Solo Qualifying Mother's Legacy

[Lindel Ward]

Ward residence, Stormhold Citadel 5 Spring 513 AV It had been a good day, as normal. Though the spring showers were resuming their cycles, and the farmers followed suit in haste to sow the fields, things were good. The air was strange of course because of this, the damp scent, maybe the vague odor of manure drifting over from the farmlands not too far away. Still it was hard to ignore more immediate scents too, a rich smoke from a smith fire, or the sweetness of sugar that made the mouth fill in a desire to be filled - something originating from a bakery no doubt. it was perhaps equally strange that such familiar things were still strange to him, not that Lindel minded them to severity. He walked with his mouth and nose exposed no less, the smirk of youth scribbled on his face as a thin line showing as he took in the renewal of the city. The rain was the same, the people had not changed, and it was the same routine, yet still a new liveliness was in the air, new beginnings perhaps as the doe will birth her faun, one day to become a gallant stag. He forgot himself though, making princes of the forests out of mixed smells. It was a good time though, as it should be. Still but sixteen, tomorrow that would change, and at age seventeen he'd be all the more a man. Though he walked with the responsibilities of one, it wasn't necessarily accurate to call him one. Such things do happen that the young take up the mantles of the old, and carry on, carry on. Seventeen years ago tomorrow he would be born. That was a nice thought, a ran well with the theme of it all: life. Still, how precious it is, so easy to come, and easy to go. Perhaps that is why spring was welcomed and so good, yes, life, but also the forgetfulness of death. How long had it been now that she had left this world in the winter? Never mind it; it cannot be changed or helped, and now it is spring and one should think spring thoughts. Surely then, life too was good. An honest day of work earned an honest man, no matter how young, an honest pay, and before long he'd make a treat of it. He wondered if father had made a cake in the day while he was gone, sending out a girl to fetch the flour and sugar and other things for a pretty penny - Lindel didn't know much of cakes, besides the moist texture and rich taste of course, even from less than rich ingredients. He had done well as a father, not that a bastard could complain about having any father what so ever. It was for the little things like this that though they both suffered, they both survived and truly lived what lives their could in their apartment, not much more than a cock coop. It was late afternoon, again as normal, and Lindel was just heading home. He thought of what tomorrow might bring, the sweet smells in the air dousing all others as his appetite for imagination swelled over him. They'd have something sweet, and maybe he'd have a drink or go out for one with friends. He'd bring his father if he could bear to walk long enough. And if that didn't work they could take the time to bring a drink back, and everyone would have their cups, and they'd play cards. They wouldn't have the same music or atmosphere of mirth, but surely Lindel - with his artist mind - could devise a way to make joy for them all. He moved through the corridors, exiting the lowest tier some minutes ago, and now traversing the maze of halls and doors and more halls, the solution imprinted in his mind as plain as the ink on a page - black on a milky white if the paper was good, such definition and contrast if left to dry properly - quickening his steps as he came to the stones, the familiar depressions in the brick that could be felt with his steps, and then... He slowed his pace and felt the number of the apartment door and knocked three times as he always would before announcing in a happy, yet tired, tone, "Father, I'm home," through the crack in the door as he pushed his way in and let his eyes adjust from the brilliance of the torches to the humble glow of a hearth. He stripped away his cloak, a precaution to the rain, and a nice layer to keep a bit warmer in the cool air, setting it aside on the front chair. He was mildly surprised to find the room empty, though the fire had been built to keep the room well lit and warm for an hour to come, not raging too much. He shut the door behind him to keep the heat in. "Though it would seem you are not," he added on, lofty now, with no happiness about it. An honest young man with honest work and honest pay, something to value, but never enough. He took advantage of his solitude and let his exhausted self fall to the wide bed in the corner. They had sold the one from his youth after his mother died, young Lindel no longer appearing so young in stature and the money always being useful. The bed was traded between their shifts. His father still did some sort of meager work where he could, when he could, mostly in the nights when Lindel needed to sleep and escape any noise. Even then he would stay up, maybe write, or read if he was bored. "Must be preparing that treat for tomorrow. Clever old man, he'll say he was on another job, as if that peg could take it." Lindel looked up to the ceiling of the room and eyed a peculiar stone he swore looked like a face. He'd talk to it to excuse himself of talking to himself, not that there was anything wrong with that. It just might drive some people mad, he thought, or the mad ones do that at least. "But he cant fool me, no, no. Sigh... Sigh-uh. Suh-igh! Now, Lindel, you should be putting your dirty feet up on the bed, and you'll be needing to wash up before then. Right, right, get up or be an oaf, just do it quickly. Ugh," he groaned, swinging his feet and looking for the basic, bucket, and soap. With a "hup" and short jump from the wooden frame, he was up and setting up before the heath to wash up. He would bathe in full tomorrow. The bucket was best kept for for all emergencies, though they did need to look into getting some sort of sink or tank. The utility of water was purely essential. Lindel spilled some off into the basin, set up moments before by the fire to keep warm. He removed his boots and shirt, critically staring down the black gunk under all his nails and in every crevice of skin. Soap in hand, he started to scrub his feet and hands. Sometimes it felt good to get your shoulders and upper back, let the air cool and dry it, and to turn around if you ever got cold. He worked from a chair, good for more than holding up asses. "Maybe they'd allow us to open up that hearth a bit more, and we might put a bucket there that's always full of water. So long as the hearth is lit, the water stays warm, for all our needs. Put some stone between it to make sure it's never to boil, or maybe...maybe an oven of sorts to move it back and forth. A stream that runs the length of the castle might be good enough, so long as no hooligans start to piss in it. Oh well Lindel, you'll just have to wait until tomorrow to take a nice warm bath." He finished up well enough, his wet feet pattering over the hard stone with echos of little splashes. He could dump the water outside, not like it didn't get wet from the showers or anything. He took back to his perch by the fire and began to dry, hands flexing over the aura of the flames, the heat becoming too fierce, turn away your hands and show some palm and repeat. He rubbed his chin, maybe needing to shave soon too. Winter was over, and he wouldn't have much use for a beard. Even the finest of facial hair made it seem warmer to him, regardless of the ineffectiveness to hold heat. The mind does that sort of thing to people. It might have been two bells now since he had come home, and still no sign of father. He didn't think he'd seriously get out to work to early, but he might have been determined. maybe there was some cunning plan under way he really was in a surprise for. It was dark out, beyond the rows of fire, and the sky lit up with flames of its own past the cloud veil. Lindel gave up on waiting and rummaged through the cupboard for any sort of jerky to eat, and a cup for water, the same water with which he could bathe. Makutsi be praised, the water was good enough. He could grab a fuller meal in the morning too. How strange that nothing had been made ready though. He got up, replaced his shirt, and went straight for the desk. He retrieved the math basics, a blank book, a quill, some ink, and moved back to the table. He as strong enough to lift and drag it over to the fire for better light, rather than wasting candles. When all was settled, he peered down and began to reach for the math book when he saw another book, worn, a decorative buckle, fairly old looking thing. "What have we here?" The math book and things were put aside gently, as he valued them, but curiosity was calling to him. He had not seen this book before. Lindel turned it right around and began to inspect the unarmed covers before he undid the buckle and opened it up. The scent reminded him of the saturated mud outside the castle, in the fields when the rain was heavy and the ground swelled among the grasses near the road side. It was that sort of strange musk, dampness, as if it had been in hiding, though it didn't look or feel wet at all, to some gratitude. He read the cover, Amelia Ward, written in a plain hand that spoke of his mother's elegance. The font was precise, but had a trickle of ink or added tail that added the proper character, sophistication, education, what have you. He began to read on the first page, not much of a bit of any page left with space. The date went back before he was born, a mere introduction to the text, a gift to a young woman, a journal, the text being read with the sweetness of her voice in his head. He felt sad to read it, but this had been left for him without a doubt, so obviously left there, but and how had it been hidden from him? He skimmed the pages, watching the ink become heavier throughout, the text smaller, strokes more aggressive, with designs and diagrams of the body and geometry he didn't learn yet. He would learn it, any smart man had. He scrolled back through the text and searched diligently for the shift in writing, a date that had been marked, some explanation to what this all was. Flipping through he saw the word underlined, "projection..." a study of projection. "I had never figured you to be a wizard, mother. What have you done?" He leafed back through the journal feeling guilty for his neglect of the foreword or what ever pondering she had expressed before this study. The weather was nice, something about a man - maybe Lindel's father, but alas only in a vague, business-mannered text meant for her and her alone to understand - truly nothing much beyond sentiment before this look at projection. She referenced the sketch of a hand, surprisingly good for Lindel's taste. He compared the two, noticing her detail for the knuckle, and wrinkles, and fine hair. It looked much like hers. He was biting at his dried lip absentmindedly, picking at the skin as something else picked at him, inside him, and he felt its bite. "You really shouldn't, Lindel... I submit, this is far too interesting." He found himself in the middle of a page, somewhere past introduction and theory at practice. It is odd to see your hand and feel it, but then to know that is not your hand you feel, but your own soul. Each knuckle is like a key hole waiting to be unlocked before even the tips can begin to move freely from their carnal shell. I recall watching the shedding of shells on eastern shores in Zeltiva. Like the crab, there's a detachment from the shell, and the gentle, patient wiggling of your way out from it to the back and then it is free. Naturally, I anticipate the reattachment of the soul to be much more complex a maneuver, but capable no less. I have read that while it is so simple to address the key joints and break free, and be effective in projection by doing so, this abuse of the body and soul would lead to many likely consequences. Perhaps I read into this too much, but there's no harm in safety, especially in the control of an experiment. Lindel's head was halfway tot he page from where it started, his elbows posted on the table to keep his head up and focused, his eyes wide and focused in the warm light. "I can't believe it's hers. She really was something...incredible." He didn't notice that he'd broken his lip, the humidity coming on too quickly, his lips still being dried and susceptible to his habitual nibbling. He read on about the process of it all, doubling back for the foreword and key words, soul, djed, manifestation, and so on. He propped the journal on he thick of the mathematics text and sat against the light of the flame at and angle, illuminating the page. He set his hand alongside the text and began to read the language naively. She spoke of detachment of the soul, a focus on the very essence of such things, djed. It was something of substance, yet intangible, something to visualize, yet invisible by nature. He rolled his sleeve and read the process again, highlighting lines with his eyes, marking their place on the page by sheer memory as he read and reread to reach the concepts of their content. He was ready, he felt his arm, his very soul occupying flesh. He closed his eyes and went through the checkpoints, imagining the magical structure from the tip of his fingers to his elbow. He thought of the bone underneath, the framework of this body that he had explored for years now, that cylinder shape the flesh could twist around, the whole skin moving with it. He felt at ease, as if being released from the prison of himself, the routine of this life, dreaming of what new life style might become of mastery of the magical arts. He raised his soul up from the table and reached for the heavens, feeling the lightness of his mind between utter darkness and the dimming light of the hearth. He cracked his eyes and found his arm, there in the air, wholly intact. What a bunch of rubbish, he thought, and went on to retrieve more wood from the front corner to fuel the hearth, to build a flame worthy of a night of well rest.

[Lindel Ward]

He gathered the few logs and made his way to the hearth, gingerly stacking them in the back, reaching well over the low flames that still burned with such remarkable intensity. He wondered why his father had left the book out at all, or maybe he wanted to talk about it and her. He had loved her very much, and he loved and accepted Lindel as his own. He couldn't have been a bad man at all to think of speaking ill, even if the journal was, well, since it was strange. He turned the chair back towards the flames a bit more, a nice way to stop and think, to admire the power and warmth and let the hyper mind deteriorate to ease like the wooden teepee in the fire, a gradual and blackening decay. He always imagined what it must be like to live in fire, or be able to touch fire. He never had, because he had heard and seen victims of fires over the years. Stupid people with their reimancy magic burned down entire quarters. Or at least they nearly did, it was bad either way. He'd just like to reach into the warm of the ash, its radiance so awe-inspiring. He could shuffle around the hot black and gray, the crumbling wood that resembled stone and could be ground up to sand to be shoved around and toyed with, or pummeled further to a powder to cover your face in to make fun with, like actors and artists. It washed off easily. He could just see himself now, taking not more than a finger-full from the cold hearth on hot summer days, the very barren ones when even rain seems scarce for a week. No, that would be too much, he was younger then when the kids would play and make faces not their own out of the ash, more like a pinky-full... He leaned in further, furiously blinking as if he'd see a ghost in the fire. He saw it, int he ash, as if someone had taken the poker and dragged it through a solid inch deep for a distance. he re-imagined the memory, his mind carefully going over the very words as if he had done something the book specifically said to avoid, and now, with all luck of his life, he had summoned a spirit who wanted his body. And then it happened again, and he stood up from the chair, backing away from it, into the table, and away from the fire wildly looking around the darkened room for any other signs from the paranormal. He saw it again, some sly apparition manifesting in the world. It had taken up the soot of the hearth and marked itself, hanging low, like the dotted nose of a child, just a thimble. Lindel watched as it hung in the air, and as his eyes focused it moved in and out before he was stepping back and it was stepping forward; he reached for the wall, and saw it shift too blocking his exit, his escape. He couldn't avoid it, and no one had ever taught him of such things. He heard them though, talks among the taverns, even if he was drunk too, malevolent spirits that Dira was either after or responsible for. His eyes focused in again, and he saw the ash move in closer and closer. He couldn't even call for the knights. Never had sword cut the air. This was unheard of to him. He made the decision he'd just run for it. He took a few steps it was clear that he could not evade it. he swatted fruitlessly against the air as the shifting spirit either evaded or attacked itself. It was a panicked fight between the stuff of souls that would bring no end. He darted for the door and got his hand up on it ready to tear it open and shove his way out. The spot of ash had followed him and brushed itself onto his pinky and the doorknob, a sloppy spread with the fragments of ash that kept lingering in the air or on the wood. His eyes widened in new surprise and he ran back for the book, the fire of the hearth rekindled and bright, and he read again the notes of this projection. He grabbed at his left pinky, the stupid thing that was never useful at all. He... he felt it in his hands, and as he twisted the flesh around the knuckle, he felt it too, but he couldn't - or maybe it was just nerve dead from, no - he couldn't feel the end of his finger. "Lindel, you foolish boy, you've done it." No, no he had not, he reconsidered, this was just a fluke, but it could be done, she was right, and whatever the book had been brought out for, he was unraveling its mysteries.

[Lindel Ward]

He tore a sheet from his blank book and furiously got to work, still sparing no accuracy. He traced the outline of his hand, and began to mark off the joints in a rough sketch of the detailed figure from his mother's journal. He looked back into the flame, imagining the digging of his pinky into the scorched wood ready to break apart and poked into it, and he saw the faintest flash of color among the pile, some glow that didn't belong. He refocused to his sheet, making a crude line of ash with the projection of a little appendage. He was shocked, to say the least, but not yet complete. He began to imagine it now, maybe some sort of translucent form, flowing like water, that same glow from the fire... He had the quill in his right hand, intently looking between the two as he did what he could to track and confirm what was happening. "Each joint is like a keyhole, but what is the key, hmm? No, that's a stupid question. Detachment, it's merely a metaphor." He went through every fiber he could imagine, the release of each joint from the body, the soul taking its true form free from flesh. The rest would peel away with ease if one was gentle, or run the risk of tearing something kind of important. He moved down the page with each joint: each digit and knuckle, several in the wrist, and finally the elbow. He began to write on the side of his check-list sketch as well. His own observations needed to be recorded: sensation of - detachment, freedom, weightlessness... He wasn't sure what to make of something so surreal to his mundane life. When he was finally sure he had unlocked the portions he had wanted to, he began to imagine and move his arm to peel it away, the thought that cam was like the dissection of an orange, and how the cuts inside peeled away carefully and wouldn't tear from their membranes. He couldn't see it, but he felt it. His arm was at least a foot up from the table, but as far as he could see for certain, it remained put on the table. His focus began to blur, as he moved his whole left arm, shoulder on, upward and pointed out. His arm hung there, supported by the mere physical design of the elbow, the wrist left to dangle limp, and no sensation reaching his mind from the elbow down, but he did feel his left arm no less. He twisted his shoulder and saw his arm and hand dangle again, supported by muscled that simply had a naturally tension. He recorded this too, the lifelessness of his body, though he could still tell blood pulsed and it wouldn't go dim like the dead. He raised his arm up again, felt the strain and cracking in his shoulder, the strangeness of dead weight hanging from his body, yet being able to comprehend a sensation beyond it all the same. he raised it up and through a punch in the air, a clumsy left hook - he was never a fighter. He could feel it, the power, and he imagined it too with all his weight shifting, and he did shift his body, but the only thing he left in his body was the sloppy movement of his elbow from points A to B, the rest oft he arm bending to gravity's whim. But he had felt it, a powerful punch. he couldn't adequately describe it beyond this: his arm could punch, but the body arm would not, though he left the energy of it, there visibly was none. It was one of the strangest things. Lindel returned to his page and went to rest his head in his hand while he would focus and write. He began writing, and soon had a stray mark on the page as his head went through the air for a limb that wasn't fully there. He picked himself up, assessing the damage, and was sure to make a note of such a folly. His hand, though still in the room, seemed to be beyond him. Foolish Lindel began to feel his arm again, and move it to a familiar place, say his chest. He was slow, at first, and tried his best to qualify the baby steps needed to achieve this feat. Impatience got the better of him, and he raced an open palm for his heart. A two fold attack on himself, he managed to shove himself enough to cause a scare, and from that jumped back and began to fall in the chair to the ground, adjacent the hearth and table. He felt his projected arm his the ground first with force before his body and the chair did and made a thud, the light tap of the quill following him down followed after. He rolled to his left, not wanted to stand up in the fire, and tried to post on his forearm. The fool, without a limb, he slid forward a again and rolled onto the floor in total disarray and helplessness. He had no control of his own body. He began to shift, and with his sweeping elbow and the dragging flesh, he saw a wisp of ashen dust move along the floor like a wind had blown through. Finally he got himself up, and stood, retrieving his quill and noting all that had happened, surely to be a history recording of the magic. He moved to brush his hand through his hair, his left of course, the lesser hand that was used for such trivial things while the right slaved away as the pilot. He only felt the gentle brushing over the top of his tallest hairs, his hand being vaguely close. His whole arm moved with it, though the limp parts slouched and turned to get in the way or slap into his body. The whole act was becoming something truly foolish, Lindel realized, but still, had it not been so remarkable? To think, hours ago how different his excitements and torments were, but now this, and how blind he was to the rest.

[Lindel Ward]

He finally composed himself and began to make a measurement of it if he could. He picked up the journal, the sheet, and the quill and set them out on the floor in front of the bed, the heath light passing through the table, legs casting thin shadows, but still a worthy experimental setting. The book was left open, the dry quill tot he right and sheet in the bottom center oft he book, a twisted "L". He sat on the bed and looked steadily at his left knee as he moved, or imagined to move, his arm there, to grab hold of his knee. Carefully now, leaning in a bit, his upper flank moved forward and his limp arm slouched between his legs, still he sensed his true arms somewhere. He could feel it, get a sense of the relative position, and shift it around. He looked down and imaged where it ought to be, and put his dead arm in the right place, shifting the fingers over the cap, and then he felt it. Though not his knee, he felt his arm and shifted himself around to feel where it was. He moved his eyes to determine a position, and with a flex, a fist, he thought he could see, even briefly, the faint outline of his soul. Next, to test his control, he looked forward while feeling his arm at his side, out of vision. He wanted to move it forward, but then he felt the shift of weight over his legs and the movement of his shoulder. That wouldn't do. Lindel replaced his hand on his lap, and began to move again. He felt the tendency to move his full arm in reaching for something, not a struggle, but a habit. He was chewing his lip again and his shoulder twitched once or twice before he isolated the control on his arm, and began to imagine it with shape and form. He reached down and felt the paper, pushing it over as he visioned it, and folded a corner. Lindel began to light up at the thought. He moved for the book next, and he lifted and replaced his hand on the page and dragged it across, turning the pages. It was a gentle sweep, but still a degree of control. He reached for the left corner of a page and began to pick at it until the corner came and he could pinch the page to turn it over. He felt the excitement now, and had become unaware of his left arm going fully limp for all intensive purposes and hanging at his center. Confident, he reached for the quill and moved down to pinch it up. His accuracy was sufficient, with wide enough a grip with the fingers to start he couldn't really miss. Lindel closed the fingers in around it, rolling the quill up into his imagination of flesh turned invisible if it helped. He got a hold of it by the shaft, and hovered the quill back to the torn page - maybe a foot off the ground as if working over a desk - before lowering it and letting it drop the inch back. His arm retreated to his knee and his shoulder shifted back as he reflected on what he had just done. In disbelief he looked back at his limp arm and tried to move it, fruitlessly of course, but still with awe. The new projector gathered the belongings and returned to the table and light, moving forward to reach the reattachment process. As he had figured, it was not much different than the reverse. He settled with his checklist again and put his arm back on the table. He was careful to settle things back where they belonged, even a step at a time. He reattached the elbow, and the feeling of the wooden table and the pressuring weight of his arm became apparent. He reattached the wrist, and took a poke at his forearm with the quill for good measure. He felt the prick, a good sign. He began to work his fingers back in one at a time, testing to make sure everything went in right. When he moved his middle finger with what should have been the ring, he realized he had somehow missed and undid the process again, replacing everything to the proper appendage. He made gentle shifts, just to make sure things were returning to normal. Gods, what was to be normal anymore after this? he finally put his thumb back to the right joints, imaging pins running through flesh to secure all vital points before the soul swelled back into the arm. It felt strange, as if his arm had been in a bucket of ice for a time, a temporary numbness or unfamiliarity. He could flex it all though, easily so, and nothing felt out of place or hurtful. Five minutes and he was moving it again normally. Lindel pinched every part he could and waved an arm around just to make sure no stray fragment of the soul might have gone astray, but it was good, all good indeed. He couldn't wait to tell his father what had happened. None of this could wait to be discussed. It overrode any plans for the day ahead. Lindel put on his boots and cloak, made himself suitable for the castle commons, and went for the key. He pinched his left pinky to make sure he felt it and it was attached right this time before he tool the key, ran out locking the apartment, and rushing off to find his step-father.

[Lindel Ward]

Lindel sought out his step father at the expected places: a tavern, work, fumbling around the Great Bazaar. In the hour he took to look he was unsuccessful and quite panicked. In the years of taking care of the old man, he had adopted a strange sort of need to care for him. He doubled from the lower levels up as far as he could go, no knight or person having recollection of the man's appearance. Any friends could only recall the other day or yesterday when he might have been in or seen hobbling through the citadel. At a last ditch effort, Lindel checked the gates. There was no reason to be there though. He asked around and heard the same replies. No one here very much knew him either, and here a foolish boy was running around looking for him. He ran up to a knight on patrol atop his steed ready to be chastised for such a barbaric and sketch approach an introduction. He inquired for his step father in full description, and with a stroke of luck was given an answer. "I believe so, boy. He went that away, down towards the docks. Now behave yourself, and for the Gods steady your heart." Lindel stormed off though the castle after the rumor before he came to the north harbor in the Bittern District. With a few stray inquiries he found his step-father had been here. He lost the trail though. He asked everyone he could, and came to a scruffy dock worker who'd probably wanted to be left alone. "Ya, he went that way. The ship set off for uhm...Alvadas, I think? That or he threw himself into the sea. By the Gods, who knows what people are doing in days like this. Are you alright, you look sick?" Lindel began to lose himself to the confusion of the moment,, so many things, very exciting things, happening at once. He went back home for the night. He was ridiculously tired and over tired and unaware of what was happening in this swirl. He went back and resumed reading the journal. For all that was now left to questions, at least some answers could possibly be salvaged from this text. He went on reading into the night unaware of the bells that passed in the flow of time. "Subjects...experiments..." Lindel's tone dropped and he slouched back into the chair and read names and titles from a distance, "my son...my husband..." and maybe others after it. He closed the journal and went to the bed, removing his boots and just laying atop the covers staring up at the brick with a face in the fading darkness. He closed his eyes and cried a little while trying to understand it all. What was one to make of life, let along life like this? At least it had been a good day for the most part.

[Accolade]

Lindel Ward

Experience

Skill	XP Earned
Observation	+ 5 XP
Meditation	+ 1 XP
Projection	+ 4 XP

Lores

•	Lore Earned
•	A study of projection
•	Understanding the length of reach in projection
•	Learning to reattach
•	Applying gentle force - projection use

Notes :

Very nicely written, uniquely imaginative!

The Sylir has spoken

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