Change in Weather

The Past

"The mysterious amnestic zones are littered throughout the central continent of Sepshia. Not much is known about them. One certainty is they appeared the day after the four great powers of the world vanished along with demonic Arachs." -excerpt from Trechior's History, Volume I

Wick dreamed. He couldn't remember any of what he dreamed except for the vague image of a square demon with a mouthful of swallowed nightmares. Or was it a round demon?

It didn't matter.

He had stopped dreaming, but he wasn't awake. His chest tightened as he was pulled from the dark tunnel of his dream into an endlessly blank white space most people referred to as the Choosing Room. When he was younger, he heard other Sprawlers muse that it was the holding place for the soul.

To Wick, it was the only place where he could change his skills. He willed open his skill screen.

Skill Slots: 1 - 0 - 0

Skills Equipped: Cut (1)

Skills Unequipped: 1

Like everybody else in the world, he was limited to three skill slots. Wick had gathered enough manna, and therefore Source Points, to unlock his first skill slot. Most people who weren't Sprawlers didn’t have enough SP to unlock their first skill slot until their mid-twenties.

There were exceptions, especially where money and politics were involved, but the rule tended to be the same. This was because most places had a very low manna density, even cities like Glimmerrest. It didn't matter if you had a high absorption rate if the manna density was zilch.

But Wick had practically grown up in dungeons, attending mining excavations, digging journeys, and sometimes even monster hunts since the age of five. The Sprawler's Guild had a nursery that could house a member's kid until they were five years old. After that, it was up to the parents to find daycare.

Wick's dad hadn't been able to afford daycare on his measly income. Instead, he slung baby Wick on his back to tag along on missions. Because of this, his father had taken huge paycuts by only exploring the safest and highest-level dungeons, where even the sunlight trickled against the walls.

To most people, this would have been considered terrible parenting. Wick's dad got a ton of flak for it, but what was a broke, single guy to do?

Wick was thankful every day of his life for his father bringing him along to every single mission. With the manna density of the dungeons, he had been able to absorb enough manna to unlock his first skill slot by the time he was seven. That was two decades ahead of what normal people were able to do.

His dad had bought him his first skill six months later, bragging to every other Sprawler about his miracle baby. Sure, Wick wasn't the only kid who was exposed to Sprawler life at a young age, but he was pretty sure he was the youngest.

Pride swelled in Wick's chest at the thought of his father. He let out a breath, his sigh eaten up by the vast white space.

He said, "Unequip Cut." His screen updated.

Skill Slots: 1 - 0 - 0

Skills Equipped: 0

Skills Unequipped: 2

Cut had been his dad's skill. It made sense that he had it when he was alive. While Wick had been what the guild members referred to as a Spade, someone who dug dirt and checked for traps, his dad had been a Pick.

Picks used Guild-issued pickaxes to mine ore and crystals, scouting ahead for signs of danger. Sometimes they used them to fight off monsters. But monsters rarely traveled upward to the higher levels of the Sprawl.

Wick had seen his dad use Cut several times to slice off a difficult array of crystals. He had never once seen him use it to harm another living being. When his dad used the skill, his manna never leaked, summoning only a perfectly blue arc of a magical blade and nothing else.

The last time Wick had tried using Cut, a blue, curved blade shot out, but so did a flood of unwanted sparks. His manna had leaked everywhere. The skill was only supposed to cost twenty SP. By the time he cut his energy flow off from the skill, he had eaten up forty-two SP.

It would take a couple more decades, but he'd finally be able to get that manna leak down to zero. Active skills like that took a lot of practice to get a hold of. He didn't need Cut right now. That was a Pick's skill, one that demanded aggression and forward momentum. What he needed was his own skill, a Spade's. He needed finesse.

He spoke into the white void, "Equip Forage."

Skill Slots: 1 - 0 - 0

Skills Equipped: Forage (1)

Skills Unequipped: 1

Forage was his first skill. It was only level one, but he had used it relentlessly in every dungeon, whenever he could.

Wick stared at his skill with satisfaction. He treasured the skill as much as he treasured his spade, and not just because his dad had bought both for him.

When Wick was given the skill, it had been a nervous affair. His dad had saved their already-meager earnings for it. Not all skills were suited for everyone. It was common for people to buy skills only to find out they couldn't equip it. When they tried to sell it back to the skillmonger, they would usually only get a quarter of what they paid for it. If they were lucky, they'd find somebody else to sell it to for half the price. But that was difficult if they didn't have an official license with the SAV, or the Skillmonger Affiliation of Vandia.

So when Wick had fallen asleep to equip the first time, he wasn't surprised he had woken up to the sight of his nervous wreck of a dad biting his nails in anticipation. Wick had been able to equip Forage, and they celebrated by signing up for a dungeon.

"Big things," his father pondered fondly. "You're going to do big things with Forage."

Wick had too much respect for him to point out that Forage was a common skill among Sprawlers. But he treated it with the same awe as if it could read people's futures or called down lightning.

With the skill equipped, it was time to wake up. He'd go to the edge of Grey Forest and call on the skill. Wick had gotten the manna leak down to plus seven, and the skill would last a full half-hour. A ten-year-old who could use a skill with only plus seven manna leak? That had to be a guild record.

He spoke one last time into the void. "Wake up."

--

Wick pushed aside the dirt he had covered the hole with using his spade. He padded the dirt off of him when he got out and took in the sight of the night stars. In front of him stood the eerie Grey Mountain, and at its feet, the inventively named Grey Forest.

With the sun down, most of the breeze came from the ocean, which the city of Outlast stood on the edge of. The breeze carried with it the scent of salt and a thickness to the air that told Wick a rain would be coming in from the south, where the Sinkline lay.

He scanned the fields close to the city walls and found figures moving on top, guards manning its defenses against an enemy that would never come. Who would want to invade a place like Outlast?

His screens told him his Source Points, his SP, was up to fifty-six. With the proximity of the forest and the amount of hours he napped, that made sense. Forage only cost five SP, but with his manna leak of plus seven, it was going to be a solid twelve.

Thankfully, his skill didn't need an action to use it since it was a simple sight skill.

Wick pulled inside himself and summoned his power, careful to let it flow through his veins from every corner of his body and into his eyes. The darkness stayed the same, but several lights glowed a faint blue across the field near the treeline.

He walked closer to the closest light, and a blue screen opened next to the glowing flower.

Antillia Red: alchemical ingredient

Beneath the general description were a few more details. If Wick had known more about alchemy and other uses for the flower, the list of descriptions would have been longer. What he valued instead was the screen's description with the best way to forage the plant without harming it.

Alchemists were a meticulous lot, at least the good ones were anyway. Wick only tried to sell to the good ones. They paid in square pennies, not food.

Wick reached the back of his spade to circle around the flower's northeastern-most point to begin loosening it. Magical flowers were all finicky like that, each liking their own special way to be harvested. Wooed was probably the better term.

Before he pushed down with his spade, Wick caught dark blobs blocking the lights in his vision. They were getting bigger.

No, not bigger, Wick realized with dread. Closer.

He hated to waste the SP, but he canceled Forage. Wick needed his wits about him if his fears were to prove him right, and he was always right about these things. His grip flexed tightly around his spade, both hands on the wood and bone-end pointing toward the shadows like a pike.

He couldn't see in the dark. Forage only highlighted herbs. But the light of the stars told him enough. The dark silhouette in front of him loomed closer then stopped. He recognized its shape.

A girl's voice rang out of the shadows. "He was right about you. Said you'd be here. Who in the Crawl would be crazy enough to live out this close to Grey Forest?"

Wick's stomach twisted into knots. All he thought about was his hoard. He had covered the hole, but he realized he kept his pennies on him. Maybe after they beat him up, they wouldn't be able to figure out how the hidden pockets worked.

Best not let it get to that, Wick cautioned himself. He smoothed out his fear and replaced it with his disgust for letting himself get cornered like this. How could they see so clearly in the dark? Was it because of her mixed Mar blood? He said evenly, "Pebbles."

A silence filled the air before she said, "Calm, aren't you? You're surrounded."

He believed her. How did they find him? He was sure he had lost their tails.

From the shadows rustling around him, Wick counted more than the four others in Pebbles' group. What was that, ten, twelve kids?

If he had Cut equipped, he might have been able to use it to injure one of them. That would scare most if not all of them off. Forage wouldn't do a thing except remind him how pretty the flowers were before they painted his face red with his own blood.

Why now? He was so close, only a few iron pennies away.

"You're here to get revenge," Wick said plainly.

He could feel the shadows getting closer. On instinct, he swept his spade in a wide, low arc behind him. The edge of the blade dug into something soft and thick before he pulled it in.

A boy cried out in alarm behind him, causing others to shout as well.

"Morgoth's unholy balls!" screamed one. "He cut Trip's arm! He's bleeding out, Pebbs!"

Pebbles snapped a command, her voice sharp and certain. "Take off your shirt and tie it over the wound. We'll get him to Thin Deggen to patch him up. We'll deal with it after we teach this boy a lesson. No one steals from us orphans."

Despite the terrifying situation, Wick found his mouth spouting off words faster than he could rein them in. "You guys steal from each other all the time. And I'm an orphan, too."

Another silent pause. Pebbles growled, "What?"

Wick sensed an opening. "I'm just saying what you're saying doesn't make sense. That's all. Besides, I didn't steal from you. I stopped you stealing from someone else."

He was about to remind them about how the nice young sailor rewarded his efforts with a couple heavy iron pennies, but Wick told himself that was what idiots did. Wick was not an idiot, and he certainly wasn't going to play at being one at the moment.

No one said anything, so he pressed. "And Thin Deggen? You're talking about the alchemist on Lowell Avenue? That guy couldn't tell the difference between an herb and a spice. You think he's got the skills to patch poor....uhhh...Trip was it? Yeah. You think he can fix Trip without making the bleeding worse?"

Some of the shadows that had been walking toward him began to still. Wick couldn't tell if that was a good thing, but it didn't feel so bad.

Pebbles spoke again. Her voice was calmer, angry in a cold way, and it chilled Wick's spine. "You have iron pennies. We all saw it. Once we take you down, we'll take the pennies. I'd ask you to do it the easy way and give us the pennies without a fight, but you don't seem to be the type to back down."

Perceptive, Wick thought. He also had a feeling that Pebbles didn't want Wick to back down, that she wanted him to resist as much as he could so she could justify beating the ever-loving soul out of him.

It would be painful. Pain was something he could deal with. But the loss of the money he had toiled so hard to earn? It wasn't even about the effort. It wasn't theirs. It was his, and Wick did not give up what was his.

After they beat him up, he would still have the food from his hoard, but not the pennies if they managed to find them. Then his chance to take the wormhole and leave this place behind forever would be just a dream in the wind.

"If you fight me, I'll fight back with my spade. I'll cut deeper than I did with your boy Trip," Wick said with not much certainty in his voice. He didn't despise the kids, exactly. He understood their desperation.

But if he had to fight all of these hungry, desperate kids, he wouldn't do it halfway. He didn't want to, but Wick would kill to survive. His dad had never taught him to fight people. Wick was a Sprawler. Even the shallow cut he had given to the kid named Trip filled him with a little guilt.

It wasn't because he hurt someone, but because the spade wasn't a weapon. It was a tool to build his future, and not to be used for something so desperate and savage as violence. But if he had to fight, he would do it, and do it to the death. Probably his death, most likely.

Wick had wanted to leave Outlast with all his heart. He couldn't imagine being born there, knowing there was no other option. That was a kind of desperation they had been born into, and one he didn't want to experience himself. Right now, it was just talk. Maybe he could talk his way out.

Pebbles said, "You wanna fight with your long shovel? Sure. You could. But we'll take you down eventually."

He wanted to threaten them more, to say that he would be willing to kill them just to stay alive. But a question rose in his head. He asked, "Who were you talking about earlier? You implied that someone knew where I was and told you."

"Don't use fancy words," Pebbles growled.

Oh, right. Wick forgot who he was talking to there for a second. She probably didn't know what 'imply' meant. He asked, "Who told you I was here?"

Pebbles hummed, as if weighing her options. Her dark silhouette shrugged. "Lanton. The mayor's son. He said we need to watch out for our own, to keep outsiders like you from getting into Outlast."

The mayor's son? Wick didn't know a thing about him, not his age, his looks, or anything else for that matter. "What does he have against me? And how did he know I was here?"

Pebbles laughed at Wick like he was an idiot. "Lanton is the mayor's son. Didn't you hear me? That means he knows the guards. The guards see you walk through this gate every day. Some of them kept an eye on you. Once we told him what happened, he told us where you were."

This whole situation made no sense to Wick. Here was this Lanton, the mayor's son, giving all this thought and effort into weeding out Wick, like Wick had broken his heart or something. But Wick hadn't even given the guy a stray thought in his direction. He hadn't even met him.

"Why would the mayor's son help you lot?" Wick asked, genuinely curious.

Anger filled Pebbles' voice. "You think he won't hang around us because we live in the streets, is it? Well, I'll color you wrong, outsider. Lanton might be rich, but he treats us like he's no better. Shares his own plate with us whenever he can without getting whippings from his dad."

"Sounds like a real saint," Wick snorted. "If he cares so much about you, why aren't you living with him in his big fancy mayor house? Why did he send you out here to take on a kid with a very sharp and long shovel? Why isn't he here himself?"

"I...uhh," Pebbles stammered until her rage took over and she yelled, "Beat him up!"

There's your answer, Dad, Wick thought to himself. The trouble finds me, but after that, I find the trouble.

Wick was tackled to the ground from behind before he could even make another swipe with his spade. He felt a little ridiculous at even feeling guilty about killing to survive. He hadn't even been able to lift his spade a second time before they pinned him hard and flat.

After that, the sky rained down a storm of fists. Then the tornado of kicks came in.

All in all, Wick wasn't in love with the change in weather.

He had blacked out a few times during the beatings, but not enough for a full sleep to change his skills. How long had Wick endured it? He couldn't tell. By the time they were done rifling through his pockets on his leather jacket, Wick could barely see through the fat welts that covered his eyes.

Everything hurt in a way he never could have imagined. His ears worked fine, and he found a grim satisfaction hearing Pebbles' frustration in not being able to find his coins, despite taking off his jacket and checking every pocket.

The leather jacket had a few hidden pockets with nearly invisible seams which only the owner and experienced thieves knew what to look for.

Pebbles' frustration earned him a few more kicks, but it was worth it. What was a few more cracked ribs on top of a pile of lacerations and bruises?

He felt sleep coming to take him, with or without his consent. Wick didn't mind it. He needed something to take the pain away, and sleep was his best option.

But before he fell asleep, he felt his body picked up by several hands. The orphans grunted as they pulled him across the ground. They were taking him somewhere. With his eyes bruised and swollen enough to block any kind of light from entering, he couldn't even tell if it was day or night, let alone where he was headed.

He got his answer from one of the other orphans. "Are you sure about this, Pebbs? Wasn't beating him up enough? What we're doing could get us cursed or something."

Pebbles’ reply was calm, but it too had a hint of doubt. "We do what Lanton says. Keep the outsiders out, okay?"

Oh no, Wick realized with startling clarity. His body swayed as if getting ready to be tossed. In a single lurch, he was thrown into the air, and he felt the manna density around him thicken like a fog.

Wick wanted to scream, but he didn't have the strength. He crashed into mud, his body rolling into what felt like a stream, the waters carrying him away from the voices.

The last words he heard before sleep took him were from an orphan crying through their words, regret tugging at each word. "This is wrong, Pebbs. Morgoth curse us. No one deserves Grey Forest."