Birth of the Warlock (Promotion, Closed)

[Synkkis Kyyneltya]

((Thread music: www.youtube.com/watch?v=GFYsuQoi6ew ))

In the northern reaches of Ilia, where the sea is frozen over with ice and the ground too hard to dig into, the mountains touch the sky and it is the beginning of the realm of absolute solitude. Where one can be ultimately conscious of himself - no other distractions to placate his mind. Only the harsh whims of winter reside here. What a better place to be in this land of chaos and death. To stand on his own and look into the void he has accepted into his soul. With so much suffering endured by everyone in Elibe, there is no reason to come here. It used to be a much more populated spot for those to test their vigor and endurance and to enjoy the vast expanse, but now only snow-covered ruins remain. Bandits have cleaned this area out and moved on. For now, it was just Synkkis Kyyneltya and his homeland. For now... he was the last one alive.

Born in winter, the shaman was accustomed to the brutal landscape. He was much more at peace inside of it, the very salt of the earth resonating with who he was. This was a part of him just as his body was. It was always hard to let go whenever he went on his journeys. Nothing could ever replicate this sense of belonging with all of the senses that were caressed with the spirit of the earth here. Marching through the snow wasn't a chore, nor did it seem to tire him. Climbing the steps was akin to walking through the front door to home and walking past the snow-capped trees was similar to passing good friends. While all of this was fulfilling, the wind was a constant reminder of his position as being surrounded by no other living soul for miles and miles.

All this time he was scaling the mountain allowed him to think - of home, of his childhood, of his journeys and the people he traveled with. It also allowed him to think of the people he had killed. How he's crushed men's limbs, broken their ribs, or imploded the mage's skull in Lycia. Images of being near death and taking other men's lives were vivid and haunting. Some things he would never forget, moment by moment. He stopped in his tracks, bracing a hand on the tree next to him. Those men had aspirations, dreams, hopes, and potential. They were sons and brothers and maybe even fathers. They could have been fathers, bringing light and life into the world. The absolute and total darkness wrought from his own hands and by the consuming will of the nether brought those lives to an abrupt end. Humans are very complicated creatures. Death uncomplicates them to a very frightening degree.

The thought brought him to his knees and for the first time in years, he cried. It welled up from inside of him and poured out, the warm tears striking into the snow. He couldn't handle himself and lost all control with nothing but emotion guiding his actions. For someone who always seemed to have a grasp of the situation, here he was, lost within himself. This sort of pain was sure to stay with him and he was certain the killing wasn't over. He had led men to their deaths and may do so again. One of his only friends he had outside of Ilia, Selibas, he wasn't even sure if he was alive anymore. He could only imagine the unheard screams of the dead.

The wind biting his face, he curled up a little more on his knees and screamed only heard from the undead or men who have had their bellies ripped open. The sympathy with such injustice and pain was too much to bear and the tears wouldn't stop. The world as it was couldn't be forgiven for such transgressions on the innocence of the young and trampling love so easily with the stroke of the sword. The snow bit at his senses, the only comforting touch. The tree was his shoulder to cry on. The mountain being his only witness.

Sitting alone, he finally gathered the strength to stand up and wipe his tears. His journey was incomplete, but the grave reminder was there in the back of his mind, a point of reference as he climbed step by step. Reaching closer to the top, there were less trees and more sky to greet him. The winds were much stronger now, a grand opening of applause for the final stage: the summit. Reaching the top, he could see in every direction. To the South in which he came, the valley covered in pines rolled into the rest of Elibe. The East  and West were spotted with other mountains, none of which reached the size of this one. They were vacant, the little siblings in this family of giants. To the North, however, was a sheer cliff that greeted the sea and the rest of the unknown world beyond. A blanket of white, it was tempting to step into the abyss and be surrounded by it, but it wasn't what he was here for.

Turning around, he noticed something peculiar, a cave hidden in the wall of the mountain with a heavy snowbank next to it. Walking up to the entrance, he peered inside as it was unusually quiet inside. He cautiously stepped inside and found it was good standing ground with head room, not something usually seen in caves. Having this raise his spirits a little, he dropped his pack and pulled back his hood to get a better look around. His hair shone as bright as the snow and the sparkle in his crimson eyes were like a fire in a sea of darkness. Yes. This was where he'd stay.

[Synkkis Kyyneltya]

Collecting sticks, branches, and plenty of leaves of whatever he could find, the den of the cave started to resemble something of a homely place. He had a fire pit with a stack of firewood and a bed, with a bit of room to spare. To be honest the distraction of building his shelter was nice, stepping away from all of the thoughts of death.

His shelter being complete, he looked outward once more, his tattered cloak fluttering in the wind. He felt good for some reason. Like he was honestly home. It was just him. He took the time to unwrap the bandage on his arm and admired his cursed tattoo. He went through great lengths to hide it from the world, afraid of any backlash or trouble it may cause him. Looking at it, he reached his other hand in his satchel that was attached to his belt and touched his flux tome. The buzz of electricity stirred between the two points and his tattoo burned with smoke from the energy emanating from the tome. He felt powerful now, much more than when he left home two, almost three years ago. More than when he killed his first man. More than escaping from the manor. More than the brawl at the Bern Arena. More than fighting the Gorgon. More than being forcefully conscripted to fight for the rebels and making his escape.

Things had come full circle once more and here he was in Ilia as a cultured and matured young man. He felt liberated and free. Disregard the notions of the weak-minded and petty Elibians who fought with one another. Synkkis was determined to become the champion of Ilia and bring peace to the world through his own means.

Stripping of all of his clothes, the snow-haired Ilian jumped into the snowbank. The biting cold jumped his heart full of flame as he relentlessly pummeled into it and rolled around. He floundered like a beast, thrashing the soft snow up into the air and laughing as a hyena would. All of the dull moments in his life were but a footnote in this moment as he had never felt more alive. His pale skin glowed as a pink, the blood rushing through his veins. He sprinted over to the edge of the cliff and laughed heartily, his mind drawing a blank as to anything else. He was dumbfounded by the experience, everything being so crystal clear. One could call this a baptism that only the mighty land of Ilia could provide. He was reborn as her son.

Remaining stark naked, the Ilian placed his bucket filled with ice on top of his fire. Shivering, his body damned him, but his spirit was roaring with energy of a bonfire. The ice melted and warm, he calmly walked over to the edge of the cave and soaked his sash in the water, wiping away the cold from his skin.

With the cloak partially covering the entrance, the cave was now quite warm. The combined sounds of the roaring wind outside, the crackling of the fire, and the water dripping on the stone floor calmed him. Enjoying the moment enough, he poured the bucket over his head and wrung his sash. The water flowed down into the unreachable depths of the cave which suited him just fine. He took the time to hang his sash near the fire for it to dry and he put his clothes back on, the smooth feeling of the cloth being nearly ecstatic. Bundled up in his blanket on his simple bed, he fell to sleep.

[Synkkis Kyyneltya]

Softly waking up the next morning, he felt as if he were one with the earth. The mass of wool and fur on top of him put pressure on his body, the feeling close to being buried he assumed. It was a pleasant feeling, taking his time to rise out of his bed. Greeting him was the cold and only embers remained of his fire. The water in the corner of the room on the stone was frozen and glistened in the morning light that peeked in from the cave opening.
Crouching over his fire, he built a proper stack around it and with the appropriate amount of kindling, the young man breathed life into it. Within minutes it was roaring as it had the night before and the cave warmed up yet again.

Opening up his pack he used as a pillow, he pilfered out his breakfast: a meager portion of bread, cheese, and salted pork. By all means not adequate considering his journey. He was rationing it for obvious reasons, but he had another idea. He planned on hunting with his magic. He had tried it before without success, but he was sure of it now that he would be able to bag some game to feed him. He would also pick vegetables, the hardy kind that grew in the harsh climate.

He had times in his life where he had to eat tree bark and the family hunched around only so few seeds that one could fit them on the end of their finger to help grow food for the brutal winter. The fact was much harsher than anything they could write up in books. Looking back, he was surprised at how dedicated and close his family was, even if he never saw it at the time.

As time went on the family fragmented itself, only Synkkis and Alaric spending any amount of quality time together as brothers. Even then, as they were getting older, Alaric approached him less and less often. He was more focused on his sword, getting drunk, and getting tattoos than keeping together or having quality time. He still stuck close when it mattered, but the distance was there. Was this what it meant to get older?

These thoughts dominated his thinking as he picked ingredients and laid traps just in case he couldn't track anything down. That tactician side of him never ceased to go away. It was a constant thing embedded in his mind. Finding efficiency and constant ways of improving - it made him and Alaric butt heads due to his carefree nature which drove him nuts.

He figured there'd be plenty of opportunities for the two to continue to fight alongside one another and just carve their way through life, but now was for the shaman to deal with himself. The independence was liberating.

Back at the cave he stowed the ingredients in the bucket he had used earlier. He looked at the doomwolf fur he had collected and thought to himself about how he should fashion it on him. He could make a gauntlet out of it, or a collar. Perhaps an armband or headband. There was just enough material there to do something simple, but not enough to do anything major. Seeing how it curved and how sturdy it was, he placed it on his shoulder.

It fit just like a pauldron of sorts and would certainly help deflect anything that came into contact with it. It also had a warding effect that shrugged off foreign magic. Being the fur it was, he also assumed it had some other properties such as being waterproof, resistant to the cold, and fireproof. He didn't want to ruin the piece just to test such things, but he would have to keep it in mind the next time he ran into any doomwolves.

The shaman liked the idea and started sewing it on, the sturdy construction taking a lot more work than he anticipated. When he finished, it just made him all the more proud of his work. It looked natural and had a function. That in of itself was all he needed.

[Synkkis Kyyneltya]

Stepping out into the wild, the shaman once again embraced the Northern Void with open arms. He tilted his head back and breathed slowly. He didn't know what was beyond, but it calmed him. Turning around and walking down the steps of the mountain, he checked his traps which were empty. He moved silently through the snow, his eyes open for any sort of prey to show its tracks or be seen in the flesh. After a good half-hour, things were looking bleak. No tracks, no prey. This continued for a solid three hours of him stalking through the woods, careful of his movements. Finding no luck, he started the ascent to the summit.

Distracted by the sound of his own footsteps crunching on the frostbitten ground, he was taken by complete surprise when an elk dashed past him. If he had his arm out he could've touched the beast as it moved at a blur. The elk ahead of him had long, straight horns. The Ilian immediately identified it as a Red Elk, just as he had tracked once before. Giving chase, he sprinted up the mountain after the agile creature with his tome in hand. He noticed he was much faster and agile than when he started adventuring almost three years ago. However, this elk outpaced him with little effort.

Reaching the top of the mountain, he looked upwards at the outcropping where the cave sat underneath. With slow grace, the creature stepped above and looked down to him. The shaman stopped and crouched, his tome already in hand. He felt the energy growing inside of him and while it was difficult to control the ball of flux that was conjured out of the air was much larger and dense than anything he had summoned before. It descended into the ground like thick, black oil and ahead of him large tendrils seeped out of the rock and pierced through its chest. The bleeding elk hadn't uttered a sound as it breathed its last breath in a sort of a peaceful way.

The shaman walked up to the creature and observed its wounds with a bit of admiration. He dressed the animal and cut its meat into segments, placing them in the snow bank for storage. However, he obtained some of the smaller bones and cleaned them before he pocketed them into his trousers. With the head he cleaned it as well, stripping away all of the flesh, revealing a pure white skull. His hands covered in blood, he wiped the blood across his eyes and using a bit of fur he painted some on his arm in an intricate fashion.

He gathered quite a bit of snow at the edge of the cliff and planted a branch in the pile with the skull being at the top. He hung his cloak from the effigy and planted the bones he had collected around it, including the doomwolf claws he had held onto for a very long time. Taking the elk's heart in his hands he impaled it on the branch, the chilled blood slowly dripping into the snow. Remembering his the scroll from Etruria, he unrolled it, the text being that of runes that were instrumental in conjuring the powers from the nether. These were translated in his Flux tome, but it took Synkkis extensive studying during his trip through Bern in order to pronounce what was written, even if he didn't understand it.

Phonetically, the verses rhymed, so he assumed it was a prayer of sorts. He had faced many dangers before. There wasn't anything that could strike fear into him such as this - even if anything were to happen. He crouched in front of the effigy, everything looking to be in order as to what was described in the rhyme - what little he could understand from it. Standing up once more, he placed his right hand on the skull and his other hand held the scroll open. He looked into the void once more before humming to himself, preparing his speech he had not used in a few days.

[Synkkis Kyyneltya]

Humming much as a brother of the church would, he felt his voice vibrate with the stone and the air around him. It was calming, yet foreign. The feeling was intriguing, but he did not let his mind wander. The verses poured from his lips as he felt a power grow within him.

"Los til grozein hi luft nil ko?
Ven do daan fen sun hin kah khro

Gevild hez kun meyz tum nau tiid
Us daar belur ved, vorohah fah hin zahrahbok
Hi kuz fah bolaav fosro kosaan til fah miid
Ko womb yun sos gaav nuk wah krifnok

Wahlaat do muen
Mah ko vul razuen
Grohiik tum gein tol vorohah mii pol
Nid hind, hi grohiik tum gol"

He paused, feeling a surging pain trickle up his fingertips onto his hand, keeping his eyes closed. He did not question what he did not understand - it would be futile. In the eyes of the old gods, he was a newborn stumbling around at their feet; As a newborn he had caught their attention. With another deep breath, he spoke the final phrase, "Ven do pah slen"

The shaman felt something dramatically change as his body grew heavy and the strength he had before was immediately sapped and blew away just like the wind that surged around him. Opening his eyes the young man looked at his hands, his left covered in blood. This shocked him, but looking closer he saw that he now had tattoos that mirrored the ones on his right. What purpose was there in this? The wound not only boiled over in blood, but smoke billowed out. That only ever happened when he came into contact with powerful dark magic. The smoke enveloped him and his vision, causing him to wince his eyes as they choked with tears. When he wiped his eyes, the effigy in front of him had changed.

Before him stood an avatar. His cape hung from its shoulders, the head was that of the skull, and his heart was also that of the elk's. The bones orbited his heart as a ring much like that of a timepiece. The body was inconsistent and had no real shape. This truly was a spectre haunting over him.

"Valokein wah qethserigir do Skaven, dii kul." it boomed with an astral voice. However, in his head it made sense to him. 'Welcome to the spine of Skaven, my son.' was the only way he could translate it for it to make sense for anyone else he would try to relay it to. The language the avatar spoke in had much more depth and meaning than the language of his ancestors. "You do not speak in the same tongue as dragons anymore, Man. You do understand it, however. It's set deep in your bones." It roared, every word harmonizing with his spirit. The apparition took every moment of Synkkis' mind, his eyes dancing to every detail. "I have given you the same blessing as your race has been gifted before. I offer you knowledge. You will not understand it now, but you have the further potential to become powerful from it. This power is not for yourself, but for others. You will understand when the time comes." it bellowed. What could the snow-haired Ilian say? What was there to say? There was no doubt in his mind that he would honor the spectre's wishes. "Go forth and serve. Dark times descend on the children of Elibe. You must resist it alongside the many others. None shall escape that duty."

The prophetic words vanished as did the smoke and weakness that grabbed onto the shaman's body. A black ink imploded onto the heart sucking it into the abyss, but everything else was discarded and fell into the bank. Even though Synkkis had his energy unrestricted, the shock of the moment left him motionless in the white snow. He lay as if he were put to rest, only the constant wind that disturbed his unmoving body. Just trying to process what happened made him feel incredibly humbled. The Old Gods were certainly real and they had just as much say in Elibe as the ones that St. Elimine preached of. His eyes slowly closed as he drifted to sleep.

...

When his eyes opened, it was already early in the night. He pulled himself up and pulled his left arm out of the snow, the spilt blood had frozen and practically glued his arm into place. It didn't take much to clean it, only a minor, dull pain remaining. Pocketing the bones and picking the skull up out of the snow, his body shivered from the exposure. Without any waste of time he wrapped himself in his cloak and returned to his cave where he went to relight his fire. Some time had passed as the flames built and light danced around the cave. With this he could get a closer look at his tattoo and saw it was an exact mirrored replica of the one on his right, yet the tendrils did not continue up his arm to fade into nothingness like his right arm. Did that mean something like this could happen again, yet with his right arm? The thought made him shudder.

With his cloak nearly in tatters and his armor having been destroyed quite a long time ago when he journeyed with Roin, Vivian, and his brother, he could use something to help him in his journeys. The skull was used by the avatar - how could he let it just sit and decay? It had become nearly a part of him now. Without too much effort he formed a necklace with the teeth, claws, and bones that he had collected. He wore them around his neck. The shaman then tied the skull to his cape with leather string and it held fast in a comfortable position. Thinking of it, he must look quite ragged and intimidating. He wouldn't be surprised if someone were to mistake him for a bandit, yet, he had more drive and honor now than anyone sitting in Araphen or Delphi. He would now do more for Ilia than they had ever accomplished and then some. He knew he had to go on a crusade for the Old God.

Descending from the mountain, he was yet again with his brothers and sisters of the forest. The mountain was like a jolly uncle who guided him along and placed him down softly into the valleys of Ilia. Where he would start, the shaman was uncertain; Synkkis understood that much.

[END THREAD]