ORIGIN

Being asked about more magic demonstrations was equivalent to asking Fahl whether he required air to breathe. The improvement of his power and the great shows of it he strove to eventually create once he possessed the proper finesse and strength—those were just as integral to his life as swimming and fishing. It was the single thing he absolutely had to excel at if he ever wished to stand a chance against the staggering hierarchy of Masters, Valkhands, and the mysterious Creator behind them all. Furthermore, he simply enjoyed the control derived from wielding his inner spark, a feeling much preferred to the frustration of speaking around his gemstone-embedded tongue.

"Later?" he said, a sporting glint emerging in his eye. "How about I show you a few tricks on the way."

His main specialty being fire, not too many spells could be executed without risk of injury. However, that didn't mean he had zero options available for showing off. Adventures undergone for the sake of chasing glory and aiding his mentor had provided him a decent repertoire outside of blazes and burning. He only needed to channel willpower in the right direction: toward Mocha's rapidly waddling form for this example.

In a few fleeting heartbeats, the iguana's image flickered, the very air around him shimmering as if he'd become a walking mirage. Then, as the weird distortion faded away, another Fahl tore free from his silhouette to rush after the younger Gembound. The subtle shift of particles composing this duplicate's body gave away its illusory nature, scales rippling like the gentle waves of a disturbed pond. Once the original chased his copy and occupied the space it'd taken beside Mocha, he released the grip on his magic that held it together. The double he'd imposed himself over broke apart, disappearing similar to the wisps of an ending daydream.

Stuffed to the figurative gills with an overbearing sense of accomplishment, Fahl quickened his stride and overtook the shark dog. "Let's have me take the lead, shall we."

Barely repressed victorious laughter trembled in his relatively flat voice.

Plodding through the trenches with the crags looming as such high peaks above the journeying pair of Gembounds, not many signs existed to indicate their progression to the rest of the swamp proper. Muddied waters which had previously lapped at toes alone gradually rose while they continued on in what could best be called a winding maze of rock. The main path they walked Fahl never strayed from, the multiplying narrow routes branching off of it never enough temptation for a more seasoned part-time resident of Cetus to follow. Given time, soon their feet would be freed from the rough scrape of stone, slow currents floating and tugging at limbs instead; another couple minutes more was his prediction, once they were wading through murk up to their shoulders.

Likely sooner in Mocha's case, but he wasn't too worried there. Fins often weren't for decoration, so instinct should handle that situation.

He glanced back at his companion. "What are you craving?" A look at the jaws on the other Gembound provided some ideas as to his potential diet. However, making too many assumptions would be foolish when the source of the question might have a faint clue of what would please his stomach best. "There's a river with fish if that's to your taste. But we can just as easily get those here once we reach more water."

Ordinarily a running commentary on the environment and oneself would've been a far more grating experience to be audience to. Although it filled any void in conversation nicely, such excessive gabbing reminded Fahl too much of his own personal deficiencies. Unable to participate in rapid fire speech, an old, familiar jealousy settled in the underside of his jaw, yet it was swallowed back before the urge to lash out became overwhelming. Expressing admiration at multiple points in their interactions, combined with youthful enthusiasm, had bought Mocha greater leniency than anyone else likely would have been given. Additionally, no longer having to rely solely on his own strength to drag his tail along, flowing fins buoyed by risen waters, had contributed to a mood more pleasant than usual.

The outright rejection of plants as a food source confirmed some suspicions, so no sore feelings were had. Nevertheless, officially a herbivore, amusement tinged a considering hum as the iguana pored over other options on the menu. Narrowing them down to a definitive favorite proved difficult when most fish consumed functioned as a means to an end during lean times, often bland to a palate intended to prefer algae above all else. But cycles worth of taste testing eventually ranked one variety above the rest: "Whitelings. They're cave fish, probably one of the best to catch for beginners. They don't look very special, but cooking makes them delicious."

In Fahl's case, that translated to not absolutely flavorless. However, he had good assurance from those with more responsive taste buds that this common Lesser was truly a worthy dish when properly prepared.

His own magic unhoned in matters of detection, Fahl regarded Mocha's gesture toward rippling waters with squinted eyes and a jaw set in deep concentration. If the youngster was correct, he possessed truly excellent senses, but first the iguana would have to verify using his as well, weak as they might turn out to be comparatively. An experienced fisher's gaze scanned for signs of life disrupting the natural flow of current along the channel they swam: the break of fins above the surface or shining scales. Once satisfied, a small, noncommittal shrug ended the moment of suspense.

"We shall see." Leaving it at that, he plunged below on a steady course for the prey in his sights, a faint shower of droplets in his wake.

The end result of this excursion made itself known in mere seconds. Where there had been peace previously, the area that had been pointed out now exploded into a flurry of activity. Numerous bodies gleaming silver jumped and scattered as Fahl's head burst into the open air, his catch clenched firmly in his teeth by a swaying tail fin. Any potential struggle ceased before it could even begin, a sharp jerk bashing the fish against the side of the trench. It fell limp, death instantaneous from such sudden trauma.

"Not whiteling," came a barely audible murmur from an occupied mouth. "Silverling."

He shook the aforementioned fish for emphasis.