✧ muster - to call forth, to summon up ✧
What will you choose to bring into this world? What self will you choose to embody?
A roiling bloom of aether unfurled inside of Tiergan’s chest, expanding like wings beneath his rib cage, into his lungs. It felt both natural and alien all at once, new and terribly, frighteningly ancient at the same time. He ignored it as he burst into the Astral Advent Headquarters, too focused on the urgency of the moment to think about the power welling quietly inside of him.
The others had already set out for battle and Tiergan had been too late to heed the call. The Advent Headquarters was suffocating in its near silence, and the growing fear that it might remain that way - stark and bleak in its emptiness - was enough to send the gladiator sailing back out the door. He needed to pursue his companions.
What will you pour from your vessel this day? What will you offer to others and yourself?
As the world blurred around him, streaking into a dizzying array of color and light from travel - Tiergan worked to convince himself that he needn’t worry. Had his friends not survived worse before? Had they not already fought all manner of man, beast, demon, and would-be god enough times to endure near anything at this point?
All of that confidence abruptly withered the moment Tiergan crossed the bridge that led into the damned township of Thernli and was greeted with a heavy miasma of blood. It bruised the air with its intensity, staining the sky a thick, arterial sanguine. As he breathed fetid copper into his lungs, tasting it sharp upon his tongue, he couldn’t help but wonder whose blood it was that filled his mouth.
The sound of combat rang in the distance, and Tiergan shot from a horrified stagger to a sprint. Through the scarlet haze, he could see familiar silhouettes in the distance - his companions gathered in a final stand - and beyond them, an army.
Tiergan slammed shield-first into the front-line as a vicious blur of ivory, black, and gold; his blade ripping into the first solid form it could tear into not long after. The horde of mottled crimson was countless in number, but he was not too late. His friends were all still here. They were all still alive. He was not too late.
What is the shape of your soul in this moment? What will you allow yourself to become?
Joy and relief suffused everything he was, chased by a surge of focus, of determination. That aether, so alien and new, so ancient and familiar, so terrifying and comforting all at once, sat waiting patiently inside of him. And at last, he gave in, pouring of himself all he had to muster, all of his love, his admiration, his urgent, growing need to protect the people he’d grown to count on and believe in. Intention given focus, focus given form.
The gladiator breathed in, and when he exhaled the aether expanded, power swallowing him whole.
