Completed Echoes in the fire

[Leo Varniak]

Fall 11, 502 AV In the pale candle light as the night grew longer and darker, Leo Zaital began to write. He knew he had to, he knew that his life was merely a breath of warmth in between the cold. Anything could happen to him at a moment's notice. Such was the nature of all who walked the earth and ate the food of mortals. Leo did not mind dying for his cause if he must, but what he could not tolerate was his sacrifice being in vain. The very least he could do was pass down what he knew. To organize the Azenth into a modern, efficient force capable of carrying out Ivak's will as one man. If he could do that much, then it wouldn't matter so badly if he was not around to enjoy the results of his actions. It was always hard to begin. How should he introduce himself? What impression should he give to his reader? What would they think of him, decades or centuries down the line? Would they idealize him, forget that he was a man like any other, and a flawed one at that? The blank book was open on the very first page, the quill dipped in fresh ink as he hesitated over the opening sentence. Knowing himself, there would be no corrections. This first draft as he penned it now would forever remain this way. In the end, the tip of the quill caressed the paper and began tracing an introduction. - - - - - - - - My name is Leo Zaital, and this is an account of my life in the service of Ivak, He who gave warmth to the world. To the best of my abilities, to the very edge of a man's honesty, what I leave recorded on these pages is the truth and nothing but the truth. Greed does not move my hand; rage does not move my hand; even love does not move my hand; it is something greater than any of those, and yet something without a proper noun in our language. I have no interest in my name being praised or cursed; I desire not to be an icon or to leave heirs and successors. Wealth is of no consequence to me. The hoarding of secrets and power holds no sway over me. For I am fire, and I burn all things equally: within me all things are laid bare and truthful. If these pages ignite you with even the slightest spark of understanding, if you desire to burn brighter and truer for it, then I will have succeeded. If they give you pain, I do not care. From pain there emerge growth and beauty and progress and all things good to man. There is no way to improve without transformation, and transformation is always a loss. Most men cannot deal with change, they cannot let go of what drags them down. I know because I am, at times, one such man. Do not think my words any less true, or any less poignant for it; truth does not depend on the speaker and the listener. What is truth then? That Ivak lives is truth. That I opened the gates of his prison is also truth. That I took the reins of his Azenth following his liberation is yet more truth. That I am much hated, and that I would rather be hated and succeed than be loved and fail is the final truth. I have sinned, and I have been virtuous. I have done righteous things, and I have made mistakes, both of which at the highest magnitudes. I write these memoirs so that both light and shadow can find their rightful representation. Secrets will be exposed; what was sunk will be plain to see. To write is my duty; to believe is your choice. - - - - - - - - Leo massaged his wrist and waited for the ink to dry. It had been a while since he'd written for any substantial length of time and the skill would take some time to seize back, but the truth was a powerful drive indeed. He had no idea yet what would be of this script, and whether it would be entrusted to someone else. However, his experience with Kavala had taught him that even the Chavi were not immune from tampering and obscuring. Should Leo die, there would be no account of Ivak's liberation to be found anywhere, except on the pages of an as-of-yet blank book. A fire may always have to die out, but it had to leave ashes behind. - - - - - - - - I was born in Syliras, in the year 487 after the Valterrian. It is quite ironic that we count the dates now starting from the cataclysm caused by the god we have chosen to ignore and bury in oblivion. My surname as a young man, Varniak, I share without the slightest tinge of worry, for there is nobody left there of that lineage. Even though they were quite well-known in my childhood, the city will no doubt forget that name altogether within a decade or two. The Varniak name was always synonymous with high-quality pottery, earthenware and porcelain. There are mentions of Varniak potters going at least eighty years back on the city records, but the family trade is perhaps even older. With the exception of one, the Varniaks were held in the highest esteem as hard workers and model citizens, heavily contributing to the advancement of society in Syliras. That one exception was the man I grew up calling father - Allistir Varniak. It would be very easy for me to consign Allistir Varniak to history as an evil man, devoid of any redeeming qualities. For the longest time, both before and after I slain him, that was my one and only thought regarding that man. I realize now that he was more misguided than truly vicious. True evil requires a certain grandness that he lacked; in most circumstances he was merely small and saw himself as small. The only refuge from that realization consisted of finding others whom he could make feel smaller still. He was a good potter, though not as good as my mother, and possessed a good sense of business but only in a very practical sense of the term. He could never see past the boundaries of his workshop. Faced with a world of infinite complexity, he took shelter in all the wrong things. He may have been a simpleton and nothing more; the drink made him sour and cruel. My mother, Lina, married him for reasons unknown to me. She came to Syliras with her Benshira master, and Allistir set his eyes on her from the very first day. He was insistent enough that the old man eventually granted him permission to take her away to join him both in the workshop and in his bed. Much of what transpired before my birth will forever be hidden from my eyes, but I know that Allistir feared one thing above all others. He had an adoptive brother called Alvias who surpassed him in every regard and kept appearing at critical junctions of his life, reminding Allistir of how small and petty he was. Looking back on it, I can understand how proximity to Alvias shaped Allistir for the worse. Alvias possessed an overpowering personality, blessed with charisma and intelligence. Allistir did not. The conclusion had already been written in the premise, I am afraid. Alvias was always close to my mother Lina, much to Allistir's jealousy. He returned from his long, mysterious journeys around the time I was conceived and paid several visits afterwards before disappearing for good. When I was born, my physical resemblance to Alvias - rather than the man I would call father for many years - crashed Allistir's little world. It was then that he gave himself over to alcohol completely. In retrospect, I have come to understand why he acted the way he did, and while I will never forgive his memory for what he did to my mother, he is no longer an unspeakable boogeyman to me. He was a man with his all too human weaknesses. - - - - - - - - Rereading what he had just finished writing surprised Leo. He'd never admitted so much to himself before. It was all true, however: there would never be forgiveness for Allistir Varniak, but the blind hate of his childhood had faded, replaced by a sense of greater understanding. He realized the man's place in the world and the cosmic story unfolding in front of him. When weak men were caught in the coils of things greater than them, only tragedy ensued. He turned the page and prepared to inscribe the next piece of the tale. - - - - - - - - Of my mother I know so little and so much. Her sweet smell is my first memory of this world. Her voice is forever etched in the deepest core of my soul, where no other sound might ever get through. Every mannerism of her, every little habit, everything endearing and reassuring, I remember with amazing clarity. I can never forget, as long as I live. Yet, of the woman called Lina, and her life before she was a mother, I know surprisingly little. Maybe I shall find out more as my life progresses, for things may not always hide forever. I have never stopped searching and do not intend to stop now. Lina was a much stronger woman than she appeared. Hers was not the strength that moves mountains, but the quiet, nurturing power of the flowing stream. Raising me was akin to her sacred quest, and I truly suspect it was an actual quest to her. She made sure I possessed everything I would need to burn bright in my later years as a flame of Ivak. She did this while protecting me from Allistir's blind fury. Her ways were not those of conflict, but of absorption. She took every blow meant for me, and showed me smiles when she should have been crying. To this day, I have never witnessed such outstanding dedication, but instead of supporting her as she did me, I spent my childhood sulking and feeling hurt and out of place. I should have been thankful. I should have seen and instead I was blind. It may surprise you, as a novice to Ivak's ways, that his followers often live lives of regret. It is no paradox. Indeed, Ivak himself contemplates such a feeling. It is our nature to burn, but we don't always feel good about it. Blind destruction never suits us, and when we do destroy we should constantly strive to remember what was lost. We free others from pain, but we take that pain upon ourselves, for pain never disappears. It is like this for me and the destruction I have brought. It is likewise for Ivak himself and the immense damage of the Valterrian. Lina took care of my education from a very early age. She taught me to read and write around the same time when I started dreaming of the fire. The flames came to me almost every time, but their warmth never threatened to do me harm. I often woke up in a sweat, though never from fear. What anguish it brought me was from the lack of understanding and the feeling of universal helplessness in front of such a overwhelming sensation. I heard whispers like crackling wood, half-formed words that I could never piece together into sentences. In the fire, it was always good and welcoming. Once in the waking world, however, the fire was never like that. It burned me just like the next kid, and it never tried to speak to me even though I tried to speak to it. I would even feed it my toys and watch them come undone waiting for an answer, but none ever came. That saddened me very much. When I was older, I dreamed of people as well; people swimming in a lake of fire and crying, but not in pain. My mind could not understand such terms as 'ecstasy' and 'catharsis' back then, but these dreams left a deep impression in my young intellect. It was almost unheard of for a child to be minding a pottery kiln, but I was doing just that at seven years of age. I knew, on a purely instinctual level, when the fire needed stoked, when it was too hot or not hot enough, how long the clay should be allowed inside. Allistir did not seem too troubled that I might incur some accident; by then, I think, he was half-convinced that I was not his real son. Which was entirely correct. He also sent me out on small errands outside the city walls; that was also uncommon for someone my age. Even though Syliras' surroundings were - and still are - far more secure than those of mostly any other settlement, they are by no means a safe place for children. Yet there I was, seeking additives for the fires, ingredients for the Varniaks' secret pottery recipes that made our porcelain whiter and lighter than any other on the Syliran market. In my spare time, my mother sought out tutors - wandering scholars, erudites in search of coins, persons of semi-obscure talents - and had me take lessons from them. She kept me away from magic and instead exposed me to history, logic, ancient languages and the lore of races and cultures. I enjoyed learning, but Allistir's shadow was ever looming over it all, so the experience combined excitement and fear into something deeply bittersweet. It was imperative for my mother that I did not grow into someone ignorant and uncouth. Perhaps she always meant for me to write down my story the way I am doing right now. Certainly, I would not be capable of such if not for her constant guidance. - - - - - - - - Leo put down the quill. If he kept going at it, he would not get to sleep that night. He had only two or three bells left before dawn, and a sense of exhaustion had crept into his bones, radiating from his right hand. Still, he knew in a mysterious way that he must see this chapter through before he could have a rest. It was the scene he would have dreaded the most, had he still been able to feel fear. The book called to him. He stretched his fingers to restore the feeling in them and set himself to the last leg of his writing journey for the night. - - - - - - - - The years passed. I grew restless, my body not keeping up with my mind's growth. Allistir had always despised me for that. I got sick easily and frequently as a child, and I was never as strong as the other kids around my age. I did not socialize with them much, but they did not bully me. They knew I may look quiet, but I always found ways to get back at them if they beat me. There is no way around the fact that I was a tormented, vengeful child. I grew up with fire, and fire knows no mercy. It was clear to me that an offense given to an innocent deserved appropriate punishment that the victim himself could mete out if they were in a condition to do so. The children did not come near me for that reason. They constantly ruffled each other's feathers and punched black bruises in each other's eyes, but the next moment they were all smiles and jokes once more. I could not have been farther away from that. An offense was an offense for life. I never ever forgot. I made lists of any wrongdoing I happened to witness. I had been taught the importance of method by my tutors and I put it to good use. People act carelessly, especially around the young. They have a tendency to consider those shorter than themselves to be dumber, as well. Before long, I had compiled detailed records of my neighborhood. I knew who had stolen what from whom, who was cheating on whom with whom, who was violent and who was a scam and who was a coward. I lacked the strength to do anything about it, but I knew things and that gave me power. No-one featured on my lists more often than Allistir Varniak. I made note of each beating he gave to either my mother or myself; whenever he mistreated one of his workers and I happened to watch, I would fill the appropriate entry. All the while I wondered what a suitable punishment could be for each crime. Was I a terrible person? Or simply someone with far too much fire in his veins, so much that his sanity had already begun to drown? I still remember quite a few of the dates when Allistir beat me. Fall 28 of 495, Spring 12 of 496, the list goes on. These days, I try to make lists of good things as well. It is quite discomforting that such lists are always much shorter. One entry stands above all others in my mind, as it was the beginning of it all. This is a story that started with fire, continued with fire and will likely end with fire: no surprise there. Winter 18, 502. A winter day like any other, batch in and batch out. We were still experimenting with a new salt firing technique, which was yielding excellent results. I took great pride in my work as a young potter. A competitive being at heart, doing things nobody would expect at my age was a matter of deep satisfaction to me. With my mother at the wheel and myself at the kiln - and giving a hand with the painting as well - we made an exceptional team. Sadly, however, that batch was to be the last the Varniak ceramic workshop ever produced. It all happened in a blur, most likely, but it feels so slow and drawn out in my memory. I heard some commotion coming from the house. I didn't pay it too much attention to begin with, given that arguments were our daily bread whenever Allistir spent any length of time at home. The screams had been the constant companions of my childhood and they barely affected me now. Somehow, though, these were different. I sensed the maddening quality of his voice and could not help but rush inside. I only caught the tail end of the discussion before it turned into something worse. It was a matter of pure happenstance (or was it?) Allistir had found something on a random trip around the house. He had chanced upon secret correspondence between my mother and his half-brother Alvias. The letters were basically a confession that Alvias was my real father. Allistir had suspected this much all along, but to suspect and to know for certain are deeply different beings. His face had a quality of madness that I cannot describe faithfully with my limited skills. It had inflated and deformed like a balloon, something made from a pig's bladder. Something red and strained, meat coming apart at the seams. Before I knew it, his hands were around my mother's neck, pressing. Rough tendrils of flesh, snakes posing as fingers. She dropped lifeless on the floor right in front of me. I should have forgotten this, but my mind was not kind, not even to itself. I remember with supreme clarity, as if the room had been lit by supernatural stars, how he slowly turned towards me, murder in his eyes. And then it happened. Everything was clear to me at that very instant. The half-words in the flames suddenly made sense; they had been speaking of this moment, and what I would need to do then. My dreams had been dreams of what is commonly called Reimancy, but carried also many other names throughout history. From within a fiery prison, Ivak had cast his distant gaze upon me and instructed me in the ways of fire. My mouth opened, but not in a scream. I felt my insides turn hot as if being invaded; curiously, my later readings indicate this is a common symptom of an initiation ritual in Reimancy. I let it all out, all the pressure and fear and rage inside me. I vomited fire upon Allistir Varniak, stripping him of skin and flesh and muscle, making him a mummy on fire in the mausoleum that was his house. It was to be his tomb, little king of ashes that was. The house was ablaze almost instantly. I felt a temporary presence of something far greater than men, and I realized I carried Ivak's fiery mark on my back. There was no time to even wish farewell to my mother's fallen form. I had to run outside as the house came down, and my childhood with it. Later on I would find out that, among the Zaital bloodline, such tragic endings to our younger ages are not uncommon in the least. - - - - - - - - As darkness fell upon the last words of this chapter, a new dawn rose upon Mizahar. Leo put down his quill and knew that his task was done, for now. He felt lighter somehow. This was a tale that deserved to live on.

[Gossamer]

Character: Leo Varniak

Experience: Writing +5, Psychology +2, Planning +1

Lore: Writing: Understanding the need to set a truth to paper. Writing: Composing the Elements of a story. Writing: Choosing where to begin. Planning: Making a record for other Azenth to follow. Self Awareness: My own history and its impact on who I am now. Self Awareness: My linage and why it is important. Self-Awareness: Understanding the flaws of my adoptive father. Self-Awareness: Understanding the strengths of my biological father. Ivak & The Azenth: His followers often live lives they regret. Ivak & The Azenth: His followers are shaped by the events of their lives – strengthened by them. Self-Awareness: The sacrifices of Lina Varniak, Self-Awareness: The End of the Varniak Leggacy of Pottery, Self-Awareness: The common denominators of the Zaital Bloodline.

Additional Note: This was not new material for me, but the purose of writing it all down and having it mean something greater than just the story told out in threads is immeasurable. I feel like Leo's story is one of the richest on the game currently. And he inspires me to give encouragement and similar opportunities to people who come after him to make impacts on the game in ways greater than just can be contained within themselves and mere threads.