Thiol: Chapter 2

It has been over a year since Wylandriah plucked young Thiol from what would have been an unremarkable life, and consequently acquired an unanticipated apprentice. His injuries left streaks of grisly burn scars that curl around his hands and lick up his forearms, but he otherwise recovered swiftly. Without anyone else to take him in, he stayed with his savior, following her to Balgard where he helped build her wizard tower. Since then he has served as a questionably competent but ever faithful assistant, and in return she has shared her home, and begun educating him in the arcane arts. Inspired by the selfless act of heroism that saved his life, Thiol naturally gravitated toward the defensive magics and the school of Abjuration, determined to one day repay his life debt.
 
The tower has more resources for research and experimentation than a budding scholar like Thiol could ever hope for. The walls of the laboratory are abound with countless silver tools that glow with arcane energy. Among them are instruments that can create or destroy matter with a flourish, or animate mundane objects into living beings, or just as easily reduce the lived to the lifeless. Shelves are lined with glass alchemical apparati, as well as jars and vials containing all sorts of mysterious substances. The lab is constantly abuzz with various machines that whirr and click to perform transmutative miracles. Thiol’s favorite contraption is naturally one of the most dangerous: the Infernal Recombitulator, which can summon a minor imp with the pull of a lever. While these hare-sized demons are aggressive, they are not terribly threatening, and thus make for convenient abjuration training and occasional target practice.
 
And then of course, in addition to the fortune’s worth of magical appliances, there are stacks upon towering stacks of books. He will surely be ancient by the time he’s finished with them, Thiol surmises. Although somehow Wylandriah has read them all, and she doesn’t show the faintest hint of old age.
 
With wondrous gadgets, an endless library, and the tutelage of a master at his disposal, Thiol is free to relentlessly pursue his dream of becoming a wizard.
 
And yet, despite every advantage, kindling his modest aptitude into actual acumen has been challenging. He started strong, having quickly mastered the fundamentals (so he believed), but he often requires Wylandriah’s guidance to grasp more intricate spellcraft, and she has other matters to attend to besides his training. Of course she is patient, but her pupil is not. He’s ready to compose a symphony of magic, but is stuck practicing scales.
 
Thiol sits in the lab with his chin propped on one hand while the other gestures idly, conjuring weak wisps of dim light that swirl between his fingers. He clenches his fist and they condense into a sparkling barrier of abjurative energy in front of him. Then he relaxes, allowing the ward to evaporate. And then again: he gestures, he clenches, he relaxes. Conjure, condense, evaporate. C, D, E, F, G, A, B. Repeat.
 
Sigh.
 
His gaze meanders about the laboratory before fixating on the Infernal Recombitulator. He has used it a few times in the past, though only ever under his teacher’s supervision. But surely she has better things to do than to hold his hand through every single exercise, and he hates burdening someone so important. It’s not even difficult to operate, Thiol muses to himself as he drifts ever closer to the contraption.
 
“Hey Thiol, just letting you know- Oi, what are you doing?”
 
Thiol whips around in surprise, nearly knocking a glass beaker off the counter in the process. There at the door he spots Wylandriah, standing with her arms folded under her chest. Something is different about her. Her curly hair, normally confined to a tight bun, falls freely down her back, and the usual work apron has been replaced with a stunning white dress. She’s accompanied by an unfamiliar man, though Thiol pays him little mind.
 
“Uh… Not much! Just, y’know, hanging out. Practicing, like you told me… What’s up with you?”
 
She raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “You know not to mess with that thing when I’m not here.”
 
“I wasn’t gonna! Although, since you brought it up, and since you’re here now…” He gestures hopefully toward the lever.
 
At this point, the unfamiliar man steps forward from Thiol’s blind spot, finally coming into focus. He has dark hair, a bronze complexion, an athletic build, an obnoxious smirk, and stylish leather “armor” that looks better suited for dinner parties than actual battle. The man plants his hands on his kneepads and stoops down to Thiol’s level, speaking in a patronizing tone. “Sorry kiddo, she can’t right now. I’m taking your mom out for a bit. You can play with her toys when she gets back, okay?”
 
Now, he might not look it, but Thiol is in fact a teenager, and far above the title of “kiddo”. He might still be waiting on that growth spurt, having not yet cracked 5’0, but he has a couple chest hairs and he’ll be damned if he tolerates such insult. Worse, the comparison of Wylandriah to his mom invites memories of his actual mother: their relationship, their final interaction, her death. It makes his scars twinge and his stomach fold.
 
He gives Jatai the deadest of deadpans. “First of all, you can nix the baby talk; it makes you sound like a simpleton. Second of all, these toys are complex beyond your comprehension. Third of all, Wylandriah is not my m-Om-” His voice cracks, causing his ears to burn red with embarrassment.
 
“Thiol-” Wylandriah begins to chide, but Jatai chuckles and continues with no less patronizing of a tone. “Ohoh! Why, I do apologize, big man. Simple as I am, I didn’t realize how incomprehensibly complex these toys of yours are. Please forgive me for offending you.” He bows his head with farcical respect.
 
Thiol rolls his eyes. “You could also use a breath mint.”
 
“Hokay!” Wylandriah cuts in to preclude further bickering. “Jatai, we should get going. Thiol, why don’t you go through some of your exercises? I know it’s been a little while since our last lesson, so you’ll probably benefit from a refresher.”
 
“Ahuh…” Crestfallen, Thiol plops down onto a rolling stool, letting his momentum carry him back toward his desk, where he plants his chin in a hand once again.
 
Wylandriah tosses her apprentice a wary glance, hesitating briefly at the door. "I'm sorry things have been busy lately, but we'll resume lessons soon. Perhaps tomorrow."
 
Thiol forces a weak, apprehensive smile. He’d heard that a few times in the past week.
 
She purses her lips. "...I'll be back later." With that, her companion takes her arm in a gentlemanly manner and leads her away. The tower entrance shuts behind them with a reverberating clunk, and Thiol lets out a heavy sigh.
 
Conjure. Condense. Evaporate. Conjure. Condense. Evaporate. Conjure…
 
After no more than twenty minutes, Thiol collapses forward, letting his head thump against the desk in dramatic fashion.
 
“Uuugh. What am I gonna do, Tim?”
 
His teal friend apparates in the form of a frog, looking up at the mopey apprentice with blank, amphibian eyes.
 
Thiol lifts his head back onto his hand to answer his shapeshifting companion. “Okay, but how am I supposed to practice the spells I want to practice all by myself?”
 
Tim blinks absently in reply.
 
“I want to banish evil, like Wylandriah does! Have you seen it? Just a wave of her hand and the imp disappears. Imagine being able to just will bad things away. That would be useful. Way more useful than conjuring a shield. Normal people use shields all the time.”
 
Tim’s head tilts to the side.
 
“Well, no, of course I’m not ready, but how will I ever be ready at this pace?”
 
Thiol watches the frog turn and hop across the desk, eyes following along as though he were listening intently to the wisdom of a sage.
 
“...I suppose you might be right. And if I’m really confident that I am ready before she gets back…?”
 
Tim, the silent voice of reason, happens to be facing the direction of the Infernal Recombitulator.
 
“Alright, then. Deal.”
 
***
 
Early evening turns to dusk turns to nightfall. There’s a collection of books stacked on Thiol’s desk, each with several dog-eared pages marking highlighted passages. They pertain to a smattering of topics: warding against evil, dispeling magic, detaining demons, etc. After several hours of rigorous study, Thiol finally has stitched together enough readings to conceive of the magic he has seen from Wylandriah, and now it’s time to raise the curtain. He will banish an imp from the material plane. Even if he fails - which he won’t, of course - he can easily dispatch the varmint by more conventional means, as he has done with his teacher in the past.
 
Desks and chairs have been pushed aside to clear a circular space in front of the Recombitulator where the demon will appear: a veritable arena where he will earn his glory. An intricate arcane sigil sits in the center, crudely drawn with a compound of cobalt nitrate and charcoal, per his readings’ specifications. If Thiol’s understanding is correct, then it should cause the creature to whither, leaving it more susceptible to banishment.
 
Thiol runs through the motions of the spell, repeating the gesture over and over in the mirror until it is committed to muscle memory, and then repeats it some more. “Oh? Oh- oh you’re lookin’ at me? You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to-” He quickdraws a wand and twirls it at his reflection with great bravado. Had he been an imp, and had he uttered the full incantation, then he’d surely be banished by now.
 
Finally, he is ready. One hundred percent, absolutely ready. His hands are shaking and his heart is racing, but that can’t be helped; for all intents and purposes, he is ready. The Recombitulator hums to life with the flip of a switch. Thiol grips the lever, sucks in a shaky breath, and holds it in his chest for a long, tense moment.
 
It escapes him with a gasp when another clunk reverberates from downstairs: Wylandriah has returned. He slaps a switch to power the device down and frantically scuffs the sigil on the floor with his shoe, desperate to hide his scandalous creation before she arrives. His heart skips with the rising volume of footsteps echoing from the chamber below, crossing the stone floor with purpose. The sigil isn’t smudging fast enough. He’s going to be caught red handed, without even getting to realize his plans.
 
But then there’s a curious sound: a second set of doors open and shut downstairs, these ones lighter than the first. Her bedroom. She isn’t coming to check on him.
 
Thiol slumps into his chair with a sigh. A tide of relief washes over him, though it carries a wave of melancholy. Part of him hoped she would come. Maybe she would be impressed with his initiative, or maybe she’d even help him carry out his experiment to completion. He should have known better.
 
Don’t be so dramatic, he reprimands himself before he can succumb to self pity. It’s late. She’s going to bed. Stop being so damn needy. You can show her your progress tomorrow.
 
Thiol pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, continuing his thoughts aloud. “Yeah, I know, you’re right, Tim…”
 
What would be more impressive, anyways? Setting up the experiment or actually conducting it?
 
He shoots Tim a surprised look at such an audacious suggestion, then leers at the Recombitulator.
 
“...You know what, Tim? You are a wise frog-turtle.”
 
“Ribbit,” says Tim.
 
So with his companion’s blessing, Thiol chooses to be a big man and switches the machine on once more. He grips the lever and takes a deep breath to steady himself. Focus. Calm, level focus. Then, he pulls.
 
The machine belches a jet of flames, along with a volleyball-sized mound of shiny red flesh that lands with a wet splat. Two glossy orbs float to the surface, each with large red pupils that roll about in opposing directions. The eyes are soon followed by a pair of horns, an oversized head, and comparatively undersized limbs as the freakish fleshmound unfurls into the shape of a tiny demon. Those red pupils realign and widen with fearful recognition when one spots the chalky sigil on the ground. Its body - still congealing into its solid form - trembles like jello as it braces for impact. With a practiced flourish, Master Thiol the Executioner brings his wand down to banish the cretin. As the incantation leaves his lips, an unfamiliar, electrifying power grips his heart before shooting down his arm and cascading out from the tip of his wand with a spray of brilliant white sparks that shower the cowering demon.
 
Thiol shudders with the satisfying expulsion of energy. But his grin fades when the air clears and the imp is still curled up in the same spot, unaffected. It lifts its head to peer up awkwardly at Thiol, who waves the wand again, but only manages to produce more sparks and smoke. Hours of preparation, all for naught.
 
That’s not true, he thinks to himself. The sigil probably just needs to be fixed. It’ll definitely work next time.
 
He straightens his posture, steeling himself while the smoke from his second casting slowly dissipates. He’ll just fix it, summon another imp, and try again, just as soon as he deals with this one. One quick magic missile should do the trick. Speaking of which, that thing should be gnawing on his boot by now…
 
The second bout of smoke clears, and the imp is gone.
 
Thiol holds his breath. Did it work?
 
A nearby alembic shatters against the floor, instantly dashing his hopes.
 
“Hey!” Thiol’s eyes follow the source of the sound to the devilish rascal scrambling across a nearby countertop, tipping and tossing aside all manner of glass paraphernalia along the way. “Stop!” As Thiol starts to take chase, it whips around and hurls a glass ampule at his head, filled with an unidentified clear liquid. He gasps, but his hand reacts of its own volition, conjuring arcane energy with a gesture and clenching it into a brilliant shield. The ampule shatters against the barrier, its contents splashing harmlessly around the wizard’s form and scattering across the floor, leaving a spattering of sizzling droplets that sink through the tile. In a panic, Thiol waves his wand and fires a bolt of energy toward the little fiend as it clambers up the side of a fume hood, but it dives for cover behind a ventilation tube, which bursts open from the blast and immediately starts spewing black, caustic smoke that clouds his vision and fills his lungs with sweltering tar. He stumbles to his hands and knees, waving smoke away from his face and coughing steaming ichor onto the floor while the fiend continues its reign of terror.
 
The calamitous concert of chaos is interrupted by a sound that makes Thiol’s heart seize: a mechanical belch, followed by a familiar splat. He looks up through stinging, watery eyes to find the imp hopping up and down on the Infernal Recombitulator’s lever, adding another clone to the mix with each bounce.
 
“No! Nonononono!”
 
He lunges, but they scatter in every direction. Like an elite team of coordinated tricksters, they expertly foil all his attempts at damage control. Each time one is nearly compromised, the others draw attention by razing another corner of the room. Thiol, outmatched by the tribe of red gremlins, is helpless to stop the total pandemonium he has unleashed into Wylandriah’s priceless laboratory. All the while, that broken ventilation tube spews forth more noxious gas, steadily filling the room until he’s practically swimming in it.
 
The fumes nearly drown him, but not before he finds the door. He collapses through and slams it shut before the hellions can follow. Then he doubles over, hacking and coughing to expel some of the mucilaginous venom that had coagulated in his lungs. Once his world stops spinning enough for him to stand, he stumbles down the stairs toward Wylandriah’s chambers.
 
The inside of his chest throbs when he reaches her door, as though he’d sucked in another lungful of fumes. He wipes his still-stinging eyes on his sleeve, balls up a quivering fist, and bangs on the wood.
 
Her response comes muffled, sounding distant and preoccupied. “Not now, Thiol.”
 
“But Miss Steele,” Thiol wheezes, “I really need your help–”
 
“Not now!”
 
“I used the Recombitulator!”
 
“You what?!” There’s a whirl of movement from within, along with some quiet, discontented objections. Moments later, the door whips open, and out strides Wylandriah in a long white robe, hurrying toward her lab. Thiol starts following at her heel.
 
“No, Thiol,” she snaps, “you stay – here.” The severity of his mentor’s tone causes him to shrink in on himself. It stings worse than the back of his mother’s hand or the biting cold of a snowy winter night. The knot in his chest pulls ever tighter as she ascends the stairs and disappears into the wreckage he’d made of her lab. He buries his face in his hands, wishing there was a way to banish himself into another plane of existence. That way he could at least be alone with his shame.
 
No such luck. Another figure emerges from Wylandriah’s chambers: it is Jatai, in a disturbingly short robe that he holds precariously shut with a single hand over his abdomen. The robe - made from delicate silver silk and patterned with pink floral embroidery - contrasts starkly with the curly black hair on his chest and thighs. He lets out a thoroughly agitated sigh.
 
“You know, part of being a big man is being responsible and cleaning up your own messes.”
 
Big man… Big man… Big man… The words grow louder with every echo in Thiol’s mind. He runs his hands through his hair, carving raw rows across his scalp with his fingernails. “Don’t you think I tried?!” Chemical burns have left him hoarse, but contempt is still plain in his voice.
 
Jatai rolls a mint candy in his mouth, clacking it against the backs of his teeth. “...This all from playing with that toy that’s ‘complex beyond my comprehension’?”
 
“Yes, actually. You wouldn’t understand.”
 
“Mm. Neither do you, apparently.” His point is punctuated by distressed sounds from the laboratory, made by Wylandriah as she assesses the damage to her domain.
 
Jatai continues. “Y’know kid, not everyone is good at everything that they try.” What, like you? Thiol sneers mentally, but hasn’t the gall to talk back anymore. “Don’t worry though. Everyone has at least something that they’re good at. I’m sure you’ll find that something, someday.”
 
The veneer of encouragement coating the backhanded insult causes Thiol to ball his fists in his hair. Noticing this, Jatai plants a hand on the boy’s shoulder, looms closer, and mutters, his sardonic tone turning cold. “Believe it or not, kid, picking up a sword doesn’t instantly turn you into a simpleton. Maybe you should try it. Broaden your horizons a little.” He claps Thiol’s back and turns toward the bedchambers with a grunt. “Tell Driah I’ll be waiting for her, whenever she’s ready.”
 
Finally, once the door shuts and he’s alone, Thiol can breathe again. He sucks in a quivering gasp that teeters on the verge of a sob. Jatai’s words, while infuriating, hold an undeniable truth that festers in the boy. He wasn’t meant to be a wizard. He was merely rescued by one. What a regrettable decision on her part, he thinks.
 
Thiol buries his face in his hands once more, trying desperately to collect himself before his teacher returns. The anguish in his expression is irremovable, but he at least manages to wipe away the tears and steady his raspy, wheezing breaths before the door to the laboratory finally opens. Out billows a wave of smog, followed by a weary Wylandriah. Her once-white robes are stained black with soot, her face is hidden behind a brass beaked filtration mask, and her usual regality has all but evaporated. She drifts down the stairs, looking like a plague doctor that has just lost a patient.
 
There’s an excruciatingly long silence as she eyes the disgraced apprentice. Thiol stares at the floor, as though he might be disintegrated if he were to meet her gaze. But when she finally speaks, it’s with her typical gentleness, if a bit more detached than usual. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
 
Words catch in his throat. Unable to speak, Thiol just shakes his head. She nods, and passes toward the bedroom.
 
“I’m sorry!” The cry breaches the dam of shame in the boy. “I’m sorry… I promise I won’t do it again.”
 
She pauses at the door, cocking her head just slightly to regard the apprentice behind her. There’s a soft sigh, followed by a tired reply. “...Goodnight, Thiol.” Then she hangs her mask on the doorknob and disappears into her bedchambers.
 
Silence falls in the hollow lobby of the tower. Thiol breaks it with a whisper to himself. “I promise...”
 
It’s a promise he intends to keep, even if it means looking elsewhere for his calling. But where would he go? What would he do? Steal a carriage and hope to taxi another gracious wizard willing to take him under their wing? No, such opportunities only present themselves once in a lifetime. Loathe as he is to admit it, Jatai’s words bore truth. If he wants to make something of himself without being a burden, then he should pick up a sword. So he shall.
 
***
 
The city of Balgard has a place for brave young men and women that are discontent with the ordinary fates to which they’ve been relegated, be it a life of manual labor, husbandry, or wizard apprenticeship. The group known as Blitz Watch serves as a sort of volunteer militia entity, fending off threats that arise in and around Balgard’s borders. When not serving the community, they frequent the Balgard arena, where these amateurs can hone their martial talents. Payment is less than that of a squire, but food and shared lodgings are available for the needy. Overall, it’s a fine place for a humble beginning.
 
Blitz Watch does not take members of Thiol’s age. They do, however, run the associated youth center for younger up-and-comers, Blitz Watch Junior (more affectionately known as the “Blitz Buddies”). It will have to do.
 
Wylandriah was hesitant when young Thiol decided to move out and join Blitz Watch Junior, but far be it for her to make him stay. It hurt him to give up his dream of becoming Master Thiol Alkene: The Big Fuckin Man Wizard™, but perhaps with Blitz Watch’s guidance he could aim for the moon instead of the stars and still become Sir Thiol Alkene: The Big Fuckin Master Swordsman™.