LucidusAuthored: Collaborative - Hannah Nyland & Jerad Sayler Game: New World of Darkness by White Wolf & Onyx PathVenue: Mage: The AwakeningChronicle: Mage 2: The Dethroned QueenDate: Wednesday 21 May 2014Location: Somewhere off the beaten path of Sully Creek State Park… Medora, ND

 The badlands are beautiful in their desolation. It’s hard to hike through the red-shorn rock faces and cuts of hard packed earth with layers upon layers of time displayed for the brisk air and not feel something. The place feels like a blasted land, torn by some invisible war between water, earth and sky. On this May afternoon the sun is bright, but its potency hasn’t overtaken the bone cold teeth of another North Dakota winter. It’s a stark 40 degrees in the shade and what would be a comfortable 65 if there were no wind feels about the same with the tumultuous bursts of air finding their way through the shaped landscape in a million chaotic potentials.

I suspect that despite my growing understanding of the inconsequence of distance, Germany is going to feel much further away. Casstiel must feel it to on a subconscious level, either that or he is in the midst of his aforementioned paranoia and fears at what I may run into. Lately he’s been cramming in as much training time into my schedule as I can get away with. This upcoming weekend is my last one at home, so the normal weekend mental marathons are off the table--quality family time only, he says. But why would training stop just because I am going a fourth of the way around the planet? If anything it should be easier to sneak off in the evenings. I won’t be able to pop back and be seen by anyone without causing what Casstiel calls “a breach of the Veil,” so plenty of unsupervised time.

Maybe these sessions are symbolic. He has made statements to the effect of leaving me to my own devices for the duration. Perhaps he is trying to loosen up on my leash a little. I may be young in his eyes, but how do you compare a high school graduate to a student of Pandemonium? Class of 666.

Then again there is the time zone restrictions... but still. The training regime doesn’t line up with the restrictions he has placed on my life, unless it is all part of the training. Everything adds up, he is pushing me towards something. My limits.

Which is fair enough, really. I wouldn’t expect or want anything less. But the result is that today I notice something that's been true for a long time. I'm

tired.

Ever since my Awakening, sleep deprivation has been a loyal friend, courtesy of Pandemonium. I've learned to adjust, compensate with spells and caffeine, ignore the slight blurriness of vision and dulled reaction times. But the most obvious possible solution is the one that I've never tried. When you have an Oneiromancer as a mentor and don't tell him about your nightmares, is that stubbornness or just stupidity? I don't care. Wouldn’t a true warlock bear her burden stoically? But then – and I wouldn’t admit it to my mentor, or anyone for that matter – I often feel like an imposter, just a child that Pandemonium chewed up and spat out instead of the fearless Mastigos I’m supposed to be. My grip on the gun in my hand suddenly, inexplicably tightens.

Anyway, Casstiel has enough problems without me adding mine to the pile. 

That's the noble motivation that I like to ascribe to myself, but the annoying thing about my studies of Mind is that they've made me more aware that the rationalization is just that; a rationalization. The truth is more selfish. I simply don't want to tell him. Don't want to tell him that I've been reliving the worst moments of my life in fragmented images and flashes of pure terror. Is it supposed to be like this? Does he have the nightmares too? Do they get better with time? Mine haven’t. Trapped, helpless, useless - over and over again. What would he think if he knew? I can just imagine the look on his face – disgust, disappointment, pity.

No. He doesn't need to know. It's bad enough that I know.

“Start again. Say it.” Casstiel growls from a foot away, pinching the bridge of his nose with a gloved hand. It is a familiar gesture of annoyance.

I hold-up the hand gun in a squared up once again, feet shoulder’s width apart, similar to some kata I know. I bend me arms slightly and tighten up the sight of my new toy to my eye. I don’t know much about guns but I haven’t forgotten this one; Casstiel more or less drilled the information into my head. It’s a Browning HP-SFS. The HP is for High Power, the SFS is for Safe-Fast-Shooting.

It’s the right size for me, most guns are built for men but the slightly smaller design of this black epoxy finished beauty fits like a glove. It holds 13 rounds in a magazine, lucky number. It also fires 9MM rounds. Casstiel says the lower caliber rounds makes it a little easier to bend where they are going, though I can’t see how. But then again, he’s the one who can shoot around corners. Normal physics says it’s ridiculous, but that is the order of the day lately.

The sights on this thing leave a lot to be desired. Three prongs along the top of the barrel. Two right up near my eye-line the third wavering up and down on the far end. The simple sight is deliberate. I see the tree stump with two cans of Pepsi Blue on it a good 100 feet away; 32.5 yards to be exact in my spacial measurements. I am pretty sure this is at the edge of the effective range for a gun like this. This is deliberate too, all part of his game.

Casstiel coughs to impart his impatience and breaks my concentration again. He wants me to say the creed. Sigh. Where did he even get it from - some spaghetti western?

I concentrate again. “I do not aim with my eye. She who aims with her eye has forgotten the face of her father,” I mutter. I focus on lining up the gun with the target. “I aim with my hand.”

Casstiel has become still as a statue in my periphery and slowly fades out of existence as I focus my preternatural perceptions forward. I continue, “I do not shoot with my hand. She who shoots with her hand has forgotten the face of her father.” I let the imago form further, allowing the environment in front of me to map itself out. I feel my concentration waver and my eyes drop out of focus; I think I just caught myself about to nod off. “I shoot with my Mind.” That last bit sounded flat and unconvincing even to my own ears. My mind is trying to take a holiday right about now, not shooting.

“Casstiel, is this really necessary . . . ?” A pregnant pause where he stirs, the almost imperceptible bristling and I don’t wait for an answer. I know he’ll just say that it is. Maybe I’m just whining anyhow. I’ve been told that teenagers tend to do that. I suck it up and carry on.

I send my will into the imago, finish the spell and create a channel of distorted space to ensure the bullet reaches the target. I can see the circular swoosh of the Pepsi label clear as if it were right at the end of the gun’s barrel. “I do not kill with my gun, she who kills with her gun has forgotten the face of her father... I kill with my heart!” I fire the gun at the end of an exhalation, releasing the spell in a forward surge of subtle energy. But I tightening up right before the automatic slide jumps back and the bullet knocks a hole in the base of the trunk... of the tree next to the stump.

Casstiel lets out a breath, trying to sound neutral. But I’m not stupid; he is well and truly irritated with me. “Well... I think that one was worse than your first. What is the problem?”

I feel my ears burn in frustration and a sharp point of anger but I let it drain off, reach for a joke, a deflection, a self-deprecation. “What, other than the fact that I suck with a gun? Should’ve stuck to my fists. At least then I could

get in a good swing at the monsters before they eat me.” I allow a crooked smile, not meeting his eyes. On most people this would look shifty, but for me the lack of eye contact is pretty normal. “I’m good, boss. Just having an off day, I guess.”

“That hungry monster isn’t going to wait for you to have an on day,” My mentor says. “When you tightened up in anticipation the sight drifted up. Rookie mistake. You need to follow normal gun firing procedures. You had that down, but you can’t forget them because you are casting a spell in the middle. Control yourself.”

“Right. Sorry,” I say softly, but inwardly I’m seething. I hate it when he makes it sound like I just wet the bed. Apparently, all other Mastigos have total control over mind and therefore body. I have not a clue how they reached such an enlightened state. Sure would be nice though. I can’t even stop the nightmares from destroying my sleep. If I went back into that High School classroom where I signed my name I might drop and go ‘full-fetal.’ For that very reason, I had to drop Calculus class after Christmas break; another nail in the coffin of my parent’s trust in me.

And my church . . . I’m surprised that going back in there for Oblations doesn’t outright incapacitate me, actually. Some days, when I stand too long facing it head-on instead of averting my gaze or rushing up the bell tower stairs. It nearly does and my detachment shatters like glass. Someone pulls the trigger in my brain and I’m gone; it’s all happing again, the lightning strikes of pain and bottomless terror. I become a desperate, mindless animal. And it’s pathetic. The Mastigos who loses it at the sight of a stupid religious building. The Mastigos who got sucker punched by her own fucking daimon.

I clench my jaw, attempt to jar myself back into clarity. It doesn’t work as well as it should. After some more mediocre shooting Casstiel decides it’s time to eat, change things up. Forgoing unnecessary portals we break out our packs and sit on a couple of round boulders overlooking a ravine.

I am bewildered for a moment, trying to determine whether or not small talk is a social necessity here. Logic wins out at the same time I realize my brain is simply not up to the task of providing the appropriate script for right now. Let Casstiel initiate if he really wants to. Go logic. I start stuffing my mouth with food; chips, a sandwich, a soda. Even the caffeine is barely taking the edge off my fatigue today.

Casstiel breaks out his own honey ham on Swiss sandwich and Fritos, Swiss Rolls for desert. He destroys two Diet Mountain Dews throughout and appears to be enjoying the sustenance with gusto.

Surprisingly, Casstiel says nothing. He looks out over the vast eroded landscape. Occasionally his eyes dart around. Veiled or not I am getting pretty good at seeing the ‘tells’ he has that indicate when Casstiel is linking up his mind with other things. His phone buzzes several times but he never pulls it out to check it. He is syncing up, either with his astral self, some illusion proxies, Azazel or lately, STARK. That’s frightening to think about, a direct neural connection to the internet and STARK’s capabilities. I always have full bars on my phone, 4G and A STARKnet wifi hotspot when I am around my mentor. Whenever I ask, he just says it’s the AetherNet like that explains something.

Wind howls though gaps in the cliffs. It’s peaceful. The longer the silence continues the more comfortable it becomes. I actually find I enjoy it as the meal draws to its logical conclusion, happy to enjoy the silence and just be in proximity. The wind is singing sad music, this is solitude. This is what it feels like to be away from civilization. The peace of utter seclusion, lonely and yet restful. I catch myself smiling a little, feeling more relaxed than I have in months. It’s a brief but nice change. Maybe he picked this place on purpose, beyond just finding a safe place to fire guns. I catch myself ascribing everything to some master plan but I really have no evidence to support it. I’m not sure if it’s paranoid or simply justified based on the extent of his abilities, and sometimes that scares me a little. Things just seem to line up and he keeps his cards close to his chest most of the time. After all, what would a mage be without his secrets? A lot less infuriating, for one -

Enough. I abruptly slam the breaks on that line of thought. Casstiel doesn’t deserve me getting snippy about this. He doesn’t like it either, and as frustrating as it is, he has his reasons.

I am relieved after I realize he really isn’t going to say anything. It gives me some time to recover. Unfortunately, eating has sent my blood to digest the food and I end up feeling even more drowsy than before. Not good. I check Casstiel’s range of vision but knowing he is Space Master, it seems silly to use his range of vision to be sneaky. I stealthily reach into the small pocket on the top of my pack and shake out two Jet-Alert caffeine pills. I down the yellow horse pills with the last of my drink. He doesn’t seem to notice. Small mercies. I wonder if he does see everything but chooses not to stare out of politeness. I wouldn’t be surprised.

“...Just act like a tourist.” Casstiel shatters the silence and startles me back from an unintentional doze as if we were continuing a conversation that had only happened in his head. Well, I guess this means he is thinking about the trip.

“Yeah.” I confirm, and look down at the ground, feeling completely flat footed and off balance in this conversation.

“The boots, if properly attenuated should mask you from detection. Just remember you need to veil any new spells you cast on yourself or they will just spot you anyway. Its Mage Spycraft... say 201.”

((This assumes Prime 2 or 3 Spell Cloaking or Disguise Resonance))

“They?” Ah, the paranoist’s sticking point; they are going to get you. I feel like I am quibbling for feeling the need to push this but go on anyway. “Who is after me now?” I’m starting to lose track of myriad of scary things that are out to get me, the Cabal, and occasionally the entire world. At some point the huge list of enemies just started being annoying.

He shrugs, pulls his black P-Coat together to block out the cold wind. “Whoever. The Awakened world as a whole doesn’t like mages from other concilli to show up for no good reason and hang out for a few weeks. There could always be bigger threats such as Seers, vampires, thaumavories. Better to just lie low and ride this out, pretend you’re normal for a little while.”

I snort. I can’t help myself. “Sure, boss. I’ll get right on that.”

My mentor, as usual, is too dignified to call me out when I am feeling extra snarky. He ignores it completely. “The second you run into weird you know who to call.”

“Ghostbusters.” I mutter under my breath. That earns a rueful smile from Casstiel.

I almost smile back. “Look, I could still cancel, even now. I’ve been saving up for two years and my parents would freak, but let’s face it, at this point they already think I’ve gone insane,” I try to make it sound like a joke, keep myself from sounding sad like I want to.

My parents are sleepers, but not stupid, and they know me too well. Their daughter has what appears to be a near mental breakdown in December, and ever since seems a little different. Colder, unfocused, distant. I’ve done my best to conceal my weirdness from them, but they have noticed, and told me as much. Canceling the trip to Germany would have incredible repercussions on my already shaky relationship with them.

“I should be training more instead of taking this trip. Honestly, I suspect that any time I waste on fun and games now is only going to come back and bite me in the ass later on. We both know I’m not normal. So why take the unnecessary risk? What’s the point?” Frustration edges into my voice. We’ve had this talk already, although previously I tried to exercise more diplomacy

in voicing my opinion. Regardless, I already know the gist of what he’s going to say. I still don’t agree.

But he surprises me. His severe glare, something practiced to intimidate the troops, vanishes and is replaced by fatigue. He looks really tired all of a sudden - half a decade younger than he is, maybe more, except for the eyes. They must have faded to that light brown, almost hazel tint, surrounded by dark circles that have been there too long to be a temporary thing. The beginnings of crow’s feet are there too at the corners of his eyes. Those old eyes; they’re why, even without magic, he can command authority from people older and larger than him. Most of the time he is completely unimpressed by the world around him. He slouches on his rock, one buckled boot up and on planted on the sparse grass, and replies with new sincerity.

“Okay. All training aside for a minute, your purpose in life has become survival. We train, you get better, you get stronger, and you reach the point where you are a fully actualized mage. I release you from training and you join whatever cabal or order you want. But survival is not your true purpose in life. Based on the decision you made, I hazard to say you badly want to stay close to your family right? Well if you want to live a normal life, not start a new one made of lies but a continuation of your life as it was, then you have to live it.”

A pack of lies – that’s really what my mundane life has seemed like lately; a show put on purely for other people’s benefit. The training, the warnings, the preparations: that’s what feels real, and I find it hard to picture that changing. My gaze keeps shifting, falling anywhere but on him. I had planned to dig in my heels this time. I had planned to argue. God help me, I had even planned to whine. But I’m so unused to seeing my master like this that most of the fight goes out of me. I realize that I’ve become too accustomed to thinking of him as invincible. No human being is.

Now his eyes are on me; I remain averted but feel them as if they were search lights. “You want to protect them, protect your way of life. The training is for that. And the Horsemen, which I still consider myself somewhat a part of, are all about that. But if you work so hard to protect the thing you want out of life you may lose the opportunity to have what you want out of life. We are both walking the tightrope, keep our family but not walling ourselves away from them, right? It would achieve ultimate safety for them but at the loss of contact forever.”

I don’t know if I look as tired as Casstiel does right now, but I definitely feel it. “Hard to focus on the tightrope and not the long fall to the ground, Cass. Staying close . . . I love them. Wanting to was never the question. The question is what they deserve, which is the best possible chance I can give them to keep their lives. So I guess what I should be asking is: will this trip

help me do that? Make me a better protector?”

He nods once with approval. “Familiar with the term burnout? Nobody can take hits forever, not good hits at least. Plus if we turn a routine into our survival training and you learn to depend on that as a form of comfort, it may hinder your ability to switch to the real stuff when the time comes. Then that is why you need to go to Germany. We have been at this a while, a change of pace and scenery can do wonders for the mind. You are a Warlock, the ruler of your world and all you survey. I can’t teach you every lesson when learning the lesson on your own has its own wisdom. Perhaps this time away will help you re-focus. You have been off balance ever since you Awakened. Some good soul searching, traveling inwards to learn about who you are now (or who you want to be) might help advance your potential.”

He studies the ground, considering. “Ever since we started I wanted to hit you hard with the cold hard facts about our state of being. I wanted to make sure you understood the gravity and the stakes. I would say that I was largely successful. Just don’t get too comfortable with the idea that you are the sole source of supernatural danger in the lives of our loved ones. In many ways I already made the decision that protecting them meant keeping them somewhat close instead of shedding myself of them. And if we were gone, a supernatural threat could have carved through them as a matter of course with no one to defend them. Also, if we broke contact now a threat might still try to use them to get to us. We are still more useful to them around as the protectors.

He’s always done this in our disagreements; stacking all these reasons, heaping them all up until I have no more arguments to bring to point. And he does it skillfully. I can’t help but notice something though; if he didn’t sound so confident about everything, it might sound like he was trying all the arguments to see which one did the trick, like the person he was really trying to convince was himself.

Finally the seriousness breaks down, as it usually does. He smiles almost villainously. It promises terrible mischief. “What does the apprentice do when she has a break from strict formal study? I am your master, a word that did not use to have a negative connotation in the distant past. It means I am responsible for you and I take the repercussions for your errors. A mentor just gives good advice. Your trip has my blessing and I am always on standby if shit really hits the fan. Lording over every facet of your new awakening does the Mastigos a disservice. Your self-victories are the ones that count.”

And now, always the devil’s advocate: “Ha, think about it another way. Everything in life is a test, and the fallen world is its own scourging. Survive

this test. It’s a short trial but if you look in the right places internally and external to yourself, you may find you learned more from it then I could have imparted in the same time frame through my instructional methods..”

I manage that strange smirk I do sometimes, a tight little half-smile. “Is this your way of telling me to go have fun? Just isn’t a vacation for a warlock unless there’s copious scourging, is it?” The snark is back online. Good.

He smirks back. I used to think that his smirk was almost charming. And maybe it is, but it also might as well be a neon warning sign blinking on his face. “Sure, go have fun, but like anything fun it’s a lot more fun if you are doing something you aren’t supposed to with the added thrill and possibility of getting caught. I’m not coordinating your visit with anyone, chica. No concillium is expecting you, and unless you coordinate beforehand, your travels will be seen as a violation against the Rite of Hospitality at the very least. You will have no protective blanket against the predations of the werewolves I have heard reside in the mountains and in the forests there, or less savory things. Still not sound like a trial?”

There’s that mischief again...

“Nope,” I say brightly. “It just sounds incredibly ill-advised. But then, what part of this whole thing isn’t?” I nod, grudgingly conceding defeat in this argument. He practically beams, resembling Xelloss a little too closely for comfort.

“Oh, just be quick on those boot buckles and you will be just fine. Better yet, never even ping on anyone’s radar to begin with. That’s the key.”

We pack up our things and pick up all the spent brass. This lets me practice my deepening understanding of Space and Mind by remembering and calculating the trajectory of each spent round I used while I was trying to hit those soda cans. Trying being the key word there.

“Paradox is about to get a little high, after I am done go ahead and apport those cans back over to us so we can move on. Take your time and use the methods I taught you to use,” He orders while widening his stance imperceptibly, black P-Coat flaring at the bottom.

The two cans are still sitting on the stump, untouched and reflecting the bright sunlight. As fast as thought Casstiel draws his hand cannon and his nimbus blinds me as he fires a single crack shot over his shoulder at a mound of rock in the nearby ravine opposite and downwards from his target. His aura is like a crimson lightning strike and the roar of a demonic dragon. Both cans of soda explode simultaneously.

Jerk. I have no idea why that was necessary. He preaches on the virtues of wisdom and not to squander the gifts of magic but then he does stuff like that. It is not completely pointless; he is giving me practice mitigating locality-based paradox so that I can react fast in the field...but we could have kept the targets and I could have generated my own attention. He has never really gotten angry in my presence, but there is always a threat of violence that hangs around him when we are casting spells. Pain, feeding vice, it all seems to be par for the course. He indulges his pride and frustration even when the stakes are low. I assume so he can maintain control of the power of Goetics when the situation requires perfect control. It seems almost logical when put that way, but maybe I am simply making justifications for him. I want so badly to give my cousin the benefit of the doubt, and for the most part I have, but sometimes . . .

Sometimes in moments like this I flash back to what Xelloss said about Casstiel and for a second, I wonder. Which is something that makes me dislike that asshole of a daimon even more. Because if I start taking him too seriously, everything will be called into question – for example, was that exhaustion a minute ago a genuine moment of weakness or a calculated move to make me more pliable, more easily bent to his will? Am I really an asset, an ally, a friend? Or just his too-trusting pawn?

I don’t want to think that way about a family member, and one who has done a lot to help me at that. I don’t want to think that way at all. Becoming a little jaded is probably a useful survival adaptation for a mage, but that jaded? “Fuck Xelloss,” I mutter under my breath. This isn’t the time for this.

Of course not, you trusting little fool. When is it ever? , a tiny voice in the back of my head mocks. Ask yourself something. When Kairos got pissed and threw that cricket ball with at you with enough speed to maim, did he so much as raise a finger to stop it? If you hadn’t deflected it, instead earned yourself a few shattered bones and a hell of a lot of pain, would he have cared, or just written it off as another “lesson” for his student to learn? You really think that your kind, benevolent “master” would protect you from his friends if it came to that? Maybe he does like all those secrets, deep down. The man said it himself: power corrupts. And if there’s one thing he has a lot of. . .

Fun thing about being a warlock: you get to have these kinds of arguments with yourself. They’re about as surreal and irritating as you would expect. I shake my head, deciding not to dignify any of that with a response, and instead shift my focus to the apportation spell.

I’ve done it before, of course; apportation was the first vulgar spell that I ever learned how to cast. Now, multiple targets is new, but the same general principles apply. I murmur in high speech, create the imago and bend my will to accommodate both cans of soda; I feel stretched thin and it makes everything a little trickier, but I’m certain that I can pull it off.

My own nimbus flares, considerably less flashy than Casstiel’s but just as touched by Pandemonium. Everything within a few yards of me seems to splinter and crack; it all takes on the look of a stain glass window, a bunch of separate shards pieced together into images. From somewhere within me comes, a low droning hum that should by all rights make my eardrums bleed. But wait, it gets better. The hum steadily pitches up into a scream, a sound distorted by the sheer intensity of terror it contains, but definitely human. And somehow . . . familiar. As usual, I willfully ignore that little fact and am fully aware that I’m ignoring it. A second more; I release my will, flick my wrists, and the cans of soda pop into my hands.

I still have a bitter taste in my mouth from all the Paradox, and a sick sensation of wrongness. The best way I can describe it is that it’s as if Reality just decided to punch me in the face, and I barely managed to dodge the blow. Some of it’s from the apportation I just did, but Casstiel still grabbed the lion’s share of it here.

Paradox is always bad, but any time he casts a vulgar spell like that it seems to pull down way more heat than it should in response to the power of the spell. He told me that the more in tune you get with the Supernal the more the Abyss attempts to compensate, trying to foul up the lightning rod. The cans are shredded into fragments as if they were hit from multiple directions all at once.

We still have half a case of dusty azure Pepsi Blue cans. I carefully drop the jagged pieces of aluminum into the rectangular box of cardboard and we pack up our things. We hike on to a broad set of bluffs well away from the horse riding trails so we won’t be disturbed.

So...Pepsi Blue?” I ask as we hike, my pride is recovering and I am feeling like pressing both my tolerance for conversation and my unfulfilled curiosity.

He chuckles inwardly. “Pepsi Blue released it my freshman year of High School as a return fire to Vanilla Coke. The marketing ploy was that they tested something like a hundred flavors etc. It made a few summer returns until it was discontinued. The first beer I ever drank was cut with the stuff, nasty.”

He smiles in remembrance. “Something about it tripped a switch in our hormone-addled brains. Mike, ...Prodigy, and I would hang out on weekends

and at two in the morning something about it got us super loopy, really hyper. Probably just a combination of fatigue, sugar, caffeine, and the placebo effect. That little case you’re carrying there represents a decade of nostalgia. No way it’s good to drink anymore of course... this stuff is really hard to find.” Things like this are what make it more difficult to believe that he’s some kind of purely amoral chessmaster. It’s just . . . too human.

He continues to smile to himself but his eyes remain on the ground, maybe a little embarrassed. “If you can track down the stuff anymore, it’s a feat for an aspiring Space mage. Well...let’s just say that there may be another world out there was it beat out Vanilla Coke and is still being created.”

We set up shop on opposite sides of a long flat rock roughly the circumference of a pick-up truck but only coming up to our waists. Five cans of Pepsi Blue are set out in front of me, per my master’s (the term still doesn’t quite sit right with me) instructions. All old, faded, dusty, and gratefully sealed. One can sits in front of Casstiel. I cringe inwardly with dread. This is the set up for the worst drinking game in history.

He nods gravely, framing his side of the perpetual stone table with his arms. “As I am sure you may have already guessed, I am about to test that mental shield I taught you.”

When he first explained the concept, the first thing that popped into my head was, honest to god, a literal medieval shield. It’s so blatant, so crude and yet . . . it makes a certain degree of sense. After all, it’s a symbol the mind – at least my mind - immediately links to defense, not some abstract concept but a real, actual chunk of metal in between you and assorted blunt and/or pointy objects. In this case the weapons are more cerebral, but the idea is the same. So I spent some time imaging the look and feel of the metal; black and gold, so sleek and unscarred that you’d think that it had never seen a single battle. Picking out the heraldry; a fire-breathing she-monster with three heads: a lion, a goat and a snake. Hey, it’s my mental shield. I’m allowed a little vanity. The end result is a symbol that’s more flexible in use than it appears, a handy mental shortcut that cuts a few precious seconds off visualizing my defense when those seconds matter. It could use a little more polishing, but that’s still a reassuring thing to have.

My cousin is nice enough to give the run down again and I get more time than when I was trying to put the concept and applications immediately into play. Casstiel continues in a scholarly tone. “So I have shown you and talked you through a few rote spells and mudras for some mental shielding What orthodox mages refer to has “Mental Shielding” is a broad blanket term for virtually any imago that protects a mind from falling prey to supernatural infiltration, influences, enfeeblement, or conditioning within the Practice of

Shielding and extends beyond mere fortification to hardening the senses against mental illusions and trickery. It does not include the general Perfecting or Patterning of a mind or mental construct to make it more intelligent, knowledgeable or fast.”

“The limit of these defensive constructs is only what is within the creativity and organization of the caster’s mind. In that way augmenting the mind, will, knowledge base and magical understanding intrinsically boosts a mind’s defenses, especially when someone dedicates themselves using visualization.”

“Truly improvised variants of mental bulwarks are as varied as their creators. Many common traits and variables emerge but also require a frame of reference. It makes sense that the mind needs its own language and construct through truths and metaphors. The mind is a city full of people, the mind is a machine, the mind is a computer system, and naturally I ascribe to this notion. The brain patterns to binary or perhaps it is better to say that machine code and microprocessors work very much like nerve clusters. Cyberspace and head space is a system of systems, mechanisms of control.”

He traces the stone table before us with finger as if drawing a circuit diagram with a finger tip. “Computer systems, networks of control. The defenses and architecture of a mind mage’s brain can be as simple as single computer and as complex as a network with a series of firewalls, proxy servers, gateways, DMZs, so forth. It also has sensors laid out throughout it to detect intrusion or a mental attack. Right now we will keep it simple. You’re basic mental shielding is essentially a combination of a dynamic firewall, anti-virus, and intrusion detection system.” Casstiel smiles as he sees the mostly blank look on my face. “Hey, if you are going into computer science all this will make sense sooner or later. Being a good mind-mage could make you a better programmer and vice versa. Spells are a reprogramming of the universe through means of executable functions (the imago) executed by supernal energy and directed by will. Google is your friend.”

“So, there are many ways an antagonist could try to make you drink one of these cans of Pepsi Blue. The most brunt and expected is the Brute Force Attack. I use a spell to throw all the power I can at you, overpowering your mind and forcing your body to take an action. This usually done in combat when the attacker doesn’t have time for more. Your mental shielding acts as a dynamic proxy firewall by immediately blunting the exertion of power from an outside source. It also solidifies and continuously checks your mental processes. Anytime someone tries to flip a switch your shield notifies you and attempts to return the settings back to defaults. In this way it acts as a file integrity monitor and intrusion detection system. Speed and amplitude is the key to this attack, it tends to work sporadically.”

“Bring up your mental shield spell and allow me to demonstrate.”

I exhale sharply, call up my will and focus on the visualization I’ve been working on, the black and gold shield that encompasses all the mental defense techniques I know. The image is a little blurry today, I note with annoyance, but still solid enough. For a few seconds, nothing unusual happens. I eye him warily, and then -

“Drink!” He commands with sudden ferocity, pointing to the leftmost can of soda. I feel the sudden pressure against my shield as if he were stabbing it with an invisible spear sent from his head, a self-perpetuating compulsion. I feel it piercing it with sudden panic, pressure flowing into me as fast as I can think. I don’t feel whatever happens inside me after that. Without thinking my right hand flashes down and opens the can with a hiss. There is no logic, just doing without thinking, the key to getting through my defenses of logic. Then I take a swig of the old Pepsi.

There is a hint of berry, hint of Pepsi, and the nasty permeation of rusty water - flat, gross. I gag and set the can down. He raises an eyebrow. “That shouldn’t have been that easy... were you ready?”

“Yes.” I say a little irritably.

“Okay.” He quirks his mouth, considering, and then continuing with his lecture. “Well, the next most common type of mental attack is power of trickery and suggestion, including emotional urgings. Usually this works better over time, conditioning and re-enforcing the idea and urges until the target can no longer resist. Inception, an insertion of an idea that doesn’t stick very hard but over weeks of intense mental conditioning you can re-program a person completely... scary stuff. The shield can blunt this long term conditioning and all those subtle effects. Eventually the influence will always win if not detected and addressed specifically (blocking ports on your internal firewall, or dynamically blocking data sent from a source address) but it can take a lot longer. For example, this slow ball... has no prep and should be the easiest to defend against.”

He points to the can and I feel the surge of supernal energy settle around me like a web this time, over the next half a minute he adds more layers, separate and integrated spells. “The soda, it tasted good.” I reconsider the flavor I had enjoyed from the open can. I almost nod but stop myself; that’s not right.

“You’re very thirsty aren’t you?” He asks with concern in his voice. I feel my eyes automatically track to the can and I feel my mouth go dry. “Yes I am,” I supply. Over the next few seconds, I feel my desire to drink the pop increase. But I have time to consider any I feel my mental shielding making

the urges slightly more remote. The spells are slipping around, I trap and isolate one and another gets around my blocks. Pepsi Blue. Nostalgia. It tasted... bad, I don’t want to taste that again. I will wash down that nasty taste with a swig of this pop. Wait.

“You want to drink it, why don’t you fix your thirst?” That does it. I nod and pick up the can. Halfway to my lips my spell alerts me to the foreignness of the idea and I am reconsidering again. “Ugh,” I manage in disgust and set the can down gratefully.

“Good!” Casstiel awards me with some praise. Normally I would just feel good about this, but today I cynically consider the pleasure I glean from my success through the processes of the mental shield, analyzing the possibility that he could have already been using some sort of apprentice conditioning on me from my training. No aberrant ideas, no direct spells involved but he could be doing things indirectly right? Oh, paranoia. . .

“But you could imagine what would happen if I put a can in your room with some subtle urgings on it for a couple months. You’d be craving the stuff from then on.” It’s scary. Exhausting too; the constant focus is a drain on my already fatigued brain. How can people cast in combat and maintain these defenses without the multitasking spells? It’s beyond me.

“Wouldn’t the presence of the spell just give it away? Say I toss out the can before I get too much of the long-term exposure.” I ask, trying to make sure I grasp this method.

“Not necessarily. The spell itself and its mental pressure can be cloaked. You might detect and the item makes you immediately forget about the conditioning or make you want to keep the can around regardless of rational reasons. It’s hard, but not impossible to get around a mind-mage’s senses and defenses. It just adds layers and layers of complexity and subtly. Mind games, tricks within tricks, only limited by the imagination and creativity of the creator.”

“Next, subtle trickery. Lots of supernatural beings have the ability to place subtle mental tricks around them. The Incognito Presence spell and Occultation techniques are great demonstrations of this. There are spirits and other beings out there that might not be able to directly override your mind and command you to jump off a cliff, but they might be able to induce intense fear, love, other strong emotions that you may not notice and subtle tricks that mask a being’s presence or supernatural nature from detection. A good mental shield will reduce your susceptibility to these abilities. A more advanced signature or alert-based mental monitoring system will let you know when something is not quite right with some of your sensory input.”

I’m still thirsty as hell but the can is far less appetizing than it was a moment ago. Casstiel grabs one of the un-opened cans before me, pulls a Barques Root Beer out of his bag and places it where the dusty can was. “Go ahead and drink that one while we continue.” I gratefully accept and pop the top open, savoring the fizz coming off of it. I pick it up and take a swing. It’s good, really good. Cold and crisp but I can’t help but feel I am missing something.

“I thought you didn’t like this old stuff?” I ask; it’s a loaded question. The can is Pepsi Blue and my mouth has that rusty aftertaste. He never switched the cans, and the really subtle part was that I never questioned why I just went along with it. I should have know this was immediately part of the lesson. Scary.

Casstiel stifles a grin. He opens his can and takes two sips to match mine and makes a face. “In the sense of fairness. We aren’t going to mind duel so you won’t have an opportunity today to pay me back for all this. So I think it’s important that you see that I wouldn’t ask you to do something I felt was beneath me. It’s the same lesson I try to impress upon my Airmen. When you fail, I fail. We are only as strong as our weakest link, it is in my best interests to have you succeed so I don’t have to drink this nasty shit either. If it makes you feel better, I had Seraph make sure there wasn’t any brain eating amoeba or anything harmful growing in them. Just tastes bad.”

Of the five cans before me two are now open and both have had a good swig taken from them. They are by no means empty. That fills me with dread.

Casstiel waves a hand to indicate he is moving on. “The stuff this shield and the more advanced applications of it have trouble with is the really subliminal conditioning. Very complex workings of any number of the Arcana which set up an environment to gaslight a subject to think a certain way. Hell, with the rise of the virtual age the way young people think has been changing. The Seers use this to alter mankind’s understanding of Supernal Truths in order to subjugate. If we believe the Exarchs exist and what we have gleaned from Kairos’s mystery commands they use this sort of thing all the time... the same could be said for Oracles if you are feeling optimistic. Oh, and the environments and associations of the Tenemos or the resonance of leylines, nodes, hallows and the Shadow can all be used indirectly to influence how people think. It’s the magical line up of Fox News! Oh and dreams too of course.”

“I don’t have the time or the methods to demonstrate this in any quick fashion. It also represents a level of machination that doesn’t have much a payoff. It works too well really. The human mind constantly reprograms itself based purely and negative and positive result. It’s why people get hopelessly addicted to things; anything from checking your Facebook status

every ten minutes to heroin. Your brain is constantly being influenced by the world around you; commercials add data that may only be relevant when you remember a jingle from a commercial you saw in the 1980s. You can’t really validate that nothing is being tampered with to change your opinion on something or re-enforce an idea that is rumor rather than fact. The best the shield can do is try to help mitigate some of that influence by maintaining those ideas and opinions that are you. You can alter a spell to focus on this aspect but you will find yourself set in your ways and unable to take on new opinions. You would have trouble re-assessing your identify and values beyond the deep mental troughs of predictable thought. Dangerous in its own way, a fate worse than death in some ways but that is my opinion-”

Something in my brain clicks, a possible method to further strengthen my shield. “I want to try to defend against the Brute Force Attack again.” My master turns and looks at me in surprise. I’ve knocked him out of his monologue with the sudden urgency in my tone, driven by desire.

“Okay,” He says defensively, “Why?”

“Just give me another try. I can do it.” The words are unnaturally monotone and my face is suddenly utterly unfeeling, my eyes locked dead ahead in a subzero stare of pure focus. Screw it. I may be a failure of a warlock, but I can do this. I can do this right. At the moment, nothing in the world seems more important.

There isn’t a shred of doubt in my mind.

Maybe there should be. And maybe there would be if I had gotten enough sleep the last few months.

Casstiel nods, hesitating, but the slight smile on his face implies either curiosity or slyness. I’m not good at anticipating what people will do, unable to quickly respond to banter despite my love of sarcasm; I need to think about something before I really know how I want to approach a person in conversation. So I’m wary of my master; he most likely has a card up his sleeve. Sure, yeah, I think to myself, “one of those Tarot cards, duh.”

Casstiel looks past me and then at me, giving me the mental bum-rush again but I am ready for it. “Quick! That bush is on fire! Put it out! Put it out!” He points to a blazing bit of shrubbery a few feet away from me, too close for comfort.

I know that bush isn’t on fire. I know that there’s something off about the way it crackles and burns, though the heat coming off of it seems real enough. I know that this is a trick and that he’s just trying to get me to react to the sudden situation; the clue to his Brute Force Attack is the

programming of an almost instinctual action, causing someone to do what he wants without thinking, like jerking your hand back from a hot burner.

((Dramatic failure for cinematic purposes: Casstiel’s approximately 13 to 17 dice – 2 for the Mental Shield vs Resolve + Composure – Fatigue from nightmares – fatigue from training = 0 = Dramatic failure. Chimera must have just ran out of willpower points, must have been burning them to ensure success when her willpower check was reduced so far. Fatigue also affects pretty much all rolls and all Attributes after a while.))

I set my will against the compulsion as my hands flash forward and clasp both open cans, yanking them into the air and... Suddenly, I’m just so damn tired. Something gives in my head and I wobble on my feet, a jerking sway as my body tries to do rather than think. I feel the pressure vanish as the spell pierces the protective layers of my psyche and my skin gets hotter than an oven.

“Ahhh!” I shriek in pain. I dance around as flames crawl over my body. “I’m on fire!” I’m burning, and there’s no time to think. I dump the two cans over my head, dousing the flames to steam and letting the sticky and stale mess pour over me and into my clothing. I drop to the ground and start performing Stop Drop & Roll.

Casstiel quickly strides around the rock and tears down whatever process or remaining spell effect that was driving this pain. The heat continues to recede to nothing.

“I am sorry about that grasshopper... that should not have happened.” He waits, bent over in my face and assessing me. I very pointedly refuse to meet his eyes. Shit, he knows. Has to know now. I’m mortified, terribly embarrassed from the total falsehood of my confidence, and filled with undirected rage and frustration. He extends a hand down to me and I debate just lying on the ground until I vanish, or screaming at the top of my lungs and taking a swing at him.

I get to my feet and he is still assessing. “Okay, seriously. Chimera, what the fuck is going on with you today? I’ve definitely watched deterioration in your training performance over the last couple weeks and it’s getting to the point where none of this is going to stick in that mush between your ears. What is wrong with you? Where is your focus? That should have been easy for you. I basically asked you to dump the can on a bush, you didn’t have to drink it. Reverse motivation of a sort.”

He puts his hands on his hips and studies me; I can feel the piercing gaze of scrutiny as he no doubt begins to study my mental integrity. I bristle. The shield resists but it is futile to try to block him, especially with me unable to

put up a fight. If his respect for me drops further I wonder if he will just pluck the information right out of my head. I know that he could if he wanted to; the idea is both terrifying and incredibly insulting. The urge to either burst into frustrated tears or deck him in the face rises exponentially. I do neither.

“Out with it.” He nearly growls in that low tone. Shit.

“Stop scrutinizing me.” I say flatly, and stare past him with defiance. Cornered, humiliated, soaked through with the soda I just dumped on myself; I’m in no position to be making demands here, and I know it. If he really wants this information, he’ll get it whether I like it or not. Hell, he’s probably already found what he was scrutinizing for. But whatever is left of my dignity at this point isn’t going to let this pass without at least a comment. Wasn’t one of the first things he taught me how rude it is to scrutinize without permission?!

Casstiel is apparently surprised at my words. His eyebrows go up and he stops inspecting me with an almost involuntary jerk of the head. As far as I know he isn’t casting, isn’t burrowing into my head. Scrutiny is an odd sensation to give and receive. The best way I can describe it is like feeling someone with your hands, inspecting, sticking your nose on them and even licking them all at the same time. Not probing exactly, but an invasion of space and violation of mutual respect. Maybe he remembered that and is no longer letting the curiosity drive his reaction. Or maybe he knows he won’t get anything out of me other than anger and distrust if he lords more power over me.

“Fine then, okay,” he offers in a slow, neutral tone, the one you use when you try to avoid a fight or talk down a crazy person, “Then tell me what is going on; it’s something serious.” For half a second, the graveness of his tone allows me to think maybe it’s something I should share. But I don’t. I can’t.

“...I mean, your focus is shot. I don’t know where your head is, and for me that is saying something.” He chuckles, letting the arrogance show.

At that, I continue to stare, but it’s a dull stare; the only form of defiance I can still manage. The sarcasm doesn’t help, I feel that point of anger again. But I’m dead on my feet, just . . . too tired, and the tiredness seems to have taken over my entire body. How long has it been since I’ve gotten a good night’s rest? I can’t even remember. . .

He says something else while I’m distracted thinking about that. I don’t make out the words, but I think it’s another demand for an explanation.

“No.” My voice is quiet. Very quiet.

“No? No. Okay then.” He throws up his hands with a touch of exasperation. “Is this because you really don’t believe there is a problem, which there clearly is (making you ignorant), or because you’re too prideful to know when you haven’t been able to handle whatever it is by yourself?” He’s trying to grab eye contact again but I don’t look.

“And seriously Hannah, speaking as someone who is intimately familiar with pride, it doesn’t suit you this way. It’s not working in your favor. I shouldn’t have pried, granted, but you shouldn’t try to lie to me. It’s even worse if you’re going to try to rationalize and lie to yourself... more than anything you’ve got to know your limits. Nosce te ipsum. Know Thyself.”

In different circumstances it might be funny; that it’s not the demands, not the scrutiny, not the sarcasm or even the use of my true name, but those two little words that finally make me snap and let six months of bottled up anger and self-loathing come spilling out. “Fine,” I snarl. “Here’s what I know: your sorry apprentice can’t get her act together. I’ve had these horrible nightmares ever since my Awakening, and they’re so vivid, so real. Realer than this almost,” I wave a hand at the ground and sky around us.

“That and my church, it’s like ripping a scab off over and over and over. . . pain, fear, obsession. The demons come back and whisper all kinds of shit in my ears, play with me like a toy, and there isn’t a goddamn thing I can do to stop them! I’m scared, exhausted beyond belief, and barely even functional anymore. I’m weak. Is that what you wanted to hear?! Are you happy now?!” I’m screaming at him by the end, though it takes me a second to realize it. It occurs to me that this is likely the most visibly furious he’s ever seen me, and feel a bright flush of shame at my complete lack of self-control, so unbecoming of a warlock. I know what my mentor says about mentally reprogramming yourself, slippery slope, etc, but if I had enough focus left in me to pull off another spell I might try to magic the feelings away anyway.

The whole time I am ranting my master is looking at me with his arms crossed, thoughtful.

Shaking with anger at myself, Casstiel, and this entire situation, I turn my back and start walking in the opposite direction, trying not to trip over my own dragging feet. I know how childish it is, but I don’t want to see any more of his reaction to my outburst.

He doesn’t say anything and I don’t wait. “You are not weak, Mastigos.” He calls at my back in a tone of utter candor.

I slow nearly to a stop but don’t turn around. I am about to resume walking, dismissing this attempt at grabbing my attention when he continues. “The fact is that you are allowing your subconscious to torment you. You still feel

you deserve to be scourged. Maybe you have survivor’s guilt, after a fashion. After all, there are parts of you that didn’t finish the journey alive.”

Allowing it?, I ask silently, and the anger spikes again, a single point of rage beating between my ears. You’re really saying that I want this? That I believe I deserve it?!

People say that sometimes, the truth hurts. They’re right.

“Do you remember how I told you that some days I wonder if that angler-demon is going to round a corner and tell me the joke is on me, that I never actually left Pandemonium and that any second, when my guard is down, the curtain will finally drop again? That didn’t change for a very, very long time. Also, when you spend enough time in the Astral you start to see it as the truer reality. Trust me. You are not the only one who has doubts and nightmares...”

“I . . . you too?” My voice comes out rough and uncertain; I don’t say anything else, not trusting it. The possibility had occurred to me, but I was never able to actually believe it before now. He would have dealt with it better than you, I told myself. He wouldn’t have let it get to him . . .

He would know, better than anyone. Almost instantly, the anger drains out and I’m shaking for an entirely different reason. I make myself to turn around and start trudging unsteadily back over to face him. Enough attempts at evading reality; I knew from the start that I couldn’t walk away from any of this.

No self-delusion. You could, and he might even prefer if you did. You just chose not to.

Same difference, really.

I’m too ashamed to walk up close after yelling at him like that, but I force myself to look at Casstiel despite how uneasy it makes me. I consider apologizing to him, consider making a transparent joke to hide my discomfort, consider giving up and saying nothing at all.

What ends up coming out of my mouth is: “Can you help me?”

With only a moment’s pause: “Yes.” His tone holds iron conviction. He closes the distance slowly but circles around behind me, stays at my back and lets me recover. When I finally turn around again I’ve managed to let go of my anguish, even though it still sits there somewhere back in my throat. I keep my face grim and stoic but its stillness no doubt gives away my inner

turmoil and a breath of relief. I wonder; what does it say about you when your poker face is a tip off to emotional distress?

After waiting for a bit he finally says, “Let’s go for a run across that ridge, I want to show you something. We can talk about your nightmares.” He heads back to his pack and tosses his gloves onto it. Then he takes off his coat and plops it down on top of it, covering it in a thick black curtain. Last he takes off his amulet and shoves it into his pocket.

I am not feeling any less fatigued simply because I’ve admitted my problem. If anything I am even more exhausted from the unfamiliar emotions bubbling up all at once; now all those brain chemicals are decaying, leaving me drained. I grimace but all I can offer is: “I’m really not built for running...”

Casstiel is completely unperturbed as he does a few preliminary stretches of his legs. Running in jeans and boots can’t be fun, despite the chill. The t-shirt he is wearing underneath sports a spiral eyed squid-monster with bat wings and some gibberish writing. “That is okay, I’m not either. In fact, I completely loathe running. That’s part of why I do it.”

I shake my head and try to think of an excuse that won’t sound like quibbling, despite my wavering consciousness. “I... might pass out,” I offer lamely.

Casstiel smiles knowingly, “No you won’t; push your limits a little. Come on. We can talk on the way.” He starts trudging off at a speed walk, waiting for me to lose my gear and follow. I curse under my breath. Jogging along all those rocks and hills in huge leather boots, how is that safe or fun?

He gains a few more yards as I urgently try to think of another, more convincing excuse and end up drawing a blank. “Jerk,” I mumble. But my mouth twitches into a small smile. I remove my trench coat, tossing it down unceremoniously next to Casstiel’s stuff. After a brief moment of hesitation, I strip off my boots and socks as well.

At a certain point in my early teens, I took to going barefoot everywhere that footwear was not explicitly socially required. I think it was my karate instructor’s influence. Naturally, we were all barefoot during class, but afterwards, everyone put their shoes and socks back on as they prepared to leave. Everyone except for him. We’d all walk out of the dojo, down the stairs, through the YMCA lobby, and outside to wait for our rides. The weather and season didn’t seem to affect him at all. It could be the middle of yet another hellish North Dakota winter, below zero, with freaking snow

covering the ground, and the man would just stand there chatting with us almost serenely, showing no signs of discomfort whatsoever. Not once did I see him wearing shoes.

Eventually, I began imitating. It started off small: barefoot treks around the house, the backyard, the bank next door. Slowly, I started branching out, testing my feet on bunches of prickly weeds, glass littered streets, gravel parking lots, hard concrete, trips across town and walks through the snow-covered backyard in frigid winter – not long enough to develop frostbite, but long enough to be both stupid and painfully cold. Whenever someone commented on that weird kid standing around in the middle of the winter with no shoes on, I beamed with pride. There was something fascinating to me about being barefoot when you shouldn’t be.

My parents grumbled and worried, but expected me to knock it off after the first few times I came home with cuts or shards of glass beer bottles embedded in my feet. I didn’t. The result is feet that are calloused like the pads on a dog’s paws and more resistant to cold weather than they should be.

I love my boots, but I love being shoeless even more. It’s been months since I indulged in that; after my Awakening, the boots admittedly became a kind of security blanket, and now I feel oddly uncomfortable not wearing them. Sure, they offer protection of a sort, hiding me from the notice of the assorted supernatural things that might want to do me harm, but they’re something more important than that. A physical reminder that, if I’m crazy, then at least I’m not the only crazy person around.

They’re also clunky, which is normally not a problem, but they and my sleep-deprived coordination are not exactly a winning combination right now. I take off at an unbalanced lope after Casstiel. On the best of days, I’m actually a decent runner despite my distaste for it. This is not the best of days. My legs feel like they’re made out of lead, my fatigued muscles ache in protest, my vision is blurring at the edges and it’s still an ongoing struggle not to just let my knees buckle and take a nap in the dirt. “ ‘Push your limits,’ ” I mutter to myself. “Been doing that all day, Cass.” He keeps jogging, picking up the pace and gaining ground without noticing my comment.

I may feel like utter crap physically, but my mood has actually started to lighten, most likely a result of having something to focus on and putting some physical distance between me and the site of my freak-out. I stubbornly keep going, settling into a lopsided rhythm and eventually,

miraculously end up jogging side by side with my mentor. Witness the power of willpower. Or maybe he just purposely slowed down to accommodate me. But probably willpower.

Casstiel glances back as I pull up beside him and quickly notes the lack of footwear. His eyes widen and looks comically aghast. “Okay. Now that... that is pretty hardcore. You win this round. Ha! Wow.” I smile that smug smile I give to the normies as snow crunches underfoot and he gives me a fierce grin and speeds up a little. He never pulls ahead for more than a few seconds, part his attempts to add difficulty and my refusal to let him. Talk quickly dissolves into heavy breathing.

Despite the exertion, I enjoy the companionable silence for little while. But my mind keeps turning back to the inevitable conversation we’re going to be having about my nightmares, and my mood begins to darken again. “Just ask,” I say abruptly, hoping that he knows what I’m talking about. “I’ll try to give you less of the teenage angst this time, promise.” I force a smile but it’s pained, so I drop it in favor of my poker face. At least it’s a slightly more honest form of dishonesty.

“It’s okay,” he replies, tilting his head in my direction but looking ahead,” I still remember 18 in a vague sort of way; I still have more angst than I should. High School did far too much to mold my persona despite time and success. Actually college is starting to fade now but where most people remember the fond bits with nostalgia, I still remember hating more than I thought possible. I was a little black raincloud and I didn’t have a reason to be yet. Pepsi Blue, that sort of says it all doesn’t, it?... all just Pepsi Blue.”

I am a little annoyed with the grandpa ‘in my day’ speeches and the implications that my refusal to bring up my trouble was somehow tied to maturity. But I can relate to hating high school. And he did let me out of talking about my nightmares for now. Despite bringing the subject up again myself, I’m relieved. I put on more speed and he cuts out of his reminiscing to pound those tan combat boots after me. My feet are feeling numb, and that is okay.

In fact, my entire body is feeling somehow desensitized. All that blood pumping and legs pounding away is focusing more and more of my attention and sensation on my legs, the cold air in my lungs, and my racing heart.

Casstiel is utterly mechanical, legs and body conditioned from nearly two decades of practiced military-style running. He never really looks tired and

even without spells he seems immutable. As the race drags into what I know is exactly 17, 424 feet from where we left our things and started, I have begun exceeding my second wind. Funny thing though, it seems like it is getting easier. We crest hilltops, dodge around rock formations and avoid some muddy spots or icy declines. Some part of me is definitely enjoying this.

“Let me let you in on a little secret your body should be now telling you that your mind does not know. Do you know what the difference between a person who can run a 5K and a person who can run a marathon?” He waits an appropriate rhetorical period of time and I offer no immediate answer. “Willpower. Running is willpower alone. You can always run as far as you want, it’s the pain its ability to sap the will of the runner that limits the first. But pain does not leech us does it?”

“No,” I manage between my controlled breathing, shaking my head.

“No. You already know that pain is a focus, something you can feed on. Something that can challenge the will and, like a whetstone, sharpen your mind to a knife edge.” He jogs around a massive rock sticking out of the ground like a house-sized sign post and heads back the direction we came, sticking to the ravine that ran parallel to a good portion of our trek.

“Agony is a pleasure for the masochist. I wanted to share this with you because this is one of my oblations. I use productive pain. Feel the burn, pain is weakness leaving the body and the wisdom of a million meat-headed gymrats. Cliché but True. Plus, as I am sure you are already aware, the chemicals released by your brain under exertion do wonders for stress relief. For me this is the zero place, a white noise of discomfort that is the carrier wave for the energies of the Iron Fist to travel to my soul. You have those tacks to do the same thing. But I prefer mine flavored with bodily training.”

Productive pain . . . I am silent for a few moments, processing it and keeping pace with him. Then I say suddenly: “Did I ever tell you about the revelation I had at my church? It came down to that too.”

“Pandemonium is like that,” he says. “It teaches the knowledge that every nerve cell knows from experience and the chains that bind association, symbolism, meaning, sympathy. That is how the nerves teach the heart and social and how pain begins to transcend physical discomfort and begin to pluck emotional hurts. Life is defined by pain, and I mean that in a while adjusted and not at all emo way.”

That was it. Pain and clarity. Only a shadow of the consuming, blinding clarity that came to me in that classroom, but cut from the same cloth. I continue, not self-pitying but in the tone of someone coming to a realization: “After that, I understood pain better. I stopped hating it . . . but hated myself even more. Because I could see even more clearly that I hadn’t been using it for its intended purpose. I wasn’t living up to what a Mastigos should be . . .” I stop for another intake of breath. It’s still deeply painful to talk about this, but laying my cards out on the table is strangely freeing. And given the nature of this conversation? The pain might mean that I’m on the right track.

It also explains a few things about my daimon. Frankly, I was too blinded by pain, self-blame and emotional thinking during and after my first trip to the Oneiros to actually analyze her effectively. But with the running, I’m focused purely on the forward movement, still functioning solely because of willpower, and detachment from all the suffering she caused is far easier. She’s a walking manifestation of my self-loathing, both sides of her; half what I fear I am and half what I fear I might become. The sadistic side is more than that though; it’s the part of me that even now is still obsessed with scourging, with purging myself of weakness. The deranged glee taken from my misery? The insane gauntlets she ran me through? Exercises in self-improvement taken to such an unforgiving extreme that they become horrifying. Occasionally I’ve thought of myself as my own worst enemy, but I never expected it to manifest so literally. I wonder if she would be so vicious if faced with someone other than me. I’m not interested on testing the idea.

I consider sharing this realization with Casstiel, but . . . nah. I’ve spilled enough personal secrets for one day. Have to make him work for it. I am once again aware that this is simply a flimsy rationalization to avoid going into detail with him about what my daimon put me through, and accept that fact. I push myself harder, straining even my reserves of willpower now. My breathing is getting ragged, starting to lose its sense of discipline; I don’t have half the running experience my mentor does. “Making pain useful – hell, enjoyable - instead of just endured . . . when did you learn how to do it? Sounds so easy when you say it . . . was it always like that for you?” I’m not entirely successful in masking the envy in my tone.

He smiles with a self-confident chuckle. “No, it was an epiphany for me soon after Awakening. I don’t know if I would go so far as to say enjoy, some part of me, the Xelloss part I guess...” He stops for a second, pausing to breath and think, as if he had never made this insight before. “For me, enduring something to accomplish a goal or to overcome an obstacle generates

satisfaction and focuses the pain somewhere. I work harder because I see the finish line. Succeeding builds confidence, shows your ever expanding limits, and creates satisfaction at the end for me. Overcoming sharpens.”

“Self-loathing is a path to perfection too.” He affirms between deep controlled breathing. “If you liked yourself you would let yourself become spoiled and eventually a slave to base desires whether of vice or virtue. I think self-deprecation keeps you humble and makes you work to improve yourself.” I don’t know, self-hatred as a means of self-improvement still sounds . . . incredibly unhealthy. However, there is also a large part of me that nods knowingly at his statement, in complete agreement; maybe I could use those feelings, chain them to my will instead of the other way around. Which makes me wonder, not for the first time, if we are both just perilously close to insanity. If in actuality, the trials of the Iron Gauntlet broke us and we’re now trying to justify it under a veneer of further “scourging” and some warped form of Stockholm Syndrome. For all I know, that could be the sad truth of the matter. Or perhaps not . . .

Doubt. What would I do without it?

“I think a Mastigos should be an impartial judge of her emotions and wants, choosing when to exercise them and feed off the internal response. I should clarify something. I’ve told you a lot about being one on the path of scourging and what I think a Mastigos should be but there no books on how we should be. We aren’t a philosophical ideal or club, anyone could suddenly find themselves through tribulation, despair and triumph at the foot of the Iron Gauntlet. Our insights are unique but over time they skew us. You will find Warlocks so alien in thought that they hardly seem a denizen of the planet or others so human they are almost a parody.”

I nod, mulling it over. It is true that I have an idealized image of what a warlock is, and quite possibly an unreasonable one. Then again, I haven’t exactly met very many other Mastigos. For some reason, his description of them just leaves me curious instead of disturbed.

In contrast to mine, his breathing seems even more steady now, easy for him to talk and run as our pace slows to a more comfortable jog and the topic shifts. “Now I wonder, my aspiring spatiomancer, how we might somehow get to our destination faster without vulgar magic or stopping our run?”

I pause long enough to ensure that this isn’t a rhetorical question. “Some covert application of space, apparently. I don’t know. But I bet you’re going to tell me.”He shakes his head, “No. You are going to tell me. You are going to improvise the spell that will accomplish it. What practice, which you already know, is needed? How will it work? Think about it.”

I make a face. Should’ve predicted that he wouldn’t let me get away with a glib non-answer, even in my exhausted state of mind. And really, why should he? I take another sharp inhale and say, “Okay then. My guess is Space, Practice of Ruling. Sort of like with the bullets earlier; something that bends the space ahead of the runner ever so slightly, makes the immediate distance a little shorter than it appears. Small effect, subtle enough to be seem plausible to sleepers, but it adds up and ends up shaving some time off the run.”

Casstiel turns his head, sweat beading down his forehead and gives me another fierce grin. “Exactly right. I haven’t seen many mages that actually know how to do that but I figured it out. What kind of mentor would I be if I didn’t teach you some of my personal Rotes. Last spell today I promise. Do it. Shorten our road. Improvise. Doing it while running should be interesting for you.”

He’s right: running flat out and trying to focus an imago is really hard. I have to slow a little to control my breathing again and let the burning muscles ease ever so slightly. Casstiel pulls ahead and starts gaining ground. The idea of trying to cast a spell is still unfathomable right now. Man, I’m going to crash so hard after this training session is over. I’ve pretty much reached the limit of what I can accomplish physically today and I’m rapidly approaching that point mentally. Willpower, just need a little more willpower. I bring myself a point of perfect calm, focus and –

I trip over my feet and fall flat on my face. Ow. Yeah, physical limit was definitely passed a while back. I don’t wait to see if Cass has noticed, instead jumping back up to my feet, ignoring my aching limbs and the pain of freshly scraped knees and elbows, and push myself into a jog again. Use the pain. You can pull this off.

My legs burn, my body screams, and a satisfied, almost smug smile creeps onto my face. I feel like hell, and it’s the best I’ve been all day. Just this one more thing. One more thing, and I can rest. I focus my will again, fixing not on the constantly moving point of reference that is the ground below my feet

right now, but the distance between strides. One final thing; I imagine the space withdrawing into itself, ever so slightly. I change it.

Cass pretends not to notice until I catch up, which is surprising. He turns his head and watches as my bare feet eat up much more ground than my straining effort is accounting for. Between controlled breathing he finishes surveying my spell. “Not bad, not bad. It could definably come in handy if you need to get away when you don’t have the skill to portal and are not in a good spot to deal with a Vulgar spell. It is very subtle, and I have gained a very healthy respect with anything that can be accomplished with magic without causing any attention.”

He casts a similar spell and matches me again, he is no longer breathing hard. So simple yet effective; yeah, I have to agree that this little cantrip could really make life easier. “Keep practicing that one, sometimes running is the only card you are dealt.” Well, isn’t that a pleasant thought . . . I can’t help but think that say, outright teleportation would be a tad more effective. And more stylish. But hey, I’m not complaining about being able to run really really fast away from danger.

We come back upon our things discarded on the ground and Casstiel picks his pack back up and pulls out some Fuji bottles. He tosses one to me and I begin gulping down the cool water. “Small sips, sheesh.” He shakes his head but I ignore him.

He sits back down on his rock, heat steaming off his head and carried away with the wind. I repress the urge to want to dump the water over my head after that long run. It would feel great for a few seconds before the bite of the wind would take that away. Hypothermia won’t do. I slip my coat and boots back on – feeling a twinge of relief as I do - and take a seat as well.

“Okay grasshopper, you have come to the right magus. Do you know what lucid dreaming is? Not a magical thing, everybody has a lucid dream now and then.”

“I was under the impression that it’s when the dreamer becomes aware that they are dreaming. A real life version of breaking the fourth wall; the characters acknowledging the illusion of reality that is their story.” I smile faintly. The idea seems to amuse me. “Hmmm. Sounds like a small-scale Awakening, almost.”

“Right. Lucid dreams are dreams that tend to be very strong or vivid and at some point the dreamer realizes they are dreaming and usually the dream

dissolves quickly afterwards. They linger a lot longer in memory after waking, have a psychological effect on a person. And if they realize they are dreaming they can begin to channel that dream and take control of it. Just a little bit of directed will can reshape the dream into anything you want. Your will shapes these constructs dredged up from the deep subconscious, many tailor-made by your Daimon. You met Dario and Xelloss; have you met yours yet?”

I am silent for a long moment, then reply stiffly, “Yes. Very recently in fact. Her name is Grace. She has . . . odd ideas about what the word fun means. Sort of like Xelloss in that regard, I suppose.” I don’t elaborate.

“Interesting. Grace. Yeah you will learn a lot about yourself from her...” He says.

“Anyway. It’s kind of a metaphor. Sleepers in the fallen world don’t know they are asleep. We as mages still live in this broken dream world but we know it’s a dream and therefore we can exert our will to change it in limited ways. If this place was entirely your dream you would be God, whether you realized it or not. Full control.”

“Well you see... the same aspect of Awakening that allows us to cross the Astral threshold and journey inwards to the infinite worlds unknowable and go further down the supernal road to the very edge of our reality to where it meets the Abyss and beyond the Supernal, also allows us to experience normal dreams completely differently. The fog of sleep and wakefulness doesn’t hold us like the Quiescence holds sleepers. Get it?” He holds a hand palm up in my direction as if tossing the answer.

“You have been having lucid dreams. All your dreams will be this sharp and clear from here on. Some dreams will be weak things still, like tissue paper sets that crumple with little effort. Other will be terrible. But you won’t have to fear them because you are always in control and it’s easier for mages to know they are in control.”

He chuckles and look upwards as if someone up there was playing a joke. “I swear I feel like I just had this conversation with Indra. She did a long period of training from a Guardian and it left some pretty bad emotional scarring. She was having horrible nightmares and, against her nature, tried to bottle it up just like you have been doing. Once I forced her to tell me I gave her a similar speech.”

He beams. “So hey! Look at that. Indra was a Proximi for many years before she Awakened and is a Triple Master now. She just figured this out. So you are way ahead of the curve on that, and I would expect nothing less from you. Being a warlock with access to Neuromancy gives an edge on figuring these things out. Neuromancy is the rational twin to Oneriomancy (just like a mage and his daimon) After her I had to go through and make sure all my cabalmates knew they were able to control their dreams this whole time. Some of them kinda had figured it out already.”

My head is buzzing. I was still listening and I know it’s important, but everything after “always in control” came out a little blurred, dulled in significance to my sleep-deprived brain right now. I haven’t felt in control of my life for a while, and the truth is: it terrifies me.

But I can control those nightmares. This has to be the best news I’ve had in months. Maybe ever. “You’re right. “When it happens I am aware that I’m in a dream, though it’s never seemed to matter. Sometimes it gives me a degree of detachment from the situation, but in other ways that makes it almost worse; to know what’s going to happen but be unable to alter it. To repeat the metaphor: I am aware that I’m a character in a story, but I have no power to change the narrative. Only. . . I do, don’t I?” I say excitedly. “How though? Is knowing that I can enough, or is there more to it?”

My mentor shrugs. “Some people are better at it than others but you have an edge. Ever heard of the Sensorum Arcana? It’s the study of how learning every arcanum grants you access to the sympathetic connection with that flavor of magic and an innate sense. Through your Watchtower to the others. Even an initiate of Neuromancy will be able to tell when something is making contact with her mind (if it’s not veiled somehow) and mount inner defenses. You don’t need a shielding spell to resist psychic compulsion. You already displayed that ability before our run without even realizing it.”

He continues, clearly enjoying the topic. “The Sensorum Arcana are one of the things that make mages just a little bit more than normal people. Most magus make the mistake of thinking that without any spells or ability to cast magic they are no better than a sleeper. That just isn’t true. A mage’s will is always strong and with they always can sense supernatural things about their environment. They just can’t know or unveil anything so you just get bizarre sensations you can’t pinpoint or investigate. But the Sensorum gives you a little more, an innate understanding of an Arcanum interacting in the world around you without a spell. Does that make sense?”

I nod. “You made me read up on this, a bit. Does mastering an Arcanum offer more benefits than say, just understanding a little about a bunch of them? I guess I’m asking if these perceptions become more comprehensive as you advance in the Arcana. You’re always talking about how knowledge about your environment and truly knowing what it is that you’re perceiving is one of the most valuable things you can have.”

He nods. “It does, just not technically. Technically speaking the spell for Knowing and Unveiling an Arcanum is always going to be pretty much the same. And with these mage sights up you will be able to scrutinize resonance and also understand natural phenomena fairly comprehensively as knowledge and sensory input blend into you. However, understanding how a complex construct or distortion (let’s say something like the contrails of a teleportation spell) is very difficult unless you understand how you could use your practices to create something similar. If I opened a portal for you now, your mage sights (once again this is different from the Sensorum that always stick with you) you would see Sympathy and that I have tunneled two locations together but you won’t be able to understand the complexities of how it works, how you can tear it down with your own Spatiomancy efficiently, and how you could make one of your own or exploit what was left behind.”

“You get all the sensory input and it gets translated by the brain but it is not a waste of time to advance an Arcanum even from a strictly sight-driven approach because you can better interpret phenomena mechanically. You would be stumped by my World’s Collide spell or my spell to create a pocket dimension but you would mostly understand a spell that makes my pockets hold way more volume then they should. Does that make sense?” I nod in affirmation.

“Back to the Sensorium, you’ve already learned about a Spatiomancer’s innate ability to track their relative position and know how far they have traveled and can backtrack. How far did we run? And you can sense distortions and changes in space around you, once again not pinpoint but you can feel it in your stomach when something is changing.”

I calculate the distance mentally; actually calculate is the wrong word, it implies that conscious focus was required when in actuality, the answer seems to pop right into my head. “We ran 25,633 feet. 8,544.33 yards. 4.85 miles. Whoa. I’ve noticed the same thing with Time; I have a near perfect internal clock now. I have to admit, it is pretty cool. Useful too.”

My master smiles enthusiastically. “Yes, that one definitely comes in handy whenever you are in a Fairy Glade, going Astral where time slows or becomes subjective, and timeless places around the world. There are plenty of stories where those latter two have caused death. If your body dies while you are in the Astral your thinking self gets trapped there forever so you can see it would be good to know how long you have been under so you don’t accidentally miss a deadline or starve to death.” He sounds so casual about this last part, trying to make light of it but it makes me feel a touch claustrophobic... it never fully occurred to me how vulnerable my body was while I was meditating myself into the worlds beyond.

“A few more of the innate augmentations to the third eye, a Primist, an initiate can train himself to better sense the spells he is actively maintaining and if someone is tampering with their spells. Now all mages can do that, but Primists can do it better and have a better sense of changing resonance.”

“Anyway, that should help. Taking over your dream should be a lot like casting a spell. It always seemed intuitive to me but it might be harder. If you still can’t wrest control then maybe you need some dream training. You can set an alarm or a mask with lights in it. You calculate when you will most likely be in REM sleep or set a spell to go off. When it does the sounds or lights need to be subtle so they don’t wake you up. Ever seen Inception? The lights and sounds alert you that you are asleep and hopefully you have the lucidity (as a mage and Mind mage you should) to take control. It could take awhile. Mis-timing, configured too bright or two loud, too surprised. It takes practice but with the way you took to Astral travel I doubt it will take that much work to get it figured out.”

“That’s it?” I ask, almost giddy. “No super-secret mage technique? I don’t have to sacrifice a virgin or a hundred puppies?” I laugh, then struggle to look appropriately serious and chagrined. “Sorry. It’s just so stupid on my part; six months of experiencing lucid dreaming and it never even occurred to me to try taking control of my nightmares like that. They conditioned me – no, I conditioned myself to accept powerlessness when I wasn’t powerless. I agonized over this so much, when all it comes down to is practice, plus maybe sounds and lights. I . . . wow.” I can’t help it; I start laughing again. He chuckles warmly as well.

After a moment, I get a grip on myself again, smiling self-consciously. “So, anyway. I think I can do that. Halfway there already; I know that I’m in a

dream, I just have to retain the awareness that I can actually do something about it.” I keep wearing that smile like a mask, but underneath feel a deep stab of guilt: for questioning his trustworthiness when he’s ended up helping me yet again. I owe him. He doesn’t deserve this doubt, not based on the way he’s treated me so far. Why then, was I feeling it? Am I really getting to the point where I automatically distrust everyone and everything? “Thanks boss. I appreciate this, a lot. Good talk too. There anything else I need to know about lucid dreaming? Once I get the hang of it, I can pretty much make my dreams whatever I want them to be, right?”

“Yep. They won’t be as refined as the Oneroian scenes crafted by your daimon in true Astral space but you can do a lot with a sandbox like that. I tried to teach John and a few of the others some Arcana by meeting them up in their dreams and giving them lessons that only the subconscious fully remembered but it didn’t stick nearly as well as when we met up in the Astral.”

“And it’s not stupid,” he says gently. I shuffle and look down at my boots, but listen. “Like I said I had more than a few of my best friends clueless on this until around a year ago and they were double masters at least. Nightmares are a psychological attack, well more of a stress test, and they are made to make you feel scared and helpless. The only reason I figured this out before I got there in my studies is because I experimented on my own mind a fair bit. That and when I get backed into a corner in dreams I tend to suddenly become very angry and it drowns out the fear. When I lash out at my nightmares, taking that first step, the dream begins to pattern off of what I ‘know’ and ‘fully believe’ is going to happen in my favor. It will take time, but I am not sorry that I don’t have a quicker solution. People need to face their inner demons alone unless they interfere with our work. Dario was a special case, if I helped everyone conquer their nightmares they wouldn’t truly be conquered would they?”

I shake my head. “It’s enough.” If he did try to swoop down and solve this entire problem, I would probably just go into another fit of stubbornness anyway.

Casstiel scratches the stubble under his chin. “I guess the only other thing is keep an eye out for any dream that feels foreign or alien and tell me right away so we can get you checked out. There are (of course) things that can attack a person in their dreams, Acamoth and creatures made by one from what we have learned. Kairos has his Exarcal visitors, Nergal has visits from

an Acamoth, Indra is still dealing with the stress of her slayer training and I don’t want any more dream problems if at all possible.” He winks playfully. I snort. Though really, I shouldn’t find any of those things even slightly amusing; he’s too good at playing this sort of thing off as a joke. The gnawing paranoia will set in later, I’m sure. “Wait, so how do you deal with dream attackers? Can you can do something about them from inside the dream, since mages do have a high degree of control of their own?”

He nods. “Yep. Now you are hitting on the nuances of dream combat, a big component of Oneiromancy. Realizing you are in your own headspace is definitely going to give you the home field advantage but it can quickly become a contest of wit and will, much like the Arcane Duello. Mind magic will assist you in dealing with a threat or helping you shape your environment into attacks and defenses but in the end it has everything to do with sustaining psychological attack while keeping your cool and exerting precise will. Altering dreams is in many ways like the imagos of Mind magic. Sounds like I know what I will need to add to my list of things you need to get some training in. Does this mean you are thinking of shifting your focus to Neuromancy over Space magic?”

I nod. “I’ll be honest, I only went with Space initially because I was enamored with portals at the time. Which was silly, really. First flashy magic I ever saw though. It left an impression.” My smile turns more genuine as I think back on Christmas in Beulah, the first few days after my Awakening, when I learned that I was a mage and everything changed. Wouldn’t have expected that to be a nostalgic memory but . . . there were a few moments there where I thought the problems were over. I actually believed him when he said everything would be okay, like that was the end of it. That was the silly part; no test truly worth the name ends. “Yes, I think you’ve just got yourself a convert to Neuromancy.”

He gathers back up his things, puts his coat back on and sighs. The beaded sweat on his forehead has cooled to a stand-still and he looks refreshed. Lucky. I’m going to have to hit a shower if I don’t pass out in the bathroom first.

He snaps his fingers, “Ah, almost forgot!” He digs around his coat pockets for a few seconds. “Here!” He declares as he tosses two small objects underhand to me. I have to crouch a little but I manage to catch both. One is what looks like half a plastic mason jar full of small blue beads. The other parcel appears to be a pistol... but it is too lightweight. It’s a rubber BB gun.

I eye him dubiously. “Uh, thanks? Is this another sentimental thing?” There must be some reason for this. Another training exercise maybe. But he said that spells were over for today. Wait. Surely he isn’t giving this to me in place of an actual weapon . . .

Yeah. He is.

“Cass. Granted, my shooting earlier was awful, but don’t you think my ego has taken enough of a beating for one day?” I ask a little too evenly.

He raises an eyebrow, a pretty good deadpan if he is messing with me. “A practical thing, retails cheap at Walmart. Easier to get through airport security without taxing yourself with Apportations. You can work on your marksmanship with a light subsonic projectile easier than your Browning HP. Just be careful what you point at with that thing, it’s not a toy...” Then his deadpan dissolves into a smirk. “Don’t shoot your eye out.”

He chuckles and I glare, pivoting the pea-shooter around in my hand to look at it. “This cost you less than twenty bucks, didn’t it?” I ask accusingly.

He waves a gloved hand dismissively showing that he is only going for partial seriousness with his mocking. “You still have your gun now if you need it, but I think you will find that the air pistol has much more utility and is much more inconspicuous. Azazel is going with you too upon your word that you will take him to libraries and used book stores. Other than that, have fun and don’t make waves... or even ripples for that matter.” I attempt to continue to look unamused, but fail at the news that the mini dragon familiar will be coming along. What can I say? I like his company.

I give the BB gun another once over, still skeptical. If he just wanted me to have an easier time practice shooting, why not give this to work with before trusting me with an actual gun? Sure, it’s more inconspicuous, but I doubt it would so much as leave a dent in any big scary monsters I might run into. Odd.

He rises again dusting off his coat. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Yeah. I think so.” I stand up; my vision blurs and my knees almost buckle. The trace reserve of willpower I’ve been running on seems to have finally come to an end. Pretty soon I’m going to be catching some rest, regardless of my intent, location or circumstances. “Preferably before coherent thought is no longer possible.”

My world view tilts again and I am about to go ass over tea kettle when there is a flash of blinding light and I tumble onto a couch. The air is burning warm and the soft couch is good enough that I just lie there for a minute. Very abrupt, pretty smooth portaling though. I slowly roll onto my back, keeping my muddy boots off the material and pulling my coat askew so that I can see my master.

Casstiel smiles and starts heading down the starts, his matching boots thumping down the hardwood stairs. “I’m making coffee padawan, power nap then you can get cleaned up before you head back,” he calls back over his shoulder as he descends. I smile. My cousin is okay sometimes.

I kick off my boots and sink into blissful darkness. No dreams and no nightmares, thank god. Maybe I’ve decided that after the events of the day, I don’t need the scourging right now. It seems like barely a minute has gone by when he is back trying to hand me a cup. I am not a coffee drinker but at this point I don’t feel like arguing and he has put enough flavor, creamer, and sugar to make it taste more like vanilla cocoa. Plus, the drink is warm in my hands and after the extended time outdoors it feels heavenly. Anything but that god-awful rotten Pepsi Blue stuff. After that, the hot shower is pretty damn amazing too. Germany might actually make me miss this place at some point.

A new test. A change of scenery. Yeah... I’m up for it.

-To be Continued…

Experience Rewards:

Chimera – 16XP 13AP 2CP

Casstiel - 8XP 7AP 1CP

Hannah Nyland is a Computer Science student in her first year at North Dakota State University. She graduated from High School in 2014 and placed second in the Ayn Rand essay contest for The Fountainhead in 2013. Her hobbies include reading, martial arts, writing fiction, gaming, playing Mage the Awakening and plotting to take over the world with an army of corgis.

Jerad Sayler is a Cyber Operations Officer in the US Air Force of six years. He University of North Dakota with a Bachelor's Degree in Computer Science in 2009 and received his MBA in 2014. He has been Storytelling World of Darkness games since 2005 and has be running his current Chronicle of Mage: The Awakening since 2010. He enjoys creative writing involving role playing and game mechanics.