Creed's face was scrunched up so tightly, he looked like he was trying to crush a walnut with his brain.
His fingers trembled over the silver needles, sweat beading down his temple like he was defusing a bomb instead of knitting a scarf.
The shimmering energy-thread quivered between his fingers, pulsing faintly with his Path of the Mountain.
"Come on… rock… stillness… strength… boulder vibes…" he muttered under his breath like a madman.
He imagined mountains. Big ones. The kind that didn't move even when dragons belly-flopped on them.
He inhaled deeply and tried to channel that feeling into his hands; unmoving, grounded, eternal.
He threaded once.
Twice.
Three times.
The old monk, sitting across from him on a floating chair while drinking a cup of something suspiciously green and slimy, stared like a bored hawk.
His eye bags were so dark they looked like he had just lost a fight with a shadow monster.
