[Sanctuary] Fires of Frustration

by **Vanator** on January 1st, 2013, 2:23 pm

Timestamp: 31st Day of Winter, 512 AV

This one began with the captive Vanator in the Zith colony. He had been presented a nubile young blonde slave. She bled from several clean cuts across her smooth shoulder and chest. The dream Vanator ran his fingers through the trickles of blood, smearing dark swathes across her ivory skin, his hungry hands leaving crimson prints upon her body. Sleeping Vanator watched his own bloodlust consume him, aware it was a dream, wanting to awake from the shameful, disgusting pleasure, but his guilty psyche would not allow him to awake until the couple had reached the climax of their bloody intercourse. Then the dreamscape had changed quickly, and he saw his mother and father, Kashik and Khiara and Zivitar in the grasslands. This time the storm came like a black wall of pitch. It crashed into the pavilion like a wave of the sea, but higher than the walls of Riverfall. Once it had destroyed their homes and had the Denusks awash in its viscous grasp, the entire tar-like flood ignited. He saw his parents, wives and son burn.

Vanator bolted awake, coated in a sheen of sweat, his blankets were twisted around him. Ragged, panting breathes subsided into an even rhythm as Vanator's pounding heart strove to regain a normal pulse. For chimes he sat there in near darkness, the room dimly illuminated by the smoldering coals of a brazier. The nightmares were less frequent than when the Drykas first arrived. But the lock down had agitated Vanator, seeming to exacerbate those things that plagued the man's mind.

Untangling himself from his blankets, the Denusk rose from his bed. He took a long drink from a water cup on the table. Moving to crouch beside the iron bowl of coals, the Denusk summoned forth djed and pooled res in his palm, turning his hand to hover over the brazier. He willed flames from the glowing embers, small tongues of fire that lit the room.

Vanator still wrestled with a sense of guilt that he did not die with his family. He had languished in the protection of his Zith masters, deep in their warrens as the djed storm destroyed his pavilion. Rational thought, and Kavala's wisdom, pointed to the fact that had he died with his family, it would have resulted in the virtual extinction of the Denusks as a pavilion, though his sister and twins would still survive to carry the name. Such logic usually placated the man's regret, but in times of stress, it reared its ugly head.

Tugging on a pair of wool pants and a wool shirt, Van then shoved his feet in his boots and wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. Shoving a hand ax through his belt.

Vanator stepped into the hallway, glancing down either direction but remaining still. With a moment of concentration, he slipped into a semi-trance state, plying the strands of djed web that ran through the halls just enough to discern any recent movement Within. the Drykas found no indication that anyone was up, and he made his way to the cave shelter. Weaving his way among the horses, Van found Sirocco and gave him an affectionate pat on the neck before slipping out of the gate and onto the night-shrouded beach.

by **Vanator** on January 3rd, 2013, 2:34 pm

A cold, crisp breeze blew off of the Suvan Sea and across the beach below the Sanctuary. Vanator closed the gate and stepped out onto the chilled sand, his head swiveling up and down the strip of beach, making a quick scan in the pale light of the moon. Hugging the cloak around him, the Drykas began to gather material, tufts of dry grass, dried seaweed and drift wood washed upon the shore. Choosing a spot not too far from the unlocked gate, Vanator dumped his armload and squatted in the sand.

Starting with dry grass and seaweed, the Denusk began to construct a fire, setting kindling of smaller twigs and sticks atop the tinder, then building a frame of larger and larger pieces of driftwood, leaving the few large chunks of wood aside for the moment. Again, pooling res into his palm, the novice reimancer formed a small sphere of the magical stuff and willed it to hover several inches over his hand. Then, with a thought, the res ball ignited, the heat reflected instantly off of his hand. Vanator directed the sphere the few inches into the core of the wood, guiding it until it pressed into the bundle of tinder and sett it aflame. Letting nature take its course, the burning tinder ignited the kindling and the fire grew.

In the mean time, Vanator dragged over a large log, setting it near the fire and sitting upon it. His eyes fixed on the expanding flames until they took on a glazed appearance. The Drykas had always been drawn to fire, and could sit for bells around a campfire, staring at the ever dancing, ever changing plasma as it consumed its fuel, ever hungry. His mind drifted again to the dream, and he almost visibly shook his head to dislodge the memory. He wished he could rid himself of the memory of all the nightmares that had come since Fall. Never one to seek help from others, Vanator admitted that perhaps Kavala could help him dispel the dreams, or he could spend time in the Circle and make his plea to Nysel himself.

Needing help from anyone frustrated the prideful Drykas. He once was the helper, the one who offered assistance, whether physically or emotionally or academically. He was the one that provided counsel, protection, even rescue. His family looked up to him, depended on him, respected him. That world was gone, those people were gone. He was dead to them long before their souls were claimed in the storm. The Zith saw to that. They stole his freedom and his pride, and they left his loved one's widows, fatherless, without a son. The slave Vanator had to rely on his masters and mistresses for every need; food, water, affection, purpose. And his hatred festered like a disease. The Drykas could not save himself. Little sister had to trade for him like a head of livestock. Kavala, once the doting younger sibling, became the one who nurtured, provided a home, food and purpose for the pathetic older brother. She had grown in power, beyond any in their pavilion and arguably the clan, while Vanator's skills and body languished and atrophied in the limbo of enslavement.

The fire spread to the larger wood, the air heating and eliminating the misty vapor that the man expelled with every breath. Flames cast a warmth over his body to match the growing ire that burnt within him, feeding on indignation and anger as the natural fire devoured bone-dry driftwood. Scowling, Vanator blinked is eyes, breaking the trance-like fire gaze. He stood, shrugging off his cloak as the blossoming fire threw off its heat. The Denusk made a bowl of his hands, focused agitation making the production of res from his djed easier, and he formed a larger res sphere until it hovered before him, the size of a grapefruit. With the gesture of one hand, he propelled the flaming gas ball, but it disappeared into the frigid air only a couple arm lengths from him, as ineffective as he himself felt.

Teeth grit as Vanator tried again, forming the res sphere, but trying to ignite only part of the ball, hoping it would hold together until he could get it moving, then set the rest of the res inside on fire. With a thought the outer layer of res ignited, and he tried to fling it at the cliff wall some distance away. Too slow and res short, the Drykas did not get the rest of the sphere to ignite before it left his control and once again the tumbling amorphous cloud of fire dissipated.

"Petch" Vanator paused, his gaze rising up the cliff wall to the darkness above, where he knew just beyond the walls of Sanctuary stood. The people of Sanctuary were to be his new family. But they did not behave like a Drykas family. In Endrykas, or the Sea of Grass, pavilions had shared purpose and needs. They had to work together to survive, each contributed specifically, living under the understood traditions and laws of their ancestors. They laughed and cried and spoke openly and honestly. You could not do otherwise when you all lived in one large tent.

It wasn't that the residents of Sanctuary were bad or inferior, just different. They had diverse backgrounds and cultures. They came to Sanctuary with different goals, and each pursued their own. Vanator gave them credit, when their home was threatened in the Zith assault, they all fought valiantly together. They were a family of sorts, just not one Vanator seemed to relate to very well. Accusing ghosts whispered doubt into his head as he looked up into the darkness. 'They fear you', 'They resent you', and the worst, 'They see you as weak'.

by **Vanator** on January 16th, 2013, 1:41 pm

The Drykas huffed, shirking the accusing voice in his head. Pooling again his res, concentrating, shaping it into a core and a covering. Then Vanator elevated the ball of magical substance again, this time keeping it about the size of an orange. Flashing will ignited the exterior, bringing another fireball to life. With a string of focus upon the burning globe, Van coiled his will, and his arm for good measure, and propelled the missile towards the cliff wall. Not waiting for any visual cue, the mental command to ignite the interior of the fireball was given instantly after it was mentally thrown. The ball brightened as the core was engulfed in flames, just as it passed beyond the reimancer's area of control. The fiery projectile hurtled towards the rock wall, where it made impact with a flash and a splattering of flames and sparks.

A mischievous, almost sinister grin slipped across the passionate Dryas' mouth. The experience of his first true firebolt was liberating and empowering, as if Vanator could feel the djed coursing through his body, anxious to become his res, his power. He drew more of the enchanted material from his body, made another sphere, and tried to produce another firebolt. But he had become to excited, and the rushed effort resulted in a faltering poof of flames that disappeared almost immediately.

Vanator grunted at himself, coaxed his spirit to simmer. He looked up again to the cliff top. They all had power. The healers healed with their gnosis, the kelvics shape-shifted. Kavala and Leo possessed power over fire and earth and gods knew what else. Yes, he could web to some degree, Vanator rebuffed himself. But that only made him the Sanctuary's monitor, the one who knew who went where, like some overprotective big brother, or control freak. Certainly they resented him for that too. No, he was just a man of flesh and bone, and unless the job required the use of a battle ax, his strength went little farther.

Another fireball was formed, but Vanator's temper had the best of him, and he over worked the res, causing it exploded close to him. Shielding his face with his arm, the fabric of his shirt sleeve caught fire. The Drykas quickly extinguished it in the sand before he himself was burnt. It was then he noticed the strange metallic taste in his mouth, a passing observation that was forgotten. Other voices arose quietly in his mind. Female voices. They were the one's who loved him. His mother, Kavala, Tamar, Sybel, Kashik, Khiara, recollected words of encouragement given during times of doubt. Leader, lover, protector, friend...reminders of the less tangible qualities Vanator had been told he possessed. And now...reimancer. He would learn to use what Kavala had gifted to him. For her, for Larik and Cadra, and for the memory of the ones they had lost.

The thrill of employing his magicks swelled again, and Vanator, with purpose and measure, created another layered sphere, launching and igniting it as he flung it again to smash into the wall in a flash of fire. It felt good. He felt alive, significant and dangerous. turning to the fire he had built on the sand, Vanator wondered what else he could do.

by **Vanator** on February 1st, 2013, 2:15 pm

An excitement thrummed in Vanator's heart as he drew more and more res, amazed with the art of creating and manipulating fire. Fire was power, and it gave Vanator power. A thought occurred, born more of vanity than rationale and certainly not in wisdom. With some focus, he visualized his throat, and the back of his mouth. The novice was able to taste the tang of res as it formed in a mist at the back of his throat. Sucking in a breath, the res was inhaled into his lungs, and blown out through his mouth. Van mentally triggered the ignition of the res cloud as it left his mouth. The uncontrolled mass of res burst into a flash of fire that lasted only a tick, but the heat was enough to singe Vantor's eyebrows and a few stray strands of hair. The stench of burnt hair lingered in his nostrils.

"Petch!" He yelped in surprise, jumping back. Unwise. Vain. Vanator shook himself, as if to fling off the stupid. But the failed experiment was filed away. Maybe someday.

The hunger to create more res, to wield more fire, did not wane in the aftermath of his failure. Turning again to the driftwood fire, Vanator continued his draw of djed, bringing more res to his hands and around them. A slight pain had started behind his eyes, but the Drykas paid no mind, his desire to ply his new magic clouding pain and exhaustion. He drew the flames of the fire upward, reaching higher, as if they were plasma tongues trying to lick at his hands. The orange light brighten as the fire grew, and with a lifting gesture that he kept repeating, the flames sprung higher. Res continued to flow, the pain more piercing, the lust to embrace the fire waxing stronger. A flush of crimson spread over his skin as the heat increased.

His hands began a quick circular motion, and the flames began to whirl and spin above the fire faster and faster, his vision became spotty, the heat increasing, the res pumping, the headache pounding at his skull. The tongues of flame swirled in a small whirlwind over the campfire, moving faster, beyond Vanator's control.

Suddenly, the Denusk screamed out and the whirling fire exploded, lighting the beach like daylight for a flash before vanishing. Vanator staggered backwards, bleary, and confused. The sleeves of his shirt were burning, as were several spots across the garment's front. Van ran to the surf and plunged into the water. Rising up, he flung his head back, tossing his drenched hair out of his face, and tearing the burnt shirt from his torso to fling it into the crashing waves. He could feel the searing pain of burns in several places on his arms, torso and face. The headache had subsided though, to a dull ache.

Looking back, the fire had returned to its normal state. Now he was wet and cold. Trudging from the chilly water, Vanator retrieved the cloak he had tossed aside and wrapped it around him as he warmed himself again before the fire. He was panting, his limbs heavy, his burns painful, but not severe. He was not ready to go in, not ready to go to Kavala and explain what had happened, why he needed her to treat him for so many burns. He simply clenched his teeth, and shivered until the cloak and the fire dried him.

by **Vanator** on March 13th, 2013, 6:29 pm

The serenity of the deep night encompassed the Drykas, the constant rush of the surf a rhythmic silencer of distractions, the cold breeze and warm fire working in tandem to dry the Denusk and balance the winter chill with the hot sting of burns. Vanator cast his gaze skyward, marveling at the countless stars and constellations, only diminished a little by the white glow of Leth's moon. A calm settled over the man, the shuddering craving to bath in his res waning with the ease of his laboring lungs, as if the djed within him had found equilibrium with that which resided in the all that surrounded him, creating a peace in his spirit.

As Vanator looked up, sensed in his being the unity of the world around him, he realized he must have a place within it. There was a defined moment when his soul saw a rebirth of sorts. The sacred night Kavala inducted her brother into Reimancy was more than the passing of res from one sibling to another. Only afterwards did Vanator see the intent of his sister. She had become his priestess. Vanator had not been a particularly devout man, giving to the gods what was his duty according to the ways of the Drykas, but that night, she lead him in the offering and worship of a pantheon of gods and goddesses, made them personal during the intimate ceremony.

In his heart, he wanted what she had, what many of them had. Divine leadership. His father was gone, his uncles, he had no one to go to for advice, to mentor him. Kavala was wise beyond her years, and he trusted her opinion intrinsically, but she would admit herself that she was not a leader, someone to guide the new Ankal. The destruction of the pavilion left him without purpose. Sanctuary had given him a reason to live, the remnants of his family. He believed he would one day lead the Denusk Pavilion again, and Vanator knew Kavala saw his heart, already preparing for him what he would need to start again. In the world after The Storm, the Drykas man would need divine help to keep the Pavilion alive.

Even beyond being Drykas, Vanator knew there was more, things within his grasp that spoke to him, whispers of otherworldly things. His eyes lowered to his hand, the stone Denusk ring, one of two they had forged that night, encircled his finger. After the ritual, Kavala prayed to her lord Nysel about her brother and the Cytali. Vanator was one of the few that knew of the Cytali, realizing after that moment that he would find himself entangled with the order, somehow.

The fire itself came to him that evening. It was always there, though Vanator could never define it, mistook it for many things. The Sapphire Clan, and the Denusks in particular, had been gifted with magicks, though the last few generations saw a decline in their manifestations. Vanator's propensity for the arcane arts was overlooked as the heir's training was focused on leadership and traditions, even to the neglect of more full practice of their treasured webbing. Now, eyes had been opened, doors once shut no longer closed. All that stood between Vanator and a greater purpose was Vanator.

The Drykas sighed, his weary gaze falling upon the dancing flames. He felt a draw to the Circle, that place Within that possessed a holy solitude. With some aches, Vanator stood again to his feet, shedding the cloak. One last time, his head ringing, the novice pulled the djed within him to his hands, where res gathered in a mist. After a moment of quiet, The Denusk raised his arms, drawing the flames from the charred wood to cast it skyward. His infant powers only drew the flames a few feet above the fire before they could be dispersed, but, with the exception of a few fringe tongues, he had drew away the fire. His boot crushed the few lingering flames and he left the embers to die.

Gathering his cloak, Vanator slipped back inside the cave shelter. He found some burn cream in the kitchen, applying it liberally to his burns. Then, with quiet steps, he made his way to the Sacred Circle.