19th of Summer, 515 AV
He wasn't in the best condition. No, certainly not. The day began with his eyes flickering open and closed, as the lantern before him did. The day began with a sort of massive hysteria - a panic inspired by the cruelty within his body, the consuming hunger and the ill feeling in each muscle and all of his bones. The constant pain that came with self-improvement, which had seen him a boy of clay into a man of brick. He had certainly changed for the better recently, but after a lifetime of glorious things that were easily obtained, self-actualization was exceptionally difficult to grasp. And so his pain, his suffering, his groans and the wails that embraced him as he slept - these things were painfully expected and grimly welcomed. He was always a fireball away from overgiving, always a sprint away from giving out, and at the moment all of that glorious suffering was desired.
He crawled up from the shit-mired foundation he called his bed, the painfully unwelcoming structure. His back stretched because he made it, and he indulged in whatever minimalistic amount of food the master offered him. He leaned over to his small little bedside rack to equip his collar, his leather vambraces, and of course his boots so that all he did wouldn't result in his feet giving out. As he headed out of his small area, he heard a 'hello' from Ameer, and he responded with the nodding of his head. He didn't quite have the willpower to speak, as a man of words would always find them difficult to let out. They had to be precise. A dreary 'hi' wasn't enough for his particular tastes. So, soaking his head in a small bit of water and breathing out, he turned to Ameer and smiled rather fakely. "Hey," he said. Not the most creative word to begin with, but it was the energy that mattered. The same words from a tired and tiring specimen meant a fifth as much if not less than if they came from a diamond in the rough.
After he ate and drank his fill, the young mage began his daily exercises. It hurt, it really did, but the pain was followed by the pleasure of knowing of his improvements. He began with just . . . stretches, to ease the muscles. His hands above his head, and then far forward, his arms stretching his sides, his fingertips to his toes. All of these painfully boring sets of repetition. He didn't care how much it hurt right now. He used exercise to engage in silent retrospection . . . and more importantly, plotting, scheming, planning the demise of his master and his own freedom. He found that compelling thoughts nullified outside feelings, even strong pleasures. Perhaps his constant engagement in self-inspired philosophy was why he didn't have much of a personal life anymore. He couldn't find pleasure in any touch, or excitement in the moment, for he was always too critically observant of every thought surrounding him. He'd changed. Sahova had changed him so much that he couldn't even begin to imagine what he used to be like. Weak, fragile, needing, and afraid. He was afraid of men like Sileas, his former instructor in hypnotism. He was afraid of people that were weak and nothingness compared to the creatures of pure unbridled power that lived on this very island.
Eventually, he finished enough of his daily exercises to where he could move on to the second portion of his daily itinerary: going out to the Testing Grounds and refining his Reimancy, as well as looking into new venues to use it with. He said his goodbyes to Ameer and Telemaran, then headed out through the Vestibule into what he considered anarchy itself; he had never quite before seen anything like the wild power-mongering of the people that dwelled within the Testing Grounds. Of course, he was one of them, so he was far away from any idea of judgement. No, instead, he focused his thoughts on more important things. When he got to the field, he sat himself down on the sands. He began to speak words, but spontaneous ones, and chained together mindlessly. Everything he did was for a purpose - the purpose of this was to condition the brain to soullessly channel hypnotism, to make his lies truths in even his own eyes, and to maintain a distance from the power of words in liaison with emotions. Sadly, anyone else looking at him would probably just think he was a nutjob.
He wasn't in the best condition. No, certainly not. The day began with his eyes flickering open and closed, as the lantern before him did. The day began with a sort of massive hysteria - a panic inspired by the cruelty within his body, the consuming hunger and the ill feeling in each muscle and all of his bones. The constant pain that came with self-improvement, which had seen him a boy of clay into a man of brick. He had certainly changed for the better recently, but after a lifetime of glorious things that were easily obtained, self-actualization was exceptionally difficult to grasp. And so his pain, his suffering, his groans and the wails that embraced him as he slept - these things were painfully expected and grimly welcomed. He was always a fireball away from overgiving, always a sprint away from giving out, and at the moment all of that glorious suffering was desired.
He crawled up from the shit-mired foundation he called his bed, the painfully unwelcoming structure. His back stretched because he made it, and he indulged in whatever minimalistic amount of food the master offered him. He leaned over to his small little bedside rack to equip his collar, his leather vambraces, and of course his boots so that all he did wouldn't result in his feet giving out. As he headed out of his small area, he heard a 'hello' from Ameer, and he responded with the nodding of his head. He didn't quite have the willpower to speak, as a man of words would always find them difficult to let out. They had to be precise. A dreary 'hi' wasn't enough for his particular tastes. So, soaking his head in a small bit of water and breathing out, he turned to Ameer and smiled rather fakely. "Hey," he said. Not the most creative word to begin with, but it was the energy that mattered. The same words from a tired and tiring specimen meant a fifth as much if not less than if they came from a diamond in the rough.
After he ate and drank his fill, the young mage began his daily exercises. It hurt, it really did, but the pain was followed by the pleasure of knowing of his improvements. He began with just . . . stretches, to ease the muscles. His hands above his head, and then far forward, his arms stretching his sides, his fingertips to his toes. All of these painfully boring sets of repetition. He didn't care how much it hurt right now. He used exercise to engage in silent retrospection . . . and more importantly, plotting, scheming, planning the demise of his master and his own freedom. He found that compelling thoughts nullified outside feelings, even strong pleasures. Perhaps his constant engagement in self-inspired philosophy was why he didn't have much of a personal life anymore. He couldn't find pleasure in any touch, or excitement in the moment, for he was always too critically observant of every thought surrounding him. He'd changed. Sahova had changed him so much that he couldn't even begin to imagine what he used to be like. Weak, fragile, needing, and afraid. He was afraid of men like Sileas, his former instructor in hypnotism. He was afraid of people that were weak and nothingness compared to the creatures of pure unbridled power that lived on this very island.
Eventually, he finished enough of his daily exercises to where he could move on to the second portion of his daily itinerary: going out to the Testing Grounds and refining his Reimancy, as well as looking into new venues to use it with. He said his goodbyes to Ameer and Telemaran, then headed out through the Vestibule into what he considered anarchy itself; he had never quite before seen anything like the wild power-mongering of the people that dwelled within the Testing Grounds. Of course, he was one of them, so he was far away from any idea of judgement. No, instead, he focused his thoughts on more important things. When he got to the field, he sat himself down on the sands. He began to speak words, but spontaneous ones, and chained together mindlessly. Everything he did was for a purpose - the purpose of this was to condition the brain to soullessly channel hypnotism, to make his lies truths in even his own eyes, and to maintain a distance from the power of words in liaison with emotions. Sadly, anyone else looking at him would probably just think he was a nutjob.
