*COMPLETE* There are whispers across the kingdoms that the Paragon, that strangely gifted person who can wield all four Skills, has been found.
They're wrong, of course. No one has caught the Paragon. Allayria should know: she's it.
But Allayr...
As they journey on, the suns and the moons pass lazily over the soft, green world. Allayria will come to remember this as a time of perfect happiness. Oh, sure, they kip on the ground, eat only grass and berries for a few too many days, and are occasionally charged by a disgruntled buffalo, but in the recesses of her mind this time is labeled as a period of bright yellows, soft blues, ringing laughter, and ease.
They have gone so long without seeing another person that she imagines they are the only souls left in the universe, a rag-tag group wandering the open plains, underneath the vast, unknowable stars.
But they aren't alone, and they are not without purpose. When they reach the first Roftenian city Allayria finds the noise, the bustle, overwhelming. She feels owlish, her head constantly turning and her eyes blinking against the shine of metal.
As close to the border of Keesark as they are now, the group passes larger and larger crowds of Roften soldiers. Styled with deep red uniforms and cropped hair, they are easy to pick out from the throng. The four agree to not linger in the city, electing to pass through and camp well outside its borders—though they stop long enough to collect supplies. Meg swipes a small, blue-beaded bracelet for Allayria, which she takes as a sign of acceptance and wears it happily. Still, Allayria catches the others watching the soldiers carefully, checking their belts, their jackets for weapons.
They are an hour out when they make camp just off the roadside. Iaves and Ben go searching for herbs and fruit to supplement what will be a lean meal, while Meg and Allayria build a fire. As a Nature-caller and Smith-caller, they are done in quick order.
"Show me again," Meg demands ten minutes later. She leans close, pressing in at the tiny flame flickering on Allayria's fingertips. She looks so much like Ben when he first asked to see her Skill that Allayria has to smile.
Meg imitates the tiny, flickering movements of Allayria's fingers but nothing happens and she huffs.
"It makes no sense," she complains. "Fire occurs naturally—lightning bolts, bush fires, lava... there's nothing that makes it less natural than water, or earth, or plants. I should be able to call it just as easily."
"Maybe it's not a matter of natural versus unnatural," Allayria suggests. "Maybe it's something to do with what you do with the Skills. If it's about naturalness, you should be able to bend metal as well."
"That's true," Meg admits, narrowing her eyes at the metal ball on Allayria's lap. It doesn't move.
"Smithing—crafting; Beast—raising; Nature—nurturing; and Spirit..." Allayria trails off, frowning.
"Enlightening," Meg finishes without pause.
"What do you think–?"
But then Allayria stops and whips her head around in the direction of the road.
There is a loud thum of heavy footsteps and before either of them can speak again, Ben crashes into the clearing, staggering, with blood running down his face.
"Run," he gasps, "Ten Jarles soldiers... run... the hills–"
But the soldiers are on the group before he can complete his direction.
Allayria scrambles to her feet as she feels flames lick the side of her face. She spins around, pulling two metal balls out of her bag and from her lap and flattening them into smooth plates as the pellets fire at her. She absorbs the impact and then twists it all up into a sharp slab, driving the newly-fashioned weapon down onto the nearest helmeted head.
A mailed fist swings down at her but she shoves the metal away, yanking its owner over to the side as she shoots a burst of flame at the next combatant.
Next to her, Ben has his bone dagger out and he moves with alarming speed, weaving between the bursts of fire and metal like smoke.
They have fought soldiers like this before, she realizes, and, despite the sheer number of fists coming at her, she feels better. There's some hope of pulling this off after all.
She positions herself with her back to a tree and begins intercepting the soldier's attacks, deflecting pellets, redirecting fire, melting crudely shaped swords. When one club resists her impression and its owner begins to swing it at her, she kicks a pile of dirt up into his face and rolls to the right, hearing the thud of the club like thunder against the earth. She staggers to her feet, kicking him in the head, and swings around to shield herself from another burst of flame. Its owner barrels down on her but Ben swings a fist out, smashing into his side, and the man crumples.
Another soldier is running for her and Allayria puts up her shield only to jerk her head around. Meg, with a torrent of water entwining two soldiers, turns too to see the man with the sword swinging down at her, but he's too close and she's too slow–
Allayria throws the shield and it hits the man's head with a sickening crunch. Her breath hitches, but then she realizes, with a pang of alarm, that the other runner is now on her.
It happens in mere seconds, but it seems so very slow to her. She reacts to his presence by shooting flames at his head, but the man sidesteps it. She lifts her other hand to deflect the metal or the fire, but the club he's holding isn't made of either.
It's made of ice.
Her hand jerks up to melt it away but in that sick, microsecond of recognition she hesitates.
A Smith-caller cannot call water, she thinks in horror.
The club crashes down onto her head and she blacks out.
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A full view of the header art can be found on my deviantart account here: http://asimsluvr.deviantart.com/art/Ben-655475986
