by Dan Gillis
Every individual was born with a natural attunement to one aspect of the Root; and each demanded different costs to the user. From the high plane of the Alacritor to the basest and lowest plane of thralling Nexism that the Defilers tapped, and all else between, no one really knew exactly how many partitions existed. Most people lived their lives unaware of such things due to their limited capacity to control substantial amounts of energy within their bodies. Occasionally, certain individuals were born with a high capacity to harness it. The Servants, the Masters, Tehsa, and Firah - they all had that blessing. It was clear that Firah had always had an attunement for the Root. Strangely, she was not attuned to any specific plane or refraction. She accessed the Root in its purest form - completely unaltered and terrifyingly turbulent. Now she had freely accessed the source again, but she had foolishly delved too deep without guidance.
“Shien, be prepared to remove Firah from her location,” Zyr said as the morning rays illuminated the scorched clearing. His companion nodded as they dashed closer. Then they spied her small form at the rim of a small pool of water. It was at that moment, Zyr felt the fabric between the realms shifting and unraveling under the unrestrained forces of the Root. “Get Firah and yourself clear of this place! I cannot undo what has been done but I might be able to stabilize the flows!” he shouted as he opened himself up to the high Alacritor plane.
The plan was nearly formed in his mind. This was much different than when the girl had unsealed the power in Khyvla. At that time, the Root was buffered through the Deepstone brooch and manifested into manageable currents. Though the event then was a strenuous hill to climb, he mastered the flows. Now, his predicament was a mountain. It was clearly unprecedented to access the Root in such a way, to rip apart the fabric between the realms in such violence. Then to do this twice in succession was lunacy. There was no time to learn the cause of the folly, only to deal with the outcome.
There was evident danger too; Shien was less familiar with the Root and would be unable to react to danger. There was no way to actually perceive the bands of energy with the naked eye. However, there was little else to be done and time was dire. With his limbs empowered, the monk shot speedily from his younger companion, charging straight to the source. As he ran, his arms slipped from the sleeves of his white robes, causing the cloth to slide down to his waist, billowing in the wind. With his upper torso free, he charged toward the pool. The monk cleared his mind as white hot power surged through his frame.
His decision was made as he reached the buckling source of Firah’s amateurish seams. The pool was the key. Knee deep in the water, he hastened to do what needed to be done, what was forbidden. Then one of the fragile seams gave way and unchecked torrential energy burst forth from the Root, even as past teachings caught upon his mind.
“Tell me again of the Hyrlacian people, Master.”
Zyr sat a short way from the silent robed Lore Keeper. His face was bright in anticipation of the hidden secrets of the past.
Greil was truly a wise and noble seeker of many arts, history being one such.
The old Master turned slightly and nodded his head. “Because you have performed your tasks sufficiently and enthusiastically, young Seeker, I shall reward you with this tale. Little is known of these mysterious creatures, except that in the beginning, their elegance and beauty were beyond compare. This strange façade of splendor was quickly shattered when they came to war with the Symian people.
“A tragic story lies within that tale, one requiring more time than I can give. However, what we know of this race is that they had a close connection to the threads of power within the Root. It was within their ability to control rifts that crossed the dimensional doors from the Root to our world. They were amazing creatures. Imagine being able to absorb rather than channel vast amounts of the Root, and have your body infused with it over a long period of time. In this way, the Hyrlacians were much like the Symians, with their very forms changed through long contact with the weaves of the Root.
“It was because they dwelt long upon lands where Aerluin's potency was tremendous that they inherited this unique quality. Like living Deepstone they were. At their cultural zenith they were likely more refined and superior than the nobility of Syrion. Sadly, it seems they lost their connection over time, and they soon devolved into vicious and bestial creatures incapable of civilization. The remnant of these dark wraiths inhabit the ruins of Sym to this day, a mere shadow of their former illuminated and awakened state.”
“Were they the only ones who could do it? To access and control the rifts?” the young boy asked in great awe.
The Lore Master hesitated, his eyes gleaming slightly. “Young Seeker, for any short-lived mortal such as the common man, it would be nearly impossible and potentially disastrous. These creatures can live several of our lifetimes and were able to train certain members of their kind to harness the power, and only then were they able to safely channel the power rifts. If one of our kind attempted the process, his success would be dubious at best. It is speculated that an unchecked rift without careful tending, could lead certain elements or powers from other unknown regions outside of our world into our own. These powers could literally destroy all things living and inanimate in the physical plane or realm. That is why such attempts are strictly forbidden by all professed followers of the arcane arts, wherever they be. None dare violate such a dire code.”
“So it is impossible?” Zyr asked in a stupor. The lesson was lost upon the boy, he was caught up in his imaginations of the strange Hyrlacian race.
The Lore Master answered, though it seemed to fall on deaf ears. “It is possible, if carefully planned and tended by the most potent … yes, it is conceivable to harness such power …”
All was red within Zyr’s vision. It was as if all of nature was swirling angrily about him. His robes were being whipped about his legs in harsh winds caused by the sudden burst of energy from the ethereal plane. Focusing his mind, he made preparations to reach out and take hold of one of the wild currents of energy. He imagined glowing white hands stretching out from the protective cocoon about him and grasping the energy strand as it flowed from the rend in the fabric of the Root. His mind and body reeled instantly as the thread resisted being held.
Brow furrowed, and sweat beading fast upon his face, he wrestled with the thrashing and contorting stream.
Then the second seam gave way.
As both twisting geysers flowed hot from the Root, they struck out against all physical things indiscriminately. With every touch of the wild energy, strange and bizarre occurrences sprung in their wake. With one stroke, it caused the massive growth of grand trees of splendor, shooting upward like towering spikes only to be massively twisted by the next passing stream of power. Great rocks were smashed and broken, and flowed hot as magma around them. The power bursting from the Root penetrated deeply into the earth and into air alike. Truly, the incident outside of Khyvla paled at the sheer magnitude of potency before him. The once burned and barren area was now a strange wonderland, rising and falling with new life. A wondrous world was being both created and destroyed as the energies of the Root spilled unchecked into the physical realm.
Yet, for its entire splendor, all was in chaos. The strands were stretching out further with each passing moment. Unchecked the weaves would eventually spread over the face of the whole land.
Zyr wove his power as quickly as his body would permit. Both, to defend himself against the erratic power he sought to control and for the ability to maintain the control. It was nearly impossible to stay the power strand, so unpredictable were its paths. Time was working against him but he pushed those thoughts away, focusing on the task.
As he reached out to grasp the second thread, the initial energy trail snapped about as a thrashing serpent. Suddenly, it slipped from his ethereal grip and slashed savagely across the landscape, with thunderous growth in its wake. Grunting in frustration, Zyr grappled again for control of the first thread of power, completely
unable to do anything about the second.
The protective ward around his body deflected the energy strands as he worked. Furious bursts of power erupted about him as the raging swaths of raw energy collided with his personal shield. Yet his own connection to the Root flowed swiftly and surely into his body, to counter the power of its unchecked potent kin. The Alacritor Root, while weak in comparison to the pure fury of the source, was noted for its firmness and ability to manipulate energy patterns.
Zyr suddenly seized upon the initial energy thread with all his might, managing barely to control its quivering and thrashing motions. In a small portion of his mind, he wondered how he could work the two strands when it took all his capacity to hold but one in check. Eventually, he would weaken and all would be for naught.
Somehow, he needed to find a way to capture the second thread of power …
Shien dashed toward the girl’s prone figure which lay near the monk’s feet. He tried to ignore what was happening around him, but it was a daunting task. The laws of all things living, indeed the very laws of nature, were being violated at every turn. He witnessed the impossible - wondrous and deadly - all around. Somehow, somewhere beyond his sight, there were cataclysmic forces at work. He could see the evidences of their passing, and they were wondrous. He also knew that he could not afford to get caught up in their paths. Yet he found himself incapable in reading their movements, despite the effects upon the landscape. Strange and rapid growth here, contorted and knotted foliage there. As such, it was becoming steadily difficult to keep his bearings and keep focus on the girl and Zyr. He moved and then would dodge deftly, relying upon his combative instincts, as best as he could. Truthfully, he feared greatly for his life. He felt like an insignificant insect caught between warring titans. Grimacing, he dashed closer to the girl near the monk’s position.
Suddenly, a massive growth of roots and stone shot up under his feet. The sheer upward force of the living wall was terrifying. It catapulted him many feet in the air. Then his body slowed and began to fall.
Desperately, he looked down. An unwelcome merging of sharp rock protrusions and trees rose below him. He struggled to brace himself against the pain of the impact. Yet suddenly, a massive ridge surged from the ground. Shien's body glanced off the edge of the sheer face of the ridge.
He drove the rapier he had somehow withdrawn from his waist into the hardened clay of the ridge, clutching the blade near to the earthy wall. His descent was slowed and, grunting, he slammed to the ground roughly. Cursing loudly, he raised himself slowly to his elbows, then upon his bloodied hands.
With all the chaotic upheavals and collapsing around him, reaching Firah seemed nearly impossible. He could barely see her through the dense foliage that had formed suddenly in the area. Pushing himself up roughly, he moved himself though the near mangled trees. He suddenly ducked as he passed, narrowly escaping the shearing in half of the trees.
“Keep going fool! Don’t stop!” he chided to himself as he ran. A harsh cry escaped his lips as sharp rock formations burst apart in front of him, showering the area in hot molten rain. He raised his hands to his face even as the searing specs burned through to his skin. “Come on, move!” he shouted.
The girl was near; he could feel it. His hands, still gashed and seeping fresh blood, were outstretched and hastily parting the deep green foliage that grew taller than him. At last they revealed the place where the glade had been and the pool of water.
There was the monk, still as a calm spring morning, head bowed in the deepest concentration. Firah lay a few feet away, still unconscious upon the forest floor. Shien was close, and with a cry of determination he set to make his final dash. He willed his tired frame into one last burst of power, pumping his arms to reach her. Exhilarated and drawing in deep breaths, the young man stooped himself as he neared her still form.
Everything flashed red as he felt a strange feeling of heated fury pass across his body.
His mind reeled in shock, as his body stumbled. The strange power had penetrated him to the core, or so it seemed. All through his frame he felt the fiery effects as it locked him securely in place. His hands came to his face which felt hot to the touch. “'Luin's blood! What is happening?” he screamed out. He felt his frame burst with the unrelenting infusion of overwhelming power. Yet he kept his feet, and within his blurred vision he spied the girl below.
A portion of his mind struggled for control, to take up Firah and run. Yet his mind was quite torn in strange contortions. He could feel his thoughts and memories shifting - throbbing and luminous as the great changes about him. They seemed to come alive in his mind, becoming as real as if he were beholding them with his eyes. Reality slipped away and he was taken deep into fragmented mosaics of memory. He saw Yyriha before him, her arms outstretched, her flesh glowing red, pulsing with energy. He saw her face beneath the cowl … her kindly features now strange and twisted. She seemed to be changing as well.
“Come my Lord, let us pass from this place…” she whispered.
Her eyes were black as midnight and a strange red mist billowed from her open mouth so thick that it clouded everything. Her face was contorting into some strange creature, the features repugnant and crawling with sickly bubbling protrusions. Soon she was gone, replaced by this horror that reached to embrace him.
Shien grasped his head and moaned softly out of fear of the horrid vision.
Her arms were gripped about his arms now, and she was dragging him closer to her. Her pull was inescapable, and her grip like that of an iron vise. Her cloak billowed and surged and seemed to drown out all light and living things … the world was growing black with every moment.
He prepared to abandon himself to despair and destruction.
Then a strange thought flashed across his view. The symbols of the delicate fabric Yyriha wore swept through the air, as if carried on a wind. He read those symbols again as it passed, comprehending them, even as he was pulled ever closer to the strange creature that resembled his old guardian. The meaning was clear and flowed like the ripples of the stream. It was the final verse.
The blade untempered will break
As surely as the mind of the unworthy
For the wielder of power is so fashioned
And shaped like the blade.
He will survive the crafter’s fire
As his will is purged of imperfection
Yet as he harbours fear and ire
His will is broken ‘neath the hammer.
To master the mind is to master the forge
And surely the blade will ring true.
For the mind is the hearth of the fire
And there it creates anew.
Purge the mind to craft the blade …
Thoughts pure and stalwart made.
Shien took hold of those words and focused his mind upon one thought. He imagined, amongst the chaos, the shining blades of Kuros and Isil. There they stood before him as symbols of might and wisdom, and with this focus he harnessed the power of his mind. The two blades were embedded in the earth upon either side of the abomination that pulled him near to her grasp. Shien buried his fear and anxiety and trusted in the power of the Spirit of Vyn-shi. The blades swelled and expanded, soon surpassing the height of the dark thing which pulled him. They grew and surged forth, overtaking and completely swallowing up the strange oppressor. The darkness faded and all became increasingly bright, emanating from the luminous steel. Ever towering the blades were until they began to overlap upon themselves and became one.
The strange, chaotic vision shifted and he perceived reality. A ribbon of pure energy writhed and lashed out in vain against the protective shell of the Spirit of Vyn-Shi. Though still within his mind, he felt his sense returning - his will as rigid as crafted steel. Reaching out, he slid the pulsing weapon from the ground as if from a pool of water. The brilliant rapier of hot white was an embodiment of potency. His will unbroken, he lifted the shining blade and swiftly he severed the torrential thread of power that
wound about him.
Shien’s eyes snapped open. The tumult had ceased and the land lay still. He glanced quickly to the monk. Zyr’s expression was firm, his eyes moving about behind closed lids. Shien could actually feel the energy surging tightly around the monk now, as if he could behold the power with his eyes. His companion’s face was set in a desperate hope, yet it was hope written upon the lines of his brow.
Without a further thought, the young man snatched the girl up and threw her over his shoulder. As quickly as his legs would permit, he manoeuvred himself away from the focus point of the power.
Even as he fled the scene of conflict between nature and man, he could sense the great strands looping around Zyr. He could sense with his mind the shape of the power which the monk channeled to his body, a conduit from another plane. The Ashori’s skin was alight like a raging firestorm upon the surface of still water. The sheer power he felt from the monk was frightening and immeasurable. Shien’s mind then struck the tones of a warning bell.
Do not trust him to absolute loyalty … it is in his nature …
Shaking his head, he ignored those sentiments and focused on getting Firah to safety. She bounced limp upon his shoulder, pressing down upon Kuros. There was little else he could do for her now, so silently he offered a prayer to Aerluin for her well-being. In his mind he felt it was worth the effort.