by Sturlin on April 15th, 2010, 3:05 am
He repeated his mantra under his breath, allowing it to fill his mind and push out all thoughts but the item he wished to create. In his past he had done things like this for training. The creation of the raw materials of your Reimancy is a rudimentary task which is far safer to learn than throwing firebolts or launching lightning from the palm of your hand. The only way in which this was different was that he wished to create it in a specific shape, which would require a more concentrated mind and a more focused force of will.
He began by working the Res with his hands. Pinching and pulling it he molded it like a baker manipulates dough while preparing it for the oven. The gas slowly became more tangible as his mind and his body worked upon it. Strings of it stretched between his fingers as he clenched them and pulled his hands apart before pushing them back together again. He would roll it into a ball, further thickening it with his will, before pulling and stretching it once more.
Once it had reached a consistency he found satisfactory he rolled it into a smooth ball roughly the size of a grapefruit. His palms did the greatest amount of work, but once they had reached their limit he used his own spiritual connection with the rest to smooth the most minute angles until it was a perfect sphere. Then he gripped it part way between the top and the middle, and squeezed. A neck appeared between the bottom half of the sphere and the top quarter.
The color and slight translucent quality of the Res had not changed, but it was now the solidity of clay as he gripped and pinched it. Molding it with his fingers he soon had two spheres, one small and one large, connected by a neck of Res. Then he began pulling at the smaller sphere until two flaps appeared on either side. The little figure was beginning to take the shape of some strange animal, or perhaps a monster.
He had great experience with mentally manipulating his Res while in gaseous form. The magician could stretch it to extreme thinness or shrink it to powerful compressions as he had done when creating his most recent spell. Altering a more solid form of Res was a different kind of challenge, but one which he welcomed greatly. The tension behind his eyes was visible as the magician bent his might upon the object of his power.
The flaps became pointed and more ear-like as the smaller sphere changed into a crude approximation of an animal. The body, all one piece, took the shape of a seated four legged animal with a tail curled about its feet. Whatever it was, it still resembled some unfinished sculpture than any true creature. Using his fingers to aid where his mind could not and his mind to accomplish what his fingers could not, he continued. "The key to power is focus. The key to focus is calm. The key to calm is peace. The key to peace is power."
Mr. Pickles and Francis had taken keen interest in what was going on. Animals have a way of sensing the emotions of their companions with a keen intensity that is often unmatched by their human counterparts. They sensed that whatever was occurring was important. A stillness fell upon the glen as Sturlin delved the mysteries of his art. Who could have predicted that creation was so much more difficult than destruction. This revelation fell upon the magician like a wave upon the sand, and yet he was not beyond his skill. A difficult task lay before him, but not one which was beyond his power and endurance.
The finest features began to form themselves. While Sturlin had no knowledge of sculpture or of engineering, he did have a deep and loving knowledge of cats. Having chosen such a personal subject he had insight into the curve of the jaw and the set of the ears on Mr. Pickles that a casual pet owner may not. This cat had seen him through the loss of his mother, the death of his father, and the destruction of his uncle. He could no more fail to create a replica of Mr. Pickles than he could fail to breathe.
Res, now the consistency of thick unbaked clay, rested within his palms in the shape of a small and hairless cat. Its head was cocked to the side in a whimsical expression of curiosity. Its ears were perked and attentive. The back was straight and the paws were all visible as it sat comfortably on its haunches, pointed and bald tail wrapped around the side and resting in the front as if paralyzed mid-twitch. A drop of sweat fell from Sturlin's hand into the fur of the wolf laying beside him.
Now he closed his eyes in concentration and focused upon the rock. Of all the rocks he had encountered, a faint pink marble would do his companion the most justice. He worked the image firmly in his mind, recalling the consistency and texture of the thing as he prepared to convert his Res into the physical manifestation of earth. The veins would be just so, the color would compliment it in such a way, that he hoped in the right light one might just mistake the copy for the original.
As he opened his eyes the transformation began. It was not a gradual thing, as was the creation of the Res or the manipulation of it into this sculpture, it was sudden and startling. Something had gone wrong. Perhaps it was the distractions which took place during the formation or the complexity of the rock to which he tried to transform it, but it was not as it should be. Rather than a pink marble which would be the perfect marriage between earth and cat, it had instead turned to black marble.
Among the long list of unexpected results among Reimancers, creating the wrong color of marble was far from a tragedy of epic proportions. After all he could have turned himself inside out or destroyed his mind and turned his magic upon his newly met kelvic friend. Far worse things had happened to be sure. Still, as he looked upon the black statuette of his friend and companion, he could not help but feel a pang of disappointment. What if she did not like it? What if he did not like it?
Sturlin looked toward the wolf to see what her reaction might be, but something obscured his vision. His eyes stung and his breathing was labored. Blinking lazily for a moment he tried to realize what was wrong. Was this overgiving? Had he pushed his boundaries too far? These questions were frantic inside of his now jumbled mind, but he need not have worried. Exhaustion after a difficult casting was not uncommon, and it was not overgiving.
His shoulders heaved as he tried to pull in more air as a man who lived a sedentary lifestyle would after having been forced to sprint. Sweat gathered on his brow, and was running into his eyes causing the discomfort he had noticed. It truly felt as if he had been stacking rocks back in that clearing for five, perhaps six hours. Slumping forward and resting his arms on his legs he carefully sat the black marble statuette of Mr. Pickles between Miharu's paws, and then rested his head in his hand. In a shaky voice he said, "Surprise."
The key to power is focus
The key to focus is calm
The key to calm is peace
The key to peace is power