Roots

[Taelian]

43rd of Frost, Year 119

"Help me to understand Veravend, nameless thing." Taelian beseeched the specter that spoke to him from beyond the veil. It was still a formless creature, drawn to the Siltori's aether yet unwilling to reveal of itself. The entity drew nearer to Taelian, circling around his neck, his collar, his ears; it whispered into them, softly yet hauntingly.

"She was once known as the Forbidden Sixth," the voice told him. Not in Common, though; in Silvain. Or... no -- Eldhan. It was close enough that he could make out... most of what he meant, but there were differences. It was not the same tongue; it sounded older and more elaborate in its inflection, more distant from the human languages that Silvain ultimately adapted to.

He nodded, and bit his lower lip. "She still is, isn't she?" he asked.

"Yes, but not to all. There are those of her who adhere to her now -- Elves, other things, all those who call upon her might. Men like you; boys younger, women and the craven old. Veravend offers them solitude, Taelian Ela'Rannoch. Safety within the vines of her many tendrils, wrapped around them."

He nodded, slowly. The Siltori's legs were crossed; he was sitting upon the floor, with both of his palms faced upwards towards the ceiling. This was his way of focusing -- immersing himself in the grim tides that were her realm. "What does she want?" he asked. "After all of what has befallen her -- the thing she has become. What is her purpose... meaningless spite towards the other Elven Gods? Or the Elves, for 'betraying' her? I don't understand what she wants from me; or any of those connected to her. Why would she..."

"You do not need to understand, Taelian," the Archetype spoke. "If you want her power, then you will abide her intentions, whether they are known to you. She is a Patron, a God; you are one. You are not meant to understand."

"I see," he coldly replied. "My interest is unfortunately limited, then, creature. I'm not keen on blind observance of her goals. I want to know -- and if I can't, then I will remain distant."

"Then remain so," the Vesj'vakar spoke back. Taelian could almost see his grin through the darkening fog; it was wide and contemptuous. Unsettling.

He broke the connection, and stood from where he sat. The Siltori gripped his blade and slipped on a shirt, a coat, pulled up a slim pair of linen trousers and stepped into shoes thick enough to comfortably wade through snow. It had gotten cold enough for the white showers to finally fall, and Taelian dreaded every moment of them. Kalzasi was the only place he'd ever been to where it could actually snow -- it was far more inconvenient than he realized, as much as the initial imagery may have been charming or even 'beautiful'.

Sheathing his blade upon his back, the Siltori headed out. He needed to practice with the magic he'd always had, he felt, rather than venturing towards all of the many different routes others wished to take him. Ultimately, the goal that had brought him here was the diminishing of Dranoch influence across Sil-Elaine's borders, and the goal that would bring him home was the felling of a Courtier of Dusk. To do that, he would need to become a master of the art... and fortunately, he was almost there.

[Taelian]

He went out into the woods.

It had just been raining. No snow; just the chill of frigid moisture, rained down; the Siltori wore thicker boots than usual to deal with the possibility of snow, and he was glad that he did. He was, however, not cold. It took a lot to make him 'cold', even before... and now, with such skill in the Sigilic Flame, such worries had long since subsided. Perhaps he could feel the momentary, shrill cry of the wind upon his cheeks, and the moisture of water in the air; that was all. No real discomfort, only acknowledgment.

He drew cinders in with his palm, seemingly pulled from the very air around him. His steps seemed to create a sort of fiery friction, but only because he was actively beginning to channel aether. Shrivenflame began to form as a breath, at first, a surrounding whisper that quickly formed around his hands and feet. The air began to almost wobble as heat picked up.

How many Dranoch will all of this kill? he internalized. Each political venture of his; each soiree attended. Sahfri had played the game extensively and yet appeared to be in no position to free her people from their oppression. The Court of Dusk remained at large.

Taelian had almost died to a Dranoch not long ago. Once -- and then again, drawn in by the voice of a Mesmer made compelling. Understanding the games of the ruling elite would not advantage him in culling that threat; for that, he remained bitterly unprepared. And Taelian was a soldier at heart, and had always been one. He was not a noble, and not even a strategist. He was meant to act as a bladed lash against the excesses of the Dranoch scourge, and in that regard he had done well.

But this -- all of this; not recalling to Sil-Elaine, flaunting false opulence alongside the prestigious leader of the Covenant of Melitene, engaging in a committed relationship with a man he called his Arlaed...

It still managed to conflict. All of it remained so separate from the man he had always thought he was.

But Taelian had a realization, and he could not place 'when' he'd had it; it was not long ago, while expanding upon his knowledge of Sigilic Pyromancy, as sort of an inkling at first. He stepped away from the thought, and it returned to him: the idea that Sigilic Pyromancy, like the other magics he'd learned, was only a magic after all. That the Black Sigil was simply a Rune. That being a Pyromancer did not limit him to following the will of the Ebon Knighthood; the Black Remedy.

He could do whatever he wanted with Shrivenflame. It was his -- a part of his soul. It did not belong to Aldrin, and neither did he. Even if Taelian still wished to return to his people as a hero, it did not need to be as a secondary, nameless face for Aldrin's will. He wondered if there weren't ways the resistance could change; could grow better. He felt daring enough, in moments like these, to try.

[Taelian]

But the Siltori had come out into the woods to learn, and he would do so with certainty. The Black Sigil upon the back of his neck lit lightly at its core, and from it began to extend what appeared to be a singular line of blood, like a droplet running so perfectly across his spine. He would not have even noticed it, had it not been for the warm and abiding feeling it left each sector of his skin. The feeling did not appear to subside.

The line quickly altered, molten; it became something like a javelin or, otherwise, a line running across the length of his spine from below his neck to his tailbone. He sighed, and relaxed into the odd sensation. It was... another Quirk manifesting.

Taelian drew his blade with one hand, gripping it tightly as its Enkindled features began to appear. With the other hand, wielding the palm that held his Rune of Transposition, Taelian began to project the beginning of a small gleam of fire that fanned out from his hand and began to form a propelling jet. He came to practice Sigilic Pyromancy, and it appeared almost as if his Rune were accommodating him. The Beacon, of late, had been a somewhat benign thing; it was like the Bond had taught it some measure of how to feel. Perhaps how to empathize, though he knew it was not an independently living thing.

The jet of flame began to spew more rapidly and then to expand; it expanded, mostly, outwards and horizontally. The fire raged with what appeared to be pressure and velocity as it spewed forward, consuming the origin-point of many of the trees before him though it did not consume them to any degree. Their danger arrived from the heat itself.

It was Torrent, the final Journeyman ability that he had not learned. Though, he felt he was beyond the level of competency he needed to stand within for that level of expertise -- Taelian felt that true mastery was near. He had seen the performance of Ashwraiths and Black Revenants... and their displays were not far above his own. He knew of what remained; a whole host of new abilities, and addendums to the old. Taelian could not wait; the Sigil would soon fall.

[Mystic]

Taelian1

Lores
Sigilic Pyromancy: Gallow Warrior
Sigilic Pyromancy: Ebon Duelist
Sigilic Pyromancy: Torrent
Sigilic Pyromancy: Stoking Shrivenflame
Summoning: Veravend's Goals Are Unknown
Summoning: A Nir'zjedin

Loot: N/A
Injuries: N/A

Points 5; (3) can be used for Sigilic Pyromancy and (2) for Summoning

Comments: Okay, this was a bit grindy, but it wasn't thaaaaaat bad, buddy. I kinda enjoyed. Have your points!