Trylstrian: The Protégé

Master knew all. Trylstrian’s body burned with the pain of a hundred bruises, burns, and gashes, but he never doubted. In his twenty two years of existence, he had never once mistrusted his master. The man was too cold and impersonal to call a father, some strange position other acolytes often spoke of, but to say that he did not care was inaccurate. Promises of power seeped into the young man’s brain at the master’s prompting, and with each injury came a lesson.

Muscles strained in an effort to keep from falling off of his palette. His body shivered, for he was nude and disallowed blankets. This was not a practice called for by the other acolytes in the room, but they were not given the attention that Trylstrian was. He also shivered because there were pins in him. They covered his torso and shoulders like sheets, wriggling with each tremor of his taut flesh and muscles. There was no inch of flesh beyond the boundaries of the pins that was not covered with steel and a slick, black purulence that slowly dripped into his open pores. It was difficult to breathe, and the cold sweat mixed with blood was irritating the points of entry.

Though it was common practice for acolytes to be cruel with each other, not a soul chose to speak up against Trylstrian. They had learned from that mistake. The conference hall was still wet from where stalactites had descended from the roof to impale a bully in every orifice. The acolyte had suffered for that faux pas, but he would certainly do it again if the occasion presented itself. It was this sense of vengeance that pleased his master.

So not a word was spoken in that cold stone room. What needed to be communicated was usually done with a subtle whisper, or else in rather obvious hand gestures. This was also done because no one knew whether or not he was in complete control. It was obvious from the jolting, shaking, puddle-reduced form that he might burst at any moment. A magician bursting was a rather appalling thing to witness.

Finally, after days of this treatment, something happened. As though from the fog, the master drifted from the cracks of the ceiling and stood before his young protégé, with a benign smile shining on a face that held lifeless black eyes. That black hood hid the pale of the flesh that should have aged far longer than it had, half of the hook of its nose, the soft skin of its connecting neck that roiled with spiralling shapes. The smell of sulphur made it difficult to endure his presence for most, and the acolytes were already coughing and gagging and falling back from their palettes to crush themselves against the walls.

To look upon his master was to be mortified and inexhaustibly excited. Even now, as the pins quivered his body, Trylstrian’s eyes were aflame and his fingers gripping at wooden planks on either side of him. He was waiting to hear the words from that lying smile, the commands, the desires. He needed them. For in pleasing them was the ability to please himself. Hunger was omnipresent.
“You live.”
Trylstrian’s nod was the only way he could register an affirmative. There was too much pain, too much tension in his muscles. The attempt to speak felt as though it would have killed him. His master waved a gloved hand in the air, dismissing the thoughts he had correctly guessed at. An answer was unnecessary.
“You will be rewarded.”
Oh, to be rewarded! Drunk with power and hungering for more, choking on the sound of his own voice as he strained increasingly with the prospect, Trylstrian demanded plainly enough with his eyes. That was good, but his master wanted more.
“First, you must rise.”

What pain had been present before was nothing compared to what came now. Trylstrian’s sobs wrenched through the air as he slowly and deliberately brought his legs off of the wood. Blood streamed down his thighs as he pressed the palms of his hands upon the edge and brought himself to sit up. White hot lightning was shooting through his flesh, infuriating him, shaking him, killing him. He knew, for the ten thousandth time in his life, that the slightest further effort was going to rob the life from his broken body. And of course, for the ten thousandth time in his life, he did it anyway.

He did not exactly stand so much as hunch, but his master was satisfied. The smiling figure nodded, but gave the lad absolutely no manner of praise. Instead his hand rose and pointed at the boy… quivered, even. When his fingers broke, they filled the air with horrendous noises that threatened vomitus from the witnessing acolytes who rimmed the room.

And then those black tendrils slipped from out of broken fingers, and snaked towards Trylstrian. Rather than stab into his vulnerable, pincushion flesh, the black abruptly exploded. Thousands and thousands of tiny black lines shot from the apexes, connecting to every single pin in the young man’s body. There was a moment of incredible agony for the both of them, but when it ended, the ink held in those pins discharged and spread throughout the pores, imprinting the master’s gift upon the pupil.

Vandhlandaleni laughed. There was so much work to be done.
It was time to begin.