Cyran was weary, but not so much that he was incapable of staying awake and creating a mental map of his surroundings while Ronrik’s wife brought them to the third floor of the shop, a scene that was markedly different from the first two, and impossibly neat and tidy. The assassin eyed the books on the shelves and the medical instruments, a setup that reminded him of Fish’s laboratory - of playsets that Marlow used to adore, using them until the late hours of the night while she made science - and tried to suppress the pant in his heart.

Within seconds he was placed in a different bed, Javal the immediate priority. A keen doctor’s eye and a sailor’s mouth were a deadly combination. She noted the worst points before leaning back and letting out an expletive that made the walls rattle and Cyran wince. The battle-wariness had faded, and while by now he was a little more back to himself, he was still twitchy, body expecting to be attacked any second. In a home where he’d just dealt such grievous injuries to a star pupil, where the only man who held any love for him was still unconscious… well, it was best to keep his dagger in his boot just in case.

He remained silent throughout the treatment… assessing. He was partially worried about Javal, but an assassin knew he was in good hands, and part of him was curious to see the skills and the finesse of the woman who was reported to be one of the most fearsome Kunoichi of the Shita Eodum-Taiyang. He was not surprised to watch her gentle, light touch, honed through years of practice that belied the youth on her face. How could he? He was of the elven folk, those whose lifespans stretched ahead of them seemingly ad infinitum. He questioned her experience, but did not negate or belittle it. He was simply… curious.

Cyran kept a careful eye on the woman until she finished with Javal, setting her tools down and turning her attention to him.

Suppressing a wince when she grabbed his chin, Cyran opened his mouth to reply -

Only to blink at her selected moniker for him.

“Pardon… tiny boy?” Cyran squeaked, so taken aback that his voice was barely a whisper. He was not that short, was he-? No, not important right now. He nodded while she assessed the damage not-Javal had wrought on him.

“Ah, Cyran. Just Cyran. I’m afraid I did not catch your name…?”

Ronrik had mentioned her title, but it did not feel appropriate to address her as such.

“As for our injuries… I’m sure you heard downstairs but what started as a spar quickly escalated. Javal, ah-“ He hissed when she prodded a cut on his arm a little too closely to the raw, jagged flesh still burning from holy wounds and slick with blood, “He brought me here so we could engage in some mutual training. But something… happened to Javal, and I had to defend myself instead. His severe injuries are from me, and though I administered my best treatment, I am no healer. I shall apologize to him personally when I wake, but for the time being - as his healer, please accept my sincere apology Madam.”

He could not bow, so he merely inclined his head in regret.

“Yep, little boy now hold still while I examine you Cyran, Name Dr. Zalara Emeraldcutter”, she said as she looked over his face.



“Yeah, yeah I accept your apology or whatever, I’m sorry for my husband’s dumb curiosity leading to you numbskulls getting hurt”.



She started writing down her observations of Cyran’s injuries in her notebook as she examined him.



“Hm, let's see, FUCK SAKE”, she exclaims as she further analyzes the elf man’s injuries, “Jeez, your ribs are like shattered, multiple lacerations across your body, countless bruising, the works. Yeah, I’m so sorry for this kid, I'm partly to blame for this. Ronrik wasn’t the only one who had a part in training at the time. He’s never been this much of a racket before hell. I've only seen stuff this badly from him once. When he beat that snobby kid into a pulp, hell that was ugly but thanks to my skill little shit looked even better than he did before”.



She grabs some healing potions off the shelves and rips some medical tape with her teeth working meiotically on Cyran healing him and providing the most apt medical attention he’s probably been given. Eventually, after about 15 minutes of patching Cyran, she steps back admiring her work, for the most part, Cyran is back to normal although his body still feels exhausted.



“Alright lay down for a bit. Although my work’s top-notch, best medical ability in Dragon’s Cradle, I don't have a cure for exhaustion. Trust me if I had that I’d never sleep a wink and instead work on my craft”.



She then sits back into her chair drumming her fingers on the chair’s top as she sits on it backwards.



Javal then awakes from his dazed state and sits up on the bed holding his head hair wild and loose without his hairtie still having that dream replaying in his mind, “Who was that?”, he mumbles as he glances erratically around the room trying in vain to see that man here.

Cyran didn’t dare nod while she was still examining his face, though he managed the slightest incline of his head for propriety’s sake while introducing himself. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Emeraldcutter. I do wish the circumstances had been better.” The woman seemed rather nonplussed about the entire situation, and Cyran could not tell if that was a good or bad thing. At least she was not too upset by the events that had transpired, even if her shouting earlier might have indicated as such. Something she said though had struck a chord with him…

“Curiosity?” He asked, keeping his tone as neutral as possible despite the horrifying realization that he was on the brink of. “Are you referring to the spar itself, or that he did not intervene to see what would happen - oof!”

His musings were harshly interrupted by Miss Zalara prodding at his ribs, which were still sore from the beating he’d taken. Cyran wheezed, attempting to catch his breath but struggling to bring air into his lungs. Eventually, he managed, positioning himself better so that the alchemist could patch up his wounds.

“I’ve… had worse.”

On his deathbed flavor of worse.

“Besides, if Javal were to cut loose on anyone, I’m glad it was me.” He was not the most durable nor the most armored, but he’d stared his own demise in the face and come back. It was not Cyran’s own death that he feared, and he had no intention of dying soon. Still, hearing that she held at least some level of concern for this… curse, malady, whatever you call it; it eased his worries. “Though I am concerned how it’s gotten to this point. Might you have any elixirs to help calm his mind when he needs it?”

Nevertheless, he had much to think about while he sat there, recovering from his injuries. He leaned back in his seat, eyes closed as the moon elf slipped into a partially meditative state - time then drifted in a blur while he recollected his own rampant emotions and allowed his unquiet mind to still.^[1]

Eventually, the sound of a familiar voice pulled him out of his reverie. Javal.

Cyran’s eye snapped open, jolting upright - he turned his attention to the young man, at the side of his bed despite the twinge in his ribs and his cuts. “Javal! Who was what?” No, that didn’t matter right now. “How are you feeling? Any soreness that shouldn’t be there?”

---

1. Meditate

Zalara pushes herself back from her desk and says, “Oh the thing you mentioned before, the spar itself I meant, my hubby is a good guy he's just really fucking stupid sometimes. Hell, back when we first met he challenged me to beat the shit out of him so he could test how durable he was. Once he tried riding on a baloth through the forest just because he wanted to see if he could. Sorry again if he came off as malicious or bad trust me he's a good dude just fucking stupid so please don’t hold it against him. We both want what's best for bluebirds over there. As for elixirs, I don't know I’ve tried a few here and there but Javal’s a stubborn boy always wanting to run around never sitting down and having the time”.



Javal holds his head, heart still beating rapidly as he recollects what he remembers, “I’m not sure I feel fine on the outside, I just feel kind of weird. I remember fighting you and then my body became hot. My heart felt like it was beating a hundred times a minute and then I was just knocked out into pure blackness. Then I woke up in this weird crescent isles-style room like the training room but smaller and with a table in the middle of the room. I was sitting across from this person, they looked like me but not. He was bigger and taller with these odd crescent isles red and black robes, he had red markings on his face and body, and his eyes were bright yellow, I couldn’t even say a word before he snarled and told me off and punched me back awake”.



He then looks around the room and asks, “What happened guys? Did Cyran win? Did I miss something? Why does everyone look so worried guys?”.

Hmm… perhaps the union between Master Ronrik and Miss Zalara was not too surprising, after all. Cyran could hardly speak on unlikely unions - after all, there were likely many who looked at him and Del and thought Cyran unworthy of her, or their pairing a strange one… but there were some people that just fit together. And her blunt nature, likely grounding for the seemingly whimsical swordsman. He still could not bring himself to relax even though she assured him that they both had Javal’s best interests at heart. He certainly did not agree with them that these methods were the best for Javal, but they were his mentors and clearly had his best interests at heart. Cyran’s insight rune had not yet gone off once.

Even if he thought that perhaps some of their attempts were… misguided and disconnected, they would do their damnedest to prevent Javal from finding harm.

But what about negligence? that small, worried part of him whispered. The beast no one anticipated until its ugly fangs were at your throat.

He pushed that voice aside. Cyran was hardly the shining paragon of being the most attentive teacher or parent. Oh, he tried his best, but age did not make one omniscient. It merely made them seem like they were. If Ronrik was wrong, and his method of teaching would not help Javal rein in this great beast slumbering in him, then Cyran would merely have to remain standing to pick up the pieces. He was not the kind of man to say ‘I told you so’. He would merely offer whatever he could to help the young fellblood.

Javal had no absence of father figures. He might not have needed Cyran, but the assassin would always be there to help.

And eventually, he was, procuring a cool cloth from the shadows and pressing it against Javal’s clammy forehead.^[1] He pursed his lips while Javal described what he’d seen while his body was still battling… and it did not bode well. It did not sound like the influence of the warm, celestial being he’d seen earlier, and the fact that it looked like him.

Well.

Cyran had collected some notes on demonology and infernal possession over his travels; a consequence of who he was, and who his wife had once been. Rowan was less interested in the infernal plane than she was the Astral Realm, and the dark domain within it. The world of eternal dusk. But power was power, and what he still had of her notes contained detailed enough information on pacts and possessions. After training, he would be remiss if he did not consult them, just to see if he could glean any kind of information that might help Javal.

He did not voice his worries, for now. Perhaps another time, another day, when Javal was feeling well enough. But they were still licking their wounds, and they had yet to even begin the training they’d set out here for. Cyran reached for Javal’s hand and squeezed it, certain he was a sight for sore eyes himself. The monster that lingered within Javal had nearly killed him - yet all he could see was an uncertain young man who’d only a glimpse of the yawning shadow that lingered behind him.

Cyran was quite familiar with the sensation of darkness.

“You certainly gave me a run for my money.” He chuckled, familiar warmth seeping back into his voice. “You…” The question caught in his throat; how much do you remember? Now was not the time to grill him, not so soon after waking up. “You made quick work of me. Had Master Ronrik not intervened, I’m certain you would have emerged victorious. The fight was… getting a little out of hand, so your master stepped in before we could destroy his precious dojo.” He was toeing around the issue, he knew, but the last thing he wanted to do was worry or upset Javal.

He closed his eyes, letting out a quiet, tired sigh.

“You fought well. I’m proud to have been your opponent today.”

---

1. Summon: Possession

Javal was taken back from his rambling and losing himself in his own words as he felt a cool sensation over his forehead. He took a long deep breath as he felt his hand get clasped by the elven man he closed his eyes and focused. He placed that traumatic dream back into his head to not think about until later. He was good at that, quickly moving on from bad thoughts and situations and returning to his sunny disposition.



He immediately stands up and bows to Cyran feeling very ashamed of himself, "I’m so sorry Cyran I didn't mean to hurt you or lose control. For whatever reason I just really didn’t want to lose and I guess my dark impulses took control”.



Ronrik drums his fingers over his chins as he thinks observing the two for a second before, “You both did well and gave me a lot of insight for how to proceed forward, Javal you're very strong so is Cyran but you need to focus on quelling that beast inside of you. However that is to be discussed on another day for now let us all relax and unwind after such an intense battle, let's head to the bathhouse".



Javal now back to his normal cheery disposition smiles and says, “That’s a good idea since my body feels super tired”.

The assassin’s eye widened when Javal tried forcing himself into a bow. “Oh, Javal, no…” He grabbed the young man’s shoulders with a touch as gentle as he could muster, pulling him back upright. “You have no need to apologize, I knew that something was wrong. I was just worried about you, is all. Hold your head up high - you’re an outstanding young man and I know there are things that exist beyond the realm of our control. Including those… dark impulses.” He tread carefully on the word that Javal had used to describe it.

“But it’s a fixable problem. Everyone is different and we just have to find a mode of temperance and self control that works for you.” He flashed Javal a wry grin, hoping to inject some lighthearted humor into the conversation. Javal was normally a happy-go-lucky man, but it didn’t take Cyran’s keen perception and his ability for parsing out the lie in every strained ‘I’m fine’. It was okay for him to set the mantle aside and let others bear it when he wasn’t feeling well enough to do so.

He was only two decades old, for Lunala’s sake. Cyran’s own daughter was older than him. He didn’t need to act like the weight of the world was on his shoulders alone. There were others willing to help if only he knew where to look.

“Besides, my students rain more hell on me in a regular training session than that.” A bit of an exaggeration, but it wasn’t far from the truth. He did get stab wounds and bruises more often than not if he wasn’t careful and Oriole or Andromeda could get one over on him. “So please don’t worry about it, okay?” His voice was sweet and perhaps a bit sad, a parent asking a child who was not his to take just even a moment to breathe, to ease this suffering…

Master Ronrik, it seemed, did a better job of cheering Javal up than Cyran did, which the assassin tried his best not to feel so dejected about, but so long as Javal was letting the day’s battle wash over him then it was not so bad. Besides, Cyran couldn’t lie and say that the sound of a bathhouse did not appeal to his sore muscles at the moment.

“Oh, is this an Isles-traditional bathhouse?” Cyran perked up, tilting his head to the side. “I’m rather fond of those. Here, kiddo, do you need any help?” The term of endearment leaving his mouth of his own accord; he was accustomed to using them on his kids at the orphanage and his own children, foster or otherwise, terms of endearment. It was only natural.

Whether Javal needed his help or not, Cyran would follow them to the bathhouse for some relaxation and a nice soak.

It was a much-needed break before their real training began.

Javal smiled as he felt Cyran’s grasp on his shoulders and listened to the other man intently thinking before smiling and saying, “Thank you for your kind words friend Cyran but I’d be remiss if I simply just slid this under the rug and didn’t try to apologize. I’m truly sorry Cyran for losing control there and hurting you even if not my conscious efforts. It was still me who was the one slashing you and attacking you. Although I cannot make you forget what occurred all I can do is ask for your forgiveness and hope we can put this past us working together to strengthen our bond and abilities together”, the fellblood still felt immensely guilty after all he had just hurt one of the most important people to him and wasn’t in control.

However, he was feeling better about it that Cyran comforted him so he just took a deep breath and smiled, pushing that thought into the outer reaches of his mind and moving forward. He had done this same style of mindfulness in many types however whether it was effective or healthy was yet to be seen.



He smiles and says, “Woah if that’s the case then I’d love to have a sparring session with your students. After all, they showed off some really impressive techniques and skills during our last mission against the Lords of Chaos”.



Ronrik then spoke up, “Yep Lady Finme a halfling woman who came over from the Crescent Isles runs one pretty close by”.



He then hops down and leads the way as Javal thanks Cyran for his help and takes it. Soon the group of four arrive at the bathhouse, a very surprisingly impressive sight considering they’re still in Thorock. After getting ready Zalara waves the three boys off heading towards the woman’s side of the bathhouse while the others walk into the boy's side. After about an hour of relaxing talking and catching up the day ends. Zalara and Ronrik then bid the two farewell telling them to arrive at the shop at the crack of dawn to officially begin their training. Javal then grasps Cyran’s hand and sprints back towards the Indigo Inn, his family’s home, so the two can get some rest and be prepared for what tomorrow brings.



After getting back home his mom and younger brother Nicolaus greet them telling the two how the rest had headed towards their other residences. Paula whispered words of questioning and thankfulness towards the elf man before sending the two men to eat chicken soup before they went to bed. After Javal slowly devoured it and thanked his mother he walked Cyran’s to his room before bidding him goodnight and walking towards his room. There he sat on his bed thinking about the events of the day, still feeling guilty and haunted by his dark impulses as he closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.

Despite Cyran’s reassurances, Javal still felt the need to apologize - though it was not his fault what had happened, and the circumstances were out of his control, he was the kind of person who insisted on righting any wrong he perceived he’d created. He did not have to apologize. But Cyran knew it eased his conscience to do so. He patted Javal on the shoulder once more and nodded. “Of course. Your apology is accepted, okay? Don’t hold onto that guilt anymore.” He nodded, another smile on his lips, lighter now that Javal seemed in better spirits.

“We can arrange a battle later. Oriole and Andromeda are still learning the finer points of combat, but both are competitive. They would relish the opportunity to learn and test their mettle.” Andromeda especially - Oriole practiced combat as a way of self defense, and his true skills lie in thievery and misdirection, but it was always a good opportunity to learn how to fight an opponent you could not hope to win. It taught you how to survive, and how to escape.

But planning and training could be left for later, after they washed the soreness out of their bodies. Cyran enjoyed a good bathhouse… even if he did stubbornly keep on a thin inner tunic and swim shorts while bathing, as he often did when in public spaces, just to avoid showing off the nasty blackened scar that marred most of his back. Regardless of his own swimwear, conversation was light, and Cyran allowed the water to carry the grime of his injuries away. The old man even nearly fell asleep in the bath, only awoken by Javal’s nudging before they were set to leave. He was still comfortable and a bit sluggish even as Javal grabbed his hand and sprinted for his family’s inn, which, thank the gods for his natural speed that allowed him to keep up.

The evening faded into twilight, Cyran and Javal enjoying a nice dinner, and the elven man exchanging a few hushed, brief words of assurance with his mother. Cyran was worried, but Javal was a good kid. And he was not alone. Whatever was muddling his mind, he would pull through.

That night, he thought of Rowan, and the feeling of claws scraping across his back and letting dark magic fester under his skin. He thought of Marlow, and her crying face the last time he ever saw her. And then Cyran closed his eyes, and did not dream. Sometimes, Cyran regarded his lack of dreaming as a blessing, meaning he was not plagued by nightmares. Tonight, he would welcome even the horrors if it meant getting a glimpse of his daughter’s face in his mind’s eye again.

When Cyran woke, it was sluggish and fatigued from the previous day’s excitement - though the assassin did not allow it to linger for long. He pulled himself up and dressed in more traditional sparring gear to the Crescent Isles; a black tunic, baggy pants, and sandals. Spell Slicer and Cold Steel were tucked in his belt, and his hair tied upwards in a bun rather than down. Regardless of his trepidations, he took this training seriously, no matter what it might bring.

… He did accept a cup of coffee from Javal’s mother as they set out. He was not as spry as he once was.

The caffeine, at the very least, left him functional enough to make it through the day’s rigorous training. Ronrik was not an especially easy teacher, but it was worth it to improve the assassin’s technique, and lessen his reliance on his own magic and more on the strength of his skills. That on its own was worth it.

The morning comes as the bright sun hits his eyes causing him to awake from his slumber. Javal stretches first his body as he always does and quickly hops off his bed to do fifty push-ups, sit-ups, and squats as is his normal waking-up regime. After finishing that he walks to his closet looking at the few clothes he can use for today’s training. He leaves his red coat on his bed deciding it’s better to leave it here. He places on an orange sleeveless shirt a pair of black comfortable pants and his signature sandals. He grabs his sword from its spot on the bed and rushes out swinging his door open heading to the bathroom to wash his teeth and run water over his face before quickly running downstairs.



“SORRY”, he exclaims as he almost jumps down his mother stops him before he can reach the door his mother grabs him by his shirt collar.



“Wait for just a second little man, come over here and get the snacks I made to help you and Cyran’s trip, I’m sure Ronrik and Zala will understand being a few minutes late”.



“Yes Mother”, he pouts slightly before cheering up as Paula hands him and Cyran a pouch of goodies for their training.



Javal then bids his mother goodbye before grabbing Cyran by the hand sprinting, swinging the door open, and rushing towards the shop. Ronrik and Zala stand there waiting and smile at the two’s arrival.



Ronrik speaks up, “Alright kiddos first thing first go put on those backpacks and we’ll be on our way up to Dragon’s Spine".


Javal smiles excitedly as he grabs a very large backpack that was set aside for him immediately he can feel its weight as he places it on about 70 pounds on his back. It was a little weird to get used to but he was excited. Zala herself handed Cyran his backpack smaller than Javals at about 40 pounds but equally as difficult to carry considering. The group then marches forward with Ronrik leading the way Zala at his side and his two pupils behind them as they continue toward their destination.

The Zarrias household is definitely chaotic in the morning…

Cyran was just finishing up his morning’s preparation when he heard the young fellblood bounding down the stairs, only to be stopped and reprimanded by his mother. The assassin could hear muttered apologies and shuffling, unable to suppress a smile at noise. A chaotic family, for certain… though not one without love and compassion. That warmed his heart more than anything, to know that Javal was growing up in a household where he’d never lack or want for love and care.

“Thank you, Miss Paula.” Cyran bowed, also finding no small measure of amusement at being on the receiving end of the parenting, for once. More than that he was just grateful Javal’s mother had extended her courtesy and worries to him, too. “I’ll make sure to keep an eye on Javal and prevent any grievous injuries.” He leaned over and patted Javal on the head; to which the fellblood responded by grabbing his wrist and excitedly dragging him, once more, out of the inn and back into the maw of the beast once more.

He was surprised, to say the least, to learn that their training wasn’t happening in the dojo - but rather, the mountains. He supposed it was as good a place as any for isolation and spirituality. Cyran summoned his courage as Miss Zalara handed him his own pack of supplies…

And he nearly dropped it.

The others had a healthy laugh at his shock, making Cyran’s face turn red as he shrugged it over his shoulders. He truly did not carry much raw strength on his frame… though it would be a good enough endurance exercise for him, no matter how much he anticipated struggling. His own skills were, in some ways, completely antithetical to Javal’s own, that he’d been turned into a fish out of water here. But to his credit, the Specter would not argue or complain. He’d promised he would take this journey with Javal, after all. So he grinned and bore it all the way up Dragon’s Spine, holding onto the thin hope that training might be easier on his body.

Cyran couldn’t have been more wrong.

The next few days were rigorous as Ronrik imparted sword forms and katas onto them; never asking them to spar with one another again, for fear of repeating the same incident as the dojo. But Javal sparred his master, and on occasion, Cyran - the elven man still refused to spar with real blades, and found himself on the losing end more often than not, but it was a good learning experience. Mostly, though, his own training extended towards stealth with Miss Zalara. This was his own domain, his wheelhouse, though he still remained open and interested while Zalara taught him her own techniques. The ninjutsu of the Crescent Isles was vastly different from his own style, which was centered on avoidance of battle at any opportunity, as well as the use of improvised and innocuous when need be. He was asked not to make use of the shadows for these exercises, and obeyed to the best of his ability - though the pesky things were still inclined to cling to him whenever they could.

He sustained injuries - he healed from them - he got better each time - he continued to meditate in the mornings, each day bringing him more calm, more precision. It was hard work, but the elven man was not opposed to it. He hoped by the end he and Javal would be better for it.

During Javal’s training, he had gotten a lot stronger but also managed to learn so much from his sensei. Over the next couple of days, he spent day and night training with Ronrik learning and soaking as much knowledge as he could. Mornings involved sitting under a great waterfall and meditating for an hour although at first Javal struggled to focus with the great running water he managed to calm his mind and not even feel the impact on his body. He spent the rest of the day doing the same thing he’d done before under Ronrik’s tutelage, strength training. He trained his body with basic bodyweight exercises but also spent time fighting against his teacher who corrected his stance and motions with his great speed. It was through this training he finally managed to learn the full range of the Ronrik Style of Swordsmanship which he would make his own, First Form: Stepping Strike, Second Form: Beat Down, Third Form: Single Slash, Fourth Form: Blade Crossing, Fifth Form: Flick, Sixth Form: Sword Circle, Seventh Form: Quick Draw, Eighth Form: Quick Void, Ninth Form: Overhead Thrust, Tenth Form: Fourhau, Eleventh Form: Great Heaven and the secret form that only he would know about, Zero Form: Bladeless.



He would of course teach all of these to Cyran even bladeless considering he thought that would be the move Cyran could make the best use of. He trained his body and his mind even getting some practice with his new form that he entered when using Uriel’s power which he struggled to name for once.

There was a technique, commonly utilized by masters in the Shita Eodum-Taiyang, that involved spending one’s morning under a freezing waterfall. The idea was that by lowering your body’s temperature, you became closer to death. And it was there that you found true peace. Cyran had read about it, but had never been able to try it himself. At least, not until he ventured up to the mountains with Master Ronrik, and had the pleasure of doing it every morning. It was a peaceful sort of meditation, one the elven man found solace in. He often distanced himself from the others during the morning, allowing the memories to wash over him…

And where the mornings were peaceful, the days were brutal.

Cyran’s fighting style was not beholden to particular styles or forms, but they seemed to help Javal - and teaching was one of the best methods to learn, so he listened while Javal taught him sword forms over the next few days. Practiced them slowly until his body got the hang of the movements. They were all distinctly Javal, some of them he’d even had the pleasure of experiencing firsthand.

The form that interested him the most, though, was the one Javal taught him at the end.

The Bladeless Form.

Cyran was rarely without his knives, but it was important to be able to adapt and defend oneself whenever necessary. This particular style was designed for dropping weapons, freeing your hands, and using the increased dexterity to render weak points in the protection utilized by armored fighters. A clever bit, really - Javal utilized it differently, but Cyran adapted it to his own style easily enough by utilizing his hands in a flat-palm style rather than with fists, acting more like a blade than a blunt object.

Javal grew stronger with the light - and Cyran harnessed his shadows, growing more comfortable with calling upon them, commanding them to do his bidding. It was not a type of magic he was always comfortable using, but… it was practical. There had been times where Cyran was grateful to make use of it, and he was certain that would be the case in the future. He needed to be able to use it without feeling like a monster within his own skin for doing so.

So they trained, slept, meditated, took turns cooking while they all enjoyed meals around the campfire. Cyran, old as he was, could not remember the last time he’d dealt with such constant activity. Despite the rigorous activity, he was almost surprised when the end of their camp actually arrived, marking the end of their boot camp.

---

Learned Weaken Armor from Javal! ^ ^

After three days of training, the group's time together had reached its end. It was a very important learning experience for everyone. Javal had come out of it looking even more muscular and chiseled which in all honestly Ronrik didn’t think was possible. His swordsmanship had improved by leaps and bounds; he had truly taken his master’s directions to heart and spent the entire three days just working hard with almost no rest. As the three others went to sleep Javal himself would pretend to sleep for a few minutes before returning to practice. For as much as the fellblood was a bit of an idiot whenever he had a goal he wanted to reach he turned his brain to its maximum output. He had even managed to learn some things from Zala herself taking her style of fighting for his own. The orc woman was a formidable fighter in her own right, using a myriad of potions and elixirs while using her speed and agility to deliver quick and painful pinpoint attacks. Ronrik even gave Javal the idea of a two-state fighting style the first state being his armored style which focused on defense and protection while the other one was his regular style focused on attack and power.



Soon the four made their way down the mountain, the journey equally as difficult as the one up considering Zala armed their backpacks with double the weight because in her words, “You two shoulda gotten twice as strong”.



After making it down the group walked over to the shop with Ronrik and Zala having to speak to the two and marking the end of their training officially.

To be honest, the trek down the mountain was more brutal than the way up. Cyran was almost certain that the pack Miss Zalara hoisted on him when they left broke his back. He really wasn’t that strong…

Not to mention, his muscles were bruised and battered from the work with little rest…

He decided it was better to grin and bear it once more and look forward to the sleep he’d get when they returned to Javal’s inn, and the rest he’d receive when he was back home in Darkveil with Del. He’d miss mountain air like this, though. Clean and crisp, untouched by humans. Nothing like the smoke and smog in the Ash Lands.

Before they left, though, Cyran was surprised to be pulled aside by Master Ronrik. He half-expected the man to want to talk about Javal and his tutelage - so he was somewhat surprised when the gnome pulled out a blade, which he offered to Cyran. Not a dagger, but a full-length shortsword, tucked in an intricate and finely-crafted scabbard. When Cyran unsheathed the blade, he was treated to the sight of a unique metal, each side of the blade inscribed with a different enchantment. On one side, the formulae was interwoven in looping symbols, and as Cyran ran his finger down the side of the blade, he was surprised to find it wet, the surface shimmering; a metal that weeped. The opposite side, on the other hand, seemed to burn the very air it touched, enchantment inscribed in spiky letterings, an ancient language Cyran could not read, practically luminous from the heat it carried.

“Goodness… what a beautiful blade.” His eyebrows shot up into his hairline when Ronrik explained it was for him, a token of his training. “For me? Are you sure? It’s such a lovely, balanced piece…” One that Ronrik insisted was for him. Fitting, given the week’s events. With no small amount of gratitude and sheepishness, he secured the blade to his belt, and give Ronrik a deep bow. “Thank you. It is a very kind gift.” One he wasn’t certain he’d earned. Nevertheless, he would not deny the master this generosity.

With the weight of a new sword on his hip and questions about what it might have meant, they continued back to Thorock proper. Entering the underground city brought them back to the merchant’s plaza, where vendors selling all manner of illegal goods and little trinkets were set up. Cyran was content to ignore them all… until the rustling of paper caught his attention. Cyran paused, glancing over to find a bespectacled man with a handful of animals for sale. What had intrigued him, though, were the little creatures in the front; tiny little bits of paper from a book brought to life, ink-letters making eyes and a little forked tongue made of parchment.

Cyran stopped, leaning closer to run his fingers along the snake’s parchment hide. “Javal, come here and look at this little wonderful thing.” He called out, grabbing his friend’s attention before Javal had gotten too far ahead of him.