"Where are Seraphina and Bexley." He asks again to a stranger who does not know. Eik knows there isn't much he can do for them now anyway-- he had simply wanted the reassurance they were safe, unlike the man he had passed out in the Mors, wandering the wrong way. He looks around at the madness surrounding him. The ramparts are slick with ice and snow- horses are falling on the way up and down- and the streets are packed with horses trying to make their way inside.
There is nothing I can do.
Helplessness rises in his chest, so sadly familiar. It cripples him- he cannot even save himself, does not even want to if he can't be of help to others. He thinks of that man again, the one he left out in the snow. What was his name? What was his story?
Suddenly, in the pit of his despair, magic flickers into his awareness. It pulses with a certain sense of independence, and he knows (the type of knowing you are not sure how you know) this is not a thing to be wielded or even tamed... not yet at least, but perhaps it can be worked with-- he feels a place deep within himself resonate in response to its violent energy. He makes his way to the southwest where the worst of the blizzard is held back by the court walls (it's coming from Veneror, he realizes, stomach twisting) and without knowing what will happen he submits mind, body, and soul to the wild magic.
At first, all he sees is brilliant white. The howl of the blizzard becomes magnified louder and brighter and colder and just when he thinks it is going to consume him in a blaze of white anger-- his vision cuts to black. He extends feelers into the darkness, first prodding shallowly then delving deeper and further. There is an odd shape far away, and the magic in him flows out and gently grasps at it. There is another, off to the left, and as soon as he realize it's there the magic reaches out and grabs it too. One after another, his magic tethers him to these odd shapes.
Eik does not know how long it takes him to realize these shapes are horses lost in the blizzard. It is as though he always knew but had simply forgotten, like a childhood memory so buried and internalized it has shaped the landscape of your adulthood-- and yet it takes a whiff of a long-forgotten smell or a certain pattern of colors and shapes and you're there again and it all makes sense, that little quirk about yourself that before had just seemed like a random side effect or a few misplaced genetic sequences.
He can feel them out there, their strength, their weakness, as keenly as an extension of himself. He can feel the cold they feel even though his body is ablaze with wild magic. He tries to pull them toward the court but he cannot sustain it. Like a lighthouse, his signal comes and goes-- a mental tug, and then silence. Another tug, more silence. But with every beacon his strength wanes. His summons become weaker and weaker, with longer pauses between each one. Until the magic depletes itself entirely, and the connection flickers and then fades completely.
When he opens his eyes he is slumped on the ground, steam rising weakly from his sweat-soaked hide. Even tucked behind the outer wall, the wind has whipped his hair in a tangled mess and deposited a fine layer of snow on his body. Exhaustion forces his eyes closed once more, this time to a darkness that feels oddly lonely.
(After an unknown amount of time, a cold shiver awakens him.
From the red-grey darkness, a feral whisper from the survivor in him,
the guardian and the demon-
Move)
He scrambles to his feet slow and clumsy, every cell in his body painfully exhausted. Eyes closed (he knows the way, every step) and ears tucked to his neck, he puts his head down and begins to trudge slowly, so very slowly, toward the inner court.
- - - - -
I cannot tell if the day is ending, or the world, or if
E I K
the secret of secrets is inside me again
There is nothing I can do.
Helplessness rises in his chest, so sadly familiar. It cripples him- he cannot even save himself, does not even want to if he can't be of help to others. He thinks of that man again, the one he left out in the snow. What was his name? What was his story?
Suddenly, in the pit of his despair, magic flickers into his awareness. It pulses with a certain sense of independence, and he knows (the type of knowing you are not sure how you know) this is not a thing to be wielded or even tamed... not yet at least, but perhaps it can be worked with-- he feels a place deep within himself resonate in response to its violent energy. He makes his way to the southwest where the worst of the blizzard is held back by the court walls (it's coming from Veneror, he realizes, stomach twisting) and without knowing what will happen he submits mind, body, and soul to the wild magic.
At first, all he sees is brilliant white. The howl of the blizzard becomes magnified louder and brighter and colder and just when he thinks it is going to consume him in a blaze of white anger-- his vision cuts to black. He extends feelers into the darkness, first prodding shallowly then delving deeper and further. There is an odd shape far away, and the magic in him flows out and gently grasps at it. There is another, off to the left, and as soon as he realize it's there the magic reaches out and grabs it too. One after another, his magic tethers him to these odd shapes.
Eik does not know how long it takes him to realize these shapes are horses lost in the blizzard. It is as though he always knew but had simply forgotten, like a childhood memory so buried and internalized it has shaped the landscape of your adulthood-- and yet it takes a whiff of a long-forgotten smell or a certain pattern of colors and shapes and you're there again and it all makes sense, that little quirk about yourself that before had just seemed like a random side effect or a few misplaced genetic sequences.
He can feel them out there, their strength, their weakness, as keenly as an extension of himself. He can feel the cold they feel even though his body is ablaze with wild magic. He tries to pull them toward the court but he cannot sustain it. Like a lighthouse, his signal comes and goes-- a mental tug, and then silence. Another tug, more silence. But with every beacon his strength wanes. His summons become weaker and weaker, with longer pauses between each one. Until the magic depletes itself entirely, and the connection flickers and then fades completely.
When he opens his eyes he is slumped on the ground, steam rising weakly from his sweat-soaked hide. Even tucked behind the outer wall, the wind has whipped his hair in a tangled mess and deposited a fine layer of snow on his body. Exhaustion forces his eyes closed once more, this time to a darkness that feels oddly lonely.
(After an unknown amount of time, a cold shiver awakens him.
From the red-grey darkness, a feral whisper from the survivor in him,
the guardian and the demon-
Move)
He scrambles to his feet slow and clumsy, every cell in his body painfully exhausted. Eyes closed (he knows the way, every step) and ears tucked to his neck, he puts his head down and begins to trudge slowly, so very slowly, toward the inner court.
- - - - -
I cannot tell if the day is ending, or the world, or if
E I K
the secret of secrets is inside me again
Those lost in the storm will feel a sudden mental pull toward the court. After a few minutes, the pull will fade to intermittent tugs. The frequency and strength of these tugs will decrease over the next hour or so until fading completely.
... I hope it's okay that I sneak this in past the deadline :3 sorry for the rambles!
Time makes fools of us all
