Antaigne left the food on the table next to bed and excused himself. Marcius found he was once again in the gloomy room. Alone. He was starting to really hate looking at this ceiling. Marcius sighed deeply as he laid back, the food forgotten. His mind swirled with thoughts about the familiar on his stomach and all the implications it brought along with it.
No, not alone.
❧ ❧ ❧
The two masked figures circled warily, foot over foot, each breathing heavily. Their swords were sheathed in leather, but the thin layer did little to suppress the sharp ring of metal as they met once again. There was a flurry of action, the intermingling of steel and strength, as each sought to find that subtle opening in the others defenses. The heavier-set one did a quick series of jabs, putting the thinner one on the defensive. Higher and higher went the thin man's sword in his attempt to stave off the assault, his opponent's blade then took a low, quick swipe at his midsection, forcing him to leap back, barely avoiding being sliced in half.
It was something that the smaller man expected, but what he didn't account for was the elbow that followed. Connecting squarely with his jaw, a resounding snap of bone hitting flesh rang out. Reeling from the blow, the best he could do was flailing his sword out in front of him to hold off the inevitable follow-up. There were two stinging blows to the back of his knees instead, causing them to buckle, sending him face first into the slowly browning late summer grass.
"Really boy, in that fight, you would've been hamstrung twice and at your opponent's mercy." The sturdier man took off his protective mask, throwing it onto the ground in disgust. His gray eyes were as worn as his face, and his short blonde hair and beard were just starting to give way to the inevitably of age. He had the bearing of someone with complete confidence in himself. "Had this been a real fight, you would've died. Learn to think outside the constraints you place on yourself."
"Yeah, yeah, I know father," the thin figure took off his mask as he also stood up, revealing the sweaty face of Jared Garalan. His typically long blonde hair was matted to the sides of his face and his breath came out in ragged gasps. The day was as hot as the nights were cold, but his shortness of breath came equally from frustration as it did from the blistering heat of the midday sun.
Damn it, he cursed his stupidity under his breath. He should have not fallen for that. He brushed an annoying strand of hair from his face as he turned to face his father once more.
To realize his dream of one day becoming a famous adventurer, Jared had started training in the art of swordsmanship at the tender age of twelve. His name would be sung in ballads, known by every man, women, and child in Faelon. Likewise, it would invoke fear in every monster and beast that considered itself a threat to the honest people of the world.
There was just one problem. The man in front of him.
Gary Garalan was perhaps the most feared man in the country of Lorinia, perhaps even more so than the King. He had forged his reputation with a tenaciousness and intelligence that was, even to this day, legendary among the thief guilds and brigands that still operated in the country. The name Bloodhound was given to him many years ago, both for his relentless pursuit once he caught the scent of crime, and for his skill in arms. The aging, portly man in front of Jared was probably still one of the best swordsmen around. And it frustrated Jared greatly. How could he claim the mantle of a famed adventurer if he couldn't even beat a man way past his prime?
Jared was startled out of his reverie by a stinging slap to the face by the flat end of his father's still leather covered sword. "Quit your dreaming, boy. You can rest assured that your enemy would run you through if you pause to smell the roses. Adventurer indeed. . . " The last part was said in a flat, derisive tone; testament to his father's thoughts about the chances of that dream ever becoming reality.
"Father. . . " Jared responded through gritted teeth, ". . . I do have a name." He bent over, feeling the book that inspired his dream flop about lazily inside his tunic, and picked up the training mask. Slipping it on, he took his stance and gestured his readiness. A thin trickle of blood ran down the side of his mouth, mixing with the sweat and grime that had accumulated.
Gary smirked, "Fight like that and your adventuring career will be short indeed, boy." Putting on his mask and poking Jared with his sword in the exact spot where he also knew housed the boy's treasured book; the next words were a bit muffled. "Prove me wrong and earn it, boy."
Jared responded with a swing of his sword. The sound of metal upon metal could be heard ringing once more. Somewhere, in the back of Jared's mind, he hoped his friend Marcius was alright and was training just as hard. He'd show them! He'd carve his own destiny with this very sword. It was the last cognizant thought before he gave himself fully to the intricate dance of swords.
❧ ❧ ❧
A certain blonde swordsman wouldn't have been happy had he known that leagues away, a certain wizard apprentice was lazily lying on his back in the middle of a grassy field. Marcius was woken up at the crack of dawn, but instead of learning magic like he thought he would be doing, Antaigne kept his promise, much to Marcius's chagrin. They had spent the last three days learning about his familiar.
" Wait, what do you mean my blood?" Marcius sat up with a jolt when he digested this information. He had been mindlessly listening to the dwarf prattle on for the past hour over the history of familiars and their importance to famous wizards when his ears picked up that minor tidbit.
"Yeah," Antaigne sounded annoyed at being interrupted during his lecture "Since a familiar is part of yer soul, in addition ter food, ye need to give it a portion o' yer blood every three months or so."
Marcius blanched, his mind going back to the summoning ritual incident. "Uhhhhhh. . . exactly how much do I have to give him?" Faerril was basking on a large rock next to the pair, thoroughly enjoying the midday sun. He seemed to sense Marcius's stress, turning an idle eye to regard the young man.
"Oh. . . 'bout a teaspoon or so," Antaigne paused, his eyes unfocused briefly, "Fanrir says it can vary a bit, but usually ‘round there."
Marcius let go a breath of relief. At the mention of his master's familiar, a question popped into his head. "So. . . ummm. . . master, why can't Faerril speak to me like Fanrir does to you?"
"Easy there, lad." The dwarf chuckled a bit, reaching over he picked a stalk of grass and stuck it in his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully. "Yer familiar is like a newborn child. It's something he'll learn naturally. Just give ‘em time."
Marcius nodded numbly. Now that he gave it some thought, he was hoping for that day to come quickly. He could feel the tingly sensation of the wyvrr's consciousness, just barely out of reach in the back of his head. He was anxious to see how much he could share with what was quickly shaping up to be his new best friend. At that thought, his mind turned to the subject of Jared Garalan. He felt a bit guilty, as if he somehow betrayed his blonde friend with that thought.
"All right lad, I think that be enough needless talk fer today. Time fer some hands on experiences, eh?" The dwarf dusted off his robes. He wore a deep crimson one today, adorned with his trademark plethora of pouches. His equally scarlet hair went unbraided, it was the very image of organized chaos. A bright green pointy hat lay ignored on the ground, next to a plain looking staff.
"Fanrir, show yerself." The dwarf's voice was quiet, tender. Once again, the catlike familiar faded into view, safely hidden within the curly red beard of Antaigne. The fluorescent eyes fell upon Marcius's and he could have sworn it winked at him. "Time fer a lesson on the real reason familiars be essential fer bein' a wizard." The dwarf's tone had the air of someone divulging secret information, his dark brown eyes glanced around warily. Marcius unconsciously shifted himself so he could give Antaigne his full attention.
"A familiar's sole contribution ter a wizard is that they allow us ter see inter the nether realm." The confusion must have been evident on Marcius's face, because the dwarf elaborated. "Wizards are like artists, and the nether is our canvas. As ye know, spells are created by meshin' both the energy o' our bodies and the chaotic energies o' the nether, then twisting them into the confines of what spell we want. For whatever reason, the only way we are able to see our "canvas" is due ter the unique ability granted by a familiar. Without a familiar, the hand signs, spell components, and incantations we use ter shape the nether would be useless babble. Without ‘em, we would be blind people drawin' paintin's."
Marcius's face crinkled up, the explanation had a few apparent loopholes. "Well, what about can-trips? I can do those without a familiar."
The stout dwarf threw him a grin. "That's like askin' a blind man ter draw a line. Ye don't need eyes fer that! Can-trips are so simple ye only need the ability ter use magic ter do it. Real spells be much more complicated." Antaigne gently untangled the familiar from his beard, cupping his hands he held it up to Marcius. "See the eyes? That's how ye can tell he be lookin' into the nether." They were swirling in the recognizable eclectic patterns of varying colors that Marcius had seen before.