“An eye-opening experience for all involved,” Mahogany’s voice resounded. “We thank you, Starlight Spirit.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Access to the Forum space and Artorian’s unified Aura had forced Ember to change her approach toward Artorian. Once it had become clear that he would survive the process of his inner, body, and external Presence uniting into a lesser, more primal version of Presence, she’d left to go on a stress-relieving rampage. For her, that probably meant something like lifting a mountain and putting it elsewhere.
The old man took horrifying risks that would murder a cultivator twelve times over, had he not the benefit of an incredible support structure. In fact, the local groups were convinced it was that very support which caused the calculating fox to take the risk in the first place.
A full season later brought them to the point where his third try would begin. Here he was again, but with significantly increased anti-brat measures. Baobab kept a guarding eye on him. Ember leered down from an elevated hill, and a whole host of passive observers remained active in his system thanks to the Forum.
Artorian took a deep breath. Under all these watchful eyes, this time he really wasn’t wiggling out of it. Third time's the charm. It was time to infuse. The Essence had been gathered, and the second he’d had enough… their favorite Mage had dragged him to the clearing, ignoring any and all protests.
While the old man was uncertain of the amount needed, Ember wouldn’t lead him astray. She’d said he had enough, so enough he had. It was time to roleplay a cleric, and have a little faith.
His sun core rumbled and shone. Rather than forming Chi threads directly to his Center, he poured Essence into the completed honeycomb pattern that formed his webway. The finished webway did what it was supposed to do: it cycled the energy. Essence poured right back into his Center as Artorian drew from his newly unified Aura. Primal Presence was such a nice, convenient thing to have. If it didn’t have such a high likelihood of killing the user, he would have loved to spread this method around due to how efficient it made Chi manipulation.
The body was just one possible medium. The Presence field that filled and surrounded him was another. His control over the energy felt natural when it rippled through his Presence, and hookah use had helped refine his control. Until the day he Managed to bind himself to a Law, he was of the mind that he’d be reliant on it to make progress.
When the rotational free flow of Essence in motion reached a critical point, he huffed away all distracting thoughts, instead focusing on the connections the honeycomb had to his Meridians. He spindled the beginnings of Chi threads, preparing to invest the energy up along his spine and brain in one fell swoop.
Spiraling a proper Chi thread into being, he fractured it into individual splinters before rebinding the energetic thread into a finely tuned and woven final product. Rosewood would have his head if he didn’t at minimum have something to make precise, sturdy alterations with. A haphazard ‘twisting’ of Essence to form a Chi thread was an insulting faux pas in clothiering; and an even worse no-no for infusing one’s own body. Sure, you could do it with a raw thread, but the scathing commentary confirmed that wasn’t allowed to happen.
“Don’t you dare use sub-par methods,” Rosewood hissed under her breath, her tri-color mote of vibrant pinks and violets judging him as he worked. “You have a nice solid Core, now wrap the weave around and keep it at a medium tension. Medium tension! I want to see an instrument grade string!”
Not about to disappoint, Artorian threaded his Essence from the webway to the spinal connection and let the advanced thread loose to what it was designed to do. The thread splintered off when it connected to surrounding cells, slowing down for a moment. It then drew on the source—his Center—and reformed itself into the advanced thread, splintering to continue spreading further through cell clusters. This repeated as it spread through his body. The process was unpleasant… but bearable.
Artorian lurched as a copious chunk of his Essence was sucked away against his will. Even if he’d wanted to hold it back, what the Essence needed to do was clear. Once enough of a staging platform was crafted, the shaped Essence charged the gates at full force. Much as it had with his Meridians, the thread bucked wild and nearly slipped from his control.
His cultivation rank fell with the sensation of slipping over a cliff, and the pull made him physically tense up. Touching the pre-existing paths of his Meridians redirected the advanced thread. Fueled by the idea that it was unacceptable for it to be ‘raw thread’, this advanced thread saw the existing network as an infection that it needed to replace.
Complaints and warnings rang from the Elven motes in his Center. He wasn’t supposed to be redoing his Meridian connections right now! The advanced threads surrounded his heart as they’d done initially, overlapping, tensing, then forming a mold over the original Chi thread before absorbing it completely.
Artorian coughed and his eyes fluttered open for a moment. Who had allowed a horse to kick him in the chest? The old man coughed hard, his heart skipping a beat as Essence flooded inwards, encapsulating the organ fully as the Essence replaced the purified cells. Forcibly Infusing, Artorian’s mind allowed him to detail the experience in a manner he didn’t understand.
Replaced cells turned ‘inside out’ at the moment of absorption. The energy that made up his matter collapsed into a single pinprick of a spot, and an Essence replica replaced it. It would have been incredibly interesting to study… had it not been happening to his heart!
His breath hitched and he heaved while being held. It didn’t hurt like he thought it would…? Taking a moment to frown from the shattered expectation, he looked inwards. So much was moving all by itself, but some of it felt… guided. Altered.
Sure enough, motes of verdant light directed the advanced threads of Chi along more optimal paths. It was the Wood Elven idea of optimal, but he wasn’t going to stop the help he was getting. Better a foreign system than a dead one.
His heart, which had been fighting to pump the blood his body needed, eased. Not in the sense that it ceased beating, but that it accomplished more with less. Additional flow pushed through his veins with greater control, and the previously pounding vessel calmed. Now it was managing the tasks with a fraction of the energy and strain.
Artorian couldn’t help but smile as the pain faded. He knew the task wasn’t done, but oh… what a relief that his friends had managed to get this under control. While the threads surged to replace existing binding lines, the real task was the climb up his spine. Before he could direct his attention to his bones, a hoarse set of coughs broke from his being as his lungs underwent similar treatment. The advanced thread was too difficult to influence for the Elves that had not received Rosewood’s guidance, and she couldn't be everywhere at once.
His own attention now focused on survival and damage control. No amount of wanting to progress beat out the need to be alive. He’d get an earful from Ember later, but couldn’t be concerned about that right now. Artorian forced a stable breath, regaining control of the tasks as sweat ran down his brow. To his surprise, Ember’s voice was both present, and calm.
The mention let him focus and find the original bucking thread. Holding it by the proverbial horns, he directed it up along the spine, guiding the replacement process. Surround. Encapsulate. Converge. Infuse.
He prized his mind more than the rest of his body combined, and so was careful about this progress. Without needing to say it, the threaded Essence caught and understood his intent as he worked. Slowing down considerably, it ceased to buck and fight him. The urge to replace inferior bindings was replaced by a need for safe progression.
Relieved, he thought for a moment on the ‘neurons’ formed so far in his Aura. Was it learning and responding as he built it up? Artorian willed the threads to store more energy before continuing, even as his cultivation rank plummeted and his Aura dimmed all the way down
to fishy-pathetic. Much of his refined Essence roiled free, ready for use in his swirling sun core. That was fine; he had control.
Showtime.
The connections reached the base of his skull, and he continued upwards. Slowly, carefully. Treading with focus and care as Ember’s physical frame took a knee behind him and held his body tightly. He didn't notice at first, but it did get warmer… more comforting… strange. Why would Ember-
*Hgnnn*! Artorian’s teeth gnashed and grit together as his world suffered sickening vertigo. When the first thread as much as dipped into his grey matter, all the Essence in his Center tilted as if someone had angrily flipped an hourglass. Refined Essence flooded his brain, and his thoughts stopped as he physically passed out from the experience.
All the mental presences in his Center were kicked out, automatically ejected to the Forum as the invitation cylinder collapsed. Mental bonds were not a ‘thing’ while one was unconscious.
With the first brain cell connection made, Ember caught him when his unconscious body flopped. The Fire Mage gave the philosopher’s bald head a pat. Like this, he was finally less trouble than the children. She was happy about that, even if she occasionally enjoyed the old man’s antics.
Though he’d gone a very roundabout way to get it done, she could tell the Infusion was going as planned. Good. When he woke, he was going to feel a lot different.
“Take a nice, long nap, you crazy starchild.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Vizier was in a poor mood. With great pomp and barely hidden irritation, he dropped a hastily scribbled vellum into the hand of a scurrying servant. Leaning back in his chair, the ornate snake of a man impatiently chewed on the inside of his cheek.
“Abysss that Advissser.” Five meager years since the gift of Emerald Eyes, and she’d completely pulled the whole scheme down on him. He was but a fly trapped in the machinations of her web. Or rather, plumage. Since her ‘coronation’ into the Royal fold, the new ‘princess’ of Aurum had altered her image.
She was the ‘Swan’ now. *Phah*.
That goose of a woman would hold his eternal ire, even if the Divine Mistress had plied her craft to alter the flesh of her freshly-risen Noble. That position should have been his! Had his plans not seen success? Had his hosts not brought wealth? Has the pride of his legions not brought honor? They were even Emerald Eyes for Abyss’ sake! How dare that wretched tart degrade his worth so!
Biting his tongue, he just about hissed as a messenger entered his quarters. Even admitting a servant was a privilege stripped from him. The insult nearly made him molt out of distaste. He nervously itched at his arm, his outer layer of skin doing a poor job of shedding. It was just the stress. “Ssspeak.”
The messenger bowed. “A report for the honored Vizier.”
A golden hand waved the remaining formalities away. He hadn’t the mood or patience for it, burdened as he was by years of discontent and disfavor. “The chosen have returned, they report success in their ventures. A suitable mountain has been located. It is rumored to be the tallest in the world.”
The hand motion continued rolling with an irritated hiss; the Vizier just wanted the messenger to get on with it so he could start the formulation of yet another political avenue of attack. One that might get him out of this blasted mire. Of course his chosen reported success. They hadn’t done anything but in the five years he’d had them within his coils.
Clever little brats grew up into clever adults, and what an absolute pain they’d been. With every victory came some small, seemingly minor setback that rained insults and fury upon his house from the one he wished to serve. Like splinters too small to do anything about, the chosen always delivered their reports as ‘success’. Yet, they also always contained minor schemes that caused naught but frustration.
Matters too small to report, yet too large to not notice. Why had he found such bothersome chosen? What kind of awful, sick, twisted mind had taught them to think of such cruel and evil little tricks? The Vizier was so frustrated that he wanted to chew on something. He only started coming back to his senses somewhere in the middle of the messenger relaying her report. “With the arrival of the latest batch of refugees, the dark ones have come to take their agreed upon share. One has remained behind to request an audience, Your Grace.”
A tired eyebrow rose. “My audience? You must have meant the Princess’ audience.”
The messenger girl bowed, and shook her head. “No, Your Grace, he was quite insistent that he meet with Amon-r…”
An undue pressure instantly silenced her words as the messenger petrified. Her body—unspeaking and idle—remained in the pose she’d been transfigured into. The Vizier needed a moment. Someone that wished an audience, and knew his name? Such was not to be, his name was not to be known, much less spoken.
He would not have it. He was Vizier! *Argh*.
Shed-skins be burned. He needed to know more, and here he’d petrified the messenger. His thumbs pressed to his temples, tongue flicking out to lick the air. Brushing his golden robes off, he stood and paced about. Long fingers snaked along the hilt of a hammer that leaned near the fireplace, and he worked out his anger by beating the petrified servant into fine powder. The Vizier screamed out his anger, releasing his frustration physically.
Deep breaths heaved from his lungs and sweat had muddled the gold paint coating his skin. The honorific charcoal lines were wet and runny. He nearly threw the hammer at the wall when he saw the dark cloaked figure chilling in the shadows with folded arms. As if the figure was better than him!
The figure showed a toothless smile, a greenish haze aglow within the deep insides of his roughened throat. Words sounded as if the man had been breathing smoke from a house fire his entire life, as his voice was hoarse and rugged. “Still sensitive about the name, Amon? Come now, what’s such small detail between old friends?”
The Vizier pointed the hammer at the man like it was a light rapier. “You shall speak no further of such things, Devil.”
The hooded figure pressed gloved fingers to his chest in mocked insult. “Devil? Me? Oh no. I would not insult my superiors by claiming such a lofty title. I’m here, because long ago I came to owe you a favor. From what I hear, an old friend of mine could really use a favor.”
The smile beneath the hood was… unsettling. The sickening green glow only strengthened as it seeped from the open mouth as a heavy smog. It would have dripped to the floor if it didn’t fully discorporate on the way down. “Offers of favor come not for free, messenger of the dead. What favor could I have possibly done for one who works for the infernal?”
With a shrug, the figure dismissed the question. “It matters not to me that one does not remember. It only matters that I clear the slate.”
His ominous vision glanced to the pulverized rock on the floor. “Just as it didn't matter that you didn’t notice the assassin sent by your competitor, yet killed the creature anyway.”
The truth of that statement didn’t matter to the Vizier. “Who are you?”
Stifling a laugh, the infernal creature steepled its fingers, one of Amon’s habits which the Vizier was certain this man hadn’t seen him do. He answered the question, “I will hold to your unconventional unpleasantries, and withhold my name. You may call me… Favor… as working with me will garner you much of it.
Though, the first favor shall be free.” The malicious glowing smile only grew. “Do not send your chosen to the mountain, and certainly do not venture there yourself. Other plans are in motion, and if you simply remove yourself from the equation… success will fall into your lap.”
Had the Vizier gripped his hammer any tighter, the handle would have snapped. “You dare tell a Vizier what to do?”
The gravelly voice of the infernal Essence user deepened. “I dare… for only this will clean the slate.”
Biting his lip, Amon knew he was outmatched. None that knew of his power dared challenge him if they were not—in some way—able to negate it entirely, or
overpower him in some other fashion. The hammer lowered. “You were always a sensible one. Even before the golden flesh-Queen took ahold of your destiny.”
The Vizier did his best to remain collected, and decided to do so with an amphora of wine. “Speak not such traitorous spew within these walls.”
The figure shrugged, “None can hear me if I do not wish to be heard. The shaper Mage may have let the power go to her head, but to those who know… she is a matter of laughter. She may play Royal or Elf all she likes. Your forcibly-pointed ears did not escape notice.”
Amon downed a mouthful of wine before even considering those words. No. Forget that. He chose to forget the words entirely lest they influence him. Instead he attacked the main concern. “Why should I not send my chosen to the mountain? I knew it was found before the report.”
Favor’s oozing voice spoke from behind the Vizier, occupying a different corner of shadows entirely. He hadn’t even seen the hooded figure move, and he was direly unsettled by that fact. “For you will lose them, old friend. I know the spies from which you fetch your corvids and whisk your rat-footed messages. You have not been told that you will be betrayed and left to rot at the foot of that mountain. You have not been told that the undead will swarm those lands after your raiders claim the prize. If you go… all you shall take is the fall.”
Amon dropped his amphora. The bronze relic rolled across the floor with a clang. No servants came to clean it, and that bit him deeper than the conversation with the veiled stranger. “We have a deal with the dead! We feed their legions the bodies of those who cannot serve the living well enough. I have spoken and strategized with many a… necromancer. This deal was favorable for the pursuit of all parties involved. Discord and discontent is sowed across the world. Madness shall spread, and people shall flee. Flee straight into the waiting, accepting, loving embrace of the Mistress… as their lives are turned to a higher purpose.”
Artorian's Archives Omnibus Page 56