A Consequence of Action

by **Keene Ward** on February 22nd, 2015, 10:57 pm

The sixty-ninth of winter, 514 AV

"What happened to your hand?" Atziri's question was asked with raised brows as she finished chewing, following her words with a swig from her flask.

"I cut it." He sat himself down in the chair next to her, using his left hand to pull some of the meat off the thorn hair's body and slip it into his mouth, methodically chewing and staring impassively back at Atziri's raised brow.

"And why would you do that, Keene?" She glanced to the shirt that was wrapped around his hand. He'd washed it the day before, though his blood had left a stain that had faded to a soft, rusty color before he'd re-wrapped his hand. With the numbness of his right arm, he had trouble not reopening the wound. By keeping a large and obnoxious bundle of cloth on his injured limb, it served to reduce the number of times thoughtless motion might aggravate the cut.

Swallowing the food before pulling off another small fingerful, Keene replied in his naturally cool, smooth tone. "To make soulmist."

Atziri gave him a confused frown. "Soulmist? Where'd you learn how to make that?" Her voice seemed less passingly interested and had taken on a more serious tone.

Blinking, Keene finished chewing and swallowing the second piece of meat before he replied. "I found a recipe in the back of a journal in the library." It was his turn to frown then, his grey-green gaze taking on a small sheen of concern. "Why?"

His master shook her head, an amused sigh drifting from her lips as she crossed her arms, settling back into her chair with a small grin, whatever concern seemingly alleviated. "I was just curious. You're..." She raised a brow in mockery of Keene's own proclivities. "A very quick study, Initiate."

"So you keep reminding me." Keene found her compliments hardly necessary. He learned what she taught him, and he learned what he actively sought out. Information and knowledge where things he had been raised to search for and assimilate into his own understanding. It was hardly surprising that something he'd been doing his entire life allowed him a higher proficiency in it than the average person.

"You're also surprisingly dense. You know that, Keene?" She gave him a teasing smile, crunching down on a mouthful of almonds directly after, the aggression of her chewing insinuating some hidden meaning that Keene was unable to comprehend. Instead of saying anything, he merely nodded and ate another bite of the hare. "How deep is the cut? Can you spar with it?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so. Not without reopening it. I cut..." Keene paused, looking down at the rusty wrap of the shirt around his wounded hand. "Very deep." Shortly after he'd finished cleaning up his mess he'd produced with his experiment in soulmist creation and investigation, he had stretched out his fingers and reopened the crimson flood gates for a good number of chimes. Without the pain to tell him how deep he was going, Keene hadn't realized how serious the wound actually was. For the time being, he had decided to restrict himself to further investigation of his less taxing hobbies.

"Show it to me." Though it was phrased as a question, Atziri looked at him will all the expectancy of a command. Nodding, Keene unknotted the shirt, carefully unswaddling his hand to keep from any undue jostling that might cause it issue. With the shirt removed, he moved his palm forward for her examination. The skin around the lesion was an irritated red, though it showed no signs of infection for the time being. Thin lines of white ran through the gash where they were no longer connected, and the "x" scars were slightly faded due to the small amount of swelling around the wound. Atziri stared down at it, concern flickering across her face. "Does it hurt?"

"No."

A quizzical raise of her face to examine his own seemed to be enough for her to verify he was entirely unfeeling in the matter of the cut causing him any sort of physical discomfort. "You're sure?" She asked in a manner that was less of a question and more of an invitation for him to change his mind if he preferred. Keene just stared back at her, expression unchanged as he popped some of the almonds into his mouth.

"Yes."

Shaking her head, Atziri extended a hand in request for the bloodied shirt. Keene obliged, passing to her as he methodically chewed on the off-sweet morsels. Re-wrapping his hand, she kept an eye on him, watching for any form of a wince or hint of pain. Keene, wholly unaware of her investigation, stared intently at the bandage, watching the way her hands moved to see if there were a more efficient way of wrapping up a wound. From what he could tell, her medical abilities were about as experienced as his own. As Keene made no indication whatever that what Atziri did bothered him, in a swift movement, she moved her hand to pinch his skin. It took a few ticks for him to notice she had done anything, but the moment his eyes landed on the offending limb, he pulled his arm back, skin crawling with the inherent dislike for touch in spite of him only being able to feel the muted pressure.

"You can't feel anything in that arm, Keene?" She sounded concerned, though mostly just surprised.

Shaking his head as he let his attention glide over the re-bandaged wound, Keene replied, voice soft and quiet as it always was. "No."

by **Keene Ward** on February 24th, 2015, 8:10 am

With the interest in his arm being set aside with a shake of his master's head and a small grin on her face, she returned to her original line of questioning. Waiting for him to meet her gaze once more, her voice took on a serious undertone as she emphasized the gravity of her warning. "Smart or not, you be careful. I don't have to remind you that magic isn't something you just play with when it suits you, initiate." She paused, raising an expectant brow. "Do I?"

Keene shook his head, swallowing the last of his breakfast. "No."

"Good." She rose, pushing in the chair after her as she wiped her hands on her trousers before leaning against the back of the chair's frame to give him a small, thoughtful frown. "Keep to the cave for a few days and let that heal." Nodding his understanding, Keene turned to watch her head out of the cavern, but before she left entirely, she paused, looking back with an, "And Keene?"

"Master Atziri?"

"Don't cut yourself like that again, alright?" Another nod and she was gone, footsteps fading as she left him and the cave behind. Turning back to gaze at the slowly burning candles she'd left alight, Keene pointed a finger towards them, res drifting from his finger tip, lazily floating its way towards the flames. He pressed upon the pale blue substance the need to pull the fire to it, and the lights shifted, catching the liquid alight as it passed by, leaving drifting trails of smoke that rose from the empty candles. Raising his other fingers to join the first, Keene separated them, the fiery blob mirroring the action and becoming four distinct pieces. He could feel the deterioration of his res sped by the fuel it required to keep it alight. Slowly, Keene curled his fingers, pressing small tendrils of his own pale blue res into the gentle waver of the fire's flame. With a deliberate twitch, the tendrils became flame.

To his marginal frustration, they were as blue as any before, mingling in with the reds and oranges in a haunting compliment, though not mixing into a green but remaining separate. Cutting the flow of res to the particular flames, Keene let the blue fire die, leaving the reds behind. A small bubble of angst had started in the pit of his stomach, but for the time being, Keene ignored it. His hand rose and with it the fireballs did too. Twisting his wrist in a slow, rythmic circle, they began to spin with growing intensity, becoming a burning ring of wavering air a good distance above and away from him. As it spun, Keene shifted it to and fro, testing his control as well as the effect of a motion on the rate of revolution. It seemed the more it moved, the slower it spun. To maintain velocity, it had to increase before he shifted the entire thing. The irritation of his discovery flaring a bit hotter than he was accustomed to signaled it was time to draw the res back to him after taking a few ticks to still the frantic whirl of the spell.

Passing the fire over the candles to relight them, Keene pulled the fireballs back into a single unit, pressing his fingers down to his palm to achieve the merge. With a flick, he cut of the res feeding the flames, and the light returned to normal, the dimness of the cavern drifting back into its proper place. With the res remaining, Keene pulled it out into a line, running his fingers just above the liquid's surface. He worked quickly, the rate of decay something variable enough that it was difficult to account for with accuracy. Instead, he focused on quickly shaping the res into an elongated, simple knife. He pulled the pommel wider and the short guard into a small flare before snapping his fingers, letting it land on the table with a small clink. A rush of cold ran through his body as it always did, quelling the rising heat of emotion with a simple chill. Sighing, Keene lifted the knife, examining it. He pressed his fingers gently against the edge, testing the sharpness and finding it suitable for a single sharp incision or a slightly longer use if it were not a problem for it to dull.

Ice, then, was hardly a substitute for a reliable blade. He needed blood to perform spiritism, but in order to get enough of his own, it required deep punctures that he wasn't sure how to create without creating similar wounds to the one on his bandaged hand. He supposed other blood would have to do, which meant he was going to have to go hunting every time he wanted to create soulmist. Keene had a feeling that storing blood in the heated caverns would only cause it to fester all the sooner. While the taste had not been unbearable, Keene wasn't fond of the idea of putting fetid liquid in with the rest of the ingredients. Swinging the knife in the air absent-mindedly, Keene thought on what the most efficient way to spend his time was.

Master Rayage had taught him the basics of glyphing, something he had yet to expand upon as his writing supplies were extremely limited. He'd tried to make a request in the Synchrography office for it when he'd gone back to visit the wizard, but his request, if it had ever been processed in the beginning, had yielded no results. Wanting no more debts to be owed to Risabel, Keene had resigned himself to practice various different runes in his mind as he fell asleep as a sort of meditative technique to take his thoughts off of what he knew waited for him in the fitful state of his dreams. Leaning forward, Keene rubbed his eyes, hand supported by the firm placement of his elbow as he did so. He was tired. So much had already happened in the season, and a chance of pace from his duties was hardly invited - though admittedly he'd done it to himself. His reimancy had grown to a point where he was worried that practicing it for too long would inevitably lead to him exacerbating the cut on his hand. While it was possible to keep his spells small, Keene didn't want to waste his res if he wasn't experimenting. The fire trial had been a final attempt at creating a flame that didn't burn blue, and to his disappointment, it seemed that the color was out of his control.

Finding his lack of ability to practice anything else, Keene let his eyes shut, breathing in slowly through his nose and out through his mouth. His djed shifted within him, the slight imbalance of the res he'd produced leaving some of the skies more clear than before, Keene borrowed more of the clouds drifting within him, the mental representation of the changing, malleable part of his essence. As the wisps rose up and out of his body, Keene kept his focus on the heat of a flame, the wobbling waves that distorted the air around it. The clouds wrapped themselves around his left hand, their cool touch easing over the bumps and divots of the appendage. With it properly wrapped, Keene pressed the cloud into his skin, its soft, fluffy nature becoming a sheen of opalescent light, matching the contour of his fingers as he wiggled them beneath it.

by **Keene Ward** on February 26th, 2015, 6:59 am

Opening his eyes, Keene stared down at the glimmer of the shield that wrapped itself around his hand. Drawing it closer, he inspected it as best he could, trying to determine if it were evenly crafted. From what he could tell, it was sound. Extending his hand out over the candle's flame, Keene pushed his face closer, inspecting the lick of the fire against his skin. There were areas of the shield that seemed weaker where the heat was noticeable rather than absent as he had intended. Gathering the other candles together into a conglomeration of heated wax, Keene inched his hand over the fire, twisting and turning his fingers so that every part of his hand was at some point exposed to the most intense areas of warmth. The weakest part of the shield was at his wrist, where it seemed to taper down rather than to suddenly cut off. A small blister formed were Keene accidentally kept his exposed skin in the flame for too long, and withdrawing his hand with a wince, Keene frowned down at his hand.

In his previous discussions with Master Relos, the nuit had explained that shields could be layered. Keene wasn't certain whether that meant a single task could reinforced or it it only applied to different tasks. Centering his focus once more, Keene pulled more of the clouds from within him, their substance filtering through his desire, once more, to defend against the heat of flame. As the cloud condensed around his hand once more into a silvery opal gleam, Keene let his eyes open to inspect the potential for a change. There wasn't anything different as far as he could tell. Trying the flames again, however, he found the sensation more or less blocked, the layering making up for the imperfections. Withdrawing the hand, Keene set it on the table, leaning his head forward to press into his forearm as he let his eyes close.

His right hand shook, small jitters twitching fingers on both of his hands as his eyes clenched shut and a wave of panic passed over him. It only lasted for a few ticks, and when it was gone, Keene took several deep breaths with his eyes still closed, clearing his mind as best he could before slowly rising back to slouch in his chair and stare at the wavering dance of light before him. It had become more difficult to keep himself in control lately, visions and words blinking their way back to him, unwanted but present nonetheless. It made being alone something of a double edged sword. On one hand, he was free to think of things as he came to them, on the other there was little to distract him from those thoughts. Practicing magic, in any form, was a small reminder of Mella's tutelage. Had he known more magic, perhaps he could have saved Boswell. Even the twisted events of the night of emergency or the vicious attacks he'd suffered from on the prairie or the intruders who sought whatever the mountain held... Keene let his eyes close again, left hand moving to gently massage his temples with thumb and middle finger.

He didn't like thinking about emotional things. In fact, he hated it. If he could remove the emotions, he would, but there was nothing he was aware of that could do something like that. Instead, he'd been given the ability to field through even more emotions. They different, of course, and far less frivolous, but it didn't change the fact that everywhere he went, Keene was bombarded with impressions of everything. His own thoughts mingled with the whims of the winds, and his despair plagued his solitude. It was pathetic and weak, but Keene could only carry so much for so long. It had gotten to the point that if he wasn't doing something, he was thinking and his thoughts were pulling up voices from the past. For the most part, he had distracted himself with first magic then the physical outlet of his combat training. Even the most relaxing of his magics, however, wasn't enough to keep his mind off of the inevitable. He'd killed Mella. He'd killed Scipio. He'd killed Boswell. He'd even killed the child, Wilhelmina. There were so many others he'd killed, but their deaths were different... They were necessary.

Wilhelmina's death had been necessary as well. His regret was not her death, rather the waste of her life. He had been the tool that had ended it, but there had been another who had perpetuated that loss. The others... The others he should have been able to avoid. Mella's death had been due to his lack of vigilance; his foolish reassurance that she was fine, that there was nothing wrong, that she was merely engrossed in their studies. He clenched his teeth, forcing his hands to stay relaxed to keep from exacerbating his wound. She had died needlessly. He could have done things differently, saved her somehow. The regret bit into him with fangs deeper than any sword. It clutched at him, the sheer unreasonableness of his emotions fully known to him, yet somehow they were augmented by the fact, as if his mind wanted to drive the point into him that by their unreasonableness they were even more valid. It hurt to think about, like ripping the skin of off a scar over and over again, keeping the wound constantly raw, never healing.

Tears had begun to stem at the corners of his eyes which he brushed away, drawing in a wavering breath and shoving the memories away from him. One lingered, and with it the residual grief. Boswell had been his friend, his ally. He'd failed him on an even deeper level than he had Mella. If he'd only looked for him in earnest; it wouldn't have taken long, and he could have easily used the experience of navigating the Gug Andjak. Instead, he'd wasted his time watering a tree. A small groan escaped from his lips as he swatted at the candles, his hand protected from the heat as he cast them to the ground, bathing the room in darkness. If he'd only done something. Keene didn't fool himself. He was no philanthropist. He'd killed people by sheer neglect, and no amount of depressive realization would change that that was what he had done and what he would continue to do. He did it because it was the best course of the action, the most proper choice.

He hadn't searched for Boswell because he had been busy with furthering his own understanding of magic, following his purpose so freshly discovered. He hadn't stopped Mella because he had believed her fervor to bring them closer to her goal, their goal, the single desire that had been instilled in him since he could remember - a goal he had abandoned the night she had died. There were reasons, logical, understandable reasons he had not saved them. Yet, they were of little solace when their memories flooded over him, emotions ripping and tearing at his soul. Keene stared up into the blackness of the cavern, hot tears dripping down his face as he grit his teeth. He didn't understand. He couldn't understand, and it was so infinitely frustrating. The emotions hit him like a sudden gust, pouring over him as quickly and unprecedented as lighting on a clear day. It was dangerously variable, and usually he was able to deal with it.

After a time, it passed, leaving him in the darkness, panting and exhausted. His head drooped forward, shifting with the rock of his spine as his ragged breathing emptied and filled his lungs. He didn't know what to do, but he wasn't about to let his past keep him from moving forward. Rising, Keene let a small ball of res slip from his hand, drifting a little distance from his head before he transmuted it into light with a vague wave. Slowly, he followed the little pale flame, feet sounding against the smooth stone of the floor in a soft echo.

by **Keene Ward** on February 27th, 2015, 7:20 pm

It took him awhile to reach the plateau. He moved slowly, taking his time and care to keep his balance as he struggled up the incline. The number of times he'd made the climb had given him a much better grasp of where to place his feet, what areas were slick, when it was better to crawl and when better to walk. Still, by the time he'd reached the final rise, it was slightly past midday, and sweat trickled languidly down the sides of his face, small trails of effort rather than those of heat. Pulling himself up and over onto the plateau, Keene stood and stared at the tree for a few ticks. It had grown since he'd planted it, though progress wasn't rapid. It was the first living thing he'd truly been given explicit orders to watch over. The irony of the tree surviving his care was lost on him, but he did find it bitingly unfortunate that the tree was still alive and well in spite of everything he'd lost.

Turning towards the cliff, Keene slowly approached, staring out into the expanse of the island's landscape, eyes sliding over hazy features as a soft, whispering breeze wrapped itself around him, gently tugging at his hair and clothes. He could smell the hint of curiosity mixed with a serene calm as the breeze drifted around the plateau; the subtle chill of the mark on his back pulling it towards him as it ran its course, and Keene ran his fingers through it as he continued to stare out into the occluded skies. While more distant, the mix of unreasonable guilt, frustration, and helplessness still sat firmly in the pit of his stomach. They were far more resilient than he had thought they might be, growing with each day and subtly gathering strength until they had become enough of a problem he was forced to address them. He let his eyes fall to his hands, the shimmer of the left and the burly cloth of the right: tools he used to accomplish that which he needed to do. People... People were different. They could be used, sacrificed even, but they were more than tools. There were those who forfeited their potential to become near animals, but even their lives were a cost to be measured.

In the heat of the storm, Keene had slain the other elemental creatures without thought, lost to the red haze of Boswell's death that he had been too weak to do himself. Yet, Wilhelmina had returned. She had brought with her the wretched memories, the knowledge that he had slain not beasts, but living minds. His left hand clenched tightly, fingers biting into his skin in a partially satisfying sting as his jaw tightened. There was no reason for him to feel guilty; he had conducted himself in the manner of which he always had, and the deaths of those around him had been unavoidable. To think he could have changed anything was to postulate his very person would have changed. A rush of blonde hair and panting passion flashed through his mind, which Keene immediately shoved out of the way. Barring magical interference, Keene was who he was, and he continued as he had become. Saving Boswell, saving Mella... Neither of those things were even remotely possible for him. They had happened.

The wind around him swirled, seemingly tasting his own mix of angst and responding to it with a cool rush of air over him, like a gentle pat or soft embrace. Keene let his eyes rise, staring out into the deceptive emptiness of the plains. He had only ever spoken to Zulrav the night he had been marked, but his mind was too filled with thoughts to keep them to himself. He found he had grown used to having a presence to speak to, even if the child specter was something of a bother. When he spoke, his voice wasn't much more than a soft whisper, brown slightly furrowed at the strangeness of addressing an unseen and perhaps entirely absent deity. He had never thought much of the gods; they had always been distant, detached figures that often filled the stories of poems and epics, but never in life, never for him. That had changed, and he had changed. Now, Zulrav was as real as anything else in his life, and while he was aware the god had his limitations, Keene found he just needed to think out loud. He needed to talk. It was a strange feeling, but everything had bottled up so much, it was the only way he could think of short of tearing his own djed apart to rid himself of the pressure.

"Zulrav. You know of... Thoughts. Emotions." The soothing breeze hushed some at the mention of Zulrav's name, calming but remaining a gentle constant. "I have too many. I am... Tired. There..." Keene found it much more difficult to talk into nothingness than he had thought it might be. Shaking his head and drawing in a small breath, Keene started again. "They overwhelm me. They cloud my thoughts, and I am... Uncertain." In spite of the clear lack of a storm, it still felt as if his voice were being lifted and wrapped up in the steady swirl of the wind around him. Finding the task growing progressively less stilted, Keene continued. "I have killed. I have... destroyed." The confessions sounded foreign on his tongue. Saying them out loud made them seem far more trivial than they had felt, and as he spoke, the weight on his chest seemed to lift. "They were wasted lives, lives who's potential..." He paused, staring down at the dirt at his feet, eyes focused on a small crack in the earth. "Who's potential I stole away from them."

by **Keene Ward** on March 2nd, 2015, 9:01 am

He remained quiet for a time after that, the gentle breeze waiting for his words that they both seemed to know were yet to come. "I am troubled, but I don't understand why." He looked up, eyes leveling with the horizon once more, Zulrav's form as unseeable as the horizon was unreachable. "Why does it have to hurt?" His final question lingered for a moment before the breeze snatched it up and whirled it a way, the winds shifting to press against his back as they were pulled down into the valley and beyond. He had come to conclusions. He had learned nothing in regards to the answers to his questions. Yet, in a way, he felt lighter. It wasn't something he could explain nor anything he could put into quantifiable terms, but there had been a strangely soothing effect to his short lived monologue into the nothingness he had referred to as the god of storms.

Letting his breath slowly drift from between his lips in a gentle sigh, Keene lowered himself into a seated position, legs dangling over the cliff as he leaned backwards onto his back. He kept his wounded hand out of the way, a perpendicular appendage as far removed from the rest of his body as was comfortably possible, while his left was lifted to be observed against the backdrop of the sky. The shields still remained, a sparkling testament to his growing understanding of magics beyond the realm of reimancy. He let the hand fall to stare up at the clouds, grey-green eyes fixed on no point in particular. He had come to the island to learn, to understand, to grow and find a new purpose in magic. What he had found were many more things than he had expected. There had been friendship, loss, death, fear, passion, rage, despair, and yes, magic. It had been wild introduction to the ways of the world. Even before he had left Zeltiva, Keene had kept to himself. Sahova had been his first true taste of what life was like outside of the familiar, though now long lost walls of his home.

It wasn't that he was clueless as to how society functioned, merely he had never had to function within one before. Sahova was hardly the standard for human interaction, but it operated under unspoken rules and laws just like any other place. He had discovered this, and he had worked to understand them. Yet, some things seemed beyond his comprehension. Boswell's face, his true face, flashed before him. His smile was warm, open, and inviting, something he hadn't seen for a long time. He had lost him, but he had also gained him for a time. In the transient nature of life, Keene supposed that even with Boswell gone, he had still benefited from their time together. It did little to assuage the burning rage that simmered just below his consciousness. Those responsible would answer for their failures, but that was for a time in the future, a time when he had power enough to eradicate those that were unfortunate enough to displease him.

Master Rayage's face, her curious smile as raise of brow, floated into his consciousness then. Balance. Rage and power was nothing more than destruction, and while Keene would have willed it upon those responsible, Sahova's workings were not such that he could do it himself. There was wisdom in patience, in understanding. He did not want to destroy those responsible, he wanted to create a world for them in which they would know the same despair he had felt when faced with Boswell's broken figure. It was more than torture. He required not only raw power but highly refined knowledge. It was to be a process, something that would sate his vendetta but in the most satisfying of ways. He knew it to be not only the best option, but also the way of Sahova. To get what he wanted, it required him to push himself to the limit of what he was capable of both mentally and physically. It was, in a sense, a very dangerous balancing act. He knew without Master Rayage's help, he would have been at a loss for what to do, and while he had no specific plans, he kept his eyes open, searching for any details that could be used against the whole.

Noven.

Keene pressed on, turning his face from the sky to stare to his right, eyes flicking to the bandage but without interest. There was still the matter of Wilhelmina. He had gone to lengths greater than he had intended to find a way to deal with her - or perhaps "test" a better word as the information had hardly been difficult to come by. He wasn't sure what he was to do about her, if there was even anything to be done. From what he had read of the accounts, the spirits contained within the journal had been quite malevolent. Wilhelmina had proven herself calm enough, at least it had seemed so until she had attacked him. She was a creature too variable for him to comfortably allow free company. If his exploration into soulmist gave him an upper hand in the relationship, Keene supposed that if she did return, it would be manageable. He had little issue binding her into an agreement in which he could test the ethereal good upon her and see just how it affected the spirits of the restless. It was as good a plan as any.

Slowly, he rose up, the clutter of his mind partially cleared away. He had spent bells atop the mountain, and he chose to spend several more. It had been a while since he had simply thought, and he found it to be surprisingly effective. It allowed him to organize the jumble of everything that was in his head, as his entire focus was placed upon the process. There was still much he needed to figure out, but for the time being, simply staring out into the distance and recounting old lessons that Mella had instilled in him since he could remember were allowed to play through his mind. He simply let the thoughts take him where they would, only directing them away from the larger, more dangerous subjects. Each mental image played its piece, and the noise slowly faded from a raucous cacophony to the steady, weary beat of his djed that had been his constant companion in his earlier years. Keene continued to clear his mind, airing out things he'd been ignoring since he'd arrived, his silence a deceptive cover for the veritable flood of memories. As he let his mind wander, Keene set a single anchor that he would remember to allow himself time to do just as he did. There were too many things for him to consider whilst constantly doing something else. He required time to think, so time he would give himself when he could.

by **Una Tanta** on April 17th, 2015, 3:52 pm

Keene :

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