Valiant: Tales From The Drift

[Tails #16: Weak]

Log Date: 1/13/12764

Data Sources: Jazel Jaskolka, Lysanne Arrignis

Event Log: Jazel Jaskolka

Dandelion Drift: Jazel’s Room

4:18am SGT

I wake up shivering.

My breathing is ragged, coming out of the dream I just had. What had been sharp, cold air in the dream is really just my dry throat; I cough a couple times beneath my thickly nested blankets. I know I should get some water, but I’m still shivering, and I don’t want to leave my bed. My skin is cold, despite the layers of blankets I’m buried under.

Inhaling a deep breath, I mentally brace myself, then pull back the covers and work on waking up.

The air in my room is warm; it’s not a lack of heating that has left me cold. I look around; I can see the dim glow from the bioluminescent fungi and insects in the terrarium across my room. Sitting on my dresser is a potted pair of spirit blooms, the petals open and letting off their rich blue glow since the lights are off. For everything else, I can only discern vague outlines in the dark.

Raising a hand, I press it to my face, squeezing my eyes shut. Just the act of sitting up has given me a throbbing headache. My back and my neck are sore, and for a moment I’m tempted to just lay back down in bed and let them relax. But my dry throat gets the better of me; even if I lay down now, I know it’ll force me to get up in another five minutes. Better to do it now, and get it over with, than to put it off until later.

Pushing off my bed, I stand up slowly, to keep my throbbing headache from getting worse. Shuffling to the bathroom, I fumble the door open and stumble inside, finding the counter and bracing my forearms on either side of the sink. Flicking the water on, I drink straight from the tap — not gulping it down, just little sips here and there to soothe my rough throat. Even after I’ve had my fill, I don’t move, feeling too weak to do so. I just remain there, bent over the counter and braced on my forearms; and when I look up, I see myself in the mirror. Somewhat. It’s just the outline of my head, and the six blue claw marks on my face, glowing dimly in the darkness of the bathroom.

I’m reminded in that moment of why I feel this way. Cornered in the lab last night, Kayenta hungry as usual, her fingers wrapped around my throat and the scent of spirit blooms on her breath…

Reaching forward, I turn off the water, and rest my forehead against the top of the faucet.

Closing my eyes as I wonder how much longer I can keep this up.

Event Log: Lysanne Arrignis

Dandelion Drift: Kitchen

9:05am SGT

“You sure you can manage it on your own, Jazel?” I call after him as he starts shuffling towards the kitchen doorway.

“M’good.” he mumbles, though the word degrades into a cough towards the end. He’s still in his pajamas, his shawl wrapped around him and clutched at the front with one hand, while the other is holding a mug of what looks like herbal tea. Milor, Dandy, and myself watch as he shuffles out of the kitchen, shoulders hunched and looking paler than he was last night.

“I’m gonna kill her.” I mutter once the kitchen door has spiraled shut again.

“He’ll get better.” Milor says, going back to stirring his spoon around in his cereal. “Give it a couple days, he’ll be back at it.”

“The effect seems to be weighing more heavily on him.” Dandy observes from the counter where she’s doing lunch and dinner prep. “I am not an arcanologist, but it is my understanding, at least from Kayenta’s other victims, that soul is a finite resource. This arrangement may not be sustainable.”

“And Ozzy’s been damn near useless helping find a solution, from what I hear.” I mutter, smearing jam on my morning biscuit. “Jazel can’t keep this up. When is he going to see that?”

“Not before it kills him, I figure.” Milor says, thumbing through the news on his phone.

“Milor!” I hiss at him.

He shrugs. “Look, blondie. Just callin’ it how I see it. And speaking from personal experience: men will do stupid shit for a little tail, and she’s got nine of ‘em.”

“Perhaps we should schedule a visit to one of the Rantecevangian colonies.” Dandy suggests before I can reply. “We may be able to find answers in one of the communities her species originated from.”

“There’s an idea.” Milor says, pointing his spoon at Dandy. “Ranter colonies are wild. So many races, all crammed into one place, and they don’t take orders from the Colloquium.”

I narrow my eyes at Milor. “Sounds like lawless, risky places.”

“The Rantecevang diaspora has always chafed at galactic laws and regulations.” Dandy says, starting to peel a set of potatoes. “Their colonies tend to enforce their own set of laws. Efforts to get them to comply with galactic laws has generally cost the Colloquium and the Vaunted more than the effort was worth. Still, I would not say they are inherently dangerous places; the diaspora colonies are often popular tourist and vacation locations.”

“Yeah. What she said.” Milor says, motioning at Dandy. “I think we should plan a trip sometime.”

“This isn’t going to be a vacation. If we do go, we’ll be going to see if we can get help for Jazel and Kaya, not because you want to go sightseeing.” I say, biting into my biscuit.

“I don’t see why we can’t do both.” Milor says. “Get some help for the kid, see the sights, have some bona-fide vashy skewers—”

“Oh, that is on my bucket list.” Dandy interjects quickly. “I am to understand that their skewer dishes are very good. Professional vashaya’rei skewer cooks are highly valued for their expertise.”

“Whoa man, did I hear somethin’ about vashy skewers?” Ozzy says, stepping into the kitchen. “That’s some good stuff. We had a skewer joint at the college that I taught at, and let me tell you, there’s nothing like a vashy skewer on a warm summer night. Man, I’m getting a craving just thinking about it.”

“I know, right?” Milor says, throwing an arm over the back of his chair as he talks to Ozzy. “I been to a few skewer grills, but they’re kinda hit and miss. I tried one that was run by Marshies once, and lemme tell ya, that was a mistake.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Ozzy says. “If the person at the grill ain’t a vashy, it ain’t a real skewer grill. Real vashy skewer chefs can put damn near anything on a stick and make it taste good.”

“Guys! This is not culinary tourism!” I remind them. “If we go, we go because the only person we need help feeding is Kaya!”

“Right, right. The trip is for helping Fluffy McFoxtails.” Milor agrees. “But, while we’re there, we should definitely find an authentic vashy skewer grill.”

“Ms. Arrignis, there are skewer grills that have vegetarian options as well.” Dandy adds. “Though vashaya’rei are omnivorous by culture, they do have experience in seasoning and creating complex vegetarian cuisine.”

“Alright! Fine. We’ll go to a skewer grill if we get the chance.” I say, throwing up my hands. “But we’ll have to find time to fit it into the assignment schedule. Dandy, you can be the one in charge of that.”

“Certainly. I will take stock of the known Rantecevang colonies within open space and see which ones meet proximity criteria for the systems we will be visiting on the assignment schedule.” Dandy says as she moves to put a bowl of salad in the fridge.

“Good. Milor, since Jazel’s under the weather, I’m going to need your help with the dailies today.” I say, finishing my biscuit and getting up with my plate.

“Actually, about that.” Milor says, leaning back in his chair. “I’m starting a new workout regimen today, so I’m gonna be a little busy. Why don’tcha see if Ozzy here can help you out.”

I pause and look over my shoulder. “You. Working out.” I say in disbelief.

“Yeah.” he says, stirring his spoon around in his bowl. “Had a bit of an epiphany after our little visit with CURSE. Figured I’d try to get back into shape. I was quite the lad during my service days, if I do say so myself, and since it’s the start of a new year, I figured resolutions, self-improvement, all that good stuff.”

I look at Dandy, who just shrugs. Clearly she doesn’t have any idea where this sudden impulse for ‘self-improvement’ is coming from either.

“Well, that’s great and all, but I’m not sure I trust Ozzy with the dailies considering his background to this point.” I say.

Milor raises an eyebrow. “Have you seen the dude? He’s not exactly an evil mastermind.”

We all look at Ozzy, who’s buttering toast in the corner of the kitchen. It takes him a few moments for him to realize we’re staring at him. “Oh, sorry. Did one of you need to use the toaster?”

“I rest my case.” Milor says, looking back to me.

“Fine.” I huff, rolling my eyes. “Ozzy, since you’re traveling with us and eating our food, you’re going to learn how to help out as well. Meet me down on the access deck once you’re done with breakfast and I’ll start training you on the dailies.”

“Oh. Sure. Should I tell Jazel he won’t be seeing me in the lab today?” Ozzy asks.

“You won’t need to, because I’m about to go tell him to get his ass back in bed and get some rest.” I say, tucking my plate in the dishwasher. “Meet me on the access deck in thirty minutes. And Milor?”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” he says past a mouthful of cereal.

“I better see you on cardio and weights today. If it turns out your ‘regimen’ is just an excuse to get out of dailies, I’ll throw your ass back on them in a heartbeat, and you can get your workout by hauling feedstock for the biomes.” I say, making my way to the door. “Dandy, keep an eye on him and make sure he follows through.”

“Will do, Ms. Arrignis.”

With that, I depart the kitchen, secretly relieved that we’ll have more people to spread the load of daily chores around.

Event Log: Jazel Jaskolka

Dandelion Drift: Common Room

11:16am SGT

“The destruction of the Dussel Mercforce’s main base of operations is considered to be a heavy blow to the resurgent Challengers, who were thought to be using the mobile fortress, codenamed ‘the Bulwark’, as a safe haven from which they could run operations. CURSE has not elaborated on whether any Challengers were killed during the ambush on the Bulwark, which took place on the edge of open space in the Hagburt System, in high orbit over the gas giant Holeimos. However, secondhand reports from sources on the Holeimos Gas Mining Rig and Refinery state that ships were detected departing the Bulwark while it was under attack, and jumping to warp shortly after. For more on this story, we turn to our field correspondent, Shina Sothsby, who traveled to the Hagburt System a few days ago…”

Curling up in my shawl, I watch chyrons scroll across underneath the news anchors without really reading them. I’m presently laying on the couch in the common room with a pillow tucked under my head, stuck in that space between feeling sore and achy but unable to fall asleep. The news has been playing on one of the panes of the common room’s panoramic window, and I haven’t mustered the will to try and change it.

“Well, you look downright miserable.”

I turn my head a little to see Milor walking around one of the couches, drenched in sweat and dressed only in a tank top and shorts. He sits down on the couch adjacent to me, using a hand towel to wipe sweat off his forehead.

“You should probably sit on the ground. Dandy and Lysanne will get upset if you get sweat stains on the couch.” I rasp.

Milor gives me a disgruntled look, then slides off the couch and onto the floor. “Thanks a lot, Kenny Killjoy.” He motions his towel towards the screen. “Keeping up on current events?”

“I’m too tired to look for something else to watch.” I say, hugging the pillow under my head a little more.

“Yeah, I noticed.” Milor says. “Where is she right now?”

I look at him. “Who, Kaya?”

“Yeah.” he says, hooking his arms over his knees. “She doesn’t just run off after she nibbles on you, does she?”

“Yeah, she kinda… does.” I murmur, looking away. 

“Not surprised.” Milor says, shaking his head. “Women, they just suck the life out of you, kid. Literally, in your case.”

“Thank you for pointing that out again.” I grunt.

“You think it’s bad when she’s chewing on your soul, just wait until she starts asking you about seasonal pillowcases.” Milor says, using his hand towel to wipe the back of his neck. “Yea, and as I walk through the valley of the shadow of home decor…”

I rub at my eyebrow. “Pillowcases…?” I have no idea what he’s going on about.

“You’ll figure out what I’m talking about if she ever starts rooming with you.” he says. “It’s why I swore it off. Serious relationships, that is. Speaking o’ which, how are you an’ Fluffy McFoxtails getting along?”

I give a weak shrug. “Getting along, I guess…”

“I’ve gotten more enthusiastic responses from dead cats.” Milor scoffs. “C’mon, kid, dish. What are we at? First base? Second? Don’t tell me you been in holding pattern since the last time we talked about this.”

“I don’t know.” I say, shrugging again. “I just… don’t know what to do next. I’m not even sure she thinks of me as anything more than food.”

Milor drags a hand down his face. “Kid, you can’t waffle around like this. You either want her or you don’t. Which one is it?”

“Well, I do want her! I just don’t know…” I pause for a fit of coughing. “…I just don’t know if she wants me back. I don’t think she does. And I… don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t think she wants you? What makes you think that?” Milor demands.

I shrug. Again. Because it’s the only thing I have the energy for when I’m feeling this fatigued. “I don’t know, I just… she treats me kind of like a pet, or… I don’t know. That’s really all there is to it. She’s not complicated, Milor. I’m just food to her. She’s protective of me, she values me, but she isn’t interested in me.”

Milor perches his forearms on his knees. “Well, do you know that for sure? Or is that just a conclusion you’re drawin’ from readin’ between the lines?”

“I mean, it’s not exactly a secret, Milor.” I protest. “I’m pretty sure anyone could see it if they watched her long enough. Even I can see it, and I’m not exactly clever about that kind of stuff.”

“But have you actually told her how you feel, kid?” Milor demands. “Have you actually tried to build that bridge?”

“I mean—”

“So you haven’t.” Milor says. “Look, Jazel, nobody ever accused me of having a brain, but if you want her to be interested in you, you need to put some work in. Do something for her. Tell her how you feel about her. Take her places, show her things, talk to her, share things with her. Do all the shit that I deliberately avoid doing with the women that I hit on. Didn’t anybody ever teach you this when you were growing up?”

“No.” I mumble into my pillow, hugging it a little closer.

Milor sighs. “I mean, you had parents, right? I figured that they would’ve modeled this for you, or at least given you some basic pointers…”

“I didn’t have a father. Mom adopted me.”

“Ah.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Single-parent family, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah.”

Milor shakes his head. “God bless your mother. I dunno how single parents do it, splitting time between a job and a kid. So you didn’t have a father figure growing up, then.”

“Not really, I guess.”

“Well, that explains a lot of things about… you, I guess.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Milor says with another shake of his head. “Look, the point is that you’re going to need to tell her how you feel and actually make some moves, kid. Otherwise, you’re just gonna keep being her kibbles n’ bits. You want the girl, you need to go get her. And prove that you’re worth it.”

“Yeah, but… she’s different from other girls.” I say weakly. “She’s not like other girls, she doesn’t do the things other girls do, don’t even know if she likes the things other girls do…”

“Excuses.” Milor says, waving a hand. “All excuses. So what if she’s different from other girls. That’s not an excuse. If she’s different, go figure her out. That’s part of the game — figuring the girl out. Hell, back when I was your age, I had a fling with a werecat assassin that was five hundred years older than me. She was pretty different, but I figured her out. Sort of. We broke it off after three months. I blame all the shedding. It was years and hundreds of wash cycles before I finally got the last of her fur out of my clothes. Whatever. The point is, you’re making excuses. Do you really want her?”

“I guess…”

“There’s no ‘I guess’, there’s no ‘maybe’. You either do or you don’t. Which one is it?”

“I mean…” I squirm beneath by shawl. “She’s the only person I’ve really been interested in.”

“So that’s a yes.”

“But I’m not sure she likes me back—”

“Then give her a reason to like you back, Jazel.” Milor says impatiently. “If you want her, put the effort in. Nobody ever fell into a relationship by standing around and waiting for it to come to them. Least, that’s not the way it works for men. We’re the ones expected to do the chasing. Personally, if you ask me, I think it’s unfair and sexist, but that’s a conversation for another time. The reality of your situation is that you have to chase her, so if you want those tails, stop standing around and waiting for them to come to you.”

I don’t say anything back to that. He’s right, of course, it all makes sense; I just don’t like that it makes sense. I guess the easy part was getting Kayenta to come with us. The hard part, apparently, was actually getting her to fall for me.

The sound of the news in the background fills up the gap in the conversation, and I go back to watching the screen. Milor does the same, and for a few minutes, we watch the news report on the Challengers. When a lineup of the known resurgent Challengers slides across the screen, Milor wipes a hand through his hair.

“The thing I don’t get is that none of them are the brains.” he says. “Jackrabbit’s charismatic, but she’s not a big planner. Songbird was always a follower, not a leader. And Nympho was too busy sleeping around and faffing about to do anything else when she wasn’t on a mission. Somebody else has to be pulling the strings behind the curtain.”

I glance at him. “You talk like you know them.”

He shrugs. “Just been watchin’ ‘em for a while. I’m surprised CURSE hasn’t nailed ‘em down yet, with all that money and manpower available to them. Guess they’re just as incompetent as they were fifteen years ago.”

“But CURSE took down the Challengers fifteen years ago.” I point out.

Milor snorts. “No, the Challengers took down the Challengers fifteen years ago. If the footage of Songbird Incident hadn’t been leaked, things would be a lot different now. That tape gave CURSE the ammunition they needed to convince the rest of the galaxy to turn on them.”

“CURSE took down the Dussel mobile fortress, though.” I say. “Aren’t those really hard to beat? They’re like… moving shipyards with a ton of guns on them.”

“Eh. Sure, but it sounds like the Dussel ships got away.” Milor shrugs. “Just because you destroyed the den doesn’t mean you got the foxes. The foxes are the problem, not the den. And if they’re still alive, they’ll keep gettin’ into the henhouse.”

“Mm.” I look back to the screen. “I’ve heard they kidnapped a couple kids.”

“Yeah, heard ‘bout that too. Probably only kidnapping in the technical sense. The kids probably chose to tag along with them, but since the kids are still minors, it’s assumed they can’t give meaningful consent. Statutory kidnapping, so to speak.”

“Milor, if you’re done with your workout, then your assistance is required with the dailies.” Dandy’s voice comes through the audio system in the room, replacing the news audio briefly.

“What?” Milor protests. “It’s been two hours! Why aren’t they done yet?”

“They are taking longer today on account of having to train Ozzy.”

“It shouldn’t take that long.” Milor says. “I ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but even I think most of the tasks are pretty simple.”

“I concur with your assessment; however, Ozzy’s propensity for rambling has a tendency to extend the time it takes to complete a given task. Ms. Arrignis’s patience has declined precipitously in the last fifteen minutes, and I think it would be prudent to step in and render assistance before it fully expires.”

Milor grumbles. “You think if I just stay here, she’ll eventually snap and kill ‘im? Might be doin’ us a favor, really…”

“I doubt Ms. Arrignis would resort to violence, and even if she was liable to do so, I could not condone a course of action that would result in undeserved bodily harm.”

“You might need to revisit your definition of ‘undeserved’.” Milor grunts as he gets to his feet. “Fine, I’ll go help out. Tell her not to stove in his skull before I get there.”

“I will inform her you are on your way.”

With that, Milor drapes his towel over his shoulder and starts for the door. “Well, that’s the end of my break, I guess. Remember what I told you — you want the girl, you gotta go get her. She ain’t just gonna fall in your arms because you give her puppy eyes.”

The door spirals shut behind him, leaving me alone with the news once more. Rubbing my nose, I hug my pillow a little tighter, wondering if I had it in me to do what Milor had recommended.

The Grand Compendium of Aurescuran Spells, Ninth Edition

Perfect Unseen

Originally pioneered by witch covens living off the land in parts of rural Aurescura, Perfect Unseen is a spell that has been through many iterations over the centuries. It first originated among witches that would hunt or trap their food, and usually entailed some variation of sight and scent suppression, so as not to alert prey (typically elk, moose, deer, rabbits, and certain fowl). The original spell was simply known as Unseen, as it did not perfectly mask the caster, but it did not need to be perfect concealment, as the eyesight of wild animals is typically not up to par with human sight.

Unseen’s application naturally progressed into combative use, first between warring witch covens, and then into conflicts between covens and other cultures. With each transition in use, there was a refinement of the spell, making it more effective as it progressed into the field of espionage, and then sabotage. Once the spell’s formula fell into hands of Aurescura’s recognized nations, military funding was put towards further refinement of the spell until it reached its present-day iteration, known as Perfect Unseen.

Because of Perfect Unseen’s potential applications, access to the formula is typically restricted to government organizations, most of them either military or homeworld defense. Unauthorized possession of the formula by Aurescuran citizens is considered a criminal offense. Various covens have filed lawsuits against the Aurescuran government claiming Perfect Unseen as witch heritage since it was derived from the base formula that witches invented for Unseen, and demanding access to the Perfect Unseen variation. These lawsuits have all been lost on the argument the Perfect Unseen variation was invented by the government, using government resources and initiative, and therefore is the property of the government. However, one of these lawsuits did win, and later court cases affirmed, an exemption from prosecution for witches that come into possession of the Perfect Unseen formula, on the basis of cultural heritage.

Event Log: Jazel Jaskolka

Dandelion Drift: Lab 2

4:30pm SGT

“Gold marice… c’mon, I know we had some in here…” I mumble as I push bottles around on the shelves in the lab’s closet. I’d taken a nap that ended up being way longer than I wanted, and woke up more tired than I was before, but I knew that it wouldn’t go away if I didn’t get up and do something. So I’d forced myself to get up and come down to the lab to work on restocking some of the spells in my grimoire.

Of course, I wasn’t going to be restocking shit if I couldn’t find the ingredients that the composition instructions called for.

Resting for a moment on the shelf, I rub a hand over the back of my neck. Being hunched over like this wasn’t helping the ache I’d been feeling all day; I probably should try to sleep straighter instead of always curling up, but it was so damn cold on the ship most days. I really only felt warm in my room, and only then because I could control the temperature in there. I understood why we couldn’t keep the entirety of the ship at a cozy seventy degrees, but I still hated feeling like I was freezing over.

Going back to digging through the bottles, I find what I’m looking for only after I’ve pulled most of the bottles at the back to the front. Taking it in hand, I turn around to return to the lab.

Only to find Kayenta standing right behind me.

I catch my breath as my heart rate spikes. Even though it’s not as startling as the first few times she did it, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to her sneaking up on me like that. “Uhm. Hey. Did you need something?” I ask, pulling my shawl a little tighter about myself.

She studies me, then the bottle in my hands, her august gaze ever brilliant and ever curious. “What are you doing?”

“Just restocking a few spells.” I say, starting to shuffle back to the lab. She walks backwards, staying in front of me. “I’ve used a few on some of the assignments that CURSE gave us, and I hadn’t gotten around to restocking them.”

“You restock… spells?” Kayenta asks. Clearly the concept is foreign to her, but that isn’t surprising for anyone that’s unfamiliar with Aurescuran magic.

“Yes. Most Aurescuran magic is ritual and inscription-based.” I explain as the door to the storage closet closes behind me. “It’s kinda like cooking. You follow the instructions in a recipe and it produces a certain effect.”

It takes a moment to fully process in Kayenta’s mind. “Oh. So you’re like a baker magician?”

“In a manner of speaking.” I say as I return to the worktable I was at. On it is a sheet of spell paper with a ritual circle drawn on it in the mashed paste of various herbs, leaves, varieties of stone, and fruit. “Aurescurans have to prepare their magic beforehand. They can’t just muster something up on the turn of a dime like you do.”

“Hmm. That seems… limiting.” she says, watching over my shoulder as I sit back down on the edge of my chair. “So you are restricted to these recipes? And they only do the same thing every time?”

“I mean, yes, but, there are, y’know. Changes or substitutions you can make to spells to get them to do different things.” I explain, opening the bottle and digging inside for one of the seeds. “Unless it changes the effect so much that it would be considered an entirely different spell. And there’s a lot of different spells. I might not be able to do magic the way you do, but there are certain kinds of magic I can do that you can’t do.”

She narrows her eyes at that. “Oh really? Like what.”

“Like… like setting a protection ward around a building. Ritual magic allows Aurescurans to create magic that covers large areas and persists for a long time. Freeform magic can’t do that… or at least not as well as ritual magic can.” I say, putting the seed in a mortar and starting to grind it up with a pestle.

“Hmph. I still like my magic better.” she declares. “What is this spell you are working on?”

“This is an invisibility spell. It’s called Perfect Unseen.” I grunt as I grind the seed up. “I used my only instance of it to escape Grimes, so I need to restock it.”

“That’s not special.” she scoffs. “I can turn invisible.”

“No, you can cloak yourself. There’s a difference.” I say, working on getting all the little fragments of the seed under the pestle. “You can still detect a cloaked person if you try hard. They leave behind prints in the dust or snow, or there’s faint distortion in the space they occupy, or you can hear them when they make noise, or you can bump into them by accident. Perfect Unseen leaves behind none of those clues. It is true invisibility. But it’s a devil to make, and it only lasts for so long, depending on which variation of it you create.”

“I don’t believe you. Show me.” she demands, folding her arms.

“I am not going to waste all the prep I did for this spell just to prove something to you.” I say, finishing grinding up the seed. “Some of these ingredients are rare. They are not easy to come by, and restocking them is expensive.”

She starts to pick through the bottles I have on the table, looking through them and studying their contents. “I do not like magic that requires you to have certain ingredients. It leaves you helpless at the worst times, and if you are missing even a single ingredient, you cannot get the spell to work. That is silly.”

“It’s not so bad so long as you make sure to store spells and always be prepared.” I say, taking a small spoon and starting to scoop the seed dust out of the mortar. “If you take the time to prepare, it’ll pay off later. Which is why I’m working on restocking my spells right now, so I can be prepared in case something happens later.”

“So you never feel the thrill of magic running through your veins, then.” Kayenta concludes as I start to carefully sprinkle the seed dust along the lines of the ritual circle.

“Not really, no. Aurescuran magic doesn’t come from within us; it comes from our traditions and culture. Something that is bigger than an individual.” I explain as I continue to dust the lines of the ritual circle. “There is power in our traditions, in our heritage. It binds us to the old ways, to our identity, so that we never forget who we are, or where we came from.” I set the spoon aside once the lines are all dusted. “Or at least it would, for those that want to remain connected to their heritage.”

“Some of your people reject their heritage?” Kayenta asks, peering closely at another bottle.

“They do. Generation after generation, fewer Aurescurans are practicing magic.” I say, resting my hands in my lap as I stare down at the spell paper. “They view it as old-fashioned, connected to outdated beliefs and ways of thinking. Even with the power it affords, some would rather forswear it than subscribe to outdated beliefs. And technology has made that easier. The average citizen no longer needs magic when technology can supplant magic’s utility without requiring them to subscribe to a tradition or belief.”

“That’s why I like my magic better.” Kayenta says, setting down the bottle. “It’s more flexible than the magic from your world. A lot of the disciplines are rooted in certain ideals, but they are open to interpretation. They can evolve. They can change. As all living things must.” She dabs a finger in the mortar, rubbing some of the seed powder between her thumb and her forefinger. “The magic of Rantecevang is a living magic. It breathes and changes with its people.”

“I’m not sure the magic of my people could ever do the same.” I say, reaching for a matchbox. “The power is tied to the ritual forms, to the acts and the symbols. Intent rarely affects the outcome, the way it does with freeform magic. If our magic could be uncoupled from the traditions, perhaps… but the rituals, the symbols, are the only way we know how to access the power. Without them, I don’t know how we’re supposed to access our magic.”

“Perhaps you could try the magic of my world.” Kayenta suggests.

“Unfortunately, certain types of magic are genetic.” I say, pulling out a match and striking it. “Magic varies from world to world. It has different origins, and different rules, depending on how it evolves within a culture. Some people can only use magic on their homeworld, because their kind of magic is tied to their planet. For others, it’s tied to their rituals and traditions. And for some — like you, and other Ranters — it’s drawn from within.” With that, I set the match to the edge of the spell paper. “The same reason Lysanne is not an Aurescuran witch is the same reason I probably cannot use Ranter magic — it’s because we’re not from each others’ cultures and races.”

Kayenta tilts her head at that. “Lysanne is not from the same world as you?”

“She was raised on New Aurescura, but she was not born on our world.” I say, blowing the match out as the spell paper starts to catch fire. “She does not have an Aurescuran soul, so she is incapable of becoming an Aurescuran witch. If she tried to compose this spell I just put together, following all the same instructions as I did, nothing would happen. She’d just be mashing up a bunch of leaves and seeds, and lighting a paper on fire for no reason.”

Kayenta’s brow furrows as she watches the flame creep across the paper. “What is lighting it on fire supposed to do?”

“It’s supposed to activate it, then trigger the stasis element so that the effect can be contained and stored indefinitely.” I say, nodding to the paper. “Watch.”

She clasps her hands behind her back as she watches the flame march across the paper, and when it hits the first line on the ritual circle, the paste starts to char from the heat before catching fire. The seed dust goes up in a flash, flame ripping across the rest of the lines on the page, and burning so bright that it leaves a white glow and chars the rest of the paper. The glowing lines of the ritual circle are all that’s left, and they slowly start to bend upwards and fold over on themselves, forming a little sphere that hangs in the air. I hold my left hand up, my pentafractal grimoire glowing in my palm, and the sphere is drawn into one of the circular slots within the complex pattern, flattening out as it settles in.

Kayenta’s brows shoot up at that, and she reaches out to snag my wrist and pull my hand towards her so she can stare at the intricate blue lines glowing in my skin. “You store your spells within your hand?” she demands, watching as the inner layers of my grimoire start to cycle back into the outer layers.

“It’s called a grimoire. It’s how the witches of Aurescura store their spells.” I explain. “Just like I used symbols and a ritual to create that spell, the covens can use symbols and rituals to imbue things or people with magic. Usually a grimoire is a tattoo that’s created using a special type of ink that’s already been enchanted, and it allows us to store spells in our skin.”

“I’ve never seen this kind of magic before.” she says, rubbing a thumb over the shifting, fractal pattern on my hand. “If it’s a tattoo, why can I not see it at other times? I have never seen this on your hand before now.”

“The ink that’s used to make the tattoo is clear, transparent. It only fluoresces when magic is being channeled through it.” I say, content to let her press her fingers into my hand, chasing and tracing the shifting patterns of my grimoire. “Not all grimoires are tattooed with clear ink. Some witches like to flaunt theirs; it can be a status symbol, depending on the type of grimoire you have. My mother thought it would be better for my grimoire to remain unseen when it was not in use.”

“There are different types of grimoires?” Kayenta asks. Her eyes remain fixed on the glow of blue lines on my hand, fascinated with it.

“Not many.” I say, fighting the urge to reach up and stroke her silver ears while they’re tilted so close to me. “There can be cosmetic differences, but the only real difference in most of them is how many spells they can hold. Most grimoires can hold either six or twenty-four spells.”

“How many can yours hold?” she asks, turning my hand over to see the grimoire glowing on the other side as well, just under my knuckles.

“A hundred and twenty.”

Kayenta’s head snaps up, her eyes fixing on me. “This can hold over a hundred spells? In just your left hand?”

“Mine’s a pentafractal grimoire. Traditionally, only coven matriarchs and witchlings are allowed to have grimoires that can hold that many spells. But mostly it’s just the matriarchs that have them nowadays. I think most witchlings have quadrafractal grimoires.”

“That’s a lot of spells.” she observes, turning my hand back over and studying the fading lines thoughtfully.

“It is, yeah.” I say, my thoughts wandering back to the conversation I’d had with Milor this afternoon. It’s quiet, and she doesn’t seem to have any other questions, so now seems like a good time to shift the direction of the conversation. “Hey, Kaya… am I just… food to you?”

She looks up at me. “That is our pact, is it not? You keep me sustained until you find another way to feed me.”

“I mean, yes, but…” I say hesitantly, trying to figure out how to phrase this. “Say we figured out a way to feed you that didn’t involve souls, and you didn’t need us after that. Would you stay?”

One ear flicks as she thinks about that, and she slowly relinquishes my hand. “I don’t have anywhere else to go, so yes, I would stay.”

The answer makes sense, though it doesn’t really get to what I wanted to get at with that question. I realize that the questions I’m asking are all indirect ones, questions that would be hints to other women. But Kayenta takes questions like these literally, so if I’m to get my point across, I need to be direct with her. “Would you ever be interested in me, Kayenta?”

“I think you are interesting, yes.” Another flick of one of those silver ears.

“No, like…” I reach over, brushing the ashes on the table into a circle so I don’t have to look directly at her. “If you had another food source, and you no longer needed me in order to survive, would you still want to be around me?”

I can almost see the gears clicking in her head as she parses that. “…are you asking me to be your mate?”

“Wh- no! I mean, well I guess technically yes, but also no—” I stutter quickly, not wanting her to get the wrong idea. “Like— there’s a couple steps that come before that, usually people don’t just—”

“Would you kill for me?” she asks.

I stare at her. “What?”

“You are a nice pet.” she says, reaching out to take a lock of my hair, and brush it back behind my ear. “It is fun to tease you. But you are so very, very weak. When I first came here, you were frail and sickly, barely recovered from having your soul returned to you. And again, after Hallow’s Eve, you were indisposed because you wandered from the pack and could not defend yourself when ambushed. Of all others here on this ship, you are the weakest by far.”

Those words sink into me like a dagger. Weak. As if I was a liability. Frail. As if I couldn’t take care of myself. Sickly. As if I was something that had to be cared for. It all hurt, and in ways I hadn’t been expecting. Having my flaws laid before me with such bluntness was painful, and it left me feeling exposed. Inadequate.

“I find you curious.” she says, her finger tracing along my ear and down my jaw. “Amusing, at times. But you are weak. It shows every time I feed on you. You are sickly for days. If cast into the wild and asked to survive, could you do it? If we were attacked, could you protect me? Could you even protect yourself? If I asked you to kill for me, would you do it?”

I feel the pressure increase with each question, building into a crushing weight that feels like it’s going to drown me. “I mean, I—”

Her hand covers my mouth, silencing my stuttering. “A mate must be strong. And you are weak.” she says softly. Apologetically, as if she was telling me an inconvenient truth.

And maybe she is.

She pulls away with that, turns and leaves without another word. I’m left alone in the lab, not knowing what to do next. Feeling hurt, and starting to feel angry; angry at her for calling me weak, and angry at myself because it was true. A fury passes over me as I look over the bottles on the table, and for a moment, the urge to grab them and throw them across the lab is overpowering.

But then a fit of coughing takes me, and I remember how sick and achy I feel. Pulling my shawl tighter about myself, I fold my arms on the table and bury my face in them, just wanting to curl up and disappear.

Weak. Frail. Sickly.

And I can’t help but think back to the dream that woke me up this morning.

It is a dream, but also a memory, as it so often is nowadays, of one of many past lives. He is one among many who are transversing a mountain pass, in the depths of winter and a blizzard storm. The context is vague, and it is hard to recall, but from how the others are dressed and what they carry, it seems all too likely that the coven has been driven from their territory, either by another coven, or by natural disaster. A journey like this, in the midst of winter, would not be attempted unless necessity demanded it.

So they travel, single file and waist-deep in snow, through the pass. Wrapped in rags and cloaks, with sacks and packs slung over their backs, carrying children, or the old and infirm. Shielded as best they can against the howling of the blizzard, sides plastered with sleet frozen onto their clothes. The strong at the front, taking turns clearing the way through the snow, and all others following behind them, tripping and stumbling over numb feet through the trampled powder. At one point, he trips so fully that he falls over, with the entire line behind him stopping as he struggles to get up.

And once he does so, he realizes that he has not tripped over his own feet, or a rock buried beneath the snowpack, but another member of the coven, lying in the snow. Wrapped as they are in their cloak and rags, it is hard to tell who it is, but they are small and still, and when he touches them, they are cold to the fingers. He shakes them, and they stir, but the movement is faint and muted; almost drowsy.

Move on, the others in the line demand. To remain still for too long is a death sentence in this frozen pass.

Can we not carry them? he asks. We cannot leave them; they live still.

If they cannot stay upon their feet, they are dead already, the others answer. If they cannot get back up, then they have made their choice. To carry one who will die anyway will simply sap strength from others, and consign them to death as well.

He knows this is true. And yet he still cannot bring himself to abandon this fallen witch.

Even so, we should take them, he begs. So we can bury them if they perish. If we leave them here, there will be no burial.

A hand on his shoulder has him looking around. It is the coven matriarch, who has taken notice of the delay. Her face is weathered by age, and the burdens of leading a displaced coven through the harsh dark of winter. Though she leans heavily on her warped staff, she leads at the front of the line, using it to plow the snow and forge a path with the men of the coven.

This is the cycle, she says. The weak die, so the strong may live. Carry them, if you think you are strong enough. But you cannot ask others to carry the weak if you are not willing to carry them yourself.

With this admonition, the matriarch turns and returns to the front of the column. The others start to step over the fallen member of the coven, and around him, as the line starts to move once more. He remains on his knees in the snow as the others march past him and the one that has fallen, trudging on through the merciless blizzard. As the last stragglers of the coven pass him by, he looks to the member that has fallen; they are still and unmoving, possibly well on their way to their next life.

Yet all the same, he takes them by the arms, and pulls them onto his back. And with great struggle, he rises to his numb feet, and slowly begins to stagger after the rest of the coven, many of whom have already disappeared into the swirling snow ahead. His step is unsteady, and his balance wavering; the person on his back is almost as big as he is. Yet he keeps moving forward. He must keep moving forward, and he must be strong.

For if he is weak, they will both die.