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  1. In Memory of LAJ_FETT: Please share your remembrances and condolences HERE

Saga - Legends The Book of Gand, Parts 1–3 (mostly OCs)

Discussion in 'Fan Fiction- Before, Saga, and Beyond' started by Findswoman , Apr 23, 2014.

  1. WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    My guess for the last riddle was love :)
     
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  2. Findswoman

    Findswoman Fanfic and Pancakes and Waffles Mod (in Pink) star 5 Staff Member Manager

    Registered:
    Feb 27, 2014
    Without giving away whether this answer is "right" or "wrong" (note scare quotes—"right" only means "the one I originally came up with"), I'll just say that it puts me in mind of a poem:

    Yo soy la locura,
    la que sola infundo
    plazer y dulzura,
    y contento al mundo.

    Sirven a mi nombre
    todos, mucho o poco;
    pero no hay hombre
    que piense ser loco.
    —Henri de Bailly (d. 1637)

    (I am madness, the one who alone pours pleasure, sweetness, and happiness into the world. All, more or less, serve my name, but there is no man who thinks he is mad.)

    Keep discussing, people! :D (If you feel so inclined, that is.)
     
  3. aleja2

    aleja2 Jedi Master star 2

    Registered:
    Aug 4, 2005
    I'm enjoying your story very much. I have only the most passing acquaintance with Gands, but you have done an excellent job with your world building and providing just the right amount of information to orient the reader. Your writing is very evocative and emotive - I feel like I am reading a favorite fantasy novel and I love it. I look forward to more!
     
  4. Findswoman

    Findswoman Fanfic and Pancakes and Waffles Mod (in Pink) star 5 Staff Member Manager

    Registered:
    Feb 27, 2014
    Thank you, aleja2 —I appreciate that. Good to have you here, and I am glad you're enjoying things so far. :)

    Incidentally, in case anyone was curious, my husband just made two guesses about the riddle: (a) childbearing and (b) sleep. :p

    And also incidentally—and I hope it's not improper for me to ask—if anyone out there would like to be tagged by username when I post new chapters, just say the word.
     
  5. K'Tai qel Letta-Tanku

    K'Tai qel Letta-Tanku Jedi Grand Master star 3

    Registered:
    Apr 18, 2000
    Love the poem! And I agree with your husband, both childbearing and sleep could be answers. Of course, both (or in the case of sleep, lack thereof) lead to short bouts of madness. :p
     
  6. Rogue Five

    Rogue Five Jedi Padawan star 2

    Registered:
    Jun 11, 2014
    I just checked this thing out after seeing the title in your sig and I have to I've really enjoyed reading it! I rather liked the Gand in Kotor 2, and you've really fleshed out their whole culture here. I especially liked seeing it all through the perspective of a young gand on his way to findsman. If I had one question I'd just wonder: what inspired you to write a story about the Gand?
    Anyway, nice job creating this. Looking forward to future installments. : D
     
  7. Findswoman

    Findswoman Fanfic and Pancakes and Waffles Mod (in Pink) star 5 Staff Member Manager

    Registered:
    Feb 27, 2014
    Why thank you, Rogue Five! I very much appreciate your reading and commenting. I too liked the way the Gand were portrayed in KOTOR2 (you probably recognize the name Ossluk Noslee from there), as well as in TOR, and both of those games definitely provided inspiration during the writing of this.

    Your question is a good one, and one that I could ramble on about for a while if given a chance. The short answer is that I always considered them one of the most fascinating alien species of the GFFA, but that because so few details about them are given in official sources, I just decided to start writing and making stuff up. :) More on that here.

    Thanks again! :) If all goes well, I am hoping to get a new chapter in the next few days—it's just a matter of sitting down and pushing myself. (Kind of like childbearing, really!)
     
  8. Findswoman

    Findswoman Fanfic and Pancakes and Waffles Mod (in Pink) star 5 Staff Member Manager

    Registered:
    Feb 27, 2014
    And here, at last, is the next chapter. Sorry I've been so tardy with this—things have been hectic lately.

    Tags: K'Tai qel Letta-Tanku

    Chapter V

    Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd was shown to another round stone room in the Temple, empty except for an examination table set in the center of the room and a black folding screen sitting off to one side. A white sheet, embroidered with more inscriptions that he could not read, was draped over the table. Directly overhead a round lamp shed icy white light on the gray stone walls.

    Presently the door opened, and in walked an old, decrepit-looking Gand male in a simple, rather grubby and tattered gray cloak. From the various pouches, vials, and strange little metal tools hanging from his belt and jutting from his pockets, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd guessed that he must be one of the healers of the Great Temple. Though not full-fledged Findsmen themselves, temple healers—whether at the Great Temple or the smaller temples of individual sects—had some basic training in the Findsman’s meditative arts and made regular use of them to ascertain their patients’ conditions and make diagnoses. Accordingly (and his parents had stressed this ever since his first routine visits to healers as a small child) it was still considered appropriate to treat a healer with all the deference and respect due to a Findsman.

    It thus came as somewhat of a surprise to Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd when the old healer clasped his hands across his chest and bowed to him.

    “Good day in the name of the Mists, young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.” He spoke slowly, in a somewhat quaint accent, drawing out the vowels in the name.

    “Good day, Your Mystical Honor.”

    “You are much younger than most who seek the path of the Mists. Thus Wotruk must examine you and ascertain whether you would be able to withstand the physical hardships of Findsmanhood should the Mists will that you become apprenticed.”

    “Yes, Your Mystical Honor.”

    “Now, if you would be so good as to position yourself upon the table here.”

    The young Gand obeyed. With some difficulty he mounted the examination table and squirmed onto his back, pulling the folds of his gown behind him. Without another word, the old healer began to examine his young patient’s body in detail. First he ran his finger along each of Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd’s mandibles, then peered inside his mouth, then then felt each exoskeleton plate with two fingers, then probed between the plates with various tools from his belt in order to examine the joints; the young Gand squirmed at the cold touch of the metal on his soft interstitial tissue. He was not sure exactly what the old healer could feel or tell by probing every square centimeter of him, and here as in the first testing room he received no indication of how things were going.

    The examinations continued. Wotruk took his young patient’s pulse, checked his reflexes, peered into his eyes and earholes, drew a blood sample from between the chitin plates of his right leg, and swabbed inside his mouth and earhole for cell samples. Just as with the initial palpation, everything was done excruciatingly slowly and carefully, and the healer insisted on absolute stillness and quiet.

    At last Wotruk opened a closet door set into one wall, from which he removed a cart containing a large boxlike metal device with a few controls and a small, rudimentary viewscreen. This he wheeled up beside the examination table and powered up with a flick of an old-fashioned toggle switch.

    “It has been mentioned that you have some small ability in the Findsman’s intuitive meditation, even though you are not yet apprenticed,” the healer said as he attached three electrodes to the young Gand’s head, “Is that true, young one?”

    “Gand thinks so, Your Mystical Honor.”

    “Now, please be so good as to enter the state of meditation so that Wotruk can take a reading of your brainwaves.”

    “Gand will try, Your Mystical Honor.”

    “Excellent.” Wotruk tapped a few controls, and the machine beeped and clicked in response.

    Again Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd closed his eyes, just as he had done during his previous round of testing. This time, however, instead of breathing deeply, he began humming the tune from the music box. It was well known that Findsmen sometimes entered their meditations by chanting or singing to themselves, and Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd was determined to try this approach for himself now that he had a pleasant tune fresh in his mind. For several minutes he lay there with his eyes closed, listening—to his own humming, to the quiet clicking of Wotruk’s claws on the controls, to the low beeping of the machine, and to occasional mutterings from the old healer:

    “Common sentimental ditty . . . Befoggèd trinket, they should lock it up . . . the son of Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd should know better . . .”

    * * *

    Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.

    That one name plunged the young Gand straightaway into trancelike, swirling darkness.

    Father.

    The Guardian.

    The Guardian stands before the long, broad window of his Temple quarters, watching the wispy silver vapors rising from the great misty void at the Sacred Capital’s edge. Night is falling; a gray haze is creeping in, dimming even more the purple and blue of an already dreary day. Storm-fogs threaten; menacing bursts of rain bespatter the glass.

    It is much like a day from many years ago that the Guardian remembers well: the day his younger son was born. He stood before this very same window as his beloved wife, his own Otila, with all the healers of the Great Temple surrounding her, toiled and bled to bring their second son to the light of the Mists. A full rotation of pain and woe culminated in three whole days of harsh labor. With her first she had been able to ease her discomfort by meditating; with her second she was unable to extract a single speck of soothing intuition from the Mists. Her Findswoman’s sense was being sapped away from her, she said, just as a gardener saps all the nectar from his ik-ga bushes at the end of the cold season to keep the nail-grubs away.

    Now the Guardian stands awaiting the verdict of his fellow ruetsavii concerning the same son born that stormy night, the same son who had brought his mother such pain and sorrow.

    And tonight, as then, he stands before the window, beholds the angrily swirling storm-fogs, and has a vision.

    A young Findsman with silver eyes—himself as a youth?—walks slowly toward him, with a strange glowing sphere of energy shimmering golden-green between his strong clawed hands. Before the Guardian can grasp the jeweled vibroblade inside his cloak, the younger Findsman hurls the glowing orb at him, knocking him to the ground.

    The Guardian lies helpless, unable to move as his strange young double stoops down and wrenches open his cloak and tunic, leaving his neck and chest bare in one of the Findsman’s most degraded attitudes of defeat. With one knee on the Guardian’s chest, he rifles through the Guardian’s inner pockets, wresting forth blades, ammunition cartridges, binders, chronometers, even the miniature illuminated Book of Light that had belonged to Zukfel long ago. Everything he finds he dashes ruthlessly to the floor. Then, with claws larger and sharper than the Guardian’s ever were, he wrenches from the clasps of Guardian’s cloak the tassels signifying him to be janwuine—one of greatness, worthy of first-person self-reference.

    Finally, in a single, swift, horrible motion, his spiked fist pierces the chitin of the Guardian’s chest, dispatching him with a final bloodcurdling shriek to foggy oblivion . . .

    * * *

    Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd awoke with a jerk to find himself in the very room he had just seen in his vision—if vision indeed it had been, for it had felt more like a horrible fever-dream: the Guardian’s Quarters. He lay on an upholstered bench in the central room of the quarters, with a worn-looking dark gray garment—one of his father’s field cloaks—thrown over him to serve as a blanket. Over him loomed the black stone statue of the two ancient Findsmen. They were, of course none other than the two of which his brother had told him: Trynfor, reclining near death, and Zukfel, kneeling at his side and receiving something—the mystical Treasure?—from him in clasped hands.

    He sat up and peered around the room. It was empty except for one other—and he started with horror to see who that one other was. His father was standing pensively at the window on the opposite side of the room, contemplating the blue-gray storm-fogs that churned outside—exactly as he had appeared in the vision in the examination room.

    Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd froze—partly from fear, partly from the vain hope that his father would not notice him. But that was impossible. How could anything or anyone be brought to the Guardian’s Quarters without the Guardian’s own knowledge? And certainly Fengor had sensed in the Mists his son’s awakening; more likely he was simply ignoring him, perhaps even feigning that he had no younger son, and especially not one who was being evaluated for apprenticeship in the Sacred Trade . . .

    Summoning his courage and breathing a brief prayer to the Mists, the young Gand rose and approached the imposing blue-robed form at the window.

    “Father?”

    Nothing could have prepared him for his father’s reaction. Fengor jumped visibly, stumbling backward several steps. His mouthparts popped loudly open as he half shouted, half gasped:

    “No . . . please, no!”

    “Apologies, father . . . Gand did not mean to—”

    “So, you’re awake at last, are you?” Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd could not help but jump a little as his father came suddenly to himself, his overwhelming fear of a moment ago instantly and inexplicably banished. “You’ve been lying there senseless almost an hour now. The healing wing servants who brought you were clearly deranged or half-witted . . . first they said your brain-scan readings were so far off the scale that they overloaded the scanner, and when I asked why, they said you were asked to meditate during the brain scan. I cannot believe any competent temple healer would ask that of a mere child. Is this true?”

    “Yes, Father,” replied the boy. His fear was gone now too; he drew himself up and looked his father in the eye. “Healer Wotruk asked Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd to meditate. And Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd did meditate.”

    “Oh, did you, then?” Fengor crossed his arms in a sudden, incredulous gesture, causing a loud, distasteful clack from the exoskeletal plates of his torso. “And what did the Mists show you, boy?”

    What did the Mists show you? If indeed it had truly been the Mists, and not the turbid and obfuscating fogs of illusion, that had shown him what he had seen . . . A spike of pain shot through the young Gand’s head as the terrible image formed again before his mind’s eye: the mysterious young Findsman advancing on his father, forcing him to the ground in defeat and degradation, and finally striking him through the heart, all as the storm’s fury pounded and raged outside . . . And he knew who that mysterious young Findsman was . . .

    Father!

    Fengor reeled in horrified surprise as his son threw his slender arms around him in a sudden violent embrace, dislodging his jeweled chronometer from its place on his belt and knocking it to the floor.

    “What is this, boy?! What in the Holy Madman’s name are you—”

    “Father! Please!” Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd tightened his grip, erupting into sobs as he pressed deeper into the dark blue brocaded robes. “Oh, Father, Gand would never do anything to hurt you! Really! Please believe him!”

    Off! At once!” roared Fengor. In one swift motion—an escape technique from the ancient Gand combat arts—he grappled free of his son’s embrace. The youth fell backward to the ground with a shriek.

    Just then the door-chime rang. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd scrambled to his feet; Fengor grabbed his timepiece from the floor, hurriedly smoothed his robes, and spun around to face the door.

    “Yes? Come in!”

    The door opened to reveal a Temple messenger in the typical slate-blue uniform. He bowed low to Fengor with his hands clasped over his chest.

    “Gand begs pardon for intruding upon Your Mystical Honor,” he said. “The Council has made its decision. All is prepared.”
     
  9. earlybird-obi-wan

    earlybird-obi-wan Chosen One star 6

    Registered:
    Aug 21, 2006
    exciting update with the healer and the experiences in the mists
     
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  10. WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    Fascinating and compelling =D= =D=
     
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  11. Kahara

    Kahara FFoF Hostess Extraordinaire star 4 VIP - Game Host

    Registered:
    Mar 3, 2001
    Uh oh. That's a disturbing vision. Poor kid, trying to do everything just right and he somehow ends up angering (and really, probably frightening) his father again. Details and atmosphere are fascinating as always.

    I'd like to be on the tag list. :)
     
  12. K'Tai qel Letta-Tanku

    K'Tai qel Letta-Tanku Jedi Grand Master star 3

    Registered:
    Apr 18, 2000
    Oh wow! The story deepens. Great post! =D= The tension between son and father is compelling. I'm looking forward to more.
     
  13. Goodwood

    Goodwood Jedi Master star 5

    Registered:
    May 11, 2011
    Yowza.

    I'm liking the psychology of this chapter. It seems to me that this vision isn't necessarily of the future or past, but may be based on the father-son connection that has been established in the story thus far. I think the poor kid accidentally got a peek into his own father's mind and the shock of it overloaded them both, as it perhaps confirmed a nagging fear in Fengor's own mind.
     
  14. Findswoman

    Findswoman Fanfic and Pancakes and Waffles Mod (in Pink) star 5 Staff Member Manager

    Registered:
    Feb 27, 2014
    Thank you all. :)

    Goodwood, I appreciate your saying that, because psychology is one of those things I often feel I have a hard time writing about (I feel I'm much better with pretty descriptions of clothes, buildings, lacquered music boxes, etc.). Yes, you are right that our protagonist is basically eavesdropping on his father's vision, which is an extremely disturbing experience for both of them, especially given their troubled relationship. But as you may recall from earlier chapters, there's more at work than just simple jealousy...

    I will say that when I first started writing this, I didn't intend for the father-son conflict to loom as large as it now does. My original plan was to make Fengor nothing worse than a crotchety old curmudgeon (based in part on my late father-in-law), but he kind of grew into something more menacing than that. Which is fine with me so far. :D More will be revealed along the way, of course...
     
  15. Chyntuck

    Chyntuck Force Ghost star 5

    Registered:
    Jul 11, 2014
    I just finished reading what's already up. This is an amazing story, Findswoman! I'm very impressed at how you fleshed out Gand culture and society from what little there is in the EU, your plot is captivating, and even though I'm not a native English speaker, I'll say that this is very well written. Looking forward to the next instalment :)
     
  16. Findswoman

    Findswoman Fanfic and Pancakes and Waffles Mod (in Pink) star 5 Staff Member Manager

    Registered:
    Feb 27, 2014
    Thanks so much, Chyntuck, and welcome! Good to have you here. What is your native language, out of curiosity? At least from what I can see, your English is absolutely superb. :)

    The next chapter (which will be the last chapter of part one, and which will include a short epilogue) is on its way soon—I just have to give it one more quick proofread, is all.
     
  17. Findswoman

    Findswoman Fanfic and Pancakes and Waffles Mod (in Pink) star 5 Staff Member Manager

    Registered:
    Feb 27, 2014
    All right, then, here goes! This will wrap up part one.

    Tags: K'Tai qel Letta-Tanku, Kahara, Goodwood




    Chapter VI

    Before he knew it, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd found himself once again hurried into place for another solemn procession. The heavy brocade of Findsmen’s formal robes rustled busily around his diminutive gowned form. One pair of spiked, clawed hands straightened his shoulders and back; another rubbed fragrant ointment on his head; another gently polished the chitin of his arm with a block of sparkling light-blue stone. He could not tell to whom the hands belonged—perhaps Stavrien or Ussar or Wotruk or his mother. He knew they did not belong to his father.

    His recent vision still haunted him. Or rather, his vision within a vision—the disconcerting experience of eavesdropping on revelations the Mists had intended primarily for another. Its images flashed through his mind even amid the elder Gands’ attentions and ablutions. He thought of the mysterious younger adversary with the glowing sphere in his hands, whom he had seen throw his father down and strip him of all his tokens of rank and prestige, and who so closely resembled his father as to seem like a younger version of him. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd knew it could be no one but himself; even in his early childhood he had heard others comment on the resemblance between him and his father, and indeed they shared the same silver eyes and brown chitin. But even more frightening was the thought that he could ever be capable of treating his father with such violence, even if the latter was a disagreeable old thing sometimes. And when he had tried to tell his father so, there before the window in the Guardian’s Quarters, all he had gotten in return was anger, repulsion, and—fear . . .

    Out of the cornermost facet of his eye, beyond the rustling robes surrounding him, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd glimpsed his brother, Gorruss, now clad in his own ceremonial cloak of deep loden green. He stood off to the side with his master, watching the proceedings and occasionally making gestures of encouragement in his younger brother’s direction. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd wished he could have just a moment to converse with his brother, to tell him about his vision, to ask his opinion of their father’s horrified response. Could it have anything to do with what Gorruss had told him earlier that day about Trynfor’s Treasure, about Trynfor’s Prophecy, about the Uncanny One? Indeed, Gorruss had not even gotten the chance to finish telling him everything . . .

    But there was no time now. The procession started on its way through the halls of the Great Temple, and young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd noticed to his dismay that he and his brother would not be walking together this time. Instead he went between Ussar and Stavrien, who guided him by his shoulders. In front of them he saw his brother’s teacher walking beside the slightly stooped, silver-eyed Findsman from the ruetsavii council chamber, and then his parents and Gorruss. Wotruk, the healer, was first in the group, carrying a large crystal orb full of effervescent golden-green liquid.

    Slowly and deliberately they trooped through the seemingly endless Temple corridors. Young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd found himself perking up as he began to perceive the distant music he remembered hearing during the first procession. Craning his head, he noticed that several more high-ranking Findsmen in opulent ceremonial attire had joined the procession ahead of Wotruk. They looked straight ahead as they trooped forward, ever erect and stately in their bearing.

    They turned down a narrow hallway, darker than the others. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd could barely see more than a few centimeters in front of himself. He wondered how it was that those ahead of him could make their way through the blanketing darkness as confidently as in full daylight. It was only by feeling the two pairs of hands guiding him that he was able to walk forward with confidence. He still heard the distant voices, which swelled ever more clearly as the group processed forward; he also noticed, for the first time, that the echoing boom of boots on the stone took its pace from the far-off song.

    Suddenly a bright golden light pierced the gloom. The group had arrived once again at the tall rotunda with the flimmering colored windows and the rectangular pool, which now was filled with clear liquid. Before it stood the elder with the orbed staff who had greeted the family earlier that day. To his right stood Fengor and Otila. High above the ethereal voices filled the round room with otherworldly harmony.

    The elder struck his staff thrice on the stone floor. At this signal, the music overhead was silenced, and all present assumed an attitude of prayer, bowing their heads, and folding their hands over their chests. In a deep, clear baritone, the elder began to chant something in the language of the Book of Light. As he did, the Findsmen who had formed the procession arranged themselves into a close border around the pool. Their heads were bowed, and many moved their mouthparts silently in their own murmured prayers.

    Again the elder struck his staff, calling out as he did so:

    “Forward, Healer Wotruk.”

    Wotruk saluted and bowed, then advanced to the pool. He lifted the golden-green orb above his head, where its glow melded for a moment into the misty golden light of the dome. With one swoop he flung the glowing sphere into the still pool. Its waters flared up iridescent and golden on the impact.

    All waited silently for the waters to die down. As soon as they did, the officiating elder’s rich tones boomed forth again in a single name, which was then echoed by the choir high above:

    Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.

    The young Gand trembled, but Ussar and Stavrien coaxed him forward. The elder addressed him again.

    “In the name of the Sacred Visionary Mists and by the authority of the Council of Masters, you have been found worthy to become apprenticed in the sacred ways of the Findsman. It is the unanimous opinion of those who tested you that your intuitive and mystical abilities far surpass what is typical for your years.”

    Young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd could feel his shoulders trembling beneath the hands that supported them. Was it really true? Was he really going to be initiated as an apprentice Findsman? He had dreamed of his moment his entire young life—so why was he so afraid, so uneasy? He remembered why as soon as he saw the silver-edged dark blue brocade of his father’s robes looming in his peripheral vision.

    “The customary initiation rites call for a cleansing bath, known as the Waters of Purity,” continued the elder. “But you are younger than most who seek the mystical path of the Findsman. Your body and spirit are thus in need of additional preparation for its sacred mysteries. Therefore it has been decided, with the consent of your parents, that you shall immerse in Trynfor’s Waters.”

    A murmur of awe went up form those assembled at the sound of the name.

    The elder came closer to the young Gand and knelt to his level. “Perhaps you have heard of Trynfor’s Waters in the old stories,” he began, this time in much quieter, more conversational tones. “They are a recreation of the Holy Madman’s own growth hormone. One day, when he was a mere boy—around your age—the waters sprang up on his body and began to eat away at his chitin. He was most alarmed and in great pain, and no one could help him. At last he ran into the woods and threw himself into a deep pool, where he lay for several weeks in meditation. When he finally arose, his chitin had hardened, and he was fully grown.

    “So it shall be with you. Trynfor’s Waters will break down your juvenile plates and slough them off. You will grow to the size of an adult. But it will still take several days for your adult chitin to finish growing, and you will spend your period of recovery here in the Temple under the supervision of healers. Once that period is complete, you will have the body of an adult and a Findsman.”

    He paused a moment, then spoke again in the clear, booming tones in which he had begun:

    “Do you understand, and are you prepared?”

    Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd bowed. “Yes, Your Mystical Honor.”

    “Then advance, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.”

    The hands on his shoulders guided him forward to the edge of the pool. Again the mysterious voices overhead began their song, and all present bowed their heads and responded in their own low, solemn chant. Golden mists began to filter in through the metal mist-vents set into the stone wall. The young Gand inhaled deeply . . .

    The next moment the shimmering liquid was rushing and surging around him. Its effervescence enveloped his body, tickling as it crept between the chitinous plates of his exoskeleton. These waters seemed infused with the very Mists, surrounding him, enfolding him, and making him Theirs. It was no dream, no vision: he would emerge from them a Findsman, at once servant, guardian, and confidant to the Sacred Visionary Mists forever. Above him the many pairs of faceted eyes peered down at him through the liquid, merging into a gray, foggy blur. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd began to feel himself sinking, the sparkling Waters pouring into his mouth, nostrils and earholes. Was he to drown in the Mists’ own embrace just as They had finished making him Their own? Please, gentle Mists, he prayed, do not swallow this Gand up in darkness!

    Just then the light of two golden eyes pierced the murk. Their incandescent glow—like incense lamps—seemed to warm and calm the Waters, whose gentle surging now sounded almost like a deep, gentle voice. . . .

    Uncanny One . . . Guardian’s son . . . my chosen . . . mine . . .

    Finally the young Gand felt several pairs of claws gently lifting his limp frame from the golden waters. A different voice was sounding in his ears—that of the officiating elder, which resounded through the stone rotunda, half speaking and half chanting:

    “Behold Findsman Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, chosen servant of the Sacred Visionary Mists, now and ever and from eternity to eternity.”

    * * *

    Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd lay prone in bed in the healers’ wing of the Temple, his legs spread apart, his arms stretched out over his head. All his muscles ached. He could not move. Except for his head, his entire body was soft, spongy, and tender, since Trynfor’s Waters had dissolved his chitinous exoskeleton. Ten small black triangular generators placed around the edge of the bed generated a Healing Field around him—paired repulsor and attractor fields that held him rigid and motionless, hovering slightly above the mattress. A blanket covered him, mostly for purposes of privacy; it was too thin and worn to provide warmth.

    He was larger now, the size of an average adolescent male of his species. The Waters had caused him to swell up to this new size within a few hours of his immersion. It would be a few more days, however, before his adolescent-sized exoskeletal armor—from which the Findsman’s defensive spikes and serrations would later be able to form—would finish growing to full size, and the slightest movement of any part whose armor had not yet fully hardened would almost certainly result in deformity. Nor were his muscles yet strong or toned enough to move with his larger-sized body; they too would need time to grow. At least his hands and head had completely hardened within the day following his immersion, since they did not have to grow as much as the rest of his body. But in his spread-eagled position there was very little he could do with them, and his head still had to remain motionless in order to allow the armor of his neck and shoulders to harden.

    It had already been three full days since he had been brought to the healing wing. Several times a day a healer or Temple servant would come in to check on his growth progress and bring him food. He was hungrier than he had ever been before. Before his bath in Trynfor’s Waters he had not needed more than two light meals a day, nor had he needed to purge his system more than a few times every week. Now, however, the growth hormones from the Waters had caused his muscles to grow so quickly that he needed to take in more nourishment—and pass more waste—than was normal even for a growing youth.

    And given his immobile state, eating at least gave him something to do to pass the time. With each day, the sheer boredom of his situation—lying there wide awake, yet unable to move any part of his body—became more and more oppressive. He could not even fall asleep, because his body simply was not tired; as soon as he had been taken from Trynfor’s Waters and brought to the recovery room, he had plunged at once into all the sleep he needed for that week. He could not handle books or datapads until the rest of his arms finished hardening. His mother came to visit him at least once each day, often twice; she would sit with him and tell him stories and sing him little songs just as if he were a tiny child again. She and the healers were the only beings that had come to visit him during his convalescence. His brother had returned to his studies, and his father—well, it came as no surprise to him that his father had not visited him once.

    He also tried meditating to pass the time, since he had much on his mind. There were, of course, the usual questions asked by all new initiates: what would happen after his recovery? Who would be the Master Findsman—or Mistress Findswoman—to whom he would be assigned for training in the Sacred Trade? What would his training in the Sacred Trade be like? But he also pondered the experiences of his testing and initiation: the song of the music box in the testing room, the alarming vision he had shared with his father, the immersion in Trynfor’s Waters, the voice, the golden eyes . . . Again and again he closed his eyes to begin meditating on these things, either singing quietly to himself or listening intently to the low, monotonous drone of the Healing Field generators, and each time he did the same two eyes shone forth into his, fixing him with their burning gaze . . .

    And then some healer or Temple servant would come in to check on him, feed him, clean him, or otherwise jolt him back to reality.

    On the fourth day of his recovery, at around the usual time for his mother’s visit, the door to his room opened. His mother entered, as usual, but she was not alone. With her were four important-looking Findsmen, all of whom Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd recalled having seen before. He recognized the two who had tested him, the cobalt-eyed Stavrien and the green-eyed Ussar; the large, dark, bulky Okkfel Taagu, his brother’s teacher; and finally the stooped Master Findsman with the gray-green chitin and the friendly silver eyes.

    “Greetings, dear young one,” said Otila, drumming her claws gently on the upturned side of her son’s head. “Mother comes with important and joyous news for you.”

    She beckoned for the three guests to come forward. They ranged themselves close around the side of the bed facing Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, their long robes rustling as they did so. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd half-closed his eyes, feeling supremely embarrassed to be surrounded by such illustrious visitors in his vulnerable, exposed state.

    “Gand offers most humble greeting to Your Mystical Honors,” he said, following the protocol he had learned as a small child.

    “Volokoss offers you the same,” said the Findsman with the stoop, kneeling beside Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd and touching his head gently in blessing. “Be of good courage, young one, for great honor has come to you.”

    From an inside pocket he produced a large, formal-looking document sealed with four seals, whose colors corresponded to the eye colors of the four visitors. He handed it to Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, who took it and began to remove the seals slowly one by one; the armor of his lower arms had only just finished hardening earlier that day, and he could now use his hands for a few simple tasks. With a little effort he unfolded the document, revealing handwritten words in the most formal calligraphic script of the Gand language.

    “Please read that to us.”

    The assembled visitors clasped their hands and bowed their heads as Ng’xvi-Ta’al Lhúd began to read, his newly grown hands trembling as he did so:

    By the will and authority of the Sacred Visionary Mists
    The ruetsavii and Findsmen Elders of Gand
    Hereby declare
    That the recipient of these letters
    Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd
    Son of Fengor saa Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd
    And Otila saa Khassvani uur Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd
    By virtue of notable accomplishments
    Rendered all the more remarkable
    By the paucity and tenderness of his years
    (Here followed, in formal language, an account of the mock Hunt and the examination in the Temple)
    Has attained to the status of talwuine
    And is thus worthy to be addressed
    By the Name designated for him by his Parents and Elders
    ZUCKUSS
    May their blessings be upon him and his forever





    Epilogue

    In the meditation alcove of his Temple quarters, Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd opened his eyes. For four days now, ever since the day of his younger son’s initiation, he had not been able to glean a single jot of insight from the Mists.

    And now, suddenly and violently, a dire intuition—a dreadful hunch—had engulfed his mind in a sudden miasma of black fog.

    Is it still there?

    He rose to his feet and burst through the gray gossamer curtains of the alcove into the central room of the quarters, pausing before the immense statue that adorned it: Trynfor the Mad and his faithful tarnuur, Zukfel Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.

    Is it still safe?

    He reached up and grasped their clasped stone hands in his own hand, keeping it there for several moments.

    It must be safe . . . the Mists would have told him if it were not . . .

    He shuddered and closed his eyes. The same dire intuition assailed him again.

    Or would they have?

    What if it already happened long ago, without his knowing . . . ?

    Taking his shockstaff from a closet and feeling in his inner pockets for his jeweled vibroblade, Fengor left the quarters and made his way with urgent footsteps through the endless corridors of the Temple, then descended countless stairwells and lifts to the Temple’s deepest, darkest catacombs—rumored to be halfway to the core of Gand. With the aid of the sacred keys entrusted only to him, he passed through one locked door after another, until he stood before Trynfor’s Vault, the sacred crypt that held Gand’s most precious treasure.

    No, no, it must be there . . .

    Certainly it must . . .

    Fengor put his hand to the door and closed his eyes. Mechanically he put key to keyhole, opening the heavy door to reveal what he already knew.

    Trynfor’s Vault was empty.

    END OF THE FIRST PART
     
  18. Goodwood

    Goodwood Jedi Master star 5

    Registered:
    May 11, 2011
    Oooooooooooh, now that's what I call a payoff pitch! The plot thickens like frozen molasses! :D
     
  19. Chyntuck

    Chyntuck Force Ghost star 5

    Registered:
    Jul 11, 2014
    Aw aw aw! Now we have to wait for part 2??????

    I won't repeat myself since I commented on this story just days ago, but let's up the thread a bit, it deserves it!

    PS: Thanks for the compliment, Findswoman. My mother tongue is Greek.
     
  20. WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

    WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Chosen One star 8

    Registered:
    Aug 31, 2004
    How incredibly interesting the passage into becoming an initiate. The epilogue is intriguingly mysterious. =D=
     
  21. earlybird-obi-wan

    earlybird-obi-wan Chosen One star 6

    Registered:
    Aug 21, 2006
    interesting developments and great read about him getting a new exosceleton. The epilogue is intriguing
     
  22. Kahara

    Kahara FFoF Hostess Extraordinaire star 4 VIP - Game Host

    Registered:
    Mar 3, 2001
    Whoa. I probably should have expected that twist with his name, but nope. I'm actually a bit floored. :eek:

    There seems something awkward about expecting the adult exoskeleton to work out well when he has a child's mind; but then, it's alien biology and perhaps they know something I don't. Then again, maybe that's part of how he ends up who he is later. Hmm. Anyway, really liked the description of how the exoskeleton has to set without any movement from the patient and how ordinary tasks can only slowly be resumed.

    Love the epilogue with Fengor discovering the artifact missing. That doesn't sound like a good sign... Congrats on finishing; it's been a wonderful read. :)

    (Of course, now I'm hungering for the sequel/s. :p)
     
  23. K'Tai qel Letta-Tanku

    K'Tai qel Letta-Tanku Jedi Grand Master star 3

    Registered:
    Apr 18, 2000
    Great wrap to part 1! I like the description of the biology, especially the idea that the growth hormone in the waters is what causes him to age physically. Very cool. I'm anxiously awaiting part 2.
     
    UltramassiveUbersue and Kahara like this.
  24. Findswoman

    Findswoman Fanfic and Pancakes and Waffles Mod (in Pink) star 5 Staff Member Manager

    Registered:
    Feb 27, 2014
    Goodwood, Chyntuck, Nyota's Heart, earlybird-obi-wan: Thank you very much! I'm glad the epilogue came off to your liking. :)

    Kahara, you make a very good and intriguing point about how (and whether) Zuckuss's immersion in Trynfor's Waters affecting might affect how he becomes who is later. I admittedly hadn't really thought about it in those terms before, but I can certainly see where the stress of having a youthful mind in an adult body could well lead to a bit of... instability later. It is something I'll try to play with in later chapters. ;)

    K'Tai qel Letta-Tanku, I'm relieved that the biological details with the recovery seemed convincing to a biology-knowledegable person like you; I had to get a lot of help with the biological aspects early in the genesis of this story, since it's an area I don't know well. I think I might even have had him physically clamped down with clamps in an early version, but my beta reader at the time suggested the field instead—about which I'm glad no end!

    Once again, thank you all for your wonderful comments and continued interest. @};- I'll do my utmost to ensure you won't have to wait too long for part 2, though given RL and all... (This chapter isn't really the "end" of anything—it's part of a longer, close to novel-length story, and I'll probably end up just through numbering the chapters anyway, so that next will be "part 2, chapter 7.")
     
  25. Findswoman

    Findswoman Fanfic and Pancakes and Waffles Mod (in Pink) star 5 Staff Member Manager

    Registered:
    Feb 27, 2014
    And now, after only six whole months ( :p ), on to part two! Besides being generally clobbered by Darth Real Life, I also got kind of stuck on this chapter and the one after it, and it took a while to get unstuck. If you’ve heard me moan about a “Trouble Chapter,” this is it, and I am exceedingly grateful to @Nyota’s Heart for beta-reading this and providing helpful feedback.

    My plan is to try—try—to establish some sort of weekly or bi-monthly schedule of updates, though, to paraphrase a Yiddish proverb, “der mentsh trakht un DRL lakht.” In any case, if you would like to be tagged for updates when they occur, or if you would like to be removed from the tag list, please let me know.

    Following the excellent example of several other writers here, I am now going to be adding brief notes at the end of chapters with links to Wookieepedia, fanon posts, etc. as necessary.

    So, now, onward!

    Tags: K'Tai qel Letta-Tanku, Kahara, Goodwood


    Part the Second: The Findsman’s Apprentice

    Chapter VII

    One year later

    The first glimmers of morning twilight sifted through the golden mists hovering around the ancient mountains of the pocket colony of R’Kalýma. Set into these mountains like a jewel was the temple of the Lhúdanswani, one of the oldest and most respected all the Findsman sects of Gand, founded by Zukfel Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd himself. Like his father, brother, and ancestors before him, it was here that Zuckuss Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd was undergoing his studies in the ways of the Findsman.

    It had gone well so far. Exactly a year ago, he had been introduced to the assembled Master Findsmen of the Lhúdanswani temple, blessed and consecrated to the service of the sect, and led for the first time into the temple’s large central training arena to begin learning the elementary techniques of the ancient Gand combat arts. Like all beginning apprentices in the Lhúdanswani sect, he had undergone a year of intense physical and spiritual training. Rigorous physical exercise had alternated with periods of rudimentary meditation and devotion with only brief periods of rest between, bolstering even further the natural Gand ability to store sleep. Day in and day out Zuckuss had applied himself devoutly and enthusiastically to this vigorous regimen. By all accounts he was making exceptional progress: it was said that he had even begun to experience intuitive visions during his practice meditations. His fellow apprentices, both novices and the more experienced, respected him, flocking to him for advice on their own studies and requesting him as a sparring partner. Their admiration filled him with secret pride, though he always took care to comport himself in public with the requisite decorum and humility. Even more secret, however, was the relief he felt at no longer having to endure his father’s morose jealousy—at least not for more than for a few days during sporadic holiday periods.

    And now, as the first golden-white glimmers of Te’el-Viire-Gand (as Gand’s star is known to the planet’s inhabitants) filtered in through the small window of his cell-like quarters, Zuckuss was preparing himself for the important and eventful day ahead. Over a brown linen tunic and breeches—similar in color to his own chitin, as was traditional for the innermost clothing layer of a Findsman apprentice—he buttoned his golden-brown underrobe, which he fastened at the waist with a fringed sash. Next he donned his outer robes, simple brown and homespun in design, suitable for both exertion and contemplation. Finally he strapped on his outer belt and buckled on his filg-leather boots. He did not yet have the Findsman’s customary armor or shoulder harness, which were only given to more advanced apprentices; even those who had earned them almost never used them during regular temple training.

    By now Te’el-Viire-Gand had indeed fully risen, as proclaimed by the silver glow of the mountains and the aquamarine radiance of the clouds. Zuckuss knew he would be expected soon before three examiners—a ruetsavii-tí’kaa—for a formal evaluation of his progress. If this evaluation was satisfactory, one of the three would become his own Findsmaster, with whom he would continue his studies individually on a more advanced level.

    Zuckuss left his room and continued down a narrow hallway of brightly colored stained glass that reminded him of those glowing hallways in the Great Temple the year before; these hues were not as bold or deep as those he remembered, but they were perhaps warmer and cheerier. Little colored flecks of light danced on him and the other apprentices passing by as they exchanged gestures of greeting.

    Finally Zuckuss halted before the door to one of the temple’s many teaching rooms. He knocked by tapping three times gently with a single claw, following proper Lhúdanswani protocol.

    “Enter,” a voice said from within.

    Zuckuss did so. The room in which he found himself was round and of stone with a meditation couch in its center, like the one in which he had been tested in the Great Temple, but there the similarity ended. Instead of several cluttered shelves full of miscellaneous artifacts there was a single shelf of ancient tomes organized in neat rows, and instead of a single white lamp there were several windows of cool, dusky blue that reflected the warmer green-gold glow of several incense lamps. Backlit by this dim glow stood three high-ranking Findsmen in formal attire, awaiting him. Two of them Zuckuss remembered from his initiation ceremonies the year before: the large, blocky Okkfel Taagu, who had taught his brother Gorruss, and Volokoss Ratokk, with his profound stoop, his gray-green chitin, and his friendly silver eyes. The third, a female about his mother’s age with copper-colored eyes, Zuckuss recognized as Luyen Dzi’kel, the dean of the Lhúdanswani temple. Although he had seen her before in the halls and chapels of the temple, he had never been formally introduced to her, and indeed, it was surprising to see her come to examine a new apprentice like himself.

    “Zuckuss Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd offers most humble greeting to Your Mystical Honors,” he said as he bowed to the three, pressing his right hand to his chest and cupping his left hand below it.

    Luyen waved her hand in a circle over Zuckuss’s head and placed the other in the hand he had cupped to his chest. “Good morning and blessing to you, apprentice Findsman Zuckuss,” she intoned. “Volokoss, please begin.”

    Volokoss placed both hands on the head of the kneeling apprentice and began to chant softly:

    “O most Sacred Visionary Mists, glory of Gand, enthroned above the brooding fogs and swirling within the stars: Bless and guide those who here begin the sacred work of seeking You in vortices of fog, wind, and flame . . .”

    “ . . . and in the confines of chitin, keratin, and flesh.” Zuckuss gave the customary response in a whisper.

    “Thus prays Ratokk . . .”

    “And the unworthy pupil, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd . . .”

    “And thus may it be Your sacred will,” they finished together.

    Then Volokoss stepped back and Okkfel took his place. He cleared his throat loudly, then began in a mumbled undertone:

    “O most Sacred Visionary Mists, glory of Gand: Deign to vouchsafe Your gentle guidance to this student as he progresses to the next stage of his study of Your most sacred—URGHHH!”

    Before Zuckuss could react, Okkfel’s large spiked fist made sudden contact with his chest armor, sending him flying into the wall.

    “Really, Okkfel!” exclaimed Volokoss, rushing to Zuckuss’s side and helping him to his feet. “Was that necessary?”

    “A Findsman must always be prepared to defend himself,” came the gruff reply. “He was not prepared.”

    “But cannot this sort of thing wait until the combat component?”

    “He was within his rights, Ratokk,” Luyen put in coolly, glaring at Volokoss. “Now position yourself, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, and begin your Stillness of the Fog.”

    “Yes, Findslady Luyen.” His chest armor still smarting, Zuckuss sat on the round meditation couch in the middle of the room and arranged his robes about his knees. The ancient calming ritual called Stillness of the Fog was the first thing he had learned in the Lhúdanswani temple. It traditionally opened every teaching period, and Zuckuss was especially glad of the chance to perform it now after Okkfel’s outburst: it was useful not only in calming and opening the mind but also in easing physical discomfort.

    He closed his eyes, folded his hands in his lap, and began to breathe deeply, inhaling the sweet, musky scent of the incense lamps. Exerting gentle strength within and without, he was able to slow the progress of the Mists through him, little by little, until They stood still within his body and soul, hovering serenely like the glowing clouds of dawn outside the window. After several minutes all his tension and pain was gone, and calm reigned within him—along with glimmers of renewed resolution not to let Okkfel upset him. He exhaled a long, soft hiss and opened his eyes.

    “Zuckuss is ready, Your Mystical Honors.”

    As if to ascertain his readiness for herself, Luyen moved a hand slowly over Zuckuss’s head, then closed her eyes for a moment. “Very good, Apprentice Zuckuss,” she said as she opened them. “And now, Ritual of Discernment. Volokoss, please begin.”

    She handed Volokoss a small datapad. He switched it on and took a moment to read it. The muffled clacks of combined surprise and perplexity that he gave while doing so were not lost on Zuckuss.

    “Ah, yes. This will be . . . an interesting challenge for the youth. ”

    After gesturing for the young Gand to reposition himself for meditation and close his eyes, Volokoss began to chant something in a sort, warm, lyrical voice. Although he did not understand Volokoss’s words, Zuckuss recognized them as the traditional preliminaries to the Ritual of Discernment, in the ancient language of the Book of Light. At last, looking again at the datapad, Volokoss intoned in vernacular h’zav’Gand the question on which his pupil was to reflect:

    “To the Findsman thrown across endless leagues of stars to a mistless world, to a small Gand all alone beneath a poisonous sky, how can intuition come? For he cannot contain the Mists in his pouches, nor load them into his weapons, nor distill them into his phials.”

    As was customary, Zuckuss began repeating the question to himself in monotone chant: “‘To the Findsman thrown across endless leagues of stars . . .’ Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd humbly begs the pardon of Your Mystical Honors, but how can he hope to answer that with only one Ritual of Discernment? It is not a fair question.”

    Okkfel lunged close to him, his knobbly mouthparts snapping open disapprovingly. “What makes you think it is proper for an apprentice to speak so to his Masters, young one?”

    Zuckuss bristled a little at this remark, but he swallowed the feeling and turned his eyes contritely downward.

    “Gand apologizes most humbly, Findsmaster Okkfel,” he said. “Gand meant no disrespect. It only seems such an . . . unusual question for a Ritual of Discernment.”

    “The youth is not amiss in making such an observation.” It was Volokoss who spoke, looking at Luyen. “It is indeed somewhat extraordinary, and Volokoss would wager that few of the apprentices in this temple have been asked such things in their meditative exercises thus far.”

    Luyen turned to him. “The council would never present any student with a Discernment ritual beyond his ability,” she responded impassively. “Apprentice Zuckuss’s prodigious talent is well known to everyone in this temple. Why should either the council or this ruetsavii-tí’kaa waste his time with ordinary riddles when it he is both worthy and capable of intuiting things that are real and true?”

    Zuckuss shuddered. Real and true? Was it real and true that he would someday have to leave the Mists of Gand behind? Would he someday have to struggle with the problem of bringing Them with him far away from his beautiful homeworld? The glinting gaze of all three Masters was still fixed on him; he had no doubt they could sense his apprehension. Yet all he said was, “Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd understands, Your Mystical Honors.”

    Again he closed his eyes again and began to breathe deeply in and out, readying himself for the gentle inbreathing of the Mists. Possible meanings and interpretations and steps toward answers began to swim before him, around him, through him. He felt himself reaching out with his hand in attempt to catch these elusive possibilities lest they slithered beyond his reach . . .

    “Now just wait.” Zuckuss’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Okkfel’s snarling accents. “Okkfel never thought he would see a son of Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd writhing and reeling like a drunken Krúvanswani shaman. And straighten yourself.” In a single motion he straightened Zuckuss’s back as if it were a bent piece of metal. “You are a Findsman, not a gryckle-hen sitting on its eggs.”

    Again Zuckuss bristled inwardly, and again he stifled the feeling. “Apologies, Master Findsman Okkfel.”

    “Okkfel is harsh, but he is right,” put in Volokoss as he too, much more gently, began to adjust Zuckuss’s shoulders, head, and back. “In Stillness of the Fog a more relaxed posture is permitted and even encouraged. But for all other meditations the Lhúdanswani Findsman must maintain perfect alignment, with shoulders straight, head raised, and eyes straight ahead.” He made a few final adjustments. “There, better already. How like his father he looks now!”

    Again Zuckuss inhaled, and again he exhaled, trying to regain the correct rhythm of meditative breathing associated with the Ritual of Discernment, but it was difficult to do so while also focusing on his posture. No sooner would his breathing fall into place than he would feel hands adjusting him—sometimes gently, sometimes roughly, but always in such a way as to break his concentration. It took several minutes before the swirling possibilities made themselves visible and sensible once again, and this time he took care to reach out to them only with his mind. Through it all he repeated the question to himself again and again in slurred mystical murmuring.

    “ . . . to a small Gand all alone . . . There it is, Your Mystical Honors,” he said at last, his eyes snapping open. “He is a small Gand.

    “Well, of course, dear son,” answered Volokoss in a half-peremptory tone. “You are just repeating the words of the question now.”

    Zuckuss’s mouthparts clacked hesitantly open and closed. “Pardon Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd’s awkwardness,” he said. “He meant to say that . . . just as Gand-the-world is enfolded by the Mists, so also is Gand-the-creature, wherever he is. Even if one were to uproot the homeworld of Gand, wrest it from its path around Te’el-Viire-Gand, and move it into orbit around Alzoc or Sluis or Zhar . . . would not its Mists go with it? They are bound to it; they are part of it just as the water and ammonia and soil are. Where Gand goes, so must They.” He paused and swallowed. “And where any Gand goes, so must They. That is why the homeworld and the race have a common name.”

    There was silence as all three Masters gazed on Zuckuss with scrutinizing faceted eyes. Okkfel gave a few grunts. Finally Luyen spoke.

    “Very well done, apprentice Zuckuss,” she said, clicking her middle mandibles cheerfully. “Of course, there are infinite possible answers swirling endlessly in the Mists. And there are many reasons for the common name of homeworld and race, which you shall learn in your continued studies. But the answer you have given is more than apt, and it shows that your understanding of these mystical matters is far beyond what is typical for your age.” She paused, then continued more quietly, with a slight waver in her voice: “May that understanding not fail you when your own turn comes.”

    When your own turn comes . . . When, and not if. How certain she seemed . . . Had the Mists shown her something they had not yet shown him . . . ?

    “And now, Volokoss, the list, if you please.” These words from Luyen, once again in clear, commanding tones of authority, reminded Zuckuss that now was not the time for him to ask about such things.

    Volokoss bowed slightly to the Lhúdanswani dean, then took a datapad from an inner pocket of his robes and handed it to Zuckuss. He activated it and perused it. Its viewscreen showed a long and varied list that included not only new-model Merr-Sonn GRS-1 shockstun cartridges, a miniature portrait of Zukfel Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, and a set of ten vibroblades each engraved with a different chapter from the Book of Light, but also the only three female servants of the temple, the only two Non-Breather apprentices studying in the temple, and the droid that served as Luyen’s secretary. It was a hunting exercise Zuckuss knew well: he must use his skills in meditation and tracking to hunt within the temple complex for everything and everyone on the list, and bring them before his three examiners.

    “Is everything clear?” asked Luyen.

    “Yes, Your Mystical Honor.”

    “Good,” she replied as the younger Gand shifted into meditative position once again. “May the Sacred Visionary Mists guide you to success in your hunt, Apprentice Zuckuss.”

    Volokoss hurried over and made a small adjustment to Zuckuss’s posture. “And for the love of the Holy Madman,” he interjected, “keep your shoulders straight!”


    Notes and References

    Virtually all the Gand terms and Findsman techniques mentioned in this chapter (Book of Light, gryckle-hen, h’zav’Gand, Ritual of Discernment, Stillness of the Fog, and Te’el-Viire-Gand, etc.) are my own creation and are described in my Glossary of Gand Findsman Techniques, Rituals, and Technology in the Fanon Thread. The sect names Lhúdanswani and Krúvanswani are likewise my own invention, though they’re not listed there yet. Ruetsavii-tí’kaa is based on the canon term ruetsavii (Gand ritual examiners) and essentially just means a group of three such examiners.