Thiol Alkene
D&D Beyond Link: https://www.dndbeyond.com/profile/Barkas/characters/34326877
Thiol: Chapter 3 (WIP)
TBD
A teal-feathered duck flies high over Balgard. Below, he sees a great marble amphitheater circling a dusty arena. The upper stands are filled with thousands of spectators - some seeming jolly, with their hooting and hollering, while others are stone-faced, unable to think of anything but the coin they’ve wagered. The lower stands seat the wealthiest among the crowd, and the very bottom ring is reserved for nobility. Lord Edon Uvain of Balgard sits atop a throne on the lowest balcony. He’s accompanied by Lord Dhuberick Balazu, an honored guest from the citystate of Piccester, Balgard’s neighbor and tenuous ally. Seated at Lord Uvain’s side is his acting arcane advisor: a disinterested looking Wylandriah Steele. After an uneasy moment, the duck pulls his gaze away from the familiar archwizard and spirals down to investigate the mouths of two opposing tunnels on the east and west sides of the arena.
Two seasoned warriors of Piccester wait in the eastern tunnel. You can tell they’re from Piccester because they each bear the signature green tabard emblazoned with a golden mustang, and they must be seasoned because Lord Balazu never sends less than his best to these events. Every year, his veterans travel cross-country to dust up Balgard’s amateurs and claim championship in their cousin city’s tournament, much to Lord Uvain’s chagrin.
Beside the warriors is a rack of blunted armaments for them to choose from. The quality is abysmal by their standards, with many a bent blade among the bunch, and the selection is limited even before accounting for such deformities. After some perusing, the first warrior - a brawny dragonborn with bronze scales - selects a long sparth axe. The other warrior - a slender elven woman who moves with deadly grace - eventually settles on a pair of twin shortswords.
Meanwhile, the opposing contestants in the western tunnel do not seem as collected. One of them is small, no more than five feet tall, with maybe two dozen hairs on his chin and a baby face that has only just begun to harden with maturity. He stands slumped as though in some sort of stupor, his sky-blue eyes staring blindly through the world. The other contestant is a taller man with curly red hair, maybe three dozen hairs on his chin, and a face that’s dominated by freckles. He waves a hand in front of his unresponsive partner’s face before turning to snatch a flail and kiteshield off the weapon rack with an aggravated grumble. “Not just any kid; noo, this one is blind, deaf, and stupid. ‘Course he’s on my team.”
With the blink of an eye, Thiol is no longer a duck flying overhead; he returns to his senses on the ground, in the mouth of a tunnel with a disgruntled teammate. He quickly scans the rack of blunted weapons and wrinkles his nose when he finds that the shield has already been taken. The longsword will have to do.
Thiol blurts out to his partner. “Take the spear and engage the duelist. You should easily be able to outrange her and then help me with the axeman.” Much as he prefers for Tim to be a turtle, his fae friend’s avian form has its uses.
“Eh? Fuck’re you talkin’ about?” The man shoots back an incredulous look.
“The duelist - the lady with the shortswords - you can outrange her with a spear. Take her down, and then help me with the big guy,” Thiol repeats impatiently.
“Hah! You think I should take on the girl? Yeah, I don’t think so.”
“Just do it!” Thiol hurriedly dons his sallet and affixes the helmet’s visor into place. A voice booms from outside: the Master of Ceremonies, heralding the imminent commencement of the annual tournament’s quarterfinal match.
The man scoffs. “Piss off, kid. We had plenty of time to strategize, but you fucked it up.”
Before Thiol can protest, a horn sounds, and his partner charges headlong into the arena. Thiol cannot run nearly as fast, but he’s left no choice but to grit his teeth and take chase like a cabbie after a carriage that has lost control. The Piccester warriors casually stride out onto the field, giving their weapons a confident flourish. The crowd hushes in anticipation for the clash of battle.
Thiol’s partner arrives first to meet the dragonborn, trailed by a storm of dust. The flying steel ball twirling above his head would surely kill a man, if it could hit anything. But as the dragonborn effortlessly danced back to avoid the swing with a grin on his face, it became immediately apparent that the Balgard Blitz Watchman posed no more threat to the enemy than he did to himself. Like many on the Watch, this man is all spirit and no talent, and quickly finds himself flanked by true warriors, with his back to the duelist. She cleaves an ankle out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground and inciting a roar from the crowd at the eruption of violence. Before Thiol can catch up, she has already leapt upon her victim and is pummeling him in savage fashion. Her back is exposed to Thiol, but she has no doubt that her partner will handle the little man.
The dragonborn - who has yet to even raise his weapon for this fight - barks a laugh and spreads his arms out wide, inviting another bungling attack for him to dodge. Thiol pretends to oblige, feinting a thrust toward the dragonborn, but as his opponent confidently dances back out of reach, the thrust twirls into a brutal overhead swing that comes down on the back of the duelist’s skull with a crunch. She crumples under the blow, and Thiol immediately spins to face his other opponent, extending his sword in front of him in langort guard. The dragonborn nearly skewers himself on the blade in his rush to defend his fallen teammate, but stops just short. His smirk turns to a smoldering scowl.
The crowd falls into a tense hush as the dragonborn begins to slowly circle the smaller man, his thick scaly tail sweeping agitatedly through the sand with every other step. He feints a few lunges to intimidate his prey, making like he’s going to charge. A better swordsman might call these bluffs and capitalize on them, but at least Thiol isn’t cowardly enough to flinch, keeping his opponent at bay with the point of his sword.
Eventually the crowd grows impatient with this standoff and jeers start to come from the stands. Thiol is deaf to them - too intently focused on his breathing, his footwork, and holding his sword up without trembling - but the dragonborn snarls and is spurred into action. He bulls forward and beats Thiol’s sword aside, only for Thiol to flow with the attack and deliver a swift countercut to the thigh. The dragonborn roars out - more frustrated than injured - as Thiol retreats back into a defensive stance.
For minutes, they’re caught in this standstill, with each attack from the angry dragonborn met with a biting counter from Thiol. But a featherweight can only stand up to a heavyweight for so long. His breathing soon becomes labored, each deflection becomes more desperate than the last, and each collision of metal on metal sends pangs of fatigue down Thiol’s aching arms. Sensing his strain, the dragonborn flies into a flurry of blows, throwing cleave after cleave with raw, overpowering force. It’s an exchange Thiol cannot possibly hope to recover from. Defeat is imminent. With a devastating clash, the sword is flung from Thiol’s hands. The dragonborn spins his axe high overhead, relishing this moment of triumph with one final flourish before he will claim victory.
Instinct takes over when the blade slips from Thiol’s fingers. He dives forward, throwing his arms around his opponent’s midsection before the axe can come down on him, and heaves with all of his adrenaline-fueled might. There’s a collective gasp from the audience as the small warrior lifts the massive dragonborn from his feet, twists in the air, and slams down atop him.
Thiol drives his knee into the downed man’s gut and cocks back a clenched fist to begin pummeling, but hesitates when he’s met with no defense. The dragonborn, with arms spread wide and eyes reeling with a concussion, has been defeated.
***
“Well now, you’ve really brought out your best this year, haven’t you Edon?”
Lord Edon Uvain can hardly hear Lord Dhuberick Balazu over the hysterical crowd. Many are howling with fury at their lost wagers, while others are ecstatic. Even Wylandriah - who only ever begrudgingly attends these events at his behest - is clapping politely for the victor.
“Hm?” Edon clears his throat to swallow any hint of excitement in his tone, and unhooks his fingers from the fabric of his throne’s armrest which he’d subconsciously been abusing. “Have I? Honestly I have no idea who that young man is. Do you, Wylandriah?”
“Yes I do, as a matter of fact,” she says.
“You do?” Dhuberick says. “Well, do tell then, dear.”
“His name is Thiol Alkene. He used to be an apprentice of mine a few years ago, before he left to join Blitz Watch Junior.”
Dhuberick scratches his poofy red beard. “A wizard’s apprentice, then?”
“A Blitz Buddy” Edon cuts in. “Not even a militiaman, much less a soldier. I don’t ‘bring out my best’ to play these games.”
“As you’ve said before,” Dhuberick sighs. “Still though, this must be exciting for you, the thought that maybe a Balgardian could become champion of the Balgard tournament for once. Sadly your man will have to settle for second place. But hey, you’ve already come farther than you have in years, so congratulations!”
Edon’s ears burn hot, and although he maintains a mask of civility, his tone turns subtly waspish. “I admire your unwavering confidence, Dhuberick. If two of my strongest fell to a child, I’m sure it would deal a serious blow to my ego.”
“Bah, kid got lucky, simple as.” Dhuberick leans back in his chair and folds his hands on his round belly, seemingly unbothered by Edon’s insults. “Blazegrove will take this tourney. I’d bet anything on it.”
“Anything, you say?”
“Aye, anything.”
“Bet the rights to the Hallodge Mines, then.”
Wylandriah’s eyes flash. She’d tuned out the dick-measuring, but mention of Hallodge draws her attention back. It’s a resource-rich land whose ownership has been a point of geopolitical contention among surrounding nationstates for generations.
Dhuberick’s insufferably bumptious demeanor falters, his tone turning much more guarded now. “Now why would I ever agree to that? Balgard hasn’t the slightest claim to those territories.”
“I thought you said you’d bet anything. Are you afraid that your general will lose to a Blitz Buddy?”
Dhuberick stares daggers that pierce the pretense of allegiance between their nations, and Edon meets his gaze with matching intensity. It’s a silent standoff that neither king is willing to back down from.
Finally, Dhuberick breaks the tension with a boisterous laugh. “I don’t know what you’ve done with the old Edon, but I like this one better! Fine, I’ll see your wager. But if my man wins, then Balgard’s armies will fight alongside Piccester’s during any territorial dispute over Hallodge with Frazen.”
“Done.”
Edon’s answer comes too quickly for Wylandriah to interject. She lets out a muted groan at the prospect of a conflict with Frazen. When she moved to Balgard and agreed to serve as an “arcane advisor” to Lord Edon, she didn’t anticipate needing to clean up nearly so many messes, especially ones that are not at all arcane in nature. At least she has some time before the semifinal match to ensure that this irresponsible wager is called off.
Dhuberick grins wickedly. “Good. I look forward to the fight.”
“Until tomorrow then, I suppose.” Edon says.
“Why wait? I can have my man fetched and we can square away this business right now.”
Edon scoffs. “Well I suppose if you’re so eager to lose…”
Wylandriah covers her face with her palm.
“Excellent! You there, servant,” Dhuberick points a fat finger at one of Edon’s personal guards, “bring me General Blazegrove.”
“Find this Mister Keen,” Edon adds, “and prepare him for his next match.”
“My lord–” Wylandriah finally manages to get a word in between royal blustering, “–may I speak with you in private?”
***
The energy at the tournament shifted after that match, even down in the hypogeum beneath the arena where contestants were housed. Normally this place was hollow and gloomy, but tonight drinks were passed around in a fervor, and the air had been electrified by the upset. It had a polarizing effect between the contestants of Balgard and those of Piccester. Men and women of Blitz Watch who’d never spoken to him before now clasped Thiol’s shoulder with respect and bought him more drinks than he could hope to stomach. Even his bull-headed partner from the ring - Julian Stinger’s his name, apparently - was suddenly his longtime friend. Meanwhile, the strangers from abroad generally regarded him with contempt, as though he must have cheated. It was surreal, and also mildly terrifying.
In the midst of a lively conversation around him that can’t keep his attention, Thiol’s mind retreats back to Tim’s view of the arena. Once again he sees Wylandriah, and even in his mind’s eye the sight of her stirs a cauldron of feelings in him, some of them sweet, some caustic. There’s awe, shame, gratitude, melancholy, and a fluttering warmth that he can’t quite put to words. One after another they burble to the surface attached to memories that make him smile and cringe before fizzling away.
It’s been three years since he left her tutelage - thrice as long as he spent under it - and for three years he has questioned his decision to abandon his dream of mastering the arcane. He’d thought that once he was no longer a Blitz Buddy, once he was a man, once he earned respect in the arena, he would find some clarity. But now, years later, surrounded by a flock of fellow fighters that celebrate his success in the ring, he scans their faces, and finds himself questioning just as much as he had before.
As he’s scanning the room, Thiol glimpses another familiar face: the duelist that he’d cracked over the head. He can distinguish her features much more easily down here without a helmet stifling his vision. The ears, while pointed, are too short to be an elf’s; moreover, her pale face bears human roundness. Despite this, she moves with inhuman grace, chin held high so that she can look down her nose at people who are taller than her. She has short black hair and carries an entire arsenal of weapons, with two swords on her back, a hand crossbow on her hip, and countless knives stashed throughout her dark leather armor. What’s more disconcerting, though, are her predatory yellow eyes, fixated on Thiol as she approaches. Julian steps forward though, planting himself on her path with his arms folded under his chest, flexing his mediocre biceps.
“What, tryin’a sneak up on him like you snuck up on me? Damned dirty move that was,” he says.
She lofts a brow and smirks. “If that’s all it takes to ‘sneak up on you’, then I’m amazed that you even function. Tell me boy, does your reflection ‘sneak up on you’ when you look in the mirror?” There are some snickers from Piccester fighters.
Julian sneers. “Joke all you like, halfie. You’re just salty ‘cause you got beat by two backwood Balgard hicks.”
A few derisive “oooohh”s echo through the chamber. People begin to crowd behind their respective champions, hungry for a confrontation, but the duelist does not oblige, at least not yet.
She gives an amused little huff. “Right, well, I’d like to speak with the other hick, so if you’ll excuse me.”
She moves to brush past him, but he moves to intercept. “Didn’t hear a please,” he says.
She bristles at that, and the crowd rumbles with anticipation, eager to fold on itself and collapse into an all-out brawl. “Get ‘im, Vanny!” One of her comrades barks from behind.
Pandemonium is precluded by a booming shout that echoes from the entrance to the hypogeum. “Theo Keen, is there a Mister Theo Keen here?”
Only after several confused heads turn toward Thiol does he realize that the royal guardsman at the door is referring to him. “Uhm, my name is Thiol Alkene.” He calls back.
“Ready yourself, Mister Keen. Your next match will begin shortly.”
***
“Just what do you think you’re doing?”
Edon is taken aback. Wylandriah had never taken that tone with him before. “What does it look like I’m doing?” He replies with an indignant scoff, “I’m capitalizing on an opportunity. The kid is going to win, isn’t he?”
Wylandriah throws up her hands with utter incredulity. “I have no idea!”
“What do you mean you have no idea? He’s your apprentice!”
“No! He isn’t! He was my apprentice, years ago, when he was a child! We’ve hardly spoken since then.”
Color drains form Edon’s face as he begins to understand the great peril his political standing now faces. He turns away and pinches the bridge of his nose to tap the pressure building in his head before it has a chance to explode at Wylandriah. “I thought he was your secret ace in his game.”
“I couldn't care less about this game. Why in the world would I have an ace in it?”
Edon takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Once he has collected himself, he turns back around to face her. “Because you always have an ace in the game, Driah.”
She rolls her eyes. “I know that’s meant to be flattering, but it’s actually incredibly frustrating.”
“No flattery; only truth. But in any case, it could still be fine, right? He could still win, couldn’t he?” He asks, pleadingly hopeful.
Wylandriah gives him a grave look. “I wouldn’t bet my army on it.”
“Alright… So what do we do now?”
“We? I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. You, however, must go back there and call off this bet at once, before it drags Balgard into a war it has no interest in.”
“And what, prostrate myself before that–” he gestures angrily, searching for an appropriate insult, “–gnoll?!”
She answers with a silent cocked brow, and after a moment he turns toward the door with a sigh. “Thank you, Miss Steel,” he grumbles with a hint of bitterness in his tone, “your counsel is always appreciated.” Then he adjusts his ruffled collar, refastens his mask of civility, and stalks back toward the balcony where he’d left his honored adversary, with Wylandriah following behind.
When they return, they find Lord Balazu already quietly conferring with a man that Wylandriah recognizes as Jatai Blazegrove.
“Must I?” Jatai protests lightheartedly, “I’ve only just begun to feel the wine this evening.”
An uncharacteristically austere look flashes across Dhuberick’s face. He whispers a reply that makes Jatai’s posture straighten and expression harden. “I’ll get some coffee then,” Jatai says and immediately strides off, offering Wylandriah a quick nod as he passes.
After he’s gone, Edon clears his throat. “Balazu, about this wager…”
“Forfeiting?” Dhuberick interrupts. The severe tone he’d taken with Jatai vanishes, and he’s instantly back to his piggish self. “I figured as much, as soon as that advisor of yours cracked her whip. Wh-tsh! Haha! Oh don’t make that face Edon, you know I just like to kid with you.”
Edon places a hand on his throne to steady himself, feeling faint from rage as all the blood in his body burns through his veins and floods his rapidly reddening cheeks. Dhuberick pretends not to notice the painfully long pause left in the air while Edon composes himself enough to speak.
“Actually, Balazu,” he seethes through gritted teeth, “I was just going to say thank you, for the prosperity that the Hallodge Mines will bring to my city.”
***
((WORK IN PROGRESS))
Thiol: Chapter 2
TBD
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™.
Thiol: Chapter 1
TBD
"You wanna talk like a big man?"
Young Thiol digs his heels into the wood floor and struggles to pull free from the fist clenched around his wrist. He stumbles as he is dragged toward the door, and kicks desperately at his mother's ankles in a futile attempt to break free.
"Get your own fuckin' roof to sleep under then, if you're such a big man!"
The front door whips open and the boy is expelled into the chilly evening air, landing with a soft whump onto a pile of powdered snow. The door promptly slams behind him, and the deadbolt clacks just before he can stumble to his feet and grab the doorknob.
"No!"
He twists and tugs and gives a shrill cry, "Let me in! Let me in!"
No response.
He pounds on the door, his cries growing louder with his fury. They continue for minutes, even after his voice turns hoarse.
Still no response.
His little chest rapidly inflates and deflates as each breath hisses through gritted teeth. He steps back and glares at the cabin with white-hot focus. Master Tenow can break down doors with his mind. He did it in Trials of Tenow: Issue #33. Thiol presses two fingers to his temple, shuts his eyes, and concentrates. Rage fills his head and grows, and grows, and grows until it begins to boil over. His eyes roll back into his skull and he wobbles on his feet, dizzied by hateful visions of that stupid door exploding off its hinges. This is it: this is the precipice. This is happening! It's really happening!
Thiol's strength leaves him. He falls to his hands and knees, now panting and winded from the exertion. He looks up. The door to his home is unscathed. His shoulders slump and he begins to sob, alone in the cold.
A harsh breeze rolls through the boy, stealing away the last of his warmth and resolve. He crawls forward, presses his lips to the keyhole, and croaks:
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Please let me back in."
No response.
"...I'm sorry, okay? Please! I'm sorry! Pleease!" His begs are choppy and uneven, broken by chattering teeth and heaving with hard sobs.
Still no response.
He seethes and bangs his head against the wood in frustration. "...Well at least give me my stupid damn coat! I'm gonna freeze out here! Ma...? Ma!"
Silence... then footsteps, approaching with purpose. He shudders and whispers praise to Aki under his breath. The door cracks open just enough for a hand to toss a lump of grey fabric, then slams shut again before so much as a waft of heated air can escape. He immediately throws the cloth over his head and pulls it down his torso, thankful for this small blessing until he notices an abnormal rip...
"...MA YOU CUT OFF THE SLEEVES!"
...No response.
Tears fill his eyes as he stares at the door, silently waiting for some sort of reprieve to come through for him. He waits...
...Nothing.
"...I wish you were dead..."
In his head it sounded like a ferocious roar. In reality, it was barely a whimper.
He sniffles, hugs his bare arms around himself, and turns his back on the cabin to trudge out into the night. There's a one-horse stable on the other side of their plot of land. He can sleep next to their mare, Chester, Thiol figures. But will that be enough to stave off the deadly cold? Or will he freeze solid in his sleep? Will his feet rot off from frostbite? Oh, then they'd be sorry. The morbid musings are oddly comforting, he finds. At least they distract him from the cold as he walks.
Before long, the outline of a humble little stable forms through the swirling snow, along with his stepfather's cart parked beside it. Thiol stops, a devilish thought creeping into his mind. He's heard of people making a killing just by taxiing lazy folk from one place to another. This can be especially lucrative over in the city proper, for it's a long walk from the keep's wizard tower to the nearest inn, and not worth the trouble to wealthy fatcats. That's just about the easiest way to make coin there is, Thiol imagines. He could make a few runs and then go find a warm inn for the night. Even if he doesn't make enough to afford a room, surely they'd let him sit by their fireplace for a few coppers. "Cmon, Chester." He clicks his tongue, rousing the horse from its rest. "We've got some work to do."
And so Thiol tacks Chester up and outfits his stepfather’s cart for the job. Thiol, with his keen eye for luxury, even tosses a small bale of hay into the back to serve as a comfy seat for his future passengers. Then he takes the reins and starts down the trail toward Ortysia proper. The journey is a few miles and his teeth will chatter away, but the cold doesn't bite so hard up here in the driver’s seat. He doesn't need his parents' roof, fireplace, or even sleeves, because he's a big man. Independent. His tears dry up and an uneven smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he rides.
***
After an hour in the cold spent calling out to pedestrians outside the wizard tower of Ortysia Keep, Thiol still hasn't attracted a single customer. Nobody gave his humble cart a second look. Meanwhile a fancy man with a closed carriage and a fluffy fur coat parks adjacent to Thiol, having just finished his third trip. Thiol's heart sinks with the realization that this may have all been for naught, and that he ought to return to his stable before he freezes. "C'mon Chester," he mumbles, "let's go..."
Just before he snaps the reins to take off, the keep's gate lifts, and out walks the most stunning creature Thiol has ever seen, either in reality or in any of his comic books. It’s a woman, bundled in a lavender cloak with the collar upturned against the cold. A pair of goggles with aqua-tinted lenses sits atop dark hair that’s been tied into a hasty bun. She’s looking intently at a parchment in her hand, but still strides from the keep with purpose, navigating down the steps as though guided by precognition, with a troop of four floating suitcases following behind her. Finally she glances up, catching the boy’s gaze, and he’d swear that her eyes shimmer a bright silver that contrasts with her dark complexion. Her polite smile is dazzling enough to cast Thiol into an infinite moment, his mouth hanging dumbly agape in shocked silence.
The fancier hackney pipes up, "Need a ride, madame? I'll take you to where you can find comfortable lodging for just a silver piece." Daggers of dread stab into Thiol's heart, jolting him out of his stupor. "Two copper pieces, and I'll take you anywhere!" He calls out desperately.
The woman glances between the two drivers, but lingers on Thiol and his sleeveless coat, her brow furrowing with mild concern. She nods to the carriage driver, "Thank you, but I think I'd prefer a full, unobstructed view of the city."
The hackney's eyebrows shoot up with surprise. "...Very well, I suppose." He gives a disdainful look to the kid that just stole his business, only halfway managing to stifle a scowl, but Thiol is too thrilled to notice. "YES! Thank you, thank you Miss! You won't regret it!" He leaps down from the driver seat and scampers over to help with the levitating bags as she climbs into the back of his cart. She lofts a brow at the bundle of hay, but then gives a half-shrug. "Well, I've never been on a hayride before." She comments absently, and sits. Thiol slings all of the bags over his shoulder - for a big man mustn't take more than one trip to carry all of the bags - and waddles back to the cart, swaying precariously under their unexpected weight. He clambers up with a strained grunt, then brushes some loose hay aside with his foot and drops the bags at her feet. She winces with the hard landing, but doesn't comment.
When he straightens up to face her, she can finally get a proper look at him. He's a scrawny lil' human runt, barely reaching eye-level with her while she's seated. He's got a tangled crop of brown hair, along with big sky-blue eyes, pale skin, freckled cheeks, and an unfortunately prominent overbite. His eyes are slightly red and puffy, and he shakes like a leaf in the wind, but regardless he beams up at her with a positively glowing smile. Thiol stares for a few awkward moments before he remembers his manners and averts his gaze to his feet.
"Ahem! Right, uh, where can I take you? The Pig's Pal? The wizard's tower? Wait, no, you're at the wizard's tower.. Uh, Gaerea? Eldamar? Balgard? I heard there's a real neat festival comin' up soon in Balgard, that could be cool. I could take you down to where the three Ortysian rivers meet? That's one of my favorite spots 'cause there's a ton of turtles that'll just walk right on up to ya and say hi.. I dunno, anywhere you want, just two copper!"
She raises an eyebrow. "You don't just taxi around town? You do out-of-town trips as well?"
Thiol bobs his head. "Well sure, if that's what you want. Be happy to!" The other driver stares incredulously from his carriage.
The woman watches the boy thoughtfully and says, "Hmm, well I might have to take you up on that after a couple days. But for now, I just want to get to an inn; teleporting across the continent is sort of tiring and I'm looking to get some food and a bed. But if you'd take a detour past the turtles, I'll give you extra."
The ecstatic beaming grin returns. "Okay!" Unable to contain his excitement, Thiol leaps out the side of the wagon and bounces off the pavement with an "Oof!" - again causing her to wince with the hard landing - before he clambers up into the driver's seat. "You're gonna love it! Tim is my favorite. He changes colors. You'll see!" With a snap of the reins, Chester begins carting them down the trail toward the boonies. The cold air makes Thiol shiver, but nothing could shake his elation in this moment. He’s doing it: he is earning his keep, all on his own. Independent Thiol will pay for his own fuckin' roof to sleep under tonight.
Eventually, as the wizard watches the sights and scenes go by, she would sort of study the back of Thiol's head and then ask, "So what's your name?"
The question draws Thiol's wandering mind back to the present. "Me? I'm Thiol. Thiol..." He pauses. "...Alkene." Then nods firmly, pleased with his new pseudonym. "Not Thiol Rogers or Thiol Tritan. Thiol Alkene. What's your name, Miss?"
She narrows her eyes a little bit, then answers, "Wylandriah Steele. So uh, what's wrong with Tritan or Rogers?"
He wrinkles his nose at the mention of his mother's and stepfather's names, but tries to give a nonchalant shrug. "They're just not m' name, yknow? You have a real nice name though, Miss Steele. It's really good to meet you." Thiol winces as another harsh wind blows through, but still maintains a cheery tone as he speaks through chattering teeth. "D-did you t-teleport to Ort-tysia to meet the t-turtles?"
She smiles a little bit at the question, "Not specifically for the turtles. Are they a big attraction here? And if they are, I must say, you should really be charging more for the guided tour."
"I th-think they're a big d-deal. You're the f-f-first person to come look with m-me though. But maybe after I sh-show you, then you can show some of your f-friends and they'll become a big attraction."
"Hmmm. Well even so, I would just suggest, Thiol, that you definitely deserve more than two coppers if you're planning on driving all the way to Balgard and back. That wouldn't even cover your horse's food, I think. Have you been a taxi driver for long?" She lets a hint of concern bleed into her tone, causing him to shrink in on himself. He stares straight ahead at Chester's ears, his face flushing red with embarrassment and guilt. Oh gods, she knows. "U-uh..." She's gonna turn him in, he knows it. He might not know to whom or for what, but he knows it! "N-no... I mean, yes-- I've got plenty of hay for Chester.."
"Okay, well, I have no intention of literally highway-robbing you. So in about two days, I will be heading to Balgard, and if you want to drive me there, you should do a bit of research and find out how much that normally costs, and then I will pay you that much if you still want to make the trip. Sound fair?"
He shoots her a nervous glance over his shoulder and his brow knits together as the cogs start turning in his head. Not robbing him... Not turning him in... His demeanor relaxes a bit, and an apprehensive smile creeps onto his face. Finally, he gives a lil' nod. "Yeah.. that sounds fair, Miss Steele. Y-you can c-count on me."
They ride on into the night, leaving the buzz of Ortysia proper behind them. Occasionally, Thiol is tempted to glance over his shoulder and sneak a peek at the kind lady. His head gradually turns, as though the slowness of his movements might make him imperceptible. She notices every time, lofting a brow and offering a polite smile, and Thiol snaps his view back to the road ahead, only to try again a few minutes later. Eventually the sound of gently rolling water can be heard as they approach their destination.
"Whoah!" Thiol brings Chester to a stop in the center of the road and hops out. To the right, there's a steep decline toward the sound of swirling liquid as three separate tributaries conjoin into one river about sixty feet away, but little is visible beyond the meager glow from the lone lantern affixed to the front of the cart. All they see of the river is a full moon and glittering stars that reflect off the surface of the water. Without a visible horizon in the dark, it creates a landscape of seemingly infinite night sky.
"C'mon!" Thiol offers up a hand to help Wylandriah out of the cart, though he's too short for it to be of any use. "It's just a lil' walk down closer to the water. That's where the turtles are."
Wylandriah hesitates, her gaze hardening as it shifts from Thiol to the darkness beyond. With a wave of her hand she conjures four globules of dancing lights which spiral out from her fingertips, further and further, out to a hundred feet before floating back. She watches their paths with a wary eye, searching for tricks, traps, or other malice lying in wait, but only finds an oblivious boy that did not consider how inconvenient this detour might be. He watches with wide eyes as she controls the mystical glowing orbs. "Whoooah... That's, like, super cool. Oh, and I bet it'll make it much easier to find Tim out here!"
Wylandriah hops down from the cart, satisfied with her search, and brushes some hay from her butt, though more clings to her back. "I hope so," she says. With another wave of her hand, one of the dancing lights follows close to Thiol's shoulder, while the others float out to help guide the path downhill toward the river. Thiol turns to look at the orb on his shoulder, but of course it turns with him, leading him to spin as he takes chase. He wobbles after a few turns, but grins with thorough amusement, and Wylandriah can't help a smirk of her own.
"...Will my tour guide lead the way?" She finally asks.
"Oh, right. Yeah, follow me!" He slides down the snow-sludged hill toward the river and skids to a halt at the edge of the water. Wylandriah picks her way down the hillside a little slower, her slightly-heeled boots not quite optimal for this terrain, but she seems amused nonetheless as she joins the boy's side.
"He's around here somewhere..." Thiol squints at the water.
"...Sooomewhere..." He searches... and searches...
"Tim? Tiiiim..." No response. The ecstatic grin gradually falters, then dissipates, and eventually pulls down into a frown.
"I... I swear, Miss Steele, he.. he's here somewhere, I.." Searching...
He cringes and pleads quietly, seemingly to himself. "...Gahhhh, no, c'mon, please..."
After several painful minutes of hollow silence, Thiol's shoulders finally slouch with defeat and he buries his face in his hands with shame.
"I'm sorry, Miss Steele..." He mumbles. "I... I didn't mean to waste your time..."
Just then, there's a ripple of movement as a bright aquamarine turtle head pokes out of the surface of the water and tilts to shoot an inquisitive look toward the sullen child. Wylandriah peers at the creature, noting a hint of intelligence in its eyes as she bends down to get a closer look. She reaches a hand out as if to touch it, but thinks better of it and slowly pulls her hand away. "Hi Tim," she murmurs. Thiol peaks out from behind his fingers and gasps, his beaming grin instantly returning with the arrival of his friend. "Tim! Oooh, you deviant, tryina make me look the fool, eh?" He tries to chide the turtle, slapping his hands onto his hips, but his tone betrays his delight.
Wylandriah presses her lips together to stifle a smile and swallows her chuckle before asking, "He changes colors, you said?"
Thiol bobs his head. "Yep! I've seen him turn a bunch of different colors. He was pink one time. Tim, can you show us? Can you change colors? Pleeease? Don't make a fool out of me twice!"
Tim turns the inquisitive gaze upon Wylandriah now, inspecting her about as closely as she did him. Moments later, his shell and scales - which were already an unnaturally vibrant teal - begin to shift to a deep purple before their eyes.
"Yeah, that's it! See?" Thiol says.
"Huh, that's... interesting." Wylandriah pulls her goggles down over her eyes while inspecting the turtle and spins one of the lenses until there's a soft click. "Veery interesting... Hmm. He's definitely doing that with some kind of magic. But I don't think we need to disturb him on account of it," she says.
"D'awwh, I don't disturb him none. He's m' buddy. Ain't that right, Tim?" The turtle blinks at Thiol with one eye, then the other. "See! He winked!" Tim then turns to blink at Wylandriah, who is currently covering her mouth to conceal a smile and shaking her head. "Well... that he did," she concedes.
A frigid wind blows by, causing Thiol to shiver violently and Tim to retract into his shell and sink below the surface of the water. Wylandriah adjusts her coat and clears her throat, "Thank you for showing me, Thiol. I'd definitely be ready to get to a hotel, now."
Thiol nodnodnods. "Yeah, g-good idea..." With that, he turns and begins clambering up the hill toward the cart, pausing occasionally to point out hazards along the way as he discovers them. "Ack-! Careful over here, th-there's a hole.. Ah, god-! It's a little m-muddy, too..." Eventually they both make it to the top of the hill, and Wylandriah winks out the dancing lights once they reach the lantern's glow. Thiol politely offers a hand as though to help her into the cart, and he says, "Din' mean to m-make ya freeze out here, s-sorry..."
"I wouldn't worry about me." She accepts the hand to humor the boy, then pulls herself up into the cart. Thiol then darts around to the driver's side, climbs aboard, and steers back toward the city. "Betcha never seen a t-turtle like T-Tim, eh? He's one of a kind." Thiol declares with pride.
Wylandriah ponders a moment before replying, "No, I've never seen a turtle do that anyway. Maybe he's something other than a turtle, though. Who knows! But he seems to be living his best life."
"I think he is, yeah. He seems pretty happy every t-time I see him." Thiol frowns upon realizing that he has no idea what a sad turtle might look like, but dismisses the thought with a shrug. "Anyway... Whatcha gonna do in Ort-tysia, now that you've seen the sights?"
"Hmm, well, you know. Not a whole lot, some rumors to look into, and waiting around for the rest of my equipment to be ready to take over to Balgard. I'm moving and setting up a new tower and lab there, which takes a lot of planning and such."
"A tower? Like... A wizard tower?"
"Yeah, I mean every wizard needs a tower, right?"
"You're a wizard?!" The question hangs in the air like a terrible joke before Thiol adds, "I've always wanted to be a wizard, but you're, like, a proper one, then? Proper enough to have a tower? Right in my very presence?"
"Yep, a wizard," she says, and with a snap of her fingers and a quiet mutter she turns the material of Thiol's coat-turned-vest toasty and warm. He gasps and drops the reins to hug his arms around himself, balling up around the blessed heat. "More people are capable of becoming wizards than you might think," she continues. "They just might not get the time, education, or opportunity. It's a bit of a travesty but... yes, I'm in the process of getting my own tower."
Thiol stares up at her with wide, awe-struck eyes as she speaks, and continues staring for a long moment afterward while the heat fades. "...Can... can you do that again, please?"
Wylandriah nods with a quiet "Sure thing," and snaps her fingers again, instantly warming Thiol’s vest as though it's been bathing in summer sun all day.
"Aaaah... That.. That's an incredible trick, Miss Steele... I'll hafta learn it someday, aheh..." Thiol forces an awkward chuckle, feeling particularly small in the company of someone that can solve his greatest problem with a literal snap of her fingers. He forces his gaze to the road ahead and falls into a contemplative silence. Wylandriah tilts her head a little and says gently, "I'm sure you can, though maybe not on the first try. It's called prestidigitation, and you basically just..." She shifts into the front seat of the cart beside Thiol, and begins showing him the hand motions and incantation to cast the cantrip with all the patience of a seasoned arcane instructor. He lets down the reins, trusting Chester to know the path, and closely studies Wylandriah's demonstration. After running through the motions a few times, she speaks with an encouraging tone, "Now, you try."
Thiol shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and focuses. Not like Master Tenow's door-smash; that didn't work. Calm, level focus this time. He concentrates on the sensation of being wrapped in a toasty warm cloak and holds it in his mind's eye while he tries to follow Wylandriah's example as closely as possible...
His hand waves, the incantation leaves his lips, and then... nothing. The cold stings no less than it did moments ago. But before despair can settle in, he opens his eyes and finds that his sleeveless jacket has turned from a dull grey to a vibrant, fiery orange. His heart leaps with glee as he cries out, "I did it!" Wylandriah's head sort of bobs in surprise at Thiol's result as she squints at the bright jacket, but she replies cheerfully, "You sure did!"
Thiol straightens his posture, brimming with fantasies of Master Thiol the Wizard. It's not until he's got a rough outline of the plot of Trials of Thiol: Issue #1 that he finally snaps back to the present. Tears of joy threaten to spill onto his frigid cheeks, and his hands shift fussily at his sides as he fights back the urge to throw his arms around the woman's waist in a tight hug. Instead he looks up at her with big blue eyes and a smile that can hardly convey the depth of his gratitude. "Thank you, Miss Wylandriah.."
She gives a satisfied smile and slaps her hands onto her lap, punctuating Thiol’s success. “Well now, you keep practicing that and it’ll start- Oh, yep, look at you go, good job…” Before he can be told, Thiol has already begun repeating the exercise. By the time they return to town, he can alter the color of his jacket somewhat consistently.
They pull past a sign that reads “The Pig’s Pal” and halt the cart near the entrance of a large log cabin. A warm glow and musty fragrance spill out of the front door, followed by a stumbling drunkard. Far from the most upstanding establishment, but it’s the only inn that Thiol knows. Fortunately Wylandriah doesn’t protest, instead accepting it as part of the humble hayride experience.
Thiol rubs his eyes and yawns, already spent after practicing his new trick on the road, but still dutifully turns to hop down from the cart. “Here we are. I’ll get your luggage for you.”
“No no, that’s quite alright,” Wylandriah hurriedly interjects, scooping up her fragile bags before Thiol has the opportunity. “I can take it from here.”
“Oh… Alright, if you insist.” Thiol averts his gaze and anxiously grinds his heel into the ground. “Well… I just gotta say thank you, again, Miss Wylandriah. For comin’ with me to see Tim, for teaching me how to do magic- all of it was just…” He shakes his head, searching for words. Before he can find any, there’s a quiet ting! and a glittering gold coin sails through the air, then lands in his hands. Thiol’s eyes go wide and his jaw drops. The wizard smiles at him and says, “Thank you for the fantastic tour. Keep practicing what I showed you, and meet me here in two days if you’re still up for the ride to Balgard. Okay?”
“Y-... do-... bwuh-... I-…” He can only sputter in response.
She gives a chuckle. “Good night.” And then turns toward the inn. Awe-struck, Thiol watches in silence as she departs. After she’s out of sight, his gaze drops to his palm, and his reflection stares back from the polished surface of a coin worth a hundred coppers. With this he could get himself a cozy room for the night, and buy himself a new jacket, and still have plenty leftover. He hastily pockets the coin and glances around shiftily, paranoia suddenly coiling in his gut as though he’s done something wrong. Before anyone can confiscate his contraband, he guides Chester and the cart to the nearby stable to be accounted for, then rushes into the inn, intent on renting the nicest room available.
When he finally arrives at the room, he collapses into a warm bed that is much more comfortable than his own, and buries his face in the soft pillows with a satisfied groan. Exhausted, he bundles up under the covers without even removing his dirty clothes, yet somehow finds himself unable to fall asleep. His imagination still raves behind his tired eyes, enraptured by the events of what has certainly been both the worst and best evening of his life. He’s not sure how he will take Wylandriah out of town later this week; he’s already in for a whipping if his stepfather finds out that he stole the cart for a night. But he will find a way. Somehow. He has to, for he is now Master Thiol Alkene: The Big Fuckin Man-Wizard™, and he will never be Thiol Rogers again.
***
It’s not until well after sunrise that Thiol stirs from the most restful sleep he’s had in ages, and he doesn’t roll out of bed for another half hour after that, still caught in revelry from yesterday’s miracles. Sure, it’s too late to return the cart before his parents wake up, but he’s rich now; he can just drop off the cart and leave again if he wants. The problems of his old life seem so small to him, now that he’s lifted himself from poverty and become a wizard. Oh, but he should return posthaste, since surely by now they must be worried sick! Perhaps if they apologize, he will consider staying, he decides. And with that, Thiol finally retrieves Chester and starts toward home at a casual pace.
Thiol’s heart lurches when he reaches the edge of town and spots four columns of black smoke rising in the distance. “It’s alright. It’s a bunch of really big bonfires, that’s all…” He reassures himself to fight the rising panic, then snaps the reins to usher Chester forward, hurrying toward the nearest beacon of dread. His delusion is quickly dispelled as he finds that the cottage which previously belonged to the neighboring Hawthorne family has been completely leveled.
“Whoa, Chester…” He stops the cart and hops out to get a closer look. “Mister Hawthorne?” Thiol calls out, stepping closer to the fence around his neighbor’s farmland with great trepidation. Black patches of scorched earth litter the yard around what used to be a sizable home, but is now a smoldering pile of ruin. His heart hammers in his chest as he scans for signs of the Hawthorne family, and flutters faintly when he finds them. Five charred masses are strewn about the wreckage, barely recognizable as corpses.
Thiol stumbles back with a gasp and trips on his own feet, hitting the dirt with a sharp yelp before scrambling back to Chester’s side. He frantically yanks at the buckles of Chester’s harness until the mare is free from the cart, then leaps onto the beast’s back and digs his heels in hard. “HYAH!” Chester rears back with a distressed whinny, then breaks into a charge. Icy talons of fear squeeze on Thiol’s heart as he rides toward home.
The knot in his chest pulls ever tighter as he nears the thickest column of smoke, and rips apart when a raging inferno comes into view. He would vomit if he wasn’t so focused on the bareback gallop toward the fence between him and his home. He holds onto Chester’s mane as they vault over the barrier - narrowly clearing its two meter height - then slam back into the ground and keep running.
Thiol’s home is not like the Hawthornes’; this fire is still lively, and no bodies litter the lawn. At least, not yet. Perhaps he arrived in time. Or perhaps he would have, had he not so slothishly dragged himself out of bed this morning to return his stolen vehicle. Thiol dismounts the moving horse with a nimbleness he’d never known and sprints into the blazing, half-collapsed building. The pounding of his heart in his ears drowns out the roaring flames. Then he spots her, and the world falls silent.
“MOM!”
No response.
He tears across the room and skids on his knees to the pile of burning wreckage that is pinning his mother’s motionless form. He grabs onto a glowing beam and lifts with all his might, even as it melts the flesh of his hands. He throws his head back in an agonizing scream, and smoke fills his lungs.
Still no response.
Thiol hacks and coughs. His vision starts to fade. There’s a malevolent cackle. He lifts his head. An unfamiliar woman in black robes looms over him with an evil grin, her hands engulfed in flames. Her pale skin, red hair, pointed teeth and sulfurous yellow eyes burn an image into the back of Thiol’s eyelids. The witch lifts her palms and jets of flame pour forth to consume the boy. His joints lock against his will, leaving him paralyzed and powerless as he’s bathed in searing fire.
With a thunderous crack Thiol is jerked backward through a blinding flash of vibrant colors, as though a ripcord was pulled and his soul was violently ejected from his body. He’s falling, spinning, and suffocating all at once, careening through space until he crashes into an impactless landing.
And like that, the nightmare is over. He’s lying on soft earth now, instead of a bed of embers. When he gasps, he sucks in sweet, clean air. Bright sunlight silhouettes a dark figure with glimmering silver eyes: certainly an angel, sent to deliver him from the fires of hell to heaven’s embrace. Thiol blinks and squints up at his savior, until he can make out the face of Wylandriah Steele, her brow knit with worry. Her lips move, and though he hears no sound, a wave of relief washes over him, dulling the pain in his sizzling hands. His eyes roll back into his skull and all goes dark as he’s magically coaxed into a comfortable slumber.
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