Welcome to Gaia! ::

“How old are you?”

Three days have passed since Detraeus initially remembers waking up in Martrae’a Khelvun’s care, and he has been working up his strength slowly, but steadily. To cure the otherwise gnawing boredom of spending most of his time laying in a cot in a dimly lit room, Martrae’a had suggested he come out to her workshop — a largely open-air addition to the far side of her house with a protective roof and built-in furnace and bellows — to watch her craft. With little else to do, Detraeus had gladly agreed.

Now, he eyes her as she works, taking in everything he can and speaking up only when she asks him direct questions. He prefers it when she doesn’t, of course, but she’s doing more for him than he can ever hope to pay back, and he figures it is his obligation to entertain the older woman’s occasional desire for conversation to at least some minimalistic degree.

“Fourteen cycles,” he says. “Or almost so.”

“You look barely thirteen,” Martra comments.

Since Detraeus doesn’t know whether to take that as an insult, a compliment, or otherwise, he keeps his mouth shut, and watches instead as she moves over to fetch a pair of tongs and begins manipulating the hot metal under her care. She moves with remarkable sprightliness for a woman of her age and disability, as though everything about the way she carries herself has adapted slightly to the loss of leg and compensates smoothly. Privately, he wonders how long ago she lost it.

“I remember you said you had no mother to speak of…” Martrae’a moves her hand over the glowing heat of the impressionable new blade-to-be, testing the heat and — from the looks of things — applying a sliver of magic to the process as she tests it before cooling it a fraction and going back to melding its shape. “Do you have anyone else that might be looking for you?”

Detraeus shakes his head.

“No father? Brothers, sisters, cousins?”

“No.”

“Friends?”

Detraeus purses his lips.

“A family name?”

“My mother is my goddess. Detraeus is my name. I have nothing else.”

“Mm.” Martra nods her head towards the far wall. “Fetch me that bucket, and if you think you can make the walk, fill it with a spit of water from the outside well for me. Three fingers high or so.”

Detraeus blinks, glances to to said bucket, and after a moment, slides down off of his perch. Standing is still tiring, and walking more so, but his body is recovering quickly overall, and he completes the task out of breath, but successful.

Days turn into weeks. He works on his strength, and as he begins to draw back closer to ‘normal’ Detraeus starts to debate on when he ought to leave. While he stays, though, Martrae’a’s lessons in weaponsmithing give him something to keep his mind active, something to devote his focus to and — to some extent — pour himself into. It’s fascinating, in a way few things, if any, have ever been before, and he likes it. He enjoys learning. Enjoys testing his mind and his memory and trying to retain as much of her instruction as he can in the short period he has available.

When he realizes that he’s loathe to leave it, that more than anything spurns him to gather his things. Sitting on the edge of the bunk which he’d originally woken in with his few belongings gathered around him, Detraeus strings up his boots, and then reaches for his bow. At his request, Martrae’a brought his weapons — all his belongings, for that matter — into the room for him after that first day. Since the incident, however, he has yet to go properly hunting again, and he thumbs his finger over the weapon bound to him, a flicker of a memory itching at the back of his mind.

“Avarice,” he says at length. “I name you Avarice, for to you blood is gold, and the greed with which you seek it out is insatiable. Thank you for upholding your bargain. You’ve saved my life more times than I have a mind to count.”

With that, Detraeus holsters his bow, stands, and fixes the rest of his things to his person. He straightens the sheets on the cot, smooths over the pillow, and then leaves the room. Martrae’a’s voice catches him as he steps out the final door, into the midmorning sun.

“You still owe me, Detraeus.”

Detra frowns, and turns, a knot of dread — betrayal, even — building in his gut as he faces her. “I told you I have no coin to pay you.”

“I’m not asking for your money.”

Brow furrowing further, he shakes his head. “I don’t understand…?”

“I don’t let just anyone watch me work, you know.” Martrae’a adjusts her weight on her cane and squints at him. “I’ve been meaning to take on someone help me around my work area. My last apprentice grew out of it, started up her own place, but I’ve been putting off taking on anyone else despite my sons’ insistence that I need the extra set of hands. I need someone quick on their feet, intelligent, observant…someone who knows how to spend their time listening and not talking.”

Detraeus eyes her, posture still wary.

“You can pay me back in labor. Just the things you’ve been doing — fetching things, keeping the bellows stoked, perhaps running a quick errand or two — and you’ll be learning a valuable trade skill in the process. You can continue to bed in the room you’ve been using. I’ve too much spare room in this old house, anyway, and I’ll see that you’re fed—”

“I can feed myself.”

“Very well, then you can hunt for the both of us,” Martrae’a amends, and at his frown, she adds: “I’ll take notches off your debt for it.”

Detraeus folds his arms, shifting his weight. “I could leave. Right now. You can’t stop me.”

“You’re right. I’m sure you’re a much faster runner than I,” Martrae’a says. “Not to mention that I wouldn’t bother to try to in the first place. You’re free to leave if you wish.”

“Then why tell me I owe you?” Detraeus snaps. “Why bother mentioning it if you’re not going to make me pay?”

Martrae’a’s eyebrows rise. “Some choose to repay kindnesses even when they are not obligated to, you do realize this? They recognize opportunities and help others without having their hands tied behind their backs…”

Detraeus grimaces and looks away. “I’m not intelligent. I’m not helpful, and I’m not kind. You wasted your time on me.” With that, he turns, stepping towards the door.

“Detraeus.”

Looking back on the moment, he still isn’t sure why he paused, but he does. When he looks, Martrae’a tosses a scroll towards him, and he frowns.

“A map,” she explains. “My home is on the outskirts, as you’ll see, but that should get you anywhere you need from here to the capital.”

Detraeus eyes the parchment, a stinging heat in his cheeks joining his scowl because he knows, even if he opened it, all the ‘words’ every line would swirl into the next meaninglessly. He’d take it, likely, if he knew the first thing about attempting to read it, but he knows better, and so instead, he sets her ‘gift’ aside on the nearest shelf and walks out without waiting for a response.



Eleven days later, Detraeus is crouched in the mud.

The ethereal, murky swamp lights of the surrounding foliage cast a dim glow over the folds of his cloak as he keeps his body as still as he can manage, crouched at the trunk of a fungal tree and tense. Attention pinned to the nearby lake — Koralifel, dark and rippling with unspoken power — he lifts a single arrow from the quiver strapped to his waist and nocks it, drawing it back with a held breath. Four peisio dragons wait near the water’s edge. Two drinking, and two others circling out over the lake, the low beat of their wings making rippled indents over the surface from the pulse of air beneath each sweep.

Ysalis were the easiest to hunt for quick orbs, of course, but peisio orbs drew a greater profit and, as far as Detreaus is concerned, they hone his skills better as well, something more important than profit so long as he can afford to feed himself. Which he can. For once in his life, Detraeus feels — not comfortable, granted, and perhaps not even secure, but no longer desperate. No longer helpless.

With a minor c**k of his head, he lets the first arrow fly. Immediately after, he draws a second, not so much as waiting to see if the first lands — though it does — and by the time he has the second one in the air, the full attention of the first two dragons are on him. A third arrow burying itself in the eye of the first dragon takes the creature out, leaving nothing but a shrill screech in the air and a pile of dust in its wake, and Detraeus darts behind the bulk of the tree as the second comes sweeping in. A tunnel of water crashes against the bark, rushing over the knotted, root infested earth of the swamp at his feet seconds after he moves out of his way, and then he’s out again.

Pulse fast in his chest, he nocks his bow, and when he releases, Avarice sends two arrows whipping through the air like sharpened birds of cut stone, destined only for one purpose. They bury themselves in the chest of the second beast, and only just in time, since the echo of another roar is fast on the tail of his second victory.

The third dragon makes it close, talons catching at the lip of his cloak and yanking back, water magic swirling icy, cold, and constricting around his ankles and up his legs. Detraeus draws a full breath, quick in case the water makes it towards his mouth, and lashes out with his dagger. He needs to work on his close range — a fact he becomes more potently aware of every time he has to fight something at his chest instead of fifty paces off — but thankfully even his small blade strikes true: two slashes at the beast’s feet dislodging its grip and then another twisting into the dragon’s belly and finally slashing at its neck.

By the time he’s loose of it, there are three more that have joined in from the lake and surrounding area, but fortunately he has the time to see to those with his bow, and three hours later, he’s nursing little worse than a bruised shoulder and mangled cloak as he barters off his earnings in the village market. This cycle repeats itself — exhausting, but acceptable — for several weeks, Detraeus earning his keep from hunt to hunt, feeding himself with the meat he kills and trading for coins to fill in the rest of his necessities.

The process is still rough, however, and even as he settles into a routine, his mind continues to drift back towards Martrae’a. Not the woman specifically, but the process of observing her — what it felt like to watch and learn and absorb with someone who, mistakenly or not, somehow considered him a ‘worthy’ pupil in at least some regards. He misses it more than he cares to admit.

Over a month after leaving her and carving out his own process for taking care of himself, Detraeus finds himself taking pit stops on his way back into Wraethel to watch her house. When she is actively at work, he lingers longer, and over time, moves in closer, always attentive to see if she has, in fact, taken up a ‘replacement’ apprentice. She never does.

Two months after leaving, Detraeus lingers under the overhang of her workshed, shoulder propped against the wooden frame as he waits for her to come out, the rain splattering wetly just outside and splotching muddy specks up his already filthy boots. He needs new ones, but at least these haven’t fallen off of him yet.

“It’s poor manners to spy on woman, you know.”

Detraeus’ head jerked up, shoulders stiffening and fingers darting to the hilt of his dagger, but they stay there, relaxing as his expression falls into a relaxed frown. He rolls his shoulders back, lips pursing.

“Even an old one,” Martrae’a adds. “You could have knocked on my door.”

“How much to replace arrowheads?” Detraeus asks, ignoring her commentary and thumbing over the chipped tip of one of the arrows in question. “I need—”

“You need, you need, you need…” Matra tisks, and her walking stick clacks on the stoned ground of her workshed. “Did it ever occur to you to think what I might need?”

He narrows his eyes. “I have coin.”

“Yes, but you still owe me, don’t you? Or did you think I’d forgotten?”

Gritting his teeth, Detraeus scowls and turns towards the rain. “Fine. I’ll leave—”

“Detraeus.”

The tips of Detraeus’ fingers itch. He wants to clench them, or to kick something, or to simply keep walking, but instead, his legs ignore him, holding still just before the threshold into the storm.

“If you wanted arrowheads, you and I both know there are places in town where you can get them. You’ve been lingering out in the woods for four weeks on and off again. Did you wait that long just to give up after a handful of sentences and one p***k to your pride? Come.” She nods her head towards her work table. “It’s wet and miserable as a drowning bird out there. Help me get a fire going, and stick put until the storm lets up. I’ll give you ten coppers off your next ‘purchase’ of arrowheads.”

Detraeus eyes her, pride and indecision warring with pent up curiosity and an itch to scratch away at his boredom. A quarter hour later, he’s sitting propped up on an unused stone mold, attention fixed on Martrae’a as she bends, shapes, and works the hot metal at her disposal. She talks to him as she does, explaining each step and their importance, how she regulates the heat and pliability: too strong, and the weapon becomes brittle and fractures, too forgiving, and it won’t hold its shape in battle. She talks as though he never walked out, and while it confuses him, he isn’t about to complain.

When the rain lets up, Detraeus pretends not to notice, and Martra doesn’t comment, casually continuing to give him the occasional instruction: “Bring that larger striker — no, the one to the left, next to the prongs. There you are…” or, “Douse the fires a bit — just a splash of water, they’re getting too rambunctious.”

When the sun begins to sink, the shadows of night stretching ever longer across the soot stained floor, Martrae’a begins to put up her things. She lets the fire in the bellows die out, cools and sets aside her project for the day and works off her thick gloves. Detraeus moves back, abruptly uncertain of his welcome there as though he’s being jerked from a dreamstate back into reality, but she tisks at him.

“You’re welcome to dinner, if you like.”

He frowns.

“And if not, I hope to see you earlier tomorrow. Work begins close to dawn, you know. Not half into the evening. You’ll be much more productive that way. If you come early enough, perhaps I can even begin classing you on how to make your own arrowheads.”

Detraeus holds onto his silence for an exaggerated pause before finally, he asks, “Why?”

Martrae’a arches her eyebrows. “I told you once. You’re intelligent, quiet, and you pay attention. It makes my job easier to have an extra set of hands, not to mention a full pair of legs, back, and shoulders more equipped to carting about a few things my body isn’t so pleased to deal with anymore.”

“I’m not intelligent.”

“When I first came into the room with you after you became properly conscious again and rational, we talked. One of the first things you said to me was that I wasn’t a healer. You didn’t state it as a question, and I’d given you no reason to say that. You had no way of knowing since we’d known each other so briefly. So why?”

Detraeus folds his arms, frowning. Was she stalling for time? And if so, why? Eventually, however, when she doesn’t let the question go, he huffs. “I heard metalworking, before you came into the room. It went on for some time, but stopped before you arrived. Your clothes smelled of soot and iron, not herbs, and had burn marks on them. And you’re too strong. Your arms are thick, and your shoulders bulky. Besides…” He rolls his own shoulders, frowning. “You lost a leg. You must have been a warrior once, to have participated in battle…not someone content to sit behind the sidelines and listen to the weak while they cough and whimper.”

Martrae’a eyes him for a long period, and looks for some time as though she is sorely tempted to comment, but eventually, she lets the commentary slide, saying only, “Close observation and intuition are both markers of intelligence.”

“I can’t read,” Detraeus snaps, frustrated, though his cheeks heat immediately after, regretting the admittance.

Martrae’a, however, brushes it off. “You could, I’m sure. If you wanted to lear—”

“I don’t.”

“And that,” she responds, “would be precisely why you can’t. I will see you tomorrow, Detraeus.”

Detra blinks, flustered, and frowning, mouth half open with an unspoken rebuttal, but she steps through her door and shuts it on him before he can come up with anything. He eyes the doorknob, brow pinched and chest tight with frustration, but no matter how he tries to shove her words away as he stalks off into the growing dark, they refuse to leave him.

The next morning, he returns before the sun is yet fully in the sky, and Martrae’a greets him without a single comment about the evening prior. For the following three cycles of the moon, Detraeus comes and goes as he pleases, arriving most mornings on time but occasionally — randomly — never showing at all as though to test whether she comments on it. But she never does, and eventually, he concedes to settling, mostly, to her schedule.

He still hunts when he wishes, keeping his bow arm strong and his aim on point, but he studies, too, and the longer he spends with her, the more Martrae’a shows him of her craft. By the time he reaches his sixteenth year, Detraeus no longer bothers to pretend he is not living with her, and she has begun working him through the process of creating multiple simpler items himself. He’s far from an expert, but the craft gives him a sense of satisfaction that, before then, he never felt with anything except his bow.

It is when he is nearing his seventeenth year, after close to three full cycles of the seasons with Martrae’a, that a familiar restlessness begins to stir within him, and he knows it will not satisfy him to stay much longer. He made a promise to his goddess, and as stable as he feels in Martrae’a’s company, he is too stationery. Too dependant, and too inactive. He has a blood count to attend to, and he’s making no progress at Martrae’a’s anvil.