Most of them were hardly worth the effort; his supply of Ancient Bones was very limited, so instead of using them, he had Biggs and Wedge scout the surrounding woods and bring them any small animal bones they found.
“How long before this… thing wears off?” Fawkes asked him, frowning at her hand.
Hunter had shown her how to channel a bit of her Essence into the charms to activate their effects, and she’d finally dared to try one. She’d chosen one of the least threatening-looking ones – a charm shaped like a hare’s scapula bone, jagged ridges on each end. To her surprise, it had transformed her fingernails into sharp, bone-like claws.
“Not sure,” Hunter said as he put down his carving knife. He’d had enough for one day. “Try pushing some of your Essence back into it and willing it to take its magic back.”
Fawkes frowned but focused on the jagged bone charm. After a moment, her claws faded, her fingernails returning to their normal state.
“Huh,” she said, examining each fingernail in turn. “It worked. I’ll be damned.”
Most of the lesser charms Hunter had made from low-dweller Essences and parts had similar effects – sharper claws, tougher skin, that kind of thing. One simply boosted the user’s sense of smell a bit. He wasn’t too impressed with any of them; they were little more than fun, nasty trinkets.
“Do you think I could peddle these off to the Brennai?” Hunter asked, gesturing at the small pile of charms on the tarp.
“You could,” Fawkes replied with a frown, “but I’m not sure you should. That slimeball Tego would probably snatch them up – and then price-gouge you for every bit of value he can squeeze out of them.”
“…but?”
“I’m not sure they’d do your popularity much good. Or mine. They already spit on the ground to ward off evil whenever we walk by.”
That was true. The folken were scared. It wouldn’t be too much of a leap for them to link the killings in the Weald with the weird Transient who makes grisly magic charms from bones.
“You could hold on to them until we’re out of here,” Fawkes offered. “They’d fetch a better price in one of the trading posts along the road south, anyway.”
She hadn’t mentioned going off on her own in quite some time. Hunter was quietly pleased by the change, but made a point of pretending not to notice. The last thing he wanted was to make her uncomfortable or give her a reason to start bringing it up again.
“Yeah, we could try that,” he said – if only just to say something. He didn’t really care about the charms. He’d made them solely to raise his Skills and Abilities, and on that front, the crafting session had been highly productive. His Occultism had risen to 16, and his Craft Spirit Charm to 18 – that was five points in just a few hours. He’d earned another two points in Reinforced Channels too, putting it at 16. It was well worth the exhaustion.
“Making good progress?” Fawkes asked. She’d learned to tell when he was looking at this Character Sheet. The glazed-over eyes were a dead giveaway.
“Good enough. Can’t complain.”
“‘Can’t complain,’ he says,” she echoed, shaking her head. “If my master had a student like you, he’d have marched me straight to the nearest poorhouse or orphanage.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Lad,” Fawkes began, her tone unusually dry and earnest, “you learn in days what others would take weeks for. You learn in weeks what others would need years to grasp. Sometimes I’m just jealous. And sometimes, you scare me.”
“It’s a Transient thing,” Hunter said, suddenly serious. “I wish I’d been like that on my side of things, too. It would have made my life a lot easier.”
“Make the most out of it while you can, then,” she said. “Which reminds me. Have you tried casting any spells yet?”
Hunter scratched the back of his neck, glancing away. The question had caught him off guard.
“You mean, with Eldritch Power? I’ve been meaning to, but I haven’t really gotten around it yet.”
He hesitated, searching for an excuse. He found none. The truth was, he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t tried yet. There was just something about the whole idea of being a mage-type character that didn’t sit right with him. Maybe it was the fragile glass cannon persona he disliked, or maybe it was something deeper, something he couldn’t quite put into words.
“I wanted to try using it in the Grove, but then we were tits-deep in Bramble Blights.”
Stolen novel; please report.
Fawkes raised an eyebrow. Hunter had never been good at lying.
“Well, they say there’s no time like the present,” she said. “Why not try now?”
“I don’t think it’s the right time, that’s all.”
“How can you know if you don’t try, lad?” Fawkes pressed on.
Hunter hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. He’d nearly run out of Essence – his reserves were barely a flicker – but he’d also run out of excuses.
“Alright, fine,” he sighed. “I’ll give it a shot.”
Fawkes crossed her arms and leaned back against a nearby tree, eyes fixed on him. Hunter didn’t know what she expected to see. He had no idea what he was doing. He stared down at his dirty and blood-stained hands, trying to figure out where to even start.
He brought up the Ability’s description once more, carefully reading through it again in hopes of making some sense of what to do next.
Was it just him, or had more recent Ability descriptions become much more, well… descriptive? This didn’t help at all. It left him with nothing to work with. And Fawkes was watching him like a hawk, waiting for something to happen. Sighing, he resigned himself to the fact that he’d have to intuit his way through it.
Again.
What exactly was it that he wanted to achieve with this Ability? When it came down to brass tacks, what was the outcome he was hoping for?
He needed to focus – clarify the intent behind his actions – because without that, he had nothing to guide the process.
Across every story, game, or bit of media he’d ever consumed, the simplest and most elementary magical attack was always the same – a way to fling magic at a target from a distance. That was what he was hoping to do here too, more or less. It wasn’t fancy, but it was a good enough place to start.
He picked out a tree at the far end of the clearing, raised his arm, and began cycling what little Essence he had left. As it stirred within him, a flicker of intuitive knowledge surfaced in his mind – similar to the way he instinctively knew how to draw a transmutation circle without understanding the meaning of its runes and sigils.
It was a multi-step process, each step requiring careful focus. The first was to concentrate enough Essence to form a missile of sorts, then compress it as tightly as possible. Hunter funneled what little Essence he had left toward his hand, willing it to coalesce, pushing it together as if trying to create a mote of magic in his palm.
As he did, Hunter suddenly became aware of Biggs and Wedge, their beady eyes fixed on him with an intensity that bordered on unsettling. It was as if they were waiting for something. Or judging his every move. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore them, but he could still feel their presence in the back of his mind.
Redoubling his efforts, he focused on creating the missile. It wasn’t easy. The Essence resisted, flickering and dispersing with every misstep, and his already-drained reserves made it even harder to keep steady control. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he pushed harder, determined to make it work.
Despite his best efforts, it was like trying to shape water with his bare hands – impossible to control, constantly slipping away. His head throbbed, and the dull ache from his strained Essence channels radiated through every inch of his body.
Several moments passed, and at last, he managed it. A tiny pinprick of Essence coalesced into existence, hovering just half an inch from his palm. Pale and luminous, it shimmered faintly, fragile as a soap bubble. It was all he could do to keep it from dispersing.
He aimed his palm at the tree he’d chosen for target practice, and with a sharp exhale, he let fly. Every ounce of his willpower went into guiding the minuscule missile through the evening air. The pale mote of Essence streaked forward, flickering unsteadily but maintaining its trajectory. It didn’t even make it halfway to the target before it simply faded, dissipating into the air as if it had never existed.
“Was that all?” said Fawkes, unimpressed. Even the ravens had lost interest, their attention now back to preening their feathers.
“It was all I have left,” Hunter shot back defensively, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His migraine was getting progressively worse. “I’d like to see you pull off one of your fancy pirouettes when you’re running on fumes.”
“No need to get all prickly, lad,” she said with a shrug. “You’ve gotten me used to more, is all.”
“Well, maybe I’m not cut out for this particular thing,” Hunter snapped, his frustration boiling over. “Maybe I don’t want to be a spellcaster. Did that ever cross your mind?”
Fawkes raised an eyebrow, as if assessing whether to take offense or let it slide.
“Apologies if I pushed you too hard,” she said after a moment, her tone measured. “A little light prodding used to work wonders with Reiner. Helped him grow past what he thought were his limits.”
Hunter remained silent, temper still boiling just beneath the surface..
“Forgive me, Hunter,” She went on, and at that moment, she looked old, weary. “Sometimes I forget you’re not him.”
She turned her gaze away, focusing on the distant trees rather than meeting his eyes.
“It’s alright,” Hunter said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just tired. And I don’t like this spellcasting thing. Don’t ask me why – I just don’t. It’s not me.”
“It’s been a long day,” Fawkes said, sounding distant. “Go get some rest. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
Hunter frowned. It wasn’t even night yet.
“I can stick around for a while longer, if you want me to,” he said, his tone softer. “Help you set up camp, build a fire.”
“No need. I’ll be fine. I’d rather be alone for a spell, if you don't mind.”
I do mind, Hunter wanted to tell her. I mind a lot.
But of course, he didn’t.
He just wished her a pleasant evening and vanished from her world.
***
That night, she dreamt the dream again. Old friends long gone, the thunderbird soaring above, the weight of a child growing within her. It always came back, vivid and unrelenting.
She woke in the dead of night, drenched in cold sweat, heart pounding like a drum. Fyodor stirred at her feet, the direwolf’s warm weight her only small comfort.
She didn’t dare drift off again. She just lay there, eyes fixed on the vast expanse of stars overhead, counting them one by one, till the sun’s first rays drove out the dark.
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