Symeon was carefully deadpan in his response to Istroama. “Ya ended the world.”

“Not THIS world, obviously. The last world, the Oruke.”

“Ya ended a world called the Oruke?”

“Absolutely!” Istroama smiled brightly as he went on. “Oh, Angrosid helped. I do hope she’s well, wherever she is.” Istroama paused for a moment while he considered Symeon’s blank expression. “Clearly knowledge of the Oruke must be part of those missing memories you mentioned. Well, I realize the whole world-ending thing might make you uncomfortable, but I want to assure you the Oruke was really terrible. Honestly! You wouldn’t have liked it. Very violent, very grim.”

“Yeah, well, this one hasn’t been exactly relaxin’ so far, what with the tentacle Imp and all.” Symeon scrubbed at his face with both hands while he tried to process what Istroama had said. “Man, I can’t even BEGIN to ponder a claim like yours right now. There’s a load of crystals just like the one ya came out of back down on the beach, and I got no idea if there are people trapped in them or what. Plus, so far there’s no trustworthy food, no clean water, no shelter, and no fire. So! Are ya planning on ending THIS world?”

“Well, no. Not at all!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh. Ain’t that excitin’ ‘n new.” said Symeon with the sort of tone one would take after stepping in an unspotted animal dropping. “Well, it says this contract thing has a one day limit. Even if sayin’ yes is bad, it’s only a day. I’m game. You?”

“I believe we are of like minds on this. Forward to glory, friend Symeon, forward to glory.”

Together they each reached for the word ‘yes’ under their respective names. They didn’t get very far before the two words lit up without physical contact. A large number ten in a circle appeared in the centre of the manifest, switching to a nine…

“A countdown. That’s a mite worryin’.” Symeon turned to put himself back to back with Istroama. “I got our six, man.”

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

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

There were two circles in the upper right, one stacked above the other. Both were ringed by curved bars of yellow, blue and red. The top circle contained a picture in profile that was clearly Istroama’s chubby, smiling face. The lower circle had a different face, and the logical conclusion was it must be his own. Seeing himself this way was disorienting. Square-jawed, heavy-browed with deep-set eyes, as utterly hairless and unlined as Istroama, the picture gave him no sense of familiarity. Symeon found himself only mildly discomforted by this. It wasn’t like anything else thus far had any context. Why would his own face be any different when he wasn’t even sure of his own name?

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

Istroama piped up with enthusiasm. “I say, is that how I look? I’m really quite striking, aren’t I? And there’s you as well! Isn’t that fun?”

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

“Need them for what?”

“Just trust me on this one. Yer nose will thank me.”

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

“Well, certainly Symy!”

Symeon issued a sharp exhalation as if he’d been struck as they continued walking toward the sands. “Istroama it is. Istroama, I’m still not ready to deal with that endin’ a world business just yet, but ya seem to have some facts I’m sorely missin’. You said somethin’ ‘bout a surplus of Presence before?”

“Ah, yes. It does seem to be remarkably consistent, doesn’t it? Both gravity and life in abundance, though it’s the gravity bit that’s giving me trouble.”

“And does that have to do with ‘Presence’?”

“Hmmm. How much do you know about magic, Symeon?”

“I know pretty much what ya mentioned before.”

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

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

“To answer your question, Presence,” and here Symeon could hear the capitalization Istroama placed on the word, “refers to powers of gravity and life. My commentary was in regard to the first of those. It seems to be inescapable hereabouts. Haven’t been able to fly at all! I’ve been trying repeatedly, mind you.”

Symeon’s question in response dripped with cynicism. “How exactly do ya TRY flyin’?”

“Oh, the usual ways. Force of will usually does the trick. I choose to fly, I fly! Except that hasn’t been working with all this ambient Presence. I’ve been attempting to produce actual wings for the last few minutes, but this form seems disturbingly immutable.”

“So you’re used to somethin’ that’s more... mutable?”

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

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

“Excellent! Your memory is starting to return!”

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

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

Symeon couldn’t help but be quietly impressed by Istroama’s optimism. Symeon was frustrated with his own predicament, specifically the chunks of knowledge that would take over his thoughts without warning or context. Istroama, for his part, seemed to have no knowledge about the current world beyond this unproven magic he spoke of, and still the man was consistently upbeat. That said, questioning Istroama, while intended to solve some mysteries, was creating more questions with every answer. This magic business was a prime example.

“You said somethin’ there about seein’ lines. That’s somethin’ ta do with magic?”

“Well, yes. As I said, the lines are everywhere. I’m… wait. You don’t see them?”

“Don’t think so.”

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

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

“A fair point. I apologize for any offense given.”

“Eh, none taken. So what’s it like, seein’ lines?”

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

“That one specifically?”

“No, in fact. All the remnants of this nature I’ve seen so far are quite fire-heavy.”

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

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

“Output. Output.” Symeon clicked his teeth while muttering the word. “Output? Why is that familiar? Output.” He felt sure the word had recent relevance. It wasn’t in conversation until now. Had he read something about it?

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

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

Istroama stood beside Symeon, and concentrated. “Done. Magnificent, isn’t it?” Symeon didn’t see Istroama’s screen until Symeon reached over and put his hand on Istroama’s shoulder. At that, both screens were visible to him, his pushed away while Istroama’s loomed directly ahead.

“Oh I say, that’s your manifest, isn’t it? It even has your name on it. Symeon Allegedly! I say, how did you manage to get yours to be over there?”

Symeon started to explain. “Just think about movin’ it n’...yeah, ya got it.” The second manifest had slid away to hover beside his own. “Good stuff. Let’s keep walkin’ while we sort this, now that we won’t be trippin’ all over the place.” Symeon lent action to his words and continued toward the beach, albeit at a slower pace. Istroama joined him, beaming with silent delight in the azure glow of the two manifests.

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

“When did that happen? Not much help from that stuff, huh?”

Istroama didn’t respond. Instead, he ducked low and came up with a fist-sized rock, which he flung above Symeon. Symeon couldn’t help but duck away from the throw, falling backwards onto the sand, his gaze drawn up to the looming claws that had breached the top of his manifest.