Closed [The Docks]Fighting the Storm

[Clyde Sullins]

69 Summer 515

Clyde’s job as a Reimancer tended to take him all over Nyka. From one quarter to another, doing various things. Most had been rather simple, at least by his skill. However today he’d gotten a particular job, one that he was less certain of completing.

After all, he had never taken on a storm before.

He’d made waves with attraction, lightning bolts with transmutation, attracted and thrown blasts of wind, but to take on and break up a storm, release its fury, vent its power, that was another order of thing. Something that would likely test even his might and mettle.

But he did not squirm or shake under the pressure. No, he felt a challenge, one finally ready to test him, something he’d not felt in some time.

The first thing he noticed as he headed towards the docks was the dark sky. It should have been about midday, the sun high, but instead the sky was grey and pallid. Out over the water it was even darker, with a heavy dark grey almost black curtain of clouds moving towards Nyka. It seemed to be moving slowly, but as Clyde’s eyes adjusted to the scale he realized how fast it must be moving.

Also in the distance he could hear the occasional boom of thunder, shortly after the flash of light that was a strike of lightning. It was a storm, a big one, a full tempest, rushing right towards Nyka and the docks.

In the short time it took for him to reach the docks, Cha in hand, the clouds had noticeably rushed closer. Clyde mentally prepared himself, willing up his full might and power as he faced the approaching storm. As it neared sails began to blow about in the rushing wind, the air became wet as bits of water splashed about and fell from the clouds. The level of noise rose and fell with the wind, carried booms of thunder seeming to ebb and flow. And that was only the edges of the storm, its excess, brushing against the docks.

It was clear why he was desired to defuse the situation. If its raw power were to vent directly into the docks and Nyka, there would be considerable damage. Not to mention capsized ships, fires from lightning strikes, and other bits of Chaos.

Chaos wasn’t bad, it was something Clyde understood better than others. For a moment he felt a flare of his Chaon mark, a sense of its power, but it soon faded away to the back of his mind and memory. This storm while at times making Chaos, wasn’t of Rhysol’s domain. It was of another deity. So Clyde felt no issue with fighting it.

Focusing now on his inner self, on his djed, his potency and inner being, Clyde willed his res to rise, to exude, to pour forth from his body like a flood. His robes clung limply about him, forgotten. All that existed to Clyde was himself, Cha in his hand, and the onrushing storm. His foe of the day.

Soon Clyde was in the middle of an expanding cloud of res gas, bright and silvery and glowing, but still see through and tenuous and not blocking his mundane sight.

Words: 539

[Clyde Sullins]

Clyde’s intent wasn’t one of Chaos. Nor was it of peace. Rhysol wasn’t the focus of his mind, the muse for his actions, nor was his deities opposite the answer.

Instead he needed a unity of purpose. A simpler purpose… Action, motion, perhaps with a bit of uncertainty and Chaos, but for a direct outcome.

Unbidden words rose to his lips, and Clyde felt himself belting out a spell song, an incantation, as he worked.

The uncertainty and randomness of singing, which in its own way had a peace and straightforwardness to it, along with an inner depth, seemed the proper thing for the moment.

“A storm of a storm, storming its way. Out on the docks, I and Cha shall now play. A word is a word, no matter what it may say. But all is the same at the end of the day. All is the same, whether made of flesh, bone, or clay.”

Clyde was vaguely aware as a few sailors ran by, likely heading to boats to tie them down or to do some other nautical thing sailors did in storms.

A few of them seemed concerned by Clyde, and perhaps were about to approach or accost him, when a monk shouted something Clyde could not hear over the wind. Apparently the sailors understood, as they quickly rushed back to what they’d been doing.

Clyde wasn’t aware of this, wasn’t even aware that a monk was watching him, so focused on his work was he.

As the storm grew ever closer the wind picked up noticeably, and the air grew thick with moisture. Rain falling from the clouds, quickly growing in thickness, and surf thrown up from the water of the ocean spraying across the docks.

As Clyde’s cloud of res expanded, most of it rushed upward towards the storm, moving into the face of the wind and temper of the tempest. Some however stayed with Clyde, a outer barrier of protective res taking up the space a few arm’s length around him. It was his zone of utter and total control, and his personal space. Beginning to move Cha in a small circular stirring motion, Clyde willed the res in his bubble of space to oscillate and spin, adding a small bit of water and air attraction to it. The bubble acted as a cutter of sorts, sending any wind rushing at him around him, any sprays or splashes of wetness over and around. Dry and unburdened by the staggering wind, Clyde was better able to focus on his casting on the storm.

All the while his greater mass of res moved outward and upward, out to sea and up to the sky, to meet the storm.

As the storm neared Clyde could feel it, raw power, natural and clean, ferocity, buzzing against his aura. He couldn’t sense the storms aura, but he could feel its cast off, the feelings of potency and unbridled force rushing onward without motivation or emotion. As he began to feel out with the outer tendrils of his being, his res, meeting the peripheries of the storm, he sang out once more to the air.

“Untamed and uncaring, the storm does rise. From its grip, this city I must prize. Strong in not just power, but in a formidable size. But to think it can beat me would be to utter nothing but lies.”

Words: 564

[Clyde Sullins]

Clyde wasn’t sure how long he stood there, nor how long it took for the res to reach the storm. Perhaps it was chimes. Perhaps it was half a bell. When he was as thick in his magic as he was then, Clyde’s ability to perceive time tended to fade away.

Because of this he could easily spend bells upon bells working on something, without realizing it. Or he could in turn do something amazing in but a chime or two, and not realize how quickly he’d done it.

His outer essence met the storm, melded with it, becoming one with it. Like sugar dissolved in water, his res spread out and through. Inside of his tiny protective bubble, he felt none of the harshness of it. The buffeting wind that had knocked over a smaller boat even as Clyde worked. Nor the spray of water that seemed to have come to the consistency of a solid harsh sheet pouring downward and upward and blown in many directions. The winds and rain rushed up and around and over, not touching him.

The greater bit of his awareness though was of his outer res, the bit sinking into the storm. He took in a breath, and felt a shifting of the storm, of him, of the him storm res being. They breathed in, sucking back a sheet of water and a concussive blast of air that would have tipped another small boat. However several other gusts blew out, uncontained. It was too much, his essence was too diluted in the storm to completely control it.

Slowly they released the breath, and the air burst out sideways, the water spraying out as a long sprinkle that fell slowly in bits over the city instead of one concentrated mass downward.

They couldn’t force it, couldn’t control the storm, and could not bind it to them. But they could guide it, could release its pent fury in a less dangerous direction, and push it to where it could help instead of harm.

The smaller him upon the land wood, Cha a spike of tree wood in his hand, sang forth, singing together with the storm melded him of his res.

“We battle we fight, to no avail. We sing and we sung, a tune that couldn’t be carried in a pail. This way and that way we press and move. We sing together till the thunder is in groove.”

As the song continued, Clyde arched his back essence, or the storm equivalent of it, willing an upward peaking in several points. Up from it he carried a small contrail, and soaked it with the lightning attractive forces of res, of the possibility of control and guidance that they were.

As they sang his storm self echoed back the end of each line, as a bolt of lightning shot upward impossibly out of the storm and into the upper sky, arcing across the air where lightning did not bend. But the guiding hand of their back self lovingly guided, willing and attracting and pushing, till even the lightning followed and went where the lightning of a storm did not go. Above itself, above the storm, far above where no persons or places or things could be struck. Releasing its pent fury at nothing and into the nothingness of the upper air.

Words: 556

[Clyde Sullins]

As Clyde’s res essence melded further with the storm, and the final bits of his exuded res arrived there, he focused more on the storm overall.

Trying to fight the storm head on clearly wasn’t the option. It was too big, and it had to go somewhere. But with his attempt at redirecting the lightning, the idea of a similar option with the storm itself became clear.

If the storm was a keg, then he needed a tap. And what did a tap do? It freed the contents held within, freed it in a controlled and expected way.

While the analogy wasn’t perfect, and the storm itself was a loose assortment of various elements and actions, the theory was perhaps sound.

While the docks couldn’t handle the wind, letting it blow outward to sea wouldn’t harm anything. At the same time the rain in and of itself wasn’t harmful, it was the density it fell in that did harm. If he could guide the water, spread it out more, let it fall slowly instead of a gushing sheet, it would be much better.

Likewise the farmland outside of the city would profit from the liquid, if he could properly disperse it over the city and farmland at the right density.

Of course, none of this was made easier by the lag. Controlling a storm up in the sky was a thing done in spurts. A thought, a willing of a command, and the res essence storm Clyde answered after a pause. Arching its back, closing its mouth, breathing in and out, spitting out its fury. It took time to adjust to this lag, a reasonably large one due to the distance, and to not overcompensate with the same command while he waited for the first. After enough time Clyde got into a good rhythm, blending his sung words with the actions and the wait.

“A storm is a storm from when its formed. The sky its home, where it lays its head and is dormed. It tosses its bits, air, water, and fire. A sprinkle of rain, new plants its sire. We toss and we pull, we flow and we run. Of you we disperse, till we show you the sun. A smile, a frown, we have none of those. We are rain and fire, from head to our toes.”

The storm Clyde glistened in their mind, unified in purpose. A once emotionless force given life and purpose through Clyde’s guidance, watching down below as the earth bound Clyde moved and squawked. A part of the whole, a part of the storm essence, but apart and distinct. Though there voices were different, their bodies different, their song and dance was the same.

Slowly, so slowly, the air bound Clyde moved. Pushed. Sprayed. A force and a reaction. A spicket released on one end, wind blown out seaward, used to propel and push the storm in the other way. Lightning was guided by their hand, the back spikes and side spikes filled with lightning purpose, guided the flashes of substance out along them. Lightning struck the air, the sky, shot upward into nothing, shot out diagonally to the horizon in an impossible sideways lightning.

Slowly the storm essence moved and spread, moving over the city, slowly dripping and dropping a spray of water as it went over the city, heading for open land and grass and plants.

Words: 566

[Clyde Sullins]

The land Clyde grasped and ached. A slow pain swept throughout, soaking in, weakening. Limping. Growing heavy and weak but willed onward. Cha held in earthly hands, so small to the storm Clyde, which surged by overhead with renewed vigor, finally gaining momentum with its prodigious size.

But the land Clyde was enforced, constricted, not free like the storm. It was air, wind, fire, water, elements free and freed. However for now united in purpose, Clyde moved. Moved towards grass and plants. The land bourn Clyde stumbling almost as a blind man, heading towards grass and fields and life, the thought of their destination the entirety of their focus and being.

As the land Clyde walked, his small hands held up a small stick of wood, walking beneath the storm Clyde. Walking as if an invisible string reached up from Cha’s head to the storm, and pulled the storm along.

Or as if the storm Clyde was the true one, and it held down a small tendril, one of its fragments, a finger, and pushed the land bound flesh person along for the ride.

The distinction was lost, as there was no land Clyde, not storm Clyde, just Clyde, his being and essence in both and focused on his one intent. Walking to the plants, to the fields, to the destination.

The thought of grass on his bare feet, silly as he had no feet and was not contained by such things as a body or a solid form. He was fire, air, water, unbound but united into the entity of the storm.

Soon it was the land bound Clyde part that seemed to lag, pausing in its walk to plants, as the storm Clyde carried along above.

Finally, a time after a time, the storm Clyde grew tenuous, detached, and distinct. It weakened, carried only by momentum and the patterns set into it. Carrying on as it did, slowly losing purpose.

As it did the land Clyde grew brighter, more firm, less behind.

Exhausted, Clyde fell to his knees, clutching at Cha. Tired. He was tired. His stomach grumbled, hungrily. His feet ached. He was small. Too small. His body was big, was free, was the tempest of air and water and fire, but now it was tiny and fleshy and constrained.

It took Clyde, the land Clyde and only Clyde, a few moments to recall this was him, that he was this small fleshy form, was this contained and small being. He was of emotions, and thoughts, and purpose. He, unlike the storm, could guide himself, could choose his purpose, his destination.

At the moment that destination was the ground that he was splayed across. In his focused state, he’d walked most of the way across Nyka, and found himself on the far side facing out towards the farms and things. A small drizzle fell across his skin, falling wet and cool from the sky. The storm was broken, was released, now smoothly and slowly moving away from Nyka, releasing its pent rain as a steady drizzle that intensified into a proper rain. However it kept from becoming a true downpour. Perhaps because it still sang with Clyde’s destination, with his purpose. Or perhaps it just mindlessly kept on in the direction and pathway Clyde had set, and would continue to do so.

Either way, Clyde did not care. His job was done, and he was tired. He felt like he’d spent two days running non-stop, every muscle tired and aching, his body exhausted. Yes as the storm moved, he saw sun peeking through, and saw in the clear sky a descending sun. It was still the same day, not even sundown yet.

In the background, Clyde could hear someone speaking, though he was too tired to turn to look. Though the voice did sound vaguely familiar, and was in truth one of the sailors who’d almost accosted him on the docks, though Clyde wasn't sure who he was speaking to.

“You see! He must be of Rhaus! A bard! You saw what he did? He just sung that storm away! Who else could do that? Rhaus has saved us!”

Clyde, in his tired state, didn’t argue with the voice. Though he was only vaguely aware of who Raus was. Apparently something to do with bards and singing. And apparently he’d been confused as one of his followers.

Words: 725

[Sayana]

Don't forget to edit/delete your grade request. If there's anything I may have missed, please PM me and I'll be happy to look into it.

 

Clyde

Skills

• Intelligence: 2
• Philosophy: 1
• Singing: 3
• Composition: 3
• Endurance: 2
• Tactics: 3
• Planning: 1
• Land Navigation: 1

Lores

• Assessing a storm
• Singing to aid in spellcasting
• Reimancy: Manipulation of two clouds of res for different purposes
• Reimancy: Redirecting elements of a storm
• Reimancy: Incorporating lag when controling Res at a large distance
• Reimancy: Becoming one with a storm
• Farmlands need water but not torrents of rain
• Rhaus: Something to do with bards and singing

Comments: A lovely read. The power of the storm really came to life and I like how Clyde chose to diffuse and spread out the storm to water the farmlands rather than to attempt to block it entirely. Although, I'm not sure how well it would physically work to send lightning upwards since eventually the electrical energy would need to get grounded (but if it went into the sea it would make sense).

Your Grader,

Sayana

Boxcode design: Firenze