Near an old shack

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Killraven
GM of Battlemages
Posts: 328
Joined: Sat Apr 26, 2014 2:09 pm
Guild: Battlemages

Near an old shack

Post by Killraven »

It was an old ramshackle building, there among the driftwood and polished rocks that scattered the blue sands. It appeared to be where the lock master stayed.

It wasn't.

For years he had hidden here by the water, on the Isle of Hopes and Dreams. There were fish for the eating, though he hated them. It was peaceful enough. He didn't get much if any news there, which may have been for the best. Time passed, as it does, and with that some healing. He'd been stunned to look down at what appeared to be a baby's hand jutting from his forearm, and a baby's foot from his ruined calf. They were as useless as they looked, and it was nearly a score of years before they would support his weight or grip with any appreciable strength. He'd put a bit of weight back on, but the red lightning scarring remained, and he remained balded.

He still could not feel the magic around him. Nor the existence of his Steed. He still clutched his chest when there was thunder, and he quivered in mortal terror at the thought of returning anywhere where there was snow on the ground. He tried not to think about it.

He failed, a lot.

He spent his days there on the Isle, remembering how to move.

And then, out of nowhere, there was a flurry of fur and noses and there She was. Before he could blink, she was rubbing her nose to his and showing him forged armor he had designed a lifetime ago.

Omnicat.

He felt overwhelmed, especially when she'd shanghai him into a group of other mortals, but he did it best to look normal and feel normal, and had even cracked a joke. He didn't really feel like himself yet.

But somehow, other people either didn't notice or care.

So he sat there, by an old shack, and took stock of his situation. His Battlemage gear was ruined, and he figured going back into Frostfall or to the Guild would kill him, so replacing it was out. He should have felt pride at what he'd been shown, work he'd done outside the guild, but it was awkward. He'd always defined himself by the guild he had served, and not wearing the Crystal Armor that was it's hallmark felt like betrayal.

But maybe if he was armored, he'd be less afraid. And maybe if he felt less afraid....

Then maybe someday he'd be Killraven again.
Killraven
GM of Battlemages
Posts: 328
Joined: Sat Apr 26, 2014 2:09 pm
Guild: Battlemages

Re: Near an old shack

Post by Killraven »

Magic is believing in yourself. If you can do that, you can make anything happen.

Try as he might, the Magick would not come. It was outside his senses, away from him. He was whole, or as whole as he was going to get, but that part of him was as missing as his hair and sense of purpose. He felt the weight of each of his 295 years, and they were heavy indeed.

As the tree limbs hung over the nearby river, dropping leaves in the water, he stretched out for what felt like the first time in an age. He winced as his joints popped, sounding like a cannonade going off with each twist and turn of his body. He winced harder when he caught a glimpse of himself in the river.

The old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be.... The song came unbidden to his mind. He resolved to murder its composer. At least once. At last he finished his stretch, and he seemed to have no more joints to pop or crack, and he looked to be exactly what he was: a man with entirely no idea what to do next. Dropping to his hands and knees, he pushed himself up to his toes, and began to do some pushups.

And there was nothing at all magickal about those, either. He'd meant to do a hundred. After seven his wrists ached and his back bowed. There were similar results with situps, knee bends, and any other exertive moves he made, and after experiencing a coughing fit ninety steps into what had meant to be a lap around the isle, he felt hapless, helpless, and hopeless.

That last part might be blasphemy, you know.

Shut up, you.


Was this then what he was worth now? There was a distinct lack of outrage at this thought, and at anything at all, really, and maybe that was part of the problem too. Outside the feebly formed plot to murder a composer, he seemed to have lost any real capacity for violence. He'd never known how to be "just some guy." It's part of what made him so awkward to both be and be around him.

He sighed when he might have growled instead. She believes in you, even if you don't. Others might too. But as long as you don't....

He let that hang there in his thoughts for a time. Then he went to sleep, and the next day he began again.

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