by N Felts
Not suffered and endured as they are today. Your training does not end when you have mastered your craft. It does not end when you have surpassed me. Your training ends when you truly understand obligation, and unfortunately, that day resides on a distant horizon.” Timed all too well, the statement coincides with their arrival at the barracks. Knowing any protest he offers will only be met with even more longwinded lectures, the young man simply takes his place opposite his teacher in the otherwise empty structure. “There are things in this world, my young apprentice, that we do not wish to endure, yet we endure them all the same because they are necessary. Ignoring these things yields decadence. Decadence is a building block of tyrants. Tyrants fall, yes, but they often bring civilization down with them. It has always been this way because it is our nature,” he explains, sitting in a meditative way with some effort. “Such is the importance of obligation. Not to do these things simply because we are told, but to understand why, and do them because we understand. Keeping promises is such a thing,” he reveals, clearly having heard the end of the argument with Cale. “Your training is also such a thing.”
“What will we practice today?” He sighs, hoping to speed this meeting to its conclusion.
“I think the time has come to abandon the elements,” the old man sighs, briefly recalling their previous sessions, and the disaster that ensued. “They require a mastery of emotion, and I fear I will not live to see a day when you have done such a thing. Your strength is clearly conjuration, however, your natural talents will only carry you so far. There are dimensions to this art you cannot yet conceive,” he continues, rising to his feet and turning his back to his pupil. “But you will, in due time.” With no warning, he spins into a crouched stance with a hearty shout, launching a ball of ice across the room from outturned palms. The young man hastily conjures a shield in defense, but the spinning blue rock smashes through the ethereal creation like a pane of glass, hitting him squarely in the chest, and knocking him off his feet.
“You—“ he gasps, straining to catch his breath. “What—“
“Often times your enemy will give no warning before he strikes.” The old man lectures, pacing impatiently while his student slowly finds his feet. “Considering your tendency to make enemies of everything and everyone you are able, I suspect you should be on your guard at all—“ he continues, spinning into another elemental attack. “Times!”
“Hurgh!” He groans, taking a knee and reaching an arm forward. The tribal tattoo spiraling down his arm glows brightly as he wills his thoughts into existence. A much thicker transparent orb envelops his form, deflecting the attack completely.
“Good,” the old man nods, eyeing him carefully. “Such simple conjurations should be kept taught, like an arrow just before release.” Succumbing to his immaturity, he focuses his thoughts, swinging his arm upward. A translucent cage takes shape above his instructor falling to the ground with a heavy thud, and trapping his teacher within. His advance forward is short lived as a powerful blast of wind causes the conjured prison to explode in a whirlwind of force, his greatfather’s eyes glowing green as he sweeps his own hand upward.
“Gah! No!” The pupil exclaims, the controlled torrent of wind lifting him off his feet, and holding him near the ceiling as he thrashes about.
“I’ve told you and told you imagination begets conjuration. All too often students summon swords and walls. These are things that they know,” he continues, holding the young man in the air with one arm while slowly lifting the other. A miniature mountain of ice slowly takes shape, building upon itself rapidly with its sharp peak pointing toward the helpless novice. “These are things they can picture most easily in their mind. You must transcend such simple objects. You must birth something all your own,” he concludes, waving a dismissive hand. The wind instantly subsides, and the pupil begins to fall. Scouring his mind in the second between heartbeats, he cannot concentrate as he falls toward certain death. The result is a purely instinctual reaction as he spins in a circle with his hand outstretched. In the wake of his twirling limb, a dozen spheres will dull spikes covering their shapes appear. Resembling the business end of a flail, they rapidly begin spinning around the young man’s horizontal form. Smashing away the sharp spike of ice incrementally, they allow him to land a single foot atop the newly created plateau before springing off athletically.
“Interesting,” the old man smiles, effortlessly launching a fireball toward his airborne student. Twisting an arm toward the approaching projectile, he causes the spectral spheres to twirl into a disc-like shape ahead of him, creating a shield. Flipping his feet beneath him, the shield bats the projectile away before the individual orbs separate once again. The conjured entities continue to orbit his form like moons around a humanoid planet as he rises to his feet, his eyes ablaze with a ghostly white hue. “Your instincts are good, but you cannot use them as a crutch. I believe that is enough for today,” his teacher nods, not entirely without respect for his rapidly advancing student. “You haven’t painted a masterpiece,” he declares, reaching out toward the young man as his glowing eyes return to normal, and the spheres revolving about him fade away. “But you may have found your brush.” He admits with a grin, clamping a heavy hand onto his shoulder and giving him an affectionate shake.
“What do you mean?” He asks, not quite grasping what he has just done.
“Arrive on time tomorrow, and I will tell you,” his greatfather instructs, seeing him to the door as the twilight hours of late afternoon commence. The path home is a long one, partially responsible for his recurring decision to avoid the journey to the barracks entirely. The twilight hours hang upon the city like a humid blanket, the nearby forest and southern swamp causing the unpleasant summer days to be far worse so. Nearby a pair of children argue with their mother, insisting they should be allowed to play until the sun has set completely. Rounding a corner he meets eyes with a scantily-clad Zora girl who mimics his interested expression as she passes by with a smile. Turning to watch her go, a Subrosian preacher enters his field of vision in the distance, ranting about his three goddesses, and the rack and ruin awaiting us all.
“They’ve really been at it lately,” he mumbles aloud as he allows the door to his house to swing shut behind him with a bang. Quickly coming into view across the large living room, his father closely resembles him, emitting a slightly more mature aura, though he is only twenty years his elder. His borderline flamboyant attire rests upon the back of his chair, his presentations to various councils in the royal district requiring a certain flair to increase his chances of selection, however slightly it may actually aid. A tired, absentminded tone lingers on his lips as he greets his son.
“What’s that?” His father asks languidly, combing through a stack of documents for whatever manner of production he intends to put on tomorrow.
“Those preachers. They’re everywhere anymore,” he shrugs, pulling the bowl of fruit on the table closer and sifting through it.
“Wouldn’t worry about it,” his father smirks, never looking up from his stacks of paper. “Word is Igos will ban religious speeches outside of churches soon.”
“Finally,” he sighs with relief. “Guys are such a downer.”
“Your mother is out with friends. If you’re hungry I picked up some tektite meat.” His father mumbles, uncomfortable with the recurring silence. “It’s on ice in the cupboard.”
“Don’t have much of an appetite,” he shrugs, shoving the fruit away. “We out of chuchu jelly?”
“You finished the last of it yesterday, remember?” His father distantly responds.
“Oh yeah,” he smiles, scratching the back of his head.
“Wasn’t the thing today?” His father blurts out in the ensuing silence. Snapping his finger, he struggles to remember details. “With the girl?” He guesses.
“Stood me up,” he apathetically shrugs, unsure why he is even lying.
“Ah, you’ll
get the next one.”
“Yeah,” he sighs, eyeing documents on the table arbitrarily. “What’s all this?”
“Military contract,” his father grins, rubbing his hands together. “Castle fortification. Have to move fast to get this one. Other contractors are getting cut-throat lately.”
“Oh yeah,” he muses after shaking his head at his father’s enthusiasm. “Turning in early tonight.”
“The old man catch you skipping lessons again?”
“He always does somehow. Night.”
Decadence
“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Marta insists, condescendingly.
“Come on, love,” her unconvincing friend pleads, turning up the charm. “Was an honest mistake. I thought you said sundown. Who meets for a date at sunup?”
“An honest mistake?” She accuses, turning toward the crowd to hide the involuntary blush he always manages to prod out of her. “Have you ever said anything honest in your life?” She continues, acting convincingly disinterested as she weaves through the crowd.
“Oi, that hurts,” he whines, gripping at his heart as he follows close behind her. She rolls her eyes, but he caught a slight smile as she turned away from him once again. Her dazzling blonde hair sweeps