Day 64, Fall of 511 AV
Close to Midnight
Northern Woods
Close to Midnight
Northern Woods
It was only a few days after the training with his mentor, Eryss Waldu, but already Eridanus felt himself improving by leaps and bounds. Perhaps it was not just the fact that his mentor was an experienced and wizened wizard, but also more that it was the sense of companionship and bonding he felt with his instructor. It was a morbid bond in a sense, heightened by the same res that they shared and the very same first element. It was a sort of entering into an unopened self, a foreign intrusion by a paranoid mage who nevertheless allowed himself to extend beyond himself into a seemingly young body beholding an even older soul.
The moonlight shone weakly, yet its reflection was emphasized by the false mimicry of Leth's symbol beheld in the trembling palms of an eager ethaefal. The fire mage of the Crimson Edge had, for some reason, bid farewell due to certain events and he was more or less left on his own with a final word of caution by the man. Eridanus had no doubt that it might be somehow related to the events earlier that Antar had been involved in - had involved him in, and so there was nothing that he could really do about it.
The budding mage gasped yet again in wonder even at the tiny speckle of moon imitation that he created within his grasp, for the novelty of it was still new to him. Magic was magical, enchanting in its bewitching glory, and though knowledge of it was common to him it could never get old. Magic was the equalizer, the one seed of knowledge that allowed men to be like false gods.
The res of the ethaefal was like the glow of the moon, even as it remained floating within his palm the mage kept his utmost concentration, hampered only by his sense of amazement at his own attempts at the craft.
Element crafting, put into the hands of mortals. Yet here I am, a-stridden between two worlds, putting myself one step closer to the celestial pedestal that I have been denied.
The beginning was always beautiful, in both the novelty of the event and in the unknown potential a novice held. In that lay the beauty of the situation, of one shivering figure in the cold night, imaginary warmth bestowed upon him by pure enthusiasm and the thrill of success. Every second, every chime that he could sustain his ball of floating res longer was an achievement. Every moment was as declaration of triumph and a milestone for a mere creature of the lands to ascend above his station. A small sphere of res beheld the tempting glory of unlimited potential, that was the allure of transmutation.
Then suddenly the mage sneezed, and his focus disrupted. The dropping autumn leaves brushed against his skin, touching him with the added coldness of the midnight air, emphasizing the coldness of failure. Light winked out, and the warm glow of the res was replaced by the darkness of defeat. Yet, he was not broken. He could not be. Stiffening his body as he concentrated yet again, he hummed softly as he exhaled, imagining the life force flowing through his body to be in synchronization with his breath. Slowly, but surely edging his djed in parallel to his respiratory movements.
Like an orchestra conductor, or perhaps a birthing mother, he directed the pushing of djed out of his wrists where the ritualistic scarring had taken place, where Eryss' res had entered and invaded into the sanctuary of his body. Now it was no longer a sanctuary; defiled and violated, but also now a machine of potential devastation. The mage kept his mind clear, an empty sea of tranquil thoughts framed against the backdrop of a chaotic ocean that was his body, churning in rejection and denial as it fought to keep the djed within his body.
That was natural, for pushing one's life force out was akin to suicide; djed was the life essence of all things. Yet, it was a necessary sacrifice for reimancy, and to achieve great things one must put bigger things on the line. Risk and reward, that was also the natural order of things.
The ethaefal struggled briefly as he exhaled one last time, and shivered again as the last of the res that he dared to expel hovered in a rough cloud-like shape before his clawed fingers again. This time it was much larger than the amount that he summoned earlier, at least double the diameter. It was the larges that he dared, and he had done so with unbidden courage and intensity - some might perhaps say irrational exuberance. His body felt cold, but he had no idea if it was the cold from the weather or from the sudden lack of djed from his body.
It was not as if that pittance of djed would be enough to fall a man, but that it was a matter of conditioning. The average body was not equipped to deal with any loss of djed at all, for djed was meant to be the oil that always remained to kept the gears of the soul working. Missing a little might be a minor systematic discrepancy, but losing a certain amount past a threshold would raise warning flags, and that was exactly what was happening to Eridanus now. One of the difficulties of reimancy was being able to withstand the feedback of summoning res, and the mark of a powerful mage was the inherent conditioning of the body that could withstand the sudden release of a massive amount of res without falling into res-induced feedback coma.
Do not release too much at once, Eridanus. Slowly increase your tolerance and limit for quantity day by day. Break this false limit until you reach your true limit - that of your body's capacity of holding djed. Only then can you consider a proper practitioner or reimancy.
That was what Eryss had told him before leaving. Thus before even beginning the basic practice of res manipulation and transmutation he had to condition his body first. Slowly, gradually, break away at this hindering obstacle hampering his progress and to equalize his current limit with the true limit.
And thus today was the day that he broke the previous day's limit. Once again, it was important for him to understand the difference between the two limits. One was the body's tolerance for sudden expiration of res, the other the body's capacity for holding res. Breaking the former limit was essential to progress, breaking the latter was tantamount to suicide. A single wall fell, and with discipline more walls would be fallen in the days to come.
With that the mage brought his attention to the gently hovering sphere, emitting transient beams and almost an inaudible hum. The hum of patience that spoke of the hidden wonders stored within its nucleus. The wonders that could only be unlocked by the creativity and willpower of its owner. But it was not the time yet.
Like a bard, Eridanus played the metaphorical fiddle, with his arms the bow, and his mental urging the unspoken scores that would make the res dance in symphony. It was difficult at first, as always, but persuasion must be met with willpower, and together the sonata must be performed.
Hovering at first, the res wobbled as it was willed with the confidence of an unwavering actor, performing for the first time in a try-out, uncertain of his grasp of the audition. Yet, it was with conviction that it was carried out with, and Eridanus did not falter as he persuaded, demanded that the physical expression of his soul synchronize with his will. In order to control the world, one must control oneself, and as res was simply a manifestation of his internal soul, its external expression had to be one with himself for there to be balance.
As if he was a circus master, the ethaefal called for that unstable ball of res to take tentative steps. Like a baby, like a freshborn - for it indeed was freshly borne out of his body, out of his soul, and out of his eagerness to take control of this ancient art of element crafting. It slowly traveled alongside the plane of his gaze, hovering in parallel with the ground as the mage awaited with bated breath. When he was sure that it would not simply wink out of existence due to his ineptitude, he grew a little more brave, now urging it upwards. It had been moving along a two-dimensional plane, and now it was time to encourage it to explore the third direction.
The res began to wobble in the shape of a rectangle, exploring all three geometric edges, a drunk state of matter moving in an uncertain direction with all the steadiness of a handicap high on hallucinogens. The resulting light show was dazzling, the white glow of the moon (though a faint mimicry of the original) combined with the continuously wavering displacement, made for a distraction that the mage tried not to give in to. It was a wonderful sight, and doubly so for someone who realized that he, himself, was responsible for creating such an spectacle.
Magic is truly wonderful.
In the midst of this sight, inspiration was placed a-new in the moonchild's mind and his heart was lit aflame with passion, with gratitude to his mentor for imparting this ingenious ability to him, and for the world for allowing this fate to occur. As if in line with his thoughts the res began to slowly scatter, flattening out as it intermingled with the air. Now more of a gathering of particles than a solid sphere, the dazzling purity of the res dissipated into a pale white before it vibrated several more times. Then in accordance with the explosion of expression from the wizard's heart, the res combusted spontaneously into sparks, the flames blossoming out in a myriad of numerous miniscule fire-petals, numbing into satisfied darkness after traveling some distance.
A moment of sadness lingered in the vague aftermath of the mild combustion, like embers left in one's vision after a sudden flare in the darkness. That single instance bestowed a poignancy that spoke of loneliness, but the mage quashed it almost instantly with an iron will. If one single spark of passion could influence a period of poetry, then the writing must continue. The inspiration must continue burning.
Taking note of his prior threshold, the ethaefal exhaled as he exuded more res, frowning as he imprinted a more cube-like shape into the hovering matter. Like molding clay, he created a vague shape of a die. Six sides, solid edge, a cutting edge glinting in the weak moonlit night. Mustering his emotions he poured his enthusiasm and his suppressed agitation. It was a form of therapeutic expression, a perverse flow of soul from the internal to the external. In parallel with how the soul gave birth to res, the emotions tumbled from the inside to the outside, longing for freedom and untempered by restraint.
The combined forces caused the minute glowing moon to shiver as if in anticipation, then it burst into flames yet again, this time strengthened by the presence of intent unlike the previous accidental detonation. The ethaefal grinned in delight, and continued weaving his practices with the occasional, different emotion as he did so. Slowly surpassing his threshold struggling step by struggling step, advancing his range of motions with res by making it perform maneuvers. Slow at first, then bringing it up to moderate speed like a child learning to walk.
His body began to feel colder, and suspicion was harbored. The dark grasp of wanting more laid its arms upon the budding mage, and he promised himself a practice or two more. Already his arms were trembling and as he exhaled yet again, the res did not come.
It did not come.
Intent of squeezing out every instance of practice he could from this session, the impatient moonchild took out a piece of charcoal from his pockets, useful for ad-hoc events such as this. Upon his arms he began to place an intricate design, the complexity of which seemed almost similar to summoning circles. Yet again, it was not wrong, for there was a version of summoning that existed in this persistent attempt. It was the call of knowledge, the thirst for progress, and the hunger to break mortal limits. It was the summoning circle that would birth the new generation of reimancers, and new forms and types of power.
Several glyphs were interconnected with each other, the intricacies of which had been honed prior in a certain prestigious University within the same region, and for the next half bell the ethaefal was engrossed in his work. Fortunately for him, this time of unexpected rest gained him the strength to recover what little that he could, and this spark of activation energy would be the starting driver that he needed to push into his reserves of energy.
The charcoal continued its path throughout his hands, covering his palms, then wrist, and snaking upwards into his forearm. Sigils of all sorts circled and collided into each other, guided along their journeys by runes in the ancient language, expressed in their individual, unique forms by the mage who wrote them. The black lines continued up to the elbow, and more glyphs were carefully scrawled until the entire arm up to the shoulder was covered. It was art in its own form, the numerous words and letters, exhorting and demanding the rules of magic to be played in the ways dictated by them. Such was the beauty of glyphing.
Both arms now covered with the necessary glyphs to help empower the res extraction process, the ethaefal silenced his mind for a moment, taking the time to steady himself. He was a bodybuilder steadying his mind and body for the final repetitions in a set that would inadvertently lead to muscle failure, those crucial last lifts that would result in minute muscle tears, leading the body to restructure them bigger and stronger to be able to handle the next difficulty. This time, his mind and soul was ready to be torn down, to be reformed into something greater to be able to climb over the next, bigger obstacle.
Eridanus grunted as he heaved, the last of his strength being sapped as he brought his djed out through his arms, the black charcoal lines glowing briefly before fading as their use was expended. Roaring even as he felt his strength leaving him, his arms shook with fatigue and exhaustion but he refused to drop his figurative weights now. The act had already been done, his djed had been expended, so it would simply be just a waste to stop right now.
The trembling man felt the connection with his feet to the ground, utilizing the stable groundwork of martial arts to maintain his center of gravity. A statue meant to stay strong, formidable amidst the flustered storm around it with it as the eye. Gathering his palms together for that one final push, the ethaefal screamed a nonsensical phrase as he channeled the last of his focus and power into that one moment.
"KAMEHAMEHAAA!!" He yelled, the shrill baritone spiking into the silent air. It was then accompanied with a warmth of the air, a conflux of strength gathered by will and destiny in a singularity of lights and colors, and the res flew forward in a stream of white hot flames, licking the cool breeze besides it eagerly as it obeyed its new master.
"And now, fire is mine," The mage uttered, before dropping to his knees and feeling for the cool comforting bark of the tree behind him. He had been utterly spent, and instant rest was quite the appealing thought to him right now.
For he would conquer this new art one stumbling block at a time, with every strength he could muster.
That was true dedication.
The moonlight shone weakly, yet its reflection was emphasized by the false mimicry of Leth's symbol beheld in the trembling palms of an eager ethaefal. The fire mage of the Crimson Edge had, for some reason, bid farewell due to certain events and he was more or less left on his own with a final word of caution by the man. Eridanus had no doubt that it might be somehow related to the events earlier that Antar had been involved in - had involved him in, and so there was nothing that he could really do about it.
The budding mage gasped yet again in wonder even at the tiny speckle of moon imitation that he created within his grasp, for the novelty of it was still new to him. Magic was magical, enchanting in its bewitching glory, and though knowledge of it was common to him it could never get old. Magic was the equalizer, the one seed of knowledge that allowed men to be like false gods.
The res of the ethaefal was like the glow of the moon, even as it remained floating within his palm the mage kept his utmost concentration, hampered only by his sense of amazement at his own attempts at the craft.
Element crafting, put into the hands of mortals. Yet here I am, a-stridden between two worlds, putting myself one step closer to the celestial pedestal that I have been denied.
The beginning was always beautiful, in both the novelty of the event and in the unknown potential a novice held. In that lay the beauty of the situation, of one shivering figure in the cold night, imaginary warmth bestowed upon him by pure enthusiasm and the thrill of success. Every second, every chime that he could sustain his ball of floating res longer was an achievement. Every moment was as declaration of triumph and a milestone for a mere creature of the lands to ascend above his station. A small sphere of res beheld the tempting glory of unlimited potential, that was the allure of transmutation.
Then suddenly the mage sneezed, and his focus disrupted. The dropping autumn leaves brushed against his skin, touching him with the added coldness of the midnight air, emphasizing the coldness of failure. Light winked out, and the warm glow of the res was replaced by the darkness of defeat. Yet, he was not broken. He could not be. Stiffening his body as he concentrated yet again, he hummed softly as he exhaled, imagining the life force flowing through his body to be in synchronization with his breath. Slowly, but surely edging his djed in parallel to his respiratory movements.
Like an orchestra conductor, or perhaps a birthing mother, he directed the pushing of djed out of his wrists where the ritualistic scarring had taken place, where Eryss' res had entered and invaded into the sanctuary of his body. Now it was no longer a sanctuary; defiled and violated, but also now a machine of potential devastation. The mage kept his mind clear, an empty sea of tranquil thoughts framed against the backdrop of a chaotic ocean that was his body, churning in rejection and denial as it fought to keep the djed within his body.
That was natural, for pushing one's life force out was akin to suicide; djed was the life essence of all things. Yet, it was a necessary sacrifice for reimancy, and to achieve great things one must put bigger things on the line. Risk and reward, that was also the natural order of things.
The ethaefal struggled briefly as he exhaled one last time, and shivered again as the last of the res that he dared to expel hovered in a rough cloud-like shape before his clawed fingers again. This time it was much larger than the amount that he summoned earlier, at least double the diameter. It was the larges that he dared, and he had done so with unbidden courage and intensity - some might perhaps say irrational exuberance. His body felt cold, but he had no idea if it was the cold from the weather or from the sudden lack of djed from his body.
It was not as if that pittance of djed would be enough to fall a man, but that it was a matter of conditioning. The average body was not equipped to deal with any loss of djed at all, for djed was meant to be the oil that always remained to kept the gears of the soul working. Missing a little might be a minor systematic discrepancy, but losing a certain amount past a threshold would raise warning flags, and that was exactly what was happening to Eridanus now. One of the difficulties of reimancy was being able to withstand the feedback of summoning res, and the mark of a powerful mage was the inherent conditioning of the body that could withstand the sudden release of a massive amount of res without falling into res-induced feedback coma.
Do not release too much at once, Eridanus. Slowly increase your tolerance and limit for quantity day by day. Break this false limit until you reach your true limit - that of your body's capacity of holding djed. Only then can you consider a proper practitioner or reimancy.
That was what Eryss had told him before leaving. Thus before even beginning the basic practice of res manipulation and transmutation he had to condition his body first. Slowly, gradually, break away at this hindering obstacle hampering his progress and to equalize his current limit with the true limit.
And thus today was the day that he broke the previous day's limit. Once again, it was important for him to understand the difference between the two limits. One was the body's tolerance for sudden expiration of res, the other the body's capacity for holding res. Breaking the former limit was essential to progress, breaking the latter was tantamount to suicide. A single wall fell, and with discipline more walls would be fallen in the days to come.
With that the mage brought his attention to the gently hovering sphere, emitting transient beams and almost an inaudible hum. The hum of patience that spoke of the hidden wonders stored within its nucleus. The wonders that could only be unlocked by the creativity and willpower of its owner. But it was not the time yet.
Like a bard, Eridanus played the metaphorical fiddle, with his arms the bow, and his mental urging the unspoken scores that would make the res dance in symphony. It was difficult at first, as always, but persuasion must be met with willpower, and together the sonata must be performed.
Hovering at first, the res wobbled as it was willed with the confidence of an unwavering actor, performing for the first time in a try-out, uncertain of his grasp of the audition. Yet, it was with conviction that it was carried out with, and Eridanus did not falter as he persuaded, demanded that the physical expression of his soul synchronize with his will. In order to control the world, one must control oneself, and as res was simply a manifestation of his internal soul, its external expression had to be one with himself for there to be balance.
As if he was a circus master, the ethaefal called for that unstable ball of res to take tentative steps. Like a baby, like a freshborn - for it indeed was freshly borne out of his body, out of his soul, and out of his eagerness to take control of this ancient art of element crafting. It slowly traveled alongside the plane of his gaze, hovering in parallel with the ground as the mage awaited with bated breath. When he was sure that it would not simply wink out of existence due to his ineptitude, he grew a little more brave, now urging it upwards. It had been moving along a two-dimensional plane, and now it was time to encourage it to explore the third direction.
The res began to wobble in the shape of a rectangle, exploring all three geometric edges, a drunk state of matter moving in an uncertain direction with all the steadiness of a handicap high on hallucinogens. The resulting light show was dazzling, the white glow of the moon (though a faint mimicry of the original) combined with the continuously wavering displacement, made for a distraction that the mage tried not to give in to. It was a wonderful sight, and doubly so for someone who realized that he, himself, was responsible for creating such an spectacle.
Magic is truly wonderful.
In the midst of this sight, inspiration was placed a-new in the moonchild's mind and his heart was lit aflame with passion, with gratitude to his mentor for imparting this ingenious ability to him, and for the world for allowing this fate to occur. As if in line with his thoughts the res began to slowly scatter, flattening out as it intermingled with the air. Now more of a gathering of particles than a solid sphere, the dazzling purity of the res dissipated into a pale white before it vibrated several more times. Then in accordance with the explosion of expression from the wizard's heart, the res combusted spontaneously into sparks, the flames blossoming out in a myriad of numerous miniscule fire-petals, numbing into satisfied darkness after traveling some distance.
A moment of sadness lingered in the vague aftermath of the mild combustion, like embers left in one's vision after a sudden flare in the darkness. That single instance bestowed a poignancy that spoke of loneliness, but the mage quashed it almost instantly with an iron will. If one single spark of passion could influence a period of poetry, then the writing must continue. The inspiration must continue burning.
Taking note of his prior threshold, the ethaefal exhaled as he exuded more res, frowning as he imprinted a more cube-like shape into the hovering matter. Like molding clay, he created a vague shape of a die. Six sides, solid edge, a cutting edge glinting in the weak moonlit night. Mustering his emotions he poured his enthusiasm and his suppressed agitation. It was a form of therapeutic expression, a perverse flow of soul from the internal to the external. In parallel with how the soul gave birth to res, the emotions tumbled from the inside to the outside, longing for freedom and untempered by restraint.
The combined forces caused the minute glowing moon to shiver as if in anticipation, then it burst into flames yet again, this time strengthened by the presence of intent unlike the previous accidental detonation. The ethaefal grinned in delight, and continued weaving his practices with the occasional, different emotion as he did so. Slowly surpassing his threshold struggling step by struggling step, advancing his range of motions with res by making it perform maneuvers. Slow at first, then bringing it up to moderate speed like a child learning to walk.
His body began to feel colder, and suspicion was harbored. The dark grasp of wanting more laid its arms upon the budding mage, and he promised himself a practice or two more. Already his arms were trembling and as he exhaled yet again, the res did not come.
It did not come.
Intent of squeezing out every instance of practice he could from this session, the impatient moonchild took out a piece of charcoal from his pockets, useful for ad-hoc events such as this. Upon his arms he began to place an intricate design, the complexity of which seemed almost similar to summoning circles. Yet again, it was not wrong, for there was a version of summoning that existed in this persistent attempt. It was the call of knowledge, the thirst for progress, and the hunger to break mortal limits. It was the summoning circle that would birth the new generation of reimancers, and new forms and types of power.
Several glyphs were interconnected with each other, the intricacies of which had been honed prior in a certain prestigious University within the same region, and for the next half bell the ethaefal was engrossed in his work. Fortunately for him, this time of unexpected rest gained him the strength to recover what little that he could, and this spark of activation energy would be the starting driver that he needed to push into his reserves of energy.
The charcoal continued its path throughout his hands, covering his palms, then wrist, and snaking upwards into his forearm. Sigils of all sorts circled and collided into each other, guided along their journeys by runes in the ancient language, expressed in their individual, unique forms by the mage who wrote them. The black lines continued up to the elbow, and more glyphs were carefully scrawled until the entire arm up to the shoulder was covered. It was art in its own form, the numerous words and letters, exhorting and demanding the rules of magic to be played in the ways dictated by them. Such was the beauty of glyphing.
Both arms now covered with the necessary glyphs to help empower the res extraction process, the ethaefal silenced his mind for a moment, taking the time to steady himself. He was a bodybuilder steadying his mind and body for the final repetitions in a set that would inadvertently lead to muscle failure, those crucial last lifts that would result in minute muscle tears, leading the body to restructure them bigger and stronger to be able to handle the next difficulty. This time, his mind and soul was ready to be torn down, to be reformed into something greater to be able to climb over the next, bigger obstacle.
Eridanus grunted as he heaved, the last of his strength being sapped as he brought his djed out through his arms, the black charcoal lines glowing briefly before fading as their use was expended. Roaring even as he felt his strength leaving him, his arms shook with fatigue and exhaustion but he refused to drop his figurative weights now. The act had already been done, his djed had been expended, so it would simply be just a waste to stop right now.
The trembling man felt the connection with his feet to the ground, utilizing the stable groundwork of martial arts to maintain his center of gravity. A statue meant to stay strong, formidable amidst the flustered storm around it with it as the eye. Gathering his palms together for that one final push, the ethaefal screamed a nonsensical phrase as he channeled the last of his focus and power into that one moment.
"KAMEHAMEHAAA!!" He yelled, the shrill baritone spiking into the silent air. It was then accompanied with a warmth of the air, a conflux of strength gathered by will and destiny in a singularity of lights and colors, and the res flew forward in a stream of white hot flames, licking the cool breeze besides it eagerly as it obeyed its new master.
"And now, fire is mine," The mage uttered, before dropping to his knees and feeling for the cool comforting bark of the tree behind him. He had been utterly spent, and instant rest was quite the appealing thought to him right now.
For he would conquer this new art one stumbling block at a time, with every strength he could muster.
That was true dedication.
