Icarus Awakens

Claire opened her eyes and knew she would escape today. She didn’t hold much ill will towards her captors, it was just time to leave. Claire reserved most of the anger that bled through for one thing in particular, and it wasn’t the people with good intentions. Neither could she deny that there were people here in the Hand’s church who needed this kind of help. She didn’t. Claire knew exactly what she wanted from life, and that was the death of the one who’d taken the last of her family away.

That said, Claire had no intention to charge towards her enemy the first chance she got. She had been considered a prodigal Arcanist in her youth, both due to how fast she’d awakened the class and her natural intelligence. There was time. Her brother would stay dead. The dragon hadn’t left her a body to have some hope of a revival. Claire could wait. She had been promised a Fated Confrontation.

No, she was smart enough to know that no amount of righteous anger would overcome the monster’s terrible power. Claire would need levels, equipment, and allies. She didn’t need to spend most of her time in overly comfortable rooms fending off people who ‘were only trying to help’.

There were two good things to come out of the current arrangement. First, Quala had brought her to Threst, where her old Sojourn still likely was. It was unlikely they were in Aurus, the capital of the region, but it was closer than Aughal where she might have been taken. Second was the library.

Claire had often thought about how advancement worked outside of monster hunting. Having hit her wall before taking the Vengeance Bond, it had been an obsession until she’d finally given up on further leveling. Classes all had unique methods of growing stronger outside of straight combat, though they could grow less effective or stop working altogether. It was all so inconsistent, just like the nature of classes themselves. There was no corollary between who could and couldn’t reach the pinnacle.

That being said, studying sure did work to advance Claire. So long as she stuck to new topics in a constant pursuit of enlightenment, potential came. Combined with what she’d held onto from before the bond, she had managed to advance rapidly while hiding everything from her captors. They’d praised how much she’d taken to the relaxing activities.

Yesterday she’d hit level 2, and not in a way that left her with troublesome disparity. Those who rushed one of their primary attributes to advance in the early levels were often marked to burn out soon afterward. Not just because they had to spend more effort catching up on their other attributes either. The records from Torch’s library indicated there was a distinct reductive chance of reaching the next level when someone had a disparity of five points or greater from their lowest to highest attribute. This was one of the topics Claire had researched thoroughly. She didn’t intend to match her demon, she intended to crush it.

So it was that one month after leaving the Thormundz, Claire committed to breaking out of the church of the Hand.

…

The audience chamber was, like most buildings of state, open to the sky. Threst was primarily the domain of the avianoid race. This was not just the result of speciesism but that the region was attuned to their needs and abilities, just like how the shavi dominated aquatic regions. That also explained the feather motif of the colorful banners and pennants flying in the air, and the fact that there were four humans total in the entire chamber. Not that he felt excluded by this. Murdon was used to being an outlier wherever he went.

“I can’t imagine Lograve had to wait this long,” he grumbled to the Cleric standing beside him. “You’d think our history would give us faster access than this. That or what we’re here to warn them about.”

“Are you promoting nepotism?” Quala asked with mock affront.

“When necessary.” Murdon took in his surroundings again. “At least my friend doesn’t stick to that annoying dialect in private. I forgot how much it got on my nerves.” One of the Apex Flight, the highest in the protectors of the realm of Threst, motioned them forward. Murdon rubbed at his crippled arm self-consciously. “Lograve should be here.”

“You’ll be together with your old friend soon, no worries.” After a beat, Quala continued, “Lograve can come over here as soon as he’s relayed the message.” She smiled, and Murdon moved his hand away to show the missing one. The armor he currently wore and bound as a Focus was modified to make the most of the injury, but it couldn’t replace a limb.

Murdon just grunted and walked upwards. As expected, the leader of Threst stood at the highest settled point in the city. Only the clouds flew higher, as well as the large waterfall constantly supplying half of the city from above. At this vantage, a high enough leveled individual could see to the boundaries of the region. To the Thormundz, or what was left of it. Threst was a land of material wealth and extreme natural defensibility. It was also the land of a Regent.

Not King, and this position was not a class either. Threst wasn’t at the point where they could challenge Rikendia’s dominance of the cutting edge of Hammer’s expansion into the Crest. That region possessed the power to march through several others and punish those who overtly challenged the status quo. Instead of Aughal’s Council, one mortal ruled Threst by both power and statecraft alone. Any could challenge the one sitting atop the mountain. The trick to ruling Threst was to make sure no one wanted to.

When they reached the top, Quala peered at the throne with disappointment. She kept silent, the back and forth between herself and Murdon allowed while waiting no longer appropriate. Up here there was formality and protocol. Expectations to meet. As neither were a native of this region, polite silence was the best bet to avoid an incident. Quala did see a sword floating by the throne, both of which continued the theme of stylized feathers. The entire back of the seat was carved to look like folded wings. Wait, that’s not a floating sword, Quala suddenly realized as it began moving.

Murdon just sighed internally and prepared for what was about to come. “My friend!” a clear voice rang out from about where the sword was with the voice of someone on a stage. “So terribly sorry to keep you waiting. I’ve been booked. Congratulations on making it out of the Thormundz, by the way. Though, I did warn you. I always thought ruling a region preferable to building one.”

“Soraso,” Murdon shook his head as greeted his former teammate. “You did keep me waiting.”

“So sorry, again, but I heard you needed a hand.” The sound of two, or perhaps just one, hands clapping filled the air and two servants walked out with a box about the size of a head. They opened it to reveal a potion. “Maybe you shouldn’t be wearing that gauche chestplate when you drink it. Scratch that, just drop off that armor somewhere and I’ll have someone make it into something people will want to use. Like nails! Everyone needs nails.”

Quala couldn’t help it. “Murdon, what’s going on?”

“He’s almost there, just go along or he’ll make it worse,” he whispered back. “There’s another reason I was the best to send. Put Soraso and Lograve in a room alone together and you might not get the room back.”

“What?”

“Well, go on. Take it! Or not. The bottle alone was a hundred gold and don’t get me started on the potion.” No one moved and there was a defeated sigh that filled the court. “Fine. The supplicants may approach.”

One of the Apex Flight uncrossed the weapons in front of Murdon and, with a sharp cry, declared, “The supplicants may approach the Regent!”

“Pretty sure they heard me the first time.” At this point, Quala was sure the voice was coming from where the sword was. She also knew the Spoke of Threst manifested as a weapon wielded by the true ruler. Concentrating the entire divine energy of a civilization down into a weapon had its benefits, but granting sentience to the weapon itself wasn’t one. Or, at least, Quala would have known if an Incarnate was in Threst.

Murdon picked up the potion bottle from the box, handling it with extreme care. The color of the liquid was of purest blue, with no visible contamination from even the wax that had been used to seal it. No doubt this entire product was the work of several specialized Blessed, from the Druid that had grown the herbs, the Ranger that had harvested monsters, the Craftsman who had made the bottle, down to the Alchemist who’d brewed the potion itself. Murdon suspected an enchantment had been placed to help preserve everything. Work like this was only possible in a region with a well-functioning economy and government that supported their artisans. Its true value wasn’t in level but in complexity.

“Thank you. I feel it best to partake later as you suggested.” A faint growl entered Murdon’s voice at the end as he forced some of the formality of the court into his speech to appease the crowd. He had no doubt Soraso’s antics had been going on for some time, but he couldn’t afford that much whimsy.

“The supplicant’s gratitude has been noted.” An official recorder of the court spoke, having taken down all that had been said for posterity. With a quill, of course. No, Soraso might have beaten his style into this place when he took over, but given what they were here for, it was best for Murdon to play along.

“If it pleases those assembled, I come with dire tidings.” He could feel his old teammate grinning at him with every word. It was probably why he hadn’t shown himself yet. “The Thormundz region has fallen. I have returned with those souls I could save, but I fear another Collapse may soon be upon us. As our Spoke was lost, we had no way to alert the Octyrrum. I petition this court for aid.”

The draconoid received mild approval from the gathered high society for that little speech. One he’d only just managed to put together despite all the time he’d had on the way. Well, it was also the fact of his ancestry. Draconoids in Threst were revered along with other races that could become flighted. The rarity and supposed majesty of dragons was only an added benefit in this case. So long as they composed themselves appropriately, ones such as Murdon could do very well for themselves here. He didn’t get it.

It was and wasn’t a surprise that Soraso had done better. Anyone else treating the assembled with what they’d perceive as disrespect would have been tossed out of Threst long ago, strongest or not, and it should be pointed out that Soraso was far from the strongest. The Regent sighed and, judging by the sword, took a seat on the throne. “Enough prelude, I suppose. Yes, let us get to matters of state.” Soraso suddenly appeared, and Murdon heard Quala gasp beside him. He didn’t blame her. He’d been vague on exactly who, and what Soraso was. Sometimes Murdon liked to have fun too.

Sitting on the throne was the oddest air gestalt anyone would likely see, at least in this part of the region. The typical member of their race looked like a humanoid cloud, although they could take other shapes if needed and flow through most openings. Soraso had the same general appearance, but there was color in his form. A band of sunrise gold around his neck and collar, two stripes running down the main body while colors of all kinds filled in the space between them. It was akin to a peacock, and Murdon knew the gestalt had taken time curating his appearance. The only part that was the normal pure white was the head, save for another band of gold near the top to mimic a half-crown.

Soraso picked up on the surprise. “I see you didn’t tell your companion about me Murdon. And you were so fond of our old hunting stories. You didn’t find me worth mentioning?”

“You’re not enjoying this moment?” Murdon fired back.

“Oh no, I am.” The clouds in Soraso’s face parted in a smile. “Or, I should be. Lost your Spoke, did you? Yes, that is unfortunate. Harder to replace than an arm, that.” Half of those attending seemed put off by the now complete lack of stately air, while just as many were deeply interested in the conversation. You’d heard rumors of the Thormundz, but now you could hear the facts from the draconoid who’d saved what was left of the region. Quala could see beaks moving in the galleries surrounding her, people discussing the events, but not even the faintest of whispers was heard. Good enchantments in the gallery.

“The gods, Soraso. They need to know.”

“Yes, yes.” Soraso floated his sword in front of his body, and all eyes were suddenly on him. He rotated the sword in front of him, faster and faster, then abruptly stopped it. “I already sent word. Seriously, you lost your Spoke, Murdon. What made you think I wouldn’t reach out the moment a Fate confirmed Eido was gone? Crest, I sent a force to your rescue after our initial contact but some overgrown brother of yours blew them apart. After that practically everyone wrote you off.”

“What?” A note of actual anger entered Murdon’s voice along with the surprise. “You’ve kept us waiting here for a month!”

“The supplicant will remain composed!” a shrill voice called out from the side.

Murdon snorted and stared right at Soraso. “Why?”

“For one? So I could prepare that potion.” Soraso’s sword returned to its sheath as he stood. “But there’s something else, something I had to confirm. We shouldn’t speak of it here. It is above even this court.” He gestured with one of his hands, and the guards that had moved to block the stairway parted. “Get yourself healed up Murdon. I won’t keep you waiting for long.” Soraso waved dismissively, which was the formal way people were ‘granted leave’ from Threst’s court.

Murdon stomped down the stairs with Quala in tow. They’d walked past the reception, then the gardens, then the full choir of songbirds, and had just reached the general catering area before she finally spoke. “Murdon, what is he?”

“An air gestalt, isn’t it obvious?” Murdon was still a bit annoyed by how the meeting had gone. He realized his tone a moment later and sighed. “Soraso was the Bard on my old team. Damn useful in the early days. Even though he had good healing powers at level 2, no other team in Kallical wanted to make working with a gestalt work. Soraso never took the hint and kept trying to join with people outside of his race. For some reason. You heard the problems people had working with Kob back then?”

“You’re talking about how Kob would just do whatever they wanted to, leaving their allies in the lurch? Yes.” Quala nodded. “That doesn’t explain how he was talking, Murdon!”

“I thought that was obvious. It’s a power. Not a common one, I’ve met other gestalt Bards and Soraso was the only one who had something like it. He also started using ‘he’ around when he started talking, by the way.”

Quala saw the deep grimace on Murdon’s face. “What?”

“I’m remembering the day Soraso first spoke to me like that. He’d told Lograve about it first.”

She chuckled. “How long did they make you think it was some kind of ventriloquism?”

“Five minutes. The team almost broke apart because of what they got up to. I almost think…” he trailed off, eyes moving to further the staircase. Quala was too absorbed by the conversation to notice at first.

“What?”

“Isn’t that one of yours?” Murdon pointed to a woman in Cleric robes running up the staircase. The avianoid was gasping for air and must have come all the way from Hand’s temple. Considering that was about three kilometers below where they were, that was understandable.

“Paige!” Quala didn’t run. Instead, she jumped off the stairway, something easily done as only a handrail separated it from the open air on one side. This wasn’t abnormal considering every avianoid who gained a class would reliably unlock Grow Wings in their first level. Power concentrated towards the top in Threst, which included those with levels. Considering the feature didn’t cost mana aside from what it took to heighten, and the fact that it was flying, people only took these stairways if they needed to.

Murdon saw Quala land on a platform built out next to the stairway over the air, these being present at regular intervals so that no one had to land on someone’s head to reach different parts of Aurus. As a draconoid, his race only guaranteed a breath weapon as a racial power, though dragon wings weren’t completely out of the picture. That didn’t change the fact that he reached the conversation when it had mostly finished.

“What is it?”

Quala turned from where she was making sure the other Cleric hadn’t pulled something during their run. “Murdon, I have to take off. Claire’s gone missing.”

…

Information is power. The Arcanist class translated this maxim literally in some cases. For Claire, her escape was rooted in the fact that no one knew she had regained the ability to advance. Her hitting the wall despite a promising start had been something she’d been encouraged to talk about when Quala and other attendants of the Hand had tried to ‘fix’ her. And while they never forced her to talk about what powers she had, interviewing survivors from Roost’s Peak did enough to give them the basics.

For example, they knew she had Summon Familiar and kept a lookout for any nearby small animals or beasts doing odd things. They also knew she had illusion powers and would have taken precautions against those if she had given them a reason to worry. Claire had spent the last few weeks cooperating as much as she could without giving anything away, so the effort wasn’t wasted. While Quala and others in the church may be able to defeat such measures with their powers or enhanced attributes, most of the staff did not possess a class. They relied on routine, attention to detail, and most importantly, their knowledge of her to form the cage.

This brought Claire to the day of her escape as she used Summon Familiar. Oh, she’d awakened several other powers that gave her options but had chosen to rely on one she was more practiced with. For that reason, and that she had a few auxiliary powers that enhanced its functioning. The one that allowed her to hear through her familiars was only one such example.

Claire gave one last look out of her window and sighed, thinking how easy this would have been if she could fly fast enough to avoid detection. She had access to flying familiars, but unless she was able to get to the main Divine Quarter landing, she’d be obvious. The church of the Hand was built into the side of the mountain, and Aurus had an edict against regular travel too close to the murals carved on their exterior. This part of the region was also patrolled by the Nest Flight, always on watch for people who accidentally fell off the mountain island.

No, her best option was to get up through the church and blend in with the crowds. It had to be today. While cooperating had worked as a delaying tactic, Claire couldn’t push it indefinitely as some of the damned Clerics could detect lies. Eventually, they’d see through her, or identify the fact that she was level 2. Taking the knife from the small dining table in the room, she steeled her nerves. “This will work. I’m getting out of here today.”

Then she watched as she stabbed herself.

…

Philimus Markain took pride in his role as the floor warden for the Hand’s clinics in Threst. Under his watch, the members of the church provided care to all who needed it, in every way they needed it. It was easy to get a good reputation as the church of healing when compared to, say, the church of time, but he wasn’t someone to grow complacent.

Philimus made sure there were proper rotations of Clerics who could and could no longer advance, appropriate supplies of potions for emergency use, and otherwise handled the thousands of small problems one encountered in this line of work. The position entailed a lot more managerial responsibility than one would assume for a follower of a god, but since he’d hit his wall midway through level 3 there wasn’t a need to chase advancement anymore. Honestly, the Cleric felt it was comforting to know he’d reached as high as he could, and could now entirely focus on helping people.

While his normal schedule would see him walking the grounds in the early afternoon, observing for any problem areas, trouble had found him today. The patients requiring prolonged mental healing were housed in the lower sections of the church for both privacy and security reasons. The majority were willing participants. A low but significant part of the population came here at some point in their life to make peace with never becoming a Blessed. To the avianoids of Threst, never gaining the ability to even glide in the free skies could be crushing to the spirit. Not that he’d ever know himself. The church tried to redirect those unfulfilled ambitions to something that would be both rewarding and beneficial to society.

Philimus scratched at the fur of his arm as he was brought towards one of the few unwilling residents of the church. Behind him, several combat experienced Clerics were moving at a rapid pace while urging anyone they met to shelter in place. “What’s going on?” he asked in a sonorous voice, though it was unlike the avianoids surrounding him. They were part of the chorus, whereas he belonged to the brass. His voice wasn’t overly deep, like a draconoid’s, and had a bellowing quality rather than a rasping one. At least, that’s how he’d put it. Others would say the difference was too subtle to point out.

“Monster in the church, floor warden.” The Cleric kneeling next to Claire was healing a deep puncture wound on one leg, and he could see shallower cuts everywhere. “Must be a stealth-type because we’re having a hard time finding it.”

Philimus appraised the situation with a frown. He knew of this Arcanist, of course. She was one of the few who had made several requests to leave when she’d first come here. Involuntary confinement was only done when someone was a danger to themselves or others but hadn’t already done something that would warrant a prison cell or grave. These patients, especially the Blessed, were among the most difficult to deal with as they posed additional risk. It made the Cleric feel like he was a jailer whenever they had to intervene, but he knew it was for their own good. “Here? Has anyone else seen it?”

Another avianoid standing nearby moved closer. They had a blue stripe on one shoulder indicating possession of a truth detecting power, as well as a white and red one indicating possession of Flash Heal. The church possessed a few items that could detect the truth, but they were harder to access during a crisis. “I’ve confirmed it. She stated some kind of monster or beast attacked her and ran off. Something stronger than a normal animal, at least.”

The broad fingers of the floor warden tapped on his other arm as he deliberated for just a moment. “Issue a church-wide alert and inform Caylis. No need to go broader at this point.” It was incredibly unlikely a dangerous monster was in the city, such encounters were rare at best, and there would be more trouble from false panic. Philimus was also aware of Claire’s powers and felt they were the more likely cause. But if she’s not triggering Eye for Truth…

“We’ll need to request specialists from Torch in case it’s capable of invisibility.” It was a neat solution that wouldn’t immediately let Claire know he was onto her, should she be the root cause. Any Torch Cleric capable of seeing invisibility would have powers that could also detect half-truths and the like. “When it’s found, do not destroy it immediately unless others are at risk of harm. We need to find out if this was a natural spawn getting into the city or the work of a Beastmaster.”

“Why wouldn’t it kill her?” a junior member of the church asked. He was leveled, and the question reminded Philimus that a fair portion of the clergy hadn’t ever fought a monster.

He stepped away, motioning for the others to move as Claire was stable enough to. Keeping her in the middle of a hallway during an alert like this was a bad idea, as he explained. “Not every monster goes for an immediate kill. Some, like stealth-types, may choose to weaken mortals first to distract or place traps. Keep in mind, should you choose to ever accompany hunters, that there are rare attack powers both monsters and mortals possess that trigger in response to healing magic.”

“Of course, floor warden.”

Philimus nodded sagely. “Now, return with the others to the hospital, and be careful. I will see if I can track down this beast.” The Cleric briefly lost sight of the junior as they crossed in front of him before the vision on his right side picked him up. Rotating his head side to side to allow his primarily sideways-oriented eyes to take in the entire hallway, the teshak Cleric went hunting in his halls.