| Present day, Ortal's home, The Spires The writer sits down and sips from his cup of tea. Most often, the memories would come to him, but when they don't, the writer takes his time and just stares out the window. Every now and then he manages to draw out memories on his own. The quill is dipped into the ink well and placed on the parchment, where the old and wrinkled hand of the writer starts to move it over the uneven surface of the parchment, causing scratching and scribbling noises to be heard through the study as the writer pens down the memories before they disappear again, possibly forever. |
| Fall, 29th, Year 457 Crone's tent, Undrykas' Pavilion (unknown), Endrykas The Undrykas was sitting, cross legged, in the middle of the tent. The Crone wasn't around. The twelve year old boy looked at all the medicines and herbs, poultices and jars. She had a plethora of things that cured anything from a small bruise to a missing arm. Or that's what he liked to believe. But the Undrykas wasn't there for the herbs and potions and medicines. He was there for something entirely different. Practice. His eyes were closed and his hands rested on his knees as he focused on his left hand. It would be the first time ever without the help of anyone that he would attempt it. It took a little bit of practice first, guidance from the Crone. Of course she had started him off and helped him disconnect, but he had felt it so often and seen it happen so often that he knew how to do it. His breathing calmed down as he focused on his hand. There was just his hand and he slowly peeled away the physical shell that limited it. Little by little the thingling feeling started, from the tip of his finger, a little prick at first, started to wave out over the entire length of his finger, small, not unpleasant, pricks all along his skin. The prickling stopped near his nail but continued to spread out further over his hand. It never passed further than his wrist. The longer he focused and peeled away at his hand, removing the spirit from it, the less prickling he could feel. And when all the prickling was gone, he opened his eyes. There was no change in his hand, nothing that would show the lack of spirit within. The only thing that told the Undrykas that it was succesful was the missing ability to move his hand and the blueish floating hand right above it. He could see right through it, although it colored the vision behind it a slight blue. He flexed his fingers. The hand on his knee didn't budge even a hair's breath. But the spirit hand moved as he willed it. Sweat was already trickling down his forehead and nose. He stared intently at the hand and moved it towards the items on the ground in front of him. A single blade of grass, a brown and broken leaf, a gold coin, a small knife and a big knife. The fingers grasped at the blade of grass and lifted it up from the ground. Light object were no problem. He could manipulate them easily. Now he could. It hadn't always been that way. He lifted the blade up and let it go. It floated right through the palm of his hand and down to the floor. He picked up the leaf. Same result. It was equally light and equally easily moved. There was a little hitch before the hand let go of the leaf and it fell back to the ground. Like a ripple going through the hand. The young boy reapplied himself to the task, pushing back all feelings of accomplishment. The gold coin was his current end stop. He could push it around but hadn't been able to lift it as of yet. The coin seemingly moved on its own, when seen through someone else's eyes. It slid over the floor as unseen fingers pushed it around. Sweat continued to trickle down the boy's forehead. He blinked. The Undrykas grasped at the coin with his fingers, wrapping all five of them around it and squeezing on it. He had the coin in his hand but lifting it up felt to the Undrykas' mind the same as lifting up a human with one hand or other heavy things. To his mind, the lifting of the coin was equally exhausting as a full day's work. In the boy's spirit hand, the coin seemed to lift up from the floor somewhat, but it was shaking as the spirit hand rippled and started to become unresponsive. The young boy's djed was starting to run out. For the Undrykas, there had always been a certain feeling, a certain knowledge of things that other people didn't seem to realize. It had happened before and he simply took it as part of himself. If there was not enough Djed left in his own body, he would simply feel around for more Djed and pool it in his own body. It was a natural thing to do for him. So, in order to stabilize his spirit hand and lift the coin, the Undrykas reached out and breathed in all the power he needed from his surrounding. At first, it came from right around his body, but the more he absorbed the further he had to go to get it. The hand stopped rippling and the coin stabilized in mid air. The Undrykas looked at his own hand as it held the coin, the fingers no longer squeezing down it but relaxed around it. He turned the hand around, slowly, as if it was difficult to do. The coin rested on the palm of his hand, floating in front of his eyes. It started to slip through the spirit hand and fell into his lap. Blinking profusely, the Undrykas moved his spirit back to his physical form and rested it inside, fitting the hand back to where it belonged. The prickling sensation all along his hand returned as he connected the spirit back to the physical. He imagined it like sewing. Put the hand in the body and then stitch it back on. He started from teh wrist, reconnecting the spirit to the physical form. Little by little the prickling stopped as his spirit reconnected. He always tested afterwards, wiggling his fingers to make sure they were all connected properly. He remembered quite well the last time he had attempted reconnection on his own. The pain still sent shivers down his spine every time he thought about it. Luckily it hadn't lasted long, as he had fainted from the sheer pain after only a couple of seconds. The Undrykas put the items back where they belonged, using his real hands this time and looked around for a piece of cloth to wipe the sweat off. He always found it odd how lifting grass and leaves and coins made him sweat more than an entire day in the stables, cleaning all the mess there. The rumbling in his stomach told him that it was about time to go home and get something to eat. If there was anything left for him. The Undrykas never really got the best of it anyway. |
| Present day, Ortal's home, The Spires The memory stops, in the middle of the scene and the writer has no alternative but to stop as well. Often times memories end like this, midway in an action, unresolved, leaving more questions than answers for the man. He puts the quill down on the writer's block and screws the ink well shut. He's been at it for quite some time already and he's learned how the memories work, how the memories come and go. He sips from his tea as he waits, going over something in his mind. Time passes as suddenly the writer leans forward again and puts away the tea cup, going back to his writing. |
| Fall, 29th, Year 457 Undrykas' Pavilion (unknown), Endrykas It was always like that outside of the Crone's tent. Inside he could do what he wanted and the Crone never blamed him for any of it. Outside, everyone blamed him for everything, even if he hadn't been anywhere near it. The eyes of the people outside told him more than enough. Something bad had happened and they blamed him. They hated him simply for being. It was no way to live for anyone, especially not for a young boy. But he had already accustomed himself to it. There was nothing new in it, no new pain or new disappointment. Just more angry eyes. He ignored them as he started to walk towards the tent of his father, the leader of the group here. Although he was his son, the two had never spoken to each other. There had always been a barrier of silence between the two. In a way, his father showed him the most respect of everyone in the Pavilion, not including the Crone. Silence was better then what everyone else did. From the Crone's tent it was a bit of a walk to the main tent of his family and even before he left the tent he already knew the way and what was about to happen. It happened so often it got boring. He took a left out of the tent and slipped between two bigger tents. It was that or angry eyes all the way home. Here, nobody came, the back of the tents, used for the garbage and waste. And the Undrykas. He maneuvered his way through the tents towards the main one, which stood out over any and all tents in the Pavilion. Back then, the other kids had started to begin hating him as well. There was nothing else for it. All the adults did it so, the children just followed suit. The projectile hit him over the head, causing him to stumble and fall face first in the grass. They were on him in seconds. Little hands, little feet. Big punches, big kicks. They always yelled and shouted. He was always the prey, the bad guy, if he wanted to or not. Their weight pressed him down, unable to move. Their little fists punched him everywhere they could reach. He couldn't breath. A kick in his stomach had him gasping for air. Never the face. They never attacked the face, as it showed to the adults. Back then, he had been stupid still and attempted to fight back. He managed to bite one of them in the leg, just above his ankle. He held onto him like an animal. The blood seeped over his teeth, lightly trickling as his teeth pierced the skin. A punch against the side of his forehead had him seeing stars and black dots. And then they were gone, yelling and shouting, cheering their victory. Combat was promoted from a young age, wrestling and fights between children were promoted. The Pavilion only needed strong Drykas. Fighters and warriors. The women all learned to heal wounds at some point or another, be it for their brother, husband or father. The Undrykas was the exception. He learned to heal wounds for himself. And he learned to fight for himself. And nobody ever encouraged him. Except his father and the Crone. The Crone encouraged him to follow the path of magic, to open his mind for the power that lay ahead. His father was an exception because he neither encouraged nor discouraged his son. Which was better than everyone else. The Undrykas groaned as tears welled up in his eyes as he pushed himself up from the ground. The tears were stupid. There was no use for them, but they happened anyway. The anger and hate, the emotions were pushed down, locked away as he sniffled and rubbed his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. He limped the last bit of distance to his home tent. Home is a word often associated with happiness, a warm place, love and friendship. People who love you are at home. For the Undrykas, home equalled hell. Three brothers and three sisters who hated him, a mother who despised him and a dog who was treated better than him. Food was divided in the following way: If father was home, he could go first, but he always passed for his wife and his sons, who were second and third. Then the girls were allowed to eat. And lastly the dog was allowed to eat. If anything was left, the Undrykas was allowed to eat it. That summed up the hierarchy in the tent. Sometimes, perhaps once a season, his father would share with him, if he really had nothing to eat for a few meals in a row. Pity or not, the Undrykas always accepted the food and ate every last bit of it. If nobody was looking, he fought the dog for his food as well. Pure survival. The wilderness was more kind than the Undrykas' home. For desert, the Undrykas got a beating from his mother. While they were eating, his mother had been called out and there were people there, talking to her and complaining. It didn't take a genius to realize what they were talking about. The Undrykas stuffed as much food as he could, eating as much in as little time as possible. If she came back, he might lose any opportunity to eat any more for this meal or even for today entirely. She was quiet when she came back. Her mouth was quiet, but her eyes stared liquid fire daggers at him. He swallowed. Everyone left the table as soon as they were done. The Undrykas was in charge of those menial tasks. If his family had had a slave, he would have been treated better than the Undrykas. But there was no time for menial tasks. He got slapped around so hard by his mother that he fell over on the ground. She yelled at him. She always did. She yelled and hit him. He stood there and looked at her. She yelled more. Why did he attack that nice boy from two tents over. What was his name? Stupid or something. He didn't bother explaining. |
| Present day, Ortal's home, The Spires Another interruption. The memory ended with that. That was the end of it. The writer held the quill for a while longer, hoping for something more. But there was nothing more. He scribbled a final note on the page and put the quill away. The sand and sawdust mixture was sprinkled over the page, absorbing the excess ink before he blew it off. The words left a brownish black image on the parchment as he rolled it up. The desk chair creaked as he slid it over the wooden floor and walked to the shelf. Scrolls and scrolls of parchment littered the shelf as he looked for a spot to place it on. At first glance you wouldn't say it but the parchments were actually ordered. |
