Act 1 - Arc 1 - Chapter 2

Foil reached the treeline and took the closest footpath, flying through the underbrush at a speed that made his surroundings blur. He cursed himself, he cursed his fate, and most of all he cursed the Rift that ripped away everything he had ever known and loved. The tears came freely now, rolling down his face and whipping away in the wind behind him. Foil had the stamina to run for hours, all Blessed did, and he took the time to enjoy the burning of his muscles and the rawness of his throat. After a short while Foil slid to a stop and crouched in the roots of a massive, gnarled tree. Nobody was following him, which was a relief, but he could hear the sounds of the Collegiate war camp ahead. The full army had arrived behind the vanguard and was preparing to join the assault on Byron, the small idyllic town Foil’s team (among others) had been sent in early in the day to defend.

Foil was already well-known by many in the army and in the groups of support staff that remained the camp. If he strolled in while the battle was still active (without a very good explanation), his desertion would be known immediately. Luckily, he didn’t need to enter the camp. He paced between a few similar trees, searching for the one he’d picked out days before. He eventually found the one he’d marked with a rune. He smiled at the carving of Cynthia’s sigil before dipping his hands into the soft earth. Coating his hands with Essence made the job easier, and he quickly displaced enough dirt to find his prize. Foil lifted the pristine Divine Sword from his hiding place. The Sword of the Imbuer was not a weapon he could use effectively, but as a Divine Weapon it was an incredibly valuable treasure and as a result vulnerable to thievery. He had buried it outside camp the moment they’d arrived to avoid encouraging further insubordination.

Foil was not an Imbuer. He was a Conduit, the worst possible Blessing to be handling such an important weapon. He didn’t want to use the sword and barely could when he tried, so he had initially entered the town with a standard steel blade that he had broken immediately. He could feel the power of the sword in his hands, but it required him to, as the name suggested, Imbue in order to draw out its potential. The sword had no scabbard, but gleamed as if it had just been polished and sharpened. The pommel was made of well-cured leather, its hilt long and wide with a large gemstone set into the handle. It was truly a beautiful sword.

As Foil looked at his reflection in the shining blue-gray blade, he didn’t see the fear and anxiety he felt. In his bright green eyes he saw a lifetime of potential. The potential to do good, to do evil, or to let the universe choose between the two without him. He saw reflections of the whirlpool that haunted his nightmares, the golden wheatfields that warmed his dreams. He saw his squadmates, loyal and disloyal but powerful all. He saw Cynthia, the girl whose life he ruined and was determined to save. He saw Rifts opening up all throughout Serulea and dragging in countless more orphans like himself to die in an unending sea of blood. His hand began trembling again. The sword was not heavy, but it had unleashed a torrent of emotions that Foil had pushed down in his attempt to leave everything behind.

But he couldn’t do it. Foil was not a hero. He knew that. But he also knew that he couldn’t abandon his team to their fate in the city; nor the innocent lives trapped in the crossfire. He didn’t ascribe to lofty ideals like justice, but he wouldn’t let injustice stand when he saw it. Not to mention all the people who relied on him, even if they didn’t like him. And for those that did like him…leaving without even so much as a goodbye would be devastating. But more than all of that, Foil had sworn to Cynthia that he would never run away again. Too much was riding on his success and survival.

Standing alone in the forest, Foil changed his mind.

He sheathed the sword in the scabbard that had held his previous steel, and he turned to place his back to the war camp. Someone called out, likely a watchman, but Foil was already gone. He sprinted back to Byron, tracing the same path he had taken when they had first arrived to defend the town. He made far better time, and was back at the end of the treeline within 20 minutes. He could hear the scraping of metal and the screams of the fighting. The battle was still ongoing; he wasn’t too late!

Foil paused before exiting the forest completely. In cover, he caught his breath and it was here that words finally returned to his brain.

How am I supposed to sneak back in? He wondered. If I’m seen by the Torvani watchers, they’ll call more Hunters in, but if I’m seen by anyone else, they’ll know I left and came back.

For once, perhaps as karmic reward for returning to the fray, miraculous luck was on Foil’s side. A massive explosion burst apart several buildings near the treeline, sending flaming stones and pieces of timber flying. The pitch-black smoke twisted and danced out of the wreckage, obscuring nearly everything from sight. But to Foil’s trained ears the sound of continued fighting emerged; and if anyone could continue fighting after an explosion that could level buildings, it was Blesseds.

Foil cracked his knuckles loudly. It was a bad habit of his, but one he couldn’t help but do before a fight. Unlike most, he didn’t place one hand over the other and pop all four fingers at once. Instead, he often used his thumbs to crack each knuckle individually.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

Then each hand pulled on the thumbs to complete the ritual. Foil loosened the rest of his body with a few more (normal) stretches, took a deep breath in, and out, and in again.

And then he ran.

Everybody had some amount of Essence in their bodies; everyone had a soul, after all. But the amount of Essence, or more accurately the amount of Essence one could draw on, was a combination of nature and nurture. Foil’s specialty was in stamina: the countless hours he had faced against The Wall had resulted in a heightened ability to draw on the energy of his soul. What Foil was conversely worse at, though, was drawing out a large amount of Essence at once. That meant in times of crises, Foil was often weaker and slower than his peers, especially while fighting.

Even so, Foil was still a Blessed. By pumping as much energy as he could into his legs and lungs, he ran at speeds multiple times that of a Mundane soldier. Some of his peers were even faster, moving with strength and speed that would seem godlike to someone normal. Foil crossed the dead zone between the forest and Byron in less than three minutes, and unsheathed his sword as he dove into the smoke. As he entered the hot, stinging cloud, Foil closed his eyes to probe his surroundings for Essence. The continued sounds helped greatly, and he continued to dash unerringly towards the clangor of battle. All at once the smoke was blown away, and Foil was left standing at the edge of what seemed to be the eye of a hurricane.

Foil’s eyes were sharp, and as he opened them he quickly scanned the battlefield. Between what used to be two houses was an alleyway strewn with corpses and gore. Furniture lay haphazard and destroyed and there was little evidence of life to be seen. What had blown the smoke away were the four people still alive that were engaged in the deadly dance of Blessed combat. Blesseds weren’t defined by their physical enhancements but by the unique flavors of their souls, which meant every fight was a dangerous probing between fighters whose abilities were as varied as snowflakes. One fighter, a diminutive pale boy with stark red hair, was desperately flinging shards of metal at high speeds from a small bag on his waist towards his foe, a masked Hunter covered in protective runes. Strangely, the Hunter seemed to have removed his armor and was deftly weaving between the shards being launched his way. The other pair were engaged in a close melee, another Hunter (still clad in armor) exchanging stabs with a tall, lithe woman with white hair.

Foil recognized the two Arkanite fighters with a pang of distress. They were part of his squad. The small boy was named Perrin; the tall woman named Aleksandra. Aleksandra’s long hair white trailed behind her as she spun and twisted around the metal seeking to draw her blood, but she seemed in control. Perrin, on the other hand, was stepping over his own feet to escape his foe, and failing. He finally tripped, falling backward, and the Hunter took the opportunity to stab forward with his spear. Foil’s body moved without thinking, and as the adrenaline pumped through his body and his breathing became quicker, he found himself smiling. He loved this.

Foil’s sword, un-imbued as it was, was in practice nothing more than a well-crafted blade without special abilities. But Foil’s enhanced strength combined with his angle of attack proved perfectly able to shear through the polished wooden shaft of his opponent’s weapon. The Hunter’s eyes (the only part of his face visible through a dark wrapping) widened in surprise for only a moment before he pivoted to Foil. Perrin scrambled away to regain his footing as Foil spun with the momentum of his first swing to slash horizontally at the Hunter. The Hunter, however, stood his ground and opened his fists. As the sword connected with his palms, the runes, blue and angular, flashed brightly and Foil found himself staring down the point of his own sword.

Foil didn’t understand what happened but immediately dropped to all fours as the Hunter swiped over his head. Foil had no time to think and rolled his weight forward onto his hands on instinct, kicking upwards with his legs into a handstand. One of his feet connected with the hilt of the sword and with enough force dislodged it out of the Hunter’s hands. Foil continued by twisting, crossing his hands and using the momentum of the follow-through to kick outward with his other foot. The Hunter leapt backwards to avoid Foil’s heel as the sword spun lazily through the air above them. Foil pushed off of his hands to land standing, hands open and at the ready.

The two fighters paused for a moment, breathing heavily. The acrid smell of blood and flames burned Foil’s throat and the return of the ashy black smoke stung his eyes. The Hunter he faced was similarly winded. The runes on his gloves had stopped glowing. In the brief seconds he had, Foil thought furiously.

What did he do to my sword? What’s his Aspect? That seemed very physical. Is he a Brute? A Shield? Does he need to touch—

Foil’s sword landed point down in the dirt behind the Hunter and the two fighters rushed towards each other. They exchanged several punches as Foil prioritized shallow jabs to avoid being touched by the Hunter’s palms. Foil had to figure out both his opponent’s Aspect and Manifest, while avoiding being caught off guard, all while boxing with someone taller and stronger than himself. The Hunter’s energy was too hostile to leech, and Foil was left with few options. As the fight became more desperate, Foil’s vision began to narrow and constrict. His expression became manic, his smile broadening and opening into a laugh. He barely registered Perrin approaching from behind, and, seeing the smallest of openings in the Hunter’s split focus, slid to his knees within the Hunter’s guard.

Foil’s Manifest was special, raw. Far from the strongest, but rare to the point of usefulness. Foil pressed both of his own palms against the Hunter’s midsection, gathering as much Essence as he could manage in such a short time. The Hunter reacted quickly, bringing both arms inward to crush Foil’s head. But Foil was faster, and in a burst of light released raw Essence from his hands. Perrin shielded his eyes with both arms, and when the flaring light faded and he was unblinded, he was met with the charred bottom half of the Hunter; the top half was simply gone. Foil was one knee, breathing hard and his smile gone. The effort had been intense but it had ended the fight quickly. Foil stood as Perrin reached out to him, question on his charred lips.

Perrin Ferrinus was small, even shorter than Foil, and far more scrawny. If Foil wasn’t a hero, Perrin certainly wasn’t a fighter. Foil was surprised to have even seen Perrin engaged in a duel and not hiding under a rock. Well, Foil reflected ruefully, I’m really not one to talk, am I? I’m even worse.

Foil looked Perrin up and down with renewed respect. Perrin’s bright red hair, often darkened and marred with soot, was foreign to the region and marked him as another Rift Orphan like Foil. His hair was contrasted by his bright teal eyes that shone with curiosity and consideration. His distinctive goggles, which he took with him even into battle, were missing; likely destroyed or broken. His pale skin was covered with freckles, but little of his skin was visible under the layers of protective cloth he wore during his tinkering.

Of all the Calico Rogues, Cynthia excluded, Foil liked Perrin the most, and the feeling was probably mutual. Perrin was incredibly shy, but was always willing to talk to Foil even at his worst, so Foil felt an intense bond of friendship for the smaller boy. Perrin likely harbored animosity like the others did, but he did a far better job of at least appearing to be kind. The two exchanged awkward smiles as neither spoke. Foil didn’t want Perrin to bring up his absence, and Perrin didn’t want to make Foil feel bad for it. But it was a topic that needed to be discussed, and thus the pair were at an impasse. Luckily, the sound of metal clashing and cloth tearing gave them the chance to bow out of accusations.

Foil and Perrin turned to see Aleksandra gracefully leaping from debris to debris, landing one foot on her toes before launching to another vantage point. Each time she landed she threw two or three daggers at her foe who swatted them out of the air with ease. Several of the daggers were blurry, and phased through the Hunter as well as any structure still standing: illusions created from her Manifest. However, the boys watched as Aleksandra flared her Essence, drawing energy from one of the daggers between her fingers, and as she loosed it the dagger seemed to embody the same incorporeal transparency as her illusions. The Hunter ignored it as he had her other illusions, but as the dagger passed into his chest, Aleksandra withdrew her Essence and the steel materialized inside the man’s lung.

Gurgling, blood soaking his shirt, the Hunter collapsed with the dagger hilt sticking out of him as innocently as if Aleksandra had simply stabbed him herself. She sauntered over to the fallen man and reclaimed her dagger. She seemed to also briefly frisk the corpse and tutted softly when he had nothing of value. She then straightened and turned to face Foil.

Aleksandra Wolf was tall, taller than Foil and nearly the same height as Cassian. Unlike Cassian’s bulk, though, Aleksandra was lean and toned. Her hair was tied in a long ponytail that reached past her hips which, as she’d said before, was the only weakness she’d allow herself in a fight. True to her word, she sliced her uniform into smaller and less restrictive pieces that left her lower legs and midriff exposed. She covered this modified uniform with red cloth in direct defiance of Foil’s authority and color-coding as captain. As a result, she posed a striking contrast to Perrin’s heavy, baggy clothing with her exposed skin and sharp face. Her exposed skin also revealed her most noticeable feature: her entire upper body was covered in jagged scars. They ranged in size (the largest a massive dark gash from her left hip to under her right breast, the smallest a slice through her right eyebrow), but were all deep and painful to look at. Foil often felt like she showed off her scars to make people uncomfortable, and the judgement he read in her purple eyes did nothing to assuage him of that feeling.

Foil had thought about what to say to his teammates when he met back up with them, but under both of their gazes, one open and one piercing, his words failed him. What could he say? Should he admit fault? Did they even know he was gone? Was it better to play dumb? Foil was unfortunately a terrible liar, and he knew it. The best course of action was to sidestep the issue entirely or to lay prostrate at their feet. He knew which one he preferred. He retrieved his sword and squared his jaw before turning to Aleksandra and Perrin.

“I’m here,” he announced with more bravado than he felt. “Let’s meet up with the others.”

Perrin and Aleksandra glanced at each other, meaning implicit. But neither challenged their captain.

“Okay, Foil. Good idea,” Perrin responded with a soft smile.

Aleksandra did not smile. “Sure, whatever.”

Foil sighed. That was the best he was going to get without inviting mutiny. The three set off deeper into the city, with Foil in the lead and his weapon drawn.