Cylus 15th, 715
Tonight was delight. Failures gleamed in the muck and shadow of this world as a hapless student went about his daily life, Abaddon in tow with armaments of choice words and faith in what he was doing. For all the surreal ‘unreality’ dreaming tended to impart, Abaddon learned things as he explored the dreams of others his own Dreamscape collided with. Small, pitiful men or great warriors with ambitions awaiting tarnish at Kielik’s behest.
The person Abaddon found himself walking with had been receiving private lessons from a frightening man. The object of his fear for this nightmare. Having to excel, having to succeed in spite of intimidation. Now, the monster that permeated his mindset was upon the wall, glaring down upon him with its many eyes, and, in fact, the both of them.
“Apprentice,” it said in its dooming deep voice. “Help the other in his experiment.” Put on the spot by the dream, Abaddon went along with it, putting the consequences to the back of his mind. Things weren’t always easy, but he took comfort in the fact that he could leave for the Veil at any time. Approaching the lone student, Abaddon carried featureless flasks and vials with strange colorful substances inside them, hastily setting them upon the metal platter sitting there and earning a cowed glance from the other student.
“You don’t know what you’re doing either, do you?” he whispered.
”I missed all of his lectures, I’m not sure...” Abaddon laughed shyly. “What class is this?”
The student furrowed his brow in disbelief. “...Delinquent. How? Alchemy 101, tell me you’ve at least taken Chemistry 101.”
Abaddon went silent with this stupid grin, feeding the student’s paranoia that none would be able to help him. “Maybe reciting what you’re doing to me will help me learn?” Abaddon wondered aloud. Alchemy? Isn’t that something to do with magic?
”Well, I guess that could work...” the student murmured. He needed all the help he could get at this point.
”Aye, just tell me what you’re doing. I’ll catch on.”
”Please don’t touch the experiment, you’ll only get in the way.”
Upon the table was a series of metal instruments: tongs, a small hammer, and some materials prepared on fibrous paper in dust form. Also, glass beakers atop a burner the student was now adjusting. “Alchemy is the discipline of transferring properties from one substance to another,” the frightful student recited from memory. “One substance to another...” Overcome by inspiration, he folded up a pinch of dust in its cloth casing and poured it into the until-now beaker. “Don’t want to add too much of this, or it could explode,” he mumbled. “I need to make this fire dust transfer its heat properties to a metal compound that can be melted down into an ingot somehow,” he said, “but it’s so scary.”
”Are you trying to blow up my lab, Caracal?” the instructor-on-the wall boomed. “That’s too much. Light that and the entire lab will catch fire. Pour it out and put in less. Consider this ten points deducted from your final!”
Abaddon was mystified, but offered a hand of comfort to the young man. “Caracal, is it? What you’re doing here is quite impressive. Take a breath.”
But the boy was overcome with fear, terrified. “It... it could blow up!?” he stammered. “I don’t want to do this anymore!”
”Then you will fail!” Professor On-A-Wall yelled.
”I’m afraid he’s right. Chin up and press onward. Show me what you can do,” Abaddon murmured. Thankfully the wall could not hear him, as long as he spoke quietly.
Swallowing and sucking in as much courage as he could muster, the boy puffed his cheeks and breathed a deep sigh, picking up the beaker and emptying out the contents slowly back onto the rag before measuring out the exact weight on a scale and putting in a little less this time.” Then, Abaddon watched as the boy grew so nervous that he could no longer hold the rag steady, and it spilled all over the floor.
Abaddon snorted.
The student gasped.
The wall screamed.
And the whole place went up in smoke.
Rampant flames spread from station to station, destroyer of worlds, an anathema to the cultured, structure rigidity of an educational institution. “Fire!” the wall roared. “You set my lab on fire! You’ve failed, Caracal!” Abaddon sunk back into the smoky shadows, shying away from the lapping flames as the student ran around looking for water, only to splash some on the flames which grew in intensity. “Get out of my lab,” the wall hissed, and blew a great gust of wind that doused the flames into a smoky, choking haze.
Abaddon wisely obeyed, following Caracal outside and down the hall. Caracal was sobbing now. “I’ve failed. I failed the final test, I... I can’t bare to live anymore.” Grief was a stage of calm in nightmares, Abaddon had begun to realize. As long as he kept Caracal saddened, his dream would focus internally, though Abaddon’s own nightmares often lurked upon the outer edges, threatening to scrape their way inside, and they would, but he had moments to spare until that time.
”It’s a fact of life,” Abaddon stated. “You are going to fail. We are all failures in more ways than we can count, though I am impressed to the degree at which you have made a mess of things.”
”Were you even a student for that class, or did you enter just to distract me?”
”Aye,” Abaddon played along. “The professor paid me to trouble you. He cares... deeply about his... wallpaperlings?” Was that a valid word for wall family? “Wallflowers. That’s the word I was looking for.” Cheeky as he often could be, Abaddon laughed it away when he received a teary-eyed glare.
”Don’t you realize how much I’ve lost? I’ll never be able to get my Letter of Arcana in Alchemy now! And it’s all thanks to ...you,” he sighed, “for being so good at your ...job.”
Abaddon sat back, sitting upon the bench in the hall as the world rained a storm outside. Folding arms behind his head, he smirked in a suave manner like an accomplished fool. “Not my problem, but there’s nothing stopping you from working without a Letter. I’ve always found work elsewhere, think I have one of those pieces of paper?”
The boy shrugged.
“This is Etzos. The military is an option. They won’t waste the talents of an Alchemist on fighting foot soldiers, and they may even pay to let you take the class again,” Abaddon theorized, “though you don’t seem worth their while like this. You’re timid, afraid, and weak-willed. I’ve never met someone in such a privileged position with so little spine. Were your parents too soft on ‘ya, you spoiled brat?” Abaddon jabbed.
”Yes...” he said, slamming his palms against his face. “I’m so useless. Always have been.”
”Then that’s who you are until you do something about it.” Abaddon stood and began to walk away in all his shirtless glory.
There was a long silence behind him save for his steps, but the student called after him. “Who are you?”
”Hah, I don’t even know who you are. I’m just the spectator in all of this, the wagon carrying reality to your door.” Abaddon looked back once, and continued walking. I went too easy on him. I need to be more objective. This feels gross.
He stopped, and turned back. “’Ya know what, kid,” Abaddon said, pulling a knife from the sheath at his hip. “Take this and go stab the wall. What’s the worst that could happen?” Caracal just stared at the offered instrument. “Stab him. Make him pay.”
”But he’s... my... he’s just...”
”Don’t play coy with me, I know how you really feel. That hatred inside.”
The boy took the handle and gripped it firmly, pulling the blade out and gazing upon it with curiosity. “I can’t,” he said.
”Oh, but you can,” Abaddon lied, though he suspected he would fail and suffer.
Dragging him to his feet, he gave the teen a shove. “Go on then, do it. Be a man. Be a warrior for once. Show them how you feel.”
”Hey!” Caracal protested as he was shoved down the hall and dragged back to the lab, the wall at the far end glaring at them both.
”You again...” the Professor Wall seethed.
With a bit of urging, Abaddon left the boy with a small Corruption imparted through his fingertips, a fixation on bringing that wall harm. “I don’t want to,” the boy said, but Abaddon watched those feet move of their own accord as Emea’s corruption took hold, carrying him on a downward spiral through the dream slowly.
”What are you doing with that knife, Caracal?”
Caracal began to cry as his body moved on its own accord. “I can’t stop, I can’t stop it! Somebody, stop me!” he pleaded.
”Caracal, put down that knife!”
With a flash, the knife was brought down by Caracal, plunging itself into the wall repeatedly, and tearing, the whole bloody canvas of living monster getting ripped apart until it faded to a torn picture. Just like that, Caracal woke up outright, and Abaddon was back in his usual Dreamscape, the world evaporating into a featureless void. “That was... interesting,” he remarked, even though his words made no sound here, though he could still hear them in his mind. “Alchemy, huh?”
Tonight was delight. Failures gleamed in the muck and shadow of this world as a hapless student went about his daily life, Abaddon in tow with armaments of choice words and faith in what he was doing. For all the surreal ‘unreality’ dreaming tended to impart, Abaddon learned things as he explored the dreams of others his own Dreamscape collided with. Small, pitiful men or great warriors with ambitions awaiting tarnish at Kielik’s behest.
The person Abaddon found himself walking with had been receiving private lessons from a frightening man. The object of his fear for this nightmare. Having to excel, having to succeed in spite of intimidation. Now, the monster that permeated his mindset was upon the wall, glaring down upon him with its many eyes, and, in fact, the both of them.
“Apprentice,” it said in its dooming deep voice. “Help the other in his experiment.” Put on the spot by the dream, Abaddon went along with it, putting the consequences to the back of his mind. Things weren’t always easy, but he took comfort in the fact that he could leave for the Veil at any time. Approaching the lone student, Abaddon carried featureless flasks and vials with strange colorful substances inside them, hastily setting them upon the metal platter sitting there and earning a cowed glance from the other student.
“You don’t know what you’re doing either, do you?” he whispered.
”I missed all of his lectures, I’m not sure...” Abaddon laughed shyly. “What class is this?”
The student furrowed his brow in disbelief. “...Delinquent. How? Alchemy 101, tell me you’ve at least taken Chemistry 101.”
Abaddon went silent with this stupid grin, feeding the student’s paranoia that none would be able to help him. “Maybe reciting what you’re doing to me will help me learn?” Abaddon wondered aloud. Alchemy? Isn’t that something to do with magic?
”Well, I guess that could work...” the student murmured. He needed all the help he could get at this point.
”Aye, just tell me what you’re doing. I’ll catch on.”
”Please don’t touch the experiment, you’ll only get in the way.”
Upon the table was a series of metal instruments: tongs, a small hammer, and some materials prepared on fibrous paper in dust form. Also, glass beakers atop a burner the student was now adjusting. “Alchemy is the discipline of transferring properties from one substance to another,” the frightful student recited from memory. “One substance to another...” Overcome by inspiration, he folded up a pinch of dust in its cloth casing and poured it into the until-now beaker. “Don’t want to add too much of this, or it could explode,” he mumbled. “I need to make this fire dust transfer its heat properties to a metal compound that can be melted down into an ingot somehow,” he said, “but it’s so scary.”
”Are you trying to blow up my lab, Caracal?” the instructor-on-the wall boomed. “That’s too much. Light that and the entire lab will catch fire. Pour it out and put in less. Consider this ten points deducted from your final!”
Abaddon was mystified, but offered a hand of comfort to the young man. “Caracal, is it? What you’re doing here is quite impressive. Take a breath.”
But the boy was overcome with fear, terrified. “It... it could blow up!?” he stammered. “I don’t want to do this anymore!”
”Then you will fail!” Professor On-A-Wall yelled.
”I’m afraid he’s right. Chin up and press onward. Show me what you can do,” Abaddon murmured. Thankfully the wall could not hear him, as long as he spoke quietly.
Swallowing and sucking in as much courage as he could muster, the boy puffed his cheeks and breathed a deep sigh, picking up the beaker and emptying out the contents slowly back onto the rag before measuring out the exact weight on a scale and putting in a little less this time.” Then, Abaddon watched as the boy grew so nervous that he could no longer hold the rag steady, and it spilled all over the floor.
Abaddon snorted.
The student gasped.
The wall screamed.
And the whole place went up in smoke.
Rampant flames spread from station to station, destroyer of worlds, an anathema to the cultured, structure rigidity of an educational institution. “Fire!” the wall roared. “You set my lab on fire! You’ve failed, Caracal!” Abaddon sunk back into the smoky shadows, shying away from the lapping flames as the student ran around looking for water, only to splash some on the flames which grew in intensity. “Get out of my lab,” the wall hissed, and blew a great gust of wind that doused the flames into a smoky, choking haze.
Abaddon wisely obeyed, following Caracal outside and down the hall. Caracal was sobbing now. “I’ve failed. I failed the final test, I... I can’t bare to live anymore.” Grief was a stage of calm in nightmares, Abaddon had begun to realize. As long as he kept Caracal saddened, his dream would focus internally, though Abaddon’s own nightmares often lurked upon the outer edges, threatening to scrape their way inside, and they would, but he had moments to spare until that time.
”It’s a fact of life,” Abaddon stated. “You are going to fail. We are all failures in more ways than we can count, though I am impressed to the degree at which you have made a mess of things.”
”Were you even a student for that class, or did you enter just to distract me?”
”Aye,” Abaddon played along. “The professor paid me to trouble you. He cares... deeply about his... wallpaperlings?” Was that a valid word for wall family? “Wallflowers. That’s the word I was looking for.” Cheeky as he often could be, Abaddon laughed it away when he received a teary-eyed glare.
”Don’t you realize how much I’ve lost? I’ll never be able to get my Letter of Arcana in Alchemy now! And it’s all thanks to ...you,” he sighed, “for being so good at your ...job.”
Abaddon sat back, sitting upon the bench in the hall as the world rained a storm outside. Folding arms behind his head, he smirked in a suave manner like an accomplished fool. “Not my problem, but there’s nothing stopping you from working without a Letter. I’ve always found work elsewhere, think I have one of those pieces of paper?”
The boy shrugged.
“This is Etzos. The military is an option. They won’t waste the talents of an Alchemist on fighting foot soldiers, and they may even pay to let you take the class again,” Abaddon theorized, “though you don’t seem worth their while like this. You’re timid, afraid, and weak-willed. I’ve never met someone in such a privileged position with so little spine. Were your parents too soft on ‘ya, you spoiled brat?” Abaddon jabbed.
”Yes...” he said, slamming his palms against his face. “I’m so useless. Always have been.”
”Then that’s who you are until you do something about it.” Abaddon stood and began to walk away in all his shirtless glory.
There was a long silence behind him save for his steps, but the student called after him. “Who are you?”
”Hah, I don’t even know who you are. I’m just the spectator in all of this, the wagon carrying reality to your door.” Abaddon looked back once, and continued walking. I went too easy on him. I need to be more objective. This feels gross.
He stopped, and turned back. “’Ya know what, kid,” Abaddon said, pulling a knife from the sheath at his hip. “Take this and go stab the wall. What’s the worst that could happen?” Caracal just stared at the offered instrument. “Stab him. Make him pay.”
”But he’s... my... he’s just...”
”Don’t play coy with me, I know how you really feel. That hatred inside.”
The boy took the handle and gripped it firmly, pulling the blade out and gazing upon it with curiosity. “I can’t,” he said.
”Oh, but you can,” Abaddon lied, though he suspected he would fail and suffer.
Dragging him to his feet, he gave the teen a shove. “Go on then, do it. Be a man. Be a warrior for once. Show them how you feel.”
”Hey!” Caracal protested as he was shoved down the hall and dragged back to the lab, the wall at the far end glaring at them both.
”You again...” the Professor Wall seethed.
With a bit of urging, Abaddon left the boy with a small Corruption imparted through his fingertips, a fixation on bringing that wall harm. “I don’t want to,” the boy said, but Abaddon watched those feet move of their own accord as Emea’s corruption took hold, carrying him on a downward spiral through the dream slowly.
”What are you doing with that knife, Caracal?”
Caracal began to cry as his body moved on its own accord. “I can’t stop, I can’t stop it! Somebody, stop me!” he pleaded.
”Caracal, put down that knife!”
With a flash, the knife was brought down by Caracal, plunging itself into the wall repeatedly, and tearing, the whole bloody canvas of living monster getting ripped apart until it faded to a torn picture. Just like that, Caracal woke up outright, and Abaddon was back in his usual Dreamscape, the world evaporating into a featureless void. “That was... interesting,” he remarked, even though his words made no sound here, though he could still hear them in his mind. “Alchemy, huh?”
