ღ Nuawahn

[DraconicFeline]

The Beating - 1153 words

Nuawahn had had a pleasant day and, to top it off splendidly, he even remembered why: Nuawahn could remember, with unusual and comforting ease, the market and the people and the tricks he had shown them. He had had fun, they had had fun, and most of all, the little girl had had fun. Khalel. It was a shame that they had not ended up going on their adventure together into the desert. He was sure that they would have had even more fun, but it had simply not happened. Ah well; these sorts of things worked out for the best in the end, Nuawahn had noticed. One day, Nuawahn knew, little Khalel would have her adventure, and he would have his, and everybody would be happy. That was how things worked in the world. At least, that was how he felt they worked today, a day where the Fog only ate at the edges of his mind and reality glowed, full and vibrant, before him. As Nua settled into the thin cloth mattress his inn provided for him, he was content that all was well.

And then, he was abruptly woken, rudely shaken from his slumber and dragged to his feet by the strong, dark hands of a burly Oban.

“Is this the one?” one said, their voice deep but with a whining, tinny undertone.

“What other Windlings do you see?” said another, grunting sarcastically. Nuawahn could not tell who spoke, or how many there were. He only knew he was being grabbed and shaken and he reacted, struggling against his captor, only to have a shove to the small of his back knock away his breath. He summoned a shield around himself and gasped, the magical force shoving away the hands and buying him a brief freedom from their grasp.

“Wha... what is going on?!” he asked, trying to turn and see his aggressor. He barely got a glimpse of a strong-boned jaw and glittering orange crystals before he felt his jaw explode into pain. He fell to the ground, aching, nearly choking on his saliva as he looked up at the people who threatened him. Now, he saw them clearly – two big, muscular fire earthlings, a male and a female, looking at him hostilely. The male rubbed his fist and grinned maliciously and Nuawahn tried to scurry away, a cold trill vibrating through him as distant memories danced on the edge of his perception. “I've been good!” he whimpered, babbling, holding his jaw, “I've been good! I promise, I have!” It was just like before – just like the camp: the camp and the darkness and the pain. He shook, trying to get to his feet and run. “I swear it, I swear it!”

“Oh yeah?” they advanced on Nuawahn, sneering as his movements to escape only met the terrible end of the wooden wall of his room. “Well, see, Lord Zaleem has a problem with people kidnapping his daughter. So... not such a good boy, eh?” sneered the male, shaking out his hand.

The other one snickered. “Don't bother explaining to him, Dinen.” they sneered, “This one's slower than a hot day by the oasis.” She grabbed his scarf, dragging him up. Nuawahn's jaw ached and he whimpered, trying to turn his face away from her flaming eyes. “All you need to really know, Windling, is that you are about to hurt. A lot.” She dropped him then and, as he slid back to the floor, crying, she punched him in his stomach. Nuawahn choked and fell, sobbing messily, and as if that was the signal to begin, the pair fell upon him, as coordinated as a pack of Radaku, and began to hit him.

Pain wracked through Nuawahn, his reality shattering with every nightmarish blow. The cloth of his clothes absorbed some of their strikes, and he fought back with shields and spells as he cowered beneath them, but their blows crushed through his hasty shields and struck him until he could no longer summon them. His body and soul hurt, the warmth of the pain mocking and everywhere, as lacking in comfort as the desert sun. He tried to scream as they hurt him, but he could only choke out strangled cries and sobs. Soon, he was so hurt that all he could do was whimper weakly. Finally, as their fists rained on him still, the fog – the merciful entity that it was – took him away into senselessness and oblivion.

Nuawahn came to in the red, dim, glowing void of the Oban city's night. He could feel his bones shrieking with pain – some broken, others merely hurt. The bruises on his pale skin added their own pain and colorful chorus to the unending ache that his body had become. He knew he cried, the tears cooling his face before drying away in the desert air as his dry, broken sobs made other pains known. He knew, too, that he bled – too-warm liquid pooling beneath him in the dusty street. Bleeding was bad.

He focused as best he could and his magic came to his call, the one familiar and comforting aspect of the alien and terrible situation around him. It danced over his body, pooling in the worst of his injuries and stopping the bleeding and repairing the worse damage and breakages. He would, at least, be able to move. He would, at least, not die this night.

Shaking, he managed to pull himself upright to a sitting position and he pulled his scarf to him, snuggling it close and breathing in its familiar scents – the remains of other places he had been, other history he had made. It was his only memory, now.

He did not know how he had gotten to the alleyway so broken, battered, bleeding, hurt, and scared. He could not remember anything before the fists that struck him – not the people who hurt him, not the marketplace, not Khalel... only pain. Only fear. The price for the oblivion of the fog was its devouring of all else, and in the quiet, glowing darkness of the Oban night, Nuawahn was horribly, terribly alone.

He was not fully healed, but he knew he had to leave the alley. He summoned a light to keep the terrifying darkness at bay and made his way through the twisted, narrow streets. Dawn only dispelled a fraction of his fear, and as Obans began to fill the streets with their activity, Nuawahn quickened his pace towards the outskirts of the city, and the desert's beginning. He was leaving the city. He did not know where he was going, where he had been, or where he had gone before – he only knew that he was leaving. That he could not stay here.

And so he walked, limping on his pained legs as he continued his endless journey.  

[DraconicFeline]

Its Getting Worse - 411 words

Some days, Nuawahn forgot his own name. It would happen suddenly: he would realize, out of nowhere, that he did not know who he was. The thought did not terrify him, but it did bother him, enough for him to stop and wait, anxiously, until some plausibly suitable reference point for himself came to him. Nuawahn knew, vaguely – as one might know something in a dream – that not knowing who he was; was unusual.

Always, previously, he had remembered himself. No matter what else he had forgotten, even if he couldn't remember what he had done or where he had come from or who he had met, he always had known his name: He had always remembered that he was Nuawahn, that he was a Wind Earthling, that he was male and a healer and a wanderer. The Fog that obscured his thoughts had never taken that from him before.

But now, it seemed, its hunger had grown. Once content with feeding from his past, present, and future, it had now begun to devour him. Nuawahn was afraid that it would not stop until he was nothing more than an empty vessel, moving through the world in an endless confusion, without thought or identity. Nuawahn did not want that. Nuawahn liked who he was. He was all he had. But that was what seemed to be happening, and it all started with his name.

Nuawahn had no way to stop the Fog. Or, if he had a way to do it – writing, say, or stories, or some other strategy to fix the memories in place – he had forgotten it, along with everything else. There was no hope for him. He knew he was doomed. The Fog was his constant companion, it's sheer white nothingness present ever since he was a child. It would destroy him, and he could not stop it.

Still, he tried. He wandered, place to place, as if in a dream. And, like a dream, he had a single overlying goal that tied all the foggy forgetful confusion together. He searched for something, anything, that would not be washed away by the Fog. He did not know how long he had been wandering, but he knew he had found nothing. It was too late, anyway: even his nightmares, the terrible dark dreams that haunted him every night, were fading away into the featureless, endlessly shifting paleness of the Fog. It was taking them, too.
 

[DraconicFeline]

The Festival of Lights
Versatile Prompt, Beliefs and Values - 271 words


From the sound of rain on leaves and the moist, glowing, eternal dusk, Nuawahn knew he was in Jahuar. The forest breathed and hooted like a living thing, surrounding the Wind boy with its wild uncertainty. Nuawahn didn't know how he had reached the teeming mass of the jungle, or if he had been here before, though through the cloying silvered murk of the Fog, he knew he must have. After all, he was looking for something, and he knew that something would be found here. It was something he needed, though its shape, form, and nature eluded him. He did not know when he had first started to seek it, though the desire felt new. That was the only hint that Nuawahn had that he had a past at all. The present was all he had, surrounded by the Fog, which drew ever closer.

Jahuar too, had fog, but that fog cleared. The Fog in his mind never cleared, only thickened. Maybe, though, the mysterious thing he sought in the jungle could clear the fog or hold it away from him. That would be nice! Or would it? Did Nuawahn really want to know what lay beyond the Fog? Did he dare to look at what it hid? Nuawahn just wanted the Fog to stop eating him.

His leg, sore from a wound as mysterious to him as the sky, protested and he realized he had been standing still for a while, listening to the rain. He began to move again along the jungle path, carefully making his way one foot after another. He hoped to find whatever he sought... before he forgot he sought it at all.  

[DraconicFeline]

Run like the Wind
BEast BAttle, Counts for RP, Nuawhan and Xilarn - 175 words

Nuawhan was happy and full of meat. He didn't know how often he felt this way, but it was good, so he enjoyed it for now. He hummed to himself as he darned up a tear in his clothing – he had had fun today, lovely unexpected fun, which was his favorite kind. The fire was not so fun, but Nuawahn had made it better and that was good.

Nuawahn looked over at where Xilarn slept, a frown shadowing his radiant face. Nuawahn knew that he probably would never see Xilarn again, and that if he did, he wouldn't remember him at all. That was how it always went. That was what always happened.

He looked away and finished his darning before curling up to sleep, dreading the nightmares that would come. That, too, always happened. But he couldn't dread them too much. They would happen, whether he wanted them to come or not.

Softly, warmed by his stomach and the Tale sand, he fell asleep, letting the fog and the subsequent darkness overwhelm him...  

[DraconicFeline]

Defeating the Fog
Class Quest, 133 words

Of course, memory came with its downsides. Nuawahn lay awake in the Alkidike's tree hut, trying not to cry even as still-fuzzed memories assaulted him. There was bad along with the good, good along with the bad. There was La'amu, and there was her death. There was Ogbonna, and there was the betrayal in his eyes at the Oban camp. It hurt to remember all the bad things that had happened, especially the ones that had happened because he had forgotten something important. It hurt to know that he couldn't escape into oblivion again, even though he didn't really want to. He didn't understand a lot of things, and probably never would, and the memories were fog-tinged and half eaten already, but he also knew he wouldn't give them up for the world.  

[DraconicFeline]

Adrift Again
Meta Chapter 7, 118 words

Nuawahn didn't understand what had happened, and it didn't seem to be entirely happy. Alkidike were sad, Alkidike were angery, and everybody was either crying or cheering. Nuawahn didn't know which he was supposed to be. So he backed away, slipping behind the crowds and beyond them, where things were quiet.

He had been looking for someone – several someones – but the memory of just who they were was scrambled and jammed by the cacophony of victory, and soon dissolved and forgotten into the fog of his mind. He searched the crowd diligently, seeking a face, but he didn't know what he was looking for. Probably he would have recognized them when he saw them – the fog ate specifics but the feeling was kept.

Eventually, he gave up, discouraged. There were too many people, too many things happening, and his head hurt so much.

He wandered somewhere quiet and lay down for a little while until the throbbing receded. When he stood up again, he barely knew there had been a battle, and, airily innocent, he moved on, smiling vacantly to himself, lost in the fog...  

[DraconicFeline]

Remembering the Past - 1164 words


Memory hurt.

Nuawahn could remember fragments of war and strife. He had survived two wars and many other horrors of violence and despair, despite his innocence and physical weakness. The fear and terror and uncomprehending pain of these moments glittered like gems in his mind, much like shattered crystal. They were stark and painful, memories he might have wanted to forget, but he had spent so long in endless forgetfulness that he was grateful for any memories he had. Even these.

Nuawahn had fought. He had been trampled beneath the feet of monsters. He had been captured. He had been hurt. He had fought again. All Nuawahn wanted – all he ever wanted - was to be happy, and for others to be happy. But, it seemed, bad things followed him wherever he went. Other people kept being hurt – dying – around him. That was the pattern of his memories, terrible messes of sadness, sickness, pain, and betrayal. Was this what he ran from when his feet carried him to the next horizon, this past of pain?

~~~

He had betrayed someone in Oba, long ago. That memory was blurred and incomplete, but the feeling was strong. He had been driven by fear, and had opposed someone he cared about. Who had it been? He did not remember. It had been so long ago... Had they ever forgiven him? Were they even alive? These were the sorts of questions he had not been able to ask, all those years ago. The fog had eaten his questions along with his answers. Without them, he had been nothing.

He had returned to Oba at some point, amidst a council of war. He knew that was what it was, now, but at the time, he had been blissfully unaware. He had been seeking someone... had he ever found them? He had found others on the battlefield, friends that he could remember only as bursts of companionship in a sunless sea of uncertainty, their names and faces forgotten.

It would be different now, with his medicine. He would remember everything. Would he want to, though? That was the question.

He had no choice. He could not go back to the fog. Better to remember all the pain and suffering than to forget everything. Better to remember sadness than to forget his own name.

~~~

Nuawahn remembered the potions. How long had he sat in the tents that had smelled of sweat and hide and herbs, grinding ingredients into powder and cooking potions for the Obans? Too long. He had been a good little prisoner for the Obans, he had done everything that they asked. They had pushed him around. They had struck him. Everything he had done for them edged on the border of being wrong, and he had lived in fear of their punishment and hope of their praise.

A good little servant. Given time, they probably would have broken him, turned him into a perfect, obedient, good little slave. It would not have been hard to finish what they had started; Nuawahn would have done anything to avoid the punishment of darkness, the terror they had inflicted on him once and would inflict again, if he wronged them. He needed the light, and so he did as they asked. He bowed to their will.

As he wandered Tendaji, even when the fog had been strong and had nibbled at his reason, Nuawahn had hesitated before entering the desert lands. The brown faces and blazing orange gems scared him, even now. And yet, he still walked through their lands on occasion. Many times, he knew, he had found himself in the desert, the hot sand burning his feet, their food tingling on his lips...

Their fists beating him, senselessly, into a wall...

He would probably return there again, soon, but whenever he passed the threshold between it and the other lands, he would forever freeze, paralyzed by memory. It was inevitable. Not even the fog could devour that fear.

~~~

Not all Obans had been cruel. She had not, certainly. He remembered her - An Oban, long ago. She had been nice to him. Kind. Her name had been eaten by the fog, but he could, just barely, remember her face.

She had been a swordswoman in the battle, fighting against the... what could he call them? The others? The allies? Tendaji? He never thought in terms of 'us' and 'them', he had not really been thinking of the battle itself, only his part in it and his desperate need to make sense of the chaos in the only way he knew how – with his magic.

He was a healer, and so he had healed her. His magic had strengthened her body and sped her steps, had knitted her wounds and protected her from harm. He had tried so hard to help her, and in the end, that had kept her safe. She was alive because of him, and she had appreciated it. She had told him as much. Was she a friend? Nuawahn did not know. He did not know if he had ever seen her again.

His magic was for helping and healing, and when he could use it that way, he was happy. Even when the world was falling apart around him, his magic could bring joy. It has been that way in the Alkidike battle as well – his magic had bolstered other people, had even saved them. He had not understood why there was fighting, or who was really fighting whom, but he had understood his part in the fight. He was a healer, a bringer of safety and aid. The fog could not eat that identity, and it was strong now, gleaming like a beacon of hope amidst the shards of pain. He was a good person.

Right?

~~~

Nuawahn was not a killer. War to a warrior was what they did, their duty. Why else would someone fight if not to kill?

What did war mean to someone who did not kill? Fear, certainly. Pain and injury, for himself and others. Hatred and betrayal and other unpleasant things.

Nuawahn did not like war.

Except, he was a killer, wasn't he.

He had killed before. In the mountain cave, alone save for the beast healer, he had cradled the limp form of the capramel who had cared for him for all his life, a beast that had been more his mother than his mother ever had been. She had led him through the fog, carried him through Jahuar, saved his life. He had loved her.

She had been dying, yes, but he had ended her life.

It was so that she would not suffer, but that did not change his guilt. And if he was guilty about killing her, the way she was, how would he feel about killing another person? Before they were suffering?

He did not want to think about that. He refused to think about that.
 

[DraconicFeline]

Neophyte or No-fight? -
Nuawahn, Votzhem, Iroia

Nuawahn skipped to his friend's garden, happy with the jungle, happy with himself, happy with Iroia and Votzhem and the day he had had. It was, he felt, worth a memory. But what image would he melt into a silver bracelet for it? Would it be the bath? Splashing water?

No.

It would be two little lives, sleeping. Yes - that would be perfect.

Or Iroia's pretty crystal pattern. That could work too... Hmm! Maybe his friend would know! She was smart.