The Apprentice

Eiden found the sanguine manticore quickly warming up to him, just like taming a pup with a bit of scraps and lashings of leftovers. Though, he did avoid any actual lashings and punishment. Unless of course, the beast tried to attack him again. The manticore was still a beast, base instinct commanding it more than superior intellect. Did a mute deserve to be tortured just because they could not speak? The beast was no different, being both hampered and strengthened by natural ability. Besides that, Eiden held apprehension and disgust for sadism. To a certain extent.

The Undercity of Arvenpyre had not forged brittle and flaky iron. It had made cruel and vicious steel, folded from horrors both mundane and magickal. Suffering was the catalyst that accelerated the maturing of Eiden’s cunning and wits. Acid of the arcane and vitriol of man bathed the blade that was his soul.

It had left its marks, to say the least.

Eiden laid cross-legged atop the grey waters of his mind, the manticore to his right. It laid down as well, with its back to him. It was strange how quickly the beast was to trust him, though part of it was due to instinct. The manticore knew that it was inside the belly of a beast greater than it, yet that very same being had not sought to his devouring. It had sought something so unexpected and yet refreshing: connection.

Did chicks not feel comfort under the wing of their mothers? Did pups not nestle to behemoths of inconceivable size compared to them? Power and strength only made one fearful if it was probable to be leveraged against oneself. And, within the mental realm, Eiden left bare that he sought no harm to his familiar beast.

Eiden could feel the subtle interaction between their sleeping minds. It was not like the more corporeal and physical auric senses, but the more hidden ones. The sort of thing that let him feel the boundary of both body and spirit with his senses closed off, a thing of interior. Like, how one could sense the limbs of their body and the distance betwixt, proprioception.

Their minds intertwined below, woven slowly like mycelium. Their boundaries were becoming less distinct, the line between them more blurred.

The manticore transmitted its memories of playing with its siblings, kittens nimble and spry with the faces of mischievous simians. One by one, the creatures were felled by both kin and outside world. A brother and sister lost here and there until the pack scattered through the lands to form their own.

Eiden did the same, bearing all the grueling memories of his past as well. The haunting rooms, the murder of his parents, his captivity. All of it. His anger flooded him with no reprieve, for it had no foci. Emotions were a bit like the magick channelled through a magician’s wand. With no aperture to expel the negative animus, it ebbed and built pressure.

Until it blew up, strong and fierce with fury and hatred.

The manticore understood the toxic fumes of such emotions. His once-brothers had sought to kill both him and his progeny to take over his mate. Manticores were entirely monogamous unlike lion prides. But, a male or female could kill its respective sex and take its place. It was all too common and unavoidable, for the heat that the beasts experienced was too much for either side. After enough time passed after the kinslaying, mating was inexorable.

Many brothers were felled by his own jaws. Manticore poison did not affect themselves, so they had to resort to brutality and strength to tear at their kin.

The beast beside Eiden had tasted the blood of at least five siblings. The manticore had been through a bout of a month-long self-imposed starvation after each fratricide. The taste was too haunting.

In a way, Eiden felt the beast understood him better than either Fin or Bela did. There was a disconnect, an inkling barrier between them and himself that could not entirely be crossed. And, it was his fault. Trusting was too hard when he couldn’t feel another’s mind in its entirety.

That was what most scared him. All of his magicks had a tragic story behind them, even his psionic Empathy was not without blemish. His fear of the dark corners of the mind was so great that it was etched onto his very soul. And he could not run from himself.

The manticore placed his large and heavy head on Eiden’s lap, bringing him from his misery. How long had it been as he dwelled on the dark? It did him no good, only minorly relieving the hurt.

I best get ye a name. Red? No, too simple. You need something fierce and strong.

The beast’s fur was bloody vermillion, a color dyed so vibrant and rich, it would cost a fortune to mimic. The manticore also looked a bit like a lion given its build and large mane.

And, it looked straight out of the Abyssal Hells, from the very last Ninth Layer of the Inverted Spire.

“Hellion. Your name shall be Hellion.”

After sharing a few more happier memories and experiences, Eiden stood up and the manticore rolled over to see the cause.

And though the beast was remarkably sinister, he was also quite acute to pluck at the heartstrings, like some domesticated and pampered houndling.

“Come, Hellion.”

The thread that bound them was still immature and nurturing, but it had grown a significant amount since the start. The connection was like a town’s well. Both he and Hellion could draw from it, to understand certain concepts and even bits of language from each other. It was a water of noesis, that blurred the line between both.

Eiden reckoned it had been a full two days since he was inside his mind with the manticore. Fin was probably administering shocks throughout his muscles to keep them from atrophying among other things. The alchemic and medicinal mixtures he ingested would induce waste excretion through the skin. Otherwise, Eiden would’ve pissed himself five-times over. Though, that would’ve been probably easier to clean than a film of blackened paste.

A shudder went through Eiden’s spine as he remembered the echtings he had studied. They had portrayed a disgusting picture.

The apprentice shook his head, focusing on what was to come.

The bond had matured enough to start the infusion process.

What is the body?

Extension.

A cloud of foggy, blood-red mana roiled off of Eiden’s mental body. A copy of himself wrought itself from the amorphous smoke, condensing like it pulled at the wafting gaseous substance with a reed straw.

The mind-construct for the body shifted and ebbed like it seemed to consider not what it was, but what it could become. A shade of blood, soil for the Seeds of the Chimaera.

Eiden and Fin had already determined that he would imbue the manticore essence into one of every major slot and into a single minor slot.

[Packmate. My strength yours. Your strength mine.] Hellion transmitted, sensing the apprehension festering in Eiden before even he consciously observed it.

Eiden smiled and stroked the manticore’s mane, his digits barely touching the sanguine fluff now that the beast stood at his full height. The creature was practically gargantuan compared to him, being twice the size of a lion, but still much smaller than elephant. If Eiden had the normal height for a man his age, he’d find the manticore only a bit taller than him by mere finger-widths.

The mageling drew from the Well-in-Between, the combined essence of man and beast. Hellion’s body erupted in a sanguine aura, the mana emanating from him like burning steam and flame.

Eiden touched his right index and middle-fingers to his temple, then his heart, and finally, his navel. Each a major basin of the middle-spirit. The spots shined vibrant red, the color of blood fresh from an artery. Hellion’s aura subsided as Eiden drew from the beast’s remnant spirit.

The magleing sat down, and the manticore coiled around him, like a hound protecting its master. Eiden dove inside himself, spiritual perception honed like a sharp blade. Like Solaria smiting through morning fog, he saw his spirit inside his mind’s eye, shining brightly with all the colors of mana.

Viridian greens for both life and air. Carnelian reds for blood and flesh and bone. Bruneian browns for earth and death. Cerulean blues for water and other liquids. And a thousand others such that it was impossible to discern the minute. The spirit was a rainbow of the different elemental ethers, mixing like varnishes on a painter’s palette.

A kaleidoscope.

His awareness was all-consuming, a wisp bound to no place but to the confines of the inner world of himself. The three basins sat atop one-another, meridians connecting them and their flow in the vertical. Then, came the veins that bounded horizontally, stitching meridian to meridian. Twelve meridians in all, they were the arteries of the spirit. Then, a thousand-thousand minor channels in betwixt, binding the major flows of mana in a horizontal fashion.

Though, the middle-spirit wrought of ether could not so easily be categorized at times. It was a halfway in between pure energy and physical matter. Even then, perception had to be taken into account. Inner spirit-sense was muddier than outward auric senses since low, middle, and high-spirit merged into one under the sight of a mage. A spiritualist could focus upon a single stratus, and build up that preceptory ability like any other skill.

Yet, like a tyke trying to unravel a ratking’s binding, they were destined to fail to see the pure forms of the Three Realms. They could not be unwoven as they were tied by bindings unseen.

Meridians, as Eiden saw them, were not entirely of the etheric middle-spirit, but belonging to the in between of all of the three planes of Nether, Ether and Aether. And those in between, the Enetheric and Inaetheric Realms. Though, the twelve meridian system of classification took in account the less palpable side of the spirit, rather than the actual structures contained therein. A dying man in the desert sought only elusive water and looked not at the tangible sand beneath his feet. The Eastern methodology of spirit focused not on the stratus of spirit, but of the flow of spirit.

No solidity, only liquid.

No structure, only dwellers.

No vessel, only essence.

If Eiden were a normal mortal, one not awakened to the eternal soul, the process would’ve taken at least a month for each Trial. Eternal souls were the wisps dwelling the Astral Sea, the shallows cordoned off from the deeper Astral Void. They each held onto countless life-times, in both mind and body, the information of cellular structure and mental patterns that formed consciousness wrought upon them. This left an outline as the billions of images coalesced atop one another, the light of an awakened soul shining light behind the eternal papyrus.

That light burned away at the deficiencies of the mortal spirit, purifying it from the inside out. Only the strongest and darkest lines stayed, leaving behind an image closer to perfection. Closest, at least, to a soul’s concept of perfection as the Paths were many and the Ways endless.

Ether coursed through Eiden’s meridians, their pathways succinct and without blemish. They had been purged of any taint, any disruption of their flow, be it netheric, enetheric, or etheric. Netheric being the corporeal body, etheric the ethereal body, and enetheric the in-between of both.

Then, came the problem.

The flow of energy originating from the body had been pristine. But, the flow of aether had been sluggish. The etheric meridians were fine, but the aetheric half was like a still pond with a thick film atop its surface. A consequence of a sealed soul and disturbed and unresolved emotion. But, Eiden would make do. A little blister on the sword hand would give him no trouble.

Just a little bump under the wagon wheel. Nothing to fret, Eiden lulled to himself. He failed miserably at the lulling part.

He couldn’t run from himself.

That did not stop him from trying.

Starting at the basin of the mind, Eiden drew in the mental essence of the manticore. It was a treatise or manual of sorts, containing both genetic and memetic information of the beast.

To his spiritual sight, it was purple, the stuff of the holy mind. A whole mind, pertaining to the Forbidden Fruit. Of knowledge and qualia itself. Mental essence was, afterall, a key reactant in forming psykosis.

The essence flowed through the main meridian that passed through all three basins, a loop that bound all major pools of mana. The face-side of the meridian was called the conception vessel, and the back-side of the channel was known as the governing vessel. In its entirety, it was called the soul vessel as it contained the most amount of anchors to the Inner Gate.

With exertion from his ethereal muscles, Eiden contracted and relaxed the etheric passage-ways that made up his spirit, easing the manticore mental essence in uniformity throughout the whole of the circuit that was the main meridian. It was a bit like swallowing in the reverse, only he had to control every single muscle manually.

With a thought, Eiden conjured the mental construct of his body over his perception. He imbued the essence in the correct places, willing them to bind together with the pre-existing natal spirit-tissues. It was sluggish at first, given his aetheric block. But like all his problems, hellbent determination seemed to work.

Eiden forced his will upon his high-spirit. The thing was like a spasmatic muscle, and he tensed it until it cramped further.

Come on. Just do it.

He increased his strength further, the rate of fusion accelerating.

It’ll take another week if this continues like this.

Eiden put all of his remaining will into the process like a man putting his weight upon a shovel to better carve through dirt.

A jolt of body-raking pain shot through him as his inaetheric membranes were violently torn. Aether flooded in, the pure energy following the vacuum.

Flexible steel bends when brittle iron breaks.

He had been warned.

The aether was a torrent, thrashing in the delicate ether-flesh that made up his middle-spirit. His etheric channels became tainted by his own lifesblood. The animus imbued the preexisting ether with too much energy too fast, causing rapid expansion and then condensation. Mana was wont to evolve when it had enough of itself in a given space, the dominant arcana subjugating any minor or lesser aspects and then mutating into a higher form.

Inner Flame - Dual Arcane Aspect: Stalwart Steel & Winter’s Breath.

Eiden drew deep from the steel that was his soul, bringing forth the arcana of stillness from the inside out. The torrential outpour of aether lessened considerably, the ruptured inaetheric membrane being sealed by argent mana.

The mageling controlled the flow of his spirit, slowing it so that the rupture would not leak or reopen. Days passed as the membrane congealed fully and became stronger for it.

Hell take me, that was close. A few seconds later and I would’ve ghoulified.

Eiden suppressed a shudder at the thought. Ghoulification happened quite frequently to overly ambitious and foolhardy mages. The difference between medicine and poison was dosage. And those that drank too deeply of any draught found themselves in worse shape than without. Aether-ghouls were those that drew too much animus into themselves, becoming horribly mutated abominations of flesh and spirit.

Eiden couldn’t help but compare it to arcane elementals.

As he saw it, ghoulification and arcanofication were really just the same thing, the only difference being that one was animus related, and the other noesis. Aether-overdose and arcana-overdose respectively. A body warped by pure anima, and a body warped by the arcane.

Eiden took a few calming breaths before continuing at a much more sedate pace. He was doubly cautious, and did not ignore any pain this time.

Flexible steel bends when brittle iron breaks.

First, he applied the previous mental technique, touching his digits to the three basins. Then, Eiden drew out another batch of manticore essence from his Eye of the Mind, spreading it evenly throughout his etheric body.

The manticore essence settled into his spirit, turning it into a muddy pond. Slowly, as the foreign ether seeped into the correct nodes and basins, so too did his spirit recover into a system of rivers connected to churning, laminar-flowing ponds.

More days passed, though the passage of time became more indistinct and blurrier. Eiden had been too long inside the Psychic Realm, his perception of the flow of tempus transforming from linear to circular.

It was disturbing how events seemed to happen in mist, simply appearing and disappearing. Eiden’s self-assessment on his hold of sanity turned out poor. If this rate of decay continued…

Focus on the now, Eiden spoke to himself, trying to lull his growing neuroticism. Finish the Harmonic Convergence with the manticore, and then you can go from there.

An uncountable amount of time, both fast and excruciatingly slow, passed.

The essence, both parts ether and aether, integrated into the dust of his being. Forever bound, and as impossible to sift through and filter as sand was to sand itself.

Eiden opened his eyes back to the mental plane, his eyes churning with a mixture of scarlet and amaranth. The manticore beside him had the same reaction as their minds tuned to the song of each other. The frequencies inched ever closer until they blended seamlessly.

A humming sound came from the black until it turned into the pounding of a heart. Then, came the striking of a hammer upon an anvil. Finally, came a roar, reverberating the firmament of the greyen waters.

Then there was silence.

From the silence came a whisper in the wind. A single word in the black of the mind so subtle that Eiden thought it imagined.

Harmony.

Eiden felt Hellion as an extension of himself and Hellion felt the mageling as part of his own flesh. Though, as the mind could not command the skin to part by will alone, neither could either Magister or Khaeros command harm to the other.

Hellion stood tall and proud, regal even. The manticore looked to Eiden, a rictus of a smile slowly stretching over its face. The expression was foreign to the beast, but through the Thread that Bound, Hellion had understood that it meant a general sense of positivity.

Truly a bloodcurdling visage. Poor thing, just tryin’ to make me feel better.

Eiden ruffled the top of his mane, hugging his Khaeros closer and sending an emotion through their link.

[Affection.]

Eiden looked down at the manticore, confusion apparent.

Since when have I been this tall?

After a few hours of stabilizing the integration of the first chimaeric seed, then came the next. Eiden couldn’t yet give up, he had to at least assimilate two more mutagens. Then he could rest, he told himself.

Like the first time, the essence was injected into Eiden’s Center. The remnant spirit was barely cognizant, nothing like the raging beast that was Hellion.

A mundane creature’s spirit. Of course it is barely sentient.

Instead of Eiden summoning the ether into his mental plane, he went to it. A tendril of perception extended towards the essence, binding itself to the mutagenic seed.

Images flashed through Eiden’s mind.

[A small amphibious creature, with a quadrupedal build not unlike a lizard, looked into its own eyes through a reflection in the waters of the mind.

[Its skin was alabaster white, the hide wrinkled like hands left too long inside a bathtub. Frills extended from its head, pinkish filaments the color of a winter sunrise branching from the main trunks. The end result was a mane-like crown. The tail of the creature was large and more like fish than terrestrial beast, a fin-like structure cutting it vertically from both above and below the fleshy appendage.

[Two beady black eyes looked at itself in the reflection of the mind.]

A single word came to Eiden’s thoughts, breaking him from the link.

Atlxolol.

And like a breaking of a dam with a single stone, then came the flood.

Wrinkly One of the Water. Servant of the Great Depths. An amphibian found in holy sites throughout Valencia. Though a creature of the mundane with no natural magicks, it has the capacity to regrow entire limbs from nothingness.

Eiden beheld the remnant spirit with a delicateness not seen before. The essence before him was of a majestic creature, one revered by the indigineous civilization of the Nahua. The present state of the Nahuatl people was one of oppression as the former Vitaen colony known as Valencia now occupied most of their land. Alas, Terra was a place of strife where land changed ownership as frequently and inevitably as the Solaria gave way to Lumenari every morn. Though, that did not mean it was without worth to grief. One’s homeland was precious as Eiden understood it. It was the very same reason he would not just take Bela with him should he travel to another realm of Kyro. Like a plant that required a specific soil and climate, man too was fickle in the setting of roots.

Gods, I hope we can find a good home for her. And quick too. I don’t want her to get too attached to us and not be able to part. A life of an exorcist is one without any fixed home.

Eiden shook away from his thoughts, returning to the remnant spirit of the atlxolotl.

Slowly, he spooled half of the essence from his Center, letting it enter his major channels and spread through his spirit. He let it fuse into the etheric tissues, not imbuing it into any node in particular. It was important to let it seep into his middle-spirit so that it would trickle down into his corporeal body.

As Eiden would assimilate the remnant from above, Fin introduced the mutagen sequences below. If only the mutagen sequence was introduced, the corporeal changes would be the same, but the corresponding spirit-organs would only be a quarter as effective. And if only the remnant was assimilated, the changes to the corporeal body would take much longer, and may not even manifest until a certain mana-flesh density was achieved. Something Eiden was keen to avoid as it would stunt his projection magicks—the kingmark of his fledgling combat style.

This dual approach to soma and spirit was integral to achieving a trueform Chimaeric Body and not some second-rate or partial transformation.

Eiden took the rest of the essence and imbued it into approximately an eighth of all of his minor nodes. Of which there were three-hundred and ninety-nine. Forty-nine nodes were occupied.

Over the next year, the essence would have to be slowly bled from the nodes and infused into his etheric and enetheric tissues. So, by then, the forty-nine nodes would be free to be imbued with a permanent and usable essence type.

Eiden meditated, letting his corporeal and ethereal bodies assimilate the newly added chimaeric seed. He felt nothing in particular as the effects were subtle and would take another month to actually bring anything noticeable to bare.

After some indeterminable amount of time, another remnant spirit was injected into his Center. Eiden extended a tendril of his awareness towards the essence, peering into the residual psyche that dwelt within.

[A red salamander, burning with internal flame, looked into its own reflection.

[It walked on all fours, with a large tail that kept it balanced. Though a creature borne of the waters, it possessed an affinity for flame, keeping close to any natural sources of heat. Be it springs of hot water, geysers, or dormant volcanoes, the salamander was in its rightful place.

[It had frills that emanated from behind its head, burning and blazing, spreading out like a corona of fire. Its tail was likewise full of fiery energy, veins teeming with embers carved into its fish-like vertical fins.

[Two black eyes, smoldering like a freshly borne ember, looked into itself. Forever seeing its own visage such that the creature could no longer tell.

[Which was the reflection, and which was the truth?

[Which was the flame, and which the ember?]

Eiden came to from the vision, the malaise of illusion still fresh on his mind. In the Center of his spirit, he held a creature of dichotomy, not unlike himself.

Borne of water, and yet heralding flame.

Duality.

It was a slightly magickal creature, yet its visage was more alike of an entirely mythical beast. Unfortunately, it was just smoke and mirrors. Or, more accurately, a special type of thermal-energy-catalyzed metabolism.

The vulcan salamander was entirely cold-blooded, using the heat from its surroundings to maintain its metabolism. The special chemicals and compounds found within its blood were like oil, and heat was the spark. It accelerated the usually inert substances, allowing the creature to survive in hellish environs. The veins of smoldering ember and transparent tissues burning with internal flame were just heat exchange, transforming the excess energy into harmless light.

It was a thing of matter and fixed biology. Not spirit.

A maelstrom of salamanders was an accurate name for a group of such creatures. They appeared as orbs of flame raging in the heart of naturally hot bodies of water. Thus, myths about the vulcan salamander providing the heat of hot springs sprung up. If a year was particularly dry in terms of rain, it was said that the salamander burned through all of a hot spring’s water, and from the empty rock came a volcano. The Pompeii Lizardling. Offerings of water were made to appease these “elemental spirits” so that they would not bring calamity.

The bioluminescence was entirely matter-dependent, and no mana was involved in that regard. The actual magick came in the beast’s defense mechanisms. Its spirit could draw upon its own inner heat to form a corruscating combustion of elemental flame to ward off predators. Combined with its near-blind eyesight, an encounter with the vulcan salamander could lead to injury, even with the best of intentions.

Eiden took half of the essence, spreading it evenly through his channels. Next, he plane-shifted the essence slowly into his marrow, willing it with a single arcane command.

Burn.

A spark of his will turned the essence into a flame, devouring his natal marrow like locusts upon crop. Excruciating pain assailed him like his bones were being hollowed from the inside out by abyssal termites. And, in fact, they were, just not by denizens of the Inverted Spire.

The essence was taken specifically from a salamander’s marrow as all of the remnant ether would be. It provided the purest and most amorphous chimaeric seeds, easily able to be grafted onto already existing tissue.

What was a worthwhile risk, and what was a foolhardy move? Eiden asked himself this question, and it came down to a single thing: knowledge. Since he knew that this process would not kill him and would only hurt like the Nine-Bloody-Fucking-Hells, it was wise. When he had tried to force the infusion process with the manticore essence, he did not know what he was doing and had incurred a risk without prior knowledge—unwise.

And yet, he was still alive, and even stronger for it. Eiden didn’t really know what to think, except that it was some ploy from the uncaring gods above. Mayhaps the Fates were lulling him into a false sense of security and power so that he would draw too much and forfeit his life.

He had been labeled forgotten by all since his fifth-year of life. A boy wandering the marble halls of the Undercity. After seeing village and town life up above, Eiden’s rage only built further.

The Apprentice entered the Empty Breath, ridding himself of his blood-boiling anger. The added arcana of fire that festered in his bones did not help. It begged to be let loose, to escape the confines of his bones and burn them and all to ash. Yet, Eiden held back the blood-fire until it was time for another arcane command.

Bleed.

The fire festering his bones receded, their flames leaving behind ash in the form of scalding blood. When the physical ether was fully transmuted into blood, then came another and final mandatum.

Be Flesh.

This command had been much harder on Eiden’s will than the first. Given his pain-addled mind and the increased complexity, it was like lifting a boulder instead of throwing a stone. The more words an arcane command beheld, the more taxing it was to the mind and yet the less powerful. This was due to their simplicity in which infinity resided. Like a glyph written upon paper, the arcana went indefinitely into the axis of depth. When more words were added, the more specified the commandment became, yet it taxed more the will.

However, that was not a bad thing at all in Eiden’s mind. Better a strained will than a mind warped by the infinity contained within arcana. It was as if the arcane begged to be abused and to manifest itself through the warping of the flesh.

It felt like the abyssal termites were crawling along his bones, causing an excruciating tickling and itchy feeling. Like an inch behind the kneecap, it was so close yet so far. Never to be relieved.

Slowly, but surely, the boiling blood in his bones congealed, turning into the primary tissue that it had originally been. As the subtle bindings had been preserved in the butchery process, the ether retained the needed information for the structure of the salamander’s marrow.

Even after the process was done, the pain and discomfort had yet to fade, burning like a phantom flame with no fuel. Even still, Eiden had to finish the imbuement. He spooled the rest of the essence, imbuing it into another eighth of his minor nodes and into a single major node of his Heart. His ethereal heart now had only a single free slot. One he would have to think critically about when it came time to imbue.

The act of imbuing the nodes would not entirely aspect them, only their outsides. The nodes themselves were tiny etheric organelles that formed at points where meridians and veins converged and at interval lengths. These nodes were bound to ethereal muscles so they could be opened and closed.

This release of pressure allowed a mage to circulate mana into any desired part of their body through a mixture of mental will and sympathetic bending.

Most of the imbued essence would shift into one of the many layers in between the Three Realms. As such, they would not aspect any circulating mana lest Eiden willed them to do so. Otherwise, his middle-spirit would be a mess of different mana types vying for supremacy—a spiritual necrosis of sorts. As necrosis of the body was caused by enzymes being unleashed from within damaged cells, it was a disease of imbalance. The body would eat itself from the inside out as the enzymes could not tell friend from foe.

The same would happen to his spirit if the essence was not properly contained within nodes. If Eiden simply took all the essence and let it congeal in his middle-spirit, he would likely turn into a walking abomination wrought of both rotten and newborn flesh. Such was the fate for failed Chimaera Knights, those that took upon too much power too quickly. Not any different really from aether-warped ghouls.

Thankfully, the Vitaen Exorcist Guild was one that preached caution, so rarely if ever did an exorcist have to put down their corrupted brethren. Though, seeing exorcists succumb to more material greed was unfortunately not as rare. Many had been stripped of their powers and excommunicated from the Order after being discovered of fraud, extortion, or any other form of crime.

The ruminations on history and politics helped ease Eiden’s mind as his bones burned from the inside out. He poured through his memories, pulling forth treatises of many kinds, restudying their yellow-stained vellum pages.

The weakness of the vulcan salamander mutagen was that it would effectively cripple the immune system. Without natal marrow to produce certain types of white blood cells, the body could not wage war against foreign invaders. This weakness was remedied by the innate ability contained within the magickal marrow.

Purifying Heat.

The mage’s bones would burn with internal heat upon command, sending them into a fever that would cause steam to rise from their skin. The node-imbuement protected the body as it contained the genetic information responsible for protecting the salamander from its own internal heat. A single instance of Purifying Heat would also increase metabolism to an insane degree, and coupled with the atlxolotl mutagen, wounds would heal in mere breaths. Though, limbs and appendages such as fingers would take at least a few weeks’ time to regenerate. And a hell lot of food.

Exorcists were always low on coin, their leviathan appetites after a contract enough to impoverish a well-off merchant household of five.

I can feel the burn in my coin-purse already. Or maybe that’s my bones. Aye. Bones it is.

It took a considerable amount longer to recover from the vulcan salamander spirit than it did the atlxolotl spirit.

Eiden would’ve guessed perhaps a week? A few days maybe? He couldn’t tell any longer. The further he stayed inside his mental palace, the harder it was to perceive outside time. And, even to leave.

[Fin, how long have I been here? In the dark. When can I leave and stretch my limbs?]

[You have been inside for three months now. I have finished the corporeal side of the mutagens, using Fate to subvert any rampant mutations. I think we should stop to let you recover, both in body and mind.

[I was about to say as much, but got carried away with the ends of your genome. It’s like trying to untangle a ratking’s knot. A single change in one place cascades into changes throughout the entirety of the genetic sequence.

[Anyhow, sorry for my dull-mindedness. I’ll pull you out.]

Eiden sat atop the grey waters of his mind, Hellion wrapped around himself.

The omniscience of the mental realm only extended atop the waters, not piercing into the depths below unless focused.

Eiden looked down into the grey abyss.

There were lights and forms down below, dancing and floating.

Salamanders. Of water and of flame.

A smile crept up Eiden’s face as he watched the lanterns ebb and flow like amber snow in the wind.

Eiden awoke slowly, his eyes more so shuttering like the shell of clam than opening. A thick layer of crust had sealed them shut.

The first thing that hit him was the smell, causing his face to wrinkle in revulsion. The putrid smell of rotting and decayed flesh, of urine and other excrement, and of sulfur.

“Don’t ya worry lad, you’ll find worse smells when on a contract.” Said Fin, his voice grim, yet Eiden could still feel the jovial tone through the context of his words.

Eiden smiled with effort, the muscles a bit lax and unused. The thin and hardened coating of black film made it harder as well.

“Hell take me,” Eiden said, “the Sixth Layer of Seifourath the King of Revulsion smells better than this place.

“Did… did I piss meself?”

“Nah, lad.” Fin responded. “The ammonia and nitrogen that usually makes up the bad smell of urea and urine still had to be expunged somehow. The blackfilm that’s coating ya is made of that stuff.

“Oh, here, put it in this jar. The stuff may be a big pile of excrement, but I can extract some ammonia for a bit of alchemy.”

“Why’d ya need ammonia?” Asked Eiden. “Can’t you just get it at any chemist or alchemist? The thing is cheap to get too in big batches. Especially for cleaning.”

“Aye. Easy it is. But it is impure. I’d need to filter the stuff to achieve at least eighty percent of the needed concentration. Besides that, a foreign mage buying bulk supplies of alchemical goods is suspicious.”

“Oh, so you’re lazy then?” Eiden asked with some mirth as he scraped the chunks of black ooze from his skin and placed it in the jar.

“The unique composition of the black gunk makes it easier to extract the ammonia and nitrogen. Can’t blame me for not wanting extra work.”

“You know, Fin, I missed this.” Eiden said without any preamble.

“Me too, boyyo. Me too. You know, the days have been longer without you here to ask your incessant questions. On second thought, maybe not. Still missed ye, though.”

Eiden flung a chunk at Fin who promptly dodged.

“Now, com’on, git. You can get washed at the nearby brook. You are in dire need of a bath. I’ll stay back to dismantle everything here. Especially the Weavian fluctuations.”

Fin left the last part hanging in the air. He’d most likely ask Eiden, but that was for later, after a much needed bath.

Gods, the smell.

[I like it.] Hellion intoned, sending images of carrion through the link that bound them.

Of course. Sanguine manticores are predators, and all predators scavenge too to supplement their diets. Strange, you can hear me?

[Confusion. Agreement.] Though most of what Eiden said passed right over the manticore’s ability to understand, yet it did confirm that he could hear Eiden’s thoughts.

Well, as much as you like the smell, I hate it. Time for a bath.

Eiden made his way through the cave, then navigated from its entrance to a nearby brook. The Trace along with the Flux helped much as both were strong in perceiving water mana and any similar ethers.

Since it was the end of summer, the monsoons had engorged the body of water, practically transforming it into a river. Over the coming month it would dry up, returning to a brook proper for the rest of the year.

It was strange for Eiden to think in years. Tunnelers thought of the passage of time in winters. To survive a winter, really. The tunnels themselves were not cold, but the access to food lessened considerably in the Season of Mortus. The yearly famines culled at least a quarter each time, the corpses being dragged out once the winter ended and thrown onto large pyres for cremation. Arvenpyre had only cemeteries for those beloved by the gods. The denizens of the Undercity were forgotten by both man and god alike.

The cold water was a balm to Eiden in both body and soul. It washed away the rest of the gunk that stuck to his skin, though only with the prodigious use of soap.

I remember using soap back before Fin. Corpse-soap harvested from one of the mass graves used to hold bodies through the winter. Bodies liquefy and turn soopy when in a single spot for too long. That stuff probably held so much misery and taint.

[Waste.] Hellion intoned.

Yes and no. We had not much if any fat or muscle on our frames. No carrion feeders would get much. Unless, of course, if we don’t consider the soap-vendors scavengers. Which they were. Just of a different kind.

Minor confusion was sent through the Thread-In-Between, but Hellion did not question much more. He would slowly pull at that mental connection to understand certain concepts. He had no reason to rush, his instincts told him as such. Eiden felt the manticore do the equivalent of a psychic laying down, like a cat with nothing to do other than watch its surroundings.

How can a mythic beast be so… precious?

Eiden laid down in the stream himself, letting it take away the noise of the surrounding world. Everything became quiet and placid as the water warped sound. The peace was welcome and calming to him. It reminded him of the pool he had at the age of four when he was not yet a denizen of the Undercity. Eiden still couldn’t remember much, but he did have moments of clarity when enough stimulus and context was achieved.

The water felt like home.

Maybe I don’t need all that anger and rage. I’ll still come back to the Tunnels. I’ll still help as much as I can. But… can I really? Can I help without removing those nobles? What then if I do kill them? What’s next? Do I kill the bloody king?

I should talk with Fin. Best that I don’t do something rash without him, like last time. I still don’t know much of this world.

Maybe it's time to trust a bit.

Eiden stood up from the muddy and rocky floor of the brook, piercing through the water’s surface. He shook his head vigorously, drying his hair.

He looked back at his reflection.

A man that looked of nineteen winters looked back at him. His hair was scarlet-auburn instead of brown, long and untrimmed reaching until his ears and eyebrows. His beard was a darker shade than the hair on his head, with some minor asymmetry, giving him a ragged look. His eyes were dark crimson, bordering burgundy, yet reflected light like the facets of a ruby. Large tufts of hair lined his body, brownish-red in color, and normal for men of his age. His skin beneath had a nice red hue that radiated vitality with defined muscles that ebbed with the shifting of his frame.

[Strong.] Hellion said through the link with a large amount of pride.

Eiden smiled, his sharp and noticeable canines shining ivory-white in the afternoon sun. It was a shocking thing to see himself so changed, so different. It was both unnerving and exhilarating. He finally looked his age—though a bit older, really—He had hair on his body, something he did not possess before.

Eiden sniffed under his armpits. He could really have lived without the naturally occurring odor. Though, he would endure it given that he now had a man’s body, and not a child’s. And if his wobble through the forest told him anything, he had grown a couple of inches given his body’s lack of dexterity. Rapid bone-growth was wont to make the limbs uneasy.

Hells take me, I’ll have to relearn the forms. My balance is all off. At least, I don’t have to learn how to walk again. I had to do that, what, twice?

[Confused. You, kitten?] Hellion asked.

No, Hellion, I am not a kitten, Eiden thought with some mirth and a chuckle. I was sick and stayed still for too long. Muscles weaken in humans when not used.

[Understandment. Confusion. Why humans not use strength?]

When sick, we rest for long swathes of time. We cannot walk nor do much and rely on others until strength returns. Rely on tribe or pack.

Eiden felt a warm nuzzle on his chest like a phantom hug.

[Affection.] Eiden sent through the link.

The Sister Found

Bela had been working for bed and board at the Golden Scythe, an inn for travelling traders of grain. She wanted, no needed, something to do as she waited for Eiden to awake. Bela visited him every midday when she had her break.

She heard the chime tied to the inn’s door jingle, prompting her to turn around from the counter where Aeliah, the barkeep of the Golden Scythe, and her were talking. Gossip in the town was good and lively.

A man, tall and slender, walked in. He had an exorcist’s coat, black as night with silver embroidery. Two short-swords were strapped to his belt. His footwear were cloth wraps with leather soles, a thing commonly used by folk of smaller hamlets and villages.

His hair was scarlet, the color of spilled blood, his eyes were dark orbs of burgundy ruby. Something about his features struck remembrance in Bela.

She smiled.

“Eiden!” She exclaimed, running towards him, and wrapping her arms around him in a hug.

He reciprocated the gesture, embracing her and then spinning her in a twirl. A few giggles escaped her mouth as she spun.

“Missed you too, Bell.”

“You look so… big. Large, with a man’s frame. What happened? The Trials did this much? They gave ye a beard!”

Eiden gave her a look that evoked the need for secrecy.

“They did.” He answered softly with a chuckle. “Let’s sit down and we can talk about what happened when I was gone.”

“Aye,” Bela agreed, turning back towards the barkeep “Aeliah, this is my brother, Eiden.”

The Exorcist

Fin was never one to be held by mystery as the truth of the world was rarely hidden from his Fatal Sight. He saw time as not a single line, but as an ocean. The stronger the disturbances, the better he foresaw and felt them.

No wave escaped the slumbering leviathan that was his mind.

And yet, he couldn’t quite make out what had happened to his apprentice. The Weave fluctuated, its threads vibrating in a discordant wail. These thrums of the Tapestry-In-Between originated from none other than Eiden, his mind the anchor.

He’s no wizard. Why has he tapped into the Weave? How? Sure, sorcerers inevitably strum its threads, but spirit artists? Never. Well, rarely if ever. Some indirect methods are viable like sympathetic spiritry, but it ends there.

Unless… of course. Nature abhors a vacuum, and all that. A sorcerer once is a sorcerer forever. Even with a sealed soul. And with the addition of psionistry…

The Exorcist conjured an ethereal pale-blue tome to his hands with a flick of his wrist.

The Soulmind and the Frozen Wheel. Even if he achieved only a semblance of the original technique, the creation of psykosis exacerbated his sensitivity to the Mental Realm. It plunged his subconscious into its waters. Perhaps his sleeping mind graced on something that was already fated.

How did I not see this? His fate was once easily divined, nothing had been shrouded. But, now his destiny is like a sailor’s knot. Can’t even begin to make sense of it.

If only I didn’t give him the damned technique. Like giving a sharpened, double-edged sword to a child of barely five.

Yet… If the Trials were to work, he needed ample amounts of psychic energy since he’d be under for so long. Without the perfected mentai, only a partial chimaeric body could be achieved. And he’d have no Khaeros.

Perhaps this is for the best. Though, I did feel the rampant emotions waft from his mind. Like a storm, it was. Deadly and turbulent, with enough fury to batter any vessel into driftwood. If Bela had been here during the episode, the psychic waves alone would’ve turned her catatonic from their sheer force.

Spare the vessel, and scour the mind. That power would leave behind mumbling husks in its wake. Bodies that would succumb afterwards without proper care. He’ll have a Hel’s lot of training and conditioning now lest he accidentally conjure another psychic storm.

Just what kind of mage is the lad shoring up to be? Spiritry, arcanistry, sorcery, psionistry, and now wizardry.

If only he was as good in the Forms, then none would be his match.

Fin closed the pale-blue tome, dismissing the spellform. It vanished in streamers of smoke the color of icy sapphires.

A smile danced on his lips, curling them up in a predatory grin. Mayhaps this was the fulcrum he waited for.

Where before it had been a slight possibility, now it is a certainty. Irony is a fickle and cruel mistress. Yet, sometimes she is kind.

The Exorcist recalled the prophecy he had been told time and again, one he had failed to bring forth. He could never live up to it himself.

A blade, strong enough to crush the tyrant-kings of this world. Wrought of the blood of monsters to slay them in vengeful wake.

The Scales of Fortuna are balanced on a single needle.

All it needs is a single push.