#akbartheolder

The strangers had brought with them a refreshing burst of productivity to the farm. It was bigger than it had been before Wenzel had left the beach, which he found out when he'd walked along an old path which had become a field and tripped over a strange auburn-haired woman who was crouched down in the dirt who growled at him over watching where he stepped. Maybe she should watch where she knelt on her hands and knees. Wenzelslaus had said nothing, and merely scurried along, taking in the vague notion of the size of the farm, of people working and toiling under the sun. He squinted, which maybe made the foot or so in front of him vaguely more in focus?

It was impressive, or at least Wenzel thought it must be. He still hadn’t found his glasses that he’d abandoned during the Beast’s attack. There were many moving shapes among the rows of green, which he assumed were people. There were goats that baa-ed somewhere to his left, and trees that had hanging from them blurs of yellow. He'd already had a well-fed meal, and it warmed Wenzel to know that he didn't need to worry for food for the near future, that this need of his would be cared for.

As Wenzel gawked, or attempted to gawk, he was vaguely aware of one blur-person who strutted about with authority. He watched them idly, as they bent down and picked up something, and as the blur-person began to come more and more into focus. Walking towards Wenzel. Carrying something.

Fishing wasn't for Mik. For one, it involved  a lot of waiting. Mik wasn't good at waiting, wasn't good at inactivity, being quiet, or sitting still. Taking up a fishing pole had been a pointless exercise. Mik had gotten distracted (for a moment) and in that time a fish had eaten the hook clean of bait. 

He liked watching Nick getting ready to spearfish, stripping down to his shorts and holding his spear all manly. The actual spearfishing wasn't that interesting to watch from above the waves. Mik couldn't get the hang of opening his eyes underwater, especially in stinging saltwater. It felt like every time Nick went under he was gone for too long, but something about his attunement (magic water powers apparently) meant that he was fine. He was certainly happy swimming in the ocean no matter the temperature. As Mik acclimatised more and more to the island, the colder the ocean felt. He could barely stand it for half an hour, let alone the hours that Nick happily paddled away.

With each meal, each portion of rations he was gifted, Mik’s stomach twisted tighter and tighter with guilt. He'd spent two years living on handouts, but that was when working had been pointless. All his money would have gone to debt collectors anyway. But here, on this creepy, slightly murderous island, there were no credit card debts hanging over his head. No debt collectors either, at least he hoped. It wasn’t a fresh start, it felt wrong to call it that, but Mik was gradually accepting that he couldn't pretend that this was a holiday forever.

That’s where the farm came in. Mik had never really been into gardening, Aunty Khatri had kept a small herb garden growing out the front of his block growing up, and he'd been to some places with gorgeous gardens (all maintained by a staff of tens), but Mik didn't get his hands dirty. He hadn’t really ever used a shovel, done weeding or planted anything. But he liked physical work, he liked doing something with his hands, and farming seemed to be the best fit for that here. Unless the other islanders wanted an (out of shape) personal trainer?

That wasn't likely to happen any time soon.

Mik had made it to the farm, but now he was at a loss of how to go about finding work. It didn't help that he had no idea who was in charge, or what he could do to make himself useful. It looked like there were plants sprouting from the ground in neat rows? There were some buildings at the edge of the farm, so Mik started there. As he rounded the corner of one of the sheds, Mik collided hard with another person, sending them both to the ground, along with the items the stranger was carrying. In the chaos Mik reached out to steady the other person, touching their arm. “Sorry, I-” A spark shot up Mik’s back, and as he was sent into a memory that wasn’t his, he felt the stranger’s hand brush his forearm and-

Secrets?  What secrets?  It’s not like Cian has anything to hide... *ehum*.  Well, it’s not like he had anything particularly terrible to hide.  For sure he’d made his fair share of shitty decisions, done a few morally grey things.  But all in all - the leggy hippy was generally something of a genuinely decent person.

Of course there was the elephant in the room.  Or rather not in the room.  The elephant was potentially in a future room which may or may not exist, and upon entering the room the elephant may or may not be there given the choices and circumstances which led up to opening the door...

...In fact, the elephant might not be an elephant at all.  It might be a cat - like the one schrodinger had in a box that may or may not have been dead, or possibly both at the same time.

Yes - it’s a headache just trying to quantify.

Plus, it’s not exactly a secret.  He had come clean to Sisco... But the sand bananas weren’t exactly received well upon that little revelation.  A few people on the island were aware of his previous ‘profession’, the fortune teller in a travelling show - but he’d been careful to frame that as the ‘act’ most assumed it to be.  A few clever words, a bit of reading of body language, a few vague but narrow enough statements to pass of what he could do as a genuine ability ( rather than the truth, the actual reverse - in that it was a genuine ability and the ‘act’ was to make it seem like something other ).  And for the most part, people seemed quite happy to accept that.

So he really has no intention of trying to explain his original ( and currently skittish ) mojo to anyone else.

In fact, the only time it had resurfaced since had been during the battle on the farm, where it had saved both his own, and Emre’s skin ( quite literally... the foresight of having his skull caved in, watching Emre choke blood from arrows hitting their mark, or being barbecued alive along with his friend wasn’t exactly pleasant - with the screaming and the flashes of preemptive pain and suffocation immediately prior to death ) a couple of times over in short sequence.

So he doesn’t dwell.  Doesn’t delve back into his own memory ( experienced as though it had been lived ).  Because - nope.  

Not dwelling is particularly easy at the moment.  The island had seen fit to throw another hellish scenario into the mix.  The buzzing sound was an irritant at first... Cian thinking that he may have slipped back into being air attuned as it felt like sandpaper to his brain, abrasion to his senses.  Hell, it’s making his teeth itch.  No less after the ‘boom’ ( which causes Cian to let out a small squeak of terror, but after checking himself he seems to still be in one piece and not falling from a great height which is - good?  Yes, good. ) the sound getting more intense.  And just.. Well fecking awful quite frankly.

Either way - the island throwing weird shite around again generally meant something not good, or very scary, or just horrible was happening... Or about to happen.  Which is why he’s turning a fair speed as he gallops away from his little cluttered train carriage, down the slope toward the beach to see if anything poopy was occuring to his friends.

And he does see his friend.

“Emre.  EMRE!”

Raising his voice against the persistent buzz.  Arms flailing as he comes to something of a messy, stumbling stop near the other, slightly out of breath due to the brief exertion and clearly in full blown panic mode.

Cian isn’t one to say ‘no’ when someone is in need of aid.  Though now he’s beginning to doubt his own voluminous altruism.  Because the trail up the mountains was steep - practically invisible at times - also, he’s sweaty.  Which he hasn’t been since arriving ( another boon of his original fire attunement ).  And having absolutely no control over this new ‘gift’ meant that he hadn’t wanted to risk attempting to conjure a light breeze to cool himself down just incase some manner of mighty, uncontrolled gust swept both him and his current companion off the side of some steep edged drop into oblivion...

...And even if he managed that, some manner of immediate death might be preferable to the wrath of Emre in the aftermath.

Emre - who is picking his was through all manner of strewn rocks and debris up ahead, calling out for Steve.  Steve - who hadn’t been seen since the whole switcharoo debacle.  Steve, who was a quiet, friendly chap - and now suddenly awol.  Steve, who had been earth attuned but could quite easily have floated away on air, or managed to self combust with fire, or trickle away every drop of moisture with water ( none of which were a pleasant mental image for Cian to hold ).  Steve, whose name Cian will never forget because with every shout from Emre - it’s rattling around his skull like a moth in a jar, bouncing off every available surface.

Honestly?  He’s not sure why he’s here.  Other than Emre asked him.  And he might be a useful extra pair of eyes.  He could even have a chance at hearing something - if he were at all capable of deciphering any of the sounds deluging his brain right now... But they all just seem to be ‘noise’ in some form or another.

Hopping over a few rocks, he moves closer to Emre.  Pausing and stretching out in the sun.  It’s just a big glowy ball now.  It doesn’t ‘feel’ right.  There’s a huff of breath and he’s looking sidelong -

“If I do plummet off the end...  You have to promise that you’ll give me a beautiful eulogy.”

It’s not actually that high.  But it sure as heck feels like it with a steep drop down to one side.

“You really think he might have come up this far?  I mean, Steve seemed a bit like a homebody...  Mr grounded.  Farms and fields and... Stuff.  Not exactly the mountain goat type.”

Not that they’d seen any goats.  Or any other signs of life.  

Poor Steve.

Though it’s rather easy for Cian to speak to soon... Or... Think too soon...  As there’s a sudden noise behind him.  It sounds... Loud and... Scary as shit.  And as he whirls around, instinctively holding up his hands - he sees a small pebble clattering onto the path behind them...

Which would have been fine.  Which would have been something Emre could have teased him about.  Which could have been the end of it... 

...If...

...If there hadn’t been a... Push. A little like with his fire.  He could pull heat from one place and push it to another.  This was more - involuntary.  And instead of a nice ‘glowy warmth’, what was pushed seemed to be a pulse... A cone of air that lifted the dust from the ground.  And impacted the mountainside with a soft ‘thwump’ of sound.

He’s a freaking airzooka. 

“Hah...”

A slightly nervous and... Shocked voice.

“...no harm, no foul.”

Until.  The thwump is followed by cracking.  Rumbling.  Dust rising.  More loose pebbles clattering as they’re knocked free.