To Test One's Spirit [Una]

[Edric Wingard]

3rd of Winter, 513 A.V. It was a typically cold evening in Avanthal. Snow drifted dreamily to the ground, coating any exposed surface it could find in a fine powder of perfection that nearly begged to be crushed underfoot. Each snowflake that was so unique – so different, glistened in the light of the ruling God, Leth’s ominous yet ethereal presence stimulating a scene of tranquil silence for one to bask in. A city that was usually bustling with activity was momentarily quiet as it slept, recuperating after a long days’ worth of productivity. Only a few select areas seemed to escape such hibernation, the pulse of excitement and merriment slipping through the cracks beneath doors and lighting the windows of establishments as people congregated together to remember the value of living. Even without the sun, life was precious – it was meant to be enjoyed and these party-goers reveled in the virile life that flowed through their veins. The Red Diamond Tavern was such a place. The warmth of the hearth that one would experience the tick the door opened, welcomed them into the celebration around. In groups people stood or sat together, speaking of inconsequential things with strangers and companions around simply because they could. No one seemed bothered by the grime that stuck to the bottoms of tables or the rickety stools that were both figuratively and literally on their last legs. Everyone present merely enjoyed the company they had, the assistance of alcohol an obvious enhancement to such a gathering. Near the back of the tavern though, an older gentlemen with a heavily scarred arm seemed to be speaking loudly, his appendages gestating wildly as his voice seemed to reach the climax of his tale. Guests of the establishment were leaning in closely, his talent of storytelling enrapturing his audience as they wondered where such a tale of adventure would go. One lass, her eyes wide with excitement, grasped her companion’s arm as she practically held herself back from leaping to her feet and scrambling away from the wretched ghost that was plaguing his story with ill-intent. “Aye, everyone didn’t expect us to make it out alive! But knowing my duty as a Spiritist, I knew I had to dust such a creature that was plaguing our people. So, I courageously threw myself in front of everyone, warriors armed with swords and all, and aimed my crossbow. My arms then, were sturdy and strong so I easily pulled the trigger and reloaded, watching as the dart connected with the ghost. The first one didn’t even phase it – it was that strong!- so I readied another, targeting its head instead. It was already beginning to break free from the first one, but the second shot pinned it once again.” The audience gasped. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice, “So, pinned, I began walking towards it. ‘That’s enough, Oh troubled one. Let me assist your journey to Dira,’ I said –after all, this ghost had just lost its way – but right when I was close, it broke free, racing towards me to attempt a possession! Well, I raised my crossbow, it had obviously been imbued with Soulmist, and I smacked that sucker right in the face, stunning him!” A hurray filled the air. “Without even thinking about it, I sliced my hand open while it was disoriented and slammed it into its core. BAM - dusted. The ghost disintegrated in my hands!” The crowd let out a roar at such triumph and the storyteller sat backwards in triumph, his hand reaching for a gallon of ale that he cheered the crowd with. Drinking from it messily, he swiped his face with his rugged hand to rid it of any stray droplets, grinning as he finished his tale with a dramatic bow, “And that folks, is how the legendary Jared, Spiritist extraordinaire, does it.” The tavern was filled with celebratory chants and cheers as the night wore on in Avanthal, Leth silent in his darkness.

[Una Tanta]

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Vanthan culture idolized oral storytelling in every aspect of life. Writing it down however...was a frustrating weakness the Charoda cursed daily. While many of them could read, their written literature was hugely limited. Stranded in the north most of the literature was Vanthan written but the limited focus on writing made the scrawl difficult to interpret. Instruction booklets made up the body of the library, but even these were often missing stages or using language only a Vanthan would know. Una had adored the library the first few seasons she had landed in Avanthal but she had quickly noted its limitations. Despite all these dreams the moment she had seen the Spiritist the day before her thoughts turned to Cy.

Though ghosts were a common and accepted part of land life Una had never experienced them. Few sentient creatures made their home beneath the waves, if ghosts existed there Una reasoned, they were dispersed so widely she wasn't surprised she hadn't seen one. Furthermore, The dark abode of the deep sea where she had spent so much of her adult life hid even the most obvious details. Anything short of one screaming out her name she would have likely ignored. The colourful place of her youth was so full of her imagination she didn't trust any memory as true, for it was equally as likely to be a creation of her fantasies.

So brief and focused was her internal questioning that she couldn't comprehend the internal struggle before her. All she felt and comprehended was profound selfishness. She had been so ready only yesterday to put aside Cy to pursue her own interests and it pained her to admit. In that moment the sickness she felt was so black and all consuming she could but stand and shake with it. As it swelled and choked her repeated it over and over in her head, "I live for Cy, I live for Cy, I live for Cy..." until the blackness faded and his light bringing face warmed her cheeks again.

That was how she found herself here, sitting across from the man that would reunite her with Cy. After the dramatics of the morning with the Frosthawk she had rushed to the library and questioned Jack about the Spiritist. He knew little of use but the one fact that had impressed on her was how desperate Jack was for an apprentice. Avanthal was a tight-knit community and many dead had unfinished business that left them as ambitious ghosts as equally a part of the community as the living in many ways. Perhaps this was exaggerated but Una believed it thoroughly and the joy she had felt was radical. Cy was here, somewhere. Cy wouldn't leave the world without her if he had the option to stay.

The Red Diamond Tavern had been an unexpected focal point in her Avanthalian travels and here she was again about to embark on another chapter of her life. She didn't have to give Cy up, she could fight to get him back. For the first time in a long time there was a living glow to her face and movement, no longer dampened with grief. She was thinking over this as he spoke, his words as silent as Leth over her ears.

She needed a moment alone with him. Waiting patiently, as still as she could be beneath the waves, for a moment alone. "Please...please please..." Una silently begged Laviku. Despite her begging the man was undeniably the center of attention and it didn't look like it was going to wane anytime soon.

Una was very aware of Vantha manners and though she longed to simply speak up and draw him away she remained bolted to the bench. Having so long been removed from the water the patience it had trained her into had begun to wane and fade, so much so she was soon twitching in her spot.

"A story!" She realized. The man obviously loved tales. If she could impress him with a tale of her own perhaps he would approach HER. Finally, she could still herself with self-delight. Vantha stories didn't need a title, nor an introduction. It was a cultural aspect many strangers struggled with. People gathered to share stories, but one wasn't passed the spotlight, one seized it for themselves.

She had told the story when she had first come to Avanthal and it was a ballad she had long practiced since then. This man obviously valued colloquial tales. A voice she had not often practiced. She bit her lip before she spoke and in deference to him added a jilt to her words often used in comedic tales.

"I saw a bear rise,
From the broiling waters,
at the port of Avan-thal."

The last part of the word thudded against the table heavily.

"He brandished his paws,
and cliffs of claws."

Rising rapidly off the table her voice boomed against the ceiling beams. Her face curled into a snarl, fingers expressing the ferocious claws her words described.

"Battering Ice Wall Gates came the windy beast.
Growing swiftly, it hunkered down,
Threatening Morwens icy crown."

Una almost paused in horror as she began the first line realizing she had missed a stanza but the ballad moved on easily and her face broke character for a moment expressing her delight. Distracted for a moment Una mentally noted the accidental improved transition.

Focusing again she expanded and contracted her body in time with the story, hands weaving above her head envisioning a twisting crown until the hands met in a gentle peak as far as her fingers could reach.

"Craven and unwilling to rise,
Avanthal knelt,
Not to Morwen that day."

Her voice dropped sullenly as she described the weakened Vantha. Careful not to make her voice drop as suddenly as the beginning of the ballad her voice stumbled awkwardly over the stanza. Inwardly wincing she moved, the Vantha would doubtless notice but hopefully admire her unfailing tempo?

"Jedara came,
bathed in night sky hair.
Wielding the moon,
She brought it to halt."

Una wrapped her arms around herself fingers wiggling over her skin to symbolize the billowing hair. At her waist she brought them out like the curved bowl of the moon. Arms bent, elbows at her waist her hand extended sharply as she said, "Halt." Focusing so strongly on the unpracticed movements paid off as they strengthened her vocal resolve.

"Too late is her action,
For so it is settled,
From the faring I turn, the going is fixed.
Craven and unwilling to rise,
Avanthal knelt,
Not to Morwen that day.

Jedara came,
Bathed in night sky hair.
Wielding the moon,
She beckoned Avanthal.

Then bright shone the morning
The Ice guards heeding,
They said they would charge as one mighty shield,
Yet each held the other back, eyes shifting.
If one were to sway, to stumble, or fall
For certain they would all.

Jedara came,
Bathed in night sky hair.
Wielding the moon,
She beckoned the bear.

Jedara rose.
A new path they pave,
Together.

All we, fight against the east gales
Armed with only companions
At the hearth we join together
To die, only when our friendship cease
Our enemies actions shortened, muted
abbreviations in the snow.
As our army, together a ballad,
a trampling ocean flow.
Avanthal knelt,
To Morwen that day..

The rest of her tale went off as easily as the rest, her hands and mouth curving fiercely and elegantly. As soon as she finished, eyes closing as Avanthal knelt, they opened rapidly to stare at the Spiritist hoping she had drawn his attention enough that he would approach her when people began to dissipate.

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[Edric Wingard]

Grinning, the story master basked in the adoration of his enthralled audience. It seemed like the night was going to treat him well if his viewers continued to bring him drinks in return for his stories. Cheering half-heartedly with a man across the room, Jared took a gulp of his ale and sighed, leaning back on the hind legs of his chair and crossing his ankles. It was a relaxed pose he took up; his body balancing his weight nicely as he watched the activity of the tavern. Turning his head to the side to listen to a comment directed his way by a fellow drinking enthusiast, the spiritist was about to grunt out a gruff response when his attention was caught by an abrupt slam of hand. Craning his head over a couple of lounging folks, he raised an amused brow when he spotted the disturbance. A little slip of a woman, it seemed, had decided to take it upon herself to start the next tale. Quirking his head to the side, he left out a dismissive laugh as she continued onwards; disbelieving that she could tell a good tale. Jared liked to think he was the leading authority on storytelling, so for his tale to find itself being skirt-chased by this chit was highly insulting to the man. ‘Let her sink,’ he thought darkly, his brow furrowed as she began drawing an audience; her story stealing his listeners in order to fuel her own. Taking another hearty swig of his drink, the man found himself scowling even more when the jerkiness of his actions resulted in the cup bumping his bottom lip and spilling spiced liquid down his chin. Rubbing it away roughly with his sleeve, the Spiritist figured that it would be best to just ignore the girl and continue his conversation with his companion. Unfortunately, it seemed that they had a different idea and with widened eyes, the man waved goodbye to Jared and made his way over to the snarling storyteller. Frowning at losing yet another listener, the man grudgingly turned his head back to the woman. She really seemed to be drawing a crowd at this point, and the Spirit hunter couldn’t help the feeling of jealousy that settled deep into his belly and curdled the contents within. It really wasn’t a pleasant sensation, he mused grimly, his lips pulled downward as he watched her tale begin to escalate. He had to give her credit for pulling out all the stops and really going for it. He found her hand gestures and body language entirely provocative as they easily drew the listener into the tale until their minds were racing with unique imagery. Each imagination created something different, that was the beauty of oral tales, but with each snap of her wrist or twiddled finger, she directed the mind so that it followed the story that was unfolding. Her voice was obviously too high to really hit home some of the lines, but he enjoyed the whimsical lilt she had adapted for many stanzas. It was a tale that seemed to carry well with the audience as it enhanced the merriment of the tavern because after all; stories and ale were the makings of any respectable Vantha. As the crescendo of the story hit, the Spiritist found himself shutting his eyes in order to better experience the emotions she was conveying. Like water shifting, he experienced the varying emotions of pride, desperation, defeat, hope, and finally victory. They swirled within his chest like an aggressive typhoon of feelings as they swept past his skeptical nature and crashed upon the shore of his grudgingly given respect. He was nearly exhausted after such a fluctuating tale of heartbreak, but just like her voice spurred on the hope for victory, Jared found an unexpected roar of battle erupt from his throat like some of his fellow people. They rallied behind the ending of her story, their pride in such a win really unfound considering they had never actually participated in such a fight, but there nonetheless. If they were anything sober, or while drinking, the people of Vantha were patriotic to their homeland and its queen. Coughing gruffly into his hand as the emotions began to simmer to hot coals, the man turned his attention back to the storyteller. Taken aback for a moment, he realized that the girl was staring at him in a nearly expectant manner. Raising a brow, he silently wondered what the little chit wanted. Not one to ever wait for anything, Jared began making his way over to the girl; excusing himself occasionally whenever someone had the misfortune of bumping into him. When he stood at a respectable distance away from her, his form allowing him the necessary height to stare down at her in intimidation, he said rather blandly, “You got spunk, kid. But you need to work on that tongue o’ yours so you don’t go trippin’ over lines and ruin the imagery of a tale.” Frowning down at her, he waggled his finger at her face rather distractingly, “You muck up a stanza like that with a sober audience and your story won’t be well received. No one wants a stuttering idiot telling them tales!” Nodding to himself as if satisfied with the advice he had just given, Jared took a moment to take a swig of his ale, his mug nearly empty. Letting out a rather watery cough, he thumped his chest with a closed fist before going on again, “You finished well though, chit. Who showed you how to tell?”