Solo A Day of Res(t)

[Keene Ward]

The weather was, as it had been since his arrival, muggy, foggy, and generally uncomfortable in terms of temperature. Zeltiva grew warm in the summers, but there was typically sun to allow for one to feel as though the heat was warranted. Sahova, however, was a sauna of epic proportions. He'd been on the island for several weeks at that point, but the heat was still something he was unused to. Fire had not been his elemental attribute for a very good reason: Keene was a creature of the cold. While not entirely unaccustomed to sweating, Sahova had magnified Keene's idea of "sweating" to an entirely new level. Even in the warm summers of his home city, Keene had never been drenched by the work of his own body in its attempt to relieve itself of its imbalance in relationship to the environment. Now, however, his shirt was soaked from the journey down from the citadel into the Testing Grounds. It took fifteen chime to get to the edge of the Prairie, and fourteen of those chimes were spent in moist agony.

Sitting down at the edge of the barren expanse, Keene wriggled out of his shirt, the saturated fabric clinging to his skin in a vain attempt to remain upon his person. Dropping the useless fabric with a wet plop beside him, Keene felt a rush of relief for a few ticks before the air around him seemed to take over what he'd imagined the shirt's role had been, warming him far past his optimal point of comfort. Sighing, Keene leaned forward, rubbing the sweat out of his eyes. There was a dull stinging sensation from where the beads of liquid had pooled at the corners of his eyes and seeped in. The motion did little to remove the perspiration from his face, as his hands were only slightly less damp. Blinking back another trickle of sweat, Keene pushed himself to his feet, stooping down to gather up his shirt, stuffing some of it into the back of his pants so as not to lose it.

Stepping onto the dull, empty dust of the prairie, Keene kept his eyes peeled for the hidden glyph. The last time he'd been down to the Testing Grounds, he and Boswell had found a handle of explosive areas that, had they been stepped upon, would have removed half or more of their mass in a most unpleasant manner. The holes from their previous expedition were still there, though Keene was only able to pick out the first two, as wherever the rest were blended into the blighted landscape flawlessly (or perhaps "flawdly" along the pockmarked land). With little to deter him from making use of the wide, empty expanse of land, Keene strode out farther, allowing for several yards of space in every direction. Another quick inspection of the earth in each direction put Keene's worries over the potential for meeting a fiery end at ease.

Focusing his attention inward, Keene drew upon his res, feeling it bubble and shift within the greater framework of his Djed. The tingling sensation of res dripping from the tips of his fingers sent a small shiver down Keene's spine. The sensation was unlike any other: a soft tinge of excitement mixed with anticipation and power. His magic's lifeblood - and an extension of his own - had a bluish tint to it. Initially he'd figured res took on the color of the element he intended to transmute, but Mella had told him that theory was ridiculous. According to her, res was the physical manifestation of will. Keene found her explanation to be as ridiculous as his own, and thus had kept on with his own beliefs regarding his res. The soft, translucent blue liquid that floated about him in little marbles slowly revolved around his person. The gentle shine illuminating the sheen of sweat on Keene's diminutive frame, the light shifting with the swirl of the res.

Twitching his fingers to better help him guide the marbles of res to eye level, Keene closed his left eye, taking aim by extending his arm out in front of him, his pointer extended while the others remained curled in his palm. The marbles quivered, slowly shrinking the longer they were exposed to the outside elements. With a sharp inhale of breath, Keene launched the first sphere with as much speed as he could muster. It traveled relatively straight along his line of vision, slanting slightly to the right, before it rapidly shrank into a small puff of bluish dust. Keene expressed his frustration at his failure to quickly transmute the res with a sharp click of his tongue. Flicking his eyes to the handful of remaining marbles, Keene decided it was inefficient to simply keep them outside of his body for so long without doing anything. Disregarding transmutation, Keene shot off the little spheres in quick succession, little blue puffs of smoke all appearing in the same general area he was aiming towards, though two managed to veer a sharp left, dissipating a good distance off from the mark.

Lowering his arm and flexing his fingers, Keene readied another marble of res, it's surface just barely touching his fingerprint. Raising his arm once more into the same position as before, Keene launched the res once more, this time shifting the property of the glimmering liquid into a compact ball of water. Retaining its shape up until the point where the previous balls of res and poof-ed into nothingness, the water continued, though as it traveled the ball elongated into a stream that eventually fell harmlessly against the water-starved ground where it was quickly sucked up by the thirsty earth. Five more orbs formed, each at the end of one of his fingers. Using the motion of flicking, Keene projected the balls of res once more. Two of the spheres shot towards the intended point, while two of the others were launched directly into the ground below him (the final marble shot off in a straight line left of the perpendicular, as the thumb proved to be a difficult finger to aim without readjusting the position of his hand). Of the two that hit the mark, only one was changed to water in time. The res that had fallen to the ground was transmuted into a small puddle of water before disappearing into the earth, while the final marble shot out of Keene's influence too fast to be affected by anything other than the initial launch.

__________________________________________________________________________

[Keene Ward]

Drawing his hand back towards his chest, Keene massaged the palm as he stared off into the distance. It was reminiscent of home, or what had been his home until recently. The only difference from the expanse of the prairie with its rare outcropping of ground hugging brush and Zeltiva's endless, undulating ocean, was the color. He found it strange there could be something so similar and so different at the same time. There were so many other cities and regions all across Mizahar, yet Keene found he doubted they were all that alien. There were, of course, differences. That was to be expected. But even amid all the strange and confusing new, there still resided the familiar. Perhaps it was due to his attention to that which was recognizable, finding the similarities not because they were an indisputable truth but rather a projection of his subconscious desire for home.

He shook his head, flexing his fingers. Keene found it highly unlikely his inner thoughts focused on Zeltiva with longing. There was the potential his mind did dwell on the likenesses between Zeltiva and Sahova, but they were few and far between enough he could easily discount them as coincidence. He was not prone to emotional reminiscence, and even the act of thinking about such frivolities pulled downwards on the thin line of Keene's mouth. If you have time to think about uselessness, you're wasting what use you do have. The abridged version of Mella's much more profane directive floated through his thoughts. There was a strange, sharp twinge in his chest as he replayed the words over. His eyes continued to stare, shimmering under the occluded light of the day. He felt a bead of liquid roll down the side of his face, separate from the sweat that stuck to his skin. Reaching up a hand to catch the tear before it dripped from his chin, Keene stared at it. Several more followed, until he stood, quivering, staring at the single drop perched atop his finger.

When Mella had died, Keene had not had time to feel, to grieve. He had rushed her to their house, a feat that he had somehow accomplished despite his lack of physical strength. The memories were a blur, and they flooded into his mind as if a dam had burst, releasing a deluge of repressed humanity. The face of the healer flashed pale and weary. A university official politely rapping at the door. Mella's face, cold and lifeless. The dark creeping up like some quiet thief to steal away the life Keene had once had. The sun slowly falling into the mountains who obscured her light and cast shadows, warped and twisted. There was fear then. Fear struck Keene like a bolt of lightning crashing down from the raging roar of his mind's eye. He felt his chest grow heavy, breathing somehow repressed by the overwhelming weight of his unresolved past. Sinking down to his knees, Keene pushed his weight onto his hands, gasping at the ground. Mella's face stared back, her clouded eyes unseeing and vacant. There was a knot in his stomach that grew with each labored breath until it erupted out of him, splattering the ground with an acidic mix of bits of nuts and berries.

Closing his eyes, Keene spit out what more he could of the bile in his mouth, the smell - though putrid - calmed him, giving him something real, something present to focus on. His ragged breathing slowed, regulating itself as Keene managed to clear his mind of the sudden panic. Pulling his shirt from its place tucked into his pants, Keene wiped his mouth sitting back on his heels and concentrating on his breathing. The images bouncing about in his head were the last to fade. Their intensity waned with each breath; Keene kept his eyes shut, clinging to the darkness. When it had finally passed, Keene cautiously allowed the light once more into his vision. The world was once more stable, its shifting, reeling quality having faded with the passing of the flood.

Spitting once more with finality upon the ground, Keene pushed himself to his feet. His legs were wobbly, weak still from his loss of control. Waiting until he was steady, Keene carefully turned and walked away from his mess. The idea of it too distasteful for him to remain. As he walked, the sound of the boots against the ground rang loud in the silence of the Grounds. Keene sifted through his thoughts, checking them for any residue from his episode. There were many pockets of emotion, each one bursting fourth when he happened across them, stopping his movement as he let it wash over him, eyes clenched shut and nails digging into his palms. Nothing quite affected him like the first, however, and after a few chimes following each instance, Keene was able to continue his wandering path. He chose to move forward, a physical representation of his attempt to escape the clutching grasp of his past that had risen up to claim him. Each time he stopped, his return to movement grew faster and faster until Keene was merely running, sprinting across the potentially deadly landscape.

His breath came is gasps, feet pounding upon the uneven ground before him. Sweat hung sticky and hot against his skin, the rush of air around him too warm to provide anything but the sensation of moving through something that was just barely there. The motion seemed to help. The less air Keene was able to draw into his quickly tiring lungs, the less he seemed to dwell on the events of his past. It didn't last long, and soon Keene stood bowed over, hands planted firmly on his thighs, gasping for air. His chest burned. It was a strange feeling, a good feeling. His hands and feet tingled, and his body had developed a new layer of sweat soaking his pants and giving his feet the feeling of having been submerged in mud. Keene's head felt light, airy, almost empty but his mind still filled the space, weighing it down enough to keep it from floating away.

Slowly, Keene straightened up, his breathing still rapid but returning to a more natural pace. He stared at his surroundings, unsure of where he'd come from. Gazing to his left then right, Keene's frown returned. The mountain that housed Sahova was much more distant than he remembered it being. It wasn't a surprise, but Keene found the prospect of retracing his steps in the wet heat of the day unpleasant. Running a hand through his hair, Keene puffed out a few more breaths before heading towards the looming structure in the distance. His footsteps felt lighter from the run, though the muscles in his legs still twitched as if they desired a longer, faster stride. Keene, however, had had enough of his body determining what he was going to do, and proceeded with a steady, deliberate pace.

.

[Keene Ward]

.

To pass the time as he walked without dwelling too far inside his mind, Keene drew out some res, pulling it from his palm like a thread that had come loose from its stitching. The strand of bluish, translucent liquid dipped in the middle, much like a piece of taffy. With a sharp, jerking motion, Keene plucked it from the middle of his hand, stumbling slightly over a rock that had escaped his divided attention. Rolling the string into a ball in his hands, Keene treated the res like clay. Pulling and shaping it with his hands, as if it were nothing more important than the wet dirt it seemed to be. He tossed it up and down, a small ball that always landed in the same place. His pace had slowed some as the majority of his attention was focused on the ball of res that slowly rose and fell, each time suspended a size smaller than before. Squishing it between his hands, Keene flattened the substance out, letting it coat both his palms before running them over his face, letting the res transmute into water as it cascaded down his skin in a refreshing breath.

The small amount of relief was short lived, as the heat of the air around him was quick to warm the marginally cooler liquid that sank into the cracked dirt below him. Keene exhaled a breath of res, the mist swirling about his face. He let it dance around him, rising and falling at his whim with the assistance of his fingers twitching in conduction. The mist separated itself into individual specks. Keene's hands pushed outwards, as if swimming through the air. The specks fell alongside his arms, mirroring the movement. Flipping his hands so the palms faced upwards, Keene curled his fingers inward, the specks compacting into two small marbles on either side of his arms. Clenching his fists, Keene rolled his wrists towards him, sending the spheres of res shooting up into the sky above him to disappear with soft puffs of bluish smoke.

Looking back at the mountain, Keene found he'd come much farther along than he'd anticipated. Finding his cognitive powers to be functioning at a slightly lower level that was typical for him, Keene merely shook his head at his own ineptitude. It was better he had been alone for the event than confined within the shone chambers where he slept. He was not foolish enough to believe death had little affect on the human psychology, but Keene had too little experience with such trauma to devise a truly effective coping mechanism. Dealing with the emotions when they happened to present themselves seemed to be the only way his mind naturally allowed the process to occur, and Keene doubted Risabel or Boswell would be very useful as consultants on the matter. Having no one else to consult with (nor the desire really to do so), Keene had resolved himself to simply bear the weight of his past when it arose. He assumed his control would wane only when appropriate, thus he found himself - in retrospect - unsurprised at the turn of events. He had intended to spend the day practicing his reimancy in anticipation for the mysterious and vague "judgement", but his mind had had other plans.

As he continued towards Sahova, the distinct boarder between Prairie and path had begun to detail itself in the distance. The occluded light still held, though the clouds cast a grey pallor onto the already dismal landscape about him. Keene adjusted his trajectory to make straight towards the path back to the citadel. He found himself contemplating his view of the mind. Often, he thought of it as a separate entity from his consciousness. He personified it, but he could find little reason to do so. The mind, his mind, was as much a part of him as his legs or hands. It had a job just as his eyes or mouth did, yet he held it in higher regard. It allowed him thought, reason, even emotion. And there it was again, that personification he simply couldn't shake. It allowed. Frowning, Keene kicked at a stone that lay in his path, sending it skipping across the dusty ground, leaving small clouds in its wake.

He investigated the idea of mind. A quick image of lightning striking out from a low, hovering cloud flashed across his vision, but Keene shook it off. It seemed almost as if his thoughts wished to steer him away from the contemplation, to deter him with distasteful content and unwarranted emotion. Instead, he considered the possibility of his mind as an external construct. Having no ability to verify his theories, Keene remained open-minded to whatever potential he came across. Things were only false when proven to be so, the very nature of the mind defied all forms of conventional testing. There was no way to definitively disprove any serious hypothesis he might construct in regards to the mind, thus it was as good a distraction as any to pass the time until his subconsciously driven legs carried him back to his room. The burst of speed he'd allowed himself to succumb to earlier had had a slowing effect on his return pace, the soreness already staring to set into his muscles.

Were the mind to be external, an influence outside of the consciousness that defined himself as "Keene Ward", he found the potential realization would have little effect on his actions. The mind itself would have great sway (perhaps even entire control) over his choices, but the understanding of such a nature of the mind would serve no purpose other than a passing thought. If then the mind was internal, a specific part of him, its personification seemed silly. There was little reason to find humanity in something that was an integral part to humanity. To give it a life of its own outside (or perhaps within) the life it directed was redundant. Keene wondered where his tendency to give a drive separate from his "own" will to the concept of mind originated.

Mella's name, of course, was the first to present itself. Keene disregarded the idea along with a particularly cross image of her face that floated across his vision. Her philosophy made little room for anything other than her own will to dominate her essence. If not Mella, there was only a single person left who could have influenced his views of the mind: himself. He had no recollection of ever having come to the conclusion that the mind was something separate from himself. It must have been a subconscious development that had taken root at some indeterminate time in his past. Keene had only just taken serious note of his peculiar tendency, which meant the notion could be as old as he was or started only a few days ago. With only his memory to supply him data, Keene found the probability of pinpointing the origin of his ideology of the mind to be far too minuscule for him to waste any more time on it.

.