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Jakkoa was not naturally gifted when it came to the use and control of magic.

The above was putting it kindly.

More to the point: he was abysmal with magic.

Unfortunately, after taking his aunt’s prayer beads as his own and setting himself to his goal, the option to withdraw from his path had vanished—and he wouldn’t have wanted to, regardless. He had chosen the healer’s path for a reason. One small, but critically important breathing reason, and that was more than fuel enough to spurn his determination and funnel it in alongside his natural stubbornness when it came to certain goals.

It did not, however, make him especially content with having others witness his sub-par attempts at anything. So far as he was concerned, the longer the world was none-the-wiser as to his personal difficulties when it came to channeling and execution, the better. Perhaps one day, he would be proficient enough that it wouldn’t merit hiding.

Until that day, practice occurred in private. Outside of camp, outside of town, away from his acting fiancé and anyone else with prying eyes. After strolling out far enough into the open plain at the forest’s edge to satisfy himself that he was indeed alone — or as alone as he was going to get — he settled himself. He withdrew his prayer beads and folded them in his lap, legs crossed beneath him and a blanket stretched under that.

A breath in. A breath out. And—

A scuffing sound pulled him back out of concentration, and Jakkoa frowned, turning and—he didn’t yelp. Or not much, or loudly, and his scattered dart to a stand was graceful—for the most part. It was just—

—was that a man?

Due to the hunkered position and angle of the sun, Jakkoa’s heart had leapt far too fast to conclusions on seeing the large shape of something not immediately identifiable far closer to him than he’d been expecting which had somehow escaped his notice until this point. But on closer inspection, as his pulse calmed to a more normal level, it did appear his unexpected company was, indeed, a person. A Tale native, from what he could tell.

His brow furrowed. He dusted his hands over his front, composing himself and re-straightening his own posture. “Excuse me, I am sorry, are you…” His gaze flit over the figure, taking in his posture. “Are you looking for something? I didn’t mean to intrude.”

A low, feral rumble sounded, and Jakkoa stiffened.

Was that—?

Was the man growling at him?

But then, like like a large bear who had inspected and been disappointed in what it had seen, the boy was turning way, puffing and sighing and directing his attention elsewhere. Jakkoa snorted. Just as well, he supposed. If the other wasn’t keen on talking and would rather set his sights elsewhere, then that left him exactly where he’d begun: looking for a suitable place to practice his magic. Putting thoughts of the unsuspecting company behind him, he strode further out into the tall grasses. Not especially far. With just the one unexpected person about, there wasn’t much to be concerned for after all, and once he’d found a suitably flat and clear spot, he unbuckled the rolled cloth at his back, unfurling it like a picnic blanket and settling himself upon it so as not to be dirtied by the earth.

Folding his legs beneath him then, he took his spell beads into his hands, and shut his eyes. Focus. That’s what he’d always been told, in any case. That drawing upon one’s magic took peace of mind, inner serenity…

And focus.

Like splinters, or scattered grains of sand, the magic in Jakkoa prickled—but uselessly. Too thin and disjointed, or too diverse and parceled apart. Sometimes it stirred enough for him to notice it distinctly, but other times, it only lurked in his veins. Some ephemeral capacity like a shadow: there enough to know it existed, but ever out of reach and impossible to grasp and grapple with.

He breathed out, focussing on the push of his breath and the cooler draw that followed.

Energy tickled, faint but there at the pads of his fingers where they touched to his aunt’s—to his—prayer beads, and a subtle warmth gathered there. His pulse picked up, encouraged by the tiny flicker of progress, and he struggled to keep a hold on it, clinging to the pulse of magic like blowing on the tiniest spark while winds whistled about the mountainside, attempting to shelter and encourage it to grow.

Something sniffed him.

Jakkoa’s eyes snapped open a half second before a large, filthy finger prodded to his nose and he jerked backwards on instinct, dropping to a back lean and nearly falling entirely in his haste. “What—”

It was the same man.

But this time in his face. He scowled, peevishness showing immediately, and by the goddess was the man dirty.

“What are you doing? What do you want? Get…back a few hands’ lengths, by heaven—”

The wild man — for that was what he seemed to be for all appearance purposes so far as Jak could tell — at least took heed of his request and body language, backing up initially. When he paused, though, attention landing on and staring inquisitively at Jak’s beads, Jakkoa took note, and frowned. He adjusted himself, shifting his weight to a more balanced, less startled-out-of-one’s-wits position as he inspected his company.

Could the man even talk?

He’d said nothing thus far despite looking curious, and one would have thought by now a response might be in order. Jakkoa released a curt sigh before pursing his lips.

“Hello,” he said. And then, after a pause: “Again. I am Jakkoa. Jak - oh - ah, do you speak? These are my prayer beads…” He gripped slightly tighter to them without thinking about it, not specifically because he might think they’d be taken under any normal circumstances, but this man was proving himself to be distinctly odd—and was paying them far too much focus, in Jakkoa’s opinion. “Do you live here? Am I invading your space? I can leave.”

If you won’t.

Nothing.

A handful of questions, and still the man said nothing. There didn’t seem to be much excuse for it, either, unless the man was particularly stupid—which Jakkoa supposed was possible, given the circumstances, the man’s mannerisms, and his dress. He was at least clothed, but conducted himself in such a near-feral manner that Jak wondered where he’d come from. Regardless, he was well beyond old enough to know his words, fully grown and out and about. Beyond that, he seemed to understand words, judging by his changing facial expressions and nonverbal cues in response to Jakkoa’s words.

So, truly, there ought to be no reason for his silence.

Unless he was a mute?

Jak pursed his lips, pulling his beads away and tucking them at his hip with a head shake when the other man gestured. It reminded him oddly of an over-curious animal seeking to sniff and inspect his goods—a process Jak had no interest in engaging in. He did not trust a stranger who couldn’t be bothered to speak or hold himself like a civilized adult farther than he could have tossed him. Not far, given that the man probably weighed twice what he did.

“They’re not for sale or inspection I’m afraid,” he said aloud. “And if you’ve nothing to say and nothing better to do…” He flicked a hand in a loose, dismissive wave. “Go and…run along, back to whatever it is you were doing.”