Gordon, though still feeling the lingering fullness from Mr. Suhat's breakfast, followed his mother inside. He knew she had gone to the effort of preparing a meal, and he didn't want to disappoint her.
However, as he sat at the table and surveyed the food before him, his appetite waned. It was a simple meal, as always: a bowl of thin porridge, a few boiled vegetables, and a piece of coarse bread. While he appreciated his mother's effort, the memory of the rich, creamy milk, the soft bread, and the flavorful fried eggs from Mr. Suhat's breakfast made the simple fare seem incredibly bland. He couldn't help but compare the two, and the contrast was stark.
As they ate, his mother, her initial anger replaced by a quiet concern, asked, "So, where were you all night, Gordon? You know I worry."
Gordon hesitated, not wanting to burden her with the true, terrifying events of the night before. He decided to offer a simplified version, one that wouldn't cause her undue alarm.
"I was at Mr. Suhat's," he said, his voice casual, though a little strained. "He had a bit of a… rat problem. I stayed to help him take care of it."
His mother's expression clearly conveyed her skepticism. She raised an eyebrow, her gaze lingering on Gordon's face, as if searching for any sign of deception. She had known her son all his life, and she could tell when he was holding something back.
However, she also recognized that Gordon was no longer a child. He was a young man, capable of making his own decisions. She respected his privacy, his right to handle his own affairs. So, with a sigh, she decided not to press the issue.
"Alright," she said, her voice neutral. "Just… try to let me know next time. I worry." She returned to her meal, her silence a gentle reminder of her unspoken concern.
"Yes, Mother," Gordon replied, his voice filled with gratitude for her understanding. He was relieved she wasn't going to press him further. If it had been a simple matter of dealing with a ghost, he might have been able to share a diluted version of the story. But the nightmare, the consuming of the High Priestess's soul, those were things he could never reveal. They were too dark, too disturbing, too far removed from the simple reality of their lives. He knew his mother would be horrified, and he couldn't bear to see that fear in her eyes.
Having finished his meal, Gordon excused himself from his mother's company. He needed to get to the Hunter's Guild. He had already taken several days off, and he couldn't afford to be absent any longer. He knew that if he continued to miss work, the guild might refuse to pay him, and he desperately needed the income.
He left the cottage, the morning sun casting long shadows across the village streets, and made his way towards the guild hall. He walked with a sense of urgency, his mind focused on the tasks ahead, trying to push the unsettling memories of the past few days to the back of his mind.
As Gordon entered the bustling hall of the Hunter's Guild, he immediately spotted Brock, the burly hunter with whom he had a less-than-friendly history. To his surprise, Brock raised a hand in greeting, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"Gordon! Good to see you back," Brock boomed, his voice surprisingly jovial.
Gordon, taken aback by the unexpected greeting, hesitated for a moment. He had expected a snide remark, a mocking jibe, or perhaps even a cold shoulder. Brock's sudden display of friendliness was completely out of character.
"Uh… hello, Brock," Gordon replied, his voice laced with a hint of suspicion. He couldn't help but wonder what had prompted this sudden change in demeanor.
Gordon's surprise deepened as he noticed something strange, something almost imperceptible, emanating from Brock. It wasn't a smell, exactly, but a… taste. A faint, sweet taste, like the crispness of a fresh apple, hung in the air around Brock. It was a subtle, almost ephemeral sensation, but it was undeniably there.
Gordon's brow furrowed. What the fuck… he thought to himself, his mind reeling. He couldn't explain it. He had never experienced anything like it before. Was it his imagination? Was his mind playing tricks on him? Or was there something truly strange happening?
Unaware of Gordon's internal turmoil, Brock misinterpreted Gordon's stunned silence. He chuckled inwardly, his delusion running rampant. He's probably shocked that a hero like me would even acknowledge him, Brock thought, a smug grin spreading across his face. He's probably heard the stories, how I helped defend the village from those cultists.
In reality, Brock knew deep down that Gordon was the one who had truly faced the cultists and saved the day. He had witnessed Gordon's bravery, his skill, and the genuine fearlessness he displayed. But his ego, his desperate need for recognition, had twisted the truth in his mind. He had convinced himself that he was the hero, that he had played a pivotal role, and that Gordon was simply a bystander.
He's just a dork, surprised a hero would say hello first, Brock thought, puffing out his chest slightly, enjoying the imagined admiration. He actively suppressed the nagging voice of truth, the voice that whispered of Gordon's actual heroism.
Meanwhile after reporting back to the Hunter's Guild, Gordon was assigned to patrol the village outskirts, a routine task that usually yielded little excitement. He spent half a day walking the perimeter, his eyes scanning the surrounding woods, his ears straining for any unusual sounds.
The day was uneventful, the village outskirts quiet and peaceful. Boredom began to creep in, a dull ache in his mind. He had been hoping for some action, some challenge to occupy his thoughts.
As the hours dragged on, Gordon's mind drifted. He thought about the strange powers he possessed, the abilities he was still struggling to understand. The events of the past few days, the consuming of the High Priestess's soul, had left him with a sense of unease, a feeling that he was changing.
He decided that perhaps this quiet time was an opportunity. Maybe he should use this lull in activity to experiment, to train, to try and gain some control over his abilities.
Gordon pushed aside the lingering fear, the memory of the thousand screams that always seemed to accompany the use of his powers. He found a large, flat stone, a natural seat amidst the quiet woods, and settled down.
He closed his eyes, taking a deep, calming breath. He began to meditate, using a technique taught by the Hunter's Guild, a standard practice for calming the mind and focusing one's inner energy. He focused on his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, the gentle rhythm of his inhales and exhales. He tried to clear his mind of all distractions, to create a blank canvas upon which he could explore his abilities.
Gordon took another deep breath, his mind focusing on the familiar sensation of his power. He called upon it, feeling the surge of energy coursing through his veins, a raw, vibrant force that filled him with a sense of immense power. A strange, almost intoxicating thrill washed over him.
As the power flowed, the screams began. They were faint at first, distant echoes, like the cries of birds carried on a distant wind. But they were not the chirps of birds, they were the agonized wails of countless souls, a cacophony of despair.
The screams grew louder, closer, as if they were swirling around him, converging on his location. They were no longer distant whispers, but a deafening chorus of anguish, a terrifying symphony of suffering.
Gordon braced himself, knowing the screams were an unavoidable consequence of wielding his power. They were an integral part of it, a constant, harrowing companion. He had learned to accept them, to view them as a necessary evil.
He reminded himself that these very screams had been instrumental in his victory against the spider-headed creatures. They had provided him with a raw, primal energy, a surge of power that had allowed him to shatter the High Priestess's spell. Without them, he would have been powerless, trapped in her dark magic.
He tried to reframe the screams in his mind, to see them not as a source of terror, but as a tool, a weapon, a source of raw, untamed power. He needed to master them, to control them, to harness their energy without succumbing to their overwhelming despair.
Despite his attempts to control his fear, the sheer intensity of the screams became unbearable. The cacophony of agony overwhelmed him, a tidal wave of despair crashing against the walls of his mind. He tried to focus, to channel the power, but the screams were too pervasive, too deafening.
He could feel his control slipping, his resolve crumbling. The ringing in his ears intensified, a high-pitched whine that threatened to drive him mad. His breath came in ragged, hitched gasps, his chest heaving. He was on the verge of panic.
He couldn't take it anymore. With a trembling hand, he cut off the flow of power, the screams abruptly ceasing, leaving behind a deafening silence. He slumped forward, his head bowed, his body trembling. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally, the strain of the power and the screams leaving him drained.
Gordon sat there, his shoulders slumped, a wave of disappointment washing over him. He felt disheartened that his training session had been cut so short, that he still couldn't control the overwhelming power and the accompanying screams. He longed for guidance, for someone to teach him how to harness his abilities, but he didn't know where to turn.
He remembered the Keepers of the Flame, the mysterious figures who had promised to give him pointers, to help him understand his powers. He had felt a surge of hope when they had made that promise. But they had vanished, leaving him to fend for himself. They hadn't even bothered to show up when he and Markus had fought a bloody battle against the cultists, a time when their guidance would have been invaluable.
A bitter taste of resentment filled his mouth. They had made a promise, and they had broken it. He felt abandoned, left to grapple with a power he didn't understand, a power that threatened to consume him.
"What bastards," Gordon grumbled under his breath, his voice laced with frustration and a hint of anger. He clenched his fists, the feeling of betrayal still fresh in his mind.
He stood up, brushing off the dirt and leaves that clung to his clothes. He couldn't dwell on their broken promises. He had a job to do. He resumed his patrol, his footsteps heavy, his mind still reeling from the failed training session and the lingering resentment towards the Keepers of the Flame.
Gordon continued his patrol, his mind still preoccupied with his frustrating training session. As he rounded a bend in the path, he spotted Sella, the village herbalist. She was struggling to carry a large, heavy pot, her face strained with exertion.
Concerned, Gordon approached her. "Sella, you look like you're having trouble," he said, his voice gentle. "Let me help you with that."
Sella looked up, her expression relieved. "Oh, Gordon, thank you," she said, her voice slightly breathless. "This pot is much heavier than I anticipated."
She gratefully accepted his offer, and together, they carried the pot towards her garden, a small, enclosed space filled with a variety of herbs and flowers.
As they walked, Gordon's senses were once again assaulted by that strange, ephemeral scent. But unlike the faint apple aroma he had detected on Brock, this scent was warm and inviting, like freshly baked cookies. It was reminiscent of the delicious cookies he had enjoyed at Mr. Suhat's house, a sweet, comforting fragrance that made his mouth water.
He tried to pinpoint the source, his nose twitching, his brow furrowed in concentration. To his utter confusion, the scent seemed to be emanating from Sella. He glanced at her, his eyes wide with disbelief. How is that possible? he wondered. He had never noticed any unusual scents coming from her before.