The Child

[Squeak]

I haven't written anything in years, but I felt the urge and I whipped this up in about an hour. It's a bit minimal, and there ain't much context, but the idea is around a mage being attacked by beastmen, and how that mage uses his powers. I hope you enjoy it!




The Child

I weave the strands. I find order in nature, and I worship its divinity. I reach, blind, but aware. It gives me comfort. It gives me strength. It makes me humble.

I am a child, but I am careful. I approach the altar unknowing, but aware of my limitations. I am not a god. I am not a prince. I am a child, and I find comfort in this.

I do not harness order. I do not presume to have mastery of it. I become order. I am order, and order is me. I am in order, and I am outside of it.

It is not a question of control. I do not enforce my will on order, bend it to my inclinations and direct my desire, manifested by force, at my enemy.

My desire exists in order, with countless other desires. It is not that I choose my desire from countless other desires, and will it in to existence at the expense of other desires.

Nor is it a question of control, or strength, or will. It is that my possibility exists with all other possiblities. All desires. All existing. All manifest. But at this moment, this instance, this time, my desire becomes manifest above all others.

This is my strength. My power. I am one with order, order is one with me, and my possibility is order's possibility.

The beast bursts in to fire. It screams. It sounds like a child. Not a bloodthirsty cry. The cry of childbirth. The beast is becoming born into another world. It flails, casting off its weapon, and frantically rolling across the autumnal undergrowth. Its cries dim, its hysterical panting fades, and it becomes dead.

I feel order alter, a slight shift in the strands, as order adapts to the new possibilities of death. The drop of a pin can have consequences for the mightiest of rulers. I understand this. I see in the lowliest animal the infinite possibilities for the world.

I open my eyes. The charred corpse lies peacefully amongst the leaves of the glade. It is one of several. They are empty shells.

Something not unexpected happens. Without my intention, order shifts. Possibilities extend towards the infinite horizon. More apparent, yet more difficult to comprehend. The enemy presents itself. Chaos.

A beast steps out from the undergrowth. Its skin is white, its horns curl in amongst themselves, its broad shoulders are hunched over, and it leans heavily on its staff. I can smell it.

It lifts its head, and lets out a guttural howl. It calls on its lord, asks it to intervene on its behalf. The beast is different from me. I know this.

It does not become order. It does not see the possibilities. It does not make its desire manifest. It calls on its god to intervene on its behalf. This god tears into order. It enforces its will. It subsumes the possibilities, and wills it's own into existence. It is brutish. It is anarchic. It is Chaos.

I understand all of this. It is why I was dismissed. Why I was expelled from the Tower. Why I was exiled from my home.

They whispered against me. Alothé, he delves in to Chaos. He seeks answers in places he should not. He has gazed for too long into the abyss. It has looked back, and it has liked what it has seen. The abyss, they whispered, has wrapped Alothé amongst its tendrils. It has clasped him to its breast, and speaks tenderly to him.

They could not understand. They were blinded by millennia of dogma. rules set down by ancestors long dead. They believed in the present. In the constant. In the singular. They could not understand change, possibility, infinity, the essence of order in the way that I could.

They were blind fools.

The lines shudder. order recoils. I fall back from the altar.

"No!" I gasp. I see the beast. Its twisted finger is pointing at me, and I feel the power of Chaos. My stomach collapses inwards, I feel my feet leave the ground, and I fly backwards through the air. My head strikes the trunk of the tree, and the world jars.

I blink through my tears, and I see the beast shuffle across the glade towards me. I must be humble. I am a child. I cannot impose myself on order. I cannot bring my prejudices in to order. It distorts possibilities.

I dip my head. My breathing slows, and my eyes close over. I am humble. I am a child. I seek the lines. I find order. I find my desire in possibility and I manifest it.

Roots spring up from the earth. They wrap the beast in a cage. It howls, struggling against the bonds of order. It is helpless.

I get to my feet, and cross the glade to stand before the beast. It is panting furiously, and I can smell its breath. It stinks of death. Its eyes stare at me, part hatred, part fear. I lift my hand, and place my middle finger on its brow.

I see in to the creature. I see the possibilities of this beast. I become it. I feel its heart pounding in its chest. I feel the blood flow through its veins. I smell the world through its nostrils. I feel the fear that grips its soul. I learn of it.

I destroy it. I turn its self back in upon it self. For a moment the beast knows. It knows everything about itself. It feels everything within itself. It is to much. The beast recoils. It kills itself.

I let the trap fall, manifesting a new possibility. The corpse falls to the floor. I am satisfied. I let go of order, and come back to the world as it is. I am humble.

I am a child, but I am the first child.

[Spartan]

I like it, Squeak! It's interesting to see where the mind of a mage might go during battle, rather than just seeing him fling fireballs everywhere. I also like the idea of a mage as a servant of his magic, almost a priest; it makes one realize why only the wisest can confer with the winds of magic.

Well done!

[Squeak]

Thanks!

I don't think I'd write it in that way again, some of it doesn't make much sense, but it was a good way of trying to figure out the nuts and bolts of a character.