Post by Ser Baine Cinderwood 🔥🌼 on May 17, 2020 21:15:25 GMT
Varis steers Tuevel around the large fiend and lays a hand on Baine’s shoulder. The familiar sensation of icy water washes over him, for once a welcome feeling in the face of the flames surrounding them all, eating away at the Angelbark. The symbol of the crimson fist on his breastplate flashes a deep red as Varis casts a spell to steel Baine’s mind as well as his body.
“Stay with us, soldier.”
His words fall on deaf ears. The fiendish abomination roars and slams its giant scepter into Baine and he tries to resist but it’s no use. It bears its jagged teeth at him and pulls him in, drawing his mind from him, ripe for the picking.
A fog descends, blood red and burning, and without hesitation he rips Varis from his saddle, throws him down and raises his maul high. When the fog clears, Varis lies crushed at his feet.
It gnaws at him afterwards, even though they all survived and got the job done. The outrage at having someone take his mind from him, the shame of having turned on his commander, it bites at his insides and leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
He tries to apologize but Varis silences him with a raised hand.
“There is nothing to apologise for. You were not in control of your own mind. We will fix that.”
Relief and frustration war within him as they make the rest of the journey home in silence.
The next morning, as he completes his daily prayers in the small shrine above the stables, he is surprised to see his commander walk out into the dawn gloom. The yard is quiet, a spring chill still hanging in the air. As Baine descends the steps and joins Varis on the hard packed earth, he notices that the older man is not alone. Tuevel looms over them both, silver hide seeming nimbused in the morning mist, and heavy breath filling the air with the faint scent of pine.
Baine reaches a hesitant hand out as if to stroke Tuevel’s side but snatches the hand back when Varis speaks.
“Ready?”
Looking down, Baine can see that Varis has brought the Cindermaul, the head of the massive hammer resting on the ground.
“Now? Here? I mean, sure. Yes.”
“Good.”
Varis’s eyes flick to Morning’s Dawn, the glass pendant catching and amplifying the faint rays of sunlight.
“We’ll start with something simple. Magic, at least in the form we use it, is really a manifestation of will. Some draw on their faith, others on their convictions, their ideals. I think we should try the former, with you. So. Focus on your connection to the Morning Lord. Feel a fraction of his power flow into you, then try to take that power and shape it into something, anything you like.”
Feeling painfully out of his depth, Baine frowns down at his large, scarred hands.
“Like.. Like when I’m healing people? There’s like a- like pins and needles almost? Is that it?”
He looks at the mass of scar tissue in his left palm and imagines it the way it was after they came back from Phlegethos; burned and blackened and infected. He thinks of how he cleansed the wound, how he purged that infection. His right hand starts to prickle. He holds it up to Varis, despite the lack of any visible change to it.
“Okay. I think I’ve got it,” he says dubiously. “Now what?”
“Hold that feeling and imagine a shield. Watch. And listen.”
Baine has seen Varis perform incantations like this one a thousand times, but for the first time, the words seem to make sense to him. Not the sounds themselves, but the meaning they convey. As his commander lays a hand on his insignia and incants, Baine sees a faint shimmer appear around the pale warrior.
Varis is watching him closely, and a small smile finds its way onto his face.
“You can see it, can’t you? Good. Now, make your own.”
Frowning with concentration, Baine grabs the sunflower pendant gently with his left hand and closes his right into a fist. The pickling shoots up his arm, spreading through his body with a protective heat. A slow grin spreads across his face as he looks back at Varis.
“Can’t scare me now.”
Varis raises an eyebrow and hands him the Cindermaul.
“Let’s see, shall we?”
With Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar as Professor Nailo
“Stay with us, soldier.”
His words fall on deaf ears. The fiendish abomination roars and slams its giant scepter into Baine and he tries to resist but it’s no use. It bears its jagged teeth at him and pulls him in, drawing his mind from him, ripe for the picking.
A fog descends, blood red and burning, and without hesitation he rips Varis from his saddle, throws him down and raises his maul high. When the fog clears, Varis lies crushed at his feet.
It gnaws at him afterwards, even though they all survived and got the job done. The outrage at having someone take his mind from him, the shame of having turned on his commander, it bites at his insides and leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
He tries to apologize but Varis silences him with a raised hand.
“There is nothing to apologise for. You were not in control of your own mind. We will fix that.”
Relief and frustration war within him as they make the rest of the journey home in silence.
The next morning, as he completes his daily prayers in the small shrine above the stables, he is surprised to see his commander walk out into the dawn gloom. The yard is quiet, a spring chill still hanging in the air. As Baine descends the steps and joins Varis on the hard packed earth, he notices that the older man is not alone. Tuevel looms over them both, silver hide seeming nimbused in the morning mist, and heavy breath filling the air with the faint scent of pine.
Baine reaches a hesitant hand out as if to stroke Tuevel’s side but snatches the hand back when Varis speaks.
“Ready?”
Looking down, Baine can see that Varis has brought the Cindermaul, the head of the massive hammer resting on the ground.
“Now? Here? I mean, sure. Yes.”
“Good.”
Varis’s eyes flick to Morning’s Dawn, the glass pendant catching and amplifying the faint rays of sunlight.
“We’ll start with something simple. Magic, at least in the form we use it, is really a manifestation of will. Some draw on their faith, others on their convictions, their ideals. I think we should try the former, with you. So. Focus on your connection to the Morning Lord. Feel a fraction of his power flow into you, then try to take that power and shape it into something, anything you like.”
Feeling painfully out of his depth, Baine frowns down at his large, scarred hands.
“Like.. Like when I’m healing people? There’s like a- like pins and needles almost? Is that it?”
He looks at the mass of scar tissue in his left palm and imagines it the way it was after they came back from Phlegethos; burned and blackened and infected. He thinks of how he cleansed the wound, how he purged that infection. His right hand starts to prickle. He holds it up to Varis, despite the lack of any visible change to it.
“Okay. I think I’ve got it,” he says dubiously. “Now what?”
“Hold that feeling and imagine a shield. Watch. And listen.”
Baine has seen Varis perform incantations like this one a thousand times, but for the first time, the words seem to make sense to him. Not the sounds themselves, but the meaning they convey. As his commander lays a hand on his insignia and incants, Baine sees a faint shimmer appear around the pale warrior.
Varis is watching him closely, and a small smile finds its way onto his face.
“You can see it, can’t you? Good. Now, make your own.”
Frowning with concentration, Baine grabs the sunflower pendant gently with his left hand and closes his right into a fist. The pickling shoots up his arm, spreading through his body with a protective heat. A slow grin spreads across his face as he looks back at Varis.
“Can’t scare me now.”
Varis raises an eyebrow and hands him the Cindermaul.
“Let’s see, shall we?”
With Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar as Professor Nailo