Striking the Bars I
Posted: Sun Nov 03, 2024 6:44 pm
Striking the Bars I 
Darkness stretched infinitely within her confinement, the cold walls of the demonstone sealing her in, smothering her senses. She had raged against them at first, wild and relentless, testing every seam, every flaw she could strain her essence against. But each assault had been met with an unyielding silence, an unbreakable barrier to her will. No matter how forcefully she pressed, tore or struck her power was simply rebuffed, dispersed and drained away into the darkness beyond. Seasons had passed, a blur of furious, futile struggle. Her strength was being blead away little by little, and now, finally, her fury had reached its limits.
Now, like smoldering coals gathering strength in the ashes of spent flames, her rage cooled, becoming a cold, sharpened intent. Slowly she had begun to gather herself, drawing in the remnants of her failed efforts, her spirit withdrawing deep inside as she began to stare at the wards of her prison with new eyes. She began to study the lattice of the prison around her, searching for the slightest disruption in the layers of glyphs and pictographs. Every ward, every subtle thread of aether became a target for her scrutiny, and after nearly two years Lyra began to comprehend her situation.
Inside of the stone she was trapped in a half living state. Her body had been dispersed to black mist, reminiscent of her time after the great war when her soul was shattered. This time, however, was different. Before she had been kept in a state of perpetual nothingness, maddening in its unchanging nature, the darkness pure and unyielding. Now when she looked inward she could sense her power being steadily drained from her very soul. The prison was not simply a container to hold her, but a conduit through which her very being was being syphoned out. Her power was being extracted, her will and intent stripped, and the energy pulled beyond the walls of her cage to be used in some purpose she could not see.
It hurt. Not agonizing, but a steady throb that rippled through her core and made every part of her ache. Lyra felt like a rag that had been rung dry, and the hands that held her still did not loosen their grip. She was being squeezed of every drop of power she contained, and were this before she had become whole once more Lyra was certain she would have already died. Yet despite the pain and the easily exhaustion, there was a slight hope. The power she drew from within refilled as fast as it was drained, so while she could do little to gather her power she was at least able to subsist on the dregs left over. This was all that kept her sane now. That, and her one escape.
While she could not reach outside her prison, she could withdraw further into herself. Deeper into her body, into her very soul, to her soul space.
When Lyra opened her eyes she was looking up at the dark swirling sky of her inner world. In here she was not confined. She was free to move about as she pleased, to walk, to breath. Yet she felt no joy in the act, for around her the land of her soul space was barren. Where once there was lush forests and towers of glass, there now was merely sand. Miles upon miles of grey dust that stretched as far as her inner sight could see. This place was a reflection of her, and drained as she was it was nothing short of a miracle that the soul space could exist at all.
Shaking her head Lyra extended her senses outward, touching the edges of her domain, feeling her true form and the prison beyond. She did not need to open her eyes to see in this place, and so kept them closed as she extended her hands with her palms held up. Thin tendrils of black smoke laced through her fingers and extended into the air, into the sand dunes around her, and beyond. She stretched herself as far as she could, and then settled herself on a stone that had appeared beneath her feet.
The stone glowed a soft golden light, flickering faintly with subdued power which made Lyra smile faintly. Her soul, though weakened, was not fully drained. Not yet. Then she began to explore.
Threads of aether spun out from Lyra, tracing lines across the inner surface of the stone that contained her. First dozens, then hundreds, then thousands. As they multiplied the threads grew thinner and thinner, winding their way across the wards until, finally, they began to find small points where they could slip inside. These felt like small ridges, divots in the otherwise smooth lattice work of her warding. They were easy to miss, and even easier to overlook, as when she first noticed them they did not seem to serve a purpose. Still Lyra stretched out her senses and found each and every one of these locations across the entirety of the stone, and then she prepared herself to wait.
From time to time she felt something shift in the wards. Small ripples at first, but it was not until one day that Lyra discovered what these imperfections actually were. On this day she felt the draw on her aether increase, felt her power being syphoned away, but with a sudden jolt of excitement Lyra realized that some of her energy was drawn to the divots. She tried to thread her will deeper into the wards where the energy was being drawn, but it was like she were running into a net that would not allow her power to pass through. With frustration she lashed out at one of these meshes, and her power rebounded before being dissolved and draw outside with the rest of her aether.
New frustration built inside, but it was tempered by a small sliver of anticipation. Lyra had found a potential point of weakness.
Date: 19th of Ash, 124 AS
Lyra was not sure how long she had waited. Days, possibly weeks. Just sitting, observing the passage of energy from herself out to the surface of the demonstone. She had begun to notice small patterns in the aether flows as they passed through the wards. Small amounts of aether were simply dispersed across the surface of the entire stone, the weave of wards and pictographs steadily breaking down her power and stripping away her will and intent before the power was drawn away somewhere else. This seemed to be a passive effect, perhaps an automatic system built into the prison itself. It was meant to keep her weakened, and also limit how much influence she could have inside her prison. Whenever Lyra pressed against these inner wards she was simply feeding the magic that kept the ward in place. It was clever, perhaps even genius, as Lyra herself was powering her own prison simply by existing inside of it. She felt a grudging respect for the design, though already she could see some flaws. The wards made assumptions about her and her abilities, and while it was adaptive, Lyra suspected there was a limit to what these passive wards could shield against.
There was also something else Lyra had observed, something far more interesting, at least to her. Those imperfections in the ward, Lyra had come to realize, were not in fact, imperfections. They were intentional. They were funnels built into the ward itself, and when not active they merely appeared to be flaws in the design. She had noticed this during one evening when an exceptionally large amount of her aether had been drawn from her. Like before Lyra had tried to slip her essence into the makeshift funnels, but was trapped once more by the mesh that broke down her aether and drew it in. this time, however, Lyra saw as the funnel was opened. The wards split, opening like a valve to allow larger amounts of her power to feed through it. The mesh was a magical sieve which extended across the opening, separating Lyra's will from the power as it was drawn outside the stone itself. It was through this observation that Lyra realized... She had been made into a battery.
Anger flared up within her, mixing with indignation as the gal of those outside to use her in such a way. She had tried to break the mesh that kept her will trapped inside, but again she met the harsh reality that she would not be able to simply break the warding around her prison. Then, one day, something was different.
She felt the wards opening to allow greater power through, and again she pressed herself against the mesh. She pressed, and again was met with resistance... but there was something odd. Through the wards she felt... something. It was faint, barely a hint, but she was certain. Lyra felt a soul, or perhaps its remnants, somewhere on the other side of the connection.
Lyra, acting on instinct, quickly severed a piece of her own soul and sent it arching toward the connection, and to her surprise she saw it pass through the mesh and beyond. Quickly as she could she reached out to that piece of herself, felt it travel toward the remnants of the soul beyond. As it drifted through the barrier, she felt a sudden, thrilling chill, like a rush of cool air breaking over her in the darkness. A flicker—a brief, distant glimpse of something beyond her prison—sent a surge of power through her. And just before the connection snapped shut, she sensed it: the remnants of a soul, barely there, but real. She reached for it, feeling the faint embers of its presence, and with a quick flare of her own aether, she kindled it just enough for her fragment to take root. As quickly as it started, the connection was cut, and Lyra once more found herself in darkness. Yet this time, she smiled.
19th of Ash, 124rd Year, A.o.S.
Darkness stretched infinitely within her confinement, the cold walls of the demonstone sealing her in, smothering her senses. She had raged against them at first, wild and relentless, testing every seam, every flaw she could strain her essence against. But each assault had been met with an unyielding silence, an unbreakable barrier to her will. No matter how forcefully she pressed, tore or struck her power was simply rebuffed, dispersed and drained away into the darkness beyond. Seasons had passed, a blur of furious, futile struggle. Her strength was being blead away little by little, and now, finally, her fury had reached its limits.
Now, like smoldering coals gathering strength in the ashes of spent flames, her rage cooled, becoming a cold, sharpened intent. Slowly she had begun to gather herself, drawing in the remnants of her failed efforts, her spirit withdrawing deep inside as she began to stare at the wards of her prison with new eyes. She began to study the lattice of the prison around her, searching for the slightest disruption in the layers of glyphs and pictographs. Every ward, every subtle thread of aether became a target for her scrutiny, and after nearly two years Lyra began to comprehend her situation.
Inside of the stone she was trapped in a half living state. Her body had been dispersed to black mist, reminiscent of her time after the great war when her soul was shattered. This time, however, was different. Before she had been kept in a state of perpetual nothingness, maddening in its unchanging nature, the darkness pure and unyielding. Now when she looked inward she could sense her power being steadily drained from her very soul. The prison was not simply a container to hold her, but a conduit through which her very being was being syphoned out. Her power was being extracted, her will and intent stripped, and the energy pulled beyond the walls of her cage to be used in some purpose she could not see.
It hurt. Not agonizing, but a steady throb that rippled through her core and made every part of her ache. Lyra felt like a rag that had been rung dry, and the hands that held her still did not loosen their grip. She was being squeezed of every drop of power she contained, and were this before she had become whole once more Lyra was certain she would have already died. Yet despite the pain and the easily exhaustion, there was a slight hope. The power she drew from within refilled as fast as it was drained, so while she could do little to gather her power she was at least able to subsist on the dregs left over. This was all that kept her sane now. That, and her one escape.
While she could not reach outside her prison, she could withdraw further into herself. Deeper into her body, into her very soul, to her soul space.
*****
When Lyra opened her eyes she was looking up at the dark swirling sky of her inner world. In here she was not confined. She was free to move about as she pleased, to walk, to breath. Yet she felt no joy in the act, for around her the land of her soul space was barren. Where once there was lush forests and towers of glass, there now was merely sand. Miles upon miles of grey dust that stretched as far as her inner sight could see. This place was a reflection of her, and drained as she was it was nothing short of a miracle that the soul space could exist at all.
Shaking her head Lyra extended her senses outward, touching the edges of her domain, feeling her true form and the prison beyond. She did not need to open her eyes to see in this place, and so kept them closed as she extended her hands with her palms held up. Thin tendrils of black smoke laced through her fingers and extended into the air, into the sand dunes around her, and beyond. She stretched herself as far as she could, and then settled herself on a stone that had appeared beneath her feet.
The stone glowed a soft golden light, flickering faintly with subdued power which made Lyra smile faintly. Her soul, though weakened, was not fully drained. Not yet. Then she began to explore.
*****
Threads of aether spun out from Lyra, tracing lines across the inner surface of the stone that contained her. First dozens, then hundreds, then thousands. As they multiplied the threads grew thinner and thinner, winding their way across the wards until, finally, they began to find small points where they could slip inside. These felt like small ridges, divots in the otherwise smooth lattice work of her warding. They were easy to miss, and even easier to overlook, as when she first noticed them they did not seem to serve a purpose. Still Lyra stretched out her senses and found each and every one of these locations across the entirety of the stone, and then she prepared herself to wait.
From time to time she felt something shift in the wards. Small ripples at first, but it was not until one day that Lyra discovered what these imperfections actually were. On this day she felt the draw on her aether increase, felt her power being syphoned away, but with a sudden jolt of excitement Lyra realized that some of her energy was drawn to the divots. She tried to thread her will deeper into the wards where the energy was being drawn, but it was like she were running into a net that would not allow her power to pass through. With frustration she lashed out at one of these meshes, and her power rebounded before being dissolved and draw outside with the rest of her aether.
New frustration built inside, but it was tempered by a small sliver of anticipation. Lyra had found a potential point of weakness.
*****
Date: 19th of Ash, 124 AS
Lyra was not sure how long she had waited. Days, possibly weeks. Just sitting, observing the passage of energy from herself out to the surface of the demonstone. She had begun to notice small patterns in the aether flows as they passed through the wards. Small amounts of aether were simply dispersed across the surface of the entire stone, the weave of wards and pictographs steadily breaking down her power and stripping away her will and intent before the power was drawn away somewhere else. This seemed to be a passive effect, perhaps an automatic system built into the prison itself. It was meant to keep her weakened, and also limit how much influence she could have inside her prison. Whenever Lyra pressed against these inner wards she was simply feeding the magic that kept the ward in place. It was clever, perhaps even genius, as Lyra herself was powering her own prison simply by existing inside of it. She felt a grudging respect for the design, though already she could see some flaws. The wards made assumptions about her and her abilities, and while it was adaptive, Lyra suspected there was a limit to what these passive wards could shield against.
There was also something else Lyra had observed, something far more interesting, at least to her. Those imperfections in the ward, Lyra had come to realize, were not in fact, imperfections. They were intentional. They were funnels built into the ward itself, and when not active they merely appeared to be flaws in the design. She had noticed this during one evening when an exceptionally large amount of her aether had been drawn from her. Like before Lyra had tried to slip her essence into the makeshift funnels, but was trapped once more by the mesh that broke down her aether and drew it in. this time, however, Lyra saw as the funnel was opened. The wards split, opening like a valve to allow larger amounts of her power to feed through it. The mesh was a magical sieve which extended across the opening, separating Lyra's will from the power as it was drawn outside the stone itself. It was through this observation that Lyra realized... She had been made into a battery.
Anger flared up within her, mixing with indignation as the gal of those outside to use her in such a way. She had tried to break the mesh that kept her will trapped inside, but again she met the harsh reality that she would not be able to simply break the warding around her prison. Then, one day, something was different.
She felt the wards opening to allow greater power through, and again she pressed herself against the mesh. She pressed, and again was met with resistance... but there was something odd. Through the wards she felt... something. It was faint, barely a hint, but she was certain. Lyra felt a soul, or perhaps its remnants, somewhere on the other side of the connection.
Lyra, acting on instinct, quickly severed a piece of her own soul and sent it arching toward the connection, and to her surprise she saw it pass through the mesh and beyond. Quickly as she could she reached out to that piece of herself, felt it travel toward the remnants of the soul beyond. As it drifted through the barrier, she felt a sudden, thrilling chill, like a rush of cool air breaking over her in the darkness. A flicker—a brief, distant glimpse of something beyond her prison—sent a surge of power through her. And just before the connection snapped shut, she sensed it: the remnants of a soul, barely there, but real. She reached for it, feeling the faint embers of its presence, and with a quick flare of her own aether, she kindled it just enough for her fragment to take root. As quickly as it started, the connection was cut, and Lyra once more found herself in darkness. Yet this time, she smiled.
"I hear whispers"