Strings of the Unwilling Marionette

[Rhylen]

Time Stamp: 23rd of Winter, 509AV Primary Purpose: Spiritism Training (Acquiring NPC Companion) Secondary Purpose: Reimancy Training (Tutored) [Closed] Rhylen opened his eyes as if waking from a long sleep. Bright sunlight shut them again in an instant, too late, unfortunately, to save him from a searing headache. When that pain finally eased he slowly became conscious of his body. His muscles felt more tightly wound than the complex knotworks of his people, cold and weary, a harrowing awareness. He tried to scream in anguish, but his jaw was firmly fixed, his mouth tight, and all that came forth was a low piteous moan. I’m dying, he thought without warning, his mind as solidly taut as his limbs. Rhylen’s eyes suddenly wet with tears seemed the only thing he was capable of moving, but thoughts of his distress formed slowly in the fog, adding further to the well of anxiety. Slowly this time, Rhylen opened his eyes to the bright light of midday; a cloudless sky and tall snow-covered grass on either side were all that he could make out. He could hear nothing but the sound of an easy breeze as it glided through the grasses. Rhylen strained against the murk of his thoughts. His labored breaths curled languidly in the air above his face, establishing a hazy understanding of his current icy state. Outside… grasslands… cold… paralyzed. After battle, warriors would often come back to camp in such a state; at times completely still and unaware of their mangled limbs, but still able to speak... and scream. Other times they would even have control of their arms, effectively useless as warriors and horsemen from then on. These victims of war generally did not last long among the Drykas, often passing in the stillness of night, by their own hands if possible. Paralysis was beyond the ability of most healers to remedy, if not brought on by poison. Poison? Dumbly he sorted through what memories were available. Firelight, azure eyes, boiling water and the smell of tea. A name. Evarrette. ”A weaker mind than ever I could have imagined,” a voice came ubiquitously and without explanation. What clarity Rhylen had been able to muster was immediately lost, and the sky passed vertically, met by an expansive white horizon. ”The child couldn’t find her nose in a blizzard. Though you are undeniably susceptible of late." The knot of his form moved from a seated position to wobbly feet. The voice, a booming echo of shouts and whispers seemed almost familiar, but as Rhylen feebly tried to make sense of its origin his consciousness was knocked off balance by a snowy slap in the face. A slap borne of his own hand. Why? He tested the thought halfheartedly, the taste of blood blossoming within his mouth. ”Because,” the voice said, more sternly this time, though Rhylen could faintly hear chuckling in the miasma of each spoken syllable. “You are not worthy of this body! Not worthy of the gifts you’ve been given! Not worthy of the responsibility you’ve denied!” Each affront rocked his sense of being to the core, repeating a thousand times over in a thousand voices, some blaring, others weeping. They repeated until he’d forgotten all but his own torment, the sea of white an alien world seen only through the blur of tears.”Not yet.” And with that all went black, and the vague feeling of crumpling to the snowy earth was cut short by the oppressive oblivion of possession.

[Rhylen]

To Rhylen consciousness was a vast and unattainable treasure, lost long ago in the black expanse of his mind. He felt as though he were a speck of nothingness, bound in place against his will to a never ending night sky, devoid of starlight. Devoid of all light. Having a body was a distant memory, even thoughts were a tricky thing in this place, flowing endlessly from distant reaches, making little sense and never lasting more than a few moments. Death. The word came to him many times, not that he could remember how many, or even how regularly. The word, the thought, hung about him like the stench of rotting flesh. Of blood and dirt. The scent was so fresh that he almost believed he could see it. Dirt covered fingers, torn skin and the crimson flow of life. His hands. He could see his hands. Rhylen’s senses came to him quickly after that. Sight. The golden light of the setting sun; almost staggering in its full glory, like a great luminous jewel marking his return to life. After that, sound; the soft chirp of snow-quail somewhere in the distance and the snap-pop of a nearby fire. A growing sense of smell confirmed that, along with some more troubling scents. The smell of Rhylen’s own filth wafted up to him from his crouched position, overpowering in its constancy. Lastly and most torturously he felt the sensations of the body. His every muscle and bone ached from an unknown exertion. His hands felt as though they’d been used as mallets against stone. His face, his eyes burning like the fire they now stared into, his mouth dry and drawn, even his nose felt congested, all from ill use. Rhylen stifled a scream, drawing his quivering hands to cracked and bleeding lips in an attempt to warm them. The cold he felt was indescribable, chilling him as deeply as ever he’d felt before, as if he were bare against the cruel bane of Cyphrus winter. Cold radiated from the damp layer of clothing he still wore, some of it obviously torn, other parts dark with whatever was causing the stench, the rest dotted with a smattering of blood and dirt. Terror igniting within him, Rhylen desperately sought shelter, finding it in the form of his tent, haphazardly erected only a few paces away. In an effort to gain refuge, Rhylen hurtled himself towards it, falling abruptly short, his legs unwilling to obey the frantic commands his mind was making. ”You will have what you desire soon enough, Young One,” a voice surged past his thoughts of sanctuary, hammering against the insides of his skull. ”Food and warmth await you inside, of that you can be sure.” Rhylen could hardly make sense of the voice, his on anxiety overriding all sense of reason. This was undeniably the loneliest moment of his life. Plagued by sinister voices, he was a prisoner of his own body, as good as dead. It was in this moment that he thought of Thalla, remembering the warmth she would share with him when they rode, her ever inquisitive snout seeking affection at most every turn. Where was she now? Thal-la? He could only form the word weakly in his mind. The feeble agitation of his mind was no becoming a slightly steadier wave of concern, his memories were still weak, but they afforded him some sense of his current state. I’ve been possessed! ”Congratulations! You’re not a complete waste of life after all! The scathing retort stung more from its resounding echo than from insecurity, but both its effects lingered, bringing heat to his face and moisture to his eyes. ”As for your horse, she paces just over there.” His head moved without warning to the left, his eyes spotting a cloud of breath rising up from behind the tall grass. “A slightly more intelligent creature than yourself. She at least has the good sense to keep her distance from me.” Another cutting remark. Another agonizing series of chaotic voices. He regained control over his neck again, taking notice of the fire once more. ”Ah, you’ve spotted the first of your trials.” He could see nothing but the flame, a hastily prepared fire, its structure somewhat reminiscent. ”Put it out.” He moved to obey, exhaustion making him delirious. His body was stone once more, no longer his. ”Put it out with your gift. My gift.” The voice was stern, but the earlier madness had lessened, replaced by a focused tenor Rhylen was certain he’d heard before. I have no ability to work fire… A slap took him by surprise. That was familiar as well. ”A fire cannot burn without air to fuel it. Manipulate the air to extinguish the flame.” It was a resolute command, one that Rhylen was helpless to ignore. The focus required to tap into his djed came slowly, but it did come. And as he took hold of it he could feel the presence inside of him; feel it like a swollen wound, itchy and festering, as if at any moment his skin might burst. The unsettling consideration was quelled by a desire to tend to his body without the confining weight of the spirit. His res leeched slowly from his pores, a gaseous mist of pale green floating just within his line of sight. He willed it forward, watching as it drifted the short distance to the fire and formed into a wide sphere. ”Put it out,” the voice repeated, almost costing Rhylen his concentration. He shaped the mist with his mind, forming a dome, and then willed it to cover the flame. He was unsure of what to do next, but thought it best to improvise, as the spirit was offering no more assistance. Instantaneously he split the dome from the top and forced the air outward on all sides, pulling with it the air at the base of the flame. In a burst of snow and smoke and charcoal, the flame was no more and his body slumped without warning to the side. The voice was no more, as was the djed he’d spent to put out the flame. Hastily he moved for the tent, stripping his clothes and embracing the warmth found within. As promised, some food and a water-skin lay on a cloth to the side of his bedroll. Rhylen barely had time to wash a mouthful of seeds and various Cyphrus nuts and berries down his throat before fatigue claimed him. Sleep brought about a whole new world of blackness.

[Rhylen]

Timestamp: The 27th of Winter, 509AV For a number days after Rhylen did little but sleep, eat, drink water, and relieve himself a few steps from the opening of the tent. His possession had served to waste away much of his former physical and mental strength and he could rarely bring himself to do even those simple tasks. Mostly he just wallowed in his own pitiful state, paranoid at every sound, praying to the gods that each one was not another onset of the malicious entity which resided somewhere deep within his mind, a place which was hidden from his thoughts, but not his dreams. They came regularly, too regularly; one after the next, battering his subconscious into a terrified pulp, unsure of where one part stopped and another began. He dreamed of days long past, from before his birth; dreams of battle, dreams of love, dreams of sorrow, and dreams of death. Those last ones served to illicit a constant feeling of anguish within the young shaman. He knew death. Knew the pain of it and knew the regret. Carrion and an assortment of other scavengers had picked at his bones, his eyes and his brain, and then when there was no meat left, they had chewed on his bones. No body, a broken soul, left to wander the Cyphrus with little but a destination, a goal. That goal, as Rhylen had come to learn over the past several days, had been simple. Find the boy. To think that his former master had sought him out for the single intention of taking his body seemed uncharacteristic, though Rhylen knew that he could discern little of the ghost’s character in its current state. He chose to believe that Raghnall had a greater purpose in mind, for why had the shaman instructed him on the proper use of his djed? He mulled over the possibility of a union between their spirits. Perhaps the wildlander would not have to be completely alone out here, far from the Drykas he secretly feared to be too near. The thought of spending a lifetime with the cruel taskmaster lurking in his mind didn’t seem a worthy consolation, however. These thoughts he churned over and over, regaining some semblance of mental clarity as the days passed and the weight of his hastily chewed and swallowed rations took hold. He could often hear Thalla somewhere past the grasses; clip-clopping a sentry path a good distance away. She never grew any nearer, even past his attempts to whistle and click her nearer. It was no good. The strider was happy to keep an ear out for danger, but she no longer trusted her Drykas rider. This alone had sent Rhylen into a fit of tears and anguish on more than one occasion. He felt cursed. Maybe he was. On one day, when Rhylen felt he could no longer bear the interior monotony of the tent, he poked his head out, his eyes adjusting excruciatingly to the light of the sun, glorious at its midwinter apex in the sky. He quickly looked over the ashen remains of the fire, a harrowing reminder of his experiences with the ghost, and then looked to his clothing, another, more pathetic reminder. Wresting his fur cloak from the back of the tent, Rhylen donned the furred garb and exited through the flaps, feeling sickly upon taking his initial stance. The feeling subsided after a time, but not completely, serving to keep him in constant awareness of what still dwelled within him. From a standing position Rhylen could see the trail of Thalla’s easy breath. She had come to a halt upon his emergence into the light of day, but she remained a at safe distance even now, though he was sure she must know it was him. The beast was sensitive to some things that even the marginally trained spiritist could not see. In the past it had saved both their hides from predators and worse, but now more than anything he wished to be nearer her, to have some friend in this bleakness. After a time he set about preparing a fire. Vaguely he could hear water in the distance, a trickling stream perhaps. Raghnall was known for picking the best locations to set up camp. His apprentice might be more happy with the thought had his own legs not been commandeered to reach it. Regardless, Rhylen’s survival instincts were kicking into high gear. He was low on food and water, and without clean clothes he would not last much longer on the Cyphrus. Now was not the time to be a piddling child, or even a wizened shaman. Now was the time to be Drykas. * * * As the sun began to set, its early decline a sign that spring was still a far distant occurrence, Rhylen sat huddled beside the now crackling fire. With not even a pot to piss in, the young man had resorted to eating most of the scant roots and mottled plant life he had found perfectly raw. It was not a preferred state, but not uncommon for the men and women of the grass. The water he’d heard earlier had turned out to be an entire river, partially frozen in the winter chill, though a good deal of it flowed freely, offering him a chance to fill his water skin and rinse the filth from his clothing. Well rested, full, and now warm in his leathers and the light of the fire, Rhylen sensed a disturbance from somewhere within him. He’d feared this moment all day long, though he knew it to be a likely event. Raghnall was not one to let the presence of a fire go by void of some form of tutelage, a story or a critique of his strengths and weaknesses, the latter being a favored topic. Thalla, who had drawn nearer throughout the day, now stomped her hooves anxiously, and cantered back to a safe distance. His shoulder’s fell at this; all of that work for naught. Rhylen steadied himself for the onset of another bout of full blown possession, but none came. This alarmed him initially, but the feeling was interrupted by an unsettling churning of his stomach and the need to vomit. He leaned to the side, concerned for the wasted food, but none came. Instead incorporeal ooze flowed from his gaping mouth, cutting off his airways and forcing him to cough and spit it out. It came for what felt an eternity before the flow finally stopped and the ooze took on the consistency of a heavy fog, circling the fire slowly, and finally coming to a halt on the other side. Rhylen watched as the fog began to take shape, gaining first its legs and then as the legs crossed in a sitting position the torso and arms, at last forming the toothy grin of his master’s face. “Good to see you haven’t curled up and died yet,” Raghnall said, in an odd spell of good humor. “I suppose I made the right decision all those years ago, though you wouldn’t know it to look at you.” This was followed by an unsettling chuckle that seemed to emanate from nowhere. In fact it was hard to place the direction of the ghost’s voice, feeling it more in his mind than anything. Otherwise the spirit made no sounds, and its colorless weight seemed not to affect the snow it sat in. “Why, Master Raghnall?” he fell into the submissive role of student so well. He should be fuming, screaming at his master for the torment he’d been put through, but all he could muster was a quiet resolve, tears streaming down his face. “Why have you cursed me, Master? Can you not see my hands bleed? Feel my body wasting away? You know better than anyone the suffering I feel when your kind force entrance. How could you?” He looked sourly into the creatures pale eyes, half seeing through them to the growing darkness behind. Whatever Raghnall had been in life, this shade was nothing of the sort; only the dried yolk of a once whole and healthy egg. “You’d best remember who you speak to, child!” The smile changed instantly to a sneer, unnaturally elongated as the soulmist had no resolute form. “It was I who raised you. I who gave you all that you have now! Do not be so quick to judge me, boy! You know nothing of what I am now! Not really!” The voice in his mind began to build and fracture, reminiscent of his earlier dealings with Raghnall’s assumed inexperience. When the echoes faded and the dead shaman’s face returned to a grin once more, he spoke, the words imprinting themselves firmly in his thoughts. “I want us to visit someone, you and I.” The ghost leaned forward, the firelight doing nothing to illuminate the strangely hollow depths of Raghnall’s eyes. “If you come along nicely, there’ll be no need for me to string you along. What do you say, huh? Be a good lad now.” Rhylen was unsure what to think of his master’s obvious personality shift, but he feared a forced possession more than the prospect of travel. Lingering too long in one spot was never a good idea in the Cyphrus anyway. It was time to move on, the destination mattered little. His gaze turned to the last bits of sunlight as they finally gave way to the great tide of darkness. He took a deep breath and fixed his gaze on the eyes of the ghost, remembering what it was like to look at Raghnall in the firelight. “Yes,” was all that came from his mouth. This followed by a chorus of laughter that crashed against the insides of his skull.

[Rhylen]

Timestamp: 31th of Winter, 509AV Four days they traveled. Four days through the thickest of the Cyphrus Grasses. The Shaman followed the frenzied path of his dead Master’s ghost. At some times it would travel directly south. Other times it would make for the east, skirting vast areas for one unknown reason or another. The spirit made little effort to communicate his intent. “Follow closely,” had been the last spoken instructions at the beginning of their journey; shards of sound, forming words in his mind. The melodious hoof falls of Thalla beneath him were the only indication of his lucidity. He often found himself slipping in and out of daydreams, ones filled with gloom and the repeating occurrence of unknown memories. Blood. Pain. Rhylen observed the sky as the light of day began to seep from the grayscale firmament which had accompanied him for most of the journey. A stagnant air clung fiercely to this place, though the rider could see no reason for it. He could hear nothing but the softly crushing snow and his bonded mount’s easy movements, the creak of the leather saddle, their shared breath. It was a calming thing to be astride the creature he’d come to call friend after their time together. She was silent and sturdy. A good companion, one who had allowed contact only after the ghost had abandoned his body and allowed them a fair distance. Along their path, to pass the time, Rhylen had taken to seizing his djed at irregular intervals, feeling the surge of euphoric potential as it crackled within him. Should Raghnall ever stray too far, a simple calming of his mind would reveal the spirit’s location. He felt that because of their shared habitation of his body it was somehow easier, as if he knew the ancient mystic’s mind somehow, though he could not place the sensation clearly. His budding talent was beginning to feel a little more natural, more a part of him, though this feeling unsettled him more even than the casual glances he’d receive from the vaporous face on the horizon. The talent of forming rez had become almost second nature. In fact Rhylen found that most of his learning came through instinct alone. If ever he focused on conjuring the concentrated substance, it would seep from his palms. Like sweat it would ooze upwards of its own volition towards his fingertips where it would then begin to attract Rhylen’s rather particular element. Air had not been his choice, though the whole process of attaining his Master’s unusual powers had not been a choice either. Earth, perhaps, or Fire. Raghnall had been able to bend these forces to his will with great precision, and said that Air had chosen him, likely due to his soft and erratic nature. Rhylen chose to believe that is was because he would one day shape the face of the Cyphrus, much like it’s ferocious storms; this the old man had scoffed at, remarking that he’d be lucky to snuff out a flame with his meager talent. He had already done that. Bored, Rhylen focused on directing the attracted air between his outstretched hands, hugging Thalla with his thighs so as to stay seated. He found that testing himself against the gentle sway of riding made it more difficult to direct the flow, but it would surely prove a useful talent at some point in his life. The rider’s fingers gleamed slightly in the failing light, a soft green, the color of the Grass in late spring. The air spun quickly, tugging at the fabric of his tunic and toying with his hair. He wondered if one day he would conjure a wind as strong as the whirling funnels that sometimes wreaked havoc on the Cyphrus, snaring man and beast alike. He cast off thoughts of grandeur as the whirling became a little more chaotic, pressing against his hands as the spinning air took on more and more volume. He could almost feel the air being sucked out of his lungs, drawing more and more as the ball now became violent within his grasp, taking on a will of its own as he attempted to maintain it. Thalla neighed shrilly, rearing abruptly and sending him backward. As his concentration diverted to saving himself a broken neck the ball of air erupted, sending him back with even more force which resulted him being buried beneath a plume of frigid snow. “Easy!” he boomed in pavi, sputtering snow as he quickly came to his feet. Thalla continued to balance on her hind legs, coming to all four then rearing again, hooves ready to mark an approaching foe, and nearly crushing his feet. “Easy Thal-la! Easy!” he called again, seeing the source of her distress. Raghnall approached soundlessly, his translucent face devoid of any emotion. The strider came to all fours again and hastily made her escape, bolting to a safe distance as the ghost came to within a few paces of her fallen rider. It looked resolute, though determining the expressions of a dead man proved to be somewhat difficult. “Foolish boy,” the voice of the ghost chastised him from within his mind. “You think yourself a mighty wizard do you? Invulnerable to The Whisper? Look at you, damned coltish twit!” An incorporeal hand came to his lips and was quickly retracted, but the burn of its touch lingered. Rhylen’s own hand came to his lips and found a steady stream of blood flowing from his nose. He dabbed it with his forearm, seeing that a significant amount had already spilled down his face. “What did you do?!” he cried, recoiling from the ghost as if it were a snake. Never before had Raghnall laid a hand on him in violence. The mist simply gathered itself a little more closely, taking on a more definable human form. “You’ve done it to yourself, boy. Yet another shining example of your incompetence! You’ve overused your gift, overextended your ability.” The spirit turned from him, watching the sun as it set. “Djed is not something to be taken lightly. It is a vast and torrential entity which exists in all places and things. It binds us to one another and to the land, and binds the land to the sky and our world to the veil and beyond. Though it allows you to bend what is, you cannot channel more than you are ready for. Doing so will cause you much hardship in the years to come should you attempt such a thing too regularly. You are still young. Greater power will come soon enough, and even then you will need to tread the path carefully.” His Master’s words came more softly than ever before, taking on a nostalgic quality as the last tendrils of light slithered from view. “Forces exist which can seduce and dominate those who would seek to manipulate their djed. Not only does the power of The Whisper seek to hollow out your very soul, but spirits as well, ones greater than myself and more terrible than anything you can imagine. They readily seek our kind as hosts. Their twisted intent will poison your body gladly, more so than any serpent could in all the lands in all times, and more completely too, so that you are poisoned in this world and the next.” The void of his Master’s eyes took in his own after a brief pause. “I don’t mean to frighten you boy, but this isn’t a game. You are worth more to me… more to the Drykas, alive. How I wish I could have shared more of this with you in life. It seems that things most definitely do not work out quite as you’ve planned. Perhaps in this form I will be of more value to you as an Adviser.” The daylight had completely vanished and was now a dull glow on the horizon. Rhylen watched his old Master in silence, for the first time feeling a form of sympathy for the apparition. Before he could speak Raghnall turned away again. “Set up camp and keep your fire low. You will need your rest for the last leg of your journey tomorrow. Mara is neither patient nor compassionate. Nor will she appreciate you killing yourself in her presence. She has more than enough of that already.” He was gone in a flash, his words lingering in the young shaman’s mind. Mara.