A heavy breath huffed from the Asha's snout as his thin, soft furred arms brought up the belt-shot and fired. Ping The quicksilver ball launched forward but Atum didn’t watch it strike. Ducking down, his pawed feet shifted him to the right as, sheltered behind a stone wall, his tail swatted the next belt shot down from the wall. It fell into soft paws that worn by exhaustion remained steady as the grave. The next step was instinctive ramming another ball of quicksilver down the barrel, priming the purestone base, and in one quick rise firing into his target. Down, move, load, rise and fire Down, move, load, rise and fire Down, move, load, rise and fire Down, move, load, rise and fire The lew clade asha grit his sharp canine-like teeth as his body cried out for relief from the endless ritual. Yet he pressed on repeating the pattern over and over. Until finally he fell to his knees, his belt-shot released from his aching grasp while his chest heaved in and out with feverish breath. “Where is your vigor Atum!”, rebuked Ser Ulrich scoffing with disappointed urgency, “I didn’t pause from my hunts to train a weakling!” “Pick yourself up!”, he commanded with harsh, utilitarian Alt-regalish, “that belt-shot is the only thing keeping an aberrant from sending you to the Spirit above. Drop it and you’re surrendering to death!” The knight moved with a menacing silence like a raven gliding through trees to deliver an omen of a coming reaper. Ser Ulrich grasped the orange fur of the russell-terrier headed man as he yanked him to his feet silently. Before quickly turning the man around and forcing the weapon back in his grasp. Atum’s fingers reflexively retook their grasp as with one breath he nodded, tail curing in behind him, as he fired. Seeing the work renewed, Ser Ulrich flew back to his perch within the higher trees without a wasted sound or second. “Must . . . must one distrust all abberancy?”, Atum called with a shaky voice, as if expecting the Darkwald to snap at him, continuing, “I believe it wrong to despise people for what they can’t control.” Ser Ulrich moved his head back in contemplation while the warm water of his canteen washed down his throat. The shadow of his raven black tricorn moving to reveal the aging face of twenty five year old New Regalian man. What was once a pristine, nearly vain, complexion was now weathered and scarred making the Darkwald in appearance appear—much like how he was in soul—twice his life time. Darkwald capped the canteen. The beak of his tricorn moving down toward his student allowing the briefest glint of short golden hair to escape from beneath the night-like adornment. “We don’t have to hate aberrants, but we must hate the occult. Let me phrase this in medical terms, doctor, the occult (magic, planar influence, demons) are rabid diseases: sickening, corrupting, and gorging themselves upon Aloria and its inhabitants. From peasants afflicted with sanguinism to mages born of corrupting poison they are all sickened sufferers, yet like your patients Dr. Atum. We and most importantly the Spirit don’t condemn them to suffer for these afflictions. We are their healers and doctors trained, dedicated, and unrelenting in our duty to cure them of the malicious afflictions they harbor.” “But I am not a Darkwald . . . what good will opposing it do when it has gained such acceptance, corruptive as it is. Other asha have learned to tolerate it and surely part of the occult must be beneficial,” he asserts as his steady aim faltering as his shot went wide. Ser Ulrich replied with a neutral, quiet voice, “Let me show you why you mustn’t trust it.” In a single blink, Ser Ulrich slide down the tree pushing off its base to launch into a forward roll toward Atum. His feet touched ground and he instantly rose, purtek extended, and pulled the trigger. crack! The darkwald’s purtek fired in a flare of pure light sending a quicksilver ball right into Atum’s heart with sanctified might. Only for it to disappear upon contact puffing out without a wisp of smoke or light. At the crack, atum reeled back crying out in surprised terror as the shot struck home—to fast for even ashal reflexes to dodge. “That is why you must hate it!” barked the darkwald, “the asha are so proud of their speed and strength, but even you can’t outrun magic: the barest scratch of a magically directed object, the barest graze of a magic bolt, the barest cut or impact under a blinding curse or glitter-bomb. YOU DIE!!” The darkwald looked straight into the nefer’s eyes, his voice resonating with grave severity, “You are a sanguinophobiac Dr. Atum you know what will happen: You bleed, blood pours out, the bleeding never ends, and before anyone can reach you you’ll be on your way to the Spirit.” The darkwald growled like an aging dog discontent with his pup’s foolishness, but not uncaring for his charge, Ser Ulrich gently assisted the asha to his feet. Atum dusted himself off and gave his teacher a nod the exhaustion turning to focus but then to paranoia. Every muscle and nerve across Atum’s body began to resonate with the fanatical terror that magic (that anything) represented to one like him. His eyes flashed with terror after terror, his grip becoming pattara clade. Only one thought entered the Asha’s mind, “I can fight it, this . . .” he raised the next belt shot to the target. For once in many years within Calemburg, the Asha spoke Ibeth in the company of another, “Oh Herons of Baskarr guide my hand: May Nebapehty give me strength, May Itjawetekh guide me into bravery and guile, May Ikerqedet help me endure, May Pakhewed lend me true wisdom, May Ibkhakh light my heart with adventure, and May Aakhet-hotep deem my actions founded in Truth,” so he prayed as with a final Ping his mind slipped into darkness. repeating the mantra, “I hate magic, I hate magic, I hate magic” over and over with each fire of the belt-shots.
