The Drift

45th day of the 10230th year since the passing of Kriene

The elders always spoke of the seven wolves of Wairo. Burning under its terrible heat, they sought relief in running across the cosmos, pulling their terrible burden along with them. Their relentlessness was said to have made Wairo weary and cool down into his present state. Finley liked to think of the orange Wairo as a greybeard, a faded remnant of its golden glory, evidences of which floated about their planet in dreamy golden dust. It was what lit his fingers as they rested on the ground, his eyes fluttering as a wind picked up, blades of grass tickling his eyelids and the bridge of his nose. The temperature seemed to drop a bit then. What was comfortingly warm a moment ago now felt cool, not so much so that he couldn’t fall asleep. But it was time to go. It helped that the walk back would be made more pleasant if the wind kept up. His fingers pressed against the green blades and he moved to stand up slowly, still a bit drowsy. There were many such evenings to come, he was sure of it. Swaying blades of wild grass gently yielded to his feet as he commenced the short journey across the forest, the violet sky lost to him as the closely packed everblacks engulfed his frame, seeming to yearn for his company, to keep him to hold and talk of the decades passed in camaraderie. The smile on Finley’s face would fade as he finally emerged into the castle grounds, looking back at the trees which were now closed to him. Maybe they thought it was his fault. It was not. He would tell them of it when he came back. His last moments of true solitude would be cherished until that day.

Finley’s eyes fixated on the looming obsidian structure before him. Its expanse and towering height felt as if it would consume him. He was fascinated and intimidated at the same time. Windows aglow beckoned to him, promising adventure and newness to the eighteen year old. But what was the worth of a promise unsolicited?

Finley had arrived at Youvlon only the morn before yesterday’s. Acquaintance with its centerpiece was not something that quite appealed to the lad. It was a direct result of which he found himself walking toward the first staircase he saw, hoping it would lead him to the… Belway Hall. Yes. That was it. Trudging around to the front was less appealing than the prospect of getting lost in these halls. Mayhaps, just mayhaps, even less than the thought of missing the orientation altogether.

The staircase was long and winding, so narrow and flimsy. Finley could now imagine why the back side was altogether abandoned to its poor state. His gaze went up ever so slightly as he paused at the landing of the first floor, looking up at the sky. Violet no more, yet specks of gold remained, revelling in their beauty. And why would they not ? Finley couldn’t open his eyes quite enough to really take all of it in, not in so many years. He might have stood there for an eternity, if not for the hand that grabbed his arm. Attached to that arm was a sullen face. “Rascal. Get back inside. Orientation is upon you.” it said in a gravelly voice and shoved him in the general direction of a balcony littered with many doors to lead him inside. “Actually…” His hand went up to scratch at his neck sheepishly. “I don’t know the wa-” “For God’s sake!” The hand was on him again, hurting more this time as it hit the exact point where its fingers had dug in before. A wince escaped Finley’s lips and the grip relaxed, not stopping the guard from pulling him along as if he weighed nothing. “You… you are an unnatural, aren’t you?” Finley asked in a rasp, his lungs feeling unusually empty at the point.

It didn’t answer.

Finley didn’t speak for the rest of the way to the orientation room.

* * *

By the time Finley was escorted to the room of the hour, most seats therein were filled. Young‘uns like himself occupied a lot of the seats, a greying head of hair ever so often catching his eye. The fire-haired dominie was nowhere to be seen, however. In all likelihood, he was already examining the lay of the serving areas for the luxurious spread. One of their last proper meals, let alone a feast of the sorts they had for them that night. Not for the dominie, of course. He would return within a hundred days with a new batch from the school. It was a wonder to Finley that the dominie hadn’t burst from the excesses of his appetite. The seventy something year old remained the thinnest instructor in Hog’s den. ’Maybe he’d shrunk into invisibility.’ he thought as he took a seat in the second last row, closer to the left end of it. Those around him chittered seemingly endlessly. It made his descension into a stupor inconvenient. It didn’t seem all that impossible, however. At least until the last few students entered… and a couple of them ended up sitting on either side of him, greeting him warmly. His head raised then. They were two girls, one with hair darker than his, reminiscent of the forest. Finley uttered out a greeting by instinct, noticing the occupied seats around him. He looked at both of them in quick succession, not able to catch either’s eye as he offered to change his seat with one of them so they could sit together. It took the duo a couple of seconds to understand with the haste of his words and his tongue tripping over them. The forest haired did him a kindness and made to stand up before Finley could make more of a mess of himself. “Thanks.” He muttered before shutting himself up and looking keenly at the dais, showering more attention to it than the wooden platform merited.

“Do you have a drift yet, Allfarer?” The question seemed directed at him. Finley turned his head slowly toward his right. Sure enough, the forest haired and the other one - A blonde - were looking at him. “I’m no Allfarer. Not yet anyway.” He said with a sigh. “And no.” he admitted. His eyes finally met theirs properly. “My friends weren’t old enough.” He said as he took in their appearance. Might as well if they were going to have a conversation. Treating others as invisible and being treated as such was not a strange feeling to Finley. He almost felt apprehensive about new sources of interaction. These two girls seemed nice enough, so Finley reserved his judgement till later.

The forest haired had curls reaching till the middle of her back, hazel skin, a kind face and… green eyes. Like the willows in Hog’s den, where he spent atleast an hour most weeks. Laying among them had brought him peace and a sliver of what he used to feel was evoked seeing her irises. His gaze stayed on her longer than he’d realised, barely registering her response. “Our case is the opposite, our entire group is here. I hope the drift member limits can be relaxed somewhat.” ’More than twelve members in a friend group? How enviable.’ was his first thought, even though Finley was confident most of the bonds within their group were more like than not to be a sham, for mere show. “You could split up in two drifts…” He replied, his way of helping out, though the suggestion was too obvious. “We obviously don’t want to do that.” It was the blonde this time. Her voice was softer than her friend’s, quieter. Finley had the feeling she wouldn’t have initiated conversation with him had she been alone. She had an air about her that didn’t invite disturbance. Finley wondered how the two would have become friends, so much so to be future driftfellows. It was strange how fate brought people together. The very determinism of it happening making it happen. Was it defeatist or realist for him to think of things in this way ?

The blonde was speaking again. His eyes focussed on hers to ground himself there in that moment. Their electric violet colour did not help things. It reminded him of a Wairodon storm- ’Shut up.’ “-because we all have been together since starting of school.” She said and fell silent. It seemed it was his turn to say something. He might have more context to continue the conversation were he not so easily tuned out of reality. Some realist he was. “I see… it must be nice for you all to be so close to each other.” He said, before being distracted yet again, this time the manner thereof being different. “Have you ever been to Hog’s den, by any chance ?” He asked the blonde. “I feel like I’ve seen you before.” Recognition would have clicked in his brain quicker had he not been so lost.

“Yes I have, for Eighty First’s sports and cultural meets.” She said and paused. “Are you- Were you a student at Hog’s den?” She questioned curiously. “Yes, I-” Finley started, only to be interrupted by an applause that seemed to take over the room. The girls turned to the dais, then so did he. Maybe he was meant to be a wallflower, after all. He crossed his arms over his abdomen and slunk down a little on his seat, still able to look at the ninety-something year old who took the stage. He needed no introduction, of course. The greybeard would be the Weathered of the Sixty-fifth. He stood more than seven feet tall, positively towering over his audience. He didn’t even need a stage, really. That assertion of his was affirmed when the Weathered spoke, his voice loud yet grounded and heavy against the backdrop of complete silence in the hall. “Evening, all yous. I am Tars Volider, head of the Sixty-fifth sector. The Weathered seems to be the preferred term for my like. I find it makes me come off as a bit old, which I like to think I’m not.” He said and strayed from the podium that was designated for him. Not that he needed it anyway. “Forgive my digression. You’ll forgive this old man his indulgence.” He said with a smile, garnering gentle mirth from the crowd. “It seems not too long ago that I was in one of these seats here, as an unbidden.” He gestured to the front-right section of the audience. “I spent hours on the castle terrace, worrying whether volcanic eruptions would reach the castle.” Some laughter echoed in the hall. “I like to think I was an Allfarer from birth. But it was not so. I have my school and dominies to thank for, as you do. I remember my archery teacher quite fondly, especially. Dominie Radaset of Kinz. He always told me to remember home. It was all an Allfarer had. For me, the Sixty-fifth has been that home. I was born here and am most like to die here.” He said with a booming laugh. “Though there are many decades for that, gods willing.” He paused and looked around the room, his eyes sweeping over the area he was sitting in. Finley couldn’t help but sigh internally. He’d feel a bit awkward in this slouched position had Tars made the slightest of glances in his particular direction. Despite his advancing age, Finley somehow had no doubt with respect to the veracity of his eyesight. “Why I tell you of Radaset is because the man instilled in me the principles that make the Faring what it is, what make me who I am.” He paused and seemed to stare right at Finley in that moment. The boy jolted a little and tried to look away. In the time it would take for his pitiful attempt to realise, the Weathered’s eyes had left his and the boy let out an audible shaky sigh. “Old man Radaset was the bravest Allfarer I knew. He lost an eye, a ear and an arm through the course of his eighty seven year service as an Allfarer. And even then!” His voice reached his loudest yet, but somehow not in a bad way. Everyone around Finley seemed to be listening to the greybeard with rapt attention. “He served seventy years more as an instructor in the Sixty-fifth before his glorious life ended. That is what it means to be an Allfarer.”

“Sacrifice. It is that meaning of the Faring I wish to live up to.” He said, walking closer to the edge of the dais, feeling all the more intimidating, not quite unlike the castle itself in his expanse. Though he felt more familiar. “I count near a thousand of you here today. Some of you will choose to assimilate but some of you will choose the Becoming, to Venture and realise the very best self of yours you can be. I hope it is every soul in here. It is who you were raised to be. Who you were meant to be.” His voice raised passionately at the end and Finley couldn’t help but feel a stirring within him, strengthening his resolve for the choice. “It is upon yous tonight to make the most important decision you will ever make. Choose greatness, choose happiness, choose companionship. Choose the ones in the hall with you today! Be truly you, truly unique. I cannot wait to see you at the other end of the beautiful metamorphosis of the Becoming.” Tars concluded to thunderous applause. The front rows had stood up, seemingly moved so greatly by the Weathered. Tars even had a few greybeards on their feet which prompted awkward shuffling from the young‘uns about them. Finley remained stoutly seated, arms unmoving from abdomen. The girls seemed more taken than he did, yet peer pressure seemed to keep them in their seats. Their claps were the loudest amongst his neighbours, however.

“Now.” The applause cut off abruptly. “My friend from the government will verse all yous now on the more… technical aspects. I’m sure that as prospecting Allfarers, you will know most of this already. May the gods shower you with eternal wisdom and happiness.” He said and exited the stage to a second round of applause which continued well into the entry of another man the podium could provide no utility to, lest he be hidden behind it. He carried a microphone for transmission. He was a couple sentences into whatever informations he had to share by the time the din died down and Finley could actually hear the whitebeard. “- and I was an assimilator in my time, going into civil servicing and administration.” He said. “A path I wish today I had not taken. There was much lost to me in the matter of a single day of my life. I will speak first of the Assimilation program nonetheless because I have lived it, and secondly there is not much to share of it.” He paused to catch his breath.

“It is a dry and sordid life. You are surrounded by technology but there is no richness to city life. People isolate themselves in chasing happiness and connection with machines. They are lonely, depressed. They lack personality, hobbies, true friends. There is just work, which is of no fulfillment either. They just get things done from machines. A mediocre life, at best. A spiral into insanity and self harm, at worst.” The whitebeard paused here, letting that sink in. His last words drew audible reactions from many. “You cannot move from Assimilation to Venturing, ever. Not even I, someone so cognizant of it. The extent of technology prevalent in the cities has made it a disease. But in the name of freedom and free will, we must let it happen before our very eyes, even though it kills one’s chance at the Becoming.” His voice cracked a bit. “But all of you before me, you have immense potential. I beg you to realise it.” His tone normalised a bit and he took a deep audible breath. “Which brings me to the Venture program.” Finley’s back straightened of its own accord.

“It’s what the entirety of your upbringing culminates towards. You coming into your own as an Allfarer. Preventing destruction of natural and social resources. Finding new resources to benefit from sustainably. Forming bonds with your driftfellows and with people throughout the service. It is the happier alternative by a huge margin. It is more sustainable, more holistic and will lead to your Becoming.” He said and paused. Finley could feel another stirring, within or without or both, he could not say. “It will not come with air conditioning, a fixed address and access to modern technology. It is the price of fulfillment. I press upon you the privilege you have to be afforded this opportunity. It was the decision of the family or the state as your family to have you brought here, away from kin. Imagine the burden of their sacrifice upon you. Feel the sacrifice you have undertaken to be in such sagely detachment.” Finley could feel it. Every bit of it. “Don’t let it be in vain. Come into your own.” He pleaded again. “Assimilation isn’t going anywhere. But Allfaring, that you will not be able to come back to. Do justice to yourselves, to your families, to your schools, to the service, to the state.” A muted applause started slowly in the crowd. It was not the lack of enthusiasm that weighed it, rather the gravity of whitebeard’s words. The whitebeard seemed to pay no mind to it as he opened the notebook he had been holding. “ While the Masters in Youvlon will apprise you fully of the details on the morrow once your choices have been made, there are some details I should apprise you of. These have been communicated to you by your instructors before, I am sure. Yet I feel the need to reiterate some crucial informations before you all.” He said and took a moment to steady his breath before inhaling audibly into the microphone. “Faring schools have a mandate of two years Allfaring service under the Venturing program or four years city service under the Assimilation program. This is done to recover duly the investment the state has undertaken in your schooling and to ensure you gain enough exposure to lived practicalities outside your school before you can choose your own path further on. You will start in the Sixty-fifth, regardless of your chosen program. Assimilators will head to the city of Plemos in Noirskov while the Venturers will have their tasks allotted drift-wise. After you complete your first assignments, you may be allowed some flexibility in geographies and nature of assignments. While in both programs, your specialization will depend on the relevant studies and trainings you have undertaken in your last five years of education, in Allfaring, your role and how it fits into the drift is key and for Assimilation, the requirements of the city or governmental branch will take precedence. You will naturally get to and should dabble in a variety of disciplines, regardless of the program you choose. The government wouldn’t want you to confine yourselves in a singular dimension for the first decade or so at the very least. Variety and diversity in an individual’s life has been key for their Becoming since before our dear Wairo turned from a mango to a tangerine. Assimilation does effectively negate your chances of Becoming, but that is another matter.” The whitebeard sighed a little. “Apart from all stated priorly, there are the drift limits to keep in mind. Those who choose the Allfaring will be allocated a drift by the eleventh hour tomorrow and you will be on your ships by the eighteenth. By that time, the Assimilators will be well on their way to Plemos. One important thing for you prospecting Allfarers, under no circumstance will the drift member limits or composition constraints be relaxed. The extras will be drifted together with best efforts on our end to not disrupt the priorly formed drifts. While the system manages to complete allocation of everyone by the end of this step, if anyone still remains undrifted, they will be promptly drifted with the coming on the next batch of unbidden.” Finley found his thoughts straying, despite himself. What if he was that undrifted, come afternoon of the morrow?

* * *

Finley could understand why the dominie might have disappeared so. The spread was magnificent, to say the least. Finley was a person of picky tastes when it came to such lavish displays but even he couldn’t help but try close to half a dozen dishes, and that was excluding desserts. It was good that he had ditched the ladies beside in pursuit of having his food warm and not having to wait in line for it. It was good that delicacies, especially the unhealthy ones, were not that common at Hog’s den. He would have grown quite the horizontally endowed lad had that been the case. He was not the most indulging sort either, so maybe he’d still have been fine. Today was an occasion to indulge, however. It was the occasion. There would hardly be a moment as life defining and in his control as was this decision, which they had given them till the zeroth to make. Hearing most of his peers as they buzzed about him, he doubted they needed even that much time for consideration. All his peers seemed awfully convinced and Finley wasn’t too quick to judge them this time. The whitebeard and Tars had resonated with him as well. There really seemed to be no upside to assimilation. Due to closed contact policies of the Faring schools, he wasn’t even sure whether there was a family waiting for him, whether they even wanted him, whether bonds of human relationship could truly brave ruination brought upon by technology on the mind. Finley turned to the clock at the end of the large dining hall they’d arranged for them. An hour and a half, hundred and twenty minutes for him to submit his decision in the main hall. The moment that thirtieth hour ended, those who would not appear would automatically become enlisted into the Venture program. Which was convenient. After eating so much, Finley hardly felt able to get himself to the dormitory he was assigned, let alone to the main hall and then back to bed. Finley looked at his empty plate one last time, mentally debating whether to go for one more dessert before letting the exhaustion win. He had his brushing to do also, might as well save what little energy he had for it.