The Natural Order of Things

Though energised from Drawing, Ferre felt as though he had not closed his eyes in years. He was too skilled. A regular man could not Draw as much energy at once as Ferre had, and the mental exhaustion that always followed Ferre's Draws was almost unbearable. It was an odd imbalance — he felt physically stronger, more agile, but his thoughts were awfully groggy.

He let out a monstrous yawn as he and the merchant reached the kiosk. The sun rested just a few degrees above the distant horizon, though the sky was still decently bright.

"About those bones," Ferre said, as the merchant slipped back into the shelter of the kiosk. "What do I owe?"

The merchant hesitated, thoughtful. "Five bit per bottle," they suggested. "I mixed ten bottles, but I can do more if you need them." There was a note of guarded respect in their pale eyes that had not been present before.

Ferre fished a handful of ten-bit notes from his pocket, counted out five, added a sixth on a whim, and slid them across the counter. "The extra ten's to keep you from ratting on me," Ferre said, hoping his joking tone was clear.

The merchant rolled their eyes. "As though I'm nearly a prominent enough figure in Aurandren," they replied, but pocketed the money anyway.

"Pays to be careful," Ferre said, only half joking. "Say, I don't think you gave me your name."

"It's Finch."

"That's a name?"

"Close enough," said Finch with a shrug.

Ferre studied the young merchant for a few moments. They were slight, thin-shouldered and long-limbed, scruffy blond hair shoved haphazardly into a threadbare cap. Their features were decidedly foreign, though not nearly to the extent that Ferre's were. He pondered it for a second more, then allowed himself to smile. "If you find yourself in need of my service, ask around. They might not treat outsiders much better than a heap of dead rats, but they sure do like to talk about them."

And with that, Ferre turned on his heel and padded away, bottles in tow, noticing the glaring lopsidedness with which he moved. He sighed, reaching up to button his coat, and Stabilised until he no longer felt as though he were treading on a hillside. Content, he kept walking, but the lurch in his step would never be so easily willed away.

Stability came so much easier with such a wealth of energy stored. It wasn't like holding rails for balance, it was more as though gravity shifted to accommodate every movement Ferre made. If he were to bend to the side, he would stay rooted to the ground as sturdily as a house.

Ferre was positively crackling with energy. That wouldn't look good walking down the street — people were already giving him looks; they knew who he was, but not what. To Aurandren, Ferre was a mystery. Since he had arrived here all those months ago, he had learned more about himself from the mouths of complete strangers than he ever had from his own thoughts; the sensation of renown was not a new one to him, but it was unsettling all the same. Perhaps, had it been a more welcoming popularity, he would not be so uneased.

He felt eyes on him from every direction. Sucking in a breath, he plunged a hand into the deep pocket on the bottom of his coat and felt around for the wishbone he kept there. It was well-worn, smooth and slightly oily with years of such use. Slowly, Ferre Lit the wishbone, a mildly unpleasant sensation tickling his spine as the vast majority of his Charge was siphoned into the bone. Wishbones were essentially useless, but they were bone, and bone stored energy.

Lighting was a tier seven Manipulation, meaning it used a little of each bone — and enough Charge to power a townhouse — to function in even a small amount. The wishbone grew warm in Ferre's hand, then cooled. He quickly buttoned the pocket, but the oily yellow light oozed from the fabric anyways.

Ferre repositioned his pallet of vials in his left hand, then tucked the right one into a different pocket, continuing on his way. He was not far from his flat now.

He turned at a side road; with the first few steps, the omnipresent ache in his chest grew, tugging him back with an incorporeal insistence. That was to be expected; his back was facing the sun, and whatever had first placed Ferre on the chessboard didn't seem to like him travelling in the opposite direction. Doing his best to ignore it, he approached a tall and rather grungy-looking structure, its doors flaking mottled blue paint onto the bridge and down into the water below.

Leaning on his cane with the arm occupied by the box of vials, he rapped five times in quick succession on the aged wood. The knocks echoed back eerily from within; Aurandric tenements weren't exactly known for their lavish interior decorations.

The doorman that opened it — eventually — was a wizened little ferret of a creature, hardly five feet tall, with a twisted spine and a shock of colorless hair to match. He gave Ferre a respectful nod and retreated; Ferre ducked his head to avoid knocking it on the doorframe, hearing the soft click of the door from behind him.

"Thank you, Hap," Ferre said, touching two gloved fingers to his sternum. A gesture of genuineness.
He pulled his coat, still half-unbuttoned, a little tighter, and started up the stairs. Rot, he hated stairs.