The walk back to the city of Seergrave was far from a silent one. Mrs. Augustus— his glorified babysitter, lectured him the whole way. Sometimes he felt like he never aged past his infant days with her. Not that he remembered those days. Not that anyone would tell him of those days either….
Part of him yearned to retreat back to the eastern edges of Center-Earth where the Black-Threshold loomed like a dark-tyrant and challenges spawned endlessly. He wished to sharpen his steel. To feel the wildness of the Ambient-Mana. To test his limits. To taste the blood of his enem—
He shook off the thought and focused on keeping pace with the golden owl.
The forest grew denser— yet more structured, the deeper they went into Center-Earth's bustling city of Seergrave.
Roadways of laid logs stretched, both intricate and incredibly simple. Elsewhere, padded dirt roads spiraled, rolling up slanted trees and stones to make ramps that allowed creatures of the wild to travel uninterrupted by man's expansion.
They were all one.
The living.
The green.
Buildings built into sky scraping oak and spruce trees lined the log and dirt streets. Vine curtains blew in the wind, allowing Murciel to peer into massive open ballroom floors and dining halls and weaponssmiths.
Brilliant gardens sat in front of stores with miraculous plants of all breeds and functions.
When no one was looking, he plucked a bolster-vine from one of the store front gardens and scarfed it down. Immediately he felt the burn of his bodily functions entering high gear.
His slower healing wounds patched up. His bodies calcium production went into overdrive, repairing his cracked bones.
By the time it was over, he was chaotically hungry. Downsides of most healing herbs. They made you use up everything in your body faster.
"Haaaaa…. Did I miss breakfast?" Murciel asked as they traveled down a much wider road where armored Druids stood guard and wolf-hounds pranced playfully. Some sporting silver and gold fangs, speaking to their shape-shifting skill.
"You did. Maybe next time you'll skip the wandering and head straight to training." Mrs. Augustus said.
"I wasn't—"
The golden owl divebombed, screeching like a beast from below. As she fell, she twisted. Golden feathers flew free, reflecting the sunlight and conveying images of twisting lights. At beautiful speeds, the airy sheet of gold solidified and took the form of an old woman. Angry in the face. Covered in hard lines as if she was cut from granite. Warts and age spots dotted her cheeks. Still somehow, her hair was golden, and her dark green robes were spotless. Even the single golden owl feather pinned to her chest.
"Enough."
Murciel dropped his head, "Yes, ma'am."
"You will have a good day, and you will report what you've learned when you return home."
Murciel looked up at her. "No gardening?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because today is a special day." Mrs. Augustus replied.
"How so?"
"Your mother returns from her deployment into Low-Earth."
Murciel felt his mouth go dry.
Mrs. Augustus's firm lips went firmer, "Smile more, young seed! Your mother has been in the darkest depths this world has to offer for the last year, give her warmth or I'll beat you till you're cold."
Murciel blinked his long dark lashes twice before smiling, "Of course I'm happy…. I get to see my hero! I get to see Titus!…but…... Mrs. Augustus why is my mouth dry? And why is my chest jumping? Ok— I stole a bolster-vine from the garden three blocks behind…. I think it was grown in dark-soil. AM I DYING??!—"
Mrs Augustus flicked his forehead with a taloned finger, "Silence, you wild creature!"
Murciel itched his forehead in shame as the guarding Druids and wolf-hounds snickered.
"Why am I— a young Druidic warrior, feeling this way when no monster is present?" Murciel grumbled.
"Because not all monsters exist in the physical realm. Or have fangs and claws. Some exist in the mind— in the heart, and at the pit of your stomach."
Murciel shivered, "I'll find the right weapon to slay this beast. What are they called?"
Mrs. Augustus smiled faintly, "Anxiety."
Murciel chewed on his fingernails, "Sounds exotic. Must be from High-Earth, but I've never been…"
Mrs. Augustus deflated, "You are…. stupid."
"WHA—"
"Get to training. Be home right after." Mrs. Augustus burst into a cyclone of golden wind and grass blades before eventually taking the shape of a golden owl. She was gone in a flash.
Murciel turned away and headed towards Bronzehenge, the training grounds for all junior Druid initiates and/or inhabitants of the Low-Mortal Cultivation Stages of Druidry.
It didn't look like much. Unlike all the others, it wasn't meant to stand out. Most junior Druids didn't have the abilities to defend against attacks from Low and beyond, so it was better to remain hidden within their forest homes.
The result was a large evergreen in the middle of a clearing at the end of the log road. At its peak, a bronze effigy stood under the sun, marking the entrance into his school.
If he focused his senses, he could hear the students within. He chose not to, he'd already stolen. Eavesdropping would only make him feel more villainous and he couldn't face his mother in such a state.
"Nows the time for heroism… and Druidry! And warriorism!"
"Warriorism is not a word." One of the Druids guarding Bronzehenge replied.
"Yea it is."
"No it's not."
"Then I'll make it one when I'm Pillar-Oak." Murciel replied.
The Druids laughed.
Murciel entered training.
Unlike the rest of the dense forest, Bronzehenge was a massive open clearing. Each training area and specified event was split into its own mini-grove bordered by flowers and small trees, each one symbolized and boosted a certain ability or cultivation technique.
As always they started their day in the center. Like their home. Under the sun, in reverence and respect of High-Earth.
"Murciel, you're late." His teacher, Professor Switch yelled to him as he jogged across the clearing. "It seems we have another running late. You're not alone for once."
"Sorry, sir! I was fighting a pack of Foul-Beasts. They almost bested me... but I'm the best. I avenged a fallen Druid." Murciel said proudly as he took a spot at the front of the crowd of students. Most regarded him with discomfort at his loud noise and animated movements. He was like a bat in a cathouse.
"You still lie. One hundred laps around Bronzehenge. Now." Professor Switch snarled as he looked down his curled hairy nose at him.
"Another mean old bird. I don't get his problem. Why would you reward my assumed lies with training…. that will only make me stronger…? I wonder if Mrs. Augustus would call me stupid for this. I wonder if my mother will when she sees me."
Murciel left the students in all their gossip and judging eyes and began his laps.
It was there he ran into more familiar faces.
"MERCY!"
Murciel turned around and found one of his friends rounding the bend in the forest, heading up to join him.
He was well into his thirties and still at the Low-Mortal Cultivation Stage. All he was good for was Ambient-Mana absorption to fortify his body. The first Cultivation Technique you learned as a Low-Mortal Cultivation Druid. Also known as a Junior Initiate or Seed.
But there was strength in him. Many repeat-Druids quit after a decade. Yet there he ran. Still in great shape— his muscles bulged beneath his tanned skin. His balding head soaked up the sun beneath a sheen of sweat. While Murciel was punished daily for being called a liar— or boy who cried beast, his friend, Olivander was punished for simply not having the knack for higher-Druidry.
Something about that felt wrong, but he couldn't properly enunciate it, so he ignored it. If he couldn't hit it with a fist or sword, he often forgot about it.
"Hello, friend." Murciel greeted Olivander as he joined him in the run.
"Tell me of your adventures today, young warrior." Olivander huffed, "Take my mind of this sprint. I beg."
"I overheard Mrs. Augustus talking to a unit of Druids about Foul-Beasts at the edge of the city. So this morning— no, before morning, I made my way, I ran with the coyotes and scavenger birds. There I found them….."
Olivander gasped— but it sounded more like a cough because he was on lap eighty-five and breathing wrong. He smelled a bit sick. "Did they reek? They say Foul-Beasts have a unique smell."
Murciel looked at him deadly serious. His dark-gold eyes unblinking as he ran beside the older, balding, man.
"Brother….. they had the stankest asses in all the earths."
Olivander's blue eyes were wide as saucers, "My word... how did you survive?"
Murciel looked away from him, letting his eyes mull over the blurring grass beneath his bare feet.
"I….. I'm not sure. When I'm out there and it gets serious… when they bleed and I bleed and our blood is spilled together I just. I have strength. I have no vision but I hear the truths of the world— of their movements. It's a state id like to maintain. I wonder if it's some sort of warriors cultivation technique. But I'm no prodigy. Perhaps I am a liar….. how could I defeat six Foul-Beasts but be so afraid to face my mother….?"
Murciel trailed off when he realized he was running alone.
Far far behind, Olivander huffed and screamed for him to slow down.
Their laps usually went that way.
If Olivander was giving it his all, why wouldn't Murciel?
***
He finished one hundred laps in an hour. Usually it took two.
Matter of fact, he finished one hundred and fifty in an hour because he was convinced he miscounted. He didn't like counting. It was boring.
He returned to the center grove grounds to judgemental eyes on Olivander and himself.
"Welcome back, foul-seeds." Professor Switch said, getting a laugh out of a few students.
Murciel didn't care for the jab, he was too busy trying to decipher the unique scent in the air.
It was familiar. Made goosebumps pop to life all down his arms and back.
He followed it until he found himself looking to the back entrance into Bronzehenge.
It was there that a boy rode in on a massive painted saber-wolf. It looked like a hybrid with its round ears, slimmer body and thick jaws. It's molten red eyes regarded him with an eery intelligence as the beast strutted over to the center of Bronzehenge.
"Oh! I'm glad you could finally make it." Professor Switch looked ready to unleash all of the laps he could onto the new student.
"Sorry I'm late, I ran into a pack of Foul-Beasts." The boy reached into his belt behind him and pulled up a tied bundle of severed Foul-Beast heads.
The bulk of students gasped in shock. Even Professor Switch was dumbfounded for a moment.
"Oh, so they believe him?!" Murciel raged.
"W-what did you say your name was, again?" Professor Switch asked.
"Logan Peltwalker."