Timestamp: 27th of Winter. Late afternoon, near midnight. |
The temperature in this makeshift headquarters was rising. The tent smelled like melted wax and copper. Several candles were burned down nearly to the base, arranged in a row. The fires periodically shivered, but never completely went out. In front of them was sitting a man without a shirt, cross legged with a sword balanced on the knee points. Several strange wounds ran along his body, random shallow cuts, a couple on his back, one on his stomach, another two on the good leg. Something would glow faintly from time to time, the man would sweat, open the bloodshot eyes, clench his teeth then thrust his hand forward and the fires would faintly shiver. "Why...won't you go out," Wystern groaned through teeth. "I command wind, why won't you...blow...out," he grunted, voice getting louder. He shivered again, a cut on his back got slightly bigger and the fires fluttered slightly, only slightly. He was almost there, he could feel it, no, he knew it. It didn't matter that he was tasting copper, it didn't matter that his heartbeat was out of control, but the desire, it spoke the truth. It was right, it knew better, it knew his limits better than he, and it made him feel exhilarated. It was better than sex, a sheer power shot of joy mixed with adrenaline. He giggled slightly, stretching the limits. He could do it in his mind, just extinguish a candle, it's easy, form wind, summon wind, be the wind. The wind doesn't care about the fire, the wind isn't stopped by it. The storm knows no bounds, but Wystern isn't the storm, his bounds are very clearly defined. Too bad he didn't feel them, the desire to laugh was blocking out the pain, the desire to split up more and more and more of him and chug the pure element at the fiery dummies was taking over. He wasn't a man of weak will, but he never experienced anything like this before. "BEGONE!" the newbie magician screamed and started, giving into the stress and fatigue. As he finally lost consciousness and fell onto his left side, Wys clutched the sheath with left hand by an instinct. He was passed out cold and bleeding onto the floor a bit. Perhaps he really did bother his healer a little too much, too many mysterious wounds appearing out of nowhere. But right now, all that was left was darkness. Just darkness and sweet voices. |