Re: The Vivacious Deadlock: S3G6: Round Two: BJ
11-13-2011, 02:29 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.
Cascala sniffled pathetically and balled herself up tighter in the sand. Anyone trying to peek into her mind would have been met with a swirling tumult of conflicting thoughts, crushing angst, and seething fury. At the same time as she cursed her foolishness and carelessness she railed against the setting itself and its insidious influence; rage at the impudent Ivan mingled with confusion about the latest transition; memories and musings and monologues twisted around each other, all vying for greater mental space and focus and none getting anywhere. Cascala was a mental mess. A lifetime of rigid self-denial and conditioning had found nowhere to go when faced with the pressures of the battle, and something inside her had burst.
That same self-assurance and -control did gradually reassert itself though; even the most radical breakdown could only incapacitate someone like the Grand Magus for so long. She had no idea how long she had wasted wallowing in the brine-soaked sand, nor did she care; there were more pressing things to deal with. Rage and self-pity and doubt were filed away and forgotten, replaced by pragmatism and planning. The pain she couldn't ignore, though. That would have to be the first thing to take care of then. Erase the record of the foolish little man's attack and her own careless behavior, erase the pain. Cascala was no great healer particularly, but inasmuch as her magical domain included destruction of the body it included the reparation of it. It was unwise to leave herself with no recourse should she become injured, so she'd made sure to take advantage of Flow's plethora of restorative arts. Flexing stiff, aching fingers, she reached out.
And screamed.
The tangle of mental static that had afflicted her gone, she noticed that she could feel... Nothing. There was no magic. The taste of mana was completely absent from the world, the reassuring ebb and flow of spell energies nowhere to be found in her mindscape. For the first time in her life, she wasn't suffused with power. It was as though she had awoken and gradually realized there was no air. Even her staff had vanished.
After several moments of frantic panicking, she calmed enough again to realize that all wasn't quite true. There was... Something. But it wasn't right. It was like a faint melody on the edge of her hearing that she could almost identify, not like a comforting, implicit presence that filled her whole being. It was so... Weak. So external. It was unbearable.
Hoping at least to find her staff buried in the sand around her, hoping to feel the mana she had stored in it to stave off the terror of powerlessness for a time, she looked around herself. Nearby, there was something. Portions of it were even made of magesteel and she recognized some of her runes on it, but it was still odd and like nothing she'd ever seen. Nevertheless, it projected an air of familiarity. She reached out and touched the smooth, black surface, and–
The melody that had previously danced at the edge of consciousness surged through her, singing its own glory through every fiber of her being. In an instant, there was understanding. This thing she had never seen before was as mundane as a brick and as familiar as her own hands, and she knew its purpose and methods without question. The tangle of cords and the plastic casing, moments ago baffling artifacts, could suddenly fit together in only one way, and it was obvious.
She cradled the smallest portion of her new instrument to herself and let the music flow through her. Its voice would be hers, and her power its. She would let it sing a melody that was at once war-chant and requiem, and through its song she would see all those in her way fall before her. There was no thought of healing, no thought of hurricanes; those powers were gone, had never existed in this world. But Cascala was far from helpless, and far from harmless. Perhaps there would be no storms brought down to see that every inch of the round was blanketed in freezing death; it wouldn't matter though: her theremin clutched tightly to her and her inner ears open to the song of this world, she knew things could only go one way. Indeed, they were no more capable of going any other than Cascala herself was of defying gravity or becoming a turnip; the world was bound to abide by the song in the way other worlds were bound to physical laws or destiny. Her eyes filled with tears of reverence as the song spoke to her of great battles to come, of heroes and villains and those who transcended both. It spoke to her of a singer who would end the song itself, of those who would hear the last chorus, and of a world without music. It gave no names, gave no details; it was an ode, an epic, and a wordless paean to itself and its singers, but it was no prophecy and no history. The song rang through her, and Cascala wept.
In time, she rose from the sand a final time, gathering the bulky components of her instrument. The amplifier and pedals formed a convenient-if-heavy backpack, from which the box itself hung neatly; the stand she had to carry, but it was light enough and sat like a rod in her hand.
All doubt forgotten, Cascala set off across the beach, salt and sand giving way to stone and civilization. The viking encampments beckoned brashly, and the city whispered its sly charms. Cascala simply closed her eyes, let the song well up through her, and walked where her feet would take her.
Cascala sniffled pathetically and balled herself up tighter in the sand. Anyone trying to peek into her mind would have been met with a swirling tumult of conflicting thoughts, crushing angst, and seething fury. At the same time as she cursed her foolishness and carelessness she railed against the setting itself and its insidious influence; rage at the impudent Ivan mingled with confusion about the latest transition; memories and musings and monologues twisted around each other, all vying for greater mental space and focus and none getting anywhere. Cascala was a mental mess. A lifetime of rigid self-denial and conditioning had found nowhere to go when faced with the pressures of the battle, and something inside her had burst.
That same self-assurance and -control did gradually reassert itself though; even the most radical breakdown could only incapacitate someone like the Grand Magus for so long. She had no idea how long she had wasted wallowing in the brine-soaked sand, nor did she care; there were more pressing things to deal with. Rage and self-pity and doubt were filed away and forgotten, replaced by pragmatism and planning. The pain she couldn't ignore, though. That would have to be the first thing to take care of then. Erase the record of the foolish little man's attack and her own careless behavior, erase the pain. Cascala was no great healer particularly, but inasmuch as her magical domain included destruction of the body it included the reparation of it. It was unwise to leave herself with no recourse should she become injured, so she'd made sure to take advantage of Flow's plethora of restorative arts. Flexing stiff, aching fingers, she reached out.
And screamed.
The tangle of mental static that had afflicted her gone, she noticed that she could feel... Nothing. There was no magic. The taste of mana was completely absent from the world, the reassuring ebb and flow of spell energies nowhere to be found in her mindscape. For the first time in her life, she wasn't suffused with power. It was as though she had awoken and gradually realized there was no air. Even her staff had vanished.
After several moments of frantic panicking, she calmed enough again to realize that all wasn't quite true. There was... Something. But it wasn't right. It was like a faint melody on the edge of her hearing that she could almost identify, not like a comforting, implicit presence that filled her whole being. It was so... Weak. So external. It was unbearable.
Hoping at least to find her staff buried in the sand around her, hoping to feel the mana she had stored in it to stave off the terror of powerlessness for a time, she looked around herself. Nearby, there was something. Portions of it were even made of magesteel and she recognized some of her runes on it, but it was still odd and like nothing she'd ever seen. Nevertheless, it projected an air of familiarity. She reached out and touched the smooth, black surface, and–
The melody that had previously danced at the edge of consciousness surged through her, singing its own glory through every fiber of her being. In an instant, there was understanding. This thing she had never seen before was as mundane as a brick and as familiar as her own hands, and she knew its purpose and methods without question. The tangle of cords and the plastic casing, moments ago baffling artifacts, could suddenly fit together in only one way, and it was obvious.
She cradled the smallest portion of her new instrument to herself and let the music flow through her. Its voice would be hers, and her power its. She would let it sing a melody that was at once war-chant and requiem, and through its song she would see all those in her way fall before her. There was no thought of healing, no thought of hurricanes; those powers were gone, had never existed in this world. But Cascala was far from helpless, and far from harmless. Perhaps there would be no storms brought down to see that every inch of the round was blanketed in freezing death; it wouldn't matter though: her theremin clutched tightly to her and her inner ears open to the song of this world, she knew things could only go one way. Indeed, they were no more capable of going any other than Cascala herself was of defying gravity or becoming a turnip; the world was bound to abide by the song in the way other worlds were bound to physical laws or destiny. Her eyes filled with tears of reverence as the song spoke to her of great battles to come, of heroes and villains and those who transcended both. It spoke to her of a singer who would end the song itself, of those who would hear the last chorus, and of a world without music. It gave no names, gave no details; it was an ode, an epic, and a wordless paean to itself and its singers, but it was no prophecy and no history. The song rang through her, and Cascala wept.
In time, she rose from the sand a final time, gathering the bulky components of her instrument. The amplifier and pedals formed a convenient-if-heavy backpack, from which the box itself hung neatly; the stand she had to carry, but it was light enough and sat like a rod in her hand.
All doubt forgotten, Cascala set off across the beach, salt and sand giving way to stone and civilization. The viking encampments beckoned brashly, and the city whispered its sly charms. Cascala simply closed her eyes, let the song well up through her, and walked where her feet would take her.