Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

The rift juddered again—this time upward—as though something had yanked it by the spine. The whole siphon of color lifted several cubits into the air, dragging a swirl of dust and translucent motes up with it.

“Why is that rift airborne?” He asked. The other rifts he’d seen had never been that high up.

Severa was too busy forcing their aetheric altitude higher. “Rao,” she shouted over the wind, “begin Aetheric Transfer Link. Full channel stability, no reservoir tether.” Fabrisse knew about Aetheric Transfer Link. Unlike Synchronization spells which were Emotion focused and required both casters to align their affective vectors, this was simply Rao giving Severa his aether.

Rao extended both hands toward her. His aether bore a neutral ivory of resolve, which was preferred for stable transferring. The link stabilized around Severa’s back, swirling like a miniature helix.

Only once the link held did she turn her attention back to Fabrisse. “It could be that it’s meant to be anchored to an elevated structure that no longer exists. It may not be a terrestrial rift at all. The signature resembles patterns from Gale-class dungeons.” Even as she spoke, light gathered along her forearms before fracturing into dozens of razor-thin filaments.

“Gale-class?”

“Wind-bound and migratory dungeons, often producing aerial creatures and turbulence-element monstrosities.” She angled her free hand toward the riìt, and the light shot out to the rift’s parameter, tracing boundaries around its writhing edges. It wasn’t an offensive spell. Was she trying to mend the portal?

The moment he opened his mouth to ask how she was doing that mid-flight, Severa said, “Observe, Kestovar. Not questions. Don’t distract me.”

Right. He was supposed to document the anomalies. But . . .

He asked anyway, “What does a normal Gale-class dungeon look like?”

Severa inhaled sharply, but responded cordially anyway, For one, it does not release rainbow aether. Gale-class winds generate pale cyan turbulence, sometimes white or silver.” The rift pulsed violently, the colors bending into a jagged spiral that made Fabrisse’s stomach flip. Severa continued, “You’d also hear low and continuous vortex shear. And the air pressure should drop. It hasn’t. Try to notice anything unusual entering or appearing from the mouth.”

He forced himself to focus the way she wanted—disassembling the scene mentally, cataloguing deviations one by one.

No cyan wind-signature.

No shear-noise.

No pressure drop.

That last one bothered him most. If a Gale-class dungeon should have been pulling the surrounding air in, then . . .

Either something is compressing all that turbulence inside, or the rift isn’t generating wind at all. Something else might be manifesting instead.

Then he noticed something protruding from the bottom of the rift.

At first, he thought it was just distortion—warped light, or the rainbow aether refracting oddly. The edge of the rift bulged out like stretched membrane, thinning, stretching, then dragging itself back with a shudder. It was so small he almost missed it, and he was sure Severa didn’t see it as she was busy mending the top edges.

“Montreal,” he said, “I think something is trying to come out from the lower—”

“Observe first,” she cut in. “Describe only once you are certain.”

“But it’s gone.”

She didn’t respond this time. She was operating at the edge of what a human could focus on, with whatever she was doing.

Then a second bulge appeared, larger this time, spreading out like an unrolling carpet. The upper edges stabilized, but now the pressure below had nowhere to vent. The lower membrane twitched in irregular bursts. Every time Severa mended one side, the other strained in response. Whatever was inside was conscious, or at least semi-intelligent.

Fabrisse forced himself to inhale slowly, forcing his mind back into observation mode. He didn’t want to draw conclusions, but the rift itself seemed to be conserving energy to feed it.

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“Montreal,” he said, “the bulge is not uniform. The membrane pulses like a heartbeat. The edges are streaked with dull violet and gray, not the rainbow aether of the rift itself, and the movement isn’t smooth.”

Severa cancelled her mending spell immediately. “Where?” she demanded.

He pointed toward the bulge at the bottom edge. It could very easily be overlooked amidst the rainbow hue overload.

The moment she saw it, she growled a mnemonic: “Solar Convergence!” and fired a blinding column of focused light onto the bulge. The dark shapes vanished.

Severa’s frown didn’t ease. “I don’t think my spell made contact.”

It didn’t? The thing disappeared.

“This is worse than I thought,” she muttered, backing away from the rift as shouts of call for reinforcements from Rao could be heard from afar. She turned toward Fabrisse. “We need to get you on the ground. Creatures don’t crawl out of dungeons unless they’re voidtouched. You’ll be a liability if you stay.”

Voidtouched? He didn’t think he would hear that word again so soon.

Fabrisse swallowed, nodding, but before he could react, grotesque flying creatures shot out of the rift like a swarm. Their bodies were segmented like a mantis, but grotesquely elongated. The front limbs stretched far beyond any natural proportion, jointed and knotted like brittle, desiccated tree branches.

“Ballsacks!” Severa growled, conjuring a wide arc of fiery aether that seared through the approaching swarm. “Rao! Disengage! Retreat to safety!” she snapped, then looked at Fabrisse. “Kestovar. You can open the Aetherrealm, correct?”

He jolted. “How do you know?”

“Unimportant.” She cut him off, eyes scanning the swarm. “I will protect you no matter what.” That did sound rather assuring. “But there are too many.” That did not sound assuring. “If any comes at you—”

A creature lunged at him faster than he could react. He understood instantly: his moment. He flung out his robe, angling it perfectly so his Aetherrealm pocket would lean toward the insect. The creature hit the fabric and was sucked into his Aetherrealm, pocketed safely away.