5 - 1 [Fool] A Kindred Kind, Metamorphosis of the Spirit

None shall escape the Final Fate. Not even the Gods, for They too shall die. And from Them shall come Themselves once again. Eternal forevermore, unending and unbeggining for the Wheel is Their domain.

Father to Themselves, They Art.

Upon the Everturning Wheel of Creation Neverending is the Heavens and Earth. When one Turn begins and another ends is but a matter moot.

The Wheel Shall Turn, and the seasons change along with. No other things are certain but this.

Change is inexorable as the Turning of the Wheel of Heaven and Earth.

-Mandatos Gaiah-Perakh, Holy Scripture of the Cult of the Flower-Crone.

The Exorcist - 3rd of Mead’s Tap, Year 1125 A.E.

After breaking his fast, the Exorcist brought Eiden to the door of their shared room at the inn. Fin booked it when the boy was stuffing his mouth with chicken and bread and cheese.

How so much food fit inside such an emaciated and small child, Fin had no clue.

Yep. He’s got an exorcist’s appetite alright. Boy hasn’t even gone through the Trials and he could eat through the larder of a whole tavern.

The Exorcist pulled out a key from his pockets, but stopped before unlocking the door proper. There was just him and his newfound apprentice in the hallway wrought of whiten stone, cold to the touch.

The skin of Eiden’s spirit ebbed to an almost standstill as the boy looked at the key with something approaching reverence. Then, the invisible membrane took to flowing once more as it spread over the key in his left hand. The spirit-essence brought forth feelings no different than a Dyeus canal channeling the waters of the monsoon seasons.

A hound held back from its food, squirming in anticipation.

“Here lad, open the door.”

Fin extended the key, the tarnished iron laying atop his wrinkled mits.

Eiden’s head turned unevenly, the gesture like that of a confused pup.

“How’d I know?” The Exorcist asked with a wry little grin, airing Eiden’s question before he himself could. “Yer spirit gave ye away. You see, the representative element for spirit and mind are one and the same—mercury—and for good reason.

“They are not just linked together, but woven so tightly such that they cannot easily be disentangled or even distinguished at times. The skin of your spirit—your aura—mimics and mimes the emotions that run through your mind.

“It’s a bit like your face giving away your emotions in a game of cards.

“Now, go on, git. Open the door.”

Eiden took the key, palming it like a serpent pouncing upon rodent.

Knew as much, thought the Exorcist. Quick and dexterous hands. Hands of a pickpocket.

The lad shimmied the iron implement into the lock’s hole, somehow knowing that was what was needed.

Sure, knowing that a key goes into a lock is common enough. But without exposure to lockholes, knowing that keys sometimes don’t fit as well and needed a little shimmy?

There’s a story behind that.

The Undercity hasn’t any locks but those of the upper levels and near the Pinning Gates.

And I found ‘em in the lower east side, nearest to the Drey forest.

“Twist it.” Said the Exorcist even though he reckoned that the lad already knew.

Eiden did so, something inside giving way.

The door opened with a click as the key turned inside the lock. A hearthfire baked the room in warmth as oil lamps provided added light. A window lay opposite the door, glass framed by wood bound further unto the base marble that made up most of the establishment. Two beds were at opposite sides of the room, wooden-panel separators giving a semblance of privacy to each.

Fin had to pay an extra silver penny for the prepped room. The tavern’s servants had even added some food and water, like he asked, and heated a tub.

“Here’s the soap.” Said Fin, handing Eiden a dark green bar etched with scrollwork of the Vitaen gods and goddesses in the throes of passion. “Don’t worry ‘bout its source. This is me stuff from Vitae, my homeland. We don’t use men to make our soap.

“Go on and take a bath. You stink like me feet after a job. I gotta go and buy some supplies.” Continued Fin as he unwound his crossbow and unbuckled its holster and left it atop the chest at the foot of his bed, laying claim to it all the while. “In case you lack for diversion, just mess around with your magicking.

“Though, two warnings. First, practice near the cold marble and away from anything flammable. Second, don’t delve too deeply. If it feels like you're pulling at power not meant for a boy but instead a king, stop whatever you’re doing.

“I’ll explain as best as I can when I return. I gotta get you some decent clothes. Keep the coat for now.”

After unequipping his sword from his back and laying it to rest near the crossbow and a few other knicks and knacks, the Exorcist gave Eiden a nod and left.

Gotta get some magicking supplies too. There might be some at the local alchemist’s shop, but that’ll be it. Might have to lean on more mundane materials.

Salt and ash and some firewood should be cheap enough.

The Tunnel Rat Mageling - 3rd of Mead’s Tap, Year 1125 A.E.

The wooden door closed with the finality of a tomb’s lid, sparking a memory in Eiden’s mind like it were tinder.

The mausoleum of the sunchildren, of those that dwelt above the Tunnels, intersected at times with the Undercity. The White Cliffs were like sponges found washed ashore, a mess of holes and tunnels that were bound to cross.

Eiden was small and lithe, able to crawl through air vents and into the marmon tombs for some quick and superficial looting. The dead did not need for rings of silver when the living starved.

When children barely of ten winters froze over for lack of firewood.

The thunderclap of the tomb’s lid echoed through Eiden’s mind.

He would never forget that loud yet dull thud that signaled a sunchild was claimed by Mortus and watched over by Erebus, the Blacken Twin. It bore through the body and shook the bone, a beacon wrought not of visible light but tangible pressure and sound and force.

Not even those that dwelled above could escape their final fate. The finality of the tomb’s lid was as much set in stone as the scrollwork etched upon its surface.

That called to the mageling tunnel rat. The feeling of pressure and force, of finality incarnate. Of raw and unfettered power.

Alluring like the glint of metal on boney and dusty fingers. Skin stretched back, bearing baleful claw. The dead were soil for but a single, growing crop; nails. Long and dastardly things that grew even after the body ceased to draw breath and the spirit was left untethered.

The mageling looked down at his hands, remembering the blacken claws of his nightmares. With a shake of his head, Eiden removed his thoughts from the festering dark.

Eiden went over to the hearth and removed the carpet that lay a full span away, tossing it to the side. The marble floor underfoot was now naked and bare, richly dyed thread thrown aside like common drosh.

He sat down and stared down at his hands, thinking. Remembering of all the times he had called upon his magicking. And when it called upon him.

Eiden had grown to know a lot over his short life, even more so now that his spirit was awoken.

An unspoken thought, a sleeping and inherent concept borne in the dark of his mind, crystallized. It came to the fore and into the fold, him now astutely aware of it. And its implications.

The mind did not possess either emotion nor belief. It was the opposite.

Emotion and belief possessed the mind.

It was water and he, the cup. It was blade and he, the scabbard.

It was flame, and he, the wind.

The finality and force of a tomb’s lid closing upon marmon coffin echoed through Eiden’s thoughts, rebounding off of the cavern that was his spirit.

Water can be moved. Blade can be drawn. Fire can be roused by bellows.

Then, emotion can be moved, drawn, and roused as well.

It was simple logic. An ascertaining of facts, like moving around the pieces of an equation to find the number hidden behind the letter. How Eiden knew what an “equation” was, he did not know. The memory was blurry like the stupor invoked by smoke-leaf, or peace-weed as it was called up here in Arvenpyre proper.

Water can be moved, the mageling thought as he felt around his head for the sound of a tomb’s lid sealing shut.

He latched onto it, hands of spirit as sticky as his mitts of flesh. The tunnel rat held onto the sound, wrapping it in his waking will.

Like a breath, Eiden let go of the feeling inside his mind, letting it course through channels of his spirit. The act was instinctive, almost unthinking. As natural as the blinking of his eyes and the beating of his heart.

From mind to heart, from heart to hands, the essence of finality coursed through the channels of his spirit.

A burst of wind, almost unnoticeable, spread out from his hands. If Eiden had not felt the invisible pressure brush over the skin of his arms, he would’ve thought it all some queer sort of flight of fancy. Some imaginary and ghastly feeling, not present in the real and waking world.

Yet no. This was real. This was magick arkana.

Emotions have their own sort of essence; I can bring it into reality. All I need is to use my spirit.

Eiden experimented with different conjurings of emotion, letting each manifest physically. Some he could easily summon, others took time and great effort. And then there were some that he simply couldn’t bring about no matter how much effort he put into the attempt.

Anger were red sparks intersped with tendrils of lightning. Sadness was cold mist, pale-blue and spreading like hoarfrost upon metal. Joy was… joy he could not conjure. Pride and confidence was a burst of wind, of power diffuse yet boundless like a storm.

If I can conjure my emotions into being, can I pull other feelings into my spirit?

Eiden couldn’t quite test his guess given he might end up hurting someone because of his inexperience. Last time when his anger roused his spirit, the act had boiled his hands raw.

And that was simply his own spirit to his own flesh. The body, no matter if it were physical or substance insubstantial, resisted attempts at self-harm. The knowledge of such was instinctive, like the knowing of where his limbs were in relation to the rest of himself, even without sight.

Eiden had no compunctions against violence to those that did such upon others, but to harm an innocent was a line he was unwilling to cross.

That’d make him no different than the monster that murdered his kith and kin.

Eiden shook away the melancholy and the grief. The less he thought about that, the better. He returned to playing around with his magicking, testing the limits of his spirit upon the waking world.

The mageling spread out the skin of his will—his aura as Fin called it—letting lashings of spirit feel around like a thousand-thousand fingers. It was a bit overwhelming being able to touch the entirety of a room without actually doing so in the flesh, but Eiden adapted quickly.

If I can touch the world with my spirit, can I move it too?

Eiden scoured the room for a suitable object, finding and picking up a clay cup. It looked cheap, and he reckoned it would be fine if he ended up breaking it.

He laid the clayware in front of himself and sat down, cross-legged.

Extending his hand forward, he willed his spirit to grapple onto the cup.

Like sand through the cracks of his fingers, his aura continued up while the object stayed still.

Eiden frowned, a pensive look constricting his brows.

What am I missing? I can make my emotions into physical things. I can move around things well enough with a burst of wind, but that isn’t my spirit. It’s the essence inside it. Its breath, not hand.

I need to make my spirit physical.

Eiden tried doing so, willing his aura to condense, like water turning into ice. Not much happened other than spent concentration and a minor spirit-ache, the muscles wrought of substance insubstantial cramping.

Eiden waited a breath for the ache to subside before continuing.

The mageling poured his newfound awareness over himself, looking clearly into the depths of his spirit and mind. Answers were sure to be found if he was willing to look, to scour the depths of himself.

The spirit, as he saw it, was not in the shape of man. It was bound to the body, and as such, the channels that bore through it looked like they were configured in the manner of a human.

But no. The spirit spread out, in space that wasn’t quite space, nebulous and hard to define.

In the depths of the realm of spirit, space broke down. Only when Eiden’s spirit touched upon the physical, the waking world, was it confined by form. Was it ordered.

The neophyte magicker extended his aura once more, taking care to observe how it interacted, or in this case, did not with the cup.

Eiden could feel the surface of the clay, cold and slightly rough. The sensation was like he had a hand of flesh brushing upon the cup.

He lifted his aura, pulling up and yet it slipped off the exterior of the cup. The skin of his spirit was too weak, he realized. Might like that of a newborn pup, spindly and without proper strength.

More, Eiden thought. I need more spirit. More strength.

The mageling roused the strength of his spirit, drawing his aura together in a concentrated ball around the cup. With a working of his will, Eiden contracted the muscles of substance insubstantial that bound his aura to his flesh and bones.

The cup lifted, shaking violently as did Eiden’s muscles and form writhe in sympathy. His brows were knit in concentration as he held his breath, the weight of a small little object too much for his spirit.

The edges of the object were lit by whiten light, dull and dying, hissing like steam and confined to the shape of vapor.

The mageling let out his breath in a burst, untensing muscles of flesh and spirit.

The clayware cup fell to the floor, breaking into shards.

Eiden crumpled back onto the blessedly cold marble, his body and spirit exhausted.

A smile crept upon the edges of his lips. Unseen spiritborne wind ruffled the mop of tawny hair on his head.

Eiden shook away the joy that threatened to take over. It felt wrong to have any semblance of such an emotion.

He climbed back onto his feet and set about to explore the room, fiddling with furniture and knick-knacks he had never seen before. Though, a good amount of them felt oddly familiar.

A mirror, the length being the full span of a man, lay on the marble wall. Eiden touched its surface, seeing his own reflection. A dirty-faced tunnel rat looked back at him, cheeks suken and nose crooked; one too many scuffles together with lack of any medikers to set bone rightly.

Eiden smelled himself, wincing at the sudden awareness of his horrid stench.

Hells take me, I smell like the Devil’s hairy ass crack.

Eiden bathed and scraped off the layers of accumulated filth. It was strange being clean, not covered in marble dust. The tub’s water was left coal-black by the end of the bath, more sludge and muck than liquid.

The green bar of soap was a welcome reprieve. Eiden would’ve still used seifar’s blend if he had to, his sense of smell not caring at all that it came from the Soap-maker’s Pit.

Compassion and personal morality had no room in the heart of those that had no choice. Circumstance stole away one’s principles, sliver by sliver, until all that was left was more beast than man.

More monster than person.

Eiden knew as much, he had condemned many other rats to death for crossing his and his own. He had thrown their bodies to the wolves of the Seifar’s Stew in exchange for soapstone.

Amidst his thoughts on his past failings, a warmth blossomed in Eiden’s heart. It was at odds with the cold ball of steel that usually thrummed in his chest.

The source was the green bar of soap.

The feeling of gratitude for that seemingly small gesture, that tiny gift, was boundless. Eiden felt obligated to give the Exorcist his due. Even if he did not want this gift of awoken spirit, Eiden would do his best as an apprentice.

It was the least he could do.

The mageling waited atop his bed, a towel wrapped around his waist as he stared out into the setting sun.

With a knock on the door, and a “come in” by Eiden, the Exorcist entered into their shared room, a bundle of clothing under his arms.

Fin threw Eiden the pile of clothes; he caught them with his left hand, the arm darting out on reflex. They were simple vestments, a light brown tunic and dark green breeches. The mageling went behind the wooden separator and changed out of his towel, donning the new clothes.

The tunic on his skin felt weird and uncomfortable, his years of being shirtless making the sensation almost unbearable even if the cloth was higher quality than roughspun thread.

Eiden looked at himself in the mirror; a stranger looked back. His hair was no longer greasy and matted, and his clothes weren’t salvaged rags any longer. Though, they did hang onto his frame and billow out, his diminutive stature and thin body making him look like a scarecrow without straw.

The east of Arvenpyre was host to a smattering of farms, their fields littered with effigies to ward off birds that would destroy crop. A tunnel rat’s entertainment mostly consisted of finding spots along the Cliffs with a good view, so Eiden had caught his fair share of such sights.

The Exorcist had returned when the light of day bled red, the wintry sunset more like a wound than proper celestial body.

The color tugged at Eiden, reminding him of that night. That accursed night.

The fires of his heart and soul burned inside his eyes, scarlata incarnata crackling in between tongues of crimson. Smoldering ember waited in tense rictus for release.

A serpent coiled, baring hissing fang.

With a breath, Eiden let go of the anger, unlatching himself from what clung onto him. His mind was still set ablaze, his hatred and wrath still smoldering within. But no longer did it hollow him out and puppet his flesh and spirit.

Like ash scattering to the wind, the fires inside his eyes dissipated, returning his irises to their mundane and forgettable brown.

“Hey lad, you want dinner?” Asked the Exorcist, his tone amicable.

Eiden was no fool. Fin saw through his very spirit. The Exorcist knew he was embroiled in anger and grief.

He saw the devils and demons that festered in his heart, aching to be released. To usher in ruin and spread ash. To rend flesh from bone and spread scarlet, be it in the form of flame or blood.

“Aye.” Answered the mageling with a forced smile, lips set more like a thin line that signaled obsequence than true grin. “I could go for a bite.”

They walked silently throughout the marble hallways, towards the common room. Fin had not bothered locking the door. Eiden guessed there was no need.

The Exorcist was a tracker of mythic beasts and abyssal monsters. A mere mortal would be quickly snuffed out and put to the blade were they to pilfer any of his possessions.

Hells, Bastille would probably cut a thief to ribbons if they so much as gazed wrong at her. The blade was nigh unstealable given its living spirit.

A grim chuckle escaped Eiden’s lips.

The oathbinder had already tasted the blood of a thief.

The duo sat down upon a marble table and bench, once again at their spot that overlooked the sea. Pinkish clouds flirted with the dying sun as the blackening firmament fought against the amber waters.

Eiden’s breathing hitched as did his heart thrum a beat faster. Night was falling; the Black was coming.

Were it fear or excitement, Eiden did not entirely know.

“Tell me, Fin.” Said the mageling. “What do I owe you for the apprenticeship?”

Without a second-thought, without a single breath, his eyes unblinking, the Exorcist responded. His voice was mountain stone, unyielding to wind that could topple ancient oaks and primeval forests.

“Nothing.”

Eiden raised a brow, his years of living in the Undercity giving him no small amount of doubt. Everything had a price. Breath and blood cost soapstone, and no debt could go unpaid.

A price paid in full.

Whether it be a willing exchange of soapstone or one’s body being thrown into the Seifar’s Stew, the Pit would have its due.

Eiden prodded at Fin’s spirit, feeling through the fabric of the realm of mind and will. Living beings, humans as far as Eiden gathered, bent this fabric. They put weight upon it while the movement of their auras gave away emotions.

Fin’s spirit was a blade inside a scabbard; hidden, yet dangerous. The skin of substance insubstantial did not writhe, but did instead ondulate, waves like calm waters.

Still waters run deep, Eiden cautioned to himself. Inside that lake of spirit was a leviathan, a monster that preyed upon all that made bump in the night.

What was scarier than that which preyed upon the predator?

“You owe me nothing, Eiden.” Said the Exorcist evenly, his voice devoid of any patronization or pity, instead suggesting commiseration and shared sorrow. “You have paid a price far too great already.”

The mageling let the talk of payment and debt drop, a tiny little ember of doubt still festering in his mind.

The two broke their fast, Eiden gobbling anything edible, his mouth a bottomless pit.

Until he couldn’t even look at anymore food, he would eat.

And when he could no longer stuff his belly full, he stashed jerky and bread in his pockets.