Closed [Riverside Isle Park] Djed In The Dark (Huskabar)

[Razkar]

42nd Day of Winter, 513AV
Riverside Isle Park
22nd Bell

He wondered, in some lost and distant past of his psyche, if there was some... blasphemy, in what he was to do. Probably to some of the more extreme cults, yes, but when was that ever different? He was sure some would call for your bloodied balls for not beginning their god's name with "Blessed, Eternal, All-Knowing and Supreme".

Well. That was clearly inaccurate. As a Myrian, he just knew better.

Razkar was still and seemed to be praying, seated with his legs crossed, head bent... hands slowly rubbing against each other. But it was not thoughts of the supernatural that occupied his mind (well, not as we would understand the term). Instead he was forcing away the physical and embracing something... beyond the mere flesh.

He felt it, after a while. In the dark, created by the night and his own closed eyes. The ripples of power he felt when he practiced The Flux. The flush of wyrd that caught his breath when he worked the Power of Bones. And now, his newest pursuit in those strange arts, when he sought to pool his djed at his hands.

Forming a shield.

He breathed slowly and steadily, until every beat of his heart vibrated across his body. Slowly he felt a reversed flow of energy under his body, going where he willed it. His hands. Or, more accurately, between them.

It was so bizarre. They almost felt wet, and if not that, then... full. Occupied, and that sensation was slowly growing.

It is time.

Razkar opened his eyes and looked up at the vast, pale, unblinking eye above him. Untouched by cloud, Leth stared back down at him, bathing his face - tanned, pierced, inked and scarred in numerous places - so deeply even his black eyes seemed to glow like lightning in onyx. Razkar raised his hands, both of them clasped, up in front of Leth, blocking her.

Who needs to make a fire, after all. All I need is light... and the chance to block it.

The movement was slow, but not hesitant. He knew how fragile it was. He pulled his hands apart, fingers splayed wide... and pulled with it a growing dish of... what was it, even? Pure djed, it must have been. It wasn't perfect, not even close. It was like a sheet that had been attacked by moths, full of holes and gaps and variances in thickness.

But the Myrian's eyes still shone with pleasure. A season ago, he had no idea this art even existed. Now it took him only a few chimes meditation to form a shield as wide as his shoulders and throw a blanket over his head, rudely hiding Leth behind it.

Those watching would not have seen the shield, perhaps. But they would have seen the Myrian's face go inexplicably from brightly-lit to shadowed and flickering as the invisible shield fluctuated above him.

After holding it a few moments, Razkar felt the tell-tale spasms and aches of overgiving begin. Still smiling, he clapped his hands together, bursting the shield like a bubble.

Hands shaking slightly... but satisfied. He nodded to himself and breathed deep, tasted the frost and burning garbage and the hint rich, stinging scent of salt from the sea around him.

Better. Now recover yourself, rest and recoup. Then try again...

[Huskabar]

Oh, how the beauty of the Sunberth streets were unrivaled in the ever comforting illumination from above… The aged man gagged at the very thought, as he shook his head, making his way through the city. He had only arrived two days ago, and he was beginning to wonder why he would ever come back to such a horrid place. He certainly had no good memories, nor did he pursue to make any in the future. No, that was not the purpose of being here, but rather this slum hole represented the untamed beast that had once made him flee in fear. Well he was not afraid anymore, and armed with his ambition, he was prepared to vanquish this old foe. The decrepit warlock made his way to his destination, Riverside Isle Park, his eyes gradually scanning his surroundings, as he breathed in the air around him. It was some of the freshest in Sunberth, though that really was not saying very much. Then in the distance the elderly man spotted a figure, and though he could not make out much, he could see enough to feel a slight tremble course through his hand. Though Huskabar was not usually one indulge in fear, he could not help but feel slightly intimidated at the muscular tattooed contour of the figure. He watched for a moment as the figure appeared to be doing something in the distance, though he could not quite see what it was. It seemed as if for some odd reason, the lunar rays of the moon above were being blocked out completely if not only for a moment, before fluctuating in spectrum. The aged mind was now filled with that all too dangerous compulsion, curiosity. He knew that he had to get a closer look at what exactly was happening, but he was not entirely certain he felt comfortable approaching, while wearing his true face. Gradually the beard began to withdraw, as the old wizard recalled the familiar form of a vagrant he had seen sleeping on the side of the street only a day before. His hair began to grow even longer in length, and even scraggly, and a rich dark stubble covered his face. The nose was now much sharper, and the shape of the head was much longer. His right eye slowly formed into something of a mess, completely accurate to the face he had seen before, and the other eye turned from an emerald-hued ebony to a deep misty blue. The whites of his teeth soon found far more tinted color, grimed with shades of yellow and green. He didn’t know how long he would be able to hold this guise, but he could only hope that it would be long enough. The disguised conjuror cautiously made his way closer, as he noticed that it appeared the figure was finished with whatever it was he had been doing. He stumbled forward, a little more quickly now, feeling a slight twinge of desperation flow through his body, his pace increasing as he called out to the figure, “You, Sir… Dear Sir. Could you spare but a few moments for the humble likes of me” said the surprisingly well spoken derelict. He cleared his throat, a nervous pulse flowing through his veins, as he got a better look at the warrior before him. “You were doing something just now… It… It was magic, was it not? You see, I am Richard Wind, and though I may not look like much, I was once a great wizard, but sadly…. There were some horrible people who crossed my path and.... They... They did something to me… to my eye… They made me lose my precious magic. Now as you can see, life is barely worth living…. The only joy I can ever find… Is through watching others… Please… Whatever you were doing, I ask of you that you do it again…. Just once. Observing is the only joy I have left,” he finished with a somber expression deceptively sprawled across his borrowed face.

[Razkar]

Razkar heard the figure approach before he saw him... and smelled him. Eyes closed as he focused on restoring his djed, his inner calm translated to an outer sensitivity; he hadn't quite reached that place where the sheer emptiness of his mind blocked out his own senses.

Leather footsteps on stone and frost grass; the way it crunched, step after step, telling him it wasn't just clumps of snow falling from the trees.

You are being more than watched; you are being approached.

Out of instinct his hand slid to his back as he turned, grasping the hilt of his double-bladed dagger. Narrowed eyes pierced the gloom and saw something shambling towards him, pace iregular, weak... a denizen of the streets if ever he'd seen it.

When it stepped into the light, Razkar was proved right... though the eye was something of a surprise. Something niggled at the back of his mind, jostling and trying to get his attention, but he dismissed the crazy idea.

Of course it couldn't be a mask. It looked too real.

The warrior listened with stoic silence as the beggar told his sad tale. Greatness bought low, the mighty falling to the gutter. It sounded tragic... and Razkar was almost convinced it was true. But experience among the barbarians had taught him caution, and while he saw no downside to demonstrating what he'd learned, he would keep his wits about him.

He wants to observe, after all. Not learn. You lose nothing, and you get a chance to practice for yourself.

Without a word the Myrian closed his hands together again, and... ah, well, this would be a fresh challenge... he kept his eyes open. In fact, Wind's strange face was his focal point as he concentrated. He let his eyes glaze over, fixed on the ruined socket and the almost-equine head, breathing slowing again...

Feeling the ache fade slightly... change into something else... ah, the cause of the ache... these it was; rippling inside and under his muscles...

Finally Razkar closed his eyes, face angled up, palms parting as they rubbed against each other.

He looked up and saw Leth again, no longer hidden, gazing down as if daring him to try and mar his magnificence. Razkar smiled softly at the thought, a gentle gesture on such a harsh, war-like face... felt his joy tingle through the eddies and streams of djed as he breathed in-

-willed yet more of it between his palms-

-and then spread his hands slowly but steadily, from before his face to shoulder-width-

-and the shadowy kaleidoscope played across his face again. The shield was slightly better: it still fluctuated, pulsed, seemed to writhe with its own life like ink or oil across water... but grand chunks of Leth were now blotted out, and Razkar could feel the luminescence on his face fade to a whisper of light.

He held it for long ticks, until his muscles began to pulse again... but they weren't his muscles, as Razkar knew. Not as healers would define them, anyway.

Razkar breathed out loudly and put his hands together, shield vanishing in a tick. After a moment of quiet composure, his eyes snapped open, solid black eyes glinting up at Wind-

-and then the amusement in them quickly died.

A great wizard, and yet he has never heard of Shielding? Curious...

"It is wyrd called 'Shell-Making'," he said, keeping the smile fixed on his face as lies spilled from it, as well as the broken-Common accent that always put the oh-so-superior barbarians somewhat at ease, "Still learn. Get better. You hear of 'Shell-Make'?"

[Huskabar]

The single remaining eye of the disguised mage observed the process with unwaning interest, as the djed flowed from the barbaric being. Huskabar knew he would most definitely have to carve out some time for himself to attempt such a practice, but not until he was well out of the gaze of his new acquaintance. This was truly a lesson in judgementality for the old wizard, for if he had not seen the curious display from afar, he most likely would have written off this being as nothing more than fearsome savage, and would have continued to keep his distance, but it was clear that this man had more to offer than value of a physical nature. For a moment he had forgotten his newly adopted role, and allowed his supreme curiosity to display itself upon his expression, but he quickly reverted his persona back to it’s previous state. He attempted to look as if he was reconnecting with old friend he had not seen in decades. His lonely iris was fogged in a light mist of moisture, as a low sigh came from his breath. The deceptive warlock wanted to give the impression of being grateful and nostalgic at the very same time, but in truth he overselling the emotions to an almost ridiculous extent. He certainly was not quite the actor that he had expected to be, when considering this plan. His curiosity and ego had gotten the better of him once again, and he had stumbled straight into a situation for which he was not exactly suited. This became even more clear in the very next moment, as the other turned to speak to the old wizard, and the words that came from his lips made the old man’s body tensen. He did not like have his knowledge tested, and because he was not sure of these answers it put him in a difficult situation. This was most definitely the fork in the road that he had been dreading. Should he act as if he had heard the term a million times before or should he take the risk of calling this dangerous stranger a liar. If only he had known even the slightest thing about this discipline, it would make his this gamble so much easier. Perhaps there was another option he thought a moment, before running a gnarled hand over the back of his head, his expression becoming one of confusion… “I am sorry, my new friend… The changes… that were made to me,” his right hand gestured to the injured eye, “Parts of my memory are missing entirely. I am afraid those words are like a figure in the mist,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “I can only remember bits and pieces, and the name of the discipline escapes me.” Oh, how clever. Oh, how coy. Oh, how…. stupid. As soon as these words left his lips, the fatal error of this lie became obvious to him. If he did not remember the title or concept of this magic, why would he approach this stranger in the first place, and why would the forgotten facts be so conveniently aligned with the man’s questions? As this realization hit him, he attempted to gradually back away, hoping that the other would not notice the weakness of his dishonesty.

[Razkar]

How convenient...

If the strange and pitiful relic had just left it at that, Razkar would have suspected little else (or at least not acted upon it). He knew little of the ravages of magic, its effect on the mind... who was to say that enough damage from a mage wouldn't fracture your memory like a mirror? No, he would have shrugged his shoulders and stilled the small voice-

-until the old man began backing away. Right after he'd spoken.

Razkar knew he could just cut the man down and be done with it... but that was Sunberth; not him. He was not some godless barbarian to murder an Honored Elder simply because of suspicions. But he did have them, so...

He sighed inwardly. I hate having to be subtle.

"Wait-" his hand shot out, grip like steel, just tight enough to let Mister Wind know that "-what wyrd you do? Hmm? What magic you know? Please... I show, now you show..."

[Huskabar]

The old wizard hunkered his head forward, just beneath the moonlight, in the vision of the other man, before gradually allowing his face to shift to it’s original form. He did not like giving up his identity, but he knew that he had been caught. He then reached out a hand toward the other, slowly shifting into something else. This was a very gradual process, and after several chimes, his hand now took the shape of the warrior’s hand. “It is called morphing. It will take you time, but it will be well worth the effort… And allow me to reintroduce myself.” he said, as his face beamed against the moonlight. “I am Huskabar Skorn, and with time I will indeed be a great mage.” The old man, felt overgiving quickly approaching, as his djed dried with each passing moment. He slowly allowed the hand to reform back to it’s original state, before turning his gaze to the other, “Forgive the disguise. I do not show my true face to everyone I meet,” he said, not liking this feeling at all. It was as if he were completely disarmed. He had barely had any usable djed left, and used no weapon whatsoever. If there was one thing Huskabar hated, it was being vulnerable, and that was most definitely the situation he was in. Suddenly an idea came to the wizard, and perhaps the worse one to ever grace his mind. He was not defenseless. He still had one thing left. “Let’s start over. You and I, we could be friends. Would you like to be my friend?” he said, with a self-satisfied grin, all while attempting to look friendly and kind hearted. Though he was not exactly skilled at being manipulative, it was something he would attempt in desparate and uneasy situations. Perhaps his attempts at charm would grant him a powerful alley, or perhaps they would grant him a swift axe to the head, but anything had to be better than this unsure feeling of complete vulnerability.

[Razkar]

The answer was long coming; long enough for Razkar to ponder exactly the human would be able to show him. Fire mage, perhaps? That seemed irritatingly popular, nowadays. Levitation? Glyphing, like that strange man Sullins had told him.

Hypnotism was, of course, a possibility, but the scroll in his pocket and the blades on his body were reassuring. The former would alert him of one seeking to pervert his mine; the latter would assure that "one" quickly became "several".

Then Wind's face started to melt in front of his eyes.

That, he was not expecting.

"Ruros' balls...!"

The Myrian backpedaled sharply and in the space of time it took the old man to breath in sharply, his gladius was in his hand and leveled at the...

Completely different person in front of him. Face more haggard, far more lined, covered and hidden by a ragged thatch of brown beard with streaks of grey. Two eyes stared out at him now, firm and flinty, not the pitiable cyclops of a chime before.

“It is called morphing. It will take you time, but it will be well worth the effort… And allow me to reintroduce myself. I am Huskabar Skorn, and with time I will indeed be a great mage.”

Razkar didn't answer; barely even moved. His gladius did not waver a fraction as he kept it leveled at the mage... but his eyes stared over the top of it, watching that worn and lined hand... shift. Pale then darken. Undulate. Ripple like invisible fingers over clay.

"Morf... ing..."

He sounded the words out and his jaw dropped in wonder as he saw his own hand... held up by Huskabar.

The effect did not last long. The old man's body seemed to stiffen then sag and he let out a tiny sigh, Myrian coloring flickering back to the pale skin of a human. Razkar just stared and stared and tried to process what he was seeing. It was... incredible! The ability to change your appearance, to... "morf", your body at will?

“Forgive the disguise. I do not show my true face to everyone I meet.”

Then reality and all its deviousness crashed into his mind (which sounded dangerously close to Edreina's wondrous tones, he would reflect later). Huskabar had changed his face, put on a mask and lied to Razkar; if his intentions had been otherwise, he could have assumed the guise of... Jax, or Edreina.

The thought seized his soul. Oh, yes, "the possibilities". Gods, part of him would have preferred not to know. Such a wyrd was a potent fuel for the naturally paranoid.

“Let’s start over. You and I, we could be friends. Would you like to be my friend?”

Now it was Razkar's turn to take his time. Black eyes made even blacker by his deep frown, shadowing his eyes and making it look like he had two holes drilled into his head, stared out at the old man.

He lied to you. He adopted a lie on his face, his voice, his manner...

He revealed himself. He told the truth.

But why? You saw the evidence of overgiving. His exhaustion and fatigue; you have seen the same in Edreina. If he could have endured the lie, he would have. If he had the power, he would have used it, like all self-obsessed mages. And who is to say "Huskabar" is his true name, hmm? It could be just another lie.

The logic was cold and hard and undeniable to the Child of Myri... and yet... his blade lowered. Slowly, like a late reprieve from an executioner. His eyes did not leave the human and when he titled his head up so Huskabar could see them clearly.

"No. We are not friends, mage..."

No fawning stereotype now; accented though his Common was, it was fluent and fluid as ice water, and Razkar hoped the change surprised the human. Hoped it gave him a little taste of deceit, too.

But the blade lowered, and then was sheathed. The Myrian smiled and his face relaxed, just a fraction.

"... but we are not enemies, Elder."

That would probably have surprised him. Razkar had learned the Sunberth rules by this time: if you could kill someone without consequence, you did it. Even their corpse could fetch you a price. Anyone else, any of the thousands of street rats infesting the city, would have struck Huskabar down once his weakness was revealed.

But you are not them. You are not a barbarian, to slaughter an Elder simply because he lied. You life was not in danger and you are unharmed.

You are a Child of Myri, and you walk a different path.

The Myrian gestured to the ground, waiting for the human to follow his lead before he sat, legs crossed. Once they both were, his head cocked to one side in curiosity.

"It is a rare man who would admit to lying me with falsehoods," he said, voice again oddly affable as he fumbled through his rucksack, "But that you did and it cost me nothing... this need not end in one of us dead."

It was a pipe. Simple and wooden, with a modest bowl and a long stem. The Myrian packed it deftly with a few pinches of Taloba Grey from a pouch, smooth movements speaking of a long acquaintance with both pipe and baccy.

"Where did you learn this djed?" He asked as he found a match, striking it without blinking on the callused ball of his thumb. "I have never heard it's like, this Morf-Ing."

[Huskabar]

A devious grin came across the old wrinkled face, as the otherwise terrifying warrior showed a split second of horror. There was something amusing about seeing such a spectacle. It seemed abnormal to the old wizard to see vulnerability in an otherwise intimidating stranger. As is always the case, vulnerability and weakness still exists in even the mightiest of challengers. It is true that everyone does show some apprehension and surprise with the unknown, but this reaction was so animated, that the warlock decided to take note of this. He took another look at the man, before thinking to himself, “No, save this thought for another time.” It was then, that the wizard could see the other’s mood rapidly change, and the frail old man felt the cold slithering grip of fear coil around his spine at the expression of the man before him. One fact in Huskabar’s mind was guaranteed, he was at this man’s mercy. He tensed his eyes, attempting to close them completely in reaction to what he was afraid would come next, but there was no strike to the neck, no bludgeon to the head, not even a fist to the face. When his gaze opened clearly once more, he noticed a completely different face looking back at him. Oh, it had the same nose, same lips, same eyes, but no longer did the conjuror see a primitive brute before him, but rather a more peaceful and serene person seemed to have taken his place. Words then sprang from these new lips, and each was as surprising as their owner, each giving the sorcerer a single drop of deceit upon his tongue, and though it was indeed bitter, it was also well earned. This scenario reminded the old man of something, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He racked his brain for a moment, before remembering something his father used to say to him... “Two frogs meet in a great pile of insects. One is large, and quite powerful, while the other is thin, weak, pathetic, and yet very easy to underestimate. Which frog leaves the pile? ...Neither, they were both hungry.” The old wizard held back a nostalgic chuckle from the thought. He knew that now was not the time to consider such riddles. It was then that the this new acquaintance began to sit, before asking him to sit down, and though the calmed mood of the other, did help put Huskabar at ease. He hesitated at the thought, of being so exposed, but… If the other had wanted him dead, he would most likely be dead in this moment. The logic seemed to be solid enough, though he was still not entirely comfortable with the idea. He gradually took a seat on the ground, crossing his legs, as he looked back into the eyes of the other, a faint smile coming across his expression. The look of curiosity and wonder in the eyes ever-so-recently imposing figure, and though the other was far from a child, the old man could not help but feel as if he were in fact a grandfather who was about to tell a story to his grandson. He cleared his throat, before beginning to speak, “Well I was in fact taught by a man of the name, Richard Wind, though the appearance you saw earlier did not belong to him. Wind learned from my father, Kravon Skorn, and it was my father’s dying wish, that I learn the disciplines he had once come to love. Richard always told me that my father was once a great mage, but what sort of great mage would have stopped practicing all together to become nothing more than a beggar? It makes no sense, and reeks of weakness and stupidity… Some great wizard,” he said, with a scowl, not realizing until this very moment how much pain and confusion was still buried inside.

[Razkar]

The Myrian listened intently as the mage spoke... though a frown creased his brow for a moment, making the third eye of ink seem to narrow in suspicion. A story, told, surely, but the how was not revealed-

Then Razkar blinked, and a fresh emotion entered him. Something... almost like pity. There was no mistaking the confusion and bitterness when the Elder spoke about his father; his incomprehension of why a wizard of great power and ability would turn his back on his own djed. The scowl was merely the cap on his contempt, and Razkar cocked his head to one side.

"If I may, Elder," he said, surprised even as he heard the calming words coming from his throat, though he was still speaking to an Elder, and among Myrians, maturity counted for much, "Perhaps your father was happier without his djed than with it."

He knew how insane that would sound to one who prized magic above all, but age granted one wisdom, he'd heard. Surely the human could see that?

Why would he. Age is one thing, but a barbarian is always just that.

"Or perhaps he had a good reason for doing so." He followed quickly, shrugging his shoulders and sucking deeply on his pipe, tendrils of bluish smoke oozing from the corners of his mouth and stretching up to Leth like they were returning home, "A reason he did not wish to burden his son with. There is always more to these things than what we see, I think..."

He inhaled again and decided it was best to get back to the subject of the wyrd. At least there, both of them had a common interest.

"How did you learn it?" Razkar said, almost amiably, though that was a sign itself. So hard to keep the avaricious curiosity out f his voice or his sparkling eyes. "Did you have to be... touched, by a mage, to do such things? Or did you have a tome with the words for making it?"

[Huskabar]

These surprisingly wise words sprung from the lips of their speaker, and followed their path, only to awkwardly spiral at the center of old man’s mind. The scowled expression gradually morphed into a canvas of rage and destane, and his gaze grew increasingly astringent with each passing tick. His words curdled at the back of his throat, crawling vigorously up his tense throat, and lashed mercilessly from his narrowed lips, “I do not deny he very well could have had his reasons, and I do not deny that under other circumstances his choices would indeed be wise, but they were choices. A child should not feel the unrelenting merciless burn of hunger when there is a choice. A child should not scrounge through the putrid waste in the most vile of slums in search of a meal when there is a choice. A child should not have to continuously confront the rape of his innocence when there is a choice.” Suddenly the naturally tensed fists of the gnarled hands gradually began to loosen, as a low painful sigh came from the old wizard, as his better senses began to return to him. He could not afford to anger this man. He barely had any djed left to speak of, and he was quite certain that he was well outmatched in any case. The only card he had left, was to attempt to play nice… Which was not at all his strong suit, but adaptation is the key to survival. He learned that lesson at a much too young age. “Forgive my tone. I certainly do not mean to offend. The memories still sting with a passion… Hmm.. Some say the time heals all wounds, and those fools certainly never had very deep wounds. Time does not heal, it rots, and it doesn’t stop rotting until all that is left inside of you is a black hole of nothingness… Let me give you a little bit of advice. Embrace the nothingness, hold it tight to your mortal being, and in time it will make you stronger,” he said, as his teeth ground together, his gaze almost piercing in it’s intensity. It was then that the sorcerer took a moment to consider his words, as a nervous tremble gradually coursed down along his spine. He did not like how much he seemed to be revealing to this man. This was a part of himself that he very rarely exposed to others, and here he was departing his personal life lessons on a stranger, allbeit a rather intimidating stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. “Lets… Ahem… Yes, Ah yes. He said with a nod. Morphing, morphing, morphing. He said to return to the initial subject, and to quickly kill the monologue of his all too dark and all too valued philosophy on life. “It’s been years mind you, and for whatever reason, my mind did not contain some memories as well as others, but as I recall there was no actual process or initiation ritual, but rather… Now what was it… Yes, that’s right… Fasting, and meditation. Now mind you, I was already quite familiar with the feeling of starvation when I began this training. To some extent, you need to forget what you are, who you are if only for a moment. Now it’s been a very long time since I have meditated, so I am afraid I can’t give you much advice on that subject. Time has robbed far too many details from me, but from what I have seen, you seem to be familiar with art of inner self-reflection.” Oh how he despised trying to play a part he was not suited for, and wise helpful elder was quite likely at the very top of his least likely of masked personalities, but he was aware of what the situation called for, and he found the younger beings deep respect for age amusing, as well as extremely beneficial. If it were not for such a weakness, as he saw it, he very well might not be breathing this moment. Oh, if only he had not let his true thoughts creep out from his lips earlier. It would make all of this so much easier, but if regrets were fibers he would own a noose to strangle his failures with. Such thoughts were pointless at this time, and he knew it was time to repair the mistake he had made, “I was speaking out of pain earlier… I warn you… Do not let this world tear you apart. It does not matter how strong, or smart, or coy, or fast you are. It will find where you are most vulnerable, and it will attempt to rip you apart…. Don’t let it,” he said with a sullen shake of his head.