Closed How Many Fingers Am I Holding Up? (Aventis)

Aventis is taught the basics of Morphing by Vizayas.

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An inland sea created by Ivak's cataclismic fury during the Valterrian, the Suvan Sea is a major trade route and the foremost hub for piracy in Mizahar. [lore]

How Many Fingers Am I Holding Up? (Aventis)

Postby Vizayas on June 2nd, 2015, 8:11 am

Summer 12th, On a Boat

The bow of the ship rose and fell slightly, a feeling in his gut flipping over with every rolling ocean wave. Leth hung above, illuminating the ocean as Vizayas gazed across the sea as he stood upon the bow, the front end of the ship. It was as if he hoped to spot something peculiar that never came. The sound the water made when it splashed against the ship was dwarfed by the many noises emanating from below deck. He could hear the dulled sounds of snoring, snorting, scratching, and idle banter as the crew generally had fun. Even the strain and stretch of the ropes that held the whipping and billowing sails were culprits in the distribution of noise. It was, quite literally, a cacaphony to him when to others it was quite quiet.

Of course, the night crew was not entirely without members. Despite not looking at them, he could hear that there were a few people out and about, their feet slapping and thudding against the wooden and wet boards of the deck. It was certainly chilly out, but he didn't feel much like trying to get some shut eye. It was difficult in such close quarters to be able to hear almost everything on the ship in detail when standing near the center of it, and considering his condition he worried he was becoming an insomniac. He was, however, getting better at filtering out pointless sounds that cluttered up everything else he was listening for.

A breeze came about, one that carried with it a rather frigid blast that seemed to sink down to the bone. That's it...I need to be warm. He cupped his hand, and the djed he needed wasn't hard to find - it was everywhere. The wind would bother him no longer when he was finished. His mouth went agape, djed pooling up in his lungs as he concentrated. He worked on tasking that djed as it was created, infusing it with the information of the wind, his goal to halt its assault on him and prevent such a thing from stealing any more heat. He could have gone below deck, but there was a pristine beauty out here that he wanted to appreciate for a bit longer.

He couldn't help but shiver and shake as yet another cold breeze whipped by, as if warning him against sheltering himself. His concentration did not falter, nor did he waver as he held the idea of the wind he held in his mind. Then, he blew the wind-djed infused essence in his lungs outwards, exhaling it into a thick fog that he willed to wrap around himself. Of course, to most he looked as if he were performing a silly gesture of some sort. To him, it was something far more surreal and special. He aided the fog with his hands, holding it around himself like a billowing fluffy sheet as he pressed it towards his skin.

Once it covered the entirety of his torso, and his arms like a cloud, he began to focus on condensing it. Slowly, it began to shrink. As it did, he couldn't help but notice the flaws he had created through this method. It was uneven, but he spent a great deal of time smoothing it out and trying to even out its impurities. After some time, the material began to clear up and form a somewhat reflective surface. It was riddled with imperfections, and most notably he had only created a shield around his torso and arms. His head was still exposed to the frigid air. He didn't want to tax himself too much, despite knowing he could shield his entire body with ease. You never know when the last of your djed will come in handy.

Nobody was really paying attention to him, even as another loud gust blew by. His hair flickered in the wind, but he found himself significantly warmer. His heart yearned for the music he had heard in Syliras, and he had often wondered if such a thing were possible to accomplish. He was never good at art, as a child. Why would now be any different? Sure, Audius allowed him to perform mimickry, and he seemed to understand everyone but could he really create art of that caliber by himself? Vizayas shrugged off the thought, succumbing to basic desire as he took a deep breath.

"Oh..." He sang, the drawn out word coming from deep within himself. Somewhat deep, but rather mellow. "The night was bright, the knight was slight. Amongst the ocean's powerful might. He stood, he sang..." He paused, his mind trying to think of more things to say. After a moment, he had something new to say. "To throw his voice, o'er the bow and into the sea. He really thinks, he can sing. But really he's bad, oh so bad." He fudged up the last word, ending it in a high pitched yelp despite having Rhaus to guide him - he had no practice, he didn't know much in terms of the basics of singing. He couldn't even really remember any songs, was he really so dull?

Perhaps someone would come along, and sing a song, so he could sing along?
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Vizayas
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How Many Fingers Am I Holding Up? (Aventis)

Postby Aventis on June 5th, 2015, 10:28 am

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Despite his best efforts, Aventis was beginning to enjoy the rusty old ship. If you looked straight up the mast when there was good wind, you could swear that the fabric was the entire sky, and the light layer of salt water on the top deck of the ship massaged one’s feet just ever so slightly as to give the impression that the experience was one of a distant luxury, as if not many people in this world could experience what Aventis was experiencing now was something only a handful of people could experience in their entire existence. It made him feel privileged, and it made him feel as if what he were doing mattered. He knew it was foolish, of course, to ever think it would actually matter. Or, anything he did tonight. Tonight it was simple.

It was later at night and most of the crew had recently returned to the cabins to rest before the next day of work, but Aventis couldn’t find much sleep. A moment ago he strapped on a pair of blousers and set out to the deck, where he had a goal in mind.

As he stepped aboard the main deck, his feet were massaged with the aforementioned waves, and the sails whipped delicately, slowly in the breeze. Aventis’ eyes were locked on the mast.

Earlier he had seen men climbing it, wrapping their arms around it and being able to hoist themselves up the enormous pole, and one had even commented that Aventis might have an advantage there. So here, where he was free of judgement, he was ready to learn this new skill. And, as he did so, he quietly recited someting that had stuck in the back of his mind. Something he had always known but never quite recited aloud.

“When all others can’t seem to speak…” He softly sang to himself in a low tener that he had seldom exercised.

“And the few are far too meak..” He sang as he wrapped his multiple arms around the mast.

“There is always one.”

With that, he hoisted his weight onto the mast, pressing his feet against the narrow wall of moist lumber, and hoping for the best. He stared up at the sails and at the crow’s nest above; his target was acquired.

“When the others have unable means/And we are stuck in between/There is always one.” He sang as he hoisted his lower set of arms above his other set and took a step towards the sky. His teeth were grit and his cheeks pounding with blood. He took in a deep breath, and let his upper arms disengage from each other and quickly wrapped them around the pole again, above his lower set, and took another step.

“And all the other lungs have been dry, have been dry,” He sang as he reached the bridge of his song. He was about four feet above the deck now, and could feel drops of sweat drip down his forehead and onto his bare chest. “As no man but he faces impossible, improbable, honestly, no lies,” He hoisted himself up further, taking another step. “And impossibly, improbably, honestly survives.”

As he was about to take another step, and he was approximately five feet above the ground by now, he nearly yelled the last line. “He is,” he bellowed, letting his lower arms hang free, ready to grab the pole above the opposing set. “A-” he began, as the ship hit a wave and thrashed suddenly, causing the boy to lose his grip and release the mast from his grasp.

All the while, his eyes were glued to the starry skies above, decorated, like a picture is with a frame, the great white sails. Slowly, they seemed to distance themselves from his reach.

The fall was short, despite Aventis’ experience, and ended with a loud thunk. Aventis laid there, at the foot of the mast, completely silent, and unable to breathe for a moment.

So close…

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Credit to: Rhys for picture edit, Redd and Estellir Konrath for Boxcodes, and Fallon for Signature

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How Many Fingers Am I Holding Up? (Aventis)

Postby Vizayas on June 8th, 2015, 4:36 pm

As ticks blew by, Vizayas continued to sing from the top of his head. He really hoped nobody was listening. "The foul befouled, they get what's owed! Words four clout, and a lousy grout!" Bumbling gibberish, but he was having fun. "A face of red, I said, off the top of my head!" That last rhyme was surprisingly silly, yet difficult. However, it reminded him of something that happened in his past, something important. It was the day he first met his friends, and he supposed that rhyme could be a bit of a tribute to them.

It also reminded him that he hadn't donned that red face in so many years. He wanted to wear it again, to bear it for the sake of a past nearly forgotten and so long ago. He closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose, clearing his mind by eliminating every thought, one at a time. When few remained, he began to concentrate on the red face. Distant, but near. His mind still had the image, a face of a shade of red much like blood. It reminded him of a time before Rhaus when he could not yet hear with such clarity.

He visualized himself getting painted upon with his mind's eye. Stroke by stroke, his face became covered in splotches of red. The streaks tingled with every stroke, it was familiar to him now, those feelings. He felt as if he were something else as the transformation progressed steadily. Then, the monotony of his world became rife with song once again.

“When all others can’t seem to speak…”

It was soft, it rang forth from a vaguely familiar voice. He couldn't quite tell from these words alone, but he knew someone was attempting to sing at that moment. It comforted him, and he progressed his transformation. Visualizing himself once more, he willed and sculpted the skin on the rest of his head to turn crimson, for currently it was only the majority.

“And the few are far too meak..”

Vizayas heard the next words spoken with some form of passion. It was distinctly audible now, and he had a very good hunch as to who the owner of these words happened to be. Mentally, he compared the voice with the others he had heard on the ship until he had a few possible candidates narrowed down. As his transformation progressed, he found himself increasingly distracted by the singing. He still managed to maintain his concentration, the rest of his head changing in color quite quickly.

“There is always one.”

Then, Vizayas heard a creaking sound, a sound of wood and rope being strained. A sound that he was also familiar with. Then, it hit him as to who the owner of the song was as he heard not four, but two limbs clamber around in the pursuit of height. Vizayas exhaled, relaxing himself as his transformation progressed. The distractions were slowing him down, peeling him out of the state of mind essential for utilizing his magic.

“When the others have unable means/And we are stuck in between/There is always one.”

As those words progressed, Vizayas neared the end of his transformation. It was a relatively simple one, and it could be done quickly despite the intense mental effort it required. Morphing, to him, was never an entirely easy thing. It always took some form of labor mentally on his part to succeed. His head, down his neck and all the way to his collarbone was covered in a shade of swirling crimson red. The colors were finding the place his mind had ordered them to color, and they were solidifying and melding together, bending to Vizayas' demands.

“And all the other lungs have been dry, have been dry,”

Strands of djed finalized themselves upon Vizayas' skin as his change of color was finally completed. He had no mirror to gaze upon it, only the mental image of himself as something different to what he originally was. With his task cemented, he finally grew too curious. He could listen all he wanted, but he had to gratify his eyes.

“As no man but he faces impossible, improbable, honestly, no lies,”

The singing was rudimentary, but charming at the same time. Vizayas turned around, his eyes searching for the culprit clinging to the mast. He smiled as soon as he saw the Eypharian there, climbing the mast like a six legged beetle climbs a tree.

"And impossibly, improbably, honestly survives.”

Then the Eypharian took another step, Vizayas listening to his song.

"He is."

The song grew to a soft bellow. Then, came the finale. The ship creaked and waned in response, then came a heavy crash that forced Vizayas to bend his knees and lean backwards into the rail. He nearly fell over, but the Eypharian was not so lucky.

"A-"

Vizayas witnessed the Eypharian fall backward, slipping off the mast a good five feet off the ground. He winced as he heard the man's body quake from the hit, the boards of the deck quivering at his descent from the sky. He didn't hear anything crack or snap, but he wanted to make sure the Eypharian was okay.

Vizayas stumbled over to the Eypharian as the ship swayed and prepared to thrash them both again, standing over him with his crimson red face. He was completely unaware of how intimidating or strange he possibly looked, and he simply wanted to help. "Need a hand?" Vizayas asked as he held out his hand to lift the Eypharian off his feet if the man took the offer, not that the Eypharian needed any more hands. He seemed to have plenty, by Vizayas' count of four.
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