Born Days

**********************

Simon "Woody" Till

Fuck. Everything hurts. Holding my head, I stumble toward the medic tents, the shrapnel from the exploding cannon ending my night of fighting early. It'll take a while for Heath to fix me up. Even with my own Proliferate stitching my wounds.

At the very least, I kept Bonfire from getting hurt. My walls of Wood and Vines guarded him against the detonation, though it still got me and a few others pretty harshly. Clumsy fell off the wall and would have died had Abraham not caught him with a Nightmare. Frozen was luckily behind a wall of ice that merely left him on his ass. Meanwhile, Cigar...

I've never seen Bonfire so angry. The flames he released as I was pulled away by a combat medic... Had Abraham not stopped him, Emmet would have jumped off the wall with Combustion for revenge at whatever sent that cannon his way. The flames... they went out all the way to the horde below, transcending his standard limit of a hundred feet. I think I even saw hints of blue and violet in his white, yellow, and red gouts.

Abraham... you better keep him alive until I get back. I'm his shield, after all. Always have been. Even back when we were in the slums. I---

I'm sorry, Clyde. It was you or him. And... neither of us wishes for Emmet to die. He's the only reason we aren't dead in some alley of Blackreach, after all.

But damn, it all hurts so bad.

Finally, after replaying the scene dozens of times, I hobble into the nearest open tent with a red cross, finding Heath inside it. Smiling at a familiar face, I greet him before my mood quickly falls.

"Hey, Heath. Good to see you."

The good doctor only glances at me shortly before pointing at me to sit down. Odd. He is usually less rude. Eh, he's probably just tired like the rest of us. We've only been fighting an hour, but adding up last night? It'll be too much very soon.

But a tingle in my head lies as Heath turns around, some part of me telling me to run. But I don't. I'm probably just shaken from Cigar. I... I'm imagining things.

"Can you fix me up fast, Heath? I need to get back to Bonfire. Cigar was killed."

I expect a sorry or some kind of response as he faces me, yet all I get is a darkness that encompasses my vision as two pale pupils grow in my sight.

The darkness creeps in, obscuring my vision and enveloping me in its suffocating embrace. I strain my senses, desperate to glimpse Heath and my assailant, but there is nothing to be seen. The void engulfs me, casting a veil of uncertainty and fear over my surroundings.

I scream for help, trying to get anyone or anything to aid up as the gloaming becomes all I can see, feel, or hear.

"What the fuck! Heath! We're being attacked! Call for help!"

Yet, all I get is a chuckle as I hear one last sentence before even my thoughts join the darkness, pausing in eternal stillness.

"Heath ain't here anymore, sonny."

****************************

Wyatt Graves

Rubbing the back of my head, I walk toward Marshall's room, intending to glance at the skills he has there for me to learn from. Sounds of war, artillery, firearms, and the yawps from soldiers fill the air I step through. I wish to join, but my whole body is practically melted. Not literally, but every step feels like I'm made of lead, my muscles so weak from practicing combat against Marshall.

Once the fighting stops against the Pygmies, I will visit Scott, the head doctor here, and have him help me recover quicker. Marshall said this is the fastest way to improve, using Scott's medicine and Ether to accelerate my natural recovery. If only the Bloody Palm were willing to slide in on that as well.

But I think that's too much to ask. We are still hanging our alliance by a thread. I'd instead slowly build that harmony between us, as Marshall mentioned. Hopefully, I can find a Hollow and get them to help me understand how Artifiction works better. As far as anyone knows, they are the premier experts in the field. Though, Ed Summers apparently knows quite a bit, too. He was the one to research them for that battle against the Hollows all those years ago.

Yet, as I walk through the fort, I hear endless grumbles from resting soldiers. Previously, I listened to a complaint here or there by the exhausted men, but it's only getting worse.

"How come the fourth and fifth divisions got to leave?"

Another soldier pipes up as I walk back, my ears picking up every word.

"Dunno, but it's not fair. We're constantly fighting, and they get to go home?"

More and more voices come, soft whispers that grow in volume as I make it to the inside of the fortress before they fade away from the distance.

"Ash spoke to me and a few others about retreating. He even spoke to Marshall about it, but the general refused."

"What? Why would he refuse? We are all gonna die here!"

"Yeah, that's insane. I mean, it's Marshall, but still. He... he'll change his mind, right?"

"We can only hope."

"Well, that's not true. We--"

The last voice almost makes me pause, but I merely finish my journey to Marshall's quarters, the door left unlocked. It seems tensions are rising. Can the men last another month of this? I don't know. But if they don't, it doesn't matter what Marshall wants. He can't hold this alone.

The old man is strong, but the few thousand soldiers here, each with a Sigil, provide their own worth that, overall, trumps the general's impact. He might kill a hundred Pygmies in one battle, but his men will match that and surpass it by sheer numbers.

Breathing out a hefty puff of air, I step through the door of Marshall's room to soak in the silence within. Ever since I entered Bent, it's been a constant din of war, the sounds never stopping. But here, it's peaceful, at least for a little while.

Still, I'm not here to rest. I've done enough of that on the way here. Time to read...

My legs, wobbling from fatigue, deliver me to the small bookshelf beside Marshall's desk. He has no grand Archive like the Prime or the Supremes in the Underworld, but the man has eight books lining the wall. And one immediately draws my attention.

The spine of the text bears the words "Painsforge" on its dark cover. My heart skips a beat at the idea of learning the Dzil that Marshall is best known for. The combination of Painsforge and the second Absolution that bolsters me as I get hurt, which I haven't even named yet, holds immense potential. The Wall gets significantly more potent as he gets wounded, and despite how much I don't wish to see him hurt, a portion of me wants to see what he looks like at the very end.

I snatch the book without hesitation and open the pages of the text, reading it with more interest than anything else in my life.

Yet, the first words are unexpectedly not from Marshall.

To turn emotion into strength, that is the goal. Pain to power. It is a difficult task to surmount, but not impossible. I merely have not figured out the secret.

- Samuel Hardy, the 9th Prime, Title: Death Bringer

The idea for this skill came from a long-dead legend. The 9th Prime of humanity was capable of turning any emotion into some kind of phenomenon. Joy was a healing warmth, hate a burning dawn, and sadness a chilling blue. He was a sparkling bouquet of power at his grandest, each with a disastrous effect. Yet, one emotion he could not overcome was pain.

Some may argue that pain is not an emotion, and I disagree. It is one. It is many. All negative emotions harbor some kind of pain, even if it is hidden deep. And while I am not the most traditionally emotional man, pain is something I have aplenty.

Wounds cake me like that of frosting on a dessert. I once thought that if I could turn this weakness into strength, it would be a boon for all of humanity. And I was right.

Souls have power. Minds have power. Emotions have power. They must only be aligned through the substance of Ether.

Painsforge, my pride and my joy, is an inhumanly arduous skill to comprehend, with two main requirements. First, you must have a permanent scar upon your body that aches constantly, for this will be the source of your pain, like that of a furnace heating steel. Second, you must have a mind unwilling to buckle, even under the most tremendous strain, for Painsforge elevates and brings any and all pain to the forefront of the mind it forges.

When it comes to Ether, the requirement is simple. Willful Strand is the only minimum. And one must only need to use it standalone. Any 6th Sigil, some 5ths, and the rare 4th could potentially learn Painsforge as long as they fit the aforementioned prerequisites.

Now, onto the specifics.

My eyes scan the words that detail how to use Painsforge, but too much of it is beyond me. I think I meet the two main requirements for the skill, but I don't know Willful Strand. The Ether manipulation is still a whole Sigil above me, and I have not yet learned it.

But according to Marshall, it is purely based on the force of will intertwined with the Ether.

Every manipulation of Ether bears some uniqueness, which is why they have different effects. From Single's simple multitasking to Many's forceful elevation, each is performed in some way differently from the others. Braided needs careful twisting and delicate dexterity, while Steel requires a connection to one's Sigil to transfer its essence. Steam uses the pressure inside the body and mind to force density upon the Ether, but Willful is slightly different.

To perform Willful Strand and allow your effects of Ether to reach further than they should, your mind bolstering its spread, one must leave a part of their mind in each skill. The task is more akin to cutting off a piece of yourself, allowing it to continue the skill in your absence as you focus on other things.

I recommend one uses a simple skill, and I know how dumb this sounds, but stare at it, and with only your mind, force it to exist. The psyches of lower Sigileds are simply too underdeveloped compared to those who stand at the precipice, so few can perform this task before the 6th Sigil. But it is not impossible. Nothing is.

Pulling back from the book, I immediately begin on what it speaks of. For a long time, I somewhat wondered if the truth about Ether rising in difficulty as one advances in Sigils was true. But at this point, I know it is. Steam Strand took a hundred times more effort to learn than Single, which was almost as effortless as breathing to start. Braided and Steel were also reasonably tricky, but I figured them out in a few days compared to Steam's weeks. I can only hope that Willful doesn't take that long. We don't have that much time. Marshall doesn't have that much time.

And so, I ignore the other books on the wall in favor of learning Willful Strand. There will be more benefits to obtaining this than just Painsforge, too. My skills will reach further as Willful helps Ether extend past the body. Leash will probably triple, quadruple, or quintuple in range as Whetting and Hone might extend their sharpnesses beyond the half-inch past my nails.

Some books, like Iron Claw and Stoneskin, are enticing, but I have priorities. And I can look at them later. So, sitting on the floor of Marshall's study, my practice begins with an Ironbound, the intricate web finding itself on my palm after a few moments as I watch it gradually fade without my upkeep.

It takes a while as it is attached to my skin, yet I stare at it, even as I decide my next try will use Leash. That skill will fade faster and allow me to see more improvement. So, shaking Ironbound off as it is simply fading too slowly, I retry.

With determined resolve, I begin anew my practice of Willful Strand, the form of Ether manipulation that requires the infusion of my will and fragment of consciousness into my skills. As Marshall says, I need to figure out a way to split my mind. Would Daydream or Ironheart work for this? Probably. In fact, they will likely be the only reason I can do this manipulation at all. I reckon that's how other lower Sigiled manage Willful as well. They probably also have skills or effects that bolster their minds.

I extend my hand outward, perpendicular to the wooden floor of the study, gathering the transcendental substance that courses through my body at my beck and call. With a surge of concentration, I shape the Ether into the form of a rope, Leash, its translucent tendril coalescing before me. The spectral strand flickers and dances in the air, eager to carry out my bidding. I watch it fall flat against the ground as I immediately let go of the Ether spiraling and braiding itself. Doing so makes the Ether gradually break apart and fall to the environment, allowing me to focus entirely on the next task.

For a moment, Leash materializes in all its formless glory, pulsating with a faint luminescence. I take a moment to admire its form, its sleek and sinewy appearance, knowing that it holds the potential to grapple, yank, and even strangle my opponents, which I've done many times before. But right now, my focus lies beyond its immediate use. I am here to push the boundaries of its endurance, to forge a connection between my will and the Ether that animates it.

And just a split second after I release the flow of Ether, the construction begins to break apart, the many weaves and braids fraying into the air. Unwilling to miss my chance, I fix my gaze upon Leash. Then, while staring intently to keep the skill in my focus, I release a surge of determination from within. I seek to extend its lifespan, to prolong its presence in this world with only my mind.

As the seconds tick by, I stare intently at the ghostly whip, willing it to defy the natural ebb and flow of Ether, to defy the call of the world that would break it apart. Yet, with each passing second, it frays apart, gradually reaching me with the collapse. Furrowing my brow, I redouble my efforts and try harder. I can feel a deep weight within my mind, the Ether that exists in my will gradually moving under my determination.

But even as that plunging weight shifts, the skill still breaks, rapidly reaching my hand that holds it after just a total of ten seconds from when it started. The typical lifespan of the skill without Ether supplementing it. Sighing, I try again, pushing Ether out as I throw the Leash back onto the ground.

I didn't expect it to work first try, but a man can hope. Again, I go. Repetition is the mother of learning, after all. How else will I advance if I don't continuously endeavor to do so?

Yet, I know that this is just the beginning. The process is slow, gradual, and requires patience and discipline. Each practice session strengthens my will, gradually adapting my psyche to intertwine with my Ether. With each attempt, the bond between my mind and Ether grows stronger, unlocking snippets of the potential hidden behind Willful Strand.

I fast get lost in the practice, my eyes unleaving my Ether except for when it entirely dissipates to conjure it again. Minutes twirl into hours as I gradually improve.

First, the improvement is Leash lasting ten and a half seconds. Then, it's eleven seconds. And next, I notice it lengthens as I focus, the sides being the central portions to dissipate. And while the advancements are minimal compared to the complete thing, it only spurs me on.

Again, again, and again, I redo the simple act of forming my Leash. It is an underutilized skill, one that I wish I had more ingenuity to use more often. And while I practice, a shambling figure enters my room. Turning to see who it is, I recognize Earl, carrying two armloads of... something?

The man notices me only as he sets his delivery onto Marshall's desk, the objects forming into my mind as some powders, liquids, and creams in vials. But he doesn't seem to expect me as he jumps in the air, fumbling to draw his loaded Coil.

"Ah fuck! What the hell are you doing here!?"

Chuckling, I push aside my training for a moment as I see the setting sun. I've been at it for a while. A break won't hurt. And if I didn't tease him about his cowardness, what friend would I be?

"Practicing Ether. Maybe you should practice drawing your gun. Seems like you aren't too good at it. What's all that about, though?"

Earl scoffs at me as he waves to the collection on the desk. The man starts simple but rapidly descends into one of his lengthy episodes.

"I've been busy, too, Mr. I only have to train. Marshall's got me on medic duty because I know many recipes from the Almanac Johnny gave me. I've been making stuff, from things that clear Ether saturation, only minorly, to hemostatics and antiseptics. I only fought a bit last night before being sent to rest and craft things. Marshall's even got me a Craftsman Sigil lined up from a captured Pygmy the moment I am ready. It's all so perfect here. I have so much to work with! From ore to Colts to Claymores to medicine and explosives! It's all I could ever want. This one, here, is a cream made from Incrin and Sinme that protects against flame. I made enough of it for Marshall to deck out a platoon with it for the Pygmies with flaming weapons. I--"

Raising a hand, I stop him.

"Okay, okay. I hear you, man. I'm happy to see you so excited, but please don't talk my ear off. I got things to do myself."

I feel a twinge of guilt as Earl lowers his head in sadness. Sighing, I take back my words. I rarely listen to his full rants and don't want to hurt his feelings.

"Nevermind, you know what? I'd love to hear all about it. I could use a lengthy break. A walk? The battle should be over. We can see what we can do in the aftermath."

The bespectacled man smiles wildly as he grabs one of each of his creations and pulls me along; his voice is irritatingly happy for such a grim place.