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ACoL Book 2 - Chapter 3: The Morning Jog
🕑 Added 2024-11-01 22:37:39 +0000 UTC(Another chapter from book 2.)
Something terrible was speeding across Admoran. It was a subtle, insubstantial thing despite its size and speed. It passed through fields, ducked through valleys and sailed across lakes, all without leaving a trace. It even coursed through villages and houses. But it was not a danger to anybody, not yet. Nobody even knew it was there.
Only the beasts of the land seemed to sense its passing. Birds took flight from the treetops. Field grazers scattered at its passage. Its true mass was enormous and yet if it passed through a person, they felt little more than a tingle and a shudder. It was invisible to most senses, being little more than a passing fluctuation. The air would appear to "flinch", but then it was gone. Most would pass it off as a trick of the eyes. Even the gloweyes, with their extra senses seemed oblivious.
The entity could not quite be called sentient, and yet it had thought. Or rather, it had a goal, a single obsession. And it was careening toward that goal, toward its target.
***
After they had their breakfast, Vincent could see the first slivers of daylight. As the sun rose, it chased away the fog, revealing a tumultuous land covered in compact, but stout trees. Their dense branches, which formed a dome on each tree, were covered in needles resembling a Douglas fir’s needles, only they were accented in light blue at the tips. The effect made the trunks and branches look like they were enshrouded by light blue orbs. Mountains in the distance thrust upwards at the sky, their round peaks were clenched like raised fists.
Admoran was a beautiful, yet chaotic place. The very features that made it dynamic and wonderful also made it formidable and unnavigable. The more Vincent drank in its sights, the more he wondered if it was meant to be ogled at only, and admired, but not lived in. Perhaps he was too used to Earth, with its mostly flat vistas. Maybe there were places on Earth that rivaled this visceral beauty, but he doubted it.
A memory came rushing back to him. He and his sisters were racing along a trail in the Rocky Mountains. He found a giant boulder and scaled it, claiming it as his fortress. Kris said she saw it first and a fight ensued. It all came to a head when he picked up a pinecone and threw it at her face. The impact of the recollection almost made him visibly stumble.
The only reason Vincent initially agreed to come on this expedition was because he had partial amnesia. From the moment he woke up in Falius, pieces of his life were missing from his recollection, as if somebody had locked them up. The Puppeteer’s storms unlocked them whenever he encountered one and so, that was why he came. If Falius was a coma-induced dream, he didn’t want to believe in it. But the voids in his memory made him susceptible to its influence. It could fill in those gaps with something false and delusional.
He kept the amnesia a secret from his hosts and lied to them about his decision to accompany the expedition. To him, this world had been a conspiracy, a fantasy conjured by his broken mind. His brain always fought against him. This world wanted him to fulfill one of its prophecies, to settle into the persona of the Saedharu. And so, he did. Or at least, he pretended to.
He lied. He told them that he had visions of death and slaughter, that he had a power to stop the storms and he couldn’t stay still while this was happening. Only one of those claims was true, of course. He had a power to stop the storms, but he didn’t know where it came from or how it worked. Only that a “meddler” was involved.
But the Puppeteer was gone. Though it claimed it had nothing to do with Vincent’s amnesia, the barriers between Vincent and his past began to dissolve. He could feel his memories returning. But instead of being elated, instead of feeling nostalgic, he felt sick. His identity was coming back, but he lied to Thal’rin. He used the expedition. Soldiers died...for what? So, he could remember the time he threw a pinecone at his sister’s face?
He turned away from the rising sun, went back into the tent and did his morning exercise routine. He was stuck in this world, in this body, whether he liked it or not, whether it was real or not. He needed to take care of it to keep his mind occupied, if nothing else. He started with regular push-ups. They were considerably more difficult than regular, human pushups.
For one, his center of gravity kept shifting due to the wings wanting to disobey him. So, he was forced to keep them in check and fold them in. Second, he had to turn his head or else the snout would bump the ground. Sweat ran down it and gathered around his nostrils.
When he couldn’t do any more, he took a break, and then he did Falian pushups. Or as Menik called it, “hugging grass”. They were like regular push-ups, only instead of using the arms, one used the peaks of the wings. They were absolutely miserable. It was one thing for a human mind to feel the presence of wings. “Ok, this is new,” the brain seemed to say, “I don’t know what to do here.” But trying to do a pushup using only wings...Vincent could feel his brain protesting. “What the fuck are you doing?! Nope! Nope! I don’t like this!”
Vincent could only do about two or three before he collapsed. Muscles around his lower keelbone, sides, and back burned. He was trembling from the effort. Menik entered the canopy to retrieve something and saw him hyperventilating on the ground.
“Thought I heard you dying,” he cocked a brow.
“Yeah, I think I am,” Vincent gasped, “maybe I need to do more cardio before I jump right into attacking the muscles.”
“Cardio?” The word was unfamiliar to the shandan warrior.
“You know...jogging, running.”
Menik took off his armor and began to clean it. “Nothing stopping you,” he said.
“Yeah, but...this is going to sound stupid...but I don’t know how to.”
“You don’t know how to run?”
“Yeah. As in really run. I just lose my balance and fall on my ass. I don’t know if it’s my posture, the wings messing me up, or what.”
“You have interesting idioms,” Menik observed,
“What?”
“You said ‘messing you upward’.”
“No, I said ‘messing me up’.” Vincent said.
“How is that different from what I said?” Menik seemed genuinely baffled. It was easy to forget that Vincent could understand and speak any language without even realizing it. How this talent functioned was a mystery, but it worked…most of the time. However, what his hosts heard could sometimes vary from what he actually said, especially when it came to Earth sayings.
“That’s not the point. The point is I’m clumsy. I don’t know how to run.”
Menik did not judge him, nor did he make any snide remarks. Instead, he told Vincent to get up and run from one side of the canopy to the other. Vincent did...and he nearly wiped out.
“Again,” Menik said, stepping aside as Vincent ran past him. “You drag your feet. You don’t lean forward enough. And your wings are not folded against your back. The tail is also not in-line with the direction you’re running in. It veers to the side.”
The tail would be easier to take care of than the wings. His brain, surprisingly, adapted fairly quickly to its presence. Maybe there was a vestigial memory leftover from the time human beings used to have tails.
“Since we have nothing to do today, we are going to train,” Menik said, “you can join us. Put flesh on those bones.”
Vincent gave a half-hearted grin, “Sure. Sounds good. But there’s no way I’m going to keep up with you guys.”
“’Pain is the teacher’,” Menik recited, “Telo One-Wing said this.”
“Heard the name before, but I don’t know who that is.”
“One of the greatest warriors who ever lived. At the Battle of Teeth and Stone, he lost his blade and he lost his wing. The enemy cut it off and he was left for dead, surrounded by the corpses of his fallen brethren. Driven by pure mania and will, he got up, picked up his severed wing, and used its bones as weapons, piercing his enemies’ eyes through their armor.”
Vincent was skeptical and Menik could tell.
“At least, that is how the story goes,” he said, “it is one of my daughter’s favorites.”
When Menik was ready, Vincent followed him outside to join the rest of the cabras. There were already groups of shandan running laps around the perimeter of the camp. Vincent took note of their running posture. It was graceful. Their snouts were points downward, but their eyes faced forward. When they ran, they leaned into the wind, further forward than a human being would. The center of gravity for a Falian groundwalker was different from a human’s. Vincent had to remember that. They kept their wings tucked in unless they made sharp turns. Then they would unfold a wing just a little bit in the direction they were turning.
“Vincent Cordell will be joining us,” Menik said.
A few raised their brows, but they didn’t comment much.
“My brother will not be joining us,” Oris said as he removed his top. Angry ugly scars and scabbed wounds lacerated the scales on his keelbone and chest. Muscles and bulk hid behind a few rolls of fat. “He and The La’ark have things to discuss. Or so he says.”
“Or so he says?” Madrian repeated.
“Aye. I think the real reason is that he is ashamed to stand next to me when there is a lady present. His feral form is no match for my virile beauty. It would put him to shame.”
“What lady?”
Oris grinned. “There is a kiolai who thinks she is being clever by using a shade to conceal her presence. She is perched on a tree branch, spying on us.”
Vincent looked around. He hadn’t noticed it, but there was a branch sagging on a nearby tree. A fluctuating image that seemed to defy sight hovered above it. He recognized it as the lore Slade used to conceal her presence. He didn’t know how it worked, but it effectively made her invisible to most. How long had she been there? Slade dismissed the lore, revealing her black form sitting on the tree branch, legs dangling over it like a mischievous child’s. A few of the shandan stepped back in surprise.
“I am impressed,” she said, “when did you notice?”
“As soon as you started doing it, which was four days ago,” Oris said, tying a bandana around his head. “You are exceptionally talented at illusion lore, but you underestimate how sharp-eyed my brother and I are.”
“I noticed it three days ago,” Menik said, “saw evidence of footsteps on the boulder we camped next to.”
“The three of you said nothing?” Jeris sounded offended, “you let her watch as we relieved ourselves in the woods?”
“Your eyes should have been sharper,” Oris said, “we are not children. If a little bit of humiliation teaches you to be vigilant, then I consider it a valuable lesson. Now Kiolai, are you going to tell me why you’ve been spying on us, aside from ogling my shiny carapace and my good looks?”
Slade’s grin was very subtle, but she did not answer.
“The question was not rhetorical, Kiolai,” Oris’s tone grew more serious.
“I have my reasons,” she said, “but they are mine.”
“Well, it stops today.”
Slade grunted an affirmation and slipped off the branch. After stretching her wings wide, she walked away. Jeris, Madrian, and M’kari seemed stunned and humiliated that they failed to detect her presence. Vincent was surprised too. His eyes could normally see right through it. When they got over it, they prepared for the day’s jog. Vincent followed their lead and removed his shirt.
“Do you know what you’re getting yourself into, Cordell?” Madrian said.
“No. I know I’m going to fall behind.”
“I will stay with him,” Menik said.
“Cordell,” Jeris said, “where...where are your nipples?”
Vincent blinked. Did he just hear what he thought he heard? “What?”
“Your nipples! Why don’t you have any?”
“What the fuck?” Vincent blurted out.
“He has no navel either!” Madrian exclaimed, “where are your nipples and navel? Did you not realize they were missing?”
Vincent was baffled. Yes, he noticed that his chest was smooth and that his body lacked a belly button. For some reason, he simply assumed all Falian groundwalkers would be the same way. But now that Jeris and Madrian mentioned it, he did notice very small dots that he thought were scales on their chests. He was a bit nauseated. Dragons, even those that walked on two legs, should not have nipples.
“I don’t know,” he said, “I guess it’s because this body is artificially created.”
“Are you done jiggling your jowls back there?” Oris barked.
“We are ready when you are, Oris,” Menik said. Vincent now suddenly felt self-conscious.
Oris grunted, then led them through the camp toward the perimeter. Vincent noticed eyes following him. The truth of what had happened in Crefield had not been made public. The La’ark had not told her soldiers that Vincent was responsible for the fiery conflagration that consumed the Puppeteer’s creation. Only his cabras had been made aware. But they knew. He could see it in their eyes, hear it in their whispers. Hushed murmurings carried their way to his ears as he and his cabras passed them by.
A few fresh amputees sat up on their cots to watch, their snouts sweating with fever. He recognized one of them, a soldier who had his mangled wings cut off. He remembered his screams after the confrontation with the corrupted tantalons. Vincent was responsible for that. He looked away. He couldn’t bear to meet the creature’s eyes.
Coward, that’s what Vincent was. A coward and a liar. Only The La’ark, Oris, and Akhil knew the truth. Nobody else knew about Vincent’s deception. He didn’t want them to know, he didn’t want to be that person. At the same time, part of him wanted to be condemned. He deserved it.
When they reached the perimeter, Oris turned around.
“We will start with Wendel’s Stride,” he said.
“Wendel’s Stride?” Vincent repeated.
“Wendel’s Stride is a brisk walk,” Menik explained, “Shorin’s Step is to jog, Telo’s Pain is to run, Telo’s Fury is to sprint.”
Vincent nodded. To say Wendel’s Stride was a brisk walk was an understatement. It skirted the line between walking and jogging. A pit sank into his gut. But he focused on his posture. He emulated the others, snout down so he could see the ground, leaned forward, wings tucked in. After a bit, Oris called out Shorin’s Step. They pulled ahead into a jog.
Vincent stumbled briefly before recovering himself. His stride was awkward, and it drew a few looks. His feet kept scraping the ground and he had to consciously lift them higher. But his mind was learning to use its new vessel. The wings were just extra hands. He kept them closed. The tail was just an extension of his spine. It followed where he went. It didn’t take much effort to keep it straight.
Sweat gathered and ran down his iridescent scales. His maw opened and he began to pant. Soon, a familiar, yet awful ache began to stab gently at his chest. It was the ache one felt when they had not run for a long time, a sickening tautness that felt like somebody was clenching a fist inside one’s bosom. His ears bounced as he jogged, and his mane clung to his neck. None of the others were panting of course. He was the only one. This was going to be bad...really bad.
“Telo’s Pain!” Oris bellowed.
The soldiers pulled ahead, snouts lowered into the wind and digitigrade feet pounded off the dirt. Their feet tore into the ground and propelled them ahead with speed Vincent could not hope to match. But he tried. His legs burned and the tightness in his chest became like a baseball lodged under the keel bone. He kept this up for half a minute at most. His stride was unstable and clumsy, but he managed to stay standing. But then all hell broke loose. A wing unfolded, caught the air, and pulled him off-balance. He tried far too late to recover and instead, ended up wiping out.
Menik stopped and waited for him to recover. Vincent was gasping for air, shaking. Damn it! he thought. Was he really this weak? He forced himself to get back on his feet and continued to run. The cabras was already out of sight. It was just Menik and him. Jogging was fine. It was doable. But every time he tried to run, he fell down. Every time he fell down, he forced himself to get back up. The pain was good. He wanted it. The burning overrode all thoughts.
However, he had to bail after two laps around the camp. He had slammed face first right into his limit. His body, never having been subjected to prolonged cardio, felt like an earthquake. He collapsed onto the ground, keeled over and nearly puked up the feln bread he had eaten earlier. Idiot, he thought. Eating before a hard run was always an invitation for disaster. He knew this. He was no slouch on Earth.
“Are you done?” Menik asked.
“Yeah...I’m done,” Vincent wheezed.
“Are you going to make it back or do you need me to carry you over my shoulders?”
Vincent was so winded that for a moment, he thought Menik was being serious.
“Nah...I’ll be fine. You go on ahead. I just...need a moment.” Vincent wiped his dank mane out of his eyes. “Thanks for letting me join you guys.”
Menik grunted, then he was off. Vincent waited for a few minutes until he could breathe normally again, then he got up. His scales glistened with a rainbow iridescence in the sun’s light. When he moved, the colors seemed to shift and morph. It was strange that he couldn’t appreciate their beauty before. He wasn’t sure he could appreciate it even now, having experienced the hellish transformation that turned him into this form. But the effect drew the eyes.
He was about to head back toward his canopy when he noticed a distortion flickering near a tree a stone’s throw away. It was Slade. Frowning, he looked in her direction and held up his hands. What? No response. Shaking his head, he headed back to his cot.
