[Flashback] At least it isn't a hangover (Ezra)

[Jett Variona]

4th Summer of 511 AV Left hook. Dodge. Counter. Straight right. Focus. Focus. Don't let the fact that your entire future depends on this fight distract you from- A sickening crunch rattled his brain and mussed his thoughts as pain sharp as daggers shot up through his face. That's what happens when you don't focus! Jett Variona yelled at himself inwardly. The other hopeful had split his knuckle on Jett's jaw, but was grinning through the pain at the solid hit he had managed to get through. Cocky bastard. He had been on the defensive through most of the fight while the other initiate was pounding desperately trying to break through his guard, but now it was time for his onslaught. Drawing upon all his strength and knowledge taught to him from his uncle (who was in the corner of the fighting rink looking emotionless), Jett began a flurry of blows that both surprised and caught the initiate off guard. After a few connections to his chest, Jett was finally fended off. The roar of the onlookers rose, but he was oblivious to it all. All that existed was the fight and the satisfying ache in his knuckles. The initiate brought something to the fight which the future monk did not expect. He fell backwards, causing Jett to think that he had already defeated the man, but instead his leg flared around his body and lashed out in a sweep which brought Jett to the ground. After that, the initiate rose his fist to the heavens and uttered something that sounded remarkably like an incantation. In fact, that's precisely what it turned out to be. A pale, blue light conjured up from the man's chest and crept up to the upraised fist. Jett's uncle's cool demeanor fell, and he almost cried out. However, he had forgotten that he had shown his nephew some of the magic of Flux, and Jett was not too phased to delay his reaction. He rolled quickly to the side, deftly avoided the deadly attack. The ground cracked and shattered underneath the blow, a move that would have ended Jett both in the fight and quite possibly life. But Jett was not without his own tricks. After regaining his feet, the future monk smiled widely and pressed his own fist to the ground. A short rumbling later and the res within him seeped out into the dirt, and tore the stone underneath. He morphed and shaped it as his uncle had taught him, and now his own fist was securely coated in sturdy stone. The crowd erupted into madness. They had not expected to witness a fight between apprentice wizards, much less something as interesting as two fighting mages.

[Jett Variona]

The initiate's fist was a hurricane through the battlefield, but Jett stood as a bastion against the wind. Each flurry of blows was met by a swift dodge, or a sturdy block. The future monk weaved the stone to the best of his minor ability. He stabbed the ground with outstretched fingers and brought forth the earth, arcing it through the air in chunks large as a dog. But his skill was small, and his aim was terrible. What pieces managed to find their target were shattered with a fist charged with the art of Flux. The situation was quickly becoming desperate. The initiate was clearly the better mage, though Jett was far more disciplined. His mastery of Flux was astonishing, and through the battle Jett had to admire at least that. A worthy opponent. A good fight. He would buy this hopeful a drink, after he put in into the ground. There it was. The opening. Flux, though powerful, took energy to maintain and Jett had been playing the defense, dodging and feigning attacks to tire the man out. Luckily he was not so fool as to give into the temptation of the Sweet Whisper as his uncle had explained to him, and had to retract some of his power in order to refrain from over-giving. His next hay maker was slow and lacking power; Jett grabbed the opportunity. He planted one leg firmly down onto the ground and allowed the res to flow from his toes. The magic gripped the already scarred floor and pulled it up, bolstering his stance. With his other leg he swept around in a half circle to the left behind the man's leg, simultaneously dodging the blow and creating the opening to the initiate's back. He brought his hands together and the red stone enveloped them both, and Jett brought them down powerfully upon the man's back. He staggered forward and his legs caught onto Jett's, but the future monk was solidly attached to the ground. The initiate fell, his right shoulder blade cracking underneath Jett's blow and his nose shattering against the ground. The winner here was clear.

[Jett Variona]

"Why do you believe that you should have the honor and the privilege of becoming a monk?" The old man asked with scrutiny. The fight... the fight had been easy this time. But this? This game of wits was far more difficult for Jett. He had a philosophy, this boy. If he could not defeat something that meant he simply lacked the means or training to do so. It was true when he had been weak before and his uncle had taught him the way of integrating magic into fist, foot, and spirit. Anything he could not put down with the brutish power of his hands he could destroy with the solidity of rock. But neither rock nor fist could break down his own barriers, his own fears of rejection. How was he supposed to explain in words what he believed could only be conveyed in combat? His silence was quickly becoming awkward. The old monk shifted in his seat, obviously stiff from his age and eager to have this done. But Jett was frozen. All he could think of was failing this portion and then returning to his family once more as one not quite good enough. He had tried this initiation three times now, but this was the very first time he had moved on to the interview, rather than being turned away for being too weak or being an ass about finally winning the fight. His second fight had been shortly after the training his uncle provided him and, although his uncle did not think he was ready to prove himself, Jett had been the first to participate. The boy he was put up against was like he had been the first time. Weak, green, eager. But now Jett was powerful, and he hated this boy for being the embodiment of his past failures. He gloated to the crowd, said he could drive this kid into the ground even without the use of his newly learned Reimancy. He humiliated the hopeful, toyed with him and then finally beat him down bloody. There were no cheers for his vanity. When he learned that he would not be moving on with the initiation due to his petty behavior, Jett threw a fit worthy of a scorned child. In the end he could find no more people to blame other than himself, and that made him even angrier. Luckily his uncle had not abandoned him, and thanks to his efforts Jett was finally able to move past himself and understand what it was to be humble and have a sense of honor, the true hallmarks of a warrior. From that moment, the boy vowed to instill these traits into himself whenever he could, even if he should never find a future within the order. Jett opened his eyes and let out his breath. The old monk seemed surprised, but not nearly as much as Jett himself felt. All this he had thought was in his head, but now that reality returned and memories faded, he realized that he had spoken what was in his heart. It was a moment before the old man spoke. "Xannos would be proud of what you have learned my boy. Return to your home and rest now, for the Aperture awaits you."

[Jett Variona]

He had to admit, he looked pretty good in white. His mother had brushed and argued with his hair the night before, and it shone like onyx in the morning sun. She had even taken a razor to him, and was surprisingly good at it. If he weren't so lazy when it came to personal appearance, he would have decided to have his skin this smooth every day. How Jett looked paled in comparison to the beauty of the morning. The air was always at the perfect temperature at this time, and one could almost taste the sweet dew in the air. The scent of wet stone found its way into his nostrils, the scent of home. He liked to believe that the rocks of the city shared a kindred spirit with him, and that the Reimancy was a means of subtle communication. Surely for one such as Jett, the Aperture should welcome him. Or so he hoped. The old man he had impressed in the interview stood near him and put a hand (wiped clean of any dirt that may sully the pure robes before the descent) on his shoulder. He must have looked nervous as he stared down at the mysterious depths of the Aperture, so he tried to banish any further signs of it from his face. The pressure lifted from his shoulder, and a sound of wood hitting against itself told him that the old man had lowered the rope ladder down over the edge. A canteen was pressed into his hands. It was time to face the unknown.

[Ezra Crenshaw]

Something had changed in the Aperture. He was certain of it. The gap overhead between the rigid walls never varied, though principles of erosion would suggest that it should. The ground hadn’t shifted, at least no more than it already was, pitfalls in places, steps in others. And the vile monsters seemed to be just as cruel as ever. Even the very contours of the walls in that three mile long fissure felt the same, twisting and bending around the city of Nyka up above while the denizens only stopped long enough to chuck superstitious sacrifices over the ledge. They had pelted him before with their donations of mostly rotted rabbit carcass or slightly bruised apples and on several occasions even managed to stir up trouble with the local wildlife. In fifteen long years, Ezra Crenshaw had seen everything the Aperture had to throw at him. Still, something was different. The feeling was like the residual charge from standing out too long in a thunderstorm. It started one night in mid-winter of 510 After Valterrian, a beacon erupted through the sky, emanating from the darkest pit of the cursed crack in the earth. A light so powerful that it riled up long perished ghosts from their shallow tombs in a harrowing display of devious power. Ezra had heard of the powerful magics of the world before but never wanted to experience them, and watching as those centuries old beings moaned and staggered their way towards the source of that light was enough to give him nightmares for the rest of his life. Had he not been full up on nightmares to begin with. Nykan’s liked to say their city lives with them, an organic entity who’s every rise and fall is like the heaving of their collective breaths. The city itself had at it’s foundation the fragments of a ruined civilisation piled atop the ghosts of another ruined city. He knew. He had felt the buildings of old, examined the chiseled stone or clay that constructed them, traced the columns and bizarre architecture with fingers that became dried out and brittle as the years passed. The life those Nykan’s felt, the superstitions they had developed, even the supernatural appearance of ghastly entities and their long standing fear of venturing out at night. Ezra had met them all and lived to tell about it. But that harrowing night when the dead left Nykalia’s City, a place he dared not enter, Ezra could feel the Aperture spring to life. He knew it was time to leave. He only needed insurance. Passage through the narrow sections of the crevice required adept maneuvering, he was lithe enough to fit but never wanted to press up against the walls for too long if it could be helped. 'What if they feel through the vibrations in the walls,' he thought. Maybe it was just a superstition of his own, but he didn't tarry long enough to find out. It was also the right season for the trials to begin and he’d have to be quick if he planned to reach the bridge in time. There was no time for resting but looking up he could just make out the sunlight through a canopy of dead roots and settling rocks. Only a few bells left till the initiate would plummet into his home, hopefully this one would be a survivor. The practice of stranding a hopeful in the foulest belly of the earth with nothing but white robes and a canteen seemed archaic. Just another superstitious offering to the Alvinas, though it was more likely a display of the order’s infantile sense of humor and their beloved practice of hazing. Dead or alive, everything in the Aperture had its use. There were many such uses for a live monk and many more for a dead one. The canteen would be a welcome switch from trying to glean water from the exposed roots that stretched deep enough into the Aperture or collecting it from condensation or runoff in the winter. The white cloth could be stretched to make for blankets in the cold, pillows in the heat and bandages for emergencies. While the body itself made for excellent bait and when picked clean the bones would serve as both entertainment and future tools. “Every’thin’ has a place, says m’lady,” Ezra whispered as he continued on towards the west central bridge, “and I’ve a right proper fit for some young’un. Though I ‘spect I’d rather this’n be livelier than most.” He shuddered then stepped over the weathered bones of some long forgotten monk, one of the countless lost souls trapped in the place. The gap widened up above allowing trace amounts of sunlight to trickle to the bottom of the pit. In Ezra’s opinion the western bridge was the best place to take the trial. Sunlight was rare in the Aperture, especially for long periods of the day but with the distance widened light had more opportunity to scrape at the ground. The surface was smooth with few blemishes that could trip or injure and the walls lacked nasty crevices where all manner of deviant creatures thrived. A hopeful could easily go the entire three day span without ever encountering a single soul during his trial. But three days was a long time, more than enough for the old man to work at them, earn their trust that he wasn't just some illusion cooked up by the madness in this place. Experience had taught him that the mind did more damage to the fearful than any monster ever could. Ezra patiently waited in the shadows. Soon the rope ladder would touch the ground and the initiate would descend. He wouldn’t rush out and expect the initiate to embrace him with open arms, he had tried that once before and it did not end well. No, Ezra wanted them to get acclimated to the place, wanted the last bastion of hope to dwindle out from their eyes like the final bit of wick burning out on their last candle. The rope ladder would be tugged back to the cliffs edge, well out of reach and they would be left all alone. And this was perfect. He wanted them to need him. The familiar slap slap slap of the rope ladder snaked its way down the sidewall of the split earth and the rope went taught under the descending figures weight. Something felt wrong all of a sudden, the air hung tight in the small expanse like the creatures and the moss were standing still, praying not to be spotted by whatever loomed in the darkness with him. And that’s when he smelled them. Several figures crept by his ankles, narrowly avoiding brushing up against his knees. He was not the only one waiting. The initiate would have an eventful trial after all.

[Jett Variona]

With each step downwards the sun faded backwards, despite its desperate attempt to remain lord of the sky. The kindly old monk's face became indistinguishable from the other onlookers, then became no more than black irregular shapes on a pale surface. The Aperture became a beast, swallowing him up whole. The ladder was quickly getting redundant, and the nervous fear was replaced by impatience for its end. It was the same boring things over and over again as he descended. He did not know how long it had been already, but he wanted action even before he reached the ground. The night before Jett had dreamed of fighting off gigantic birds with teeth in their beaks while still on the ladder, one hand clinging on desperately and the other punching one in the beady eyes. He had never punched a bird before. He supposed that kind of stuff only happened in good dreams. The floor took him by surprise so quickly that he almost stumbled onto his back, but thankfully he still retained his grip on the wooden steps of the ladder. It seemed safe enough. They hadn't let him drop into a nest full of bloody thirsty creatures it seemed. It seemed. Jett let go of the rope ladder and stretched out his limbs, cracking his fingers one by one as the tool of his descent was raised up again. No sooner had it slid out of sight that Jett felt a sharp and excruciating dig into the back of his leg. It was like something had taken a chunk out of the muscle. He screamed and brought his leg up to cradle in one hand, while the other leaned against a nearby stalagmite for support. "By the holy ass of Xannos!" Jett cursed loudly. Whatever had attacked him scurried away quickly, content with the meat he had taken. When Jett pulled up the now blood stained robe to inspect the wound, he discovered that it was not nearly as bad as it felt. The thing had bitten into him, and it hurt like a bastard, but he could still move it and put pressure on it without too much effort. As he was wiping the blood off another skittering noise was growing louder, and whether or not it was the same one Jett could not tell. He would let it get closer, let it think it was catching him off guard. At the last second Jett roared and lashed out with all the Reimancy he could safely muster, pulling up a thin wall of rock in front of the noise. Luckily it was enough, and the creature that lunged at him met a resistance strong enough to stop it and bring forth a guttural cry of pain. Jett found a sweet satisfaction for the short revenge in that. But unfortunately that might not have been the best idea, as Jett soon found out. A piercing cry stabbed through the air, making him wince. By the sound of it there were tons of them, and they were all around him. Well, maybe not tons, but enough to give him pause. It looked like the future monk would get his fight after all.

[Ezra Crenshaw]

This was the first time the deafening screams had been so close. In the decade and a half long exile, he had heard this sound only a couple times, always far off in the distance. It reminded him of pigs falling all over each other for a place at the trough, they’d wiggle and cry out these earth rattling screeches and all for a chance to get the best slop. Horrifying lumps in the shadows encircled the initiate, raising up on their stubby hindquarters to squeal in unison. More emerged as the earth shifted to their presence. Ezra thought he could make out a shimmering scale and a pair of beady eyes but the darkness was so thick at dusk that the last glimmers of sunlight left the Aperture in the shade. Ezra pressed his left palm against his mouth to stifle the audible breathing, unsure of the creatures’ sense of sound. Nimble fingers of his right hand traced along a bony hip, settling atop the hilt of a small dagger he had scavenged. His free hand snaked around the weapon, silently removing it from the sheath and with a flick of his pinky the hilt settled against the underside of his hand. He held the tip of the blade pointing down, an eye watching the movement of the creatures to see if any spotted him yet. They didn’t seem to notice. If he quietly crept up to the monsters he might be able to dispatch of one but there was no telling how many others lurked in the looming dark. The old man strained his eyes, soaking up more of the dwindling light from above in an effort to make out the number of shapes surrounding the stranger. It was no use, whatever they were crouched too close to the ground. He could count five silhouettes of the ones standing but the sheer volume of the screeching denoted a far greater number. ‘Aperture’s End,’ Ezra thought silently chastising himself, ‘I don’t know their story! I can take th’ one but th’ other’s’ll turn right quick, an’ rip me t’pieces.’ The fiendish monsters started their decent, moving counterclockwise around the defensive man. Ezra could make out the white robe and long dark hair, likely a Nykan who grew up wanting to be a monk. Not much of a stretch as most every Nykan shared that same dream. There was something wrong though, the man had dispatched one of the creatures but the rules of initiation required them to survive with nothing more than a canteen of water. How was this possible? ‘At worse there’s a dozen, full pack o’ th’ creatures. I hear a’sniffin’ at th’ air but they walked right past my stink. They’re small enough t’fit betwixt m’legs yet at full standing they reach to my waist. Might have scales an’ they can move through the ground,’ Ezra thought, mulling over the barest of details against the host of treasured tales his father had told, ‘none of da’s tales are a fit!’ The bandaged man sighed, there was no way to run. Once they finished the initiate, they’d have ample opportunity to run into him. Once the monk-to-be failed to satisfy their hungry bellies then Ezra would be next. That settled it. Cursing under his breath, Ezra slowly crept towards the nearest shadowy lump. He nibbled on his lower lip as he motioned to saddle a downed branch, the leaves had all fallen from the rotting husk but the twigs stretched out for him like the stems of a Dourdem root. His right foot safely planted as he propped himself against the cliff wall for leverage, hoisting his left to follow in suit. The low guttural growl of the creature was much louder now and he brandished his knife should it turn to face him. Snap. The creature whirled around with a snort as his left leg caught the branch of the fallen tree. The growl became louder as it eagerly clapped against the dirt, sniffing its way toward the old man. It was alone. The massive rodent lunged, threatening Ezra with large tusk-like fangs only to be stopped by the blade of the dagger burying into the creatures abdomen up to the hilt. Its mouth went slack as it collapsed to the ground, Ezra pressing against it’s chest to pry the weapon free. That made another one down, Ezra squinted to make out the stranger, and see if he would need to run.

[Jett Variona]

They were hit and run monsters, that much was sure. Luckily they were none too quiet about it; their claws scrapped and scrabbled along the rocks around him so he simply had to see with his ears rather than his eyes. It was something his uncle had taught him not for use in not just for fighting but Reimancy as well. One had to feel the stone to manipulate it, eyes were useless. It was something that Jett knew how to do, but there was still much to learn. In any case, these rats or large dogs or whatever in Xannos's name these things were were coming in more earnest now. He needed to get to higher ground, or at least some place with more light. One leaped at his throat but met his fist, another immediately after went for his leg but missed barely. That was when he heard the scream, human and ringing to his ears against the guttural sounds of the creatures. Someone else was down here, someone else was being attacked by these things. It couldn't be a monk, for there was never more than one lowered down at a time. Whoever it was, he had to help them. By the time he found the old man there were several of the beasts around him. Jett came in with a roar, kicking and punching and throwing rocks desperately. The sheer ferocity of his attack dismayed the creatures, and after a few short skirmishes they were eventually forced to retreat, leaving a panting and bleeding Jett standing. That old man turned out to be Ezra Crenshaw, and from that moment on the two of them became close friends. Jett would help pave way for Ezra's return to Nyka, who came with him back up the ladder. That night, the two survivors of the Aperture shared a toast in the tavern.

[Jett Variona]

Much of the ceremony that happened afterwards Jett did not remember. His wounds were deep and his body was parched, causing his mind to grow befuddled. Still he soldiered on. Still his aching feet yearned to collapse beneath him, but Jett would not allow himself to fall until his devotion was complete. His robes were torn and bloody, hardly clinging onto him at all when the time came for him to remove it. The kindly old monk who had interviewed him winced almost audibly at the brutal gashes carved into his body and Azura's lips tugged into a frown. He bowed his head and said the words, the binding vow that would be instilled into his soul for all eternity. Jett Variona would live by those words, though would never say so. He was the optimist in his new duty, the drinker, the teller of jokes. Those that met him enjoyed his company, and those that crossed him were fought. He would make himself out to be a brawler and a gambler, but not once during his days as a monk (no matter how hard he grumbled at it) did he shirk his duty or his devotion to those that now stood before him. The day would come where his faith in the Celestials and everything that he secretly held firm within his heart would be tested, but for this day he repeated the words he had memorized and pledged himself and argued with his trembling legs. The ceremony was complete. Jett was a monk of Xannos, and on that night he was deaf to the protests of those around him and drank and made merriment till the sun peaked over fair Nyka.

[Liar]

EXPERIENCE AWARD Jett Skill Points Reimancy 3 Unarmed Combat 2 Philosophy 1 Wilderness Survival 1 Lore The Vows of a Nykan Monk The Depths of the Aperture The Earth’s Discipline Marrow Dog Ambush Seeing with the Ears Items Water Canteen Set of Robes with Hammer Insignia 1 One-handed Warhammer Notes It’s unfortunate the fight had to end so soon, but it was a good read nonetheless. Congratulations on becoming a monk! I've PMed you a link to your Storyteller Secrets thread. PM me with any questions or concerns.