One time, I gave a chicken flight.
Well, letās start this over. Chickens can fly in much the same way that I can run - much more effective in theory than practice. But to watch a chicken soaring over buildings with no regard for currents, no sense for gravity, is particularly interesting. For what itās worth, I believe the chicken was also fascinated by the turn of events.
Okay, sorry, I should explain more. I am Neer Devepo. I have been alive thirteen years. My mother is Dara Devepo, and my other mother is Nilea Devepo. I was born during, as my parents call it, an astral tempest where stars above were dashing across the sky in great number. And they believe this gave me proclivity to poorly understood expressions of powers.
After my first outlet, maybe seven years ago when I accidentally placed lightning into a rock that Chord Jensen was about to take from me, and which unfortunately because this was an untested and first effort of power was a hair too strong, leaving Chord with black streaks through the veins on his gray-skinned Dwarven arm, I was, as is Garian tradition, sent to the Herders.
Herders, in Gario, were folk who are in-touch with power but have aged beyond everyday usage of them, and as such serve as living question-answerers. There are three living herders in Gario currently: Tevan Clodgrass, Morris Azucanian, and Bug. Morris usually worked with powersborn particularly interested in fighting and combat, Tevan with those in aid and craft, and Bug with those who didnāt quite fit either of those categories. I learn from Bug.
Bug is a half-ogre, massive compared to any other humanoid but ultimately a rather diminutive ogre by ogre standards. Bug has a power that allows him to communicate via images in oneās mind, despite the gnarly and jagged scar that has ripped across Bugās throat for as long as Iāve known. I was told not to ask about the scar by, well, every adult. But one day I did.
Bug sent me a series of images where, apparently, as a child, Bugās voice and roars could take over the bodies of those who could listen. His tribe was terrified watching Bug forcing them to cartwheel and dance, their massive ogre frames typically meant for inspiring fear being turned into little more than a childās circus. While Bug was sleeping, another Ogre brutally slashed his throat open with a stone knife. The tribe tossed Bugās body, bleeding out quickly, over a precipice in a lower rung of Garioās mountainous peaks, and Bug rolled and rolled until falling into some loamy soil. Thereās a darkness that passes before Bug shows a new series of images: a ribbonsparrow sitting on Bugās chest, pecking lightly as he comes to the light of day once more. An immediate fumbling of his hand to his throat as he feels the skin merged together once more. And then a vision looking up to the distant Garian city, strung together between mountain pillars on thick bridges, buildings dappling the sky.
Many powersborn are born with an exact and limited-in-scope power. In fact the vast majority are, as I was told, slowly, by Bug showing images of words. What that means is those who can conjure fire tend to just be able to conjure fire. However, occasionally, some are able to distort the powers themselves. Gario refers to these individuals as spiritful powersborn, as it is believed that one or more spirits have taken a particular interest in the life of these individuals, granting them access to more or branching power.
As Bug describes me, I am especially spiritful. My first expression of power was pushing lightning into a rock. Since then I have been able to: relieve pains, sense underground rivers, make someone weightless, connect objects with lightning, and most recently give other things flight. The only rules I have been able to discern for my powers, so far, are that I am unable to apply any of these effects to myself, and I cannot express them for a duration any shorter than twenty minutes.
Other powersborn, of which there are seven currently in the city not counting the herders, have much more traditional powers expressions: their efforts are very bodily, or tend to be manipulating some specific flow of energy theyāre privy to. The effects are either extremely short-lasting, reduced to the moments of effort, or permanent inscriptions, with no in-between for moderate duration ability.
Bug tells me often not to compare myself to the others. That I can do things that they havenāt even dreamt of yet. But I find it hard to do so when Gario hosts the Grand Efforts Fulfillment Tournament and Gala for the Youth, or the Geftgy, once every year.
The Geftgy, in theory, is a place for us powersborn to demonstrate how we have grown and developed over a coming year such that Gario may know how it may use its powersborn if need arises. At some point, some leader decided that it would be a good idea to introduce a fighting competition because, in the words of the current Gario Harkener, the most prominent leader we might have, āThere is no better way for a power to come to be than when tested in perceived mortal efforts.ā
So each year I am put to task against the other powersborn. I usually land middle-of-the-pact - defeated by the likes of Pyje, Wentz, and Lifa who each train as soldiers specifically, their powers particularly adept for destruction, and usually coming victorious over Marigold, Rust, and Iursz who each have more utility-afflicting powers. It was not a traditional tournament in the sense that we were competing against each other in a thorough format of winners continue and losers are excluded; instead, we each had three demonstrations where we would be placed within some kind of arena, and Harkener Bouldershift along with Tevan, Morris, and Bug would make snap judgments over how well we displayed our growth.
Two were usually the same: a flat, plain arena with a singular boulder in the center and we put to task to stand atop the boulder for the longest in a 10-minute duration contest, and erected stone dividing walls creating something of a small labyrinth which we were tasked to collect each otherās agate node, placed on a pedestal where we each began. The third was typically Bugsā concoction and would be moreā¦ unique. Sometimes it was as simple as: you have one hour, make the best sandwich for the judges. Sometimes it was as involved as: somewhere in the city I have hidden a silver and amethyst ring - find it.
This year my contests were against Lifa, Rust, and Wentz. The Harkenerās conquest - standing atop the singular boulder - was against Lifa who has access to control waters. You wouldnāt consider her to be particularly threatening given that sheās a short, black-haired mountain gnome who often adorns herself in shawls woven with eccentrically colored patterns of birds, but I couldnāt even approach the stone: sheād conjured something of a moat emanating from the puddle which rose off the ground three feet and was a constant flush of rapids. I had not the strength to fight the currents, nor the athleticism to jump around it. Truth be told it was a rather boring contest until, as the Harkener announced there was one final minute, Lifa started giggling fitfully.
It is said that powersborn, when overexerting or approaching something of a plateau of their available energies, enter something of a loosened state: more free, more attuned to the flow of energy, and less reserved. Lifa dropped the surging rapids to the ground with a puddling splash, and I, unwilling to give up, attempting to sprint forward and jump onto the rock. I was caught mid-air by a tendril of water wrapped around my ankle, then another around my other calf, and soon enough I found myself strung up mid-air by some dozen odd tendrils of water. She puppeted me, having me do embarrassing dances, even making me pick my nose at one point.
As the Harkener started counting down from ten, she released a sigh and lifted one of her hands into the air, fingers splayed. A curtain of water rose behind me and engulfed me in a sphere within which I could not move or breathe. I would not give her the satisfaction of panicking, and instead opted for the final flagellation after a series of embarrassments: I channeled my air into bubbles and had them engulf Lifa similarly. I could barely see through the opaque curtain of water Lifaās gut-clenching laughter within my bubbles. Then I released the lightning. The envelope of water shattered around me, falling to the ground with a thunderclap, but not before Lifa and my own body grew rigid and convulsed from the searing electricity that bloomed into our forms from every which direction.
There was a moment of genuine hurt on Lifaās face before I saw her competitive ire draw across her eyes. And though the Harkener behind us was yelling, āThatās enough Children, your contest is over, Lifa Loistoil is the victor!ā I witnessed as Lifa seemed to grip the air with both of her hands and pulled from the ground a surge, something like a tsunami that Iād read about, a wall of water easily thirty, forty feet into the air, with swirling vortical spears of water on the underside of it, aimed directly at me. Morris leapt into action, having some inner, otherworldly power that allowed him to effortlessly and silently land on the boulder next to Lifa in a manner of moments despite being some hundred feet away. But just before, I saw as Bug raised his large hand, already oversized for the seat prepared for the judges, to signal for a pause. Then the visions began.
The curtain fell. My body was pierced, bleeding against the dirt of the arena, limbs disjointed and twitching in its death coils. Neighbors, patrons, and every able-bodied individual rushed the arena, drawing weapons and encircling Lifa, looking at her like she had become the monster, unleashing that monstrous capacity for violence latent within all powersborn and that we must choose to ignore and restrict for all our days. Quicker, images kept flooding. Weapons assaulted Lifa and she was bludgeoned to death. Or, Lifa, like a cornered beast, rose up once more and used her powers to annihilate dozens, perhaps even a hundred or more non-powered Garian neighbors. Or Lifa, wracked with grief and guilt, wrung herself of water like she were a sponge to sap and extinguish.
Darkness, and the visions stopped. The water had dissipated, burrowing back into the ground. Lifa had huddled herself into her small knees, rocking back and forth sobbing. I approached. I pressed a hand onto her shoulder. Told her itās okay.
She looked up at me. Picked a hand up and with her index finger plucked one of the tear droplets on her cheeks and flung it onto my face as she defiantly said, āLeast you could cry too.ā
The other contests were less eventful. I was defeated in each this year. Wentz and I faced off in the labyrinth which I believe they have never lost. They were born half-orc, I supposed, but as their powers manifested their body adapted to its new inhabitants. Wentz became the first rockborn in at least a century. What that meant is Wentz could simply become rock. Itās hard to describe. They are simultaneously always rock and theirself. So a labyrinth of rockwalls isnāt a particular obstacle when they could simply walk into the wall and come out next to my agate. This year they opted for some showmanship. They raised their hands a few times to get some crowd noise as they started running hard at the walls. Each step resounded through the arena like someone was lifting and dropping entire mountains. And then I watched as, after I had turned my first corner, Wentz bulldozed perfectly through each wall, running through without stopped and without so much as a scratch. Agate in hand and labyrinth thoroughly destroyed, Wentz was announced victorious.
Bugās task was, as usual, straightforward and ridiculous. After I lost he had confessed he meant it to be rather easy for me, but hadnāt expected the gumption from Rust. Rust was an odd powersborn who was still exploring what the limits of his efforts actually were. She discovered she could instill belief in people at a young age. But as sheās discussed, being six years my senior and far more advanced in her apprenticeship, the actual effort involved was something like a narrowing of the type of vitality that she was able to give and pull with her powers, and a refined ability to bolster particular energies. She was able to infuse materials to be stronger, sharper. She was able to infuse foods to rejuvenate or become more filling. And, as she demonstrated this task, she was able to infuse objectives into an environment.
It is difficult to explain the act of giving and pulling energy for powers, but the best I can understand it is that all powers are a manipulation of the latent energy in the liveliness of any and everything. Most powersborn can only pull in large quantities (creating fairly tangible expressions of power) or give in large quantities (making artifacts and structures). Acute control is seen as something of a masterās effort.
So when Harkener Bouldershift announced Bugās task of āFind a spirit and determine what it is the spirit of.ā I watched as, within moments, Rust had called a small flock of wildlife: rolling crows, threadmice, and a few thorn hares. I was transfixed, watching as a representative of each of the animals came back with an offering of food and shared it with each other. Then, whirling like a small breeze of pollen between them came a presence. At first it was just there, and then it took on a marvelously small, humanoid shape with piercing eyes and a long tongue.
It felt like time stopped as I watched an unspoken interaction between Rust, the spirit, and the animals. Then, with a pointed glance at me, the Spirit licked its lips before waving goodbye to Rust and disappearing once more. Rust released a gasping exhale then yelled out, āThat was a visitation from the spirit of communal feasting. For the next five years, we must leave an extra plate for them to join in our celebrations. If we do so, they will ensure there are no boulderfalls onto those who might visit our gates.ā
Bug stood up quickly, clapping loud and cheering enthusiastically while Tevan and Morris more sluggishly joined in the enthusiasm. Not wanting to be left out, the Harkener also began to clap before announcing, āIt appears Rust has won the contest decidedly!ā
Things were quiet after the Geftgy finished. I resumed training with Bug, the rest of the town came to pass, the events and potent threats left behind as nothing more than scratches on the surface of a stone: not changing the fact that the stone was still a stone, even if now marked. This was Garioās aggression: every effort was full of a life-and-death struggle, and, every non-effort was full with refusing to entreat further efforts. Many like to depict our aggression as rage, something like a blinded state of anger and desire for violence, power, and victory, but I think this is a misrepresentation.
Aggression pervades all aspects of Garian society. We are aggressive in our care toward others, we are aggressive in our efforts toward love and camaraderie, and we are aggressive in our passions and interests. In a way, I would have been insulted if Lifa hadnāt responded to my challenge with her own passions. That sheād have considered me and my efforts so lesser than that I posed the same amount of threat as a handful of dirt to a roaring brushfire.
Iāve read of other cities, heard from travelers and Tevan, who wasnāt born in Gario but according to Morris is of the nature and proclivity that makes Gario so endearing and dangerous, that many cities donāt care for each other nearly as much as we do: places like Shacaster which prides indepedence and choice, for instance, rarely indulges in unflinching feats of regard. Worse yet, you have townships like Beeley which seems to have closed itself off from travelers entirely, seeing itself as somehow better than the rest of the world, or perhaps too threatened by the nuance the rest of us exhibit to indulge in any appreciation for our differing lifestyles.
And yet we are the ones who most frequently get depicted as dangerous, as the most likely to threaten the stability of it all.
Bug was asking me to juggle six different objects and instill a different power into each when he noticed my eyes lazing, lost in these thoughts of conflicting appeals. Swiftly he reached his hand out and captured three of the balls that were floating in the air - one frosted over, one thrumming with energy, and one with an attraction to it - and instantly pressed them into my forehead. I am a half-faun and as such Bugās ogre-sized palm was about the entire size of my head which tended to be more than enough to occupy my attentions.
I saw the familiar darkness flash over my mind as a precursor to Bugās oncoming conversation. He flashed images of my contests from a few days prior and then crude representations of himself reacting to these contests: solace but accepting over the result with Wentz, something like pride watching me against Lifa, and a pitfalling disappointment over what happened with Rust. Then he etched into my mind words: Do you believe in the spirits?
Something I hadnāt considered before - belief. I suppose it was undeniable after the demonstration of presence that Rust held, but undeniability is not necessarily the same as true belief. Belief is something of an affirmation, whereas undeniability feels more like a neutrality. I sighed and said, āIām not sure. I guess I donāt really understand what makes them different or standout from, well, anything else.ā
And Bug flashed in my head images from a fargone time. A very young Bug witnessing an Ogre caller hold the attentions of several figures that were simultaneously there and not there, as ethereal as the dawnās light bounced off a copper vein, and as tangible as water. Then, Bug was alone, older now, in the Runerastle, a forest south of Roysonās Unbound, considered one of the least inhabited domains in Cleff. Bug had berry innards smeared across his face and was feasting on a small pile of fruits when, sitting adjacent to him, were all manner of figures draped in nothing but light. Then the images hastened: the spirits transfigured into the air, into trees and brush, into animals, into footprints in the ground, into a trodden pathāeverything, it seemed, was a spirit and in this instant of Bugās lonely journey, everything was aiding his survival.
It was scratchy, and not immensely pleasant nor rhythmic, but the images stopped with the sound of Bugā¦ humming? I had only heard him make noise on rare occasions. But as he hummed, there was something welcoming to the sound. It was in that moment that I witnessed a spirit form from the air, half of a gnomeās size, standing atop Bugās thigh. The words occupied my mind, spirit of the unfinished journey.
The more I sat, perceiving the spirit bobbing in Bugās lap, the more it came to regard me. And, after several moments, it hopped over onto my lap, occupying a crook between both of my thighs and coming up to mid-torso on me. The words occupied my mind, a spirit only acknowledges that which acknowledges it. I was not much for humming, but I did tend to whistle when I was walking home in the evenings, the streets mostly empty and my body sluggish from the dayās efforts. So I whistled the tune Iād been working on lately. It was soft, crackly, halting and imperfect, but in that moment I realized it was the song I crafted for myself in that mid-transit loneliness.
The spirit grew and grew, beginning to loom over me, not exactly casting a shadow onto my frame and not gaining anything like weight, but basking my form with something of its aura, its radiance. Bug smiled, the words Your journey is quite long, it seems.
Frozen with a type of discomfort, I contended the spirit ahead of me with my full attention. And it pulsed, growing in purpose with its perceived presence in my life-to-come. I witnessed it beginning to warp the flows of energy around us, in much the same way as watching Wentzā footfalls causing waves in the dirt that push and then retract. Perhaps this is what Bug had tried to instill in his contest: the spirit is a summation of energy and potential. Perhaps this is what Bug sees in me, his especially spiritful protege: the spirited potential of the callers he admired in his youth.
Sun had begun to set, falling behind the Unbound Peak, sturdy and voluminous as it were, casting deep shadows over the city and I realized I had been welcomed and contending this spirit for what must have been hours. Bug, silent and appreciative, at my side, patient as always. I looked around me and began to notice all number of spirits: tucked into alleys and corners, in the shadows under rocks, gliding within the paved walkways, residing in select pastries in market stalls in the process of closing up, floating between rooftops, fidgeting under rooftop slates, and, further up, they were radiant, illustrious, calling to me as though with outstretched and embracing arms, dozens of arms, they were clouds, golden clouds, reaching for me, I knew it was for me, reaching for me, and I instinctively lifted my hands up, trying to catch their embrace, before I felt a firm grip on my forearm holding me down and baring me back to reality.
I had begun to float, maybe four feet off the stone Iād been sitting on. The spirit of the unfinished journey was no more and I could no longer see the other spirits residing around town. Do you believe in the spirits?
I think I could make anything fly.