Something crawled over Skippii's toes. Flicking it away, he rose groggily. The morning was fresh, he had slept soundly through the night. Gone was his headache and muscle cramps, but anew was his hunger. Crawling from his hole, he stretched in the morning light and tasted the air. Many aeromas drifted on the soft wind, of plant life and fungi growing by the stream. He tasted them like a snake, wondering which, if any, were edible.

Unstrapping his leather thorax, he placed it under his shield at the rear of the cave, laying his grey cloak on top to hide them. His ribs ached where its straps had dug into him during the night, but free of it now, he stretched in the open. All was quiet but for the birds and insects. Holding his breath, he sought to detect the legion's symphony from afar. Its song had beat grooves into his mind, and upon closing his eyes, he could mistake the rustling wind for the snoring of legionnaires; the song of birds for timid trumpets. The rustle of leaves was the crackle of fire, overlaid with an ever present chatter of voices–thousands of voices–ceaseless, even in the dead of night.

Nearby, a brook murmured its imitation. The illusion faded, and Skippii opened his eyes. All was quiet, and alone, as it had never been before. Always, he had slept alongside palisade walls, in the company of the impedimenta or legionnaires. He had never travelled alone. He had never been with so few distractions. A cold wrongness shivered through him. But it did not last long. His stomach growled, and hunger triumphed, drawing him from contemplation.

It was no use continuing his journey before attending to his needs. The wound across his chest had scabbed up–if he exerted himself now, it might reopen and undo the good of rest. The magia which he siphoned from the earth may energise his muscles and stave off fatigue, but it did not fill his stomach. If anything, the overexertion had made him hungrier and thirstier. He did not think he could survive on magia alone. The time had come to survive.

Taking his spear and kuri, Skippii explored his surroundings. The forest slid downhill on uneven ground, layered with bumps and mounds. He picked from the forest as he travelled the plants which he thought he recognised. Testing their sap against his wrist, he drew lines across his sensitive skin, wary not to rub his wounds. Such could be disastrous. Keeping a mental note of which line correlated with which plant, he pocketed the ingredients for later inspection, and turned his attention to the ground.

Disturbances in the stalks and leaves marked miniature pathways through the undergrowth, signposted with tiny droppings. Rabbits. Retrieving the string from his pack, he tied nooses at the intersections, tethering each of them to overhanging branches, or stakes which he drove into the ground. Above, a crow watched him work curiously. Skippii stared back, and considered how he might trap the bird. A sling, perhaps. But it was considered bad luck amongst legionnaires to consume carrion; the bird's last meal may well have been the flesh of your fallen friend, or worse yet, your slain enemy. Who wanted that inside of them?

"Keep watching," Skippii said. Regardless, he spent that afternoon crafting a sling from the bandages and string in his carrysack. Picking a stone from the streambed, he tested it on a nearby tree. Tossing the stone, it bounced off the bark with a dent, but lacked the destructive power to crack bone. Adjusting his knots, he trained until he got the motion right, and launched the stone with a snap.

Attaching the sling beside his kuri, he inspected the markings on his forearms. A few hours had passed, and one such line rose from his skin in a red rash. Poison. Skippii located the leaf and separated it from the bunch. Of the others, there were no signs of rejection. He chose one at random and placed it on his tongue. Rubbing the leaf against the roof of his mouth, he spat it out and waited for any sensations of tingling or acrid taste. Following this method, he narrowed his selection down to the roots of an umbelliferae plant, the broad green leaves of a ground-dwelling rosette, and the entire body of a yellow flower from root to head. A forth was a white nettle, which he was certain was edible, but knew required cooking. He knew better than to attempt to identify the streambank mushrooms, despite their juicy allure, as one such bite could well cause his mouth to swell and stomach to cramp. Sickness out here would mean death.

Chewing the broad green leaf, Skippii set out to forage and explore his surroundings further. He did not swallow, but inspected for any peculiar sensations on his sensitive tongue. Between each experiment, he swilled his mouth and waited for a reaction to occur. It was a method which his mother had taught him at an early age, but he'd never had much use of it. She was a master botanist and had told him the names and applications of all the plants before he could touch them to his lips. Now however, he would use her method to stem his hunger.

But plants alone would not stifle it. He needed meat. The mere thought of it clenched his stomach. After a time, he found a wide game trail and followed it up the mountain. As quietly as he could, he slipped through the trees, spear in hand, eyes wide and scanning for prey. If he came across a beast, he would summon his magia and hurl his spear: a Firetail Lance. It would surely perform as good as any hunter's bow.

The trail widened, as though it had been travelled by many animals. Deer, perhaps? The ground became boggy, laden with puddles, but as he tread around them, he noticed a peculiar frequency to them. The puddles were each six feet apart, oval in shape, like the footprints of a giant.

Or a cyclops.

He froze and glanced around. The forest was silent and empty of beats. There was no way a monster such as a cyclops could be hiding amongst the trees. Bending, he inspected the footprint, attempting to tell when it was laid. Had they come by this morning, or could the tracks be weeks old? He was no tracker like Arius, and swiftly gave up. Steeling himself, he followed the tracks a little further, just to make sure that it continued to lead away from where he had camped.

The trail widened as a clearing of trees had been felled, the ground trampled into mush. Here, the cyclops must have made camp. A scrap of blonde hair, like straw, clung to the branches high above his head. He had never seen one of the monsters in the flesh, but could estimate their size from their prints and other signs. He had assumed that the stories were embellished to make the monsters sound more frightening: almost twenty metres tall, thick muscled and ill tempered, with tusks like a boar and a single eyeball in the centre of their head.

Visions of his nightmare a few days prior resurfaced. He shivered, but curiosity would not shake the memory loose. Until now, he had been harassed by misfortune, forced to fight. There had been no time for pensive thought. But now, in the clear air of the wilderness, his mind would not let it go.

He had never had a dream like that before–never so clear, merging with the reality of night. Had his mind, alone, created such horrors? Or had there been meddling? An invocation of sorts? Could the Coven have caused it? Could Kylin possess nightmares? Likely not.

Then who? Could it have been Oyaltun? The nightmare had indeed come true–a divine prediction, perhaps. Was he, indeed, in the favour of the Goddess? And if so, why then was her vision so harrowing? Was she truly an ally, or a stalking fiend?

Returning to his camp, he recalled his visitation within the physician's tent. He remembered her clearly–her long silver hair and slender figure–the snow all around and the soft touch of her aura. He had been enraptured by her, but perhaps that was merely an effect of her spell.

Suddenly, a spark flickered inside his mind. He stopped, scowling to himself, only just remembering the dreams of last. A woman's soothing presence had visited him and whispered him into deep sleep. Had it been her? And were there other times which he had forgotten, or else gone noticed? Was the Goddess with him now? How could he know?

His stomach griped and growled, reclaiming his attention. There would be time for the divine once he attended to more immediate needs. Returning to his hovel, Skippii collected plants along the way–those which he suspected were edible. He checked his rabbit traps, but they were all empty, and would likely remain that way until the next morning, when the small creatures were most active.

Tossing his ingredients into a pile, he thought about collecting firewood when he realised he had nothing to cook the plants with. No pot for stew nor kiln for roast. He had never before been without one, and for a moment, felt stumped. But he had seen potters at work, and knew how one was made. Travelling downstream, he searched the bank for a particular mud, scraping off layers of moss to squelch the clay between his hands. Much of it was too brittle and stoney for purpose, but after much searching, he found what he needed. Digging out handfuls of the reddish mud, he waded back upstream into his camp. Picking out the impurities, he began to form the clay into a bowl shape. Skippii had never been much of a craftsman growing up, always more fond of clashing sticks with the other children, than sitting idly and carving them into tools. All he had ever aspired to do was join the legion, and never guessed that such delicate skills would be useful to him. Now, here in the wild, his life depended on them.

He smiled to himself, then turned his bowl over for inspection. It was an ugly, clumpy mess, which would barely hold a pane of water, least of all boil it. Laughing, a wave of merriment overtook him, and he allowed it. Alone, he jittered, tears in his eyes, and each time he beheld his woeful craftsmanship, he exalted anew.

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"How cruel the fates!" he said dramatically, holding aloft his bowl. "Will you accept this humble offering, lords and ladies? Will you place it in the Pantheonic halls? Come, Maysones, call your father, Erymenes. Behold my work. Behold and bewilder."

Chuckling, he wet the bowl and started again. On his third remoulding, he created a serviceable container and set it aside to dry. His stomach grumbled painfully, but he had yet no means to appease it. Gathering firewood, he effortlessly lit a fire and roasted the nettles over the flames, singing their stinging hairs.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. The basin of his bronze helmet would hold a little water from which he could boil his foraged haul, but would the metal not tarnish and warp in the heat? He would find no replacement for it in the wild. Better to suffer hunger for one more day while his pottery was dried. As the sun set, his hunger deepened, and so he retired into the hovel, wishing to escape its clutches in sleep.

Outside, far off, a wolf howled. But nothing could distract his mind's fixation on the traps he had set that day. Over and over, he envisioned checking them in the morning and finding a rabbit ensnared. Before he could stop himself, he began to pray.

"Please. Just give me this one thing. Just give me a small life. I need it. My body needs it. Please, I will devour the meat and stew the bones. I will say a prayer for the beast, let the heavens know it has served me well, give it a chance to ascend in the next life. I need it. I'm too hungry."

Wetting his lips, he scowled. Was he talking to himself now, or to the Gods? And were they listening, were they ever?

What about Oyaltun? She had shown an interest in him, had she not? Perhaps she would come to his aid, somehow. But how did one beseech the Gods? He was not bound to her. He had not learned her words of communion or prayers. All he had to go off was his intuition.

There had been a voice, deep beneath the blanket of consciousness, which had spoken to him upon the arena's ground. It had spoken to him when he had first awakened his powers. He did not reckon it for Oyaltun's voice, but then what? The source of his powers, perhaps. And then, what exactly was that? His memory of it was faint, and the precise words it had used alluded him, but the sentiment echoed beneath his skin: A disdain, thick and old. Then, a reluctant shove. He did not think that entity would show him pity, and if he could, he wished to avoid its ire entirely.

Rolling onto his back, Skippii crossed his arms over his chest and shut his eyes.

"Are you there?" he asked cautiously, then shook his head. This was stupid. No God had ever answered him before, and though he was possessed by magia, he was nevertheless astray.

"Do you mind that I'm uninitiated? I never had a father, you see. I never had anyone to teach me how to pray, or how to make offerings, or read the signs in the world. I never underwent any ceremony, but I still believe you're there. All of you." He laughed tiredly at himself. "See what I mean? I'm talking to you like you're in my companeight. It's probably disrespectful, isn't it?"

No response.

"Well, don't be offended. I don't mean offence. It's just my affliction."

No thunder. No earthly quivers or sudden winds. Nothing.

"Oyaltun?" His voice sank into the damp walls, devoid of echo, almost as though he had not spoken at all. "Oyaltun?" he repeated, to make sure he had. "You're following me, aren't you? How do I… What do you want from me? I'll do it, but I'm feeling weak. I know I'm going to get weaker if I don't eat. Please, just do this for me, and I'll do anything you want."

Upon uttering the words, Skippii considered their meaning. He didn't want to be a slave to the Gods; a part of him had always remained silently proud for being astray. He had pledged himself to the legion, and the legion alone. But now that those ties were severed, he was in no hurry to swear oaths to another overlord.

"Within reason," he added. "And I have my own questions about your visions. You know, that nightmare really caused me a lot of trouble. That was you, wasn't it? How's about a more subtle way of warning me next time, like writing in my tea leaves or a hawk in the sky. I don't know, but maybe find a middle ground between the two. And in the meantime, let me eat. Please, bring me a rabbit. Just one rabbit. I might die if not. That isn't your purpose for me, is it?"

The words tasted bitter in his sticky mouth. "Purpose… You should know, I won't follow orders blindly. I know, you're the Gods. But what have you done for me? Why should I care? I'm not your little soldier. I'm no one now… No one. No one."

In the absence of a response, Skippii sank into a mire rest.

***

Tenoris was snoring, the sound like a growling wolf. Skippii nudged him. His muscular flank felt as hard as a rock wall, but he did not abate. Skippii pressed harder, reaching out with his mind. "Tenoris, you're snoring."

The big legionnaire turned over in his bed, staring upwards beyond Skippii, as though he was suddenly blind. His expression was alight with shock. "Skip? You are here?"

A stabbing sensation gripped his foot. Jolting awake, Skippii recoiled into the hovel, drawing his kuri. A grey blur dashed from the mouth of his den. Crawling after it, he emerged after it into the thin light of early morning. Three wolves prowled the streambed, brown eyes fixated on him. The closest backed away slowly, teeth bared. Fresh blood trickled over his foot where its teeth had made their mark.

"Yah!" he yelled, picking up his spear, readying for a fight. But the wolves decided better of it, turning and prancing back into the forest. As his mind cleared, and exhilaration diminished, a thought occurred to him. He had no need to hunt rabbits if he could catch a wolf.

Chasing after the pack, he drew energy from the earth. With each step, a flame alighted in his feet, drawing up through his thighs, bringing his limbs awake. But he was cold from rest, and dulled by fatigue. His magia came to him belatedly. Raising his spear to throw, he stopped and scanned the dim forest, but his prey had long since disappeared. Lowering it, he ground his jaw. What he would do for the flesh of a wolf between his teeth.

Checking his rabbit traps, he discovered that one had been sprung, but little remained of the animal–not even the string–but for a splatter of blood on the leaves. He had indeed caught one, but the wolves had stolen his meal. Kneeling, he groaned as hunger cramped his stomach. Irrational anger burned inside him, fed by his magia's fires. He roared at the ground, furious with himself for letting them outwit him. He knew it was irrational, but each day without food dulled his mind and brought him closer to his bestial neighbors. He needed to eat, needed to hunt. Or else, perhaps, pillage a nearby settlement or storehouse.

He remembered what the legionnaires of the Fifth had told him about the Ürkün's supply network in these mountains. Upon surrounding Nerithon, Legion V had attempted to cut their route off and dig in, but were repelled by raids, and worse, monsters. The Aperatrox–beasts which the Ürkün had brought with them to Philoxenia–and the cyclops, natives to the Sleeping Mountain. With their allegiance, the defenders had managed to slip Legion V's auxiliary divisions and pass through the mountains to settlements and hidden storehouses beyond, resupplying the city during the winters of siege.

Perhaps if he could find one such route, he could ambush a wagon, or steal from it in the night. But the Ürkün were masters of beasts and allies to monsters. They travelled with dogs and vicious pigs, and were protected by the dreaded cyclops. In his weakened state, he did not want to test his powers against any such beast, nor chance a battle with men who wielded swords, axes and arrows. His wounds were just beginning to heal, but he needed sustenance now.

Returning to his camp, Skippii checked that his clay bowl had not cracked and filled it with water, then set it on the fire's embers to boil. Adding what plants he had foraged, he created a tea and drank the rich, green water. Straining the leaves, he munched them into a pulp and filled his stomach to stave off hunger. It would have to do, but he had a plan.

The wolves couldn't have gone far. Likely, they were stalking him now, waiting for him to grow too weak to fight, then they would pick him apart. They were cunning like that, not far from the minds of humans. They could smell weakness, but he would use that against them. Prying the corner of a cut on his arm, he pinched the flesh until a little blood came out. Mixing this blood with water, he soaked it in clumps of moss, then went about the forest, scattering them, spreading his scent. That would keep the predators from running off. It was like ringing a dinner bell. Returning to his den, he lay down outside in the sunlight and focussed on the earth beneath him.

Drawing the energy into him was easy now that he was fully awake, if a little slowed by his fatigue. But it was not his intent to siphon it. As he connected with the earth, he felt its fires within the rock, mere reflections of the power he had, at times, sensed at its core. Reaching down with his mind, he plumbed the depths beneath the earth's crust for what heat it stored. In his chest, the centrepiece of his core radiated a ruby red, shining brightest of the three layers. It reflected the energy of the earth, growing with power as he drew upon it.

Magia rose in trickles, like rain flowing down the smooth hide of a tent. While training his Seismic Quake evocation with Cliae, the slave had counted how long he could contain the volatile energy before letting go. The maximum count he had reached was one hundred and fifty. However, now, he did not try to contain the magia within him, but drew it near, trapping it between his back and the earth's surface. There, it pooled beneath him, a warm bed of embers.He tended to it like a garden, spreading it evenly beneath him. As he breathed, it grew, smokeless with hidden fury.

Shaping the invocation, he considered its effects. He did not wish to bash the earth and spring rocks upon his opponent. That would only play to the wolf's strengths–speed and nimbleness. Rather, he desired smoke and flames and confusion, not so much the raw energy that Seismic Quake created. That was most similar to his least explosive ability, but that which he employed most often on daily tasks: Enkindle Flames. By releasing a burst of heat, he was able to ignite a campfire, or billow the smoke from embers. What if he combined both energies?

Holding the thought of each ability in mind, he sought to merge them, like kneading flour and water into dough. Each power felt distinct. Seismic glowed with the gem of his core; it was deep, richly powerful and unstable. Whereas Enkindle Flames came from the halo of his core–a spark of intent, and his burning will.

Lying still, he meditated for hours, seeking to merge the two sensations. As he visualised his core, he focussed on the two layers of his intent. Their energy spread throughout his body, tying him to the earth. The halo burned white at its centre, a peculiar solidity to its flames, whereas the ruby glistened as though a fire raged inside it. Each was changing, taking on attributes of the other.

Gradually, he formed a potent trap. A spider's web, with him at its centre. Spreading his arms, he splayed the energy beneath him. There, he lay, and would remain, until the wolves pounced, taking him for dead.

He had not to wait long, as the sun had not yet set before he heard soft padded footsteps approaching from the forest.

He lay still as they ventured closer, sensing their footfalls through the ground. One neared–the heaviest–by the accounts of his senses. He smelled its hide, then its breath. Its face drew near. Its jaws opened to bite.

The striking of a flint–the flicker of his will–and the Flashfire Trap burst to life.

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