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Stepping Wild, Draft 2, CH 65
🕑 Added 2025-06-11 13:00:04 +0000 UTCTibs took a deep, shuddering breath, and laughed. He was alive. He didn’t know why it felt amazing this time. It wasn’t like this was his
Tibs took a deep, shuddering breath, and laughed.
He was alive.
He didn’t know why it felt amazing this time. It wasn’t like this was his first return from an audience, but the red-brown of his nearly unending reserve seemed to pulsate with joy.
He laughed again.
He stretched as he stood.
There was so much of that essence in his body he didn’t understand how it wasn’t what had leaked out of injuries.
He ran before he understood he did it.
He laughed again.
Running felt good.
He pushed himself. When the essence bunched in his leg, and he felt the strain begin, he moved it away and ran faster. He jumped over the alleys with ease and ran faster still. When the larger gap of a road became noticeable in the distance, he pushed harder.
He wouldn’t make it, but slowing wouldn’t let him cross it either.
And he wanted to try something.
Every essence could be used to recreate the effect of the other ones. Since he could cross the gap using Air, he could use Fever to do the same, but in a different way. He couldn’t make disks out of it, since Fever was the element of his body, but it let him do something else similar to what he’d do with Air to cross.
Instead of compressing the element under his feet, so it would launch him when he released it, he wound it around the bones in his legs, and compressed that ever more. The tension rose, but he controlled it.
When his foot landed on the edge of the roof, he released this essence.
The bone shattered, but the pain mixed with the elation of flying high over the road. Then, with the joyful fear of the roof he was falling toward much too fast.
His leg folded with multiple snaps of bones as he touched down, and more pains were added as his body hit the roof, rolled and skidded to a stop.
He laughed as he cursed the pain; rolling to his back.
This would be easier if he could suffuse himself. He’d be able to…. He had no idea what this element’s limits were.
He laughed.
Pain was such a great reminder that he was alive. But he couldn’t stay there.
He wanted—needed—to run.
Abyss, did moving that essence around hurt. Everything he moved with it seemed to grate against something else within him. Straightening his legs, pulled on the muscles painfully. Aligning the bones felt like he was rubbing sand on an open wound.
It was glorious.
But it wasn’t enough.
He pulled Purity from his bracer and applied the etching over all the pains. It was much faster than before. It didn’t have to take time to align what was wrong, so there was more of the etching left to move onto the next part to heal.
Oh, would this make healing from a fight so much easier.
He sweated from how hot he burned, but unlike when fire consumed him, this felt good. It was a burn he wanted—needed—to feel more of.
He ran.
He pushed himself again, made himself burn and leaped over alleys as he headed for distant buildings; tall and richly decorated. They would offer different challenges; other ways to push himself.
New risks to make him feel alive.
When a road approached, he compressed the essence in his leg again, but differently. Pain was good, but he didn’t want to lose time to healing.
He wanted—needed—to continue moving.
He never wanted to stop running.
He surrounded the bones with a denser sheath of Fever. Almost an etching, with how he connected the essence to itself. A scaffolding, the way workers built them around building to hold them until the supports were in place.
When he launched himself over the road, he didn’t go as high; but the bones didn’t shatter. The cracks were small, hardly caused him pain. And he remembered to tumble on landing, keeping from adding damage. An etching and they were healed by the time he rolled to his feet and was running again.
By the fourth road, he had it down to the point his left barely received any damage. By the time he crossed into the noble neighborhood. He didn’t even think about how to move the essence for his jumps.
The coming plaza separating him from the four story building needed more thought, but he didn’t slow. Longer distances simply meant more essence, more compression, more release. His tumble on landing wasn’t graceful. And repairing the damage kept him on his back, laughing, for a bit.
When he stood, he didn’t run for the edge, but to the window. This was where he’d push himself differently.
He climbed with ease, then was disappointed that it was unlatched. He’d wanted to come up with ways of using Fever to get in. He slipped in, closed it behind him, and latched it.
He took in the bedroom before stepping to the door, and it opened.
He stared at the servant as she closed the door before noticing him. He’d been so focused on how good he felt he hadn’t paid attention to the essences around him.
She startled, hand to her mouth. “Oh. My apologies, my lord. I didn’t know someone was here.” She reached behind her while taking him in. She bit her lower lip, and while he didn’t understand why she did that, the way the Fever within her moved, pooled into private places, was somehow familiar.
“Don’t leave,” he said, his voice raspy with his own heat. He stepped to her slowly, deliberately, and she took him in again. Her breathing shallowed as some Fever moved to her chest, moved to her cheeks and they reddened. But she didn’t look away.
He placed a hand on her cheek and her Fever intertwined with that in his fingers. Her mouth parted and the Fever on her breath called to him.
He kissed her, and their Fever mingled, grew into more than had touched.
Her Fever grew and her kissing turned hungry. Her hands raked his vest and shirt out of the way. When her skin touched his, Fever followed.
He held her to him as he stepped back. They fell onto the bed and clothing was ripped off. Fever moved their body in unison, closer and closer and into one another.
*
He came-to slowly, unable to understand how he felt exhausted after sleep. He forced himself to think back. Something had to have happened.
He’d been attacked, had acted dead.
Instead of leaving him there, his would be assassin had called thugs to drag him to the Master as an example. He’d dispatched them, reached the roof, tried to get to his team and…
He died.
He’d had his audience with Fever.
He didn’t know why it was so blurry afterward, or how he’d returned channeling the element. A boon from them to…it couldn’t be. There was nothing threatening him at that point. Unless they didn’t understand that?
He’d run. He’d run hard, hurt himself. Caused himself glorious pain. Had reached a noble’s house, intending to—
Motion against his body. A woman’s pleased murmur. Flesh against his.
He fought the bile, and what he’d done exploded in his mind.
He was awake, rolling away and crashing to the floor. The woman on the bed made another sound, plaintive this time, but remained sleeping. The Fever within her a comfortable and relaxing heat.
Out
He needed out.
He grabs his clothing and then was outside, fighting for breath.
Not him. He hadn’t been the one doing this; he told himself. Fever had been who was—
He felt himself move against her, into her. He had been the one to—
He fought the bile down.
Abyss. How could he have missed what was happening?
He wanted to laugh at Jackal, Kroseph, and everyone else who’d told him that if he only did it, he would start wanting it.
He didn’t want it.
He swallowed the bile.
He never wanted this again.
As soon as he had his clothing on, he ran.
He ran and cursed himself for, again, falling victim to an element. He knew better after all this time, didn’t he?
He cursed that assassin for the poison that had given him the audience. He had no idea where she’d gone to, so he couldn’t make her pay.
But it didn’t matter. She wasn’t responsible, no more than her knife was. The Master had ordered his death, and she’d just carried—
His stop was abrupt enough he nearly tripped.
His team.
Had the Master targeted only him or all of them?
He kept his anger under control while he headed for the place his team should be today.
*
The tavern Cynta had picked for this week’s meal wasn’t busy, and it made it easier for Tibs to tell they were there, and that no one stood out, essence wise. The relief they were safe was swallowed by the anger, no longer needing to be kept in check.
The Master had ordered his death, and that had led to his audience, which had led to him….
He’d deal with that afterward; once he could think clearly.
He almost turned away to make the man pay, but remembered something about criminal groups like this one, and the destruction that attempting to fill the void their leader’s death could bring to the city. Unless he made sure that void was quickly filled.
He shoved the door open instead of blasting it out of his way, barely able to keep his anger in check, now that he’d let it loose.
Charlie noticed him first, but soon, everyone in the tavern stared as he stomped to their table.
“You look like you’ve had—”
“Who wants to run this city’s thief’s gang?” Tibs growled, cutting off the fighter.
“What are you talking about?” Uzoma asked, as Charlie tentatively raised his hand.
“Really?” Cynta asked him. “You’re not even going to ask what this is about?”
“After everything Thibaud made happen?” the fighter replied. “Not really. If he’s making this his parting gift to the city, I’m going to accept it.”
“Yeah, something like that,” Tibs said. “And I don’t want it getting worse, so you be ready to break heads when the dust settles.” He headed out without acknowledging their questions.
“Thibaud,” Uzoma called before he made it to the other side of the road.
“Go back inside.”
“Not before you tell me what’s going on. Unlike Charlie, I don’t buy this being some gift.”
He rounded on the archer, and nearly struck him on noticing how close he was.
Uzoma quickly stepped back.
“He tried to have me killed.”
“And that’s enough to make you want to kill him back?”
“Yes,” he growled, fighting not to feel the body move against his. Not to remember the sounds she’d made. What he’d forced her to feel.
Uzoma scoffed. “Come on. We all knew that was a possibility. You do that, and he’s going to have you killed for real.”
Tibs snorted, focusing on that, instead of what he’d done. “Not once I’m done with him. Charlie can pick up the pieces and make sure things improve for everyone.”
“Really? I know he isn’t quite as dumb as he acts, but there’s no way he’s got the smarts to run something like that.”
“Then you do it. I don’t fucking care.”
“I’m not going to be here, and neither will you! So how about you think about the consequences before you—”
Tibs got in the man’s space. “I don’t have to think. I’m going to make him pay and I don’t fucking care if one of you steps up, or this city falls into the abyss afterward.” He turned and took a step.
Uzoma grabbed his arm, then was on the ground; lips bleeding.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” He turned and left the man, left everyone, behind.
*
The door to the Master’s base of operation exploded inward from the Air aided kick, and Tibs strode in.
He hadn’t been certain the Master would be here, where they’d first met, but he’d sensed someone sitting on the ‘throne’ in the man’s audience room, and he knew the Master would never let someone else sit there.
He sensed the room was crowded, with people on each side and by the door. Fever gave him a better sense of people since it was denser than Life, even in normal folks.
The thugs guarding the Master’s inner chamber attacked as soon as the dust settled enough they saw him.
Swords slashed and stabbed. One was smart enough her sword went through Tibs’s neck, and he smiled as horror fill hers and the other’s expression. He grabbed the closest thug and smashed him into the wall over and over until his face was flat. He crumpled to the floor when Tibs let go.
He kept one from escaping with Wood, the floor wrapping over the boot and climbing up to the knee. The last backed herself into a corner, no longer slashing cleverly, but wildly cutting his already sliced shirt and vest and nothing more.
When he grabbed her by the neck, he thought about pooling her Fever into her throat until she couldn’t breathe, but he saw the other woman’s Fever, climbing to her cheeks, turning them red. The Fever he forced into her making her claw at his clothing.
Never again.
He filled his hand with Earth and crushed her neck, leaving her wheezing, barely able to breathe.
The one trapped uselessly pulled on his leg.
Tibs picked up the sword and stepped to the man. “How about this?” he offered him the sword. “I’m going to put you in the same situation your Master puts everyone else. Take this sword. Cut your leg off with it, and I’ll let you leave.”
“I can’t do that!”
“Why not? It’s what your Master does. Make it so the only way out is deadlier than remaining under his boot.”
“Please, I have children.”
Tibs snorted, uncaring about the lack of light. “How many did that keep you from hurting at your Master’s orders? How many pleaded with you? Begged for a chance, before you cut them? Killed them? Just for not wanting to be a servant like you?”
The thug looked away, confirming his accusation. Before he could come up with excuses or justification, Tibs planted the sword through the man’s heart.
He considered repairing his shirt; it was mostly Wood essence, after all. The vest he let fall to the floor, even if he could fix that too, now, if he was willing to touch Fever. But it wasn’t like he cared about the impression he made.
Or rather, he didn’t care if he appeared horrible.
He filled his arms with Earth as he grabbed the double doors’ handles and the added strength caused them to slam against the wall. The dozen of so thugs now lined between him and the Master jumped. The others, thieves, beggars and con artists pressed against the walls.
He ignored them. They meant nothing. Just more of the Master’s servants. So long as they stayed out of his way, he’d ignore them.
“That goes for the rest of you,” He said. Then added, at the confused expressions, “I’m here for your master. Get out of my way, and you get to live.” He motioned over his shoulder. “They didn’t get out of my way.”
Fear filled their face.
“Any who doesn’t stand his ground,” the Master said, “will suffer greatly for abandoning me.”
Tibs shrugged. “If you think I can’t kill him, I’ll at least make your death quick. I blunted the edge of my angers on the others.”
Half ran at him.
He dispatched them quickly. Swords appeared in his hands only long enough for the slashes or thrusts to land. Those who had metal on their armor didn’t get the protection from it they expected.
Instead of running, those left were shoulder to shoulder. An attempt at a wall to keep him from advancing.
At least the audience had been smart enough to use the cover of the fight to flee.
He channeled Metal. “One last chance for you to live.” They all had metal on them. Only three had pieces of metal armor, but they all had a knife at their belt. Two had them in their sleeves, one in his boots.
They didn’t move.
He shrugged and sent the wave of Metal at them. On touching more, it caused that to expand in jagged chunks, piercing and cutting anything close, then expanding again.
He stepped over the lifeless bodies, absorbing the essence back into himself.
The Master stood, sneering. “You blame me for what happened, don’t you?” The mockery made Tibs stop. He hadn’t expected that reaction.
“You caused this,” he said through clenched teeth.
The man laughed. “I? I caused this? I’m the one who agreed to the rules I imposed and then did so much behind my back? Really? You are going to blame me for your actions?”
Tibs channeled Fire and had it feed his anger, burn away the memory of moving against her. The pleasure he inexplicably felt in that moment.
Instead of fear, the Master’s expression turned to disdain. “What are you going to do?” the man mocked. “Burn me? You think that’s going to make all those things you did vanish? You think that without me forcing you to look at the monster you are, no one else will see it?” his smile turned nasty. “That she won’t see it?”
“Shut up.”
The man laughed. “Or what? You’re nothing more than a child wanting to go home to his friend and family. Go home to his mother so she can—”
Tibs punched him, the fire covering his fist searing the man’s cheeks, leaving it smoking. “Don’t ever talk about Mama.”
The man laughed some more, getting to his feet. Somehow not seeming to feel the pain of his burned flesh. “Why? You aren’t brave enough to live without her? Do you go back to her when it gets too hard for you out here? Does she kiss it all better? Hold you the way you want a woman to hold you?”
Tibs glared, the ring of smoking floor expanding. “Shut up.”
“Or?” the man’s grin cracked the burned flesh. “Does she kick you out because even she wants nothing to do with you?”
Tibs’s screaming leap didn’t overtake the conflagration. He struck the burning, still grinning man as the unleashed fire spread ever farther.
Author's thoughts
I rework the approach of Tibs to the servant woman and the response to, hopefully, make it clearer the desire is mutual and not Tibs influencing her.
I also made sure to remember that Tibs would put his team first once he remembered them.
Beyond that, the only change I noticed making was how the Master behaves in taunting Tibs. Nothing big, but, knowing what I know, trying to make it more ‘intentional’.
