The valley's entrance was full of orchards and vineyards. His retinue picked fruits as they travelled, taking as much from the land as to avoid their supplies. But by evening, many of the trees were bare, or their fruit overripe–unusual for the season. They encountered many travelers on the road, heading southward for Nerithon. Wagons were dragged from the path to make way for his legionnaires. Philoxenians watched them warily from beneath their hoods, or behind the canvas of their carts. Those who travelled on foot merely bowed their heads supplicantly, walking-sicks in hand, and said not a word.

"Ho," Tenoris greeted a statuesque company of travellers who waited by the roadside. "We have come now to liberate your lands. Are you not happy? Rejoice! My spear is strong, and Skippii's fire is potent. He is the Heres Altay. Send word–spread his name. But do not fear him, unless you have some darkness in your hearts to hide."

One of the travellers looked up–a woman, bleak faced with unkempt hair. Her eyes followed Tenoris with a silent intensity. Skippii tried to read them, but a tempest was in her gaze–rains and grey clouds, but still the crack of thunder, and strength remained.

"Claie, ask them, where are they going? What are they fleeing?" Skippii said.

Cliae came jogging back to their procession a few moments later. "She said the lands ahead are in ruin. Her home is gone. She said…" Cliae licked their lips and leaned in conspiratorially. "Hjingolia."

"One of the incursors," Skippii said. "Thales informed me of her name. We shall have to pick his brains later."

As the sun set behind the westerly mountains overlooking the wide valley, they followed a beacon of firelight to a farmhouse. Skippii instructed his auxiliaries to stay out of sight while he and his legionnaires approached the house. Dogs barked at their arrival long before they reached the doorstop, and shutters were closed. Skippii reckoned he heard a latch creak into place.

"Orsin," Skippii said. "You know a little Philoxenian, don't you?"

"Bits."

"You've done this before though? Ask about using their barn for the night, and taking supplies. Whatever they can spare?"

"About a hundred times," he said.

"Go ahead," Skippii said. "Take the lead."

Orsin had to knock and wait three times before getting a response. An odd, dream-like state came over Skippii briefly, as though he had been here before at this moment in time. He looked over his companions, studying their faces. Cur crouched over a treestump, massaging his calves. Arius sat atop a horse beyond the garden's gate; he had bought, or else been given it, by the Lacustrian horsemen who accompanied them. He looked more natural on the steed than on foot, dark hair tied in a top-knot with his helmet strapped to his side. Skippii had come to think of him less as his legionnaire, and more as his chief scout, or cavalry lancer.

"It's overripe, I'm telling you," Drusilla chided. "You'll rot your teeth."

Kaesii had skewed a fruit from the high tree branches and brought it to his face to sniff it.

"I do not think so." Kaesii said proudly, and took a bite. His face scrunched up in disgust.

"Told you," Drusilla teased, nudging Kaesii with his shield.

"Fugkyou," Kaesii said, spitting it out.

Then, the farmer shut his door and re-applied the latch. Orsin turned from the porch with a sigh. "He's coming around the side, but he says they've got nothing to spare."

"I should have liked a warmer welcome than this," Tenoris rumbled. "We have hungry mouths to feed."

"They all do," Orsin said. "Well, they all argue that at first. I was persuasive, but he assured me they have nothing. Even offered to show me around his stores. They've had a hard spring, it seems… but I thought the weather was good."

"It was," Cur said. "He's lying."

"Or something else is at play," Skippii said.

The farmer did not make a fuss when they camped in his grape grooves–for there was little fruit to pick and steal. The Brenti auxiliaries bunched their tents together, sharing one campfire between fifty men. Skippii lit it swiftly for them, and shared a few brief conversations.

"How is the march? How are your feet? Keeping up with us legionnaires?"

His jokes were met with polite laughter, and his queries with brief affirmatives. He had begun to recognise a few faces within their ranks–elders, who seemed to hold more stature, recognisable by their long, oar-shaped beards. He made sure to talk with them. Their opinion of him would count the most, and he may need it if battle was hard.

His accompanying cavalry were more formally arranged and straightforward to convene with. The twenty horsemen had elected a leader–a rather short man called Cicero Vindonnus. His hair was long and blonde, braided like his horses' mane. He and his men carried bows, spears and light shields which could be strapped to their stirrup-arm. A versatile unit, capable of light-duties such as scouting and skirmishing, or if placed on the enemy's flank, a heavy spear-strike. Or dismounted, archers. Or, if necessary, to broaden his companeight's phalanx on foot. Skippii considered many scenarios as they marched through the day of enemies they may face, and how best he could place himself and his soldiers to defeat them.

But now the sun had set, and his duties lay elsewhere on the hills yonder. Taking his horse, he bid Arius lend Thales his steed, and with Cliae seated behind him, the three of them rode for a mile beyond camp to a hillside overlooking their campfires. There, he set about training his Primordial thaugia.

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Thrusting his fist into the earth, he melted the soil and baked it in fires, forming a Basalt Knuckle. Then, repeating the process, he plunged his arm deeper, fingers straight like an arrowhead, coating it to the elbow. Clenching his fist, he grasped at the earth and unearthed a steaming chunk. But as his fires hardened it, it did not take shape, and was very heavy to wield. His veins throbbed as his Boiling Blood evocation acted as a simmering strength, aiding his arm without fully propelling it.

Again he tried, but this time, he had an image in mind–a shield of rock, like his legionnaire's wooden one. A shield that would not burn to ash in his fires, but become hardened by them. All of this, he communicated to Cliae while he practiced, and Thales watched with silent rapture.

On his forth attempt, he softened the earth and withdrew a clump of soil–thicker at his forearm and broad. With the image in mind, he directed the fires of his flesh over its surface, hardening where he wished, and allowing the remaining mud to drip and fall away. What resulted was a jagged, thick slab of rock.

"The soil here is loose," Skippii said. "It's been tilled and worked on. There's not much stone in it. I don't think it's very hard, not like the ground around the foothills of the Sleeping Mountain."

"And that reduces its effectiveness," Cliae pondered, tapping on his earthly shield with a finger. "What if you dug deeper?"

"I'm not sure how I'd do that," he admitted.

"Like a well that draws water from deep underearth," Cliae said. "Can you draw minerals to the surface?"

"I can try."

Skippii took a step back and thrust his hand into the soil. But there he held it, clasped in a handshake with the earth. He shut his eyes and focussed on the sensation of heat underground–the vast ocean of power at his call. A massive, deep-red glow. But there were qualities to it too. As his mind wandered, he sensed rivers of fire, and geysers of steam, and islands of stone. Hard minerals and rocks.

Clawing with his fingers, he reached for them, and felt his magia spread far beyond his reach. With threads, he hooked those distant minerals, then slowly coaxed them to the surface. A residue of their forms drifted on the molten streams which he created, rising like water panes from a well. The earth around his arm grew denser, squeezing his muscle. Then finally, he clenched his fist, severing the streams, and withdrew his arm.

Focussing, he sent flames down his arm. And in his other palm, he wielded a fire and moulded the stone. Residue dripped to the ground, steaming in the cold night air. And when he finished, he raised the shield above his head, then brought it before his breast. It was as wide as his legionnaire's shield, but thicker and much heavier. But with his strength bolstered by Boiling Blood, he could handle its weight.

"Strike it," he said eagerly.

"What with?" Cliae fretted.

"A stick. A branch. Anything."

"I can't find anything."

"Here," Thales said, and struck Skippii with his stave. It bounced off his shield as though it had struck a wall. Next, Thales jabbed his shield solidly in the centre, but the rock was not brittle. It did not crack and break.

"Excellent," Skippii beamed. "Though I'll need Tenoris' strength to test it further."

Lowering his arm to the ground, he reconnected with his Magmatic Core and allowed the rock to melt away, forming a smooth stone at odds with the tilled soil.

"Basalt Shield," Cliae noted into their records. "Can you quicken its summon?"

"I'll have to," Skippii said. "I might need it in haste."

"Fascinating," Thales said, shaking his head. "I've never seen anything like it. Thaugia is subtle. Impervasive. But you… yours, is magnificent."

Skippii smiled politely, but he no longer shared Thales' sense of amazement. "It's no more powerful than the heretic's magia… But it should be. It has to be."

"I understand," Thales said, though there was a note of resignation in his voice.

"Remind me, Cliae, what other evocations have you devised?"

"Ah, well." Cliae rifled through their notes by torchlight. "Here. A cloud of ash. You- When you first summoned the flames, and evoked your Enkindle Aura, there would be steam and sometimes ash in the air. But I know you have learned you have long since learned to contain that power now, but what if you let it pour outwards? Can you create ash without needing a material to burn? Or a vapour haze of some sort? An obscuring cloud?"

"Ah yes," Skippii said. "I do remember. And I've given it some thought." Drawing upon his Enkindle Aura, he brought a naked flame to his flesh. His tunic–inteinwed with Hespera's silver essence–glittered like gemstone in the blue base of his flames. Then, directing the heat downwards, he let it sweep over the surface of the earth. There, it burned the soil and roots beneath, raising smoke and vapours. But his attention chased after them. Rather than see the cloud as an after-effect of his evocation, he tried to grasp at their wispy tails. But it felt exactly like that–grasping smoke on one's hands. Still, he felt its touch in his mind–its energy, quickly evaporating.

With a breath, he brought the vapours nearer. He extended his arms and drew them in. His thaugia was like a beacon, and slowly, the vapours bent towards him, forming a thin cloud. But before long, the ground was spent and dry. He moved to another patch and tried again with a little more success.

"Should we move on?" he said.

"No," Cliae said. "Stick at it. It's important."

Skippii creased his lips. He wanted to argue that this evocation was too minor of a development in the face of the Mantikhoras' presence. However, he kept his doubts to himself. Afterall, Cliae was his Chronicler. He ought to learn to trust their judgement.

And so, that evening was spent raising an ashen fog from the earth and drawing it about himself. By the time that the stars were bright in the sky, and the moon was a bright crescent, he was able to evoke a cloud on command.

"But it does as much to blind me as it does them," he said.

"It might send an arrow wayward," Thales said. "I like it. I have seen something similar before. The Coven of Lacustris–magi who served in the First Legion–they once sent a bank of fog forth over the land to mask the time of day and obscure the legion's advance. Combined with the Coven of Kylin–not the one you know, another, serving in the First–who obscured the sunlight with clouds, so that the enemy thought the night was long and drawing out. The legions then ambushed them in their camps before they had time to string their bows. A tactical masterpiece."

Skippii considered his tale, picturing it in his mind, trying to imagine his thaugia acting as that very same fog bank. "Are there many covens in the First legion?" he asked.

"One for each of their twelve Gods," Thales said. "It is the jewel of all your legions."

"I know," Skippii said. "I know each of their cohorts by name, and its Imperator, but I won't bore you. I just… I still know very little about the covens and pantheonos."

"There may be little to learn," Thales said. "You are acquainted with the Coven of Kylin who serve the Ninth. Zealots, all. Once you have met with one, you have seen them all."

"The Coven of Junorix didn't take too kindly to us." Skippii direct a grin at Cliae. "But, that of Maysones didn't seem so bad."

"All it would take is their God's decree, and they would become your enemies," Thales said. "I do not hate them like I hate the heretic. But the Pantheon… they have not been kind to this land either."

An idea occurred to Skippii then, as he untied his horse and directed them towards a stream at the foot of the hill. "Cliae. Have you thought about studying the enemy's powers in the same way we study mine?"

They narrowed their eyes. "I have not."

"It would be a good idea, wouldn't it? Know thy enemy. If it works for the legion, it should work for us."

"I can tell you a little," Thales said. "But I have spent my life seeking to avoid their magus, and few of my compatriots who have witnessed their invocations have lived to tell it. I certainly have not faced one in battle, as you have."

"Two, actually," Skippii smiled slyly. "Let's pool our knowledge. Oh! But let's wait until we are back with the others, and see what they have to say too."

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