| Marc Pelzer | Ewan Smith
Tirion opened his eyes. He was sitting again in the shaman's old, moldering hut. In front of him laid the bowl from which he had drunken the elixir. It must had slipped from his fingers after the trance. When he turned his gaze towards the shaman, he saw that she was breathing heavily. Her hands were covered in the paint that had closed a circle around the magician, and her face was covered with sweat. The colour was no longer white, as it had been at the beginning of the ritual, but seemed faded, dull grey and smoked slightly. The serious and questioning expression on Thuli's face urged him to say something. She wanted to know if he had learned anything. Tirion felt that pressure. "I can save the girl," he said with a smile and emphasis. "I have indeed learned something. Do you perhaps have a skin you could provide me with?"
A thick sheepskin was brought to him and laid out before him. Tirion stared at the tanned back of the hide and exhaled deeply. He knew what he had to do. Archmaster van Keist had explained it in detail and shown him some pictures in the old scrolls. A drop of sweat trickled down his forehead. Everything depended on implementing this technique. He held his hands a few centimeters above the sheepskin. Then he closed his eyes. The others present in the hut eyed him silently. Sweat continued to run down his dirty face. Inwardly, he visualized the palms of his hands. Thousands of spikes shot out of them. He contracted potential and slowly directed it into his hands in rhythm with his breath. Then, when the potential almost began to burst, he released it. A loud hiss rang out across the wooden room. The fur was not only torn, it was also smoldering away in the dim light.
"Don't give up. Try again!" the shaman tried to motivate the young mage. He just wanted to scream. Where was the talent his mentor had seen in him? His hands clenched into fists and he hit the hard ground. But he did not scream, not yet. "I need another fur please." One was brought to him and spread out in front of the charred first. This time, however, Tirion drew his knife and split the hide into four. Then came a second attempt. "Pierce finely and precisely, let the magic work finely in single stitches," he remembered the Archmaster's words. The fur tore again. A third attempt: wrong again, this time the piece burst into flames. The shaman put out the fire by quickly pouring some water over its source. She looked at the boy. His face was flushed red. Sweat was running down his forehead and his face was frozen in an expression of anger and despair. She could not let him give up, for there was a life at stake. "Take a drink of water mage." Thuli held out a wooden bowl of water to him. He avoided eye contact but accepted it and took a sip. Then he placed the half-full bowl on the floor in front of him.
"Of course!" blurted out Tirion. He watched the water in the bowl, sloshing dangerously close to the edge in restless waves. In waves! Not a breath passed before he had grabbed another piece of the fur and held his hands over it. He did not let the thousands of needles in his hands shoot up and down at the same time. The pressure was simply too great that way. Instead, he now concentrated the potential in slow but constant wave-like movements over the palm of his hand. There was no hissing, no bursting and he felt no heat from a flaring flame. The fur was intact, had not undergone any noticeable transformation. But when he touched the fur, he felt something strange. The previously stiff and coarse leather now had a soft, flexible surface. He turned it over. The fur had also remained intact. Thuli looked at him questioningly. "Where is the girl?"
The gathered people quickly went into one of the neighboring huts. It was a little smaller than the shaman's hut. The injured Ja'nemeri was placed in the middle on layers of linen sheets. She was covered. It was easy to see how bad she was doing. At the shaman's signal, the blanket was removed, and everyone left the room. Only the shaman and the mages remained. Tirion looked with horror at the girl's stripped and disfigured torso. The source of the curse was still throbbing there. Though fragrant herbal candles stood in the room, the rotting smell was instantly perceptible. He recoiled, almost vomiting. The outgrowth of the fug had lengthened. "I will save her," the young mage's voice rang out barely audibly in the hut. Inwardly, however, doubts grew as to whether it was not already too late for that. The old woman answered: "Hope is what keeps us alive when death seems inevitable. Despair is what prevents us from finding the path we fear we have lost. And self-hatred is what shamefully arises from guilt, which we place on our own shoulders, sometimes even without deserving it. Hope I would give you, but I take despair from you and also shame. You do more than we should ask and help beyond your limits. Should the girl not remain in this world, it is not your fault." Tirion raised his eyes, the words stirring him. Then it was time for the treatment.
The very ends of the outgrowths would be destroyed first. He would target the area and continue until the cursed tissue dissolved. It didn't take long before the first layer of greenish discoloured skin came off. Good, it was working! Thuli had knelt opposite him and removed the loosened tissue with a rag. He continued. Faultily, healthy pieces also came off, but Tirion tried with all his might to work selectively. The closer he got to the source, the deeper the infection went. The girl lost a lot of blood due to the deep intervention. Thuli did everything to keep the heavy blood loss as low as possible. It took a long time to burn the curse out of the girl's body, but they managed. The mage was dripping with sweat. He hadn't had such an effort in a long time and when the last bit he could make out of the curse was removed, he fell exhausted onto the wooden, hard floor. The lack of sleep made itself felt coupled with the exertion. The worst thing, however, was that his magical stores were practically completely drained. He wanted to simply get up again, but his strength left him. He fainted.
A thick sheepskin was brought to him and laid out before him. Tirion stared at the tanned back of the hide and exhaled deeply. He knew what he had to do. Archmaster van Keist had explained it in detail and shown him some pictures in the old scrolls. A drop of sweat trickled down his forehead. Everything depended on implementing this technique. He held his hands a few centimeters above the sheepskin. Then he closed his eyes. The others present in the hut eyed him silently. Sweat continued to run down his dirty face. Inwardly, he visualized the palms of his hands. Thousands of spikes shot out of them. He contracted potential and slowly directed it into his hands in rhythm with his breath. Then, when the potential almost began to burst, he released it. A loud hiss rang out across the wooden room. The fur was not only torn, it was also smoldering away in the dim light.
"Don't give up. Try again!" the shaman tried to motivate the young mage. He just wanted to scream. Where was the talent his mentor had seen in him? His hands clenched into fists and he hit the hard ground. But he did not scream, not yet. "I need another fur please." One was brought to him and spread out in front of the charred first. This time, however, Tirion drew his knife and split the hide into four. Then came a second attempt. "Pierce finely and precisely, let the magic work finely in single stitches," he remembered the Archmaster's words. The fur tore again. A third attempt: wrong again, this time the piece burst into flames. The shaman put out the fire by quickly pouring some water over its source. She looked at the boy. His face was flushed red. Sweat was running down his forehead and his face was frozen in an expression of anger and despair. She could not let him give up, for there was a life at stake. "Take a drink of water mage." Thuli held out a wooden bowl of water to him. He avoided eye contact but accepted it and took a sip. Then he placed the half-full bowl on the floor in front of him.
"Of course!" blurted out Tirion. He watched the water in the bowl, sloshing dangerously close to the edge in restless waves. In waves! Not a breath passed before he had grabbed another piece of the fur and held his hands over it. He did not let the thousands of needles in his hands shoot up and down at the same time. The pressure was simply too great that way. Instead, he now concentrated the potential in slow but constant wave-like movements over the palm of his hand. There was no hissing, no bursting and he felt no heat from a flaring flame. The fur was intact, had not undergone any noticeable transformation. But when he touched the fur, he felt something strange. The previously stiff and coarse leather now had a soft, flexible surface. He turned it over. The fur had also remained intact. Thuli looked at him questioningly. "Where is the girl?"
The gathered people quickly went into one of the neighboring huts. It was a little smaller than the shaman's hut. The injured Ja'nemeri was placed in the middle on layers of linen sheets. She was covered. It was easy to see how bad she was doing. At the shaman's signal, the blanket was removed, and everyone left the room. Only the shaman and the mages remained. Tirion looked with horror at the girl's stripped and disfigured torso. The source of the curse was still throbbing there. Though fragrant herbal candles stood in the room, the rotting smell was instantly perceptible. He recoiled, almost vomiting. The outgrowth of the fug had lengthened. "I will save her," the young mage's voice rang out barely audibly in the hut. Inwardly, however, doubts grew as to whether it was not already too late for that. The old woman answered: "Hope is what keeps us alive when death seems inevitable. Despair is what prevents us from finding the path we fear we have lost. And self-hatred is what shamefully arises from guilt, which we place on our own shoulders, sometimes even without deserving it. Hope I would give you, but I take despair from you and also shame. You do more than we should ask and help beyond your limits. Should the girl not remain in this world, it is not your fault." Tirion raised his eyes, the words stirring him. Then it was time for the treatment.
The very ends of the outgrowths would be destroyed first. He would target the area and continue until the cursed tissue dissolved. It didn't take long before the first layer of greenish discoloured skin came off. Good, it was working! Thuli had knelt opposite him and removed the loosened tissue with a rag. He continued. Faultily, healthy pieces also came off, but Tirion tried with all his might to work selectively. The closer he got to the source, the deeper the infection went. The girl lost a lot of blood due to the deep intervention. Thuli did everything to keep the heavy blood loss as low as possible. It took a long time to burn the curse out of the girl's body, but they managed. The mage was dripping with sweat. He hadn't had such an effort in a long time and when the last bit he could make out of the curse was removed, he fell exhausted onto the wooden, hard floor. The lack of sleep made itself felt coupled with the exertion. The worst thing, however, was that his magical stores were practically completely drained. He wanted to simply get up again, but his strength left him. He fainted.