Flashback True sight

[Pjeil]

Summer, Day 38, 501 AV

"Uncle, would you tell me a story?" Inquired the young Isur, wielding his wide eyes as a weapon to get what he desired. Of course, they had little effect on his guardian this time; he was far too aware to the child's disarming gaze. The elder Isur's typically sorrowful expression softened into an amused, crooked grin. Maxas paced the length of his room and retrieved his journal. Pjeil's uncle returned with the book under his arm and a candle in his hand. After he set the candle on a side table he let the journal fall from his arm and into his waiting hand, a very practiced movement for someone without both his arms. He smiled down at his charge as the young Isur sat on his bed. This had become a ritual lately, a story before bed and it amused Pjeil's uncle to no end that his stories were of so much interest.

"What would you story would you like to hear, Pjeil?"

The young one tilted his head to the side in thought. That gaze drifting up into the corner of his eyes before a smile grew on his lips. "I know! Tell me what Grandfather was like when you were little." Pjeil proceeded to scoot backwards into the wall as he adjusted the blankets to cover his legs. Uncle Maxas' stories the best. Though no one else took time to tell Pjeil stories.

Maxas nodded to his nephew and settled into the foot of his bed. Pjeil watched his Uncle grimace as he set his journal on his lap and opened it towards the beginning. His arm probably itched, the one that was taken from him. A storm was probably coming over the mountains. The youth gave a brief yawn and rubbed his eyes. He was sleepy, but he would stay up for this.

"When I was just about your age I MY father was about as old as I am now. I was just like you, the fourth child born between my mother and father-"

Thus started the young one's interruptions: "But, where is my other Aunt or Uncle?"

Maxas gave a fond, long-suffering smile and patted his nephew's head. "I was the youngest of four but it was when I was your age that my father really took notice of my talents within the church. They said I had an excellent memory, and in truth, I still remember much of what I was taught when I was young. They said I was gifted with speech and that I would go far in the church. And before you ask, I am speaking of the Priest of Izurdin. Your grandfather was a high ranking priest and very well respected for his ability to craft and his position as bridge between the masses and the gods. He had several Gods and goddess' marks and was given honor an honorable burial when he passed on. So when he learned that I had a bright future, he took me out with him on his third missionary tour.

"Naturally it took many days of preparation, but they fled quickly as I grew excited for our trip into the wilds, seeking other cities and new people to spread the word of Patience, Industry and Strength. When it was time to leave, Valdaras and your father and your grandmother wished us farewell and we left with a caravan of humans destined for Alvadas."

Pjeil's eyes widened at the name of the city. "Did you really go to the City of Illusion?" He asked in an awed voice, which was met with a slow nod and a smile. "What was it like, Uncle?"

"Well." replied Maxas, musing for a moment before continuing, "The trip there was far more eventful than the city itself every was. I mean, it was spring and we had torrential storms and raiding warbands of nomadic humans and the Zith to contend with. Yet, it made our arrival to Alvadas that much more sweetened. It truly was a beautiful place, in its own charming way. It was a mashup of several kinds of architectures and styles and every time you turned a corner the city would shift itself. Your grandfather told me that in the city of Illusions, nothing is quite what it seems and to help pierce the illusions one would need a priestly tool. He called it the True Sight-"

Now this piqued Pjeil's interest and so he sat up straighter before he leaned forward, towards his uncle. "What is that?"

Maxas rolled his eyes and continued, getting a bit exasperated with his nephew. "I am sure the Sentinals have another name for it, but it is a way to see what is unseen, to know the true nature of things and peoples around you. It can do many things as you learn to truly see with the tool. A few in the priesthood know of the skill, but fewer still can actually use it."

"Can I try, can I, can I?" Pjeil was bouncing in his seat now, excited at the prospect of knowing a secret that his Uncle had to share. "I promise I wont tell anyone about it. Please?" At this he turned the full force of his young features on his uncle, his eyes wide and open, slightly watery with his lips trembling slightly. Naturally Maxas had to give in, but not without a chuckle and a sigh. "Of course, Pjeil. I can show you how to use what my Father taught me."

[Pjeil]

That weathered face turned to his nephew. "Now what I'm about to tell you is something of a secret. Tell no one what I'm about to tell you except the priests or the sentinels, and only if they ask." Pjeil, sobered up by the sudden seriousness nodded and settled down to listen.

"Alright... Where do I begin..." Pjeil watched his uncle flip through his journal, Maxas kept all his thoughts in there, everything he ever learned or seen or done. This was a part of their nightly ritual, he would ask him to tell him a story and he would pull out his journal. When his uncle finally found what he was looking for he nodded. "Ah."

"True Sight is to see the unseen. In truth the skill manifests itself differently for each user, if it does at all. It extends your senses and allows you to know what should only be known to the gods. That is why our clan and those in the Holy Forge teach the skill among ourselves, we are nothing more than instruments of their will." He nodded to himself as he said this and then searched the handwriting as he collected his thoughts.

"Don't feel bad if you can't manifest it. Your father couldn't. But just maybe you could." He gave a tight smile and paused again, searching his young nephew's face. "This is very important young one, using this divine skill is addictive. The more you use it, the more you'll want to use it. If you use it too much, or push yourself too far. The very gods punish you, they can take away your sense, they plague you with whispers of temptation. The risk is high and the danger is real. Do you understand?"

Pjeil's eyes naturally got very large at this, but he was steady and gave a quick nod. He said nothing though, not willing to trust his voice.

"You are brave, Pjeil, braver than my eldest brother, your uncle." Maxas gave his brother's child a nod and continued. "Alright. True Sight is dependent on three components. The Word, The Mind and The Sight. The Word is easiest to master: It is a word to activate the power, spoken aloud or later when you become more skilled, in your mind." Maxas chuckled softly, "Not something I could do of course, but your grandfather could."

"What is the word?" Piped in the youth, leaning forward a bit. Already Pjeil's mind was buzzing with its usual hyperactive thoughts. Maybe other words do other things? He wish he knew more of the Ancient Tongue, many in his clan knew it, but he hadn't been given the chance to learn yet. Would this word be an Ancient word or something else?

"Let me finish, let me finish." The elder Isur waved his hand and peered at his handwriting for a moment, mouthing words softly. "Oh, of course. In any case, one must then clear his mind. He must open himself to the unseen. When he is ready to receive what is hidden he can then truly See. Once you have channeled your gift with the word and made your mind ready to see, all that is left is to focus The Sight. This is the dangerous part, you will see and feel the physical, the spiritual and arcane. If you focus too hard on any one thing too much for too long you risk damaging yourself. Let what you see be hazy then focus in. As my father told me 'If you look into the sun, you may become blind' such is true with what you may See." He paused for a moment, his face in a pained frown. " I am sorry dear one, it has been so long since I have used the True Sight. I am very rusty, but how to focus is not something your grandfather told. I want this to work for you."

He set down his journal and smiled. "Are you ready to try?

[Pjeil]

WIP
Sitting there, on his bed, in the dim bedroom with his uncle there offering a chance to try something that was only offerred to him was perhaps one of the highlights of the child's life. It was not that he was specificly abused or neglected. He was cared for, fed and clothed and taught what all young isur were taught. Yet he was otherwise treated so that he felt like an after thought. And looking back, to that time he supposed that he could not blame his family. He was the youngest of the children and had exhibited no special crafting talents, nor particular zealotry towards the church nor special strengths to be useful in the law. He was not in any way to be named heir to the family's patriach and it seemed a sign from the gods that an afterthought child could draw out responsibility and stability to an isur that had his link to Izuridin severed.

Of course, at the time he probably couldn't formulate his thoughts to be much more than feel as if he lacked a purpose. He had his uncle and he loved him very much, but Maxas was a fixture in his life not a purpose. Maybe trying this, and proving himself worthy. He would garner the attention of his father like his brothers had.

Naturally the response was an emphatic yes.

But why was this a secret? He could not help but wonder. The Sentinals would not intervene unless it was a magic skill, and even then only when it was being abused or the person had exceptional skill in magic and the Sentinals had to have them. By Maxas' account, this was a gift from the gods, a gnosis*. And how strange it was that his grandfather could pass on the skill to him and he could pass it on to his nephew. Sure Izentor, an Isur's arm passed down from generation to generation. Yet were they not children of the god of industry? It would make sense for Izentor to pass on since it was not unlike how a green lizard mated to a tan one produced offspring of either tan or green or something in between. But this... "True sight". He was never taught that something like this could be passed on from one holder to the next. Ignoring everything else, if it was a gnosis, which god would he be serving by using it?

The more the thought about what true sight was, the more his thoughts circled back on themselves and the more confused he became. But, he was excited to try this and would do his best.

"Accessing True Sight is fairly simple, in theory." Began the child's uncle, "It is all focus. You focus on an object and drown out all other distractions, you focus until you 'know' it. When you have practiced enough you can use a divine word to activate it quickly, though you must prime yourself and be receptive and focused at the same time. A contradiction I know" He lifted his hand to forestall his nephew's question, "It is easier to understand after you try. In any case, the key to it is meditation." The elder isur smiled fondly, his eyes unfocused. "-Ah, anyways. So close your eyes and focus on my journal."

Pjeil supposed that if he should focus on something, that tome would be the best option. The book was thick, bound in a brown, thick scaled leather. He guessed it must have taken a bunch of lizards to make it, or a really large on. Looking up, the child was a little unnerved by the intensity of the stare he was recieving. It was almost like Maxas was a starving man eyeing a haunch of meat.

Nervously he held the book in either hand and closed his eyes and his uncle spoke. "Meditate on the texture of the book, feel it between your fingers. If it helps, throw all your thoughts into an imaginary forge, let it heat up and burn away the chaff and impurities. Than pour out the darkness into a mold, that mold being your focus. If you must focus on the book, pour out the darkness into the shape of a book and let it drown it out all other things"

As his uncle spoke that nonsense he tried picturing a forge. In his mind was the forge, a great firepot with a vent above and ash trap below. A bellows blew but there was no one to man it, yet on it went... No. That wasn't right. If he was to pour out this silly idea of liquid darkness as if it were a metal, he would need a blast furnace, or something similar. Slowly his mind took on the image of a magma smelter. The blinding heat of liquid stone and metal rose up from below and was funneled to the extraction pot; it was set in position, ready to pour.

With his mental image in space and his uncle still droning on about how to meditate he slowly fed everything into the pot. What he was doing did not make much sense to him, but he had to try. Slowly his doubt filled the pot and melted away. His fear of letting his uncle down went next. Peace overcame him as deeper fears found their way into the pot and burned or melted away. On and on it went, the more he threw into the pot the easier it was to burn it all. Idle thoughts that plagued his mind were thrown in, the tendancy to get distracted had no hold on him when it was contained in the extraction pot. His sadness and depression went, but with it too went his happiness and joy. No matter how much he thrust into it, the hinged lid never overfilled.

Sweat beaded up on his forehead and under his arms. Which was strange for someone who was sitting still. In his mind all there was was the pot, the heat from below and the darkness of the chimmney above. All his thoughts, fears and feelings were contained in a metal jar. He could feel the book inbetween his hands, he could hear his uncle's light breathing and he had no illusions about what was and what wasn't. It was objective fact that he was sitting, learning how to meditate, not to use the true sight. But this was supposedly the first step and key to what he needed to do. This was not difficult at all. Perhaps he had the knack for this. Though that fact was an unknown to him at this point, he would need to ask his uncle.

His uncle had stopped talking. Pjeil did not wonder why, in truth the thought was melting or burning in the pot. It was then that he felt he was ready and formed in his mind the mold of the book in his hand. He couldn't do it though and held onto the question of "Why?" for a moment. He couldn't see the book and therefore he could not make a mold for it. If he opened his eyes he could see the book, but then what would happen to his extraction thoughts? Would they return with a vengence? He thrust that thought into the pot.

He could feel the book, but he did not trust that he could hold the meditation with his hands roaming the book. He would have to focus entirely on what he could feel here and now. With the decision made and every other thought burning he focused in on what he could feel and made a mold. Each of his ten fingers told him that the book was sturdy and dry, raspy with the dried out lizard leather. These were also objective facts and from these facts he prepared his mold and then poured.

[Pjeil]

Apparently he had not completely cleared his mind when he poured his pot. He was not completely sure what exactly he was expecting when he began to pour from his mental smelter's pot but suprised flooded him in any case as his mind poured out a dark, molten liquid into his senses. Suprised was somehow thrown into his pot even as he poured. It was as if the darkness were itself a liquid metal getting ready to be cast. His uncle had explained it this way, but at the time he had trouble understanding. Logically it made sense that it would be a metal in this scenario.

As he poured the liquid into his mold he realized that there was no end to this molten darkness. It would overflow. If he had the ability to panic in this state, maybe he would. He did not, however, and continued to pour. He could not stop now that he had begun. And overflow it did, darkness fell down the sides of his mental image into the white hot abyss below. Only a few drops blotted out the brightness and it rose like some perverse tide. Everything the molten shadows were blotted out and maybe he would have been sad to see his mental images gone if that saddness did not make up the cold, logical hardness that the black metal that was destroying the meditation aid. Interestingly the dark chimmney changed texture to the same darkness as and sunk down like the rising tide of darkness below. It ate it all, burning, flowing, melting until there was nothing left but the mold and its contents; What his senses told him of the book.

"Alright Pjeil." That is enough for this evening. "We can try again tomorrow."
The darkness shattered like a looking glass and he opened his eyes. "What? Why?"

Apparently his uncle had been also meditating. For once the middle aged isur looked as if he was at peace with himself. That weathered visage emotionless except for a slight, fond smile. "We have been meditating for at least 3 bells. I am surprised you lasted this long."

"But I can go on for longer!" Pjeil protested, his arms flipped up but it was only then that he realized how sore he was. He put his arms down, looking from his metallic blue to his right. He was completely drenched in sweat, his seat left a light print when he moved. He was sore and stiff, probably from sitting still for too long. He groaned a bit, which elicited a full smile from Maxas. This was different from the familiar soreness of working and playing. He did nothing but felt as if he had been drained of himself. "But I was so close, I almost felt as if I knew the book. If that makes sense."

Leaning back against the stone post of the bed Maxas nodded and gestured to the book "I know what you mean, it takes time and practice to use the skill. It took me a full season of trying to get it to work. Maybe you will be able to, too, in time. With Izuridin's help and his blessing you will prevail my dear one.In any case, get to bed. You have much to do in the morning."

Pjeil slipped under the furs and bade his uncle good night. His uncle in turn smiled and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Disappointment kept him awake and staring up at the ceiling though. If only he could have done it, this mysterious "True Sight." What little sleep he got that night was restless and the only dreams he received were those of heat, darkness and a familiar smelter's pot.

[Caelum]

Thread Award

Pjeil

Skills
Auristics +3
Meditation +3
Persuasion +1

Lores
Family Tree
Alvadas: City of Illusions
Hazards of Overgiving
Meditation Methods

Notes

An enjoyable read! Please edit your post in the grade request thread to reflect completion and, as ever, don't hesitate to contact me with any questions of concerns.