tripovershadows

[tripovershadows]

Wordcount: 2,972

This sample is a section from a short story originally written for submission to a Young/New Adult digital anthology.

This setting of this piece is a world very much like our own, but where magic is a fully integrated part of life alongside our modern-day technological advances. The main explorative theme of this short story was, as the title suggests, homesickness. 

Aidan shivered on the stone step leading up to his houseshare. The first day of his first week of university, after nearly sixteen hours spread across four trains (and a Ford fiesta) from Thurso to Exeter had landed him here.

 Before packing up and leaving his hometown on the northern most tip of the Scottish mainland, nobody ever told Aidan that moving to the opposite end of the British isles would feel so different in a million sand-grain ways.

 Nobody told him that down south, September swept through moodswings of t-shirt weather into three-scarfs cold snaps over the course of a week. Nobody told him that the clay red-bricked houses were produced from mud that was actually bright terracotta-coloured in a way that looked entirely unnatural when dirt was supposed to be blackish-brown. And, most pressingly, nobody gave him any pointers for how to move in to a houseshare with five other students who were effective strangers to him save a handful of exchanges on Faebook.

 Aidan fished his phone out of his pocket and felt a harsh sting across his freshly exposed fingers, invisible early-autumn piranhas sweeping in to snap and bite angrily at his flesh. He made a mental note: unpack your gloves first.

 The instructions shared on the Faebook groupchat were incredibly straight-forward:

You'll find the spare housekey under Al Pacino in the front garden!

 Calling an outer wall and two squares of dead grass the 'front garden' seemed a bit of a stretch, but he did indeed find Al Pacino－an kitschy old clay garden gnome, quintessentially posed in a mooning position with a disturbingly sultry glance cast over the shoulder. He had paint flecking off from general weather wear and tear, the tip of his sun-faded red pointed cap was missing, and a massive crack marred one side of his face. 

 A cheap wind chime made from coloured-glass, beads, and diamond-cuts of mirror hung down from one side of the porch, adding to the overall tacky feel of the place from the outside. In the summer, it would probably be the sort of item that would flick and spill pleasant light and colour onto plump springs of grass, making the hovel-like garden more pleasant to sit and read, or host a small Tesco-bought barbecue to scorch the grass black beneath in a way that would pointedly not be commented on. Ever. Especially if the landlord ever asked about it.

 Softly bumping through the door, Aidan squinted into the dark entranceway. A staircase to the floor above stood forebodingly ahead of him, formed of mostly stripped back white-painted wooden steps with a strip of long black fabric running down the center as a substitute for carpet. A door to his left lead into a sitting room with a couple of well-loved (read: beat-up) mismatched couches with the telling signs of where guests and housedwellers had perched on and slid across the armrests countless times to wear the material threadbare. No-one was perched or sliding when Aidan glanced in. Finally, there was the hallway the ran parallel to the staircase, leading into the kitchen.

 There would be mornings in Aidan's future when he'd stand in that very kitchen, elbows resting on the counter as he waits for the simultaneously too slow and too quick kettle to boil as his head pounded between his squeezing hands. Or while his sinuses were blocked. Or when his eyes felt either heavy with sleep or felt pinned open from being utterly wired. Either way, that kettle would always disappoint.

 Someday in the future, he would comfort broken-hearted friends at the rickety old kitchen table with a wad of card shoved under one leg to keep it from rocking back and forth like a wide-set see-saw.

 One day, he would try and cook a Thanksgiving meal for someone who didn't live with them, but was American and unable, for overly complicated family reasons, to go home for the holiday. No-one in the household knew how to make sweet potato, and no-one believed for a second that Americans really put marshmallow on top of their mash.

 And, sometime toward the end of his first year of study, he would break his favourite mug while doing the washing-up as he tried to get on top of three separate deadlines by the end of the week when his time-managed had not been at its best. That broken mug would result in a stream of over-tired sobs over dishes and suds until someone snuck in from behind to apply an emergency hug. There’d be a mumble in his ear to sit down. The dishes would get finished for him. A cup of tea would materialise for him. An attempt to fix the mug would be made. Ultimately though, a week later, a new cup would replace the washing-up victim and it would have new new memories poured into it.

 That was in the future though.

 Aidan's first moments in that kitchen made him feel tiny and utterly alone.

 Suddenly, a massive blonde boy bumbled his way into the kitchen, a brown-paper package clutched in his huge arms.

 "Oh good! You must be Aidan!"

 And just like that, everything was a mess of noise and bright lights, clattering and life. The boy dumped his brown-paper bundle onto the oak dinning table, bay leaves, sage and lavender spilling out between the rustic folds. Then, after scrubbing his hand on the side of his jeans, he thrust it toward Aidan with a wide grin.

 "I'm Chris. I'm studying Herbalism. Sorry in advance: I'm probably going to make the whole place stink at all hours!"

 Chris clasped Aidan's tentatively outstretched hand, shaking it vigorously. The gesture made all of Aidan’s insides jostle around all liquid-like.

 "Yeah... Hi. I'm Aidan. I'm going to study Magical History. Introduction's on Wednesday. Pleased to meet you."  

 Chris stared at Aidan for a long few seconds in a kind of dumbstruck silence, then gave a hearty laugh.

 "I only understood about three words of that and one was your name!"

 Aidan’s cheeks flushed red and hot, realising immediately that Chris couldn't understand him through his accent. It was like in primary school where they had been encouraged to speak English－not Caithness, not Scots. English. Speaking English didn't stop him sounding Scottish, of course, but they're been taught how to make their mouths form softer Scottish, slower Scottish, more soothing Scottish. The kind of Scottish that companies stuck at the end of customer complaint calls to calm irate members of the public with comforting vowels like a warm shoulder squeeze before getting put on hold.

 Biting his lower lip sheepishly, Aidan forced a smile as he commanded his words into neater lines before letting them march off his tongue again.

 "Sorry, I'll work on that."

 Chris planted a friendly hand on Aidan's back and applied a few big-palm pats between Aidan's shoulder blades. Aidan's muscles drew tightly inward on reflex before he heaved out a soft exhale and willed his knotted body to loosen. Chris clearly meant no harm and reminded Aidan of a big lumbering Labrador－happy to see anyone, with no sense of personal space, and sometimes knocked things over without noticing realising the force of his over-excited tail.

 "Mags and Lucy just popped out to the shops. Ben's upstairs－let me carry that."

  Chris hoisted Aidan's massive, heavy suitcase up with one meaty hand before Aidan could protest, ushering him toward his designated room on the third floor with a few jerky rolls of his broad shoulders as he continued to talk.

 "Ben’s around. He’s doing White Mysticism and already wants to do a Masters when this is done. All right for some, I suppose－his parents are minted and I guess he's going to to go on to do something in government. Or policy. Or something in the MMP."

 "MMP?” Aidan echoed, feeling stupid.

 "Magic Mishandling Prevention. Not, like, in the field. In an office somewhere getting paid loads to like, I dunno, think about prevention, I guess.”

 That didn’t sound like a bad plan to Aidan.

 "Mags and Lucy are both doing Spells,” Chris continued, “couple of basic witches, them. Thought they were sisters when they first showed up. Shows what I know. Neither of them really seem to know what they're doing here, or what they're going to do after. I think they're just here for shits and giggles."

 Aidan's lips pressed firmly down against one another as his brow pinched in. He really hoped his silence would arrive more loudly than it seemed to because Chris just kept going and breezily gestured to Aidan's room. Chris pushed the suitcase through the door and bashed each side of the frame on the way; if he were playing pinball then Chris gained a bonus point for each collision point. There were probably around five sites of impact. Adain winced, glad that he hadn’t packed anything breakable in the suitcase.

 "You're in here," Chris said, dropping Aidan's luggage down with a thump, "I'll bring the rest of your stuff up."

 "No! That's okay, you don't have to－" Aidan began, but trailed off as he watched Chris' blonde head bob down the stairs and out of sight.

 Heat rose in Aidan's face and ticked steadily up the back of his neck and to his ears. If Aidan had tried to bring that suitcase up by himself he'd still be heaving the damn thing along by now, strain in his arms and a nasty sticky sheen to his skin. Chris’ effortless kindness had utterly humiliated Aidan. Humiliated him to who, though? There was no-one else around. Perhaps Aidan was just humiliated for himself. How didn't Chris notice Aidan's obvious discomfort? Why didn't he pay attention to the Scottish boy trying to decline Chris' help? How was someone that thoroughly oblivious and hulking supposed to do something as delicate and precise as Herbalism? God. That big idiot.

 Aidan slummed in the doorway. All right, calling Chris a big idiot in his head was just petty irritation. As that ungenerous thought rolled across one plain of his mind and out the other like a grumpy storm cloud, guilt sat itself down inside Aidan’s head, heavy and wet and uncomfortable like a damp sponge in his brain. Chris was trying to be a good roommate right off the bat and Aidan was being quietly hostile, passive-aggressive and judgemental. That was pretty mean. It was probably the exhaustion. The excuse made Aidan feel better.

 So the room was Aidan's now.

 A single bed, a desk, a wardrobe, chest of draws, a window. Catching sight of the matress made Aidan feel the weight of his day-long journey as slid his bag from shoulder to the floor. Nudging out of his worn-in sneakers, Aidan padded across the cool hardwood room in his socks until he reached the window. A misty September moon jostled its way between the slanted roofs and chimney tops, and a large amber-glass clock face sat nested between the old English architecture striking just past six o’clock like a second moon in the sky.

 Aidan dug out his phone again. According to the screen it was just after eleven o'clock at night. He flicked through a few screens, quickly checking e-mails, social media, and missed calls. One was from his older brother Dan. His thumb hovered over his brother's face, hesitating.

 His mind drifted back to an evening almost a year and a half ago when he, his dad, and Dan got to talking about Aidan going away to university.

 Aidan pictured himself thumbing through his newly arrived prospectuses－glossy promises of learning and discovery smelling like new paper, printing ink and plastic wrap.

  Aidan's dad was settled in his old worn-in chair, the brown and copper-coloured coarse tweed covering stretched thin and nearly transparent from years of his big, hairy arms shifting back and forth as he bent down to pick up countless cups of tea and tumblers of whiskey from a coaster on the carpet.

 Da, as the boys called him, was almost fully spherical. Chunky limbs popped out at the expected places on his body, thinning grey hair swept over the sheen of his head. He was always clean shaven and smelled like Old Spice during the day and vaguely of Bell's at night while he dozed off. Aidan remembered Da always setting aside two empty four-and-a-half-litre bottles, one for each boy, and filling each with coins over the span of a year. When they were full, he gave the boys bottle each and told them to go off and count what was inside. When they were done, they'd all go into town and to the bank to exchange the huge cluster of coins into more manageable currency. The coins Da collected also increased in value as the boys grew older, progressing from single pennies, to two-pence pieces, to five, ten, twenty, fifty. The last bottle Dan got had pounds in it. Aidan knew there was one with his name on it hidden away somewhere too.

 "Couldn't you just get t'stuff off internet now?" Da asked.

 Aidan blushed and tried to say there was more to it than that, but the truth was he only knew enough to hope there was more, so didn’t say anything.

 "There's more to it than that, Da," Dan had chimed, reading Aidan's apprehension.

Dan was Aidan’s hero and back then, Dan was nineteen and finishing up his second year of college at Edinburgh. Dan always had an easy confidence that Aidan lacked which allowed him to say all the words that would get stuck between Aidan's teeth before they ever become actual sounds.

 Their dad had given a shrug and shuffle as he nestled down in his chair.

 "When the lads in the pub ask me what you're studying down England, what do I say?"

 Aidan squeezed the brochure tight between his fingers and felt the pages fan and crinkle against his palms. His stomach quivered with the realisation that his dad would talk to his pub friends about what Aidan was doing all the way down south. What questions would they ask? What would Da say to them? How close or far from the truth would it be? Would they say it sounded like a ridiculous waste of time and money too?

 Dan put a warm hand on the back of Aidan's head, just like he'd always done ever since Aidan was little. Aidan should have said he was way too old for that now, but instead just reached back so his knuckles pressed lightly against the inside of his brother's wrist. Dan grinned and pointed an affectionately accusatory finger at their dad.

 "You just tell them your youngest is going off to get smarter than every single one of them at that bar put together plug the dog. And that you're dead proud. End of."

 Their dad snorted, thoroughly convinced. Aidan's cheeks and eyes burned.

 Then Chris was back, rudely returning Aidan to the current moment with a wash of unpleasant symptoms－sore eyes, constricted throat, and lurching aches in places bellies didn't normally hurt.

 Bringing the second suitcases through the bedroom door, Chris' brow creased.

 "Are you all right? Your eyes look all watery." 

 Oh, now he noticed what Aidan's face was doing. Aidan quickly dragged his sleeve across his face.

 "Are you allergic to any animals?" Chris asked, clearly concerned.

 "Just dusty," Aidan lied.

 "Oh. Good. We've got someone doing Familiar Studies too. She's got a couple of spotted bats, a hedgehog, and a tabby cat."

A moment of awkward silence passed between them.

 "She named the cat Black."

 Aidan made a face, but curiosity got the best of him.

 "Why?"

 Chris lifted his big shoulders, his lips tipping down in the universal look of 'dunno' before he shifted his weight a little. The floorboards creaked underfoot.

 "She said something about how everyone always wants black cats but that the kittens are always really under high demand through September and October. Like pumpkins."

 Cats weren't like pumpkins, Aidan thought, scowling out the window with his back to Chris. What an idiot.

 "I think she said if she called it Black she could say 'Hey, come meet my Black cat' and it'd still technically be true."

 Aidan didn't answer. He knew he was being rude and Chris was still just trying to be friendly, but the unhappiness already brewing in his throat disintegrated his patience.

 "Why are you studying Herbalism?" Aidan asked suddenly, his words coming out much sharper than he meant them to.

 After a quiet pause, Aidan glanced around half-expecting to see Chris distracted by something with the same entertainment value and mental demands as a tennis ball. Instead, he was staring at Aidan with a bit of a slap-faced expression. Aidan only caught the tail-end of that look as Chris immediately banished it with a dumb, toothy smile.

 "Oh. I just think plants are neat," he replied quickly. Too quickly.

 Before Aidan could apologise for his tone or move on to a follow-up question, Chris made a quick but not quiet exit, feet booming down across the landing and toward the stairs.

 "You want tea? I'm having a cup. How do you take it? Milk? Sugar?"

 Aidan bit his lip, guilt bubbling up inside him before he forced himself to answer.

 "Milk," he called down the stairs, catching only a flash of Chris thundering down the hallway and out of sight into the kitchen. Then, after a moment he added, "And one sugar!"

 Chris' voice floated back up to Aidan with buoyancy, "Milk, one sugar. Roger that!" 

[tripovershadows]

Wordcount: 2,510

Set in Tyria after the restoration of Lion's Arch, this piece showcases a member of the Vigil reporting back to superiors about a mission that did not go smoothly or to plan and how the different modes of re-telling the same event can result in very different impressions depending on the motivations behind selecting one voice over another to convey information.

Content Warning: this piece contains fleeting and non-detailed references to cult practices, blood magic, self-flagellation, combat-based injury, demonic possession, and post-event mental trauma.

The sound of waves and shrieking gulls over Sanctum Harbor filtered into Sesyria's study, his bunched-up knuckles stroking back and forth across pursed lips as he considered the in-progress report upon his desk.

Summarising this particular event posed a challenge to the sylvari tactician. He often found himself paused on multiple occasions cradling his head in his hand, rubbing his thumb against his temple, and needing to ease a hard tension in his jaw.

Pushing himself up from his desk, Sesyria paced the length of his top-floor quarters. Agitated strides drew him to the window where he wasted some time watching a small fishing vessel offload a modest catch. It was better than their last haul, he observed. Forcing himself away from the marina scene, he instead moved to examine the bookcases and scowled at the thin layer of dust settled along the page edges and down the spines. He could tell from the scrape on the shelf the last time each book had been removed and his hand twitched with the desire to wipe everything down in a burst of furious procrastination.

Sesyria could identify the uncharacteristic air of nervous energy in him. In the face of the rest of the guild, he was the pillar, the leader they looked to with unshakable focus and discipline. No-one was more aware of that expectation than Sesyria himself. This was why his moments of ill-focused needed forcing into specific, private spaces, away from the keen eyes of most of his team. Sesyria had two versions of himself to manage: the Sesyria who was guild leader and the Sesyria who was a member of the Vigil.

On this day, his two selves were at odds. Some impulsive ill-choices on the part of one of his guild members put Sesyria in a position where he would need to produce an incident report for his Vigil superiors. Sesyria was beholden to the Vigil and responsible for his band of non-Pact mercenaries. No matter how uncomfortable this felt, he needed to fulfil his commitments.

The heavy wooden chair groaned as Sesyria drove his weight back in then secured himself into the desk by dragging himself closer, the feet of the chair growling against the floor like an unwilling dog on a leash

After allowing himself one final moment to press his forehead against the bridge formed with his long, silver-birch fingers, Sesyria drew in a long, deep breath through his nose, then picked up his papers to re-read what he had written thus far.

Phoenix 77 1328 AE

Assistance was requested in an subterranean temple space in Malchor's Leap, North East of Blighted Arch. The distress call was roused by Necromancer Ordaen after Whispers Agent Hakkyuu failed to meet the designated rendezvous point for a planned group exploration into the Grenthian temple.

The exploration was undertaken as an independent action and is not associated with, nor sanctioned by, the Order of Whispers, The Pact, or any other associated organisation.

Necromancer Ordaen's personal interest in the location derived from the discovery of a long-inactive sect of Orrian Grenth worshippers who were believed to have employed self-flagellation as both an act of devotion and a means of enhancing their proficiency for hemomancer. Necromancer Ordaen wished to procure remains of these clerics for investigative purposes and initially contacted Agent Hakkyuu for assistance.

The intent was to investigate the uncharted site as a collective group, however Agent Hakkyuu pre-maturely infiltrated the ruins as a solo unit, without any prior scouting, and neglected to alert other members of the investigative team of his intended course of action.

"That idiot," Sesyria muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses as a creep of cold discomfort picked its way up his neck.

Really, there was absolutely nothing surprising about Hakkyuu's choice of action－Sesyria had known and worked with Hakkyuu for several years before the formation of the guild and he knew of Hakkyuu's sporadic tendencies intimately. Arguably, those very tendencies were the reason the two had met in the first place amidst a clash with bandits in Kessex Hills. The details of that meeting varied depending one which of the two of them was regaling the tale and how much wine had been consumed. In more recent years, the Tactician had come to partly accept that his careful strategising may always go array at any given moment whenever Hakkyuu was even remotely involved.

Honestly, Hakkyuu straying from the the plan was the only thing Sesyria could ever safely bet on when strategising.

Through a lack of sufficient pre-mission reconnaissance, Agent Hakkyuu inadvertently disturbed a Lich.

Upon our arrival on site, myself and Warmaster Kyinnlen discovered that the Lich had forcibly taken control of Agent Hakkyuu's body and proved to be hostile and dangerous.

After swift assessment of the situation and threat level, I concluded that:

- Engaging the Lich was unavoidable - The primary mission goal needed immediate alteration to include Agent Hakkyuu's extraction - No-one present in that moment possed the suitable skillset to appropriately incapacitate Agent Hakkyuu

Having drawn these conclusions, I instructed Warmaster Kyinnlen to retrieve Agent Hakkyuu's mentor－Secondborn Aurus－from base camp. I opted to stay and maintain visual contact on the Lich.

Sesyria shoved himself back heavily into his chair, one hand drawn up and sinking into his burgundy head-leaves as he closed his amber eyes.

The report, by design, was devoid of the stakes and emotions involved, but reading it over transported Sesyria back into that dank cavern with its brine-soaked Orrian architecture and death-tinged winds rushing through on the pull of the tide.

He remembered Kyinnlen and himself stepping into the poorly lit cave, spectral flames flickering in the corners of the abandoned temple that played tricks on the eyes and mind as shadow and light danced together on irregular angles and giggled together in hidden corners.

He remembered the two of them drawing closer, Kyinnlen brave and battle-ready in his armor, his youthful pale-green face resolute in its focus, but his soft eyes awash with fear and concern for the state of their reckless comrade.

In the central space, an impression of a ghostly form swept in old cloth hovered behind a very familiar figure.

For a human, Hakkyuu was already striking at best and disturbing at worst－silver-white hair, sharp purple eyes, and an intense presence that instantly filled any room, he didn’t cut the typical look of a man who haled from Ebonhawke. Despite that, Sesyria recalled how wrong his human comrade looked when he and Kyinnlen arrvied.

Hakkyuu stood shorter than most human men, but he tended to stand upright with his back straight and head held high, radiating a confidence that created the impression of height that he physically lacked. In that cave, however, Hakkyuu looked like he was sleeping upright, his head lolled to one side, shoulders slumped, lips slightly parted, and eyes open but drooping and glassy.

That was the first time Sesyria felt the cold creep up his spine, a sensation that had yet to fully leave him and would spider-walk its way up his back rapidly whenever his mind drew him back into that cave.

Without ever directly saying as much, Sesyria considered the silver-haired idiot more than a colleague. He and Hakkyuu spent regular evenings together, nursing their way through a bottle of wine (two on a good night, three on a bad one) where Hakkyuu would complain that the wine would be better if it were whiskey, yet continued to drink something with a taste he didn’t care for purely for the social aspect.

Sesyria knew Hakkyuu's humour and disposition well, knew what set off his strange moods, could spot the onset of his insufferable twitchy fingers that tended to spell that Hakkyuu was getting ready to do something irritating. He knew Hakkyuu's daily routines, where he liked to spend his time, who he especially liked to affectionately harass, where his insecurities lay, and what chilled him. Kyinnlen may be Sesyria's lover, but Hakkyuu was his best friend.

Perhaps Sesyria decision to remain and send Kyinnlen away to collect Aurus was a poor one.

The battle was gruelling, one that blurred the lines between Hakkyuu's inclination toward battlefield bloodlust with the interests of the spectral puppeteer. The overlap of the two entities in one body made Hakkyuu's otherwise terrifying accuracy more haphazard, his twin blades impacting harshly against Sesyria’s Arcane magic that he’d forged into shields and deflective waves.

While Hakkyuu’s precision was downgraded, there was no decrease in aggression or power. Hakkyuu's speed had always been his greatest gift and most honed ability. Sesyria still experienced mental flashes of Hakkyuu's pale limbs flinging sharp objects toward him in unpredictable, untrained directions, keeping Sesyria on the back foot in his attempts to avoid and counter the onslaught as he called forward defensive walls of wind, waves of earth, and pillars of ice to protect himself.

Sesyria knew he would never win against Hakkyuu in hand-to-hand combat. It was never about winning, it was about stalling just long enough for Kyinnlen to bring Aurus－the only person Sesyria knew had enough physical fortitude, mental stability, and personal experience with Hakkyuu to subdue him. Sesyria didn't need to win, just survive and make sure the Lich didn't take off.

Not winning also didn't mean unscathed.

Absently, in the future safety of his office, Sesyria rubbed a hand over his forearm, feeling a dull ache of where his botanical body was still steadily knitting itself back together after Hakkyuu's blade had found flesh several weeks ago. Golden sap had soaked into Sesyria's light armor, trickled down his arm, trailed between his fingers as he shakily gripped his staff and－

Breathe.

Refocus.

Return.

He was in Lion's Arch. In his office. At his desk. The injuries were healing. The battle was over. He was alive.

Sesyria leaned forward and resumed writing.

The ensuing conflict showed none of Agent Hakkyuu's customary cognitive or combative capabilities. This lends credibility to the theory that he was without control of his faculties for the full duration of this encounter. 

Agent Hakkyuu was ultimately subdued and given medical attention after the Lich was fully extracted.

Sesyria shook his head as he wrote the word 'subdued' as the reality was far less elegant.

In point of fact, Aurus virtually by-passed physical combat entirely and went for the most straight-forward route: simply knocking out his ex-mentee by clocking him hard at the back of his skull at the earliest possible opportunity. Sesyria watched in dumbstruck awe, almost embarrassed at how the Secondborn made that look disgustingly easy as Sesyria stood shaking and bleeding in the aftermath, all his stamina virtually spent.

Tall and foreboding, with an impassive stare that was locked on Hakkyuu the moment he entered the subterranean temple, Aurus remained one the largest sylvari Sesyria had ever met. If his insecurities were held closer to the surface, Sesyria may have felt inadequate in comparison and not up to the task of leading their band of misfits. Luckily, Sesyria had more self-assurance than that.

He had watched Aurus approach the situation with a kind of stony physical embodiment of Ventari's teachings－full of wisdom and strength and inner stability, a natural respect for all things regardless of their intent, and an obvious sense of conviction when undertaking a course of action.

After Aurus subdued Hakkyuu and gathered the human’s unconscious form into his arms, the rest of Sesyria's memories were in partial form at best. He vaguely recalled Aurus calling Ordaen forward to shatter the hold the Orrian spirit held on Hakkyuu's body. He remembered Kyinnlen beside and wrapping a support arm around the back of the tactician's shoulder, because that’s just the sort of thing Kyinnlen would do. And he knew, conceptually speaking, he must have felt a dull ache pulsating from various parts of his body from where Hakkyuu's blades had bitten into the ashen leafy outer layer of Sesyria's skin to draw out trickles of thick gold.

What he remembered without any doubt was the sensation of relief and exhaustion, like he'd just finished a several-mile sprint that left his limbs heavy, his energy drained, and his mind foggy. There were far worse outcomes for that scenario; Sesyria had mentally plotted out at least twenty-five.

I conclude that during this battle, Agent Hakkyuu was neither in a sound state of mind, nor in control of his physical functions. 

It is my unwavering opinion, corroborated by the expertise of Necromancer Ordaen, that Agent Hakkyuu was categorically under the possessive influence of an ancient Orrian spirit and therefore bears no responsibility for his actions outside of poor initial judgement.

It is also my belief that all parties involved either have or will experience full physical recovery.

While questions remain about Agent Hakkyuu's mental and emotional recovery, I am satisfied that he will be fit to return to field work in due course and am willing to attest as much to an Order of Whispers official if required.

That, as far as Sesyria was concerned, the most diplomatic way he could record how disinclined Hakkyuu was to talk about his state of mind post-possession. Par the course for Hakkyuu, any attempt to speak with the human about his brush with the invasive spirit had received a rather curt response of "I'm fine." That was Hakkyuu's way of telling everyone to drop the subject and back the hell off.

Weeks had passed since Sesyria and Kyinnlen stood on the damp precipice of the Orrian worship site, but sometimes Sesyria experienced a coil in his stomach when he caught a salty-sweet scent sweeping through Lion's Arch from the bay. Sometimes his throat would close up for a split-second when a flame bent the shadows in unexpected ways out the corner of his eye. Sometimes, he would look over to Hakkyuu in the safe, secure home that Sesyria had bought for them, and his chest would tighten with the realisation if they had arrived even a few moments later, if he hadn't been able to hold the Lich's attention long enough, or if he had misjudged the deployment of any one of his spells, that they may not have all returned home that day.

What disturbed Sesyria more than his own memories though was the fact Hakkyuu refused to speak about what he experienced under the Lich's influence－what he’d heard, what he’d seen. If Sesyria found himself routinely sat bolt upright in bed in the middle of the night with Kyinnlen's concerned hand on his arm, he couldn’t imagine what spindled visions crept through Hakkyuu's mind from the time he spent as the Orrian's temporary puppet.

Dragging the quill against the parchment to form its customary scratch of his name, Sesyria pushed back his chair abruptly, deciding he needed some fresh air and Kyinnlen's calming tones to soothe away the memories haunting his mind.

[tripovershadows]

Wordcount: 1,890

Set in Tyria just prior to the release of the story content of Heart of Thorns, this piece sets out to explore two main themes. The first theme in this character-driven snapshot is team-building that focuses on the interpersonal dynamics between a newly minted guild leader who is not very personable and an anxiety-ridden team mate who he intimidates.  The second theme is magic and how the meta information of Specializations as a game mechanic could be imagined if they were experiences for citizens living in the world of Tyria rather than the meta UI player experience. 

 A year or two ago, Sesyria wouldn't have even thought twice about whether he wanted people to be less intimidated by him.

 While intimidation was rarely the overt goal of his interactions with others, Sesyria also put all of zero effort into making himself more genial. He leaned toward cool professionalism－a detached exterior that was very much business in the front and, well… business at the back too, really.

  Sesyria’s primary goal in any given interaction was to garner respect for his personal boundaries through leveraging mildly judgmental stares and deploying monosyllabic replies; he wanted to not seem open and accessible, like he cared, or like he was someone with available shoulders to cry on.

 If someone also happened to be scared of him, that was merely a by-product.

 In more recent months, as the unwitting leader of their group, Sesyria's scope of awareness had expanded to encompass the overall emotional morale of his team. It was new, messy, and complicated territory that he was still getting to grips with. He was more accustomed to considering the morale of soldiers in the Vigil simply as a variable, a sidenote in his planning processes that gave a detached indication of what the overall mood of a squad or battalion was in objective terms to factor into his strategies: good, poor, fractured, fluctuating.

 Transitioning from Vigil tactician to full-time guild leader turned out to be more tricky than Sesyria had anticipated. Previously, he didn't have to necessarily know names and faces of the soldiers involved in his plans and he certainly didn't need to know how they were feeling as individuals－it was a numbers game. What was the highest chance of success he could generate through a plan, what numbers constituted a successful mission, how many soldiers would return alive. How could he get optimal numbers.

 By contrast, heading an intimate ten-man team was an entirely different affair. Sesyria did know both their names and their faces and increasingly found it hard to stomach the idea of anything less than a 100% chance that they'd all return home. He could never guarantee that number, but he strived for it all the same.

 It was also now necessary to not only have a temperature gauge of the team as a whole, but the mental and emotional state of each individual member and consider how that may or may not impact their ability to perform their respective roles. Who had experienced recent losses, who would be over-excitable, who would likely baulk when the wrong kind of pressure was applied.

 These were now the things Sesyria needed to consider when dealing with Taelif.

 Leading them out of the northern gates of of Lion's Arch and toward Lake Bounty, Sesyria and Taelif begun training at the lake's edge, the sun bouncing bright sparkles off the water and a enticing early-summer breeze stroking through the grass and trees.

 "Upright," Sesyria commented in a clipped tone, one hand moving to the small of the younger sylvari's back. He pressed his palm in to add pressure inadvertently drawing out a close-mouthed squeak from Taelif. Sesyria ignored the noise of distress and pressed on.

 "You would not clutch at and crumple your body around a bow. A staff should be no different."

 Sesyria, in spite of his initial reservations, was attempting to teach Taelif about magic.

 The site of Sesyria's reservations lay in his awareness that his bedside manner, so to speak, was not well-suited to the ranger's timid disposition. Taelif was one of those people who found Sesyria's lack of warmth immediately and unavoidably intimidating.

 Fortunately, Taelif's fear also meant that she was a very good listener and, in immediate response to Sesyria's command, straighten her back. But she also tensed her entire body, fingers grasping to her staff like it were a piece of driftwood keeping her alive at sea.

 Taelif had a bark-like face the colour of dusty rose with perpetually wide, worried pale eyes and cattail hair-leaves of a similar hue. She reminded Sesyria of a naked winter twig constantly shaking in frigid winter winds.

 Unlike Sesyria, who was Soundless for all intents and purposes, Taelif was a Dreamer through and through－deeply connected to nature and the wilds, better with animals than people, and always preferring greenery to towns. It was why Sesyria had opted to trial his teaching somewhere with rolling hills, clear waters, and lazily grazing deer in the periphery. It seemed like the sort of thing Taelif would like.

 Apparently, the terror of disappointing Sesyria in any shape or form left Taelif too petrified to appreciate the usually comforting fauna and foliage.

 Sesyria regarded the bark-faced sylvari with an unreadable expression, which Taelif naturally took as automatic disapproval. In some ways, her assessment wasn't wrong.

 With a long-suffering sigh, Sesyria removed his glass to rub his eyes.

"Keep your back straight–do not tense–and engage your core. Keep your body as steady as if you were taking aim with arrow. You know how to do that," Sesyria felt there was little to be done about how condescending his default tone sounded.

 "Breathe. Do not make yourself rigid; you are conducting magic, not impersonating a golem." 

Trying her best to do as she was told, Taelif attempted to commune with the nature magics around her and summoned a warm glowing gold circle. The magic began to creep along the staff like an inching caterpillar before petering out into nothing. 

Taelif's frown made her bark-like features crease as she tried to refocus on Sesyria's words and ignore that it was Sesyria's voice saying them. Then, she stood very still for several long moments, staring wordlessly at the staff between her hands.

 "What is it?" Sesyria asked, not meaning to sound impatient but accepting that he probably did nonetheless. 

"Well… It's just that… er… I… I don't think my staff works… Very well… It’s a nothing-very-special kind of stick..."

 Silence hung heavy them as Sesyria processed Taelif's concern. The lack of immediate response probably felt worse than Sesyria's corrective voice.

 Just at the very moment when Taelif was likely getting very unsettled by the drawn out silence, Sesyria's long fingers unhooked the clasps on the leather straps that held his own weapon in place at his back. The silver-blue rings chimed faintly around the phoenix motif at the head of Sesyria's staff and the stark red of bird's eyes and the fiery orb reflected Taelif's face as the tactician fluidly offered his staff to the other sylvari.

 "Take it," Sesyria said evenly and abruptly relinquished his grip.

 In Sesyria’s mind, Taelif should be more scared of letting Sesyria's staff drop to the floor than taking hold of it herself. And, sure enough, releasing the weapon forced Taelif to scramble and catch hold of the weapon before the panic could fully set in. More importantly, it circumvented a whole back and forth exchange of Sesyria insisting than the ranger take the staff and Taelif refusing in a flurry of distress.

 Taelif tested the weight under Sesyria's careful eye, listening to the faint jingling sound each time she moved, and then tried once more to draw the magical energy through her, willing it to answer her.

 After a few more attempts, Taelif turned another, slightly differently worried face toward Sesyria, who in turn raised an eyebrow and offered a questioning 'hmm?' sound without opening his mouth.

 "It… doesn't feel any different," Taelif murmured.  

Nodding slowly, Sesyria tucked his arms behind his back to straighten the line of his spine, habitual from his military training.

"No, and it shouldn't."

 "But," Taelif began to protest, then hesitated. When she saw Sesyria looking at her expectantly through his glasses, Taelif licked her lips, shuffled a bit on the spot, then cleared her throat, "But it's your staff. So. It should be easier. It should... come easier. Since... it's yours and... you're good with... w-with magic. So... you must have... a really good, really powerful staff..."

 Sesyria didn't interrupt, just gave slow, attentive nods as Taelif spoke, watching as she grew less and less confident as her sentence stretched out.

 "That's because it's not the weapon that matters. At least not in a technical sense. Of course, there are magically infused items, tome,s and artifacts imbued or infused with magic, but those sorts of items are rare and usually prohibitively expensive. Not only that they are often, in the grand scheme of things, irrelevant."

Taelif watched Sesyria hawkishly, trying not to do anything at all to interrupt the tactician as he spoke.

 "My views on magic are perhaps unpopular, and in some circles outright controversial or offensive, but in my opinion, the weapons we wield are more like conduction rods－they are helpful, not not necessary. Our connections to weaponry is more personal than magical. What is more important is your body."

"Body? But that's… backwards…" Taelif ventured, clearly confused when magic users so often seemed to fall physically on the slight side.

 Sesyria's lips quirked, barely a smile at all as he shook his head.

 "This claim would be outrageous to some, but I do not believe that we are generators of magic, only vessels that draw it from the world. We become attuned to, wield, and borrow magical energy, but we are ourselves as much conducting rods as that staff in your hand."

 Turning his hand over, Sesyria slowly, calmly flexed his fingers, letting a trail of pale Arcane energy run over the lines of his palm in demonstration. Sesyria knew he made this display look as natural as breathing and Taelif watched, entranced.

 "Magic, in my opinion, is linked to the body in so far as it doesn't matter how well you summon the magic if you can't control and contain the flow in your body. Your body doesn't need to be physically strong as is needed for fighters who specialise in hand-to-hand, but the more control you have over your body, your muscles, your nerves－" Sesyria turned his hand over and offered it to Taelif, palm up, "－the more malleable magic becomes. The more it respects you. And the less likely it will either refuse to be utiltised by you or, more importantly, harm you. Draw in too much and magic can break down your body from within."

 Taelif saw and felt the little jolt of magic travel from Sesyria's finger into her own, watched it climb through the ridges of Sesyria's staff still clasped in the ranger's palm, and then dissipate into the air and out of sight to the naked eye.

"So," Sesyria continued, "we not only need the ability to attune ourselves to that magical power－whether it be elemental, illusionary, necrotic－but we also need to engage with the physical component of magic use."

 Folding his hands behind his back once more, Sesyria stepped out of Taelif's line of sight.

 "Now. Try again. Commune, and know your body."

 During the next attempt, Taelif made immediately visible improvement, but not before returning the staff to her guild leader's hands and taking back her own－her nothing-very-special stick.

 Sesyria nodded approvingly, pleased by how much they were each learning from one another.