Primordial Unleashed: Epic Progression Fantasy

Leaving his shield with Tenoris, Skippii crept up the rocky hillock towards the enemy's rear. Pausing in the shelter of a pine tree overcome by ivy's vines, he sighted the campfire ahead. Set atop the hillock was a faint orange glow, surrounded by several dark figures–their fur mantles tall on their shoulders. The campfire overlooked the majority of the Ürkün's camp below. The soft wind ruffled goatskin tents at the fire's perimeter, but he was still too distant to hear their voices.

Closing his eyes, he grounded himself, and reached below for the source. Its warmth rose into him, trickling towards his centre where a vague halo appeared around his heart. Clenching his stomach, he breathed slowly, cautious not to draw too much magia in at once and burst into flames.

When his magia had first awoken, It had felt like plunging into a lake–limitless depths, wreathed in flames. Even now, he sensed it beneath him, like brushing his hand over the lake's surface, vast and ominous. If he were to dive headfirst into its depths again, could he withstand its power?

Skippii swallowed nervously. Likely, it would destroy him. But he could not refuse its allure forever. He shuddered at the thought. What sort of power could he yield if he learned to draw upon but a fraction of that energy?

With a breath, he steadied his nerves. Heat rose from deep beneath the earth, pooling in his core before evaporating on his flesh. What good was it to be apprehensive? Better to test his limits and know for sure.

As he had practiced before, Skippii attempted to clench the magia within himself–willing to contain it. The ring around his heart grew weighty with power. He took a deep breath–filling his lungs–drawing as much energy as he could from the source. But he did not exhale. For as long as he could, he maintained the fires. Their barbed tongues stung the inside of his lungs. But he bore the pain. This power was his to take. He would submit it.

Finally, he released his breath, and steam rose from his skin. The mist formed a pale halo in the cool night air. Sweat coated his skin as the heat fled him. That was no good. It had been the same when he fought Apertorix; he had not held back–he had burned with a will to survive. But such desperate tactics would not serve him tonight. He needed to be in control. He needed finesse. He needed to prove to himself that he was the master of this power–not that he was a slave to it.

"Okay," he muttered, forming a plan in his mind. He drew a deep breath, inviting the magia in. Then he exhaled short and sharp, before drawing another again. He filled his lungs and sweltered with heat, but did not let it escape. Dizzying spots appeared in the dark. The flames swelled, prickling his flesh, stinging his veins. A light shone inside him–visible in his mind's eye–and faintly on his flesh. With each breath, he empowered the halo at his core, willing it to burn brighter. About him, the mists grew thin as he clenched to contain the magia–his magia. His to wield. His power.

Like a stiff limb, something clicked to place inside his chest. Skippii exhaled stiffly, but for once, the magia did not flee him. Closing his eyes, the halo shone brightly in his mind's-eye. But before–where its edges had shimmered with a golden mist–now appeared a solid light, as though wrought though from metal. It thrummed with energy, and he found that he did not require further breath.

Quietly, he sat with himself, utterly at peace in the company of the halo. What felt like minutes passed before he needed to breathe again. As he inhaled, the ring intensified, but did not dissipate. And as he exhaled, the light diminished, but was brighter than ever before.

Grinning, he couldn't help but whisper to himself. "That's it. Now you're mine."

The peace of meditation sung to him sweetly, but he shook his head and hefted his spear. He had a job to do. Firstly, tactics. What weapons did the magia grant him? In the past, he had filled his fists with flames–a primitive application, improving on his pre-existing aptitude for brawling. Briefly, while the Apertorix had strove to gore him, he'd spread those very same flames across his arms, forming a crude, fiery shield. It had proved effective, if draining, and hadn't lasted long. Still, his arms were covered in bruises from the assault. But now that his halo was fully formed, with better control, he could summon greater power and maintain his magia; such a shield could prove effective.

Perhaps, if he let the energy soak every inch of his skin, and wreathed his body in flames, he would possess an armour of sorts. Though, to come upon the Ürkün ablaze would certainly spoil his element of surprise. No, the most wise attack would be dealt swiftly and deadly.

As he remembered his encounter with the Ürkün heretic, he recalled the earth splitting, and steaming geysers. But he could not recall how he had brandished such an ability. Probing now, in the dark of the forest, he could only detect the surface of earth's fires. Perhaps there was more hidden below, but now was not the time to stray.

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Steadying his breath, he advanced forwards, guiding the magia within his body. He spread it evenly so that he could call upon it where he needed it. Though his flesh glowed a faint red, no vapours appeared to spoil his stealth.

Suddenly, one the Ürkün raised shouted, and the horses pitched below whinnied in response. Something rustled in the trees on Skippii's flank. Frozen, he gripped his spear, searching for the source of the commotion. But after a moment, all was quiet again. A plume of vapour rose from him, evaporating in the branches above. Briefly, he had lost control of his breath, and the fires had risen to the surface. Stilling his nerves, he continued on.

Near now, he could make out the Ürkün men. Of those sitting around the hillock's fire, only one faced his direction. The Ürkün's face stood out like a corrupted moon amongst the forest's black. A thick, muscular face, his mouth was overgrown with a black beard, like vines crawling over a buttress. His eyes were painted black, so that their whites stood out, gleaming in the campfire. His long hair was braided, affixed with coloured string and small wooden charms. Adorned in a wolf's hide, he appeared as a creature of the forest; a lesser man. A wild man.

From concealment, he counted five more around the hillock campfire. Perhaps they were tasked with watching the camp below. Or perhaps they were the elite who owned the horses, choosing to reside over their lessers on the high ground. Such a distinction could prove important once the fight began. Skippii knew very little of the steppe people's customs and ways. Many legionnaires considered it a redundant issue, but while observing them, a crucial maxim came to his mind: nosce hostem–know thy enemy.

Another man walked into the light of the campfire. Dressed simply in a sheepskin gown, he was much skinnier than the warriors, seemingly a slave. His face was painted with grotesque designs: tusks and horns highlighted the shape of his gaunt skull. The biggest amongst the Ürkün made room for the man and offered him a cup. It was then that Skippii remembered the three men who had trailed the Aperatrox that day, naked and chanting. He had dismissed their importance, and forgotten about them after the fight, but here was one, seemingly treated with regard.

What if they were heretic magi? Nervously, he held his breath. But then, if they were so powerful, where had their magia been during battle? More likely, they were baleful priests of the Ürkün's dark gods, unlike the corrupted champions he had faced at the farmstead.

Besides, the barbarians had suffered heavy losses during their ambush, and it was just as likely that their tents were filled with the injured and beleaguered… Or perhaps this camp was occupied with only those warriors too tough to die? He would soon find out.

His spear felt warm and weightless in his hand. An idea occurred to him. Channeling his magia into the spear, he replenished his reserves with measured breaths. He felt his core pulsate like a second heartbeat in the centre of his chest, resonating through his flesh. The source fed his power willingly, and soon, blue flames flickered over the spear's shaft, tempering the wood, desperate to burn and consume.

Suddenly, all precaution fled him, and he rose, striding towards the enemy. He did not scream nor charge, but rather ascended on the Ürkün like an ember drifting on the wind. The largest of their party spotted him first, scowling deeply. After a moment, his eyes went wide and he barked on alarm, taking up a tremendous axe. About him, his brethren rose, grabbing their weapons in a panic, turning to face the forest.

With a final thrust of magia, Skippii doused his spear in flames and launched it. It sprung like a ballista bolt, trailing thick, black smoke, and struck the mightiest of the Ürkün. He fell to his knees, shaft jutting from his chest, and leaned backwards, pinning him to the ground. The fires spread to his clothes, forming a funeral pyre, sending him screaming to the underworld.

His brethren yelped and scattered. Some came for him, others fled. Skippii's power surged as he funnelled it into his fists. With a flash, the Ürkün's faces lit up with terror. Many stopped in their tracks, falling to the earth, cowering before the burning light. Surprisingly, the skinny heretic stepped forward, chanting and raising his arms. Skippii drove towards him without hesitation, but one brave young warrior came between them, screaming gutturally and swinging a sword overhead.

Wreathing his arms in flames, he caught the sword's flat on his forearm and swept it aside with a shower of sparks. Twisting his hips, he dove his fist into the Ürkün's gut. The force lifted his foe off his feet, sending him crashing into a tent. All others fled, except for the heretic priest. Fear and fury stormed over the Ürkün's pale face as he spat and ranted at Skippii, waving a small dagger in the air.

Cries of alarm sounded across the camp. Dogs barked and men wailed as surprise turned to terror. He heard the shouts of "Auctoritas!" and "Glory Pantheon!" from his comrades beyond the hillock.

Anger, which had swelled inside him, now burst as flames on his flesh, snuffing out any thought for patience or tactics. Striding towards the heretic, he snatched the scrawny man by his neck and drew him to the hillock's edge. The heretic writhed in agony as fires burned his flesh, kicking and clawing, but Skippii held him at arm's length like a stray cat.

Beneath him was the Ürkün camp. From the trees beyond, emerged the red cloaks of his legionnaires. His allies rampaged like bulls, crushing everything in their path. They cut down the meagre as they scrambled from their tents. However, one of his companions stumbled in shock as he beheld Skippii. He raised his spear, screaming in fear and confusion. Cur, come to witness Skippii's magia without warning.

About him, the companeight did not relent. But beneath him, the Ürkün turned to face him too. Many roared defiantly, raising their weapons in defiance. Perhaps, given Cur's reaction, they expected to see a ferocious ally at their rear. But as their eyes fell upon them, their hope died.

Skippii burned like a bonfire. The heretic crumpled in his grasp. Flames engulfed his face, searing his flesh, but he had long since died. Tossing the corpse over the edge, he roared.

As though drawn to his magia, the campfire at his rear burst alight. His shadow was cast across the faces of his foes. A nightmare incarnate.