Sumacai'a

Chosen? I don't know who this Cheyl is, or what she wants us to do. But, that was fun! I'm torn between the desire to meet my fellow swimmers, and the desire to go back in the lake. This sprite looks like she's about to collapse for good. Then, she starts doing this spinny thing, it's pretty. Oooh, sparklies! But, I thought only pixies scattered dust.

Suddenly, I feel wierd. Not bad wierd, just different. I'm all warm, like I've been laying out in the sun. But, on the inside, instead of on my skin. Wait! What did she just say?

"What spells? How do we enable them? And, if you're our guide, maybe you can explain just where we are, how we got here, and where you're guiding us to." This all came out in a rush, directed at the poor, beleaguered sprite. "And, another thing. If we're chosen, why us? I have a very busy social schedule, you know? I'm not even properly equipped for a quest. Why, you didn't even bring along my servants, to carry my portion of the quest loot."

By now, these other people are all looking at me rather strangely. Why do big people always find halflings amusing? I swear, the first one who laughs is gonna get it, right in the shin. Let's see how amused they are when they're limping.

So this was which way the bridle-straps of Fate were hauling Clayton now.

One minute, there had been hardpan desert. A wind-blown expanse of scraggly, dried-up bushes and cracked white earth slowly perishing beneath a merciless white sun. Clayton had been walking down a road in the middle of it, a coach-road on which men and women rode from town to town, searching for jobs. But coaches were for the priveleged; those who couldn't afford to ride, walked. So Clayton walked.

As he walked, things became stranger to him. The horizon ahead, normally distorted by rising heat waves, seemed to begin reflecting the clear sky overhead. Were the gunman's eyes playing tricks on him? Was there suddenly water up ahead that he hadn't seen? The gunslinger's feet picked up the pace, but each step seemed to be carrying him shorter and shorter distances until he was walking in place. Clayton's face registered a modicum of detatched curiosity, and perhaps a little alarm.

Then the blue, quivering horizon started to rush forward at him. What in the Hell was happening all of a sudden? Clayton's face was suddenly shocked. The wind picked up, slowly at first, but then with great intensity, seeking to throw him off his feet as the blue rushed up to meet him. Inherst's feet held him steady for a while, but then he could no longer support himself and felt himself fall.

The blue horizon rushed up to meet him, and suddenly he distinctly felt that there was no more road. He turned behind him, and looked down. The landscape below shocked him. Where there were once low hillocks and scraggly scrub-brush poking up through dead earth, now verdant hills and landscapes surrounded a crystal-blue lake. A lake which he was suddenly plunging towards. Even as he fell head-on towards the lake, Clayton's head swam with curious questions.

Then he hit the water. A sudden, frightening thought crossed the gunman's mind at that moment - he had never swam before! Never once had he been in water deeper than his waist, and even that was stagnant and unmoving, everything in it long dead. As he sank, Clayton noticed that fish swam about him, gazing curiously with their dark eyes before darting away into the dark. Comically, his hat - having trapped an air bubble beneath it - drifted up towards the surface of the pond, where it floated over Clayton's point of entry.

The gunman's limbs flailed wildly, clawing at the cool lake water, frantically attempting to move himself to the water's surface. A hard-fought battle with gravity eventually landed him on the water's surface, where he continued to flail wildly in the general direction of shore. When he did make landfall, his first reaction was to drop to his knees and paw the soft, muddy earth he had found there. He never wanted to swim again.

It was at this point when Clayton Inherst, fundimentalist and staunch believer in the realm of the physical and the nonexistance of magic, realized that a faery was floating over him, spewing gold dust over his head. The gunslinger had never once believed that faeries existed, so naturally this was an oddity for him. The faery - Cheyl the Sprite, if Inherst's haggard, tired mind could remember that far back in time - now moved before him. It spoke, in its clear voice, of a staff which he was to hold. She pointed to it then - a great gnarled thing of sun-bleached wood, the kind of staff old men clung to in their waning days, when their legs were no longer sufficient to bear their weight.

The others spoke, but he ignored them. His goal was the staff. Moving with single-minded concentration, the gunslinger, forgetting his sodden clothes, his tired mind and his confused state, wrapped one hand around the middle of the staff and pulled it from the rocks, holding the great wooden limb in his left hand.

Then he spoke, for the first time in a while. His voice seemed very clear in the muddle of stupid questions that had come before his own. "What do you know of the book? And the staff? I will need a trail to follow before I can track this book which you speak so highly of."

Cael didn't know what to think. As far as he could remember, he was supposed to be at home, sharpening swords and waiting for his chicken to roast. Then suddenly, he felt himself falling (which was impossible, as he was sure he'd fix the gaping hole in his room). Now Cael was wet, confused, and faced with a number of strangers he had never met before. For a second he had reckoned a stupid wizard apprentice must had transported him here, but he himself was unsure that there were such thing as wizards. Before he could decide what could possibly brought him to this unknown lake, though, a curious little woman with wings spoke.

He listened to the sprite, but was unable to grasp what she was talking about. This was not his problem, was it? He was just Cael, an ordinary elf who made and fix weapons, not some kind of hero or chosen one. Sure, he had met some great knights and hunters from his work, but not once had he thought of being one of them. Cross that, he never did want to be one of them. Most of them were obnoxious and proud, and even if he knew there was some of them who were genuine and kind, he didn't think he wanted to fight dragons and risked his life just for money and women. No, that's what shallow people do, and Cael was certainly not shallow.

Cheyl had sprinkled some dust on his face, and after she gave her final speech about their abilities, the strangers finally complained. Most of them asked her the questions that were swimming in Cael's mind, so he figured he shouldn't repeat them. Then again, none of them had mentioned the one question that he was so desperate to hear.

"Excuse me," he said carefully. "I agree whole-heartedly with these folks," he gestured his hands to each person there, "especially about your -- err -- appearance, but if you don't mind, would you tell us what's that thing you spread to us? Also, explain about these abilities you said, and answer our questions," the last remark seemed to be rather commanding, so he added a small "please," after them.

Honestly, Cael was irritated about the rotten faith he had bumped into, but couldn't help feeling curious and interested to the whole thing. He wouldn't join this so-called quest off course, but what happened here might be a good entertainment to his boring life. He planned to just nod and watch, then apologize and told these people that he was not what they're looking for. Then, he'd went home and eat his roast chicken. How splendid and fool-proof was his plan, except for the fact that he was the one that the sprite was looking for.

Fatalism be damned!

Svenrine had had every intention of fixing this brooch. It was brilliantly made, smooth, sharp lines, clean edges and absolutely dashing. She remembered taking the hot brooch, a triangular one, good quality iron, a smaller gold triangle inlaid into it, and handling it with her heavily gloved hands. She took the slightly glowing thing and pressed it into the cold water.

The steam was refreshing as it brushed past her face. It was a nice feeling, it cleaned out the lungs and opened up the pores. She took a highly coincidental and effective deep breath.

Suddenly steam was thicker, heavier... almost... tangible. She opened her eyes, and it wasn't so much that she was falling, but that the world was turning around her. She was still standing up, but now she was facing the ground, dropping into the keg full of water, but not so much dropping as walking forward. It was ethereal, magical, invigorating.

But mostly vomit-inducing.

She felt the water seep in, soak through every once dry fiber. She kicked and she spat and tried to find where up was, where down was.

Now she was washed up on a shore, chewed up and spat out by fate...

Now they were sprinkling sand on her? Had these people no shame? Admittedly Svenrine was near unconscious, and could hardly grasp the idea that her life had changed forever. She felt warmer, despite the wet clothes which, because of dust they were pouring on her, were probably getting muddy.

She stood up, craning her sore neck. Admittedly she didn't know what to ask... start over? Explain why us? Why here? Why now? All that came out was,

"You're supposed to guide us? Who is us?"

Svenrine was incredibly insulted. Why was she the only one who got fear and shaking and doubt? It was foreboding, and deeply hurtful. Svenrine had always prided herself on drive and determination, unfaltering loyalty...

Her hand rested unconsciously on her lips. The troubling thought of a sprite judging her as unworthy, in a situation she already couldn't understand, it was all so overwhelming. Why her? Why her if she wasn't even wanted? What was she doing? The questions started to pile up. It was exactly the sort of situation which made Svenrine crack.

She listened almost enviously to the other positions, they sounded so soothing and good. The sprite's voice never shook with tremors of distaste, never judged the character of one off of nothing, nothing.

Nothing! Obviously the sprite just didn't like her. Svenrine hardly felt like talking. How vain of her. She was personally insulted, and somehow that weighed more than her intense confusion or the fact that other people were similarly bound to an uncertain fate.

She didn't move far from the group, she wanted to talk... she did. Mainly she wanted to know what was going on. She didn't even realize she had power, it simply didn't occur to her. She was too preoccupied with the wounds of vanity and uncertainty which had so long remained closed. In a second she was with her sisters, being called ugly and worst of all "about to turn."

What was she? A fish carcass? For so long she had marked all her insecurities on appearance, and now this little red light had stung through to her soul.

She laid her head back against a tree, breathing out slowly. Her breath was warmer than usual, it probably meant to reeked. At this point she wanted to break down and cry, not only was she freaking out over minute details, she realized she was breaking down and had no power to stop it. Thankfully, utter stubbornness was her savior. She wouldn't be weak, a personal agenda towards that little red blot... She would just act tired... tired.

Her mind was clear soon, she focused on the bigger picture. She was... fire breather. Fire. Fire. She tried to think of fire. She didn't produce any, nor did anything out of the ordinary happen. She just thought of it. It burned, it was beautiful, it broke down anything it touched to Earth. Fire was the mother of Earth in a sort of way, the ash fell down, that became the Earth, from the Earth broke out water, which dissipated, vaporized into the air above. Fire burnt that air, and it all started again.

Vyse couldn't believe what he was hearing. He wasn't about to let himself be led blindly into danger by a leader who didn't even answer most of the questions thrown in her direction. Yet, if he were in that situation himself, he wouldn't be able to come up with any answers either. He'd probably just leave the company and try to forget everything that had happened. The thought, however, did cross his mind. Last time he checked, he was very close to a village which could contain information on his family. Now, he was completely lost and didn't have a map on him. Way to go.. The thought echoed sarcastically in his mind.

This really was an unusual situation for Vyse to be finding himself in. He opened his mouth as if to protest but shut it immediately as he found he was unable to form any words. He was caught off guard by the fact she had invaded his personal space without his consent and was about to pull back but stared at her in puzzlement as she rested in the palm of his hand. The young man sighed and shook his head. He had heard of tales involving some sort of magical person being able to control the elements but how would he be able to control water? That just didn't seem humanly possible. Vyse's hands felt different though, like there was some sort of force coursing through them, surging through him like an electric wave. Vyse couldn't shake the feeling that he might actually believe a stranger he had just met, a stranger who was a red sprite. Maybe this was proof that something like magic really did exist. I don't even know this Cheyl...Or the others to be exact. He contemplated as he watched Cheyl fly over to the next person. The sprite touched a different point each time and he wondered if this was how magical creatures granted other beings strange magical abilities. A peculiar little thing.

After the sprite had finished, he noted that the brilliant glow he had seen her with was barely visble from his spot. She did give them a final warning though, one that made him feel uneasy for a moment. He let out a long breath. "Alrighty then..." Vyse said quite unsurely after the sprite advised that they all rest before she collapsed on the stone. The young man briefly wondered if the sprite was alright but figured it was better to not concern himself with a stranger. With a permanent scowl set on his face, Vyse walked further along the edge of the lake, trying to think of what options he had available at the current time. Not much if he were to count. He could leave now but in a new area like this, maybe it was better to have safety in numbers. His black boots splashed against the water's edge and he stopped to stare out into the deep lake that had cushioned the fall he and the others had gone through, his hands instinctively reaching up for the loose pendant around his neck. "Why me? Did karma really catch up with me after all this time? So I accidentally disturb a sleeping bear." He murmered, remembering how he was chased all the way from the forest trail. "How is that wrong?"

Vyse cleared his mind and concentrated only on the water with narrowed eyes. He slowly dropped his hand from the pendant and waved it across the water, not caring of how incredibly foolish he looked. Up we go... At first, the surface of the lake rippled but that was all it did at first. Vyse tilted his head in puzzlement and tried again. This time, small droplets of water swirled upwards in a spiral that looked more like a translucent, coiled snake emerging from its hiding spot on the ground. With fascination, Vyse watched as the it gathered into a blob near his raised hand, swirling and dancing gracefully as his eyes widened in astoundment. "By the gods..." He jerked back with a start, the water returning to the lake with a splash that sprayed him with an additional amount of water. With an incoherent grumble, he dug his hands into his pockets and moved to sit on a dry patch of grass away from the other chosen ones. For all he knew, someone might dispose of him when he isn't aware.

What just happened? What was the significance of this staff? How could it stop bullets? It was just a piece of wood, nothing more. And yet, somehow, Clayton thought that the little sprite may have had something backing her theory up. After all, she was a six-inch tall flying woman who could sprinkle light particles on anyone and give them magic powers. But Clayton - ever the fundamentalist - retained his suspicions.

Which was why he was doing what he was doing right now.

The loamy soil had eaten Clayton's tall boots, right up to the ankle, as he stood on the shore of the lake. The staff stuck out of the ground nearby, pointing straight up into the sky, aiming itself at the moon like a 6-foot tall middle finger at the gods. His left hand held one of his massive revolvers, the twelve-inch silver barrel reflecting the moonlight as it pointed out over the lake's waters. The ivory grip was cool against the skin of his hand as he held it out, aiming into the woods. One hand slowly went back to the hammer, thumbing it back with ease, the well-oiled instrument clicking into place in the quiet night air with an audible snikt.

Clayton slowly squeezed the revolver's trigger.

That quiet, peaceful night was shattered by eight loud THOOMs breaking out across the waters of the lake, followed by the sound of birds and wildlife scattering from where eight high-velocity steel projectiles came whining into their lives. Nothing had died, but eight trees suddenly had fist-sized holes punched in their trunks. The gunshots calmed Clayton's nerves, allowing him to think clearly. He lowered the silver pistol into its holster and crossed his arms, staring at the staff.

"Well then," Clayton grunted at the gnarled piece of wood, "You want to tell me what you're supposed to do once I get that book?" Silence. "Well then," Clayton grunted, "I guess you're a cudgel from now on. Until you give up what I want you to give up." Silently, the gunman thumbed eight shells into the now-empty cylinders of his revolver.

It was, perhaps, the last peaceful moment Svenrine would enjoy for a while.

Fittingly, it was ruined by a gunshot. She was just thinking it through, tasting it, feeling it, really breathing it all in. Fire, it burned, it moved without effort or desire. It was entirely emotionless and yet represented passion. Was humanity right? Was fire love and anger and overindulgence of emotion? Or was it cynical and proverbially cold, uncaring as it burned merely to survive. Fire doesn't like going out, it holds to embers, it sustains and sustains.

"MOTHER OF GOD"

A loud bang had caused Svenrine to swear profusely as she violently bite down on her tongue and as she scrambled back against the tree, a bright light exploded from in front of her, searing the ground and charring the tree branches.

As she spat a little blood out onto the ground, she realized she was covered in soot. Part of her just wanted to crawl up and cry.

Philosophy be damned. Fire was just dangerous. No fancy connotations, no deeper poetic meaning, it was just dangerous.

Svenrine cracked her neck as she pulled off her brown gown and undid some of her leather straps. She brushed off the revealed part of her bright purple tunic, and started to wash off her face and arms in the water.

She splashed water on her face, enjoying the cold against her apparently slightly burnt skin. The cool didn't last, though, soon she was dry and warm again. For some reason, dry and warm were not as pleasurable as they once were.

By Svenrine's accounts, everything had gone wrong in one very dramatic moment. She still hadn't the slightest clue about what was going on, and now she got "blessed" with a power she didn't want, and beyond that, she left her otherwise comfortable position as cook and occasional blacksmith to go on some quest for a deranged little glorified butterfly that was almost surely going to end in disaster, if not just because Svenrine had no idea how many times more huge bangs would go off, thus causing another random, uninvited fireball to take residence right in front of her.

To Svenrine, it was all just a bad joke told in a bad dream. Double unreal. Doubly meaningless. She hung up the longer gown to dry, even though she herself was already perfectly dry, almost parched for moisture.