I liiiive.
Blah. This isn't getting any more finished the more I stare at it, and I can't remember exactly where I was going with it, and I just realized it might be nice to let people know that I am alive now that college has taken a break from KICKING MY ASS. So. Have a Nabradian morality tale.
“Of course, it is a matter of placement. If one draws a figure in counter point to that which has been used to set the seal, one may channel mist at a countercurrent to the magicks imbued, and place the seal under considerable strain-why do you ask, my lord?”
“Curiosity,” says the boy with wide and interested eyes.
His tutor’s crinkled face goes warm. “A fine quality in one your age,” he says, and continues.
The boy returns to the shrine.
It is the ideal place for a child to play. He found it by a chance misstep, having tripped and rolled down a slope. He’d raised his head and found a clearing in the wood, deeper than he was technically allowed to go. Forbidden territory, and this made it all the more attractive to a boy in the prime of his adventuring days. He trekked back up the slope and, marking carefully the path of his return, he was able to find it a second time, and a third. The place is easily recognizable: a circle of pillars, arranged around a flat stone. The stone is a glassy black, and smooth to touch. There are no cracks in it. It is instead scarred only by a network of lines, carved from corner to corner in the shape of a flower. Upon this latest return, the boy kneels beside the plane to touch these lines. They’re warm. They hum like a living thing. There is something under it, he knows. Something amazing, he is nearly sure.
He has brought with him a sack, one which he places down beside it. In it are an old tome, some mapping instruments, and a sack of chalk that had given to him as a gift on his ninth name-day; which was not long ago. The text is meant for older men, and difficult to decipher, but the important parts he thinks he understands. The tome tells him what the markings mean. It tells him that this is a sigil. It tells him that kings of the past once used this to lock great treasure and greater weapons of repute. The tome is thick, and has broken most of the chalk. He pulls out one of the pieces with a grave look. It will still do, he thinks. It will still do. The sun is at its midday position, and the birds of the Sailkawood are deep in conversation as he begins to plot out his points.
He connects them the way his tutors have taught him: steady, straight, and clear. The lines have to be perfectly even and perfect in length. He has never practiced it at this scale. It’s only little like the exercises he’s endured for years no: the tedious locking and unlocking of boxes, of windows, and non-essential doors. He worries that he will get this wrong, but he’s a bright child, and a good student. When he touches the center of the seal, it begins to glow. He feels a swell of pride deep in his chest. He has done it. He has done it right. He doesn’t notice that the birds have stopped sinking. Or that the wind has ceased to blow in the branches above. Or that the pebbles resting next to his knee have begun to bounce. He only sees the sweet white-blue light that means he has succeeded. It is so bright. So beautiful-
--but when the light fades, it doesn’t show the hilt of a sword, or the doors to a legendary treasure. It shows the top of a great black skull, a pair of angry red eyes. The child sees his reflection slashed by an ugly, vertical pupil; a membrane blinks over it. It throws him with a shake of its head. It’s mercy that he hits the mossy floor and not the stones, though either way his head rings at the impact. Meters away, the thing rises up like smoke from the earth, black, black, black and black; and its body doesn’t seem to end. This is all the boy sees before a different black clouds the corner of his eyes, and he doesn’t see anything more for a long while.
He wakes up to an empty clearing. The stone is cracked and cloudy. There is a dream hare peering over at him. Its ears drifting like feathers on the wind. It bolts when he sits up. There is no sign of the dark thing. There are no broken trees. No earth shattering roars. Nevertheless the fear of those red eyes seizes the boy like a vice, and he leaves the clearing, running as though the beast is snapping at his heels.
By the time he spots the blessed shimmer of the sun setting over the palace lake, his father’s men have finally found him, and through their scolding he has convinced himself that he imagined it all.
“You should not wander so,” says his father, sternly. “These woods are ours, but the Light does not extend to its greater depths.”
The boy stares into his dish, contrite. “I know, Father.” There are dark places, for dark things to go, if these dark things are even real. He tells himself they are not, but if they are perhaps they will stay there. Perhaps…
“You are too dear our heart,” says his father, less sternly, “For us to risk you so.” His expression is soft. It cuts.
“I know, Father,” says Rasler, once more. “I will not travel so deep again.”
Two nights after the incident, the boy opens his eyes and sees them reflected a curved white wall of teeth-
--he wakes up with his heart in his throat, but it wasn’t really there. It wasn’t real, and Verdpale is still standing in the morning. He keeps watch at the window until the sun rises. Just to be sure. He repeats this vigil three nights in a row. By the end of it, destruction hasn’t come and his instructors wonder at his poor performance in his sword lessons, but the palace is safe.
“Elsaban had an excellent text on the nature of sigils, yes, it’s true. It is a little advanced for you yet, however…”
Rasler winces. There is an empty slot in the shelves of his library, and he is ready to confess it all. “Master Ma'kleou. That book is--”
“The diagrams are perfect, to be sure! But the text, I’m afraid, leaves much to be desired. Very dense. Very overwrought. It’s very unfortunate. Elsaban was a skilled rune seeker, but I’m afraid his ego oft got the better of him. It was his undoing, you know. Three hundred years ago…” Nu mou need only half the breath of a hume. They can speak for much longer lengths, and with much less pause. By the time an opportunity for interruption arises, Rasler’s engrossed in the story, and can only think to ask about that. Whatever else he’d wanted to say escapes him.
A wild chocobo bolts from the brushes, its feet making loud noises on the planks of the walkway. The king laughs at the way the men have all drawn their weapons in alarm. It is but one bird, and a brown besides! Let it go on its way! We are not hunters here and now. And come now, Rasler. Why so pale? See how the sun dapples down through the trees. We walk in the Light, today.
The engineer in the audience hall falls forward in the presence of the king. He’s so agitated that his wings will not stop beating, so what would’ve been a bow is instead more a crooked hover. His torn sleeves dangle and one of his ears is thoroughly bandage. He looks up, desperately. The king gazes back in sympathy. Standing off to the side, the prince’s face echoes his fathers. The boy is yet unaware of the practices in other countries; like in Archadia, where anyone who wasn’t hume was unlikely to ever catch a glimpse of the Emperor. Phaeton Heios Nabradia is a king who has always emphasized care for his subjects, no matter the size or the shape or social standing. When the engineer was found by a royal hunting party, burned and begging for aid, he was allowed to state his case.
“We were traveling by way of the Phon Coast, kupo. A creature attacked my crew and me. I’d never seen anything like it!”
“What did it look like?” says the king.
“Kupoo…” the engineer screws his eyes shut and thinks, dredging up the memory with a great deal of effort. He starts to shake. “A serpent in the sky. Black as anything, kupo. It went on and on and on--”
“You needn’t tax yourself.”
“Please, your majesty! My crew--”
Rasler feels the breath go out of his chest.
“Ho now, Rasler. What do we think we’re doing?”
The boy had fallen trying to dislodge the sword from its place in the audience hall. He now lay under its sheathed weight, hopelessly pinned. It was larger than it had looked; he was smaller than he had estimated. The crystals of the hall blink on all at once. His cheeks burn as his father approaches, kneels, and removes the weapon with one hand.
“You shouldn’t make a game of such artifacts,” he says, gently. “You may have been cut.”
“I am responsible,” says the boy.
“Responsible?”
“I must right this.”
“Right what?”
“It is a wyrm slayer, isn’t it?” His father’s brow furrows, he continues, with passion: “Then it should be used to slay the wyrm!”
“Were you planning to do this, Rasler?” The young prince looks away, guilt-ridden, and the king laughs. “That is very brave of you, my boy, but your time of valor has not yet come. Allow me, in this instance, to go as your proxy.” He smiles, and the child thinks of red eyes and dark smoke. He cries out, throws his arms around his father’s neck, and tells him everything. Afterwards, his father does not strike him, nor does he even scold, just stands and stares thoughtfully out the door.
“Can you remember where this shrine lies?”
The boy, sniffling, nods.
“Can you take me there?”
“Yes, father.”
Phaeton Heios Nabradia lifted the blade. “Then I am glad you have told me this. Come, now. We must leave at once.”
“Of course, it is a matter of placement. If one draws a figure in counter point to that which has been used to set the seal, one may channel mist at a countercurrent to the magicks imbued, and place the seal under considerable strain-why do you ask, my lord?”
“Curiosity,” says the boy with wide and interested eyes.
His tutor’s crinkled face goes warm. “A fine quality in one your age,” he says, and continues.
The boy returns to the shrine.
It is the ideal place for a child to play. He found it by a chance misstep, having tripped and rolled down a slope. He’d raised his head and found a clearing in the wood, deeper than he was technically allowed to go. Forbidden territory, and this made it all the more attractive to a boy in the prime of his adventuring days. He trekked back up the slope and, marking carefully the path of his return, he was able to find it a second time, and a third. The place is easily recognizable: a circle of pillars, arranged around a flat stone. The stone is a glassy black, and smooth to touch. There are no cracks in it. It is instead scarred only by a network of lines, carved from corner to corner in the shape of a flower. Upon this latest return, the boy kneels beside the plane to touch these lines. They’re warm. They hum like a living thing. There is something under it, he knows. Something amazing, he is nearly sure.
He has brought with him a sack, one which he places down beside it. In it are an old tome, some mapping instruments, and a sack of chalk that had given to him as a gift on his ninth name-day; which was not long ago. The text is meant for older men, and difficult to decipher, but the important parts he thinks he understands. The tome tells him what the markings mean. It tells him that this is a sigil. It tells him that kings of the past once used this to lock great treasure and greater weapons of repute. The tome is thick, and has broken most of the chalk. He pulls out one of the pieces with a grave look. It will still do, he thinks. It will still do. The sun is at its midday position, and the birds of the Sailkawood are deep in conversation as he begins to plot out his points.
He connects them the way his tutors have taught him: steady, straight, and clear. The lines have to be perfectly even and perfect in length. He has never practiced it at this scale. It’s only little like the exercises he’s endured for years no: the tedious locking and unlocking of boxes, of windows, and non-essential doors. He worries that he will get this wrong, but he’s a bright child, and a good student. When he touches the center of the seal, it begins to glow. He feels a swell of pride deep in his chest. He has done it. He has done it right. He doesn’t notice that the birds have stopped sinking. Or that the wind has ceased to blow in the branches above. Or that the pebbles resting next to his knee have begun to bounce. He only sees the sweet white-blue light that means he has succeeded. It is so bright. So beautiful-
--but when the light fades, it doesn’t show the hilt of a sword, or the doors to a legendary treasure. It shows the top of a great black skull, a pair of angry red eyes. The child sees his reflection slashed by an ugly, vertical pupil; a membrane blinks over it. It throws him with a shake of its head. It’s mercy that he hits the mossy floor and not the stones, though either way his head rings at the impact. Meters away, the thing rises up like smoke from the earth, black, black, black and black; and its body doesn’t seem to end. This is all the boy sees before a different black clouds the corner of his eyes, and he doesn’t see anything more for a long while.
He wakes up to an empty clearing. The stone is cracked and cloudy. There is a dream hare peering over at him. Its ears drifting like feathers on the wind. It bolts when he sits up. There is no sign of the dark thing. There are no broken trees. No earth shattering roars. Nevertheless the fear of those red eyes seizes the boy like a vice, and he leaves the clearing, running as though the beast is snapping at his heels.
By the time he spots the blessed shimmer of the sun setting over the palace lake, his father’s men have finally found him, and through their scolding he has convinced himself that he imagined it all.
“You should not wander so,” says his father, sternly. “These woods are ours, but the Light does not extend to its greater depths.”
The boy stares into his dish, contrite. “I know, Father.” There are dark places, for dark things to go, if these dark things are even real. He tells himself they are not, but if they are perhaps they will stay there. Perhaps…
“You are too dear our heart,” says his father, less sternly, “For us to risk you so.” His expression is soft. It cuts.
“I know, Father,” says Rasler, once more. “I will not travel so deep again.”
Two nights after the incident, the boy opens his eyes and sees them reflected a curved white wall of teeth-
--he wakes up with his heart in his throat, but it wasn’t really there. It wasn’t real, and Verdpale is still standing in the morning. He keeps watch at the window until the sun rises. Just to be sure. He repeats this vigil three nights in a row. By the end of it, destruction hasn’t come and his instructors wonder at his poor performance in his sword lessons, but the palace is safe.
“Elsaban had an excellent text on the nature of sigils, yes, it’s true. It is a little advanced for you yet, however…”
Rasler winces. There is an empty slot in the shelves of his library, and he is ready to confess it all. “Master Ma'kleou. That book is--”
“The diagrams are perfect, to be sure! But the text, I’m afraid, leaves much to be desired. Very dense. Very overwrought. It’s very unfortunate. Elsaban was a skilled rune seeker, but I’m afraid his ego oft got the better of him. It was his undoing, you know. Three hundred years ago…” Nu mou need only half the breath of a hume. They can speak for much longer lengths, and with much less pause. By the time an opportunity for interruption arises, Rasler’s engrossed in the story, and can only think to ask about that. Whatever else he’d wanted to say escapes him.
A wild chocobo bolts from the brushes, its feet making loud noises on the planks of the walkway. The king laughs at the way the men have all drawn their weapons in alarm. It is but one bird, and a brown besides! Let it go on its way! We are not hunters here and now. And come now, Rasler. Why so pale? See how the sun dapples down through the trees. We walk in the Light, today.
The engineer in the audience hall falls forward in the presence of the king. He’s so agitated that his wings will not stop beating, so what would’ve been a bow is instead more a crooked hover. His torn sleeves dangle and one of his ears is thoroughly bandage. He looks up, desperately. The king gazes back in sympathy. Standing off to the side, the prince’s face echoes his fathers. The boy is yet unaware of the practices in other countries; like in Archadia, where anyone who wasn’t hume was unlikely to ever catch a glimpse of the Emperor. Phaeton Heios Nabradia is a king who has always emphasized care for his subjects, no matter the size or the shape or social standing. When the engineer was found by a royal hunting party, burned and begging for aid, he was allowed to state his case.
“We were traveling by way of the Phon Coast, kupo. A creature attacked my crew and me. I’d never seen anything like it!”
“What did it look like?” says the king.
“Kupoo…” the engineer screws his eyes shut and thinks, dredging up the memory with a great deal of effort. He starts to shake. “A serpent in the sky. Black as anything, kupo. It went on and on and on--”
“You needn’t tax yourself.”
“Please, your majesty! My crew--”
Rasler feels the breath go out of his chest.
“Ho now, Rasler. What do we think we’re doing?”
The boy had fallen trying to dislodge the sword from its place in the audience hall. He now lay under its sheathed weight, hopelessly pinned. It was larger than it had looked; he was smaller than he had estimated. The crystals of the hall blink on all at once. His cheeks burn as his father approaches, kneels, and removes the weapon with one hand.
“You shouldn’t make a game of such artifacts,” he says, gently. “You may have been cut.”
“I am responsible,” says the boy.
“Responsible?”
“I must right this.”
“Right what?”
“It is a wyrm slayer, isn’t it?” His father’s brow furrows, he continues, with passion: “Then it should be used to slay the wyrm!”
“Were you planning to do this, Rasler?” The young prince looks away, guilt-ridden, and the king laughs. “That is very brave of you, my boy, but your time of valor has not yet come. Allow me, in this instance, to go as your proxy.” He smiles, and the child thinks of red eyes and dark smoke. He cries out, throws his arms around his father’s neck, and tells him everything. Afterwards, his father does not strike him, nor does he even scold, just stands and stares thoughtfully out the door.
“Can you remember where this shrine lies?”
The boy, sniffling, nods.
“Can you take me there?”
“Yes, father.”
Phaeton Heios Nabradia lifted the blade. “Then I am glad you have told me this. Come, now. We must leave at once.”