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 Posted: Wed Mar 18, 2015 10:33 pm
Winter winds whip between the mountains, sending snow spirals to cut like frozen needles into anything fool enough to stand in their way. Ataya sat atop his hastar, Rannah, and kept his eyes shut. Feeling her warmth beneath him and the gentle, barely perceptible push in and out of her breathing. The twitches in her posture even standing still. He felt the bite of the wind and listened to its moaning. If he paid attention, he could hear the snort of his father’s hastar on occasion.
It did little to calm the panic in his throat. Nothing to assuage the pounding, violent throb of his pulse in his throat that refused to ease despite the hours — days — that passed with no cure to what ailed him. He knew, even now as his father lead their hastars through the snow and towards the khehora encampment where their family’s trusted friend, Malta, resided, that he would need to come to terms with this. With sinking, devastating conviction, he knew there would be nothing she could do.
He had done this to himself.
Though he wanted nothing to do with the admittance and attempted to banish it from his mind every time it skirted near to the front of his thoughts, his efforts to quash it were futile. He knew he had done this. He had played with magic he should not. Engaged in spells darker and more complex than he was ready for. Delved into dangerous, volatile runework of old with a language he could barely read enough to vaguely comprehend at the time.
And, as a result, now he could not read at all.
Only the metallic, abruptly warm taste of blood on his tongue alerted Ataya to the fact that he had bit too harshly at his lip and he exhaled sharply, dropping it from his teeth’s grip. This was entirely his fault. Useless is what society had seen him as and now useless he was. The very powerless, dependant, wretched and pitiful thing he had always wanted not to be. Bile pressed at the back of his throat at the thought, his broken eyes stinging at the corners, and he swallowed the taste back, grit his teeth until his jaw ached and held his shoulders rigidly, forcibly still as they started to move again in an effort not to convey the shaking of his limbs as his father guided them on.
He would only be a burden on everyone and everything this way. It was only a matter of time before the thought would sicken him more than he could bear.
So distraught was he and buried within himself in that moment, that even in the midst of his element — surrounded by an airborne sea of frozen beacons which his magic naturally reached out to — he did not pick up on the signals. Did not fully appreciate the way part of him, if it simply asserted itself and made the connection, could sense the patterns of snowflakes — see in its own way, where the whirling ice had to stop around a hollow cut out of a shape which must logically be a tree if the factors were put together. Or where, if considered, the ground must be, due to the compact layer of snow which abruptly stopped atop a void of nothingness. Where his father must be, due to another cut-out in the pattern just ahead.
These things registered in his magic, subtle and vague. Entirely unexercised. But there, buried beneath his writhing fears, waiting for the moment he chose to look again outside of himself.
For the moment, however, he only followed in silence, trusting what remained of his life to his father and stewing within his self-deprecation until — at long last — they arrived at the outskirts of where they hoped to find their ysali healer.
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Posted: Sat Mar 21, 2015 10:28 pm
The Settlement's ground entrances had their guards, and there were more on the perimeter. Detraeus and Ataya were fortunate that the ones they encountered had met them before, and more fortunate still that Soki, Malta's brother, was among them. It was he that gave the command to let them pass, and he that assigned an escort to where Malta was. Soki kept track of his sister closely... why was a question that no one dared ask the stern, haunted Diabi. Malta was in her garden, not quite puttering so much as bouncing through the lush growth of the land she had claimed as her own. Magic suffused the naturally poor soil, and life grew upon life in a vibrant cascade of plants. It was her personal garden, growing herbs and potion ingredients, as well as things she sometimes ate and, also, things that just looked or smelled nice. It had a chaotic order to it, one that only she could puzzle out of the tangle of green plants. It made her happy. She hummed as she managed its wild rampancy, digging and cutting shoots and roots that she had to to maintain her garden's bizarre balance. She did not hear the escort's approach, but did hear when they called to her – by her title, that of 'alchemist' – not by her name itself. She stood on her hind legs to peer over the tops of her plants. Her Oblivionite friend was not what she expected to see. “Detraeus!” she exclaimed, noticing with some delight that he had Ataya with him. She quickly backed out of her garden to meet them. Before she could bound up to greet them in a properly joyful manner, however, she perceived the mood. This was not a social call. She trotted over quickly, assessing things with her glowing blue eyes. “What is going on?” she asked, her voice concerned, but authoritative. Whatever it was, she needed to be ready to take care of it immediately and efficiently. That was what they likely wanted. It was what she wanted to be able to do. Even if, inside, she was fretting her scales off...
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Posted: Sun Mar 22, 2015 10:39 am
At Malta’s approach, Detraeus gave a stiff dip of a bow, grateful to see her, but plagued with a guilt for bringing before her a task which might well be impossible. Not that he did not have hope. Over the years, forced interaction had built in him a reluctant, civil trust in Lithian. He knew, rationally, that the man was a talented healer, and he trusted that he would never hurt his mate or his children. He had no trust that the man would not hurt him, but Lithian’s attitude on that front was rightly-earned by Detraeus’ own actions and he did not fault the man for it. But, all the same, he would not willingly put his life in the man’s hands barring a situation of absolute necessity.
Such was not the case with Malta.
His comfort with her had been built gradually over many years, his trust in her earned and reinforced. Though his mate chose to fly to Lithian’s home on occurrence of the incident because he was her trusted source and — given the circumstances — the peisio’s true form allowed him to cut easily enough through the winter weather to their house, Detraeus had no intention of leaving an issue as grave as this in the hands of one dovaa. If anyone could do something the man couldn’t, he felt it was Malta and he would not rob her of the chance to try, no matter how trying the task.
Ataya was not so hopeful even as that. While he trusted in Malta’s abilities near as much as his father, he felt, intrinsically, that he had woven a problem for himself that only he — if anyone — would ever be able to unwind. And on that front, it still felt impossible. As his father’s fingers caught at his, he shifted his weight and only by muscle-memory and the support of his father’s grip managed to dismount without issue.
“Malta. We…” Detraeus began uncertainly, “…come with—”
“I have blinded myself,” Ataya said. “The damage may or may not be irreparable…”
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Posted: Sat Mar 28, 2015 10:43 am
Blinded himself?! Malta gave Ataya a thorough sniffdown (accompanied by a brief magical look-over.) She could smell the scent of recent healing – the dovaa's magic was distinctive and, after such a long association with the family, recognizable – and decided that it was both better and worse than it could be. Ataya's life was in no immediate danger... but if that magescian had already gone over him, and failed to cure his eyes... Well, that was not encouraging. Still, Malta knew that where one form of healing failed, another could succeed, and she knew, also, that she would try to the very limits of her ability and beyond, to help 'her baby' and her friend. The Dovaa's magic was of water. Her magic was of life itself, and life was surprisingly resilient. The most delicate shoots seemed to die in winter, and sprung – fully vibrant – in the spring. Malta didn't think she could have quite the same effect with the eye, but, if something was there to return... she could try to make it return. She nodded once, briefly. “Well, then, lets get you settled down so I can get to work.” she said, nosing Ataya softly. She had a shelter nearby for rearing her more delicate plants, and she guided her guests there. She could have easily let them into her family's lair, but not all approved of her choice in friends and it sometimes became too crowded for a patient. This was better, near where her freshest herbs and plants resided. She sent a curious Orakoir for her portable cauldron and heatstone, and fussed with fresh-smelling straw, making a passable 'bed' that Ataya could lay down on, messing around until the 'pillow' of it was just right. “All right.” she said, “Lets take a look. Open your eyes, please, dear.” It was best to start with the part that faced the world, and then work her way back to where light met perception in the eternal flow of the body. “And tell me what happened?”
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Posted: Sun Apr 05, 2015 3:58 pm
Ataya did not mean to cling. Did not intend to make himself look any more needy than he must already. But this was a settlement of khehora, all more familiar with his father than himself, and amidst them, he was already an alien, twiggy and walking on two legs. What did he care of what they thought? It was likely all mostly inaccurate anyway, and he knew Malta would not be judging him.
So, he stuck close to her. Touching more than necessary for the sheer comfort of contact and staying near because it felt better to be near than distant and her magic — her scales, her voice — were all rocks in a messy, chopped, and storm-tossed sea of uncertainties. He sat when she indicated, helped down by his father’s hand and shut his eyes once settled, useless that they were. He focussed on the sound of scuffling footsteps and clicking talons, on distant activity, voices, and the smell of Malta’s garden and her concoctions. The smell of straw was nearest and fresh, pleasant and plain, but there were others, too. Her garden always full and blooming. He attempted to engage his mind, and distract himself, by working to filter out one scent from the next and identify what all he could.
Then, she was near again. He opened his eyes as ordered, ignoring the stuttered, panicked and suffocating weight of his pulse and the dominating, drowning thought — ‘You can’t do anything, I’m sorry, you won’t be able to do anything, this is all my fault…’ — in favor of trying to explain to her what had happened. It was all such a mess in his mind now that, even laid out in his most careful reiteration, it still felt unhelpful.
He told her (roughly and vaguely) of the spell he had been attempting to cast (conveniently eliminating details on what precisely it was ought to do if successful), told her of the rune magic, the dragons, the ‘break’ in the spell line and the backfire of energy. The way the world had gone white and burned deep into his sockets, and how nothing done seemed to bring back anything more into his line of vision. He could still ‘see’ light and dark in a sense, or at least appreciate changes therein. When his eyes were open in the day, the surrounding ‘view’ was white with light. When he shut his eyes, all went black. When his eyes were open and a shadow passed over his face, he ‘saw’ that as though a sheet had been cast over his eyes and he could still respond to changes from day to night but little else.
“It’s not of much help, I know,” he murmured when he finished. “I apologize for not having a better account of the events…”
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Posted: Thu Apr 16, 2015 5:15 pm
Malta squinted, trying to see what she could in the milky cloudiness that covered what had once been ice-blue irises. “No, no, dear, you gave me a good account, enough to give me an idea of what I'm looking for, and what I'll find.” she said reassuringly. That he could still see light and dark was a good sign – that meant that something was still working. And, maybe, just maybe, she could use that something to enviven other things. She gave Ataya a brief nuzzle of reassurance. “I'll see what I can do... just stay there, and make yourself comfortable. If you need more hay, there's some to your left...” She glanced at Detraeus, the offer extended to him as well, if not outright spoken. “I'm going to start a light-flower salve. It takes a little while, and it's good for sight difficulties.” she said as she started her cauldron. She cut a few shining, golden flowers – small ones that grew along a vine – from her garden and began to crush them on her mortar, adding a few other ungents as she went, “It's usually for older Khehora, but it works for Magescians too – that's where I learned it – and it'll at least help get rid of any dark magic residue that should not be there. I'll get it boiling now...” she narrated as she plunked the paste in the pot with its other incredients, “And I'll leave it while I do a more in-depth examination.” She thought Ataya might appreciate her narration – he did like it so when she taught him potions. It might help to distract him... she thought, as she waddled over to him and, carefully, set her nose just above one of his eyes. She hoped she could help him. And, armed with that hope, she sent a tendril of magic into him. She had already done her general check, and she could – again – tell that Lithian had been here. The residue of his powerful water magic lingered still, especially at the eyes, which she focused her attention on. Lithian had, clearly, tried to save them too. Surely, if there was something to be salvaged, he would have found it? But no, that was not necessarily true. They healed differently, and hopefully their strengths and weaknesses would complement each other here, with Ataya. She concentrated on the flow of blood in his head, feeling the pulse of his heart and the flow of life. The head was the second integral part of the body, the centers of life. The heart pumped blood, not exactly its source but its empowerment. Without the heart there was no life. And neither could there be any life – not true life – without the head. The head, encasing the brain, was the source of the animating force, the electricity that leapt along pathways in the cells, a network of light and signal separate but alongside the network of fluid. This, too, was life: it was life, death, sensation, and emotion. The heart beat, the brain thought, and thus did Ataya live. Blood and brain worked together, and, after determining for herself that Ataya's blood was fine and doing its job, she moved on to the pathways, the nerves that connected the brain to the world. She resisted the urge to let her consciousness leap along an impulse and follow it joyously to wherever it went – that was a distraction, and she could not be distracted. Instead, she followed a very particular paired nerve. The eye was a strange organ. It's origin was unlike the others and its purpose was unique – to sense light and translate it into the wondrous perception known as sight. It was complicated, but the way it worked made it so efficient as to be simple. Malta did not understand all its dizzying intricacies, nor did she understand the true depths of all the parts of the body. She didn't think that anyone could learn all of the amazing workings of the body in a single lifetime. But Malta knew, instinctively, how the body worked with its components as a whole, and she knew how things were supposed to behave. The thin layer of 'fragments', the objects of the body that made up a whole, located at the back of Ataya's dark-sclera'd eye were, themselves, intact. She could feel them responding to the shadow of her head, a simple dark and light being sent along their twisting connections into the central cord that brought it all to the brain. These, the deeper fragments and the fragments on the corner of the eye, worked well. The others stirred – the 'green' ones in particular, but also the blue – but the excitement they produced fizzled and frazzled as they traveled along their circuits. Ah... she thought, settling grimly on that oddity, There is the problem.She followed the impulses to the great cord, the place where light was brought to the darkness of the brain. Yes. Here. She paused, her magic running along Atya's optic nerve. It was badly damaged and tattered. Most of the rogue magic had been washed away, and most of the damaged tissue had been industriously cleared away by the body itself – a process she lent her magic to, for it was too damaged to do anything with. Here, where the damage was, the pings of the color shattered into the mess and were lost to Ataya's skull. It was as if the magic he had used had destroyed the nerves from the very inside, leaving only the marginal fragments, some of those fragments that lay beneath a layer of their fellows, and their respective connections to the brain intact. Barely. There was still rogue magic here, hidden sullenly in the crevices of the nerves, eating away at them bit by bit. She gave them a shove with her magic, trying her best to encourage the damaged fragments to knit themselves together. Nerve fragments were always so reluctant to change, but they did, if it was small. The dark magic was not vanquished back into Ataya's magical reserves, not completely – the salve would help that. She searched the nerve cord for fragments she could save and found none – the ones that had been destroyed were scoured and lifeless. Without a seed, she could grow nothing. Perhaps there was something deeper, further in? Hmm... Even with the benign magic of life, there was a risk to poking around the brain. It was delicate and highly reactive and it didn't always know what was good for it. She had been taught how, of course, and she would not delve into its healing too deeply, but still... She needed to talk to her patient about it. She drew back, letting most of her magic – that Ataya's body hadn't appropriated from her as a sort of toll – return to her. She took her mixture off of the heat and returned, thinking about how to say this to Ataya. Well was always a good start. “Well.” she said, sitting by him, “There's little wrong with the eye itself, aside from the front part... the whiteness... all the parts inside it are still working. Its the other parts that are the problem.” She knew she wasn't explaining it well, but she had no words for what she percieved with her magic. Only instinct and trained knowledge. “The part that connects them to the brain is damaged – not completely,” she commented, “That's why you can see dark and light, because its partially intact. I... Can't do anything with it. Nerves are stubborn, and I can't get them to do much more than patch themselves up...” She could feel hopelessness weighing on her, and she forced herself to brighten. “But maybe, if I go to the other end – the brain – I can find something that I can use to restore... something.” It was a long shot, but she wanted to present all hope to Ataya. Anything she could. “Ataya? Do you want me to try this...?”
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Posted: Fri Jan 01, 2016 9:04 pm
‘Well’ was never a good start.
What followed it, though, challenged Ataya’s initial assumption, and in spite of himself — in spite of his greatest efforts not to let it be so — he felt a momentary flicker of hope. Most of his eye was working. It was all functioning. Surely that left the bulk of the work done, a strong base to work with, and something—
The brain.
Ataya felt a chill beyond anything physical congeal and drop within him. For a moment, he could not think to breathe, the air already in his lungs seeping out cold like the last gasps of winter, and how could he answer her even if he had the breath to? He could not have imagined a more terrifying choice for himself if he had tried. Was it worth it? His eyes, for his mind.
No.
But was it worth a chance? There was no guarantee Malta would damage him in any way. Hers was the healer’s art, and she was exceptionally practiced. He trusted her, in a way he trusted few—with his body, his health, his safety, and the truth. But was it worth even a chance, that a shot at restoring his vision, which might not even work itself, might also damage the single thing he prized most about himself?
Ataya felt his fingers shake beneath him and he clenched them. He felt his gut reel and his eyes sting because the fates were making this his gamble. His chance to take. His opportunity to turn down. His vision to forsake forever, or his intellect to place in the hands of cruel gods—
He shook his head. “No.” Since he could barely feel the word on his tongue the first time, let alone hear it, he pushed himself upright and spoke it again louder. “No. It’s not worth it. I would sooner be blind than a fool, and sooner turn down the risk than blame you forever if the results were not what I hoped…I…” What he intended to say tasted bitter already at his throat unspoken, but Malta deserved the words, surely, even if his anger and acid frustration made it difficult to believe himself. She had offered him an option his ‘uncle’ had not even thought to give. She had given him a choice. It was no fault of her own that he refused her. Still, the words left his lips quietly, “Thank you…for trying…”
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