“Breathing exercises.” What was this, yoga? Hell, maybe it was. “I tried, and when I did, I got the wrong effect. It relaxed me, sure, but everything was so…centered. I couldn’t lift it off the floor, just. Move it directly away from me, from where I was sitting.”
Chances were, he wasn’t doing it right, or he’d been too focused on his own breathing to anchor the pushes and pulls where his attention was. “I mean, I’ll keep at it, but.” This is harder than I thought it would be wouldn’t exactly cut it. Code was simple. Input caused output. Everything had a culprit. This had too many variables. Emotion, heart rate, breathing, posture, movement, he felt like a crowd of thousands was watching every move, and it weighed on him.
"Maybe some guidance would do ye some good, lad. Reckon we should go elsewhere, lest ye break a jar of some herb I’ve procured from Cambodia.” They needed open space free of onlookers, something hard to find in a place like New Orleans. With his ability to landshift, finding such a place would not be an issue.
Without further comment, he started to make his way out the back door to the incredibly small plot of earth–in front of a tall fence belonging to an industrial building–where his herb garden was in post-harvest. Barren, save for a few weeds and grasses he did not feel like clearing out. What was the point? “What are ye waiting for? Follow me."
