Merrin knows his error; Failure to sense the force. The inner control still eluded him. That, as much as acting the veilCounsel, was a needed skill. Fingers claw against the throat, rasping for air. It is hard, even the hands grow tired of the repetition. They fall, slapping into the hard earth. Unlike reality, these do not sear off flesh—a good turnaround.
Then the bird drops from the sky, waddling forward, its size barely the totality of his head. It smiles, somehow, says, "What a theatrical posture you have adopted."
Merrin wants to strangle the creature.
It flaps its wings, waving ashy dust, "Give it a moment. Enough with the playing."
And Merrin gasps, power flooding into his senses and flesh. Rejuvenated. He turns, hands pressed against the earth, back trembling. Sweet. An orgasmic sensation that flickers his eyes, an itch in the brows. "You could have told me, given time, it would return."
"You should have known it does." The bird retorts. "Experience alone teaches this."
"Mist you!'
"Damn you!" The bird takes to the sky, tunneling through a brume.
A moment of considering the significance of the 'damn you' term passed, Merrin sitting up, staring at the distant heavens; the brittle gate. The mark of his fall and insignificance. How far away it seems now—up there, looking down—a sameness to how he is viewed now by his people—a godly thing to him, a God to them.
He stands, dusting off the grey from his clothes, sleek, angled black. Envisioned, of course. Easier, perhaps, he could think the stain off, but the little things. It reminds to remember he was still human. A god in their minds, yes, but a human nonetheless. There he would play the lofty role, here….more of the same. But the little things. That should always remain.
He cracks his fingers, the snap echoing through the ash-scented world. Pure, undiluted by the distracting noise. Then, the currentness fits into his awareness, eyes scanning the created world. Mountains on all sides, sky shimmering, lakes flowing into a river of queer glass. Beauty for perception.
But more so can it be.
Despite the growing strength, dripping into his body, he knows now the accurate limit of his force. In this world, its restoration, although faster, is fed away in casting. Especially for the creation of a world. As it should. Such nativity should be hard; less man caused the work of god a cinch. That must never happen. Not by his hands, at least.
A sigh leaves him standing, eyes locked on the sacred form of the dark castle; spires stretching into the sky, black. A holy thing. Often how he forgets its origin. A symbol from a fallen. Now it serves as his greatest source of power. He takes it, makes it his, and deepens the myth its might provides. The illusory control he has over his people stems from this.
A gift from the dark.
Odd how beyond the ashman, the El'shadie seems a creature of Stygian. He smiles. Pattern within Pattern.
And he waves, the world trembling beneath his feet, the sky tearing through with bouts of thunder. A chaos for something so small. Almost as though it were a battle. No matter. Eyes sealed to the darkness, feeling the distant connection of his Ardent. The one ever made to watch over the highBorn Ivory.
He calls to it, knows it, and channels the symbol of the dreaming: The dream castle.
Time to meet the thief!
Ivory gasps, hand snapping for the gloved fingers. Nothing. Just the pale feeling of own skin. No emerlt. Her eyes open to the familiar darkness of an endless world, the humming of silence, and the chill of the unseen. The works. A breath flows out, invisible. No pain from motions.
Good.
She moves in that darkness, searching. Differently, now there is the total cognitation, mentation as fluid as it were in reality. This, of course, was not the material world, something else. A world in her dreams, perhaps?
Regardless…she awaits the eventual outcome. For now, she files the study of this world into the inner archives. For later. And she walks on, trailing the lightless paths for an uncertain destination.
What should I do when he asks for the history of Valor? Ivory thinks, arms crossed behind. Or one of the high family? A lie? Would he tell the difference, or would he ask a trick question to prove my truth? Or is this something he can achieve with simple casting?
Questions within questions.
Outside that, he is bold enough to return even after Father. That should prove something. Either Argon's words are true, or he is something different. An inexperienced power? A caster with a gift? No. Impossible. He claims to have multiple forms; Elmiran, that surely puts him beyond a redeemed, perhaps a sacred or saint, but Father still states him unversed. Just a brute with force.
Another improbable thing given he can pull me despite the wardings into a dream. He has symbols for sure. middleMind at the very least. But he lacks control? A brute, yes. She sighs. A meaning is in there somewhere.
A caster who is able to give force and symbols. That symbol. Ivory resists the recollection. Dangerous to visualize such an odious concept. A thing that writes into reality. Imposes its laws on space and matter. An abstract. She rubs the side of her head, shifting thoughts.
He is powerful; that is a given. A deciever then? A liar who plays the weakened role to provide a false sense of weakness? If he had defeated Argon, then saints would be provided as a countermeasure. But he didn't, hence no such might was arranged. Was that the idea? I, less protected, he gains unlimited access to me. Was that it?
An intelligent plan, as expected for a caster. But dangerous. A veilCounsel with such a power surely belongs to the House of Noctis. Could they have freed themselves from moaning their dead highness to create such a thing? Maybe they did. It plays well with the ruse of weakness they present.
The weakest part of Noctis is Nightfell. Odd, given it is their seat of power. But it fits into the logic. A feeble clan with a frail seat. No highness. No strength. They play the role expertly, as though they invite something for themselves. See us. Come find us. That's the message. That also presents the possibility. Whoever this veilCounsel was, he is in Nightfell.
But again, it could be the trick. A power does exist, and any Caster beyond the acolyte can potentially figure this out, a deadEye even more so. Which means it's another. A power exists, it is in Nightfell, but it is a warning. Do not see us. Do not come for us. We are powerful and we know it. Let us be!
But for what? What does Night do that the light must never know?
A radiance glows in the distance, consuming the darkness of this world, calming. She smiles. Let me see what happens now. Hands cross forward, over the stomach, one atop the other.
And the darkness is gone, light raying across her features. She stands now, before him, awed at the newness. Ahead stands I AM. Profile obscured by the ring of light behind him, clothes a sleek, elegant long coat. Black. Similar to the aesthetics of valor. Rather intentional, she thinks, but is more marveled by another.
A world.
Mist, she stands in a world. The sky a shade of parodic hues; red in blue, gold in black, swirling. Like a mash of contradicting colors. Even the clouds are exaggerated around the edges.
What is this?
Then there was the below-world. Vast mountains in the distance. All in different shades. Ranges of black, sole peaks of gold, water sliding from the tops and rivers of queer crystaline tints. A forest also spreads in the vastness, dark, tall, elastic woods. Beautiful.
They stand in a garden of red flora, elastic woods spanning a totality of 7 to 10 meters. No life, oddly. No bugs, no animals. Just a quiet naturalness. Beyond that is a dark castle, eerily guarded by strange figures. Men, heads a mass of spiraling darkness, draped in sleek, oily dark robes, pooled underneath. A starkness to the collective world.
Is this also a dream?
She glances at the river ringing the garden, a division from the wider scapes. Within, no animals, no life, like the rest of the world. Was there a reason for that? She wondered, heard then the soft tone of I AM, calling.
"Sit." He waves, and a chair fades in. A high-backed stone throne, similar to hers in the grand hall. Is this him telling me he sees my secrets, too? Quietly, she takes to it, sits, and observes.
I AM does more of the same for a moment, steps back, and something blurs in behind him. Not a throne, as expected. No. A simple rock. Bigger and flatter than a normal stone. High rock, she thinks. That being a name given by darkCrowns. He takes to it, sits, right leg bent over the other, both hands on the thighs. Elegant in a certain simplicity.