaginary friend as better company; he himself was a master at pretending to be attentive out of respect for the guests. Whilst his mind was preoccupied with fighting Xinrei later and learning from the Elders during. The families of minor clans outside the villages with loyalties to their Patriarch always threw themselves at his feet; they all but kissed the man’s feet without permission, just to remind him their loyalties were true.

The show of the Chosen and the Elders in attendance served as a show of strength—their younger generation are capable, and the elders are iron mountains ready at a word, with their successors to take their place in some distant future—and, the other less exciting reason was to familiarize them with their clan’s subjects. Faces, names—in that order.

“Don’t bring up a stint. I’ll look through for a moment, and you’ll be on your way.” His unguard will be the undoing of him. If he treated those who looked weaker than him so. Cultivators could be classified into an entirely different species after the third cycle of Solidification, but that didn’t mean some pretty eyes and round cleavage couldn’t kill him from a tipped needle. Without a word, he reached out to take his bag instead of asking for it.

They cannot be allowed to see even an inch of what he held. Their greed, present or not, may drive them to take more… extreme measures. Contributing a portion of this to the clan’s wealth would be an obligation, and a fast way up into the minds of those who can change their entire lives forever. With that in mind, Grisla stepped back.

The guard snorted, almost like a heavy sigh. “Even while crippled, you still find cause to make an issue for the rest of us.” Patience at its end, the man breezed forward; hands to take the pack and the straps off if need be were close to Grisla. His speed wasn’t even too shabby, maybe a second-favorite disciple in the Lower District when he was a youth. But, his limited talent, or attitude, or both relegated him to being a guard for a nearly forgotten post. Not that Grisla pitied; every man has a limit. His own situation differed.

For a Grisla before leaving for the journey, this man would be a blur to his sight. He would be a walker on the winds who appeared whenever he felt. On everything he’s known most disciples would have no choice but to offer respect to such skill, at least, to the average.

But Grisla Orlith has always been uninterested in the average.

The man was sure he had something in his grasp, but then Grisla backstepped again. A movement so casual he’d tell nothing about it. To the average. He put some energy into his step like a teacher ready to put fury and hell on a student who had it coming. Faster. And with a disdainful eye he stopped next to Grisla; this time intending to yank it off him. The boy with a small smile wiggled out of it.

The guard almost wanted to snarl. Whatever had happened in that interaction, he was doubtful he saw what he saw, probably assuming he hesitated, or didn’t put as much ambition in that idea as he thought. He looked down his nose at him, “Grisla! You crippled wretch, stop being so obstinate! Otherwise… otherwise…!”

He stopped. “Otherwise, what? You’ll strike me?” Grisla moved his brow more for the question rather than indignation. His winded breaths due in part to the mountain still didn’t hinder his speech, or, as seen before, his movement.

“I’ll teach you the respect that Gihren should’ve. I’d have thought you’d known and accepted your place long ago, but maybe every dog forgets eventually.”

The second guard had his arms folded with a smirk of the impending pain for Grisla if he kept up. Instead of sharing in his superior’s infuriation, it all was a show to him. Likely the only entertainment they’d seen in a while here. At this point, even if his father was here he’d have to distill punishment himself to the insolence shown. He was glad at that, for Grisla was about to embarrass his fellow guardsmen.

“Oh, I am sorry,” Grisla scratched his head. “I was s-so scared that you was to hurt me, and I couldn’t help but panic. I… I’ll give up what you ask, but—” He gave the man a once over, “I believe before then, you may need to get some water. You’re going to be parched.”

The two blanked again. What absolutely nonsensical vomit was he spouting? They wafted it off. “No games, you milk-sucking leech! I will take it from you!” The guard’s sudden start cut off whatever the boy was to say. His hand grasped air. Stepping forward, his fist shooting for Grisla’s gut could make even the thickest bark wail. The man’s seriousness couldn’t be any more evident. Yet—

He slipped away. Again.

Like chasing a dragonfly, the man lost his catch every time. Boots kicking up dirt, small pebbles falling off the cliff to tumble to a death causing fall below. Every missed blow increased his fervor, and Grisla was sure that if he was caught—he’d feel more than just a sore face in the morning. His leg sweeping far and cutting in its path, yet the boy vanished only to reappear at his side; absent even a single bead of sweat. He looked… more in contemplation, than being invested at what’s in front of him; measuring a value he couldn’t put to paper. Grisla’s hair finally settled when both stopped. The dust that settled on their clothes would have to be washed out.

The guard had a strong front up, but anyone could tell the man’s knees must’ve been screaming, but his hurried breath was the most obvious clue. “Enough. Hersham, seize him.” Hersham blinked in surprise, but following an order took precedence quickly. He prowled behind as if he had the blood of a cougar in him; another front that didn’t impress Grisla. He was a little better, though. Without anything more, the two rushed him.

Hand-in-fist, Grisla’s bow was perfunctory. “Well,” he said, smiling, “it was fun playing with you both, but if you’ve no energy to follow through on your inspection, perhaps we can reschedule this for later? You know where I live, or, rather, where the Orlith family does. Bring your concerns to my father whenever you feel better, okay?”

The guardsmen looked as if they’d spent ten years in a race with a hurricane. Their disheveled hair, broken hair ties and the sweat that clung to both forehead and that couldn’t be recovered from without a good night’s rest, and a morning of idle motion. Exchanging glances with their eyes wide, and every exhale of theirs returned only a quarter as much of the recovery needed to be back on their feet. Had a full captain seen them in this state there was only one of two things to happen: A signal fire lighting, and the clan and their full force would be waiting for whoever it is at the main gates, or they’d take such a tongue-lashing that even before words of dismissal came about, these two would be taking the long walk back and resign themselves to clerk work at the barracks for the rest of their lives.

“How…?” Hersham said. Despite coming in later, he was a beaten horse with a broken back. The man approached with extra of everything his senior had, as if he was trying to prove himself, but in the end all it gave him was a cloud of pungent sweat that rode on the wind to their noses, wrinkling them.

Grisla was already on his way but, he stopped. Turning, “I was just faster. That was all.” He said. “Also, my waterskin is over there. Help yourselves.” Neither of them had seen when, or how, he placed it. But it laid not so far from them, resting on the table outside. Before either could say anything more, he was a head hiding below the road, walking to a village which hated him.

Hersham and Yan picked themselves up, still watching the boy who was long gone. When they made it back and, reassumed their places with their collars a little bit loose than before, Yan, Hersham’s superior said, “I’ve no idea of what just happened. And neither do you. We’ll both forget this ever happened.” Should word spread of them, the Grittus guard being shamed like this, by the last person under heaven, who knows what other unfortunates might come their way? Yan silently agreed.

“…He’s fast.”

“Yeah.”

“Very.”

“More than I could believe.”

“Did you feel his Juva?”

Yan’s head swiveled. “Barely. It was like a ripple on a pond.” It was unbelievable, and yet, they had to. Reality spoke truth, regardless of sentiment.

Hersham met his eyes, “…He doesn’t know, does he?”

“He will, though. He will. There’s no telling what he might do.”

“For once, I pity him.”

“As do I.”

The guards of the back gate to the Northern Wilderness receded back into their own minds. Waiting, watching for the next individual.