â€That's jus' a story ta keep men on the straight an' narrow. If that was true…â€
Osric took a deep breath and turned about where he stood. He took in the sight of the empty meadow, silent and tranquil as it was. The long blades of grass danced in a gentle breeze, the sun warmed the earth as Azeyma had ordained long ago, and far off - a small brown speck against bright blue - his griffin, Ansfrid, could be seen soaring through the skies.
Through a sea of clouds.
He looked out over the horizon, where rock and boulder and island alike all drifted on the winds. Large veins of crystal were strewn throughout the floating land masses, numerous and abundant. He’d often wondered why this place wasn’t known as the Sea of Stones, but now he thought he knew. The true wonder, the real marvel, wasn’t how far removed he was the world below, but in how close he was to the heavens above.
He’d petitioned Ser Emerissel of House Sauveterre, the new patron of the Dauntless, long and hard for the opportunity, the privilege, to be here. Securing this region was the responsibility of House Haillenarte; they had but recently begun permitting access to adventurers and their free companies. Emerissel had - at last, after many private discussions, most of which had been quite heated - taken his request to Haillenarte, and they’d seen fit to grant it.
Standing here, now, he could sense that this was the right place, that this was the very isle that Berrod had spoken of. He could feel a pulse. The beating of the land’s heart, or so he’d been trained to think of it. He wasn’t sure how it had come to pass… he was quite sure he’d never know... but somehow, long ago, this meadow had seen more than its fair share of bloodshed. Men and women had fought and died here in droves, and the soil had not forgotten.
â€...so that’s what it is. Yer poisonin' yerself an' spreadin’ the gods-damned filth t'me.â€
He found himself grinding his teeth as the words drifted to him, unbidden, from an earlier time, from a memory he didn’t particularly care for. If the highlander’s writings were to be believed, he was about to open the Solar Plexus, the third chakra… or attempt to, at the very least. This one was said to be ambition, to be will. He lacked neither; he was confident that, should the third manifest, he could and would come to possess a measure of self-control that he’d lacked since he’d first set foot on the path.
Somehow, he rather doubted matters would proceed according to plan.
One below for each one above. That was the conclusion he’d come to after the insight that Forgehands had shared with him. Those had been the words he had shared with Berrod.
â€Dabblin' in that shite by yerself is one thing, but don't go smearin' that dirt on me too!"
He would know soon enough. Either he’d reach for the third above and find salvation, or he would slip and fall further into the abyss to grapple with the third below. Damned, that’s what he’d be, and he would know it. That was rather the point of this little exercise.
Was he one to walk in the light, or was he one to walk in the shadows?
Confirmation would come swiftly. Whatever the answer, whatever the result, he would have to be ready. He would have to stand strong, resolute, bound by his own will and his own conscience.
To open is not to grasp.
A small gem, the color of the Warden’s daystar, danced across his knuckles. Armstrong would not have gifted him with a soulstone if there’d been any doubt that he could handle this.
He threw his coattail of griffin leather out behind him… oh, how Ansfrid hated the smell… and dropped down onto the grass. He sat cross-legged, tailor-fashion, in a position he’d come over the past several moons to treat as a posture ideal for meditation. He leaned forward, eyes closed, and dropped both hands between his legs, laid his palms upon the earth.
Osric Melkire listened to the pulse of the land, and then the land listened to the pulse of Osric Melkire, for after a mere two dozen heartbeats, they were one and the same.
His first thought was how different this was from Halatali. The ancient labyrinth had felt vile, foul, wicked, and the torment which had accompanied the endeavor had nearly driven him mad with grief. This isle felt clean, pure, sacred, as if the caress of the heavens had long since cleansed it of any taint left behind by the sins of the departed. He laughed, and there was genuine mirth in his laughter.
Then the weight fell upon him, and his bubbling ceased.
He could feel… more. The isle upon which he sat was but one piece of a larger whole, and by drawing the land’s aether in about himself to facilitate the opening of the third, he’d left a vacuum… a vacuum which the other islands now rushed to fill. The pressure upon him built and built; he barely had time to marvel at how much there was, how significantly this dwarfed Halatali, before the waves crashed over him, again and again and again and….
Clean.
But there was so much!
He reached past the Root and the Sacral… and found nothing. He swallowed, still awash in a torrential downpour, and reached past fear. He reached past anger.
He found the laughter again.
Too much. There was too much.
Gods damn you, Berrod. So ruttin’ high ‘n’ mighty, thinkin’ you know it all. Well, guess what, you pissin’ prick? You were wrong. You were wrong, ‘n’ I was right! But no, that don’t matter, ain’t worth buffalo shite with you, and why? ‘cause you’re the master, ‘n’ the master’s always right. That’s just how it is with tutors, ain’t it? You’ll blow this off, and turn to your other students. You’ll play favorites. Fuck you. I’m better than the rest. I’ll prove it.
Too much. Burn until there’s nothing left to burn, he’d been taught. Use it up. So he did.
He took hold of the third below as best he could, and channeled the excess upward. Through the second and first it passed. Through the Root it passed. Into the Sacral it went, all of it, funneled by his will… and from the Sacral, he drank. He drank, and drank, and drank.
His skin darkened, red hot to the eyes and red hot to the touch. It bubbled, popped, tore, even as it knit itself back together, lightened, cleared up.
With each passing moment, he found himself hating Armstrong more and more.
Osric took a deep breath and turned about where he stood. He took in the sight of the empty meadow, silent and tranquil as it was. The long blades of grass danced in a gentle breeze, the sun warmed the earth as Azeyma had ordained long ago, and far off - a small brown speck against bright blue - his griffin, Ansfrid, could be seen soaring through the skies.
Through a sea of clouds.
He looked out over the horizon, where rock and boulder and island alike all drifted on the winds. Large veins of crystal were strewn throughout the floating land masses, numerous and abundant. He’d often wondered why this place wasn’t known as the Sea of Stones, but now he thought he knew. The true wonder, the real marvel, wasn’t how far removed he was the world below, but in how close he was to the heavens above.
He’d petitioned Ser Emerissel of House Sauveterre, the new patron of the Dauntless, long and hard for the opportunity, the privilege, to be here. Securing this region was the responsibility of House Haillenarte; they had but recently begun permitting access to adventurers and their free companies. Emerissel had - at last, after many private discussions, most of which had been quite heated - taken his request to Haillenarte, and they’d seen fit to grant it.
Standing here, now, he could sense that this was the right place, that this was the very isle that Berrod had spoken of. He could feel a pulse. The beating of the land’s heart, or so he’d been trained to think of it. He wasn’t sure how it had come to pass… he was quite sure he’d never know... but somehow, long ago, this meadow had seen more than its fair share of bloodshed. Men and women had fought and died here in droves, and the soil had not forgotten.
â€...so that’s what it is. Yer poisonin' yerself an' spreadin’ the gods-damned filth t'me.â€
He found himself grinding his teeth as the words drifted to him, unbidden, from an earlier time, from a memory he didn’t particularly care for. If the highlander’s writings were to be believed, he was about to open the Solar Plexus, the third chakra… or attempt to, at the very least. This one was said to be ambition, to be will. He lacked neither; he was confident that, should the third manifest, he could and would come to possess a measure of self-control that he’d lacked since he’d first set foot on the path.
Somehow, he rather doubted matters would proceed according to plan.
One below for each one above. That was the conclusion he’d come to after the insight that Forgehands had shared with him. Those had been the words he had shared with Berrod.
â€Dabblin' in that shite by yerself is one thing, but don't go smearin' that dirt on me too!"
He would know soon enough. Either he’d reach for the third above and find salvation, or he would slip and fall further into the abyss to grapple with the third below. Damned, that’s what he’d be, and he would know it. That was rather the point of this little exercise.
Was he one to walk in the light, or was he one to walk in the shadows?
Confirmation would come swiftly. Whatever the answer, whatever the result, he would have to be ready. He would have to stand strong, resolute, bound by his own will and his own conscience.
To open is not to grasp.
A small gem, the color of the Warden’s daystar, danced across his knuckles. Armstrong would not have gifted him with a soulstone if there’d been any doubt that he could handle this.
He threw his coattail of griffin leather out behind him… oh, how Ansfrid hated the smell… and dropped down onto the grass. He sat cross-legged, tailor-fashion, in a position he’d come over the past several moons to treat as a posture ideal for meditation. He leaned forward, eyes closed, and dropped both hands between his legs, laid his palms upon the earth.
Osric Melkire listened to the pulse of the land, and then the land listened to the pulse of Osric Melkire, for after a mere two dozen heartbeats, they were one and the same.
His first thought was how different this was from Halatali. The ancient labyrinth had felt vile, foul, wicked, and the torment which had accompanied the endeavor had nearly driven him mad with grief. This isle felt clean, pure, sacred, as if the caress of the heavens had long since cleansed it of any taint left behind by the sins of the departed. He laughed, and there was genuine mirth in his laughter.
Then the weight fell upon him, and his bubbling ceased.
He could feel… more. The isle upon which he sat was but one piece of a larger whole, and by drawing the land’s aether in about himself to facilitate the opening of the third, he’d left a vacuum… a vacuum which the other islands now rushed to fill. The pressure upon him built and built; he barely had time to marvel at how much there was, how significantly this dwarfed Halatali, before the waves crashed over him, again and again and again and….
Clean.
But there was so much!
He reached past the Root and the Sacral… and found nothing. He swallowed, still awash in a torrential downpour, and reached past fear. He reached past anger.
He found the laughter again.
Too much. There was too much.
Gods damn you, Berrod. So ruttin’ high ‘n’ mighty, thinkin’ you know it all. Well, guess what, you pissin’ prick? You were wrong. You were wrong, ‘n’ I was right! But no, that don’t matter, ain’t worth buffalo shite with you, and why? ‘cause you’re the master, ‘n’ the master’s always right. That’s just how it is with tutors, ain’t it? You’ll blow this off, and turn to your other students. You’ll play favorites. Fuck you. I’m better than the rest. I’ll prove it.
Too much. Burn until there’s nothing left to burn, he’d been taught. Use it up. So he did.
He took hold of the third below as best he could, and channeled the excess upward. Through the second and first it passed. Through the Root it passed. Into the Sacral it went, all of it, funneled by his will… and from the Sacral, he drank. He drank, and drank, and drank.
His skin darkened, red hot to the eyes and red hot to the touch. It bubbled, popped, tore, even as it knit itself back together, lightened, cleared up.
With each passing moment, he found himself hating Armstrong more and more.