A Strange Singularity

by **Keene Ward** on February 14th, 2015, 3:03 am

The sixty-sixth day of winter, 514 AV

Wilhmenina had been absent the past few days, and in the following silence, Keene had had more time to listen to the winds. It had been a very, very long time since he was last alone with his thoughts, and the swirling, passing interest of the breezes seemed to insure that it would never again come to pass that he would ever be quite isolated from the rest of the world. He followed them, ambling behind their ethereal tails, knowing that their touch was fleeting and waiting for the next breath to rush over him. It was a curious state of being, to be the wind. It had no substance, but it carried with it a soul, a life, that brushed against him; sometimes it was harsh and biting, other times it danced about and teased his hair. There were few breezes exactly alike, though many seemed to the be hushed sort, passing through on their way to greater destinations that them sombre island of the sleepless.

Some, however, were more invested. They moved with a languid luxuriousness, drifting through the trees to savor the heavy kiss of the water laden air, to bask beneath the occluded skies. These were the most "friendly" of the breezes, trailing behind him, lazily nudging him forward as we walked. If they had intent, Keene was not privy to it. Whatever the mark upon his back truly was, it had allowed him the sensitivity to weather he'd never thought possible. He could taste the subtle curiosity of a passing flurry, the acrid bite of a rushing gust of wind running off of the mountain, even the delicate whisper of what were almost voices in the stillness of the wooded groves. The longer he listened, the more deeply he paid his mind to the winds, the more he heard, saw, and felt. He found it odd that he had never been able to notice those things before, even in the dead of the storm on the night the god had approached him, his senses had been deadened too far past the point of revelation. Out in the open beneath the gentle pallor of the clouds, however, his mind was freed to entangle itself with the many curiosities that the soft rustle of leaves brought him.

The winds were different from humans and nuits alike. Their thoughts were not quite thoughts, their intent something both less and more than that of a man. Keene did not understand them, yet his ignorance hardly subtracted from the experience. In a man, emotions were wasted effort. A man had limbs, a mind, with which to accomplish that which he desired. The winds, however, were simply what they were, like fire or ice, they existed. The emotions - if that was even what they were - were both their souls and their desires, driving them while simultaneously being generated by them in the most strange of paradoxes. At first, Keene had thought the ability to have increased his own senses, but the scent of dirt and the taste of blood were the same as ever, if not more dulled by the pull of a laughing zephyr or a passing sigh of a forlorn breeze. They were not people, nor were they purely the emotions they seemed to embody. He had yet to try communicating with them, though he wasn't entirely sure how to even begin to go about it.

They felt more than he ever allowed himself to express, and some - the most rare of them - seemed aged enough to have emotions he could not even begin to describe. He had always imagined an emotion to be a useless thing, but with his induction into the unspoken world of the winds, Keene found that human emotion, even that of any race, was simply a shadow, a weak and petty imitation of the breezes. As he walked, his boots moving steadily over the rise and fall of the terrain that covered the distance between the cavern and the citadel, Keene reached out a hand to run his fingers through one of the more calm entities that had slowed to wrap itself about his legs, playing with the slight tatter of pants. It passed through his digits, a gentle lightness not unlike a foggy morning before it settled back down at his feet. Though he kept his pace, Keene looked down at the ground in pensive thought, knowing that the breeze was with him in spite of his eyes seeing only the earth below.

Knowing no other way to communicate, Keene ventured a question, his voice, while quiet, sounded unnaturally loud in the silence. "Can you understand me?" It wasn't much of a question, and the air about his feet didn't seem to respond. Whether it had heard him or not, Keene figured that not replying was as much of an indication that it could understand him as anything else. Instead, Keene spoke not to the breeze itself, but to the empty space before him. There was little reason to keep his thoughts to himself now that there was only he to listen to them. "You are curious things." He shook his head, staring towards the distant rise of the citadel's battlements. It was something he had always admired about the weather. Even with two lifetime's worth of study, he knew no more about the whirling gales and thunderous battles of the skies than most anyone else. He had words to describe them, theories to potentially shed a differently angled light upon the same scenes, but even then, in the subject he was most intimately acquainted with, did Keene truly know anything about it. In most areas of his studies, the "not knowing" was transient, a state of being to be left behind upon discovery of revelation. With the winds, it was a constant reminder that there were mysteries that had yet to be solved, unknowns awaiting the hand that might label them, even all the while taunting that same hand with the impossibility of the task.

The weather was, in a way, the embodiment of Keene's intellectual pursuits. It was a force he sought to control, to understand, all the while raging before him with a force and mystery far greater than any he had yet to understand. The sheer intrigue of it was enough to draw him in, while the raw, un-tamable strength held him within the proverbial flurries. With Zulrav's gift, he was even closer to their mysteries, even more taunted and tantalized by what he knew they had to offer, but which they still kept from him. It was one of the very few things, perhaps the only thing, he considered a gift rather than a tool. While emotions were something he had determined to be useless to express, the winds allowed him their experience, and it was, in a word, refreshing.

by **Keene Ward** on February 14th, 2015, 3:52 am

The wind at his feet seemed to stall for a moment as he spoke, twisting up over him in a swell as the hint of smile shivered within its being before it eased itself back at its place by his ankles. Whether it had moved of its own volition or in reply to his statement, Keene kept on, his mind wandering the skies. He couldn't remember the last time he'd tracked the movement of the currents or measured the amount of rainfall. They had been things he'd left behind in Zeltiva, though his interest in the weather was something that he couldn't part himself from, nor had he desired to. There was something to be said for aspirations. If one had too many, they were detrimental, of course, but if there was just one, maybe two, they were a driving force, a point of focus to crawl towards even on the most bleak of days. He had been crawling quite often over the past season, and power had been his focus, his singular desire. The winds were powerful, but they were equally gentle.

Master Rayage's words rang distant in his ears, her caution for balance, for wisdom. Keene turned towards the sky, squinting only slightly at the soft grey of the many clouds that floated in the atmosphere. "Do you possess the wisdom, Zulrav?" He had thought it silly in his head, frivolous almost, but as the words ushered from his lips and back to his ears, the question seemed far more grave than it had at first. He questioned a god. Even as he said it, Keene was fully aware that as vastly powerful as the god of storms was, his wisdom was something he could not understand. If he did possess the balance, it was in such a way that Keene could not see it, nor did he imagine he would be able to comprehend if he did. That power, however, had its limits. The storms could destroy as easily as they could give new life, but they were constrained to their world, to their laws. The flesh of man was beyond them as much as they were beyond the flesh. It was simply yet another metaphor for power and its interactions with wisdom. Zulrav had known there was nothing he could do for Boswell beyond the action he had taken.

A shiver ran down Keene's spine, and he turned his face back down to the ground, clenching both fist and jaw, pressing his own emotions down while the subtle change in the winds rose to fill them. The breeze at his feet seemed particularly more interested, swirling about him as he calmed his breath and released his grip. There was no concern, but there was a distinct sensation that the breeze was gauging him, analyzing him even. He offered a hand to it, his grey-green stare focusing drifting into the distance as he whispered to it. "I don't doubt him, no." The wind died down some, stilling itself into a gentle drift. "I merely wonder." It seemed content, pressing onward to disappear into the invisible world before him. Others moved to fill its spot, some staying longer than others. Keene continued on his path, eyes easing over the landscape around him, occasionally adjusting the straps on his back pack to find a more comfortable strain against his shoulders.

Whether the winds truly understood him or not, they were a different sort of breed of companion. They needed little form him, and he from them. Words were not exchanged, rather they were shared. It was not a conversation so much as a verbal meditation, a shared experience of sorts. Whether the wind had secrets to share or keep, they were silent in that respect. While he had never been much for talking, there was something about the honest nature of the weather that made it easier. He was, by no means, prone to babble, even in the presence of the most gentlest of airy whispers, but it was a form of release for him. There was so much he clung to, so much that bottled up and repressed, that, even if it were little more than a charade, the few words breathed into passing winds served as a strange catharsis. It was not healing, per say, but their presence certainly seemed to inspire within him a more philosophical state. He thought constantly, but often, his mind moved in such a linear fashion out of necessity that the aberrations and splits of consciousness were lost to the void of thoughtlessness. Among the winds, however, those thoughts were allowed to flourish, taking him where they would.

by **Keene Ward** on February 15th, 2015, 9:40 am

It had been a long time since he had allowed himself the luxury of aimless introspection. His mind seemed to move and stretch, latching onto the most trivial of things and expanding them to various points before moving on to something new and different. There were thoughts he brushed aside, darker memories or twisted ideations. Not all things in his mind were quite suitable residents, but for the most part, Keene walked among the winds, content in their company and free to speak when he felt the need. It made the journey remarkably shorter, and Keene only realized he'd arrived at the citadel when he noticed the tree. At first, he didn't pay it much attention. This lasted for about a tick before he turned back to it with a stern knit of his brows in realization that there was a fully grown tree in the middle of where there should have been nothing but the path to the vestibule's doors. The breezes about the tree seemed to snicker, rustling its branches with mischievous intent.

Keene approached, instinctively placing a hand upon the sturdy looking trunk to feel the solidity of the living structure beneath. It was most certainly a tree, and it was most certainly not a tree. He had planted a sapling of his own under orders by his master. And while it had grown over the course of time, Keene was fully aware that what he saw before him was naturally impossible. Thus, it was some form of magic or very labor intensive chicanery. He glanced down at the ground, searching for any sort of digging or displacement of earth, but the roots seemed to burrow down much as any tree who had stood for a century might. It was strange, but Keene pulled his hand away and stared up towards the leafy canopy above with a steady stare. There was little on the island that didn't surprise him, which made it a constant state of being. Thus, in its normalcy, Keene found if he wasn't determining something strange or confusing, that was the more concerning of things. Turning to head through the doors, his eyes spotted a familiar bush of hair. He paused, blinking a few times to make sure he hadn't just imagined Risabel's presence. In the two ticks it took, he realized two things: the first being he would never imagine Risabel's presence willingly or unwillingly, and the second being she had spotted him as well.

Her face, which had been pinched in though, broke out into an impish grin as she let out a little whistle. The responding bark and thump of paws against the ground gave Keene enough of a warning to turn in time to see the elated loll of Seymour's tongue right before he collided with him, knocking him off balance as he teetered beneath the force of the gibbat dog's affectionate attack. Eventually getting hold of the creature's nape, Keene dropped it to the ground, where it proceeded to happily root around by his feet, playfully snapping at the few breezes that had remained with him. They seemed to find it fun, tugging at Seymour's tail and entice it to chase them further. As the dog ran off with a frisky growl, Keene turned to the snorting laughter of his legate associate with an unamused stare. "Ms. Timpel."

"Ward." She composed herself after a few more unsightly chuckles, moving a hand to wipe her eyes for both dramatic effect and to remove the small amount of mirth driven moisture from the corners of her eyes. [color=#b1cac5]"Out for a little stroll, hm?" Risabel winked, pairing it with a sly smile that Keene didn't quite understand.

"No." He had come to the citadel to restock on water. While he could transmute it when it was absolutely necessary, Keene had quickly learned that to fill the entire contents of his waterpack was several days worth of pure transmutations. It made more sense to simply refill the thing every now and then, trading out the transformation of his soul into water for a handful of bells trudging back to the cavern with a weighty package in tow.

Risabel however, let out a sigh and a roll of her eyes. "Always so literal, Mister Ward."

A few ticks of silence passed as Keene turned his attention back to the tree. He noticed a carving on it, a circle about the size of his head with writing woven into it, like some sort of gibberish inscription. He raised a brow at it, turning back to Risabel's expectant smile. "Where did it come from?"

The circle or the tree?"

He frowned. "Both."

The woman feigned a weary sigh. "It's always questions questions questions with you, Ward. Can't you ever just want to see me for a pleasant conversation?" Keene opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a quick, terse raise of her finger. "Don't answer that." He obliged, falling back into silence. "I made the circle. Thought this thing might be a... Failed morphing spell or something like that." She sighed, a true gesture of her frustration, as she stared at it with a look of disappointment. "It didn't work though. It's just a tree after all." Both of them stared at the silent force of nature, unimpressed frowns making them seem naturally alike. "As for where it came from," She drew in a breath through her nose, exhaling with a shrug. "I have no idea."

Another few beats passed between them as Keene studied the tree more. "It just..."

"Appeared?" Risabel finished the question for him, nodding as she did so. "Apparently."

"Curious." A small breeze passed over them, its inquisitive feelings mirror Keene's statement. It seemed the winds had an idea about the tree, but though he listened to them intently, they seemed content to keep their secrets.

by **Keene Ward** on February 15th, 2015, 9:47 pm

Their quiet didn't last long. Risabel had spent who knew how many chimes or bells carving her circle into the tree, and that meant she'd spent more than enough time examining what she already viewed to be a boring, regular old tree. Turning to him with a huff, she raised a brow, giving him the once over before she spoke with a playful meter to her voice. "So what does the great Warden Ward think of our leafy friend?" She held an expectant light in her eyes, quite certainly seeking entertainment from the stony young man before her.

Keeping his face forward as he surveyed their quarry, Keene frowned in thought. He couldn't make heads or tails of it, and there was little more he could other than to stare at it. He was no botanist, nor was he intimately acquainted with the migratory patterns of trees - something he imagined no one had quite a handle on. He imagined it had to be some sort of magic, and while his knowledge of the many different ways to use his djed to perform what otherwise would have been miraculous acts was growing, it was by no means all encompassing. Whatever spell or ritual had created or beckoned the tree to stand tall and proud in front of the gates was beyond him. What he thought about it, however, was something much less profound. "It's a tree."

"No shyke." Risbel rolled her eyes, her lips curling into a sneering grin. "Don't think too hard, Ward, or you'll pop a vessel or something." After which she muttered none to quietly, "Bet I could make some pretty nasty stuff with your bones though..."

Giving Risabel and unamused stare, Keene addressed the potential for his body being used in whatever sort of rituals were required for malediction. "When I'm dead, not before, Ms. Timpel."

"Of course, of course." She gave him a duplicitous giggle and a wave of her hand, though her eyes flashed for a moment in a glint of true appraisal. Keene found that to be one of the more disconcerting things Risabel had done in their short time knowing each other. Still he stood by his statement. After he was dead, there was no point hoarding his body. It would be hers to do with as she pleased, or whoever else was to come across it. He imagined his death wouldn't be the sort to leave him much in tact. The thought of his battered body spread across the shadowed valley of the mountain sent a small shiver down his back in foreboding. He supposed it was best not to linger on the details of his own eventual demise.

Barking filled the air and a gust of wind ran between the two of them followed by the hairy ball of fur that barreled after it. "Seymour!" Risabel let out a high pitched squeak of a call that immediately drew the thing's attention, diverting the barks from the wind to the woman's grinning face as she knelt down to ruffle the dog's face and back. "Who's a good boy?" Several yaps followed which, though Keene was certain the beast wasn't truly responding to the question itself, seemed to indicate that Seymour thought he was a good boy. Keene frowned. Hardly.

The air that had burst by had swept with it some of the leaves off of the tree's branches, knocking them into the air as they fluttered down to settle onto the ground below, only to be gently pushed around by the soft breeze that returned to settle around Keene's feet. He stared down at the dog, the woman, the gentle rustling of the breeze, and back to the tree again. "Is there nothing in the library to explain this?"

Risabel snorted, though Keene was unsure whether it was because she found his question ridiculous or if it had been a reflex to Seymour sticking his tongue into her nose. "The library-" She was now wrestling with the excited creature, pushing it off of her to stand up in a quick motion before giving it a stern, "No." Wiping some of the slobber off of her face with the hem of her robes, she continued, giving him a skeptical stare. "Well, I guess it could have something about magic trees." She shrugged, shaking her head. "Nader is hard enough when people are throwing it into some gods-awful code."

"Code?"

Another roll of her eyes, this one even going so far as to force her to shake her bushy head. "Ward. Really. You think wizards just jot everything down in Common for anyone to read?" She gave him a dead pan stare, mocking his own. "Don't be ridiculous." A mirror of his own subdued tone.

The joke, however, was lost on him, and Keene responded in much the same way he would have to anything else. "But they can be read?"

She shrugged, sighing at his lack of appreciation for any jest. "Yes, if you have the time for it." Giving him a skeptical raise of her brows, she continued with, "A lot of time."