[Aylasa Caves] The Breaking of a Man (Closed)

[Sturlin]

Timestamp 60th of Spring, 510 A.V.

Sturlin was crouched in a cave, the cave he had spent his time in most recently. Soon it would be time for him to move back into the woods. Francis did not like it here, and there was not enough game for him to keep himself in business. In the passed five days he had collected less pelts than were available during an average day within the woods. While there were plenty of animals in the area he apparently lacked the knowledge to hunt them among bare rock.

Supplies and the detritus of a prolonged occupation littered the cave. The hunter had built a small fire pit under a natural chimney in the rock, on the northern side of the cave. It was sheltered from view by the mouth of the cave and only a small amount of smoke contaminated the air of the temporary home. Mr. Pickles and Francis were outside with the Tent. For some reason sleeping in a cave made him nervous, but spending his days there was convenient.

The magician had decided to conduct an experiment here, in the firelight, before departing. His time had come. Sturlin had recently realized that he had become complacent. Great leaps and bounds were not made with safety nets. Ambitious plans had formed within his mind which required a greater devotion and effort than had been displayed throughout the spring.

Before exploring the uncharted territory before him he thought it wise to relax his body and mind. Crossing his legs on the bare earthen floor he rested his hands on his knees and gazed deeply into the fire. It began by allowing the flickering light to mesmerize him. The lazy cracking and popping of wood as the flames devoured it lulled his senses. A cool breeze flitted through the cave from the entrance, causing the flames to dance more wildly and sent goosebumps along his flesh.

Breathing in the light, inhaling the traces of smoke and clean spring air, he allowed his eyes to slip shut. The warmth of the fire combined with the lullaby performed by the logs to soothe his stress. Each breath took with it his worries and cares, to be devoured by the flame. More fuel for the fire. It would be some time before he was disciplined enough to center himself with swiftness. By the time he was mentally prepared for the task at hand the sun had dipped below the horizon. Two hours had passed.

[Sturlin]

There were two things to do before he was ready to perform this spell. As any warrior would before combat, he began to limber himself up. Rather than working on the preparation of his body, he worked on his mind. The meditation had been the stretching, and now he would begin the warm-up. His hands both turned to face upward. Within them he pooled small handfuls of Res.

Today his Res was in liquid form. From afar it might appear to be a slightly glowing, refreshing drink. In consistency it resembled several alcoholic beverages. In the sunlight its unnatural darkness and glow would be even more unnerving, but within the solitude of the cave it appeared almost normal. Bringing his hands together he formed a large cup, using his mind to aid in preventing the spill of the Res.

Leaning his mouth closer he pursed his lips as if to blow. Instead of blowing air upon the substance he exerted his will upon it, forcing it to ripple as if he were exhaling on it. Perhaps not the most scientific exercise, but it remained simultaneously entertaining and useful in practicing his power over the liquid. Ripples moved outward in wider semi-circles until they broke upon the edges of his cupped hands like waves upon the beach. A few droplets would have splashed out had he not caught them and withdrawn them into the main body once more.

This is futile. Why spend your time practicing when you could accomplish so much more? Though hardly an expert mage his power far exceeded his modest means. Were he to give his inner demons carte-blanche he would be eating well within a comfortable house, perhaps with multiple human possessions adoring his property. Sturlin frowned.

Immediately he sought the void of peace within himself. A fire within his mind, matching the fire within his cave, appeared in the darkness. Pouring these thoughts into the fire he fueled it with the dangerous and prideful ideas. His experiments had been getting to him. Always he found himself wondering whether he should be doing more with his life, whether he was wasting his talents. Thus far he had maintained control. Fire consumed all and his breathing returned to normal. Darkness filled his mind and calm suffused his being. For now.

[Sturlin]

Taking his hands he cupped them tighter, as if to keep in something finer than the thick liquid. His eyes opened, meditation complete. Res shifted with a dull flash. No longer was a liquid sloshing lazily within his cupped palms. Now the fingers held together so tightly were containing a fine powdery solid. He examined it with surprise.

That was not quite what he had intended to happen. Simple earth was the model after which he had based the consistency of the Res. Dry silt seemed to be the consistency which he had created. Small clouds of the Res rose from his palms in an attempt to coat the surface of the cave, and only by constantly containing it with magic rather than hands was he able to prevent its escape.

At this moment he could not imagine any use for this form of Res. Surely he would imagine one in the future. For now he would focus simply on correcting his mistake. A single droplet of sweat slipped from his brow to his chin as the powdery solid changed to a more malleable form. Thicker than simple dirt but thinner than clay, Sturlin had created a ball of Res within his hands.

Pulling his hands apart he played with the ball. Rolling it between his hands he enjoyed the feel of it on his skin. Thickening it further he attempted to spin it on the floor of the cave. Surprisingly it spun rather well, but his control over with his hands paled in comparison to his control over it with his magic. Once it nearly escaped him as his left hand grasped at it and it began to roll away. Snatching out with his right hand he managed to pull it from the floor and back into his lap.

[Sturlin]

Now would come his most impressive trick yet. Trick would be the best way to describe it, because he did not possess the manual dexterity to actually juggle the Res. Splitting the Res into three separate balls, each slightly larger than a walnut, he prepared to juggle them. A smile lit his twisted face as he readied himself for the task. Rarely was practice so blatantly fun. Perhaps if it worked he would perform it for little bird when she returned.

Though his hands performed the basic movements of a juggler, his mind did the work. The first ball went up into the air. Sturlin's mind converted it to gas the moment it left his flesh and began to guide it in a gentle arc. The second ball went up into the air. The magician transformed it into gas and began its movement within the arc, as he began to guide the first one down toward his other hand. The third ball went up into the air. As the third ball began its arc it morphed from solid to gas, the second ball was guided down in the direction of his other hand, and the first ball struck Sturlin's palm to be handed off to his other hand. When a ball touched flesh he transformed it into a solid, and when a ball left flesh he transformed it into a gas.

This was entertaining, and challenging, for several passes. His hands did very little work other than passing the balls over each time they struck a palm. Though he was not producing any further Res, and had in truth produced very little, his mastery of Res was not what would be necessary to take this trick any further. When sweat began to run down his face he ceased the exercise and gathered the balls up with his hands.

Sturlin found that he needed to catch his breath. He would be doing that again. Perhaps he could add a third step to the exercise which would involve transformation into a liquid. To perfect the exercise might be a significant breakthrough, especially were he to take a student. That would add both a new dimension to the performance and an excellent method for one to learn how Res reacted in different forms.

Lifting his left hand up in front of his chest he moved each small ball so that they floated in front of him. Causing each to float forward in different directions he tested not only his range of control but also his ability to manipulate several spells independently. Many times he came close to losing his grip upon them, and only just regained control.

It appeared that three and one half meters remained his limit. Though he had been able to push them slightly further than that, the strain of controlling all three at once caused him to lose his power over them. They fell to the ground and spilled out into the soil. A translucent film remained over the dirt of the cave floor in each spot for a few seconds, before it too dissipated.

Sturlin cursed his carelessness. Though it had not been a senseless waste, it had been a waste. Had he not managed to learn something important from the exercise then he might have abandoned the entire thing altogether. A small part of him knew that he should, but the dominant part of his personality decided to continue. He would just need to rest for a moment, that's all.

Lifting a waterskin to his lips he drank deeply and took the moment to relax. That had been slightly more than a warm up, and he would need his strength for what was to come. He would center himself before continuing. The magician did not want to risk sinking into the trance of meditation, several hours might be enough to steal the day from him. As he was here to test his limitations he would have to begin anew of he failed to complete his task today.

OOCEdited to reflect later posts. Not quite enough had been expended by this point in the original text.

[Sturlin]

Total meditation was not required to center the mind. Deep, even breathing could often accomplish the desired effect in simple situations. While steadying himself he sipped more water from the skin. Sweating was a good sign that more water would be needed, especially when planning to work even harder. Some of the tension went out of his chest and shoulders with each breath. A quick fix. Exactly what wizards should avoid.

Pushing on was all that he could think to do. Though he had tired himself with that display he felt that he had recovered, and also felt that stopping now would prove to be a waste of everything that had he had done thus far. Closing his eyes tightly he formed the image of a thick gelatin ball. This would be the basis for his spell. Once he had created more Res it would take this form, and then he would finish what he had started on this day.

Spreading his fingers wide, palms facing a point one foot in front of his chest, he began to generate more Res. It came in droplets of gel, trickling out from his palms and flowing to a point between them. As they struck each other they swirled briefly before combining into a single, much larger whole. With continued growth it began to clearly resemble a sphere. The sphere, translucent and black, began to grow.

When Sturlin's hands began to shake he ceased the flow of Res. He had no way of knowing whether or not he had given too much, not this time. His sphere now exceeded the size of his torso. In comparison with everything he had created before it was quite large. Now he would have the chance to find out how greatly his control had increased since the death of his Uncle.

OOCEdited to reflect edits in previous post.

[Sturlin]

Had Sturlin not heard the noise of a man entering the cave, things might have gone quite differently. It is entirely possible that working in such a close space with so much Res would have led to his demise, if not from overgiving then from the repercussions of the spell he had planned to utilize. Such was not the case, however. From no fault of his magic Sturlin had become a rather paranoid individual since the Kriital attacked.

When someone sneaks up on a man unawares they should likely be sure that he isn't a mage. Or at least that he isn't a mage with enough Res to kill a company of soldiers. Unfortunately the lurking shadow near the mouth of the cave had not done that. Without thought of consequences Sturlin gripped the massive ball of thick gel with his hands. Lifting it above his head with his thickly muscled arms he propelled it toward the shadow with all the muscle in his body and all the power within his mind.

Sturlin's fears had been mounting. Living alone in the wilderness was taxing enough upon the psyche of a man without being burdened further by the knowledge that if he were to become injured, he could not help himself. This close to the city it was possible that he could have escaped to Syliras, but in life there were no guarantees. He would do anything to avoid dying in a ditch, covered with his own blood.

The sphere was so massive that it could hardly have missed the target, given the size of the cave mouth and the way the shadow filled it. Just before it left his range of influence he transformed the entire sphere into a spiked ball of granite. All of his fear and malice poured into the casting. The effort of moving so much Res while maintaining the force behind the blow and transmuting the substance brought the magician to his knees.

Things would have been far less complicated had he not fallen to his knees. A single shaft of light fell upon the figure, but while standing he was at the wrong angle to view it clearly. His eyes locked with those of a young man with sandy blond hair. The face was both haggard and confused. Fear was present as well. Whatever this boy had expected to find hidden behind Sturlin's camp, this was not it.

Reaching out his hands toward the Sphere Sturlin attempted to grasp it and turn it away. He had performed his task too well. By allowing it to reach the edge of his influence before transforming it he had maximized his accuracy and the force of the spell. He had also effectively ruined any chance of aborting the spell. Blood seeped from his nose as he threw everything he had into reaching beyond himself and gripping that boulder.

It was not enough. The granite ball lurched awkwardly and was deflected upward, but this angle took it directly into the young man's waiting face. The center of the spiked boulder took him in the nose, while the bottom half of it extended all the way down to his collarbone. Both feet left the floor and the force of the strike sent him flying backward, out of the cave.

Sturlin had killed again. At this moment it did not matter who the boy was, or how great or small was his portion of the blame. Falling forward onto his hands, the magician gasped for breath before vomiting onto the cave floor. Even though his mind knew that the boy could not have survived, his ears heard the boy calling out for help and screaming out against the injustice of it all.

Looking down between his hands in the firelight Sturlin saw that he had not vomited food and water. Blood stained the rocks and dirt beneath him. It caked over his hands as he tried to crawl toward the open cave mouth. Mr. Pickles could be hurt. Francis might be injured. Should have thought about that before you cast the spell then, shouldn't you?

Pain arced through his body like electricity. That was the last time he tested his limits in an open area. Any fool could walk in. Any fool could interrupt him. Had this been done in a more secluded area then that boy would still be alive and Sturlin would not have put so much of himself into that spell. That's not true. You thought this was secluded. How did that boy get here? What would you have done if he hadn't arrived. Really, what did you plan on doing? You're lucky you aren't part of that blood smeared on the floor...

[Sturlin]

As the magician forced his body to crawl out of the cave, he repeated four sentences to himself which helped to give him the focus and the strength necessary. "The key to power is focus." You're going to remain a weakling, you didn't have to focus to stop your spell. "The key to focus is calm." Don't make me laugh. Is what you just did called calm? You lashed out like a frightened child! "The key to calm is peace" Easy to find peace when you're dead. Just keep telling yourself that. You gave the boy peace. "The key to peace is power." I think my last point works well here. Just enough power to give a frightened kid peace. Such a big strong man you are.

Remnants of blood from his vomiting flecked Sturlin's lips as he crawled out of the cave and into the sunlight. The path of the boulder was obvious. It had thrown the lower half of the boy's body, along with an arm, onto the ground. Afterward it had careened through the bushes and trees tearing a wide swath through them, absconding with the rest of his body. Aside from destroying all of his firewood he could not see any damage to the camp. His vision was a little blurry though, so he couldn't be sure.

Look behind you Sturlin. Looking back over his shoulder he saw the boy getting up from where he had fallen. There was a trail of blood where his upper body had dragged itself back to the legs with the one arm it still had. It gathered up its pieces with a macabre smile on its face. Sturlin could only stare at it with his jaw hanging open. Each spike had left a gaping wound in the boy's flesh, and each wound hung open graphically.

He wants to tell you his name. Do you think he'll stop there, or will he carve it into your flesh? Sturlin trembled at the thought, gripping a tree and forcing himself to stand. You would look pretty with matching scars on the right side of your face. Just hope he doesn't have a long name. There's not very much skin left that isn't marked, it would be a pity if he ran out of room.

With each step the young man took toward Sturlin his poorly pieced together body jiggled like gelatin at the seams. Somehow he had gotten hold of the hunter's dagger. If allowed to come any closer then there would be no guarantee of stopping him before that dagger found flesh. Sturlin raised his hands.

Ten shards of Res arced out of his hands, each the size and rough dimensions of a playing card. Each diamond was razor thin on the edges. Before they struck the boy he transformed them to obsidian. The volcanic rock was sharp and brittle. Surely that would stop the avenger which strode toward him. Sunshine dimmed, in spite of the early hour. Rocks could be heard shattering in the shadows. Something hard struck Sturlin in the face, chest, and legs. It was over.

OOCMild delusions fill this thread, and I have left them as part of the main text so that it flows from Sturlin's perspective. The actions of the boy, once he was dead that is, were not strictly 'real' though Sturlin believed them to be. Any questions about the content, feel free to pm me.

[Sturlin]

Sturlin did not awaken until night was well upon him. Embers could be seen glowing from within the cave. As he tried to pull himself to his knees he felt a wave of nausea hit him. Rather than continue the effort he only lay there and examined the camp in the weakening light. What he saw was enough to convince him that at least some of what had happened was more than just a bad dream.

Mr. Pickles was straddling a severed arm, stripping flesh from its fingers with his sharp teeth. Three of the fingers were now no more than clutching claws of bone reaching out toward the sky in supplication. He was working very hard on the thumb at the moment. Each bite caused the fingers to flop around oddly with the force of his jaw working them over.

Francis was still picketed where he belonged. The horse did not have a mark on him, and appeared to be blissfully ignorant of what had happened earlier. There were signs that he had tried to move away from the tree earlier, perhaps the scent of blood had spooked him, but whatever had happened it did not bother him enough to snap his lead.

Sturlin appeared to be laying on the ground. That was likely what he had felt striking him when he fell. Something was wrong with his legs. From fear of finding that they were no longer there he refused to look down. There was no telling what might have happened to him in the aftermath of that little episode. He considered himself fortunate that the camp was still intact.

Several feet away was the corpse of the boy. Tightness gripped the magician's throat as he remembered the look on the face of his victim before he had died. Fortunately that face was nowhere to be found. Either he had hallucinated the episode with the corpse, which he found most likely, or his final spell had blasted it apart once again.

Closing his eyes for a few moments he took several deep breaths. There just was not enough energy in him to seek calmness. Pain was still too sharp for his relatively unpracticed mind to block it out, and the shaking in his hands had not yet ceased. Peace was difficult to attain with constant and uncontrollable motion interrupting your thoughts.

One hand at a time, the weakened man began to claw himself toward the tent. Mr. Pickles showed momentary interest, but in the end he decided that his meal was preferable to Sturlin's company. He had difficulty negotiating the tent flap at first. Once his hand grasped it he was able to pull it open and drag his body into the welcoming blankets within.

For now he did not bother to close the tent flap. There was little he could do now but sleep and, once he didn't feel like vomiting, eat. So much for experiments.

[Sturlin]

The next day was marked by very little movement. Sturlin forced himself to eat some hard biscuits in the morning before going back to bed. Sometime around noon he gathered the strength necessary to drag himself out of the tent once more in search of his waterskins. There was little hope of him beating this without being able to replenish his fluids.

After all of the things Sturlin had accomplished in his life, crawling to his saddlebags to retrieve water still seemed like the most difficult task ever devised for him. Once he reached them he lay there for several moments, trembling with the effort and clenching his eyes shut. Droplets of moisture forced their way out from beneath his eyelids and ran down through his scars into the dirt.

Sunlight baked his skin as he lay there, unable to return to the tent. Several mouthfuls of water were choked down each hour, but little else was accomplished. Once he had rested properly he had regained enough strength to crawl over and prop himself against a tree so that he could relieve himself in the bushes without soiling his leathers. Undignified seemed to fall short of properly describing the act.

Darkness had begun to fall once again by the time Sturlin was able to return to the saddlebag. Collecting up some solid food and the rest of his water he traveled back to the tent slowly. Each time he crawled forward he would push the supplies out ahead of him at arm's reach, and then he would pull himself toward them again.

Mr. Pickles had already abandoned the corpse, but other scavengers had begun to pick it clean. Normally the magician would have worried that the animals could steal from his camp, or otherwise damage his supplies. On this particular day, that seemed to be the least of his worries. The furry little things could have whatever they wanted.

A naked cat was waiting for him, curled up on the blankets. When Sturlin pulled himself back into his tent Mr. Pickles curled himself up more tightly into a ball and muttered, "Don't let the cold in, fool." Offering his apologies, the man managed to twitch the tent flap shut and move into the blankets to cuddle with his friend. It did not strike him as strange that Mr. Pickles had talked to him. Mr. Pickles had always been able to talk, hadn't he?

[Sturlin]

Rehabilitation is a slow and painful process. On the second day Sturlin was able to at least get up and move around, but his back was bowed with fatigue and his hands lacked their usual strength. He gathered his valuables together within the tent so that he could keep an eye on them, but otherwise he did very little. Mr. Pickles spent the better half of the morning trying to convince him to gather back up the firewood, but the man just wasn't in the mood.

Being unable to start a fire for his friend left Sturlin feeling rather guilty though. Searching through his saddlebag he found a few juicy morsels of jerky which had not been heavily seasoned. "Mr. Pickles, I saved some of this for you. I know you like the salt. But not the pepper. Do you think that a little bit of it will satisfy you? At least until I get the fire going tomorrow?"

The cat looked up from the highly engaging task of licking his wrinkly pink private parts. One leg still lifted at an angle into the air, he paused for a moment to consider the worth of such a gift. "It will work for now. If you don't have a fire for me to curl up next to tomorrow I'll be very cross though. I've been feeling rather neglected with you laying about uselessly all day."

Mr. Pickles gave a haughty sniff and sauntered over to retrieve his sacrificial offering of jerky. The toughened meat was difficult to chew, and he found himself unable to speak while eating it. Sturlin did not mind that much. The cat had been cantankerous since the incident with the boy. At the memory of this he looked over toward the rotting corpse and felt a tightness in his chest.

Being too lazy to collect firewood on a relative warm day was one thing, but he would have to move those body parts. What little meat remained was swiftly becoming rancid. The hunter shuffled over with much groaning and moaning. His legs still felt heavy and strange. Even when dropping his pants to relieve himself he refused to lower them below his thighs. It was awkward, but it saved him the trouble of having to face what was wrong with his body.

When he reached the body he grasped the wrist of the severed arm and lifted it into the lap of the pair of legs. Moving around to grip the legs at the ankles he began to drag the entire mess backward through the path made by his highly destructive spell. Each step drained him, but he was able to pull the body several minutes away from the camp before he was too exhausted to continue.

Before he returned he rubbed his hands through the dirt to clear away the grime from the body. "Sturlin! Where are you? I demand a belly scratching. Its the least you can do for me, after leaving me only the corpses of your victims to eat." The man winced at the voice of the cat, it was going to be an even longer day than he had thought.