A cloud of ash and cinder erupted as the earth shattered and spat chunks into the air. Skippii leapt at the wolf, sighting its grey coat amongst the smoke and turmoil. Stabbing with his spear, he felt the tip connect, and drove his prey from the trap. The ash prickled his eyes but felt smooth in his lungs as he heaved a powerful breath. After a few strides, the malaise cleared. Before him, the wolf trotted away and collapsed, a red puncture above its foreleg.

Skippii strode towards it, spear held low. The creature whined pittifully. All of its companions had fled upon witnessing the Flashfire Trap. He and Skippii were alone now. Suddenly, his hunger was gone, replaced by a shivering sickness. He sat quietly, looking at the wolf. He knew what he had to do, but hesitated. He had hunted and butchered many rabbits, and once loosed an arrow at a deer, but missed. He had eaten the meat of sheep and bulls, but they were all beasts of prey. He had killed men in battle many times now, but had never executed a foe in the aftermath.

The wolf panted, eyes half closed, then it tried to rise. Its body's destruction weighed too heavily, and it collapsed awkwardly, eyes falling upon Skippii, an expression which he read clearly. What are you waiting for?

He rose and drew his kuri. The wolf did not move as he loomed over its throat, only its one brown eye followed him. It was a predator too; it knew what came next. But as he grabbed a tuft of its hair, the wolf spasmed and struggled, snarling and kicking in the dirt. A grim anger, like panic, seized Skippii, tightening every muscle in his body. Frantically, he pinned the wolf and ended its life.

After a while, there was just a carcass. He was alone again.

"Oyaltun," he said. "Bless this animal. His sacrifice has given me new life. I shan't waste it. Greet him, please. Let him roam by your side. Let him learn from your wisdom the ways of thought and rationale. If it's true that the spirits of lesser beasts can transcend, here is a more fitting candidate than any."

Sharpening his knife, he set to work with butchery. Before long, his hunger resurfaced, championing over sickness. Tying the wolf up, he placed his handmade bowl beneath it and opened its throat. Much of its blood had already spilled on the streambank, but a few gallons remained, and he would not waste a single drop. While the carcass drained, he collected a dozen large, flat river stones and laid his cloak outside his hovel, placing the stones on top to create a clean, tortoise-shell surface. By then, his bowl was full. He had drunk blood before, but never in quite the quantity which Summitus folks favoured. But taste was of little concern to him now. In honour of the wolf, he closed his nose shut and gulped the thick, warm liquid down.

It entered his stomach like oil splashing into a pan. Its lifeblood became his. Next, he skinned the carcass, cutting carefully around the head and legs to preserve its aesthetics. As he worked, he could feel his mind coming back to life. His vision was clearer, his hands less shaky. Though he was much more hungry, the knowledge that food was to come settled his nerves, and filled him with peace. Soon, it overflowed into joy. He grinned like a village fool while he worked, separating the legs and laying them on the stones, then cutting open the stomach and excavating the offal.

It was messy work, and not one he had much experience with. With the prime cuts all laid out on his stones, he washed the offal and carcass in the stream. Its skull and bones were much too large to fit inside his meagre clay pot for stewing, so he set them aside, intending to bury them instead.

It was sunset by the time he started his fire and began cooking the most perishable of ingredients: the heart, liver and kidneys. Holding the skewer over the fire, he submitted his stomach, which pleaded with him to eat them raw. Slowly, the organs greyed and charred. His mouth watered like a dog's. His heart surged with anticipation.

Devouring the skewer, he made another from scraps and offcuts which he had rent from bones. Miraculously, he was full long before he had even started on the legs. Truth was, his stomach must have shrunk with starvation. Lying back against his shield, Skippii radiated with ecstasy, hands over his stomach, feeling utterly at peace with the world. Nearby, the wolf's hide hung from its legs to dry. He would have to craft a stretching rack if he was serious about using it. But for an hour or so, he just sat there, marvelling at the sensation of his body coming back to life.

Suddenly, the ground beneath him shook, as with the footsteps of a gigantic beast. Skippii startled and hurried into the cover of his hovel, peering outside. Nothing approached from the forest or downstream. But the cliff above was hidden from sight. Was something up there now, watching him from above? Reaching out, he pried the shaft of his spear and pulled it into cover with him, fetching his helmet from the rear of his den.

The tremors came in waves, increasing in strength, rattling his teeth and vibrating his eyeballs. But no beast showed itself, and it would take some tremendous giant to create such an impact, like the Titans of ancient lore. Was it then a landslide? Trees beyond the stream rattled, shaking loose twigs and leaves, sending a flock of songbirds fleeing their nests with squarks of disarray.

Something prickled his knee where he knelt, and he lifted it, searching for the thistle. But none was there, and the sensation had not been wholly unpleasant. Pressing his hands into the ground, the sensation tickled his flesh.

The earth tremoured stronger, and Skippii felt its power beneath him like the ocean waves from the deck of a ship. Stones by the streambed rattled loudly, dancing and tumbling as the waters rippled. Was this the power of Seismorix, Quakelord and shaper of the Earth? Skippii recoiled his hand nervously. Had he somehow angered the Gods? Had Archtheros, Beastmaster and Lord of wolves witnessed his slaughter and become furious?

Or perhaps the Coven had beseeched the Pantheon to find him? Had he not travelled far enough to escape their influence? But no, from what he had learned of their powers, warmagi did not command the Gods on their personal errands, they merely channeled their divine power. So if indeed these earth tremors were Seismorix, then he had come for Skippii of his own volition, and that thought was far more unnerving.

He wanted to press against the earth and draw upon his power. If some God, or ethereal champion of the Gods, was upon him, he would not submit without a fight. Opening his heart to receive his magia, the energy which rushed into him was dizzying and distinct. Beneath him, the body of the earth flexed its muscles, rock pumping with force, stretching, as with waking, and releasing a terrible yawn.

As quickly as it had started, the tremors stopped, but the sensation lingered in his flesh. Curiously, he examined it–the gripping, fracturing tug, which writhed beneath his skin. His core was alight, but flickering erratically. This was not like the usual magia which he drew upon. It was too potent–too much for him to contain. Pressing into the earth, he released the energy with a wary sigh. The ground shook slightly as the magia poured out of him, a mere twitch compared to the mountain's own tremors.

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Catching his breath, Skippii leaned against the hovel's wall as the forest outside returned to its usual calm. If he could harness the power, then it could not be of the Gods. He was still astray, after all. Therefore, this force could not be of Seismorix, but perhaps nature–the mountain itself. The Sleeping Mountain. Why was it named such?

During his travels, he had learned the names of many Philoxenian mountains and rivers. They owed their namesake to the ancient languages of long forgotten tribes and peoples, many of whom had been made extinct by the Ürkün scourge. The mountain's name had likely passed many tongues and been translated several times before it had reached Arius, and then Skippii's ears. He had not given it much thought, but it seemed there was more meaning to its name than he had given credit. If the mountain itself was sleeping, what would happen when it awoke?

There had to be a reason why his instincts had led him here. A sense of rightness rang through his heart. Now, more than ever, he knew that he was on the right trail. Despite all that had happened with the Coven and his desertion from the Legion, he felt close now to answering the burning questions inside of him. Who was he? What was this force within his veins, and what was the nature of the source–the power of the earth ever present beneath him? What other forces of the universe existed which the Pantheonos did not teach about, nor worship? What had been hidden from him, and the whole Imperium, which Cliae, in their studies within the secret libraries of Clidus, had caught a glimpse of?

Where did it all leave him? What sort of life would he lead with this power?

Alass, there were pressing matters at hand–chores which he must complete before continuing his journey. His mind swam in the shallow waters of fantasy while he moved about his tasks, building up a fire beneath the legs of wolf meat, piling wet and dry wood on so that it would smoke throughout the night.

He dug a shallow grave in a patch of loose mud by the riverbank. As he buried the skull, he considered removing the wolf's teeth for a necklace–a common adornment amongst Brenti javelineers. However, he thought not to. If his prayer had worked, and the wolf truly did transcend to Oyaltun's side, even if for a brief time, he imagined it would want to keep its teeth to display its prowess. He imagined a wolf's teeth were its pride. It deserved to keep them.

Burying the bones, he turned his attention to the hide. He had seen tanning be done on a rack, with the hide stretched taught over four beams, but he had never made such a rack himself, nor possessed the slight of hand for such fine woodwork and twine. However, looking about his possessions, his shield's circumference was nearly as large as the hide itself. Stretching the fur over its surface, he tied its legs into a knot and laid it in the sun to tan, urinating on it to accelerate the process.

As the evening pressed on, his hands worked slower and he laboured to climb about the riverbank's slippery rocks. Finally, he washed in the stream, re-applying his dirtied bandages with the last of the linen scraps which he had taken from the legion camp. He sat and rested, glancing northward as the Sleeping Mountain's jagged grey crown caught the last red light of the setting sun. He was eager to press on, but knew it was unwise without rest. Besides, the wolf meat would require the night to smoke. Employing patience, he climbed back into his hovel for one final night of rest, but excitement held him back from sleep, and when it came, his dreams were as a vivid swarm.

***

The earth shook, but not as before. A great beast strode through the night on four legs, then six, then eight, growing in size. Skippii held his breath, listening to it pass beyond his hovel and into the forest's dark.

Suddenly, he was standing by his companeight's fire. They were attending normal morning duties: packing down the camp for the long march ahead. Orsin handed Tenoris his shield and spear, claiming that the big farmhand could carry both. Tenoris laughed and wielded them, arms spread wide. Next, Drusilla attempted the same feat, which prompted Kaesii to challenge him to a contest. Spirits were high, and Skippii watched on with a grin.

"What was it Maritor said?" he joked. "Trust in the spear and shield of your company, for what's theirs is yours, so you may as well steal it."

"And death be in your wake," Orsin added with a knowing grin.

Suddenly, Cliae burst from their tent, face white with shock. The slave's eyes sought for Skippii. They took an apprehensive step forward.

"Legio?"

A flash of white engulfed Skippii. Blinking, he scraped away the mists, which were fast solidifying into frost. Climbing free, he found that he had fallen into a rift of snow. His companions were gone, it had only been a dream. But where was he now? Standing, he looked around. Snow fell thickly on a forest about him, but ahead, a shadow cut through the storm, offering sanctuary.

Raising his arm to his face against the stinging cold, he waded towards a dim fissure which cut into the rock face. Once within, the walls buttressed the winds, and above, the snow fell softly upon grey steps. The staircase rose out of the rock, old and jagged, scattered with tenacious winter weeds.

As he climbed the steps, a feeling of suspense rose with him, gurgling in his gut, filling him with boyish eagerness to run. Picking his feet up, he took the staircase two, three steps at a time, hands grasping at the narrow walls to drag himself up. His breath quickened. He was nearing the zenith, and what awaited him… What awaited him was the whole rest of his life. His purpose. His absolution.

Skippii bolted awake, full of life and energy. For a moment, he was disorientated, sure that the steps were beneath him. But it had been another dream, and he was still in his hovel. Disappointed, he shook away the dream and rose swiftly. He had survived the trials of the wilderness, evaded starvation and the jaws of beasts. He would next conquer the Sleeping Mountain.

Rolling up his cloak, he quickly checked his gear once-over. The wolf's legs had smoked overnight, drying so that they would not rot during his travels. He wrapped them in the broad umbelliferae leaves to deter insects, then slung them over his back alongside his shield, across which the wolf's hide was stretched. Packing his carrysack, he left out his firelighter and tinder, resting them atop a rock at the hovel's entrance.

"For whoever finds this shelter," he said to himself. "They'll need it more than me."

His wounds, for the most part, had healed enough that they would not re-open. The gash across his chest was red and sore, but not infected. In fact, Skippii could not remember ever suffering an infected wound, nor serious illness. His mother had always claimed he had strong blood, though she herself fell ill on rare occasions. Had it something to do with his latent magia? Had his mother known, and kept it from him? She had never wanted a legionnaire's life for him–never a fighter. She had pleaded with him not to join the Ninth, imploring him to return to Auctoritas with her. As much as it pained him, he had denied her. Left her. What secrets did she still carry, so many leagues from him?

No, that was unfounded. She was an honest woman, and they were close. He wondered what she would think now. Would she be overjoyed that her little Skipper had developed the extraordinary? Likely, it would only make her more worried, and more insistent that he come to Vestia–gem of the Imperium–to work in peace and receive an education. But he had long since left that path behind.

Longing tightened his chest. He breathed shakily, absorbed in thought. Rising with the sun, he set off on the trail. He had a task to complete. He could tell his mother about it later. He trekked through the morning on whatever trail he could find, bearing his haul up the mountainside, drawing upon the energy of the earth to supplement his muscle's strength.

Suddenly, the trail which he followed came upon a well-trodden path. Boots and hooves were visible in the mud, some deep and fresh. Two grooves ran along its edges–cart wheels. He had stumbled upon one of the Ürkün's supply lines–those which they used to feed Nerithon during the siege. The very same supply lines which they had allegedly negotiated passage with the mountain's native cyclops.

The kind that would carry food and supplies, and be defended by the enemy. His enemy, still. Whether or not he was a part of the legion, or a citizen of Auctoritas, he believed in certain principles: Civilisation, democracy and the justice of a senate; the order and law which the Imperium Auctoritas brought to the land; and the villainy of the Ürkün. Three centuries ago, the northern barbarians had pillaged and desecrated Auctorian shores. Now, they festered in the fertile lands of Philoxenia, worshipping dark gods. The heretics were still his enemy. To hold such a principle felt as though to preserve his honour.

Renewed with purpose, he strode towards the enmity of his choosing.

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