Boots crunched on the stone-scattered seashore as Finnigan made his way through Howling Fjord. While his “mentor” was located towards the top of the highest mountain-- a sort of meditative peak-- the navyman enjoyed spending a little bit of time by the shore to reflect on previous sessions.
Today, though, nothing could lift his dreary mood.
He angled his travels towards a murky, fog-basted rockface that was supposed to house an item. Heading inside what felt like a shallow cave, he found the smooth gray teleportation stone nestled towards the back, marked with a single blue rune that matched the ones glimmering on Leviathan’s haft. Finn’s gloved hand reached forward and pressed against the stone-- which was surprisingly warm to the touch-- and then, he vanished.
Leviathan clanged tensely against Moonlight. Finn stared at his former sword in silence for a moment, then at the creature that wielded it.
His mentor was tall, clad in a long, midnight-hued cloak that glimmered with thousands of unknown constellations, constantly shifting. Black and red plate-and-leather armor hung around his skeletal body, preserved and mummified to withstand thousands of years of decay. Two glowing blue eyes peered out from the inky blackness of a Spartan-esque helmet, never blinking and always burning.
“You have yet to harness your emotion correctly,” it rasped. Finnigan was easily a foot shorter than the creature, who stood at an incredibly imposing height. “A weapon wields no strength unless the hand that holds it has mastery over themselves. You lack passion, you are reckless and unsteady, and you bend either too easily or not at all.” Sheathing Moonlight on his hip, the shade plodded several steps through the densely-packed snow and towards his protege.
The peak in which they trained was flattened, with a great dragon’s skeleton wrapped around the main arena. If Finn squinted hard enough, he was able to see three large pillars in the distance, although the sleet fell too quickly for him to make out much of anything.
Despite the freezing environment and the high altitude, the thaumaturge still managed to keep just enough air in his lungs and just enough heat in his body to keep going. It was like they were in a bubble; everything was dialed back just enough to allow him continued survival.
“Show me that you remember what I taught you before.” The giant man had to hunch, his undead figure clearly burdened by long-atrophied muscles. Finnigan wasted no time in repeating the move he’d practiced dozens of times: slam down the spear, then follow by throwing it viciously towards the heart of the target. As he slapped Leviathan’s blade against the dense-packed snow, a vicious rumble of earth made the massive undead lose his footing just long enough for Finnigan to line up a clean shot and throw.
Stabbed through the chest, the undead fell. He lay upon the sleet-soaked hills for some time before moving to his feet and drawing the polearm from his chest. “Good,” he praised simply, offering the spear back to his apprentice. “Now, let me show you something new...”
Finn appeared on the seashore again, eyes narrowed. Leviathan in hand, he moved towards the ocean, spinning the polearm in his hands as he began his diligent practice.
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