Yomhalde, Part II (Catch & Release)

We're at the checkout.

Just your everyday gym bro and a nightmare from the Mariana Trench wearing dad-vacation cosplay and standing next to a mountain of cooked poultry like we're throwing a Fourth of July block party for the local eldritch horrors.

"Is this… uh… all?" the cashier croaks, her voice warbling like it's trying to escape her own mouth.

Her name tag says "Joann" and she's older, curls brushed with strands of gray (and me and Yomhalde aren't doing her any favors). Her glasses are on the tip of her nose, and her soul looks halfway out of her body. Her hands are shaking as she scans chicken after chicken. I'm tempted to chirp up and let her know she only needs to scan one, and can punch in the quantity. I guess my days at Save-Some-Bucks wasn't entirely useless.

But Joann is clearly in shock. Sweat is running down her pale brow as she actively tries to avoid looking at Yomhalde. I guess I'd be freaked out too if a seafood-themed boss monster in Pit Vipers was standing six feet away, muscled arms crossed over his chest and face tentacles writhing all creepy like.

"Yep," I say, dropping a box of heavy-duty garbage bags on top of the last of the chickens. In addition to cleaning out all of their rotisseries, I cleared an entire freezer of frozen whole chickens too.

"Party?" Joann asks, voice doing its best impression of "casual."

I nod. "Something like that."

"Big family?"

"You could say that."

Her eyes dart back to the pile of rotisserie chickens stacked into a shopping cart. Thirty birds, perfectly cooked, sweating under their clear plastic domes like contestants in a poultry beauty pageant. A second cart is beginning to be piled high with the frozen birds.

Joann scans one of the frozen chickens. Her scanner beeps. She scans it again. Beep. She tries a third time, then gives up and punches in the code manually with trembling fingers.

"I, uh… I think some of these are on sale," she says, glancing at me.

"Even better," I smile. "We love savings."

Yomhalde leans forward, which elicits a squeak from poor old Joann. "Who must we save to lay claim to this collection of meat?"

Joann's mouth moves, but no sound escapes her lips. Her voice had successfully escaped and was apparently a block down Euclid Avenue at this point. I extend my arm over Yomhalde, pushing him back. "Please ignore my buddy here," I say, giving the cashier my best impression of a disarming smile.

The conveyor belt rolls forward. One last item wobbles toward Joann.

A jar of kosher dill pickles.

I glance at Yomhalde.

He is very deliberately not looking at me. He's turned toward the ceiling, making a whistling sound like a kid who just snuck a candy bar into the shopping cart and is pretending to be invisible. His tentacles twiddle guiltily, fidgeting with the hem of his Hawaiian shirt.

I sigh.

"Fine," I mutter. "You can have the pickles."

He looks at me like I just granted him some kind of divine boon. His eyes sparkle as the tentacle beard on his face twists in delight. Somewhere deep inside his barnacle-covered chest cavity, I think his heart probably makes a happy gurgle.

"I shall cherish them," he whispers.

Joann bags them separately, extending the bagged pickles to me. I take them with a quick "Thank you."

Card swiped. Receipt accepted.

Then, with carts groaning under the weight of a poultry apocalypse, we make our way out of the grocery store. Behind me, I hear a shuddering sigh of relief.

We're back on a rooftop, not far from the store.

Yomhalde and I are sitting across from each other. I'm cross-legged, my sleeveless lightweight hoodie still sweat-stained from my run. The interdimensional squid brute is seated in a similar position, still wearing his disguise, the sunglasses dipping low on his nose-less face. Between us sit four industrial-strength garbage bags full of chicken. I double-bagged each one and still each bag looks like it's about to bust at the seams.

Yomhalde is on his second pickle. He's holding it up to his face tentacles, a soft slurping sound escaping whatever mouth lies behind them. Over the top of his sunglasses, I can see his blue eyes are glistening in what can only be tears of joy.

"These… pickles…" he moans, voice trembling with reverence as he slurps down the last of the pickle. "They taste of the Sea… How was the Essence distilled into such a form? Your alchemists must be extremely powerful in this Realm."

I ignore him, deciding it's not worth it explaining vinegar brine, cucumbers, and Jewish culinary tradition to someone who had been living in an underwater cave less than a day ago.

Instead, I dig through one of the bags and pull out a warm, glistening bird. Plastic clamshell creaking, steam curling out like a delicious, greasy soul escaping the chicken's roasted body.

"Here," I say, tossing the whole chicken across the bags to him. "Try one of these."

He catches it with surprising grace, large hands wrapping around the plump meat. And then he rips it open with all the finesse of a toddler set loose on a carton full of blueberries.

The chicken is gone in one long, wet frenzy. Skin, meat and bones alike get slurped up into Yomhalde's tentacles, accompanied by a sound like a toilet being plunged married to a blender. It's disgusting, and a little disturbing.

"Delicious!" he bellows, licking something off his bicep. "Is all food in this Realm so delectable?"

I blink. "Uh… I wouldn't say so. There's the Taco Bell cantina a few blocks down the street, but let's not ruin the magic…" And who's to say what a TB run would do to a monster's digestive system?

He stares at me, pupils dilated like a junkie seeing their first sunrise after a week-long bender.

"Okay," I say, wiping my palms on my shorts and sitting up straighter. "Well, there you have it. Food for your village. Now, it's time for your half of the bargain."

He nods solemnly and wipes a smear of chicken grease off his forehead tentacle.

I explain my Ritual Spell to Yomhalde, and the monster seems to understand. "Yes, yes," he says, shooing the air in front of him. "Do not treat me like some hatchling. My people have similar rites."

"Er—Okay, then," I say. Let's just hope this guy has enough mana to power this Spell.

I mentally prepare the ritual. A spell circle ignites beneath us—thin lines of blue-white light snaking out in delicate, precise runes. They shift and shimmer, inscribing themselves around our feet like sentient calligraphy. That's new, I think.

I reach out a hand.

"Now, just grab hold."

Yomhalde looks at my open hand. His gray-skinned hand reaches out—slow, unsure—and takes mine. It's slick and cold and a little like shaking hands with a fish.

The spell tightens. There's a pulse.

For half a minute, there's a link between us—like our brains are riding a very awkward tandem bicycle made of mana. A shimmer of energy flows from Yomhalde, the ribbons of pure mana wrapping around me before seeping into my skin.

As the ritual ends, the spell circle beneath our feet fades, dispersing into motes of blue fireflies that rise towards the sky before bursting into small clouds of sparkling dust, and disappearing on some unseen breeze.

I'm met with the gentle pulsing sensation in my mind and the soft ping! of a System notification.

Ritual complete! Pact of the Novice Scribe: Successful.

[New Spell: Levitate]

Levitate (Transmutation Spell – Level 2)

Casting Time: Instant

Stamina Cost: 20 Points

Range: 60 Feet

Duration: 5 minutes

Note: This Spell requires Focus. Focus Spells require a user to maintain a mental focus on upkeeping the Spell for the Spell to remain active. Once Focus is lost or disrupted, the Spell will end.

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Description: The spellcaster may select one target (which may be a living being, or an object, so long as the spellcaster can see the target). The target rises vertically, up to 25 feet, and may remain suspended in a state of levitation for the Spell's duration. The movement speed of this Spell is 'slow.' This Spell is capable of levitating targets with a weight equal to or less than three times the Strength capability of the spellcaster. The spellcaster is capable of moving a target affected by this Spell higher or lower (subject to the height limitation of this Spell). If the target of this Spell is a sentient being or object, it may resist this Spell with either Strength or Willpower. The spellcaster is not able to target himself or herself with the use of this Spell.

I blink. Check the System message again.

Levitate.

Not what I had been expecting to receive from a creature like Yomhalde. I still don't understand the logic behind the ritual and the Spells it divvies out. Perhaps it would be more clear over time… Or perhaps there was no rhyme or reason to it.

My heart had rose at the name of the Spell—not flight, but close enough. It then plummeted at reading the description of the Spell more closely.

Still, I grin like an idiot as the spell's instructions start burning themselves into my synapses. A new Spell is a new Spell, after all.

Yomhalde leans back, tentacles twitching thoughtfully. "That was… not unpleasant. But my Mana has been severely depleted. I must replenish my reserves!" The pickle jar appeared in his hands out of nowhere and he treated himself to another briny bite of pickle.

My entire body feels shaky as my Stamina bar zeroed out instantly as a result of the Spell's cost. I steady my breathing and give myself a moment to regain a few points of Stamina.

"Buddy," I say, clapping him on the shoulder-slime, "you just gave me the one thing every landling dreams of."

He blinks slowly. "Victory in battle?"

"No… No. Much, much cooler. The ability to move shit with my mind!"

Yomhalde is still sitting across from me, happily savoring the bite of pickle.

I stand up, brush chicken grease off my palms, and roll my shoulders.

Time to make something fly! Or... levitate.

With a dramatic flourish, I draw the Full Metal Staff from my Inventory. A spinning flurry of pixelated light forms around my hands, forming the barbell-turned-magical-weapon. The staff lands in my right hand with a satisfying thunk, still warm from wielding it during my running routine. I spin it with two hands, the last of the pixels of magical light flitting off the end sleeves of my staff.

The muscled cephalopod claps enthusiastically. "I see! You've moved that metallic stick from one dimension to another! What an impressive feat, landling! Impressive indeed!"

"Uh… That wasn't the new Spell."

"Oh."

"Er… Yeah. Just give me a second. Wait 'til you see this!"

"OK…"

I gently place my staff down and take a few steps back.

Then, I access my Spell menu and spot the new icon for the [Levitate] Spell. Focusing on it, my mind is instantly flooded with the mental impression of a pose—the physical position that acts as the Spell's focus. A quarter-turn position with my left shoulder facing the target. Then, I bring my left arm across my lower back. The fingers of each hand interlocking, locking out the triceps, after which I pull my shoulder back to display my chest, serratus and midsection. Finally, turning my waist to maximize the width of my upper body and really highlight the three heads of my left triceps. Side Triceps.

I cast [Levitate], targeting my staff.

Th staff hovers. Well, technically. It wobbles, about six inches off the ground, like it's trying to figure out if it's allowed to be doing this.

"Behold," I say dryly, gesturing toward the slowly twirling, floating barbell just as it reaches eye level. "The beginnings of my aerial dominance."

Yomhalde glances up from his shredded dinner. "Is it... ill?"

"No," I mutter. "Just underwhelming."

I focus, trying to nudge it forward. Maybe give it a little lateral action. Something… cool, maybe?

[System Message: This Spell only alters altitude. Directional movement unavailable.]

Oh, right.

"Great." I squint.

I adjust its height. It ascends obediently—glacially—rising over our heads at a pace that makes tectonic plates look impatient.

Yomhalde shades his eyes, watching it. "Impressive," he lies. He was clearly more impressed by me pulling the staff from my Inventory.

The staff hovers there, motionless. An iron obelisk of mediocrity.

I sigh, then lower it gently back down before finally cancelling the Spell.

The staff drops the last six inches with an undignified clunk, and I slide it back into my Inventory with more disappointment than a budget sequel.

Well. At least I have the Spell. I remember the words of Vultog, the orc scholar I met during my time in the Bronze Gate. He had chastised me when I had been disappointed in receiving the [Locate Ally] Spell from the ritual. And that Spell had come in handy multiple times. In fact, if it hadn't been for that Spell who knows what would have happened to my friends. Instead, I had been able to save them from whatever fate those elves had planned for them.

One day, I would use the [Levitate] Spell to great effect. I just needed time to study it, practice.

"Alright," I say, turning back to Yomhalde, "you ready to haul some poultry back to your starving squid-cave civilization?"

He burps. Pickle-and-fish scented.

"I was hatched ready, landling."

Yomhalde slings four industrial-strength garbage bags of chickens over his shoulders—two in the grip of each hand, like he's some kind of poultry-slinging, horrific Santa Clause.

"Alright, man. Time to get you home," I say. "Lead the way."

He nods, before leaping into a dash across the rooftops, heading north towards the shoreline. I follow. My Stamina bar is still fairly low, but I have enough in the tank to keep up with the monster decked out in vacation gear.

We end up near the docks on Lake Erie—one of the older, rustier ones, where everything smells like rotting fish. It's quiet, and at first glance there doesn't seem to be anyone around. Then, Yomhalde leads me around a bend and I see the Gate, formed against a rock wall leading up to a seldom used walking path.

The shimmering doorway is approximately ten feet tall and six feet wide and is composed of a swirling mix of green and white light. There's a power emanating from the portal's surface that makes the hairs on my forearms stand on end.

Yomhalde and I remain tucked away behind a docked fishing boat. I peek my head around the edge of the boat, surveying the portal's immediate surroundings.

Three guys in patrol gear mill around the area. They're all wearing light armor that looks like a mix between half-plate and S.W.A.T. uniforms, with metallic helmets. All over dark uniforms. One carries a rod tipped with a ruby. The other two wield swords. If I have to guess, one spellcaster and two close-ranged fighter types. I can't tell if they're with a private Guild or one of the government entities. I don't recognize the dark colored uniforms from the extraction jobs I've done with the Cleveland Municipal Guild.

"Shit," I whisper.

Yomhalde stares from over my shoulder, tentacles twitching in a thoughtful manner.

"Alright," I whisper, "I'll make a distraction. You bolt for the Gate and—"

"I too shall make a distraction," he whispers back. "While you make your distraction."

I blink at him. "That's… wait, what?"

"Excellent," he says, nodding. "It is a foolproof plan."

God help me.

I remain crouched, which makes forming a lazy Front Lat Spread difficult. Them, drawing in some of the Stamina I scraped together since casting my pact Spell, I cast my [Light] cantrip, focusing on it forming a small, sphere of light, as opposed to bursting from my entire body.

A glowing orb forms in my hand, humming gently like a magical nightlight. I hurl it toward the Gate, arcing it low and slow like a lobbed baseball.

The light sphere lands soundlessly on the ground, right between the three patrolmen. Two of the guards look down, confused. That's when I overclock the Spell, pumping it with juice like I'm trying to turn it into a magical flashbang.

Which… doesn't happen. Guess I don't have enough Stamina.

Instead, it just glows slightly brighter. Like I hit the max on the dimmer switch.

"Well, crap," I mutter.

"BEHOLD, FOOLISH LANDLINGS!" Yomhalde bellows at the top of his lungs, arms spread wide. "I WILL CLEAR A PATH TO MY PEOPLE WITH MY OWN HANDS!"

Somehow, he ended up on top of the fishing boat, looking down at the three men. And then… he levitates. Slowly descending onto the dock, arms extended to each side, holding his treasure-chicken-filled trash bags.

The patrol not only notices immediately. They don't hesitate to act.

"CONTACT!" one of them screams, pulling his rod in front of him, bejeweled end pointed to the cephalopod. "Monster! Breach!"

One of the others whips out a handheld comm unit, barking for backup.

A firebolt zaps from the first man's rod and slams into Yomhalde's chest. Another one zaps him in the leg. The third guy's clearing the distance between him and Yomhalde, sword lifted overhead, ready to make a downward strike.

Yomhalde grunts and drops like a pissed-off sack of calamari.

"Dammit," I hiss. Can a plan of mine just work as I drew it up once?

I step forward, but not out of cover. I flex my biceps, casting [Wizard's Fist] twice.

Two large fists of arcane energy burst into the air like pissed-off bouncers, darting forward.

"Don't kill anyone," I mutter. "Just… distract them!"

Lefty launches himself into the air, slaps the nearest patrolman like a mother with a wooden spoon. He's airborne for a second before landing in a crate full of fish.

Righty bowls through the second guard with a full-body kunckle-check, sending his rod spinning into the lake.

The third guard shrieks and runs straight into Lefty, who noogies him so hard it dents the man's helmet. Right comes in with a spectral wet willy right to the man's ear.

Yomhalde limps to his feet, dragging the bags of chicken behind him.

The Gate shimmers before him.

He throws me a look—equal parts honor and gratitude.

Then, he pushes the sunglasses up to cover his eyes and turns away, stepping into the shimmering light. He vanishes, his back fading like a mirage.

I remain in my hiding spot, but only for a second longer. More backup's coming, but it's not here yet. And I'm sure as hell not going to be anywhere close to these docks when they do arrive.

I cancel [Wizard's Fist].

Lefty and Righty dissolve into twinkling mist, leaving the patrolmen dazed and utterly confused.

I slink away from the docks, pulling my hoodie up.

Mission complete.

Chicken delivered. Spell acquired. Cthulhu village in another world saved.

Honestly?

Could've gone worse. Way worse.

I'm running again, trying to finish my loop and get back to where I parked my car.

I'm moving fast. No holding back, and not bothering with the rest of my training regimen. No staff weighing me down, no [Aura Sense] burning at full blast in the background like a spiritual energy dial tone. Just pavement slapping under my feet and my lungs burning as I push my body as much as my Dexterity stat is capable of taking me.

With my focus entirely on moving as quickly as possible to make up for lost time, my mind is able to wander a little more. And my brain's chewing on a very inconvenient truth: I need a job. And soon.

The grocery store haul for Yomhalde practically cleaned me out of the last of what I came back home with from New York City.

Which was fine... if my Checking account wasn't now emptier than my apartment had been when I came home to Sarah moved out. After the breakup, when I had come home from work thinking we'd have a chance to work it out. Whatever it was… Man, who was I kidding.

I sigh mid-stride, and am only taken out of that train of thought by the violent vibrating of my cellphone. I stop, pulling my phone out of my pocket and glancing at the notification.

>Veronica: Hey.

>Veronica: Still good for later?

I grin and tap a quick reply.

>Joe: Definitely. 5?

>Veronica: That works.

>Veronica: Did you decide where?

>Joe: Bokarala Bar?

[Veronica liked your message]

The second I pocket my phone—boom.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand at full attention and there's a chill crawling down my spine. I suddenly feel like someone's watching me.

I've felt this before. The sense is familiar, but I can't recall where I… The junkyard!

Back near Steve's junkyard, when I'd used it to form a Gate during that one solo experiment. And after the Bronze Gate too… There'd been something... Something similar to this feeling.

Was it just paranoia? Possibly.

I slow my pace, let the adrenaline spike, and place my entire focus into [Aura Sense] and [Perception].

The world tilts: Color sharpens. Sounds stretch. Auras, though faint, flicker like candlelight in my vision.

There!

Down the block. Just beyond a rusted-out minivan and a blue U.S. mail dropbox covered in a random assortment of stickers.

Something small. With wings... I squint, trying to capture as many details as possible.

A tiny humanoid figure, crouched on the edge of a cement barrier separating the sidewalk from the road. The pixie-like figure is no bigger than a finch, with wings like a butterfly's.

Its eyes are faintly glowing. Watching me.

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