7th Winter, 514 A.V.
Woods outside Syliras, 18th Bell
The sun was gone behind the treelike and the sky a collection of gradually changing hues of blue. The horizon still attested to the bright day it had been, but the wide expanse above was transitioning to night. Moema stood not far away, rubbed down and fed. She was content to inspect a sparse copse of bush at length. Her horse blanket was draped over her already.
Bakr sat against a small rock, staring deep into the flames in front of him. He had set up camp already. The small, one man tent was pitched behind him with his bedroll laid out with blanket rolled up on top. He had made a fire a few yards from it and eaten a bit of his ration. The orange light brightened his face and warmed his front. It danced merrily in front of him, ever reaching towards the darkening sky. A thin trail of black smoke rose to twine around the upper trunk of a tall pine and dissipate into the vast sky above.
But Bakr was not looking up. Indeed, he was not observing much around him. The desert-born’s thoughts were far away and long ago. To a family left behind and old, bitter grudges. He often wondered at what his family was doing now, after so many years away.Were his mother and father still alive? Did they still tend the same herd in the same set of lands? Did their prospective families still shun them for their union?
He let the ethereal Res pool in his hand. The mystical substance was no more than the size of a miza in his hand. He stared down at it absently. With a flare of willpower he made it a flame. Small and brightly golden, it did not waver and flicker as the campfire did. It was fueled by his own soul. Or so that was how Bakr understood the magic.
He had never been able to produce more than small flames in different forms. The truth was that he really didn’t understand exactly what it was. But he wanted to. There was much he wanted to understand. He let the flame blink out, watching his hand fall back into dark shadow.
He wanted to understand why he was here. Why he had been forced to leave Eyktol. Surely he had not been forced, if he was being truthful with his own mind. But for one so young, the disapproval of an entire family was hard to endure. The lack of belonging within his own parental home was no easier. He had gone out on a…pilgrimage? A search of enlightenment. It was all in the cause of understanding where he belonged and what path he should follow.
But here he was, across the world from all the family he knew. Was this where he belonged? He certainly didn’t think so. He didm;t feel like he was more enlightened, or better equipped to find a place in life. He felt lost and without an anchor to steady himself. He was drifting through time and space with little will to direct himself one way or the other.
Wisdom was hard earned. That was the enlightenment he had achieved. No wisdom, but the knowledge that it was rare to come by and valuable in it’s sparse quantities. Yahal was indeed making life hard. Or perhaps Yahal disapproved of his parent’s union as well. Perhaps Bakr was forsaken by all divines and left to wander until he collapsed to dust.
The halfbreed sighed sorrowfully. He began to release more Res into his hand. The subtle hum of sensation as he conjured it left an eerie aftertaste in his heart and mind, as always. What had that kook done to him?
Woods outside Syliras, 18th Bell
The sun was gone behind the treelike and the sky a collection of gradually changing hues of blue. The horizon still attested to the bright day it had been, but the wide expanse above was transitioning to night. Moema stood not far away, rubbed down and fed. She was content to inspect a sparse copse of bush at length. Her horse blanket was draped over her already.
Bakr sat against a small rock, staring deep into the flames in front of him. He had set up camp already. The small, one man tent was pitched behind him with his bedroll laid out with blanket rolled up on top. He had made a fire a few yards from it and eaten a bit of his ration. The orange light brightened his face and warmed his front. It danced merrily in front of him, ever reaching towards the darkening sky. A thin trail of black smoke rose to twine around the upper trunk of a tall pine and dissipate into the vast sky above.
But Bakr was not looking up. Indeed, he was not observing much around him. The desert-born’s thoughts were far away and long ago. To a family left behind and old, bitter grudges. He often wondered at what his family was doing now, after so many years away.Were his mother and father still alive? Did they still tend the same herd in the same set of lands? Did their prospective families still shun them for their union?
He let the ethereal Res pool in his hand. The mystical substance was no more than the size of a miza in his hand. He stared down at it absently. With a flare of willpower he made it a flame. Small and brightly golden, it did not waver and flicker as the campfire did. It was fueled by his own soul. Or so that was how Bakr understood the magic.
He had never been able to produce more than small flames in different forms. The truth was that he really didn’t understand exactly what it was. But he wanted to. There was much he wanted to understand. He let the flame blink out, watching his hand fall back into dark shadow.
He wanted to understand why he was here. Why he had been forced to leave Eyktol. Surely he had not been forced, if he was being truthful with his own mind. But for one so young, the disapproval of an entire family was hard to endure. The lack of belonging within his own parental home was no easier. He had gone out on a…pilgrimage? A search of enlightenment. It was all in the cause of understanding where he belonged and what path he should follow.
But here he was, across the world from all the family he knew. Was this where he belonged? He certainly didn’t think so. He didm;t feel like he was more enlightened, or better equipped to find a place in life. He felt lost and without an anchor to steady himself. He was drifting through time and space with little will to direct himself one way or the other.
Wisdom was hard earned. That was the enlightenment he had achieved. No wisdom, but the knowledge that it was rare to come by and valuable in it’s sparse quantities. Yahal was indeed making life hard. Or perhaps Yahal disapproved of his parent’s union as well. Perhaps Bakr was forsaken by all divines and left to wander until he collapsed to dust.
The halfbreed sighed sorrowfully. He began to release more Res into his hand. The subtle hum of sensation as he conjured it left an eerie aftertaste in his heart and mind, as always. What had that kook done to him?
