PM to join Comfortably Numb (Achenar)

[Konrad Venger]

63rd Day of Spring, 516AV || A mile north up the beach from The Terraces, East Bank

Syna was falling, and Konrad walked towards the fire she would make of the Suvan. Every step he laid through the dry sand brought him closer to the inferno. A slick and shimmering landscape of flames that spread and grew to waves lapping, crashing, reaching and receding again. Konrad almost wished he could savor the sight more, but while the incandescent sea was on his left, his eyes swung to his right more and more as he marched.

The swamp bore no fire. No light. Just the black maws between trees and tangled, vine-encrusted limbs reaching out towards him. The mangrove swamp started proper a little further away, gnarled roots of those strange trees reaching up through the water and then forming, impossibly, into trunks, branches, leaves, limbs. But to the right, beyond the sand and the surf, was the canopy of the swamp, and Konrad didn't like it.

Hide a petching army in there and I'd never know it until they were pouring out after me.

The Sunberth killer knew there would be valid reason for that, now. Days before, he'd been the man laying open throats and stomachs when a Radacke Dynast had been attacked trying to bed some wench, of course on the night when Konrad was chosen to protect him. They'd been Rujaro, or said they were. Suicidal with rage at the slave beaten to death on the 45th, desperate for any Dynast blood to equal out the equation.

Konrad snorted now and tasted salt as he did, just like he had that night. He understood the philosophy, the need to balance pain with pain. He also knew it was a loser's arithmetic, a fool's errand... and besides which, no-one accomplished shyke for a cause by dying for it. Only by killing.

They hadn't. He had. And now, he was sure, the Rooj knew about it.

So the man's hand was resting on the hilt of his kopis as sand parted under his feet as he walked. No crossbow, however, too cumbersome a device for that walk. Every other blade he had was on him, though, and Konrad felt secure even without Three Eyes trailing after him like a pudgy dog.

Ah, that thought was enough to get a smile on his face. Dumb petching sod. He'd gone and got his willy wet while the Dynasts were busy debauching and deflowering everything with a cock or a cunny the night before, and now he was suffering the same as them. Writhing in his bed back at the Terraces, an ice pack pressed to his crotch and howling like a pitbull was chewing at it.

Petching idiot, he thought as he stopped squinting, dipping Syna casting less and less light. Soon night would come and Konrad would feel a little better. He knew it was an outrageous thought, following the one about a band of rebel slaves mayhap wanting his head, but Konrad always did better cloaked in the night. He was safer there. More comfortable. And things are always more private.

Which, after all, was the whole reason for his evening jaunt. He flexed his dangling hand and breathed in, willing into life the circuit he knew raced around him-

waves and lanes and arteries, veins from toes to scalp, pulsing and pumping with power beyond muscles and bone, pressing against them from the inside

-responding to his simple thought, rising as greenish-black gas from his palm and then congealing into water, a ball of whirling res like a miniature world, ready to be lit-

No... not yet... Out.

As with it's creation, the construct died with a thought. As Syna sank into the flaming sea, the djed ball sank back into his hand. Konrad smiled softly, scars and scruffy, gaunt face lit by the dying ball as it tingled and crackled across his palm... then vanished.

His hand clenched into a fist and he waited... waited for that clench in his muscles, the pain that was payment for power... and felt a tingle.

Huh. Always nice to progress.

The mercenary chuckled at his progress, sand flying in little arcs from his boots as he kept walking, the light dying as he went, the night rising, and a rank of sharp-heeled footprints following in his wake. Another half-mile or so, or until the night had truly arrived, and by the light of Leth on the Suvan, he would begin his practice proper.

[Achenar]

Achenar hated the night. He could never hide as well as in the daytime, when the only thing that was remotely notable on his visage was the dark Radacke brand on his temple. People were less likely to approach him, less likely to reach out with curious hands that expected instant gratification. As a divine, otherworldly creature, he was a commodity, a thing. It felt like a curse from Leth, to be beholden as nothing more than a priceless asset. So when the day had fallen into night, Achenar was more than grateful to have been able to wander onto the beach after his daily errands were run.

With his master indisposed by the sickness that had stricken most of the dynasts after a certain event, he was free as far as the invisible chains allowed. He knew better than to run, but he also knew better than to practice his magic under the watchful gaze of Kenash proper. There were eyes everywhere. Spies and little birds that reported back to anyone, anywhere. And a slave caught practicing would likely end in death.

And Achenar, no matter his torturous life, did not want to die.

He'd remembered the beach before, and had even retrieved parcels from sailors for his master. The salty breeze that drifted from the ocean brought back familiar memories; of a life he'd once lived on the open sea. What little memories he held were fragmented, remembering a time when the only concern he'd had was where the storm's winds would take him next. But he was no longer Svefra. His people of old would scoff at what he had become, shackled to the land.

Would they weep at what I had lost? He wondered bitterly, as his silver gaze watched the waves crash onto the shore.

He made his way far enough onto the beach where the lights of central Kenash still bled into the twilit sky. And with attention focused on the tree in front of him, he willed the djed to seep into every crevice of his left arm, prying the astral limb from its host until his physical arm was left limp and useless. With so little practice, it took him several chimes to achieve a sufficient extraction, but he could feel the phantom limb like a pulsing energy, extending outward to reach for the piece of plank wood several paces away.

The effort made the ethaefal's brows furrow and his jaw tense. Almost, he growled to himself. The fingers of the astral limb wrapped slowly around the plank and he managed to nudge it with an exasperated sigh.

But in a momentary lull of the waves' crashing roars, Achenar heard the sound of sand kicking. The slave glanced down the shore with his heart in his throat, and saw the approaching figure like a looming threat on the horizon. Petch. His hissed. Petch.

The dawning of the moon was melting his mortal form's visage as the ethaefal darted behind a jutting boulder, his arm left limp and hanging, astral limb surging in waves. He inhaled, pressing his face against the rock as he peered over the other side. Go away, he willed.

[Konrad Venger]

Everything was painted in silver and black, to one degree or another. As Konrad stopped and looked around the patch of beach, he tried and failed to find some other texture to the scenery. The Suvan bounced and swayed and sighed against the sand like quicksilver. The trees above the beach swayed and rustled in the hot Spring wind, but gave no hint to their form beyond black leaves and deep shadows.

Even the sand he stood on seemed to have lost its golden hue. Now it was just a strange, pitch-flecked silver under the glow of the giant silver miza hung on the sky.

Konrad looked up and the Leth-light touched his face, his scars, his open eyes. No warmth on them, for a cold and distant deity was that glowing orb. But he cast light, at least. Enough for him to look around and find something...

There.

A plank from some long-forgotten schooner or boat was lying on the sand, maybe fifteen feet away. Konrad breathed steadily for a steady chime. Until every suck and push of his chest brought crackles of djed into his skin. It was like lowered a bucket into a well, deep inside him pulling up that power until he could feel it fill him, then channel it into his arm...

On an exhale, his hand began to glow. Green at first, like Trevin's own res, but through some cosmic joke or innate natural understanding, streaked and scarred with black as deep as a cave's shadows. He pulled the gas from him and it transmuted into liquid, forming an orb under his hand as he stared, feeding it, growing it, until-

"Burn."

His words were a mere growl. Unnecessary, he knew, but only in the most literal sense. His thoughts controlled his djed; his will gave it form. But for a novice like himself, the added weight of words, gestures, all aided him, and with that word-

The ball became a flaming Syna hovering above his palm. Orange and yellow flames licking up to the sky and then shrinking as he tightened his control. Miniature spasms wracked his arm but nothing he couldn't ignore, and he drew back his arm, gauged the distance... threw.

The ball flew from his hand like, well, a ball. Like he was playing with the other children in the dregs and detritus of Sunberth. But it was not really aim that led it. Once again, it was his mind, and as it flew he could feel the strain of his djed, wanting to pull itself back to him and be denied by his will, hurled further, straight at the plank-

Petch!

-not quite, as it turned out. As it left the scant few yards of his control, the ball lighting up the beach wobbled, dipped as if confused or unsure-

-and crashed onto the sand in front of the plank, leaving it unscathed.

Konrad glared as if the piece of flotsam had done him and all he valued some mortal injury. It stared back without sight and he raised his other hand, willing the djed to tingle up his arm into another ball. Higher this time, it lit his face like a daemon's, every inch of his scars bathed in green-black light until he set it alight, drawing back and hurling overarm-

Go!

It was better, but still not enough. Trevin had told him that his power was still ill-formed, barely more than a conception of true wizardry. He would need practice, patience, and he understood, but still-

A tremor bit deep into his arm and Konrad grunted as what control he had failed him, flying fireball cut from him as neatly as a marionette cut from its strings. Its flight went from a straight line to a wobbling, skittering mess until-

"Shyke!"

Konrad kicked out and sent an aura of innocent, blameless sand cascading away from him as the ball spattered to the side of the plank and withered into nothing. The blazing light died and shadowed silver returned, leaving but Konrad clutching his arm as it pulsed and burned under his jacket.

I know I have to wait, he growled to himself, casting his eyes around for something break, something to alleviate his frustration. But it'd be nice to petching hit something!

Then he saw it. A boulder stabbing out at the sky like a giant's toy tossed after a day at the beach. Broad and tall, almost as much as him. Maybe... twenty feet away. His experience with a crossbow came back to him. Why did he aim for the horse, and not the rider? Because the horse is bigger. Even if you miss, you can't miss.

Unless you're a complete idiot.

Ignoring that unwanted warning from his own mind, Konrad raised his hands... ignored the cramp in one of them... and closed his eyes. Control. Focus. All those things Trevin had taught him. Both limbs shared the burden now, and he imagined the torrent inside him split into two rivers, flowing out of his heart and through his arms, flowing to his hands...

Green tendrils sliding from his hands, joining up in the space between them, forming a fat ball of res that was soon scorching and devouring itself merrily in front of him. His green eyes snapped open. In front of him stood the boulder, and he snapped out both his arms like he was shooting out a heavy ball-

-flaming orb blasting out away from him, both hands extended, straining, screaming at him but gods, he needed only a few ticks. Maybe less, until it was on target and even when they dropped, numb and jerking with spasming muscles, it was still flying.

Konrad barked with victory as the ball smashed into the boulder, splattering across it like a wineskin splashing burning djed across the surface of the stone. He grinned wide as his res flared one final time, scarring the stone with scorch marks-

-then it froze and collapsed as a yelping figure stumbled from behind their hiding place behind it-

"What the petch?!"

His kopis sprang into the air before the last word had even hit the breeze, gritting his teeth as he forced down the pain in his arm. Overgiving. That was Trrevin's word for it. Push too hard, go too fast, and your power would kick you back into line and then some.

But Konrad didn't like being spied on, and even with the sword shaking in his grip he stalked towards the interloper, half-wondering who it might be even as he planned to cut them open for the damned insult they'd done.

[Achenar]

Achenar could hear the disturbance of the sand, and the strange crackle like a sparked fire. His mind was wracked with indecision. He didn't expect anyone to wander the shores when the city was preoccupied with a rampant deviant illness. And now he was plastered against the rock, holding his breath and trying to formulate a plan. The land stretched out ahead of him, but he knew fleeing into the swamp meant a sure death. And yet if this man was a dynast, or a malicious freeborn, I'll be dead regardless.

And attacking... Achenar had never been taught to fight. The extent of his combat knowledge was his ability to take a hit. He'd wrestled with men before, fought with his fists when he'd had to, and even brandished a dagger in the shady streets of Zeltiva. But he'd never used it enough to become familiar with it. The only thing he had... was his magic.

The astral arm that was held aloft pulsed like a heartbeat. He could only keep it charged for so long. But before he'd had a chance to make his decision, a blast scorched the very stone he was hidden behind. The resulting explosive flare startled the ethaefal, and in that moment, he jerked from his position, staring wide eyed at the marks left on the boulder. "Fire?" He whispered. The gnarled voice followed, and Achenar realized then that he'd been exposed.

He sprang to his feet, but dressed only in linen tunic and pants, he was sorely under geared and, more importantly, unarmed. The kopis the man brandished brought a tremble down the slave's spine, and for once, he didn't react with a headstrong rebuttal, but instead, raised a hand, as if in surrender. He hoped that the dim light and his dark hair would hide the Radacke brand from this stranger.

"I'm just here for some solitude, same as you," the ethaefal lied slowly, trying to piece together the threads of his astral arm to his limb. The effort made his arm almost shake violently and he clutched it with his teeth clenched.

"I'm not here to fight, and I'm definitely no threat. I've no weapons on me... Just, calm down."

It was surprising to the slave how much he had to force himself to act like a freeman would. Without the use of honorifics, he felt as though something was out of place. But as Achenar peered at him through the growing dark, he noticed an unmistakable visage; a scar on his face that could have left nightmares. And then he realized.

"You," he hissed.

[Konrad Venger]

Based on what he thought he knew, Konrad had already decided to kill the bastard. But that didn't mean he didn't want to know his story. Namely, who'd sent him to go a-spying.

Someone had to, he snarled to himself as he closed in on the man, who was raising his hands in a gesture of surrender that was certain to be wasted. Petch else would they be doing out here?

"I'm just here for some solitude, same as you."

"Bollocks," Konrad snapped, sound as sharp and brutal and dray as a bone snapping. "Here? Jus' outta luck, eh? Shite."

"I'm not here to fight, and I'm definitely no threat. I've no weapons on me... Just, calm down."

Konrad's hand was still trembling. Not shaking: trembling. There was no reason or pattern to the way his muscles were firing and shutting down, doing both seemingly at the same time. It was all he had just to keep all five fingers and his thumb curled around the kopis. He silently thanked Whoever that at least he could still walk.

"Lying bastard-"

His free hand snapped out and grabbed a handful of tunic, jerking the man close, shifting sand and angry words drowning out the muffled grunt of pain as even that arm rebelled against him. Hopefully the man would see a trembling fury rather than just, well, trembling.

Then Konrad forgot his pain, his aching. He saw the face as he pulled it close, the brand, a darker shadow on an already shaded brow... took in that flawless face that he was sure had maidens moaning in the sleep after naught but once look at it...

"You."

Konrad echoed back the word and the two stood there for a moment, linked in silent surprise that transcended the danger of the past moments. The waters lapped and gurgled, the wind blew and all manner of creeping things brayed and hooted in the jungle. But nothing from them, until-

"Petch're youse doin' here?" Konrad got back to business sharpish, shaking the sex slave with the hand gripping his tunic. "Yer a Radacke boy, ain'cha? Petch's yer man doin' spyin' on me? I work fer youse bastards!"

The Sunberth man had betrayed more than a couple of employers in his time, but was fortunately hypocritical enough to raise a decent furious froth at the implication of Achenar's presence. The Dynasty that hired him was also spying on him? The outrage! His hand jumped from cloth to flesh, gripping Achenar around the throat and-

Shyke. Can't raise my arm. Shyke, what can-

Achenar would feel the curved, sharp length of cold metal shoved between his legs instead. Hard enough for him to know through his breeches that, yes, it was indeed quite sharp. Konrad breathed heavily and let his anger override his fatigue. Ragged burst blew drink and anger over a face beautiful as a sculptor's highest hope.

"Talk, ya shite! If y'ain't here fer my, why're youse - a petchin' slave who gets the petch beat outta him fer a livin' - out here? Answer me!"

[Achenar]

He didn't believe him. Of course he wouldn't. Achenar nearly rolled his eyes at the man had he not been abruptly grabbed by the tunic and hauled toward him. The slave put his hands up as though he could repel the freeborn bastard, the look in his eyes both stunned, afraid and stubbornly angry.

"I have no reason to lie," Achenar told him with a growl. "Knowing that I would die whether I lied to you or not." What he did not know, however, was that this Sunberthian worked for his master, and more outrageously, that this filth assumed he was anything but a sulking husk of a slave.

"Spy?" He repeated, incredulously. "I'm not a spy." To Achenar, Konrad seemed like the unnecessary paranoid type. His eyes flicked toward the hand that held him, the way it seemed to tremble. Is he afraid? His eyes narrowed. "I told you I'm just here to--" His voice was cut off as his throat was held with a calloused hand. His hands shot up to grip the man's arm, half-prying and squeezing in stunned shock.

I'm going to petching die here. His mind was racing. Trying to think of anything to say that would placate the man as he gasped for air. Panic shot up his spine as he felt the sharp edge of a blade press against a private area. Oh shyke.

"Stop," he gasped. "Stop. I'm not-- I'm not a petching spy. My master is sick... I thought I could just get some time to myself out here. Nothing more. I didn't even know you were coming." He was speaking fast and hoarsely as he stared the man in his scarred sun-burnt face. He licked his dry lips, breathing hard. "What have you to hide?" The slave asked bravely. "You're a freeborn. You can get a moment of solitude any time you want."

He glanced then at the rock he'd hidden behind, noting the very scorch marks that had forced him to stumble out of his hiding spot. Where is the fire? "How did you do that?" The slave asked abruptly, jerking a finger toward the stone.

[Konrad Venger]

Konrad wished he could remember the handsome sod's name, but all his mind came up with was "Aching". Buggery knew why. Part of him thought it was fitting: he could imagine Zaelsen made a fortune off the legions of women (and a battalion or two of men, he'd wager) lining up to have their way with the slave.

Konrad was an ugly man, in almost every way, but he knew beauty when he saw it. Perhaps that was why the slave's brave words and unexpected questions, the sheer courage in trying to do so even with a blade at his balls and a hand at his throat and a nightmare huffing in his face... didn't provoke quite the usual reaction.

Konrad respected courage. But he hated being lied to far more.

"Word of advice," he said, letting go of the Ethaefal's throat long enough to flick the brim of his hat, hard, sending it flying back off his head and leaving it bare. "Don't change the petchin' subject-"

Taking a firm grip on the horned man's tunic, he brought his head crashing forwards and smashed his crown towards Achenar's face. Maybe his nose would break. Maybe he'd have a black eye. Maybe it would just smash into his teeth, bit Konrad was careful not to aim his headbutt quite that low. Either way, when his head straightened back up and Achenar was half-way capable of understanding him, he'd still be there.

Nothing would have changed, only the promise of pain would be very real.

"Hurts, don't it?" His voice wasn't the slithery, slimy thing that Zaelsen's was. It was hard, the gravel and knuckles to the Radacke's leather and needle-steel. Oddly enough, there was little dishonesty in it. Konrad didn't care about that, when he didn't need to. Intimidation with a proven truth was far more effective. "Doesn't hurt me anymore. I can keep doing it, until you're face is petching nothin'. Nothin' but broken bone an' pulpy flesh an' I petchin' will-"

He jerked Achenar by the tunic., enough to convince him that he was going to slam his head into him again... but he didn't. Instead his voice kept grinding on, relentless as the tide behind them.

"-if youse don't stop lyin' to me. An' then-"

The sword moved higher. Enough to cut through cloth and leather, but not quite enough to deprive the Eathefal of his manhood. Konrad studied the man's face and finished with a growl that sounded barely human.

Nice touch. He might even believe it.

"-I'll start usin' this. Of all the beach, of alla' the land outside a' the city, youse're hiding behind the rock I'm practicin' on? Just outta sodding nowhere? Bollocks, boy. So youse best fess up or I swear to the gods..."

He didn't so much as finish as let the sentene trail off into places Achenar's imagination would take him without him much liking the journey. Another thing Konrad had learned: letting folk stew in the nameless possibilities could be just as bad as spelling out what would happen.

And you've done both. Let's see how he does.

[Achenar]

He was an ugly man, that was a sure thing, but anything else about the freeborn was unknown to the slave. He didn't know if he had patience or mercy or a weakness of any sort. All he was faced with was a threat, and though the ethaefal was anxious at his presence and even afraid when he was gripped, he had learned to build up walls, to not show his own weakness as a result of his master honing onto any fault or flaw he showed.

He had almost thought that the man was about to let him go, that is, until the mercenary smashed his head into his face. There was a crunch as his nose fractured. Achenar brought his hands up to his face, and he would have stumbled back had Konrad not had a death grip on his tunic. Pain shot up his nose, and he let out a late, painful sound. This fucking.... bastard!

"Petch!" He yelled, breathing hard through his mouth. Blood trickled down his nostril and over his lips. He could smell the iron. It didn't seem to be ending anytime soon, because the man's blade slid further still, until he felt it press against his bare skin.

Fear jolted up his spine. He wasn't anyone to petch with, and Achenar had done just that. And he was a slave, no matter if he was Zaelsen's property. He likely would have been angry enough that his face had been marred. His manhood, however? Not so much.

"Stop, stop," he gasped. "I was using magic... I was..." He swallowed the lump in his throat, hard, bringing his hands up in surrender, as if that would do anything. "Projection, if you've heard of it. That's why I was here. I wasn't spying, I wasn't, I swear..."

His heart was beating rapidly, like he was high on drugs. But in this case, the drug was terror. Would the bastard even believe that he was a mage? It crossed his mind like a flicker, and he glanced at the plank that lay sullen in the sand. "I-I can show you, just... relax... please."

This was a matter of life or death, and yet to the slave, it seemed like death was now inevitable. He would die either because the man didn't believe him, or because he had been found to be a mage. As the minutes dragged on, his heart pounded faster and harder.

[Konrad Venger]

In point of fact, Konrad hadn't heard about this "Prod-Djeck-Shun" magic the slave was gasping about, but the querying curiosity in his skull had been drowned out by simple, ludicrous fact that this pretty little Radacke petch-toy was... a mage?

"Bollocks," he snarled, though there was a groundless tone to his voice now; the merest chink in his armor of certain contempt. His eyes flickered up the man he held upright by the tunic, as if he could see with his bare eyes in the poor light some sign that he was telling the truth. "You... You can't be a mage? Where'd ya learn it, then?"

Getting ahead of yourself, mate.

Then came the breathless, trembling offer to show him and Konrad's surprise seemed to let loose a floodgate. His arms started to shake again, adrenaline of his surprise and brutality fading as the two of them fell into some of of a confrontational lull. Konrad had to flex his grip constantly on his weapon, lest his fingers go numb... gods, could he defend himself if this sly bastard chose to use his wyrd against him?

Decades of virulent Sunberth living were stark and hateful on that face, scarred and torn for almost as long. He was a mage. He was alone. Back home, they'd have cbought him a round or two for guttign the sod on principle. But...

Yes. That new addendum to every solid sentence Konrad had took for granted, all the years before. He wasn't in Sunberth. He was in Kenash, and here, a slave with djed in his veins got a new set of voices whispering eagerly.

His master doesn't know. Couldn't know. If he did, he'd be dead within a bell. So he came out here to practice without being spotted, far from prying eyes. Just bad luck he chose this stretch.

The waves lapped, as they always would, unto the ending of the world and the drying of the Suvan, but Konrad didn't have all night. He was still standing there, a gruesome golem, motionless save for the shaking in his arms. Mayhap the slave would think it was fury, instead of fear? Yes, mayhap...

He'll do anything to keep it secret, he told himself, eyes widening as he realized the possibilities he'd cracked open. Anything. If...

Ah. Another word Konrad was more familiar with. Grand plans and subtle schemes were all well and good, but also naught but a child's daydreams when they were based on the unknown.

So. Something to remedy.

"Show me."

He sidestepped and pulled the slave forward at the same time, turning as he did. Bleeding, gasping Achenar would end up staggering forwards without Konrad in his way. The man would now be behind him, kopis adroitly removed from between the sex slave's legs-

-until he rested it on the slave's shoulder. A voice unseen but not too far - no more than three feet of sharp steel away - had about as much compassion as that blade glinting just in the corner of Achenar's eye.

"Try anything - to run, to fight, whatever - an' I'll cut off yer pride and leave ya to bleed to death out here. Takes about half a bell." Konrad paused for effect, enough time for the obvious question to form in the slave's head, before he answered it. "Done it before. I stuck around. Now... show me."

The sword vanished but Konrad kept it ready, other hand balled into a fist, willing it to just stop petching shaking for a moment. Still, he was happier with a clear future presented to him. Either the slave would prove his words true, and Konrad would have a useful pair of eyes in Zaelsen's corner of the Radacke Dynasty. If he couldn't, well...

The kopis twitched in his hand. It was hardly the most precise weapon for a castration, but Konrad would make do.

[Achenar]

Achenar stared incredulously. Why would he ask where he'd learned it? Why didn't he skewer him where he stood? The slave had noticed the way he seemed to hesitate, as if the cogs in his head were churning. Why am I not dead? The question circulated in his head as he thought of how to answer.

"I was... taught," he explained, a hand raised to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. "When I lived in a time before Kenash." He wasn't about to let this bastard know he had already escaped once. That would likely mean he'd watch him even more than he likely already was. There was no way he could overpower this man but he could hold his tongue; keep the secrets that he needed to keep.

He was about to say something else, to try and bargain for his life somehow but instead he was tugged forward like a ragdoll. He stumbled, a hand still clutched over his throbbing nose, feeling the harsh kiss of the blade finally withdraw from his groin. Thank the petching gods. He physically exhaled in that moment, assuming that perhaps he would finally give him some relief. But the ethaefal was wrong. The weight of the man's weapon rested on his shoulder, and the guttural growl of the rancid man snapped at him from behind. Achenar stared ahead, eyes wide, lump hard in his throat.

"I won't do any of those things," the ethaefal told him. He didn't dare to turn his head. He could already see the glint of the blade under Leth's light. "I just... want everything intact," he muttered under his breath.

Taking a sharp inhale was difficult with the pain in his nose but that didn't matter in the moment. The threat of far worse was looming over him as the mercenary watched. Achenar stared ahead, his silver eyes locking on to the plank he'd messed with earlier. Steady, Achenar, he willed himself, biting his lip.

Djed churned in his veins, traveling like rapids into his arm. To the ethaefal it had almost felt like an invisible weight. The strands of djed attached themselves to the astral limb of his arm and with as much precision as he could manage, he tugged at it, prying the incorporeal from the corporeal like pulling bark from a tree. The effort was made difficult with the distraction. Sharp tingles shot up his arm but soon, it was left limp at his side, as the mirage shimmered in front of him.

Focus on the plank, he told himself. Focus. Focus The astral limb extended outward, slowly, shakily, as though any slight breeze would send it drifting away. Those same phantom fingers that had wrapped around the small plank before did so again, and as though he was lifting a heavy weight, Achenar bit his lip hard and lifted the piece of wood into the air. He didn't attempt to hold it for long. The wood shook as though it was caught in a storm. The longer he tried to hold it, the heavier it seemed to become. Achenar let it fly, as though with a flick of his wrist, having it land barely a foot away.

Why don't you try that again?

Achenar licked his dry, parched lips, realizing he'd been staring intently at the wood. The voice was fleeting, a passing surge in his heartrate that soon died down. He shook his head, breathing lightly through parted lips.

"Is that.. proof enough for you?" The slave spoke up then, as the astral arm returned to his side; a faint shimmer the only indication that it was there. "I'm not a spy. I don't want to die. Not yet. Not until I see my chains broken."