Edward's hand swipes toward my eyes, the nails elongating as crimson nails turn into bloodied weapons. He moves so swiftly that I can hardly shift an inch, but the moment before the red blades enter my eye, he stops.
The deadly fingers hover so infinitesimally closely to my pupils that they are all I can see. Holding a breath, I don't move, unwanting to lose another eye. A few ticks of a faraway clock pass before Edward's hand pulls back.
A deep sigh of relief exits me, but before I can even get angry at him for the sudden attack, the man moves again, speaking the whole while. His right leg lashes out, a tendril wrapping around my left. I attempt to resist, but his bloodied Ether is far too solid, and I quickly eat dirt. Sputtering, I barely manage to roll out from a heel heading for my skull.
"Close your eyes. Shiver requires your subconscious to be able to detect incoming danger and death. And now that your subconscious can move Ether, it can act on that whim. But first, we must train that to the extreme. So, do as I say. I will not kill you. But it won't feel that way."
Edward's tone is calm, composed, and slow as I stare at him from the dirt. Grunting, I pick myself up off the floor and join him standing.
"You sure this whole thing will work? It's starting to seem to be a way to beat my ass. Did I do something wrong?"
I question him as I stand opposed to his form. The older man scoffs before drawing his foot back across the dirt, shifting small particles as he readies his stance. While he does so, the man stares me back in the eyes, unrelenting in his gaze as he addresses me.
"Yes. I have done all that you are doing, albeit slower and more spread out. Have faith, Wyatt. In me. And in yourself. 5th Sigil by sixteen? All in one year? Unheard of. That's the First type of legendary right there. Sure, much of it was luck, help from others, or that hand you got there. But it wasn't all such things. And even then, chance is a talent in itself."
Edward pauses, his hand gripping tight enough to draw blood that runs down his hands to coat the entirety of them in crimson ichor. The liquid then hardens into a glove of deep sanguine with sharpened nails.
I want to say something to refute him, to say I'm not that talented to learn such a difficult skill so quickly, but I stop as his voice grows louder with that hand in the air.
"You are an influential young man, one with an exceedingly rare Sigil. Of which, I've only ever met two others to have. One of whom is imprisoned not far from here. The other is long dead, but his acts stand far past his death. I am sure yours will, too. You, more than any other I have met than perhaps the Monster you brought with you, can reach the pinnacle. And that's judging you without the Bloody Palm."
I pause as he finishes, focusing on the glove that is finally completed in shape as it extends up his arm to his elbow. It appears not to be crafted of blood but instead finely smithed steel as it glimmers in the sunlight. Oddly, though, his other hand holds no such thing, instead carrying his Claymore.
What kind of method of fighting is this?
Inwardly shaking my head, I focus and reply to him. This is my training. I can ask him more later. For now, Shiver is the goal.
"Sure. I'll do all I can, Edward. But... you haven't really told me details of Shiver. Like... how do I move the Ether? Where? What manipulation types do I use?"
Once more, the son of the Bloodhound laughs, this time leaning his head all the way back, to the point that his eyes would meet the hovering son. Frustration rises as he guffaws at me, but the man rapidly pulls himself together with an answer.
"That's the neat part, Wyatt. I don't know. I can only push your body repeatedly until you reach the point that it moves on its own. Shiver is more of a... passive skill than an active one, at least for me. I can only use it to dodge, meaning I have to feel danger to use the skill. My father could use it for simple actions such as walking, but mine must be in combat. Otherwise, my body merely can't feel the urge. Perhaps with enough mastery, I will grasp its true meaning, but I believe that only adds to its usefulness... And it's danger."
Edward raises his gauntleted hand to point at me, unfurling his fingers slowly as if to taunt me.
"This is a skill that cannot be merely taught. It must be bestowed, Wyatt. You cannot learn it from a book. You cannot learn it by words. You can only learn it by pain. Now, close your eyes."
Sighing, I do as he says while I run his words through my mind. He's right. All this? No book can teach it to you. There is no simple Ether method to follow. This is something that can only be taught from user to user.
Edmund...
Just how extraordinary were you in Ether control? Those inscriptions on your cabin? The way you fought at your age and your Sigil? I... I don't think I could beat him if he wasn't so aged, even at his 3rd Sigil.
A burst of wind opens my right eye as a thin cut seeps blood over my eyelid. Feeling nothing before the spiking pain, I squint and open my left to see Edward's hand so close. Shock runs through me at the speed once more, but the man quickly pulls back.
"Again. We do this until you can physically dodge. Then, we lock you down until you do so with Ether."
Following his directions, I do as he says. My eyes quickly close, shrouding me in a world of darkness. The subtle rustle of cloth against the wind, the distant hum of insects, the quiet footfalls of my teacher's son who has now taken his place—the sounds of the world beyond my eyelids all blend into a symphony of anticipation. I stand still, my heart's rhythm echoing in my ears as it ramps up to a roar. The tension rises as Edward prepares to strike.
I know it's coming. Just not when or where. That's for me to find out.
The crimson blade comes, swift and silent, and I sense it more than see it as I still myself intently. It's as though the very air around me shifts, a disturbance that I feel subtly through the air: my body tenses, muscles coiling in preparation for the inevitable strike. But the blade never connects, and the air settles once again. Yet, I can only determine the general direction, my right. Any more detail is lost to me.
This cannot be what Edward means. Sensing moving air is pointless. I can already do that. That's what the hairs on the back of my neck are for. But, I trust him. We've only just met, but I trust him nonetheless. Everyone else is still enjoying their rest, but here I am, training like a madman. I'd rather make Edmund proud than spend a few hours relaxing.
The process of his strikes repeats again and again. Each time, the blade is poised to strike from a different angle and direction. Here or there, Edward makes contact, slicing a bit of my flesh to enforce my concentration. It's never enough to draw much blood or inflict any severe wound, but it is enough to garner my absolute devotion. My senses strain to catch the slightest hint of movement, the faintest shift in the air, even though that is not what he wants me to do.
The tension is palpable, a dance of danger and awareness. My teacher's attacks come relentlessly, each one threatening to break my concentration, each one pushing me closer to the precipice of reaction. And yet, I still myself, trying to bring myself to calm. The blade grazes my skin—sometimes my neck, sometimes my eyes, sometimes my chest. The pain is sharp, a reminder of the perilous proximity of the blade. But it's not the pain that matters—it's the sensation that heralds the attack.
Slowly, my heart begins to calm even after all the strikes and blood flowing down my form. I'm sure I look disgusting right now, with blood drenched all over my body, but in reality, it's not that bad.
Time stretches thin, the seconds blending into one another. Failure hangs in the air, my inability to anticipate the strikes a stark reminder of the chasm between what I know and what I can truly sense. Doubt nips at the edges of my concentration, but I refuse to let it take root.
Every second I fail to sense the strikes as he wishes, my admiration for him and his father grows. People speak all about my blood. About that of my kin, the Graves. What about the Dudleys? The two who ever lived past adulthood are fucking monsters.
I see the Ether Edward uses when my eyes are open. It is little. But dear Devil, is it mighty. What takes me ten pounds of effort to do with my Ether takes him one. It is simply incredible. Though... deep down... I know it is merely the training Edward went through. Probably Edmund, too. That old man never slept around me. I doubt he ever slacked on his own exercise.
With each failed attempt, even with my inner thoughts, I refine my focus. I delve deeper into that instinctual wellspring, the connection between my mind, my senses, and the world around me. The coldness within my mind deepens as I find no other reasons hidden. The Bloody Palm is hibernating, unaware of the externals. This is all me. All me.
I Temper all my senses, coming to the conclusion that I do not need them. Sight, sound, taste, smell, and touch. They all fade. Something I should have done earlier. Once this occurs, I am left in the void of Tranquility.
And within Tranquility, I fast look back on my prior failings, unable to see any difference. The strikes are impossible to determine their direction with my physical senses.
Wait.
That's it—physical senses.
The soul has power. It has control over the Sigil and Ether. But... the soul can do more than that, right? My soul can alter skills as Ether is imbued into my very core. Many types of ghosts are basically souls condensed with a meager bit of Ether.
I need to sense it with my soul. And Ether, Ether with the intent to injure or kill at least, carries some hint of emotion or will. That's what I need to sense. That's how Shiver works subconsciously and so quickly. It comes straight from the soul; no body is required to transmit the order.
Again, I calm my emotions and focus. How do I extend my soul to sense outward of my body? How did I do it earlier?
I cleared my mind, right?
I had to make it so nothing was in the way.
Finding the way forward, I stare into the darkness birthed by Tranquility. Thoughts prop up, of doubt, of stupidity, and of childishness. But I wave them away. I am Wyatt Graves. I can reach the pinnacle.
I may be a Wendigo, but alone, I am still mighty. I am still worthy.
And then it happens—the smallest tremor, an almost imperceptible ripple in the fabric of reality as some part of me senses moving, dangerous Ether. My body reacts before my mind fully comprehends what's coming. It's not a conscious decision, not a thought process—it's pure, unadulterated instinct born from the depths of my soul. I move, a dance with a blade that seeks some part of my body I have no idea where.
Immediately, I open my eyes to see the result and find Edward breathing heavily, staring at me with wide eyes as his blade sits fully extended and unable to touch me. He aimed for my neck yet only hit air. Night has fallen, and the sun has removed its grace, making it hard to see his exact expression. But as I look along his arm, I find the result of my action.
The blade slashed through the space where I stood, a hair's breadth away from its intended target. My body tingles with a newfound awareness, the connection to the world that transcends the physical.
I open my eyes, gazing at my teacher who stands before me, his blade held ready. Edward nods and speaks shortly before resuming his strikes.
"Four days. Quite the ability to stand still you have there. People came and went. I shooed them all away. Again. I want to see you Shiver."
As my teacher launches another attack, I close my eyes again, entering Tranquility again. Yet, I sense nothing as time passes. Quickly, I realize what he meant by four days a moment ago, and I minorly question reality. Four days of training? And I didn't move? How fucked up am I? Does Tranquility count as sleep for my body?
No. I need to focus.
Again, I clear my mind, seeking that state of instinct once more.
***********
Earl Garner
I gaze forward at the repaired arm, basking in its new glory. With the extra time and resources that were at Edward's disposal and Ernest's help, I managed to put another Sigil into Wyatt's arm. This one's a Mentalist. Hopefully, a decently powerful shield can be born after the next, which will be a Freak.
For now, however, it will allow him to pick up light objects with a wiggle of a finger from a distance. It is not that assertive, yet Abraham has shown just how influential a slight nudge can be. Plus, all the other effects have been enhanced, including the weapons.
The steel should be able to keep up with him now. Probably not in another Sigil, definitely not in two, but I hope it could survive a few more than three or four fights this time. Sighing, I fall back into my chair as Primrose sits a few feet away, condensing gas into Wyatt's cannon within his arm. With the enhanced steel, she can put more in without risking structural integrity, meaning the bullet will be more powerful.
Sadly, I didn't have the time to add any other new features, only improve the old ones. I know he'll love it regardless. However, the crazed man is basically being tortured by Edward for six days now. Sure, it's to learn some top-secret skill, but still. He's insane for doing all that.
I can only hope he succeeds before the siege on Ed Summer's estate. We all need a huge boost in power. I realized that after the fight with Sequester. He handed us all our asses alone. ALONE! I can't even imagine if it wasn't all five of us together. Sure, Virgil and Wyatt did most of the work, but Abraham and Bonfire got some decent hits early on.
My eyes shift over to the other thing I've wanted to improve for the longest time, but it's caught first by the jars of Ails. The many eyes beckon toward me as I take the time to focus upon two.
Daedriks' Lightning and Blightraven's Haze.
I'll never be a fighter. I'm built to be a supporter. Yet... these two are perfect. Able to create lightning with my eyes for the former? And an unseeable cloud of darkness with the latter? Sure, I'll go blind from overuse, but I've spent most of my life with glasses anyway. Plus, I can put new ones in after.
The only problem is the Vigor that they siphon away. Surely there must be a way to mitigate or lessen it. Perhaps even distribute it to something else. All blood holds some semblance of Vigor. There is a chance enough blood could fuel the eyes instead of the beholder's Vigor. An interesting thought.
I'll have to do some tests with Deux.
"Deux!"
The Vessel quickly moves over to me from her position watching over me. She is quiet and waits for an order. I glance at Primrose before cracking my knuckles.
"We got shit to try out, Deux. Grab those Ails and follow me."
"Yes, sir."
Edward's hand swipes toward my eyes, the nails elongating as crimson nails turn into bloodied weapons. He moves so swiftly that I can hardly shift an inch, but the moment before the red blades enter my eye, he stops.
The deadly fingers hover so infinitesimally closely to my pupils that they are all I can see. Holding a breath, I don't move, unwanting to lose another eye. A few ticks of a faraway clock pass before Edward's hand pulls back.
A deep sigh of relief exits me, but before I can even get angry at him for the sudden attack, the man moves again, speaking the whole while. His right leg lashes out, a tendril wrapping around my left. I attempt to resist, but his bloodied Ether is far too solid, and I quickly eat dirt. Sputtering, I barely manage to roll out from a heel heading for my skull.
"Close your eyes. Shiver requires your subconscious to be able to detect incoming danger and death. And now that your subconscious can move Ether, it can act on that whim. But first, we must train that to the extreme. So, do as I say. I will not kill you. But it won't feel that way."
Edward's tone is calm, composed, and slow as I stare at him from the dirt. Grunting, I pick myself up off the floor and join him standing.
"You sure this whole thing will work? It's starting to seem to be a way to beat my ass. Did I do something wrong?"
I question him as I stand opposed to his form. The older man scoffs before drawing his foot back across the dirt, shifting small particles as he readies his stance. While he does so, the man stares me back in the eyes, unrelenting in his gaze as he addresses me.
"Yes. I have done all that you are doing, albeit slower and more spread out. Have faith, Wyatt. In me. And in yourself. 5th Sigil by sixteen? All in one year? Unheard of. That's the First type of legendary right there. Sure, much of it was luck, help from others, or that hand you got there. But it wasn't all such things. And even then, chance is a talent in itself."
Edward pauses, his hand gripping tight enough to draw blood that runs down his hands to coat the entirety of them in crimson ichor. The liquid then hardens into a glove of deep sanguine with sharpened nails.
I want to say something to refute him, to say I'm not that talented to learn such a difficult skill so quickly, but I stop as his voice grows louder with that hand in the air.
"You are an influential young man, one with an exceedingly rare Sigil. Of which, I've only ever met two others to have. One of whom is imprisoned not far from here. The other is long dead, but his acts stand far past his death. I am sure yours will, too. You, more than any other I have met than perhaps the Monster you brought with you, can reach the pinnacle. And that's judging you without the Bloody Palm."
I pause as he finishes, focusing on the glove that is finally completed in shape as it extends up his arm to his elbow. It appears not to be crafted of blood but instead finely smithed steel as it glimmers in the sunlight. Oddly, though, his other hand holds no such thing, instead carrying his Claymore.
What kind of method of fighting is this?
Inwardly shaking my head, I focus and reply to him. This is my training. I can ask him more later. For now, Shiver is the goal.
"Sure. I'll do all I can, Edward. But... you haven't really told me details of Shiver. Like... how do I move the Ether? Where? What manipulation types do I use?"
Once more, the son of the Bloodhound laughs, this time leaning his head all the way back, to the point that his eyes would meet the hovering son. Frustration rises as he guffaws at me, but the man rapidly pulls himself together with an answer.
"That's the neat part, Wyatt. I don't know. I can only push your body repeatedly until you reach the point that it moves on its own. Shiver is more of a... passive skill than an active one, at least for me. I can only use it to dodge, meaning I have to feel danger to use the skill. My father could use it for simple actions such as walking, but mine must be in combat. Otherwise, my body merely can't feel the urge. Perhaps with enough mastery, I will grasp its true meaning, but I believe that only adds to its usefulness... And it's danger."
Edward raises his gauntleted hand to point at me, unfurling his fingers slowly as if to taunt me.
"This is a skill that cannot be merely taught. It must be bestowed, Wyatt. You cannot learn it from a book. You cannot learn it by words. You can only learn it by pain. Now, close your eyes."
Sighing, I do as he says while I run his words through my mind. He's right. All this? No book can teach it to you. There is no simple Ether method to follow. This is something that can only be taught from user to user.
Edmund...
Just how extraordinary were you in Ether control? Those inscriptions on your cabin? The way you fought at your age and your Sigil? I... I don't think I could beat him if he wasn't so aged, even at his 3rd Sigil.
A burst of wind opens my right eye as a thin cut seeps blood over my eyelid. Feeling nothing before the spiking pain, I squint and open my left to see Edward's hand so close. Shock runs through me at the speed once more, but the man quickly pulls back.
"Again. We do this until you can physically dodge. Then, we lock you down until you do so with Ether."
Following his directions, I do as he says. My eyes quickly close, shrouding me in a world of darkness. The subtle rustle of cloth against the wind, the distant hum of insects, the quiet footfalls of my teacher's son who has now taken his place—the sounds of the world beyond my eyelids all blend into a symphony of anticipation. I stand still, my heart's rhythm echoing in my ears as it ramps up to a roar. The tension rises as Edward prepares to strike.
I know it's coming. Just not when or where. That's for me to find out.
The crimson blade comes, swift and silent, and I sense it more than see it as I still myself intently. It's as though the very air around me shifts, a disturbance that I feel subtly through the air: my body tenses, muscles coiling in preparation for the inevitable strike. But the blade never connects, and the air settles once again. Yet, I can only determine the general direction, my right. Any more detail is lost to me.
This cannot be what Edward means. Sensing moving air is pointless. I can already do that. That's what the hairs on the back of my neck are for. But, I trust him. We've only just met, but I trust him nonetheless. Everyone else is still enjoying their rest, but here I am, training like a madman. I'd rather make Edmund proud than spend a few hours relaxing.
The process of his strikes repeats again and again. Each time, the blade is poised to strike from a different angle and direction. Here or there, Edward makes contact, slicing a bit of my flesh to enforce my concentration. It's never enough to draw much blood or inflict any severe wound, but it is enough to garner my absolute devotion. My senses strain to catch the slightest hint of movement, the faintest shift in the air, even though that is not what he wants me to do.
The tension is palpable, a dance of danger and awareness. My teacher's attacks come relentlessly, each one threatening to break my concentration, each one pushing me closer to the precipice of reaction. And yet, I still myself, trying to bring myself to calm. The blade grazes my skin—sometimes my neck, sometimes my eyes, sometimes my chest. The pain is sharp, a reminder of the perilous proximity of the blade. But it's not the pain that matters—it's the sensation that heralds the attack.
Slowly, my heart begins to calm even after all the strikes and blood flowing down my form. I'm sure I look disgusting right now, with blood drenched all over my body, but in reality, it's not that bad.
Time stretches thin, the seconds blending into one another. Failure hangs in the air, my inability to anticipate the strikes a stark reminder of the chasm between what I know and what I can truly sense. Doubt nips at the edges of my concentration, but I refuse to let it take root.
Every second I fail to sense the strikes as he wishes, my admiration for him and his father grows. People speak all about my blood. About that of my kin, the Graves. What about the Dudleys? The two who ever lived past adulthood are fucking monsters.
I see the Ether Edward uses when my eyes are open. It is little. But dear Devil, is it mighty. What takes me ten pounds of effort to do with my Ether takes him one. It is simply incredible. Though... deep down... I know it is merely the training Edward went through. Probably Edmund, too. That old man never slept around me. I doubt he ever slacked on his own exercise.
With each failed attempt, even with my inner thoughts, I refine my focus. I delve deeper into that instinctual wellspring, the connection between my mind, my senses, and the world around me. The coldness within my mind deepens as I find no other reasons hidden. The Bloody Palm is hibernating, unaware of the externals. This is all me. All me.
I Temper all my senses, coming to the conclusion that I do not need them. Sight, sound, taste, smell, and touch. They all fade. Something I should have done earlier. Once this occurs, I am left in the void of Tranquility.
And within Tranquility, I fast look back on my prior failings, unable to see any difference. The strikes are impossible to determine their direction with my physical senses.
Wait.
That's it—physical senses.
The soul has power. It has control over the Sigil and Ether. But... the soul can do more than that, right? My soul can alter skills as Ether is imbued into my very core. Many types of ghosts are basically souls condensed with a meager bit of Ether.
I need to sense it with my soul. And Ether, Ether with the intent to injure or kill at least, carries some hint of emotion or will. That's what I need to sense. That's how Shiver works subconsciously and so quickly. It comes straight from the soul; no body is required to transmit the order.
Again, I calm my emotions and focus. How do I extend my soul to sense outward of my body? How did I do it earlier?
I cleared my mind, right?
I had to make it so nothing was in the way.
Finding the way forward, I stare into the darkness birthed by Tranquility. Thoughts prop up, of doubt, of stupidity, and of childishness. But I wave them away. I am Wyatt Graves. I can reach the pinnacle.
I may be a Wendigo, but alone, I am still mighty. I am still worthy.
And then it happens—the smallest tremor, an almost imperceptible ripple in the fabric of reality as some part of me senses moving, dangerous Ether. My body reacts before my mind fully comprehends what's coming. It's not a conscious decision, not a thought process—it's pure, unadulterated instinct born from the depths of my soul. I move, a dance with a blade that seeks some part of my body I have no idea where.
Immediately, I open my eyes to see the result and find Edward breathing heavily, staring at me with wide eyes as his blade sits fully extended and unable to touch me. He aimed for my neck yet only hit air. Night has fallen, and the sun has removed its grace, making it hard to see his exact expression. But as I look along his arm, I find the result of my action.
The blade slashed through the space where I stood, a hair's breadth away from its intended target. My body tingles with a newfound awareness, the connection to the world that transcends the physical.
I open my eyes, gazing at my teacher who stands before me, his blade held ready. Edward nods and speaks shortly before resuming his strikes.
"Four days. Quite the ability to stand still you have there. People came and went. I shooed them all away. Again. I want to see you Shiver."
As my teacher launches another attack, I close my eyes again, entering Tranquility again. Yet, I sense nothing as time passes. Quickly, I realize what he meant by four days a moment ago, and I minorly question reality. Four days of training? And I didn't move? How fucked up am I? Does Tranquility count as sleep for my body?
No. I need to focus.
Again, I clear my mind, seeking that state of instinct once more.
***********
Earl Garner
I gaze forward at the repaired arm, basking in its new glory. With the extra time and resources that were at Edward's disposal and Ernest's help, I managed to put another Sigil into Wyatt's arm. This one's a Mentalist. Hopefully, a decently powerful shield can be born after the next, which will be a Freak.
For now, however, it will allow him to pick up light objects with a wiggle of a finger from a distance. It is not that assertive, yet Abraham has shown just how influential a slight nudge can be. Plus, all the other effects have been enhanced, including the weapons.
The steel should be able to keep up with him now. Probably not in another Sigil, definitely not in two, but I hope it could survive a few more than three or four fights this time. Sighing, I fall back into my chair as Primrose sits a few feet away, condensing gas into Wyatt's cannon within his arm. With the enhanced steel, she can put more in without risking structural integrity, meaning the bullet will be more powerful.
Sadly, I didn't have the time to add any other new features, only improve the old ones. I know he'll love it regardless. However, the crazed man is basically being tortured by Edward for six days now. Sure, it's to learn some top-secret skill, but still. He's insane for doing all that.
I can only hope he succeeds before the siege on Ed Summer's estate. We all need a huge boost in power. I realized that after the fight with Sequester. He handed us all our asses alone. ALONE! I can't even imagine if it wasn't all five of us together. Sure, Virgil and Wyatt did most of the work, but Abraham and Bonfire got some decent hits early on.
My eyes shift over to the other thing I've wanted to improve for the longest time, but it's caught first by the jars of Ails. The many eyes beckon toward me as I take the time to focus upon two.
Daedriks' Lightning and Blightraven's Haze.
I'll never be a fighter. I'm built to be a supporter. Yet... these two are perfect. Able to create lightning with my eyes for the former? And an unseeable cloud of darkness with the latter? Sure, I'll go blind from overuse, but I've spent most of my life with glasses anyway. Plus, I can put new ones in after.
The only problem is the Vigor that they siphon away. Surely there must be a way to mitigate or lessen it. Perhaps even distribute it to something else. All blood holds some semblance of Vigor. There is a chance enough blood could fuel the eyes instead of the beholder's Vigor. An interesting thought.
I'll have to do some tests with Deux.
"Deux!"
The Vessel quickly moves over to me from her position watching over me. She is quiet and waits for an order. I glance at Primrose before cracking my knuckles.
"We got shit to try out, Deux. Grab those Ails and follow me."
"Yes, sir."
