Breakdown (Nira'lia)

[Wrenmae]

Sometime after Midnight, Fall 1, 512 AV

In the wake of the plague, the camp had once more divided. Sylirans and Zeltivans, once separated by loyalty and pride, now allowed a new sort of denominator to further fragment. Infected and Uninfected. From the little Murdock had gathered, the plague was something carried by fleas, a virulent fever and sore illness that stripped the body of defense and turned your internal organs to rot. Of course, the end symptoms were only speculation now. The bloody rags deposited had come from the first to be sick with the illness, likely a mercenary who had it prior to joining the expedition. With Vayt’s influence, it had grown and now ran rampant through scholar and knight alike.

Murdock was lost in the sea of transitioning people. Pitching tents, taking them down, it was a hubbub of activity and each man was treated with weighed skepticism. The Uninfected desperately clung to the hope they would remain so, and the Infected went about their tasks with a myriad of emotions…optimism and desolation both held reign here.

Rhysol’s cursed manacle thrummed on his wrist, sending the murderer nearly tumbling to the ground. The agony in his head had grown to a fever pitch, a crescendo of voices, feelings, and warring factions. With desperate tenacity he held his individuality…the other might have already succumbed, but he forced his will to manifest, forced himself apart from the rest.

There was something terrifying about death, about losing your soul.

Or getting it repaired.

Hand to his head, Murdock pushed past the other Zeltivans and into the forest, maintaining a shamble only as long as he felt he was watched, breaking into a staggered sprint thereafter. His head burned, ached, drove thoughts and ideas from his mind at the end of a needle sowing reason and logic to foolish apprehension and mad ideals. Wrenmae, Weaver, Egyptus, Murdock. All names, all fragments, warped and pressed together like edges of a broken plate. But time had passed, sands had worn these edges into other shapes completely.

Now they shattered when forced in the same way they had been whole before.

Catching the trunk of a tree, Murdock slipped to the forest ground, burying his head in the dirt. Nothing sated the agony, nothing cut it from his body. It twisted and burned, morphing beneath him as other personalities tried to impose their unified will against the last remaining piece. His hair lengthened, changed colors, shortened again, his arms buckled, twisting into long Symenestra limbs, black claws exploding from his hands to wither and shrivel again. Frenzied, near madness, Murdock tore the blade from his sheathe and pride at the manacle on his right arm only he could see. Metal met metal with a discordant clang, but he could not force it from him. Hissing, wide eyed, he broght the pommel down on the stout metal, then brought his arm across the tree. The bones vibrated with the force, but remained confined.

With terrible realization, Murdock held up the long dagger and turned it on his own wrist, bringing it up to chop the whole thing off.

But spasms of pain and resistance tore the blade from his grasp, and it dropped onto the forest floor as he rolled away. Zan remained silent within him, feeling the pain through their shared telepathic link. Wisely, he chose not to comment.

“No!” Murdock growled, grinding his face along the earth and roots. The pain kept him awake, kept him sane. “I will not…be…you!”

But the magic of a god far outstripped the mind of a simple mortal man.
A final cataclysm of agony
.
Darkness.

The Waveguard slumped in the dirt, eyes open but vision glazed and distant.

The manacle thrummed, but there was no one conscious in Wrenmae’s body to hear it.

There was only silence.

[Nira'lia]

She was exhausted, both mentally and physically. It was deep in the night and she wanted to sleep, but she had just finally finished taking a look at the last person who put himself up for inspection. There was a general atmosphere of disagreement within the camp. Factions had been built, and it made no sense to the Konti. As much as she wanted to sleep, her mind wouldn’t let her. It fluttered away without her permission, thinking about the possibilities and consequences of what was going on. Nira’lia wondered if there were other marked healers in the other camps. She would seek them out. Nira’lia felt the grime and perspiration on her skin, and since her mind had decided that she wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight, she got up and out of her tent. There was a stream nearby—she would head there. Several people were still up. They were talking about the plague with pained expressions, and Nira’lia couldn’t blame them. She went past them and into the woods. And then she stopped. There was a man—and he was talking, but there was nobody else around. He seemed to be in great pain, his head pushed against the ground. Nira’lia couldn’t recognize him, and she didn’t know what to do. She opened her mouth to say something, but only silence came out. And when the man slumped over, unmoving, the Konti almost shrieked. Keeping her composure, she ran over to him. The Konti almost tripped over a root as she rushed to the man. She fell to her knees beside him and peered at his face and wide, vacant eyes. “Hello…?” she squeaked, waving a hand before him. He was one of the people present at the inspection. She remembered calling him as safe from the plague. Filled with worry, she put a hand to his forehead to see if he had a fever—perhaps she had just missed the symptoms before? Was he sick now? As soon as she put a hand against his forehead, she knew what was coming. Nira’lia braced for whatever visions would come.

[Wrenmae]

Her hand brushed the dirt and cold sweat on his forehead. Ordinarily, the Konti might have been overwhelmed by a single vision, one treasured memory. Instead, four assaulted her brain, pulling the personalities apart again, briefly, as order tried to reinvent itself in the hypnotist’s shattered conscious.

First was a wispy memory, autumn air thick with the smell of memory hung between Nira’lia and a larger red bearded man. Two other red haired children sorted through items and set them on shelves, turning the traveling wagon into a curious shop of strange marked bones, poultices, and potions.

“Egyptus!” The larger man called to her, grinning, “Come help your pa organize these telling bones.” A swell of joy welled up in her, the idea that his…her…father wanted their help in setting up was overwhelming. Too long had she only watched, too weak and sickly to help the man she admired and loved pursue his craft. Over her legs took her, wobbling on their gaunt length. The body she felt was one not suited to the cold Taldera air. It was weak, it breathed with small wheezes. This boy had been born weak, and likely would not survive to adulthood.

As she passed his elder brother, the boy dipped down and clapped him/her on his/her bony shoulder, nodding his pride that the bastard was finally being assimilated into the family unit. The boy’s sister watched him from the other side of the wagon, smiling warmly. There was such love here, such acceptance. Her mother had lain with another man…there was little blood that tied her here. Even so, her father had finally accepted her, given her a sense of family to fill the longing in her heart.

This moment…and this moment only, was the most treasured a young boy could have.

It was immediately followed by another.

In the flickering lantern-light of a bar, the ceiling spun with stars and moons, the very night sky glimmering and etched into the woodwork. A rabble of hushed men and women sat at the edges of their seats, listening in rapt attention as Nira’Lia paused. In this moment, all eyes were on him. They watched with baited breath as she spun illusion from nothing. In this city, this place he had adopted as his own, he spoke with the compelling voice of a Vantha…all the quirk and performance of the Inverted. Their eyes urged her on, bade her finish the story.

With a flourish, she stepped forward, cape and long brimmed hat dipping with the sudden movement. “And with a snap!” She shouted, clapping her hands together, “The jaws of the great snake shut around the mouse…and she was no more.” They jumped. They leaped in their seat, a moment of shock followed by grins and chuckles. She had them. In this place she held more attention than a God might. She controlled their perceptions and minds in this merry jaunt into a fabricated reality. A tickle in her stomach. Zan was excited as well, the familiar bubbling around and rolling in anticipation.
It helped that so close a friend was equally entertained.

She opened her mouth to speak again, but already the memory was fading, that joy was slipping away as another memory pushed at the borders of twisted minds and personas, forcing itself forward.

The docks of Alvadas creaked and swayed with a forest of masts. Standing at the dock, she looked up at the ship that would take her away from this city. The Wretched Sprite. Not since she had first come to Alvadas, beaten and guilty, the blood of his family on his hands, dying of sickness in a cold mountain pass, had she ever thought of leaving the city. She was stronger now, her body vital and thrumming with energy. Gone was the weak and emaciated child from the first memory. Her body had changed, worn lean by the hard street life and somehow thriving despite circumstance. A ways away, a man complained of scurvy, a risk for those who take to the sea. Rather than worry for the young seafarer, a dismissive calm cast aside the thought of illness. She could not be sick…she had not been sick, not for years and years.

Maybe never again.

Behind her, Alvadas loomed like a labyrinth, so full of mysteries and stories. One day…one day she would return here, to the alleys she had learned to crawl through from the age of ten and beyond. For now…and only now, she felt a pulse of freedom in her breast, heard the call of seagulls urging her onward.

Adventure and journey…it began today.

The last memory that played in her head was strong, recent. Only the worn edges of time had frayed the others but this remained fresh. It began in a warehouse, sagging, old, decrepit. She felt strong, frighteningly so, confident and almost gloating.

She laughed, bringing her fist around and cracking it against Ximal's face, snapping him out of the trance completely. As the brute struggled, She walked across the oilslick ground and took the lantern, Holding it up over the oil. How the fire danced then, shifting over the multi-hued spill toyingly, dangerously.

"You're an eyesore, Ximal, a worthless collection of muscle and stupidity. I'm not sure how it came to be that you so profoundly got in my way, but I'm ending it...in one way or another."

A song came to her, the tunes of which stretched from the wretched Sunberth all the way back to Alvadas. It was only a verse, maybe a refrain, but it seemed appropriate.

"Oh little child,
Lost in Alvadas
Clinging to your eyes
When your vision is gone
Oh little child
Lost in Alvadas
You could never see
Through the illusions he wove."

She tossed the lantern.


The flames roared, lighting the old warehouse in flickering corpselight.

She turned and walked out, the bag with the severed head and all the loot at her side.

She didn't look back.


Reflexively the body jerked, Murdock regained consciousness in a moment, torn from the process of being pressed together by the resounding influence of the Konti’s gift. The memories rifled through his head. He saw a figure in the darkness, the light of her skin, her hair.

The healer.

Up came his hand, catching her wrist and holding it. He spit earth and hissed, agony burning in his skull.

“Good evening,” he said, more groaned, “What brings you out here…so very late?”

[Nira'lia]

Never before in her life had Nira’lia experienced such visions. There were multiple of them, forced into her memory, overwhelming her. It was like walking through a crowd—she hated crowds. It was like bumping shoulders with a mass of people, seeing one memory after another, and she couldn’t push the visions away even if she tried. The memories and emotions convulsed within her, and when they finally cleared, it felt as if she wanted to throw up. The mental strain was too much. And it didn’t make sense because there was just one person in front of her. She twitched as she felt him take hold of her hand, and she stared back at him, dazed and confused. “Good evening,” she finally managed to reply as she struggled to take her hand back. For a few moments, she just stared at him as she recomposed herself. She wanted to ask him about what she had just seen. The myriad of scenes had been a mental strain, but they had also been interesting—especially of the one being immensely healthy amidst illness. There was also the shocking one—the last memory, it always frightened Nira’lia when people found happiness within cruelty. The Konti ignored his question. Instead, she peered at him and made a gesture to help him to his feet. “Where does it hurt?” she asked him with genuine concern. “Do you have a migraine? I can help you.”

[Wrenmae]

The Konti shuddered in his grasp, a moment of fear for such sudden contact. He released her, digging his palms into the dirt and pushing himself up. The world around him spun and danced, agony licked his brain with open flames. He was not himself and yet too much himself, saved from oblivion by a moment of separation…but inevitably he’d be lost again.

“You have no skill to save me, healer,” he sighed, leaning back against the trunk of a tree and wrapping his right wrist against the bark. The metal shackle around it smacked with a clang, although no metal could be seen on his wrist. “Unless you’ve the power to quell a God’s influence, all you can do for me is worry.”

Sighing, he pushed agains the trunk and tried to rise, found he couldn’t, and fell to his ass again. A helpless chuckle bubbled out of his throat, and he pressed a pale hand to his sweat and dirt strewn forehead. “Ever face oblivion before? What strange fate that must be. I fear it…but I cannot grasp it.” His fingers dug into his scalp, leaving no mark. “I…babble,” He corrected, “Of nothing perhaps…certainly nothing to waste your time on.”

Another agonizing spike of pain coursed in his skull, laying the Waveguard at the Konti’s feet, pale and breathing harshly. Such pain, such torture…who would have thought such a sensation could be felt without a loss of-

And he was gone.

For a moment, his body lay there, breathing slowly as darkness overcame his mind. Water collected at the corner of his mouth, beaded, and suddenly rose up, a floating globule of water pushing from the mage’s throat and hovering above his face.

“Not to alarm you,” Zan said, bobbing back and forth, “But in the absence of my companion, I’ll speak on his behalf…I mean, I’ll try to. Guy’s confusing as shyke, but hey, I’m a go-getter, so let’s get crackin.”

[Nira'lia]

A God’s influence? What did he mean? With pursed lips, Nira’lia patiently listened to him speak. His words didn’t make much sense to her, and she feared that she was missing a large part of the context at the moment. But what was she supposed to ask? He seemed distraught, and she felt uneasy at the whole situation. “Hey!” she said in a panic as he passed out once again. Instinctively, she checked his vital signs. With a sigh of relief, she realized that he had just passed out. And then she saw it. Something strange was pooling out of his mouth. Liquid. Nira’lia blinked at the strange sight, wondering if she should be worried that such a strange amount of drool was coming out of an unconscious man. An odd shape of a familiar looked back at her, and she almost screamed when it spoke. Nira’lia had never met a familiar before. This one was made of water and it spoke to her in a way that she clearly understood. The Konti gaped. She opened her mouth more than once to attempt to put together a sentence. Everything else around them was silent. She could hear Wrenmae’s breathing, and that comforted her, but she was also confused as to what was going on. When she was finally able to process her words, the most obvious question came up. Stumbling in her words, she attempted to speak in the clearest way she could. “What… what are you!? And what is happening!?” She wildly gestured towards Wrenmae. Nira’lia was clearly agitated, worried, and frightened.

[Wrenmae]

"Whoa, whoa, WHOA," Zan said, bobbing up and down through the air, "You people always react like you've never seen talking, floating, water before. Am I REALLY supposed to believe you've seen NOTHING like this before? People make fire with their mind and I'M the amazing one. Ok. Sure. I'll play along."

Emitting currents of invisible Djed, the amorphous water floated toward Nira'Lia, bobbed around her head, settled before her eyes. "I'm not a 'what', I'm a who. I mean, really...how rude is it to do that? How would you react if some person pointed at you, freaked out, and asked you what you are? Wouldn't feel too good, would it? Honestly, you fleshbags are all the same. Intolerant at your very core. To answer your rudely put question, I'm a Sarawanki...from the light side of Fyrden. Different world. Long story short, place sucks, I got bound to this guy, and here I am."

Inching in closer, the Familiar whispered conspiratorially, his voice strangely distorted by his liquid form, "Don't ever visit. You'd freeze to death or burn to death in an instant. Not the kind of place you want to relax on. But I didn't tell you that, tourism sucks already, my side of the fence, and I'd sure as spit be lynched for steering you away."

It paused.

"Not...that...you can lynch...my kind...anyways. Point is...Point IS, I'm his familiar, Zan. Pleased to meet you fleshba-...err, healer..thing...person."

Retreating from her, it soared back and hovered over its master.

"Another long story short, SOMEBODY irked Rhysol and got a pretty little fashion accessory for his trouble." Zan settled over Wren's right wrist. "A manacle cuff. You can't see it, but it's putting him through all sorts of agony. Not all of it bad...of course, guy could use a tune-up mentally. But obviously you see my trouble here."

It bobbed up and down on his wrist.

"I lack arms. And muscles. You know, things to carry him with. So...yeah. Not too keen on getting eaten by raccoons or whatever else is out here. Don't suppose you'd be a dear and play nurse for this lump till he's back on his feet, would ya?"

[Nira'lia]

The Konti turned her head as Zan moved around her. She couldn’t help but grin after hearing his words. He sounded offended, and she had been more than frightened just a few seconds ago—but when she listened to his rant, she realized that he was a truly interesting creature with the strangest stories. A Sawaranki from Fyrden. The Konti had heard neither of the words before, but she committed them to memory. Maybe if she had the chance, she would study the terms later on. As the creature made of water spoke, Nira’lia would dart her eyes back at Wrenmae every now and then just to make sure that he was alright. He was unconscious and seemed to be in a stable condition, which was good. “I’m not a ‘healer, person, thing’,” she said with a weak smile. Nira’lia was mimicking his own introduction. It was slightly patronizing, but she found him oddly amusing and couldn’t help it. “My name’s Nira’lia.” The feelings of uneasiness were somehow floating away. The Sawaranki spoke with such transparency, and she always liked that trait in anyone. When he had mentioned that Wrenmae was not in a good place mentally, the Konti nodded in agreement. That had been obvious enough to the Konti. With a hand, she gestured towards Wrenmae. “How bad is it…? His… uhm, mental situation? I can’t channel enough of Rak’keli’s power to help the serious problems, but maybe I can help. Oh, what am I talking about? He clearly has it harder than most… I won’t be able to help. I’m rambling. I’m sorry.” She sighed and massaged her temple. After calming herself down, she placed her hands on her lap and looked at Zan. “Of course I can watch over him. If you want, I can go fetch someone who would be able to help carry him back to his tent. By the way, did you say something about Rhysol? I didn’t quite understand.”

[Wrenmae]

"Ni-ra-li-a," The familiar sounded out, bobbing up and down with each syllable, "Pretty name, much more fluid than what this oaf calls himself...no matter WHO he thinks he is." Soaring up over the body, the Sarawanki descended in front of the Konti again, rolling through the air as if to prove that there was no up or down, no upside down for the familiar. It was what it was. Sarawanki, water, globule, and energetic.

"Babbling's good! It's good! I wish I got to babble more. But noooo. It's always, Zan this, Zan that, Zan shut up, Zan I'm trying to concentrate on stabbing that person, stop commenting on his clothes. You know. Boring stuff."

It was bouncing around the air, nearly vibrating with repressed energy. This was the most Zan had gotten to speak in a good long while. "You know, Ni-ra-li-a, you remind me of another of your kind that this fellow fancied. Old news now, of course, way back when he was Wrenmae, not Murdock, and...ya know...you have no idea what I'm talking about. Another long story short. Guy shorted out his mind doing parlor tricks to get out of being tortured. Made a bunch of...him's, in his mind. Totally confusing, I know. Trust me, try living inside someone like that. Birthday shopping was a nightmare."

He soared quickly over to her hands, landing on them. The touch of the familiar wasn't wet at all, as was expected, but soft and warm. He left no trail of residue, it was his own body. Instead he just felt hot and amorphous.

"Rhysol. Rhysol. God of Chaos and Evil? Totally smacked my master here with an invisible manacle for being uppity. You know, talking smack to a god."

It chuckled, sounding more like it was burbling than anything else.

"Just like Wren to pick a fight with a God. Silly dolt. But really though, Rhysol is terrifying. Totally terrifying. Can't look at him or your heard might explode, serious stuff. Regardless, now he's all unconcious and stuff, and I'm left to foot negotiations for awhile. Tell you what. You take this guy with you till he's ready to be up and about, and I'll be your very best personal friend. I have talents, you know, totally awesome talents."

Up it soared to nearly touch her nose, pressing against her skin incessantly.

"I can live in your stomach and expel poison accidentally swallowed. I mean. usually I do it for that guy, but really, what's he gonna eat in his state? Plus, do you know how boring it is to sit in a sleeping person? Really. really. boring. I don't sleep. Don't touch the stuff. So I have lots of free time. Oh! Oh! Oh! You talked about getting someone to move him? Get someone like that purple dude. You know, the one who talks like someone hit him upside the head with an old book. Whatshispurpleface. Knighty McKnight. That guy. He could probably do it."

[Nira'lia]

The Konti laughed. What an interesting fellow! He seemed to divulge information carelessly, something which the Konti chose not to comment on. Was he even aware that he was giving away such information? He even spoke about Wrenmae stabbing people—that resulted in the Konti’s stomach to lurch uncomfortably. Fortunately, she kept herself from saying anything. It was confusing. There were so much names to remember. Wrenmae? Murdock? Who was who? But when she thought of what she had seen, she finally pieced it all together. He had a problem mentally, and he had more than one person in him. Truthfully, she couldn’t understand it all too well. But it was evident that he was a dangerous man. And that didn’t really matter much in the end. While it scared her, her oath to Rak’keli said that she had to help anyone. Besides, if he was a dangerous criminal, then he wouldn’t be travelling with the Knights. That was what she concluded in her naïve mind. Smiling, she looked at the Sawaranki who was right in front of her face. “It is indeed silly to pick a fight with a God…” she whispered in agreement. The story seemed like a good one, but it didn’t seem right to ask more at the moment. “I don’t really have any poison in me right now, but thank you for the kind offer. I wouldn’t mind spending time with you while Wrenmae recuperates. You seem like a fun guy, and I’d love the company.” She looked at Wrenmae once more. Nira’lia looked deep in thought before she turned back to Zan. “You mean Ser Imass? I… uh, maybe I can ask one of the other squires to help us,” she said. Imass was one of the sick ones, and Nira’lia assumed he was resting by now. The Konti stood up, but before heading off, she asked Zan, “Where is Wrenmae’s tent?”