[Flashback] Writings of the Confounded Sky (Solo)

[Stas Grigori]

27th of Winter, 497 A.V. “Now this is a tremendous, awe inspiring utter mess worthy of an epic tale sung by Rhaus himself. Now you get to appreciate that time honoured activity which all guardians impart to their charges, children and disciples. Clean this filth up!” That small diatribe was what his mentor had dropped upon Stas’ head. Every word had been accurate for at the moment, he stood in the near centre of the room that had been designated the practice area of the house. Most buildings in Avanthal were created from wood or icerock, and his home was no exception. Thick, heavy wooden planks made up the construction of this room and its two doors. At the moment, there were two wood desks in the room of a lighter wood, one with an adjustable and typically slanted surface, another with a wider and immobile flat surface. These were usually kept orderly, with various papers, quills, ink and other writing tools and accessories. Also found were books and scrolls and parchments, and in one tightly bound roll what looked very much like wands. Today, everything that may have been on them was thrown around the room, and the desks themselves lay on their sides, with a great pool of red and green ink soaking into the wood beneath the slanted one. The reason why his mentor had been perfectly correct in his statements and shouting was that the fault of the mess could be laid entirely at the feet of Stas. Why this was so, could be understood if one was able to hear his frenzied muttering that went on as he cleared it up. “That irritating old stack of kelvic piss! Two and a half hours being sat in that hard, sharp chair writing the same blasted sentences over and over and over again. And whatever the hell he has done to the desk so that if I spill ink on it, I get shocked or stabbed or nicked by something I cannot even see! On top of that apparently every letter has to be uniform, it’s just not good enough for him that he can read what I’ve written, and it must be ‘fine, elegant, in good order, attractive’ and so on and so forth. Is it so mad that I would have a snap point if I don’t have a chance for a break?! So what if I used a little, well, more than a little wind to let off some rage.” A low, tired sigh puffed free from his lungs as he righted the two desks. The cleaning took what felt like ages, but was closer to a quarter of a bell. When it was all sorted and ordered, save for a dark and roughly oval stain under the slanted desk which no amount of scrubbing could remove, he shouted for his mentor. “Have a break and go let off the rest of that steam outside. Out back not in front of the blasted house! And remember, no matter how hypnotic the forms of snow may become, stop when you feel the tiredness coming, not when you hear voices!” Having learned the value of not slamming the heavy door behind him, Stas left the house. It was situated in the Skyglow hold and its location on the relative outskirts of said hold, was something that suited him just fine. Tying the belt snug around his waist to ensure that the heavy fur coat kept the cold out, Stas did not carry the mark of Morwen after all, he made his way further through the snow. He and his heavy, crunching boots, was looking for a good clear patch that was not overly compacted. It being winter, it did not take him long to find such a place.

[Stas Grigori]

Here, alone and just barely within sight of the residential buildings, Stas entered into the routine that he had been taught was best to practice his control over one of the basic facets of existence, the air. He brought his arms behind his back and clasped his hands together so that his fingertips lined up and linked tightly. While originally he had closed his eyes, he had since learned that how could one feasibly make use of what was called res if one chose not to watch? So watch he did, as he brought his attention to his breath. As he thought upon the nature and ways of which the air existed in life. As he brought his focus to bear on the point that at all times, he was moving and using and shifting the air into and out of his form. Every breath, drew fresh air within his form, and then expelled it when it was used. But this expulsed air still had power within, was still valuable, and this was what he had been taught to use. Every exhale he performed made the breath leaving from his nostrils thicker, more corporeal even if far from solid. Soon enough, he could not merely feel the anxious, shifting res that he had swirling before his face, but he could see it. He set it moving in a spiral that shifted up and down in rhythmic columns before his eyes, and willed it to draw the air around him with it. As more collected, it brought snowflakes with it, and he pressed the spiralling mass further from his face so that did not choke himself. Once it had become large enough, once the controllable swirl stretched from the top of his head down to his knees he took further, sharper control of it. He instructed it to stretch and elongate, to turn into a great flexible pole which he lead out into the snow. It was now fairly simple to make it gouge through the soft flakes, but what he did for a mixture of stress relief and fine control practice, was to make this great tube of moving air widen and hollow out. That part he had made into second nature, what was difficult for him now was to direct currents in the tube. This was done so that air moved forwards along the outside of the tube, and backwards along the inside, with the forward end being the reference point for these directions. He was already sweating doing such a thing, but he had to keep it up. Practice had no value unless it was deliberate and difficult. The direction of this exercise was to draw snowflakes down the inside of the tube and to then be able to direct them into an elevated, artistic design. His control only extended out perhaps twelve or fifteen feet, but he could make the tube as long as he could maintain within that distance. Looking up, he found one of the things that showed he did belong in the Skyglow. He made the res completely invisible now, and all he could see above him was a rotating, shifting white helix of snow. It was being directed into shapes that laid somewhere between random fanciful madness, and complex geometric figures. You could only really see this from his person vantage point, and it could not go on that long. He was still too fresh with the power, and within very little time moving a twenty foot long tube of rotating air around above his head, he was panting and shaking and feeling the tendrils of ache to do more come onto him. With a final ‘umph’ he caused the tube to drive into itself and create what looked like a ring of white, and then he dropped all will, intent and power and watched the snow, now compacted, fall around him. ‘That is still satisfying. It’s getting lighter now, my head doesn’t hurt, and I can dig even further for snow. Mmmh, he said don’t trust how I feel when I’m tired from doing this, don’t give into to going further. It felt as though my eyes would melt the last time I did, but oh did it feel incredible to wield that much force. Him and his subtle ideas, it will be a long time before I find that crud exciting, but it’s worth putting up with for now.’

[Stas Grigori]

“Let us begin this once again Stas. You are fed; your fingers are rested, and if you need to blow off anymore steam keep that to yourself. You have another hour of letter practice remaining; show me that you at least have the routine in place.” Stas let out a breath that nearly became a sigh but was quickly shut off. He turned his attention towards the slanted desk and set to arranging it the way that was best for his use. First came a single sheet of parchment placed in the centre of the desk and slanted slightly towards the left. Second came a smaller rectangle of parchment that was laid on top of the first sheet; this little was the paper guard and was pinned to the desk on either side of the parchment he would write upon. After these came a lighted lantern atop a tall stand which was placed a foot to the left of the desk so that light always fell cleanly on the parchment. Finally came the quill and the ink pot. He was only allowed black ink and as of yet the quill’s nib was dressed only by his mentor. As he took his seat Stas checked that his back was straight and high but not locked … “And that I use a parchment prepared for my capability…” A groan left his throat before he got up and as quickly as he could without crumpling or damaging the parchment swapped the completely blank sheet out for one with light, pencilled in guidelines for his letters. Now, finally ready to begin, he picked up his quill and with a dip into the ink he started the careful creation of his letters. There were many lessons, principles and instructions that went through his mind as he inscribed the ink to the parchment. 'Feel the movement of the nib through my arm and not my hand. Don’t press down, the pressure must be light, smooth pulling and drawing. No slouching, take special care of each curve, stroke and dot for the small details are what define the letters, the letters define the words, the words define the sentences. All writing, beautiful or otherwise, breaks down to the details. Pay attention to ensuring that each letter has similar figures and proportions to its siblings. Let your fingers and hand relax and merely keep the quill in line as the movements of my shoulder and the direction of my sight and will bring elegance to the page.' These were the patterns and lines that cycled through his mind while he did his letter practices. Before even a single word was inscribed, every letter had to be lined in or “painted with focus and orderly beauty” as his mentor would say five times. Once that was done, which always took up the top third of the sheet and used to take up half the sheet when he was truly useless with the quill, it was time for words. At first short, simple words, the most obvious things in Avanthal from snow to ice to oak to breeze. Then to longer words, preferably ones that required the shifting between miniscule and majuscule letter forms. Avanthal, Morwen, Skyglow, Icewatch and so forth were then inscribed. At last, always at the bottom few inches of parchment, came one or two sentences. He had to keep to things he knew so the flow was encouraged as much as possible, but he was also reminded to try and make a flourish with his wording. “My most beloved treat comes from the dark and hidden organ within the fanged hunter of the snows” was an example, and probably his most written thing to date “Your art is not and will not be the kind that makes the simple man go slack jawed in awe. It will not be the sort that looks flashy nor the kind that shouts its own value into the sky. It will be the sort that allows all such things to exist. It will be the sort that underlies and begins the generation of beauty and value, and is therefore beauty of its own, and equally valuable. However, you have not reached such a position to create such beauty. You are however, developing. Do not lose hope Stas, it will come with your deliberation.”

END

[Cheshire]

Character: Stas Grigori Experience: Cleaning +1, Mediation +1, Reimancy +1, Observation +1, Calligraphy +1, Writing +1 Lore: Shaping Ice with Magic, Proper Posture, Additional Note: Great thread Stas! Keep up the great work! PM me with concerns.