The Boy and the Firelands - The Misadventures of Lyari Sylwynn

[Qizu 4080]

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

 

Roleplay Post

The Misadventures of Lyari Sylwynn

Or

The Boy and the Firelands
 

The first day of his quest, but not of his trials. A normal day in the city of Fi’Andria, the young Mali’aheral known as Lyari laid under the shade of an old tree that seemed to reach halfway to the heavens themselves. One socket was covered by an eyepatch, an empty chasm hidden underneath. The other was light blue. A familiar hand reached for dishwater blond hair, twisted and scaled, yet white in color. It grasps them in a firm death grip to snap the boy from his daydreams.

 

“You’re delaying, Lyari.” The nephilim reminded him.

 

“But mentor! The sky is so lovely today.” The young ‘aheral admonished in response, the sun itself barely visible in the east, only a few golden rays reaching across the heavens. 

 

“Looks the same as every other day.” They retorted, retracting the hand and leaving.

 

Lyari’s hands wrapped even tighter around the small object he’d been clutching. A perfect sphere made of metal. Those familiar with metal could identify it as steel, though how it had been formed in such a way was a mystery to Lyari. He was not a smith, he was not much of anything, truly. A happy soul in an abyssal world that would soon be dark. He’d dreamt as much, though he had never truly seen the light or much of his surroundings. A peaceful day. He’d muse wistfully as he finally clambered up from where he’d been and returned to the manor. Spent packing. The thought sombered him as darkened shadows flickered just at the edges of his vision. He tensed, stopping every few feet to glance around. 

 

“Godani was good to let me see.” He’d whisper to himself, a reminder he’d often utter when the shadows crept too close, left hand reaching to grasp the cross of Lorraine that hung around his neck, concealed by his robes.

 

“Godani is good.” He’d echo again once in his room, signing the Lorraine, knelt before the cross that hung on his wall. He’d then rise and begin to pack. Food, water, the scripture. A book of asioth laid on his bedside table. He contemplated it.

 

“Mentor doesn’t seem to like it…or my riddles.” He’d murmur to himself. “But maybe it’s just for show, he wants me to think he doesn’t so I don’t feel obliged.” A small smile formed on his lips, nodding excessively. “I won’t let you down, mentor.”

 

The book of Aurelics was added to the bag he planned to bring. It was heavy, he stumbled and then he laughed. “Mentor would think I am very weak.” He’d muse fondly, aloud despite the empty manor. With a fond wave, he’d tell the books on his shelf to not get too dusty while he was gone and shut the door.

 

His journey had begun.

 

The walk from Fi’Andria to the Fireland was long, but quiet. He stopped several times, shaken by the battlefields along the Norlandic road. The long abandoned corpses with eyes wide and mouths agape. At first he would say a prayer for the groups, close as many eyes as he could and sign the Lorraine for them. It was constant, and the sun was half way set already. Yet he remained consistent and the sun had fully set by the time he’d finished.

 

He took shelter in a small cave, cold as it was but protected from the elements outside. Dreams of an eye opening behind rock and stone, of the sky falling to the earth caused him to toss and turn. He was fitful and somber, stirring fully, finally, only an hour after he’d begun to rest. The young elf rose, carrying on in the dark, binding fabric over both eyes.

 

“The shadows can’t reach me now.” He’d remind himself in a soft undertone, exhaling in a cold cloud of air as he passed through Norlandic roads, the Firelands red in their warm splendor in the distance, far beyond where he could see, but the wardren’s whispers to him told him what his eyes could not. Promises of tales and glory, of understanding and memories. His heartbeat quickened. Breathless, he smiled.

 

He set up camp at the peak of one of the mountains. The sun began to rise. The first day began.

 

Day One

 

No birds greeted the morning sun, no dew covered grassy landscapes, and no fog rolled over subtle hills. Only the churning of lava in the distance greeted the young Mali’aheral as he stirred. Only the intense warmth of lava and fire was felt. He rubbed at sleepy eyes and woke slowly that first morning. 

 

“Good morning.” He’d exhale, a cheerful smile gracing his features despite the hostile landscape he’d found himself in.

 

Do you think the land hears you?

 

Well, no, I just…

You just what? Thought you were being special?

 

Well, I…

 

You’re repeating yourself. Shut up.

 

Unsettled at best as his thoughts waged a war against him, that smile slowly fell. At the edges of his vision danced the shadows, the unfamiliar heat causing sweat to trickle down his brow and back. With a shaky exhale, Lyari set about arranging his camp. Shelter, first, was unpacked and staked into ashy ground, a billowing tent that threatened to collapse on him in the middle of the night, yet it was the only shade on the barren mountainside. 

 

Within the tent he set his books, food, and water. The books he carefully kept far from the water, and the food from either. A fly buzzed around his head. He grimaced, then smiled. Around the sack he dug, clawed, and searched until he found the cloth he’d brought along. Binding it over both eyes, he breathed a sigh of relief. The shadows were finally gone again and the world was quiet- save for his mind.

 

You look stupid.

 

Cut out the other eye.

 

It doesn’t do you any good anyways.

 

Why do you care if people think you’re a cripple?

 

They think you’re useless anyways.

 

He’d swallow, hands shaky.

 

“I just…they think I’m useless enough.” He’d say firmly, retrieving the book On Asioth, flipping through the words mindlessly.

 

You think you’ll understand that?

 

You think you’re smart, don’t you?

 

Everyone knows you’re dumb.

 

Stupid.

 

Spineless.

 

The minutes felt like hours. The hours felt like days.

 

The sun set, the warmth did not vanish. Lyari laid in his tent, staring up at a sky he could not see.

 

Day Two

 

The sun rose again without greeting by any bird or commonality the elf had grown familiar with. Only the lava gurgled and ash billowed in its wake, the glow repressed but the brightened landscape mysterious and beautiful in its own way. The elf awoke, lips chapped, stomach growling. He smiled.

 

“Good morning.” He spoke quietly.

 

Again?

 

Again?

 

A singular word echoed through his mind after the word had escaped. His smile faded, his gaze lowered. The sun rose and he ate bread. Onward and upward into the sky it climbed, he drank water. He wandered the mountaintops. Ash flew around his boots, clung to his clothing. A few flowers grew, as though in rebellion to their surroundings. 

 

Midday came and passed. The campsite was finally in view again, he collapsed to his knees, exhausted and breathing heavily. The rest of the day was spent in the tent, reading philosophy he did not quite understand, yet had been promised would enlighten him.

 

First Born?

 

White Branches?

 

Golden Fire?

 

Golden bands?

 

His thoughts drifted then, from the pages to his daydreams. Glassy eyed, he studied the land beyond which he could see, as though willing it into existence. There was nothing, save for the imposing wall of darkened abyss. Then, as quiet as a mouse, as sudden as a shooting star, it was there. Within that abyss, two Mali’aheral, a smaller one between them. Laughing, holding the child by either hand protectively. His smile returned, the sun set but nothing changed for Lyari, lost in his daydream.

 

I wonder what it would have been like.

 

The voices were quiet. 

 

Day Three

 

The sun rose, the sun climbed, Lyari slept feverishly in the heat of the Firelands. Further into the sky it ascended, nearing midday before he awoke, warden held firmly to his chest. Red marks clung to his skin where the steel ball had been held protectively. A fly buzzed overhead once more. His sleepy hand, outstretched, brushed away just outside of the tent. A small white flower stood upright from beneath. 

 

“Good morning.” He greeted it softly.

 

He thinks he’s a druid.

 

They can’t understand you.

 

Next you’ll eat air because everything has feelings.

 

Maybe you wouldn’t be so fat then.

 

The normally pale and chubby elf had begun to burn under the sun’s relentless rays. White skin was now a light shade of pink. His lips had cracked all the deeper, repetitive licking to moisten them once more proved only to chap them all the worse. He opted to lay in the tent, the water supply half gone, his food barely touched. Sweat beaded on his eyelids beneath the cloth, he batted it away, yet read all the same.

 

A blessing in disguise. Godani is good.

 

He thought to himself, cheerful, thankful. He read until nightfall, the same few lines over and over, wondrous, awestruck. 

 

For First-Born, his royal kin climbed the bright heavens,

and brought him the sparks of starry grandeur held there.

 

Loving, he lapped up the red waters of their muse,

and raised them upon a throne of shining thunder.

 

In turn they filled his vessel with timeless insight,

and wrote his name upon the book of Asioth.

 

Up at a sky he could not see, past the limit of his own gaze, he stared. He imagined shooting stars and twinkling rocks dancing across the black abyss above. Lyari thought of a moon, glowing as the sun does, yet cold and somehow more distant. He slept, he dreamt of a dragon, mighty and powerful, climbing the steps to a heaven he’d never known, of them plucking the moon and kneeling before the Father, offering the gift upward in reverence. All cried as one, gathered together, as Azdromoth plucked the gift from hands, sent clawed fingers through the object, the once white moon turning red and dripping crimson. They stood, anointed, shrouded in wisdom not even the books could do justice by.

 

The voices were quiet, only the wardren hummed its soft promises to him and sang songs of draconic origin.

 

Day Four

 

Clouds drifted lazily over the skies, the crackling of thunder in the distance. His tent shuddered and shook, the sun was barely to be found. No greeting was given, the young elf struggled to stake the tent down in sturdier soil, wind whipping around and nearly through him and that which he had brought without thought or care. His efforts were in vain.

 

The downpour came.

 

He struggled against it and tried to cower in the safety of his tent. He sobbed, he pleaded, and he begged the skies to be kinder. There was no reprieve. The crackle of thunder loomed closer, yet the flashes of brilliant lightning were unseen. He stared blankly in the direction of it all, bright blinding light illuminating his face, soaked with rain and tears, jaw trembling in terror, yet he saw nothing beyond that narrow patch a few meters in front of himself. 

 

The overwhelming sense of dread, however, was not lost on the cowardly Mali. He packed his books, stored his food and water, and quickly ran from the supposed safety of the tent. Lightning struck where Mali and supplies had once lain, the tent igniting in terrible flame. Muddied boots slipped and slid on the treacherous mountainside. He ran, gasped for air, and ran further in the downpour until he could barely lift his feet. The edge of a tower came into view, the steam from the lava deterring him. He continued to flee. Eventually, the opening of a cave jutted out from the mountainside he had continually slid down. He entered, threw his belongings on the floor, and sobbed in terror and relief.

 

You should have said good morning.

 

You always make these things happen.

 

Failure.

 

Worthless.

Either hand shot over his ears as he bawled, rolled around in dismay.

 

He screamed, he begged the world aloud.

 

The thunder drowned out his pleas. The lightning illuminated his suffering.

 

The sun set and the moon rose.

 

The stars danced across the sky.

 

The storm raged on.

 

Day Five

 

Hunger greeted the Mali’aheral, not the sun. A growl of his stomach, pangs that clawed at his ribs. Most of the food had grown moldy and spoiled by the downpour, sped up by the cave’s humid, stale air. Lyari’s eyes did not open, yet he stirred all the same, the world a miraculous thing when seen behind a blindfold.

 

“Godani is good.” He’d murmur to himself, smiling despite it all. “Good morning.” 

 

The voices were silent, he was alone in the cave, save for the soft humm of his mud encrusted wardren. Dirt and soot stained arms clung to the steel sphere, his dirtied and torn shirt sagging, reeking grotesquely from the trials of the last near-week. A sniffle, subdued by a yawn, escaped him, the entrance to the cave half covered by mud, a trickle of light just barely peeking through, a reprieve from the heat of the last four days. Cracked and bloody lips parted, an exhale as he crawled towards the sunlight, the wardren’s soft coaxes ever leading him onward.

 

“I’m so tired…but if I don’t stay in the heat…it can’t change me…this’ll all be for nothing.” 

 

The words echoed ever so vaguely through the cave’s walls, taunting and yet motivating. Handful by handful, he pulled mud from the entrance until the hole, where scarce a trickle of light had poured earlier, now turned near oven-like. The gurgle of lava bubbled and churned nearby and sweat streaked the mud and soot that clung to hair and face alike. He swatted at the flies at first before ignoring them as they landed and flew away, determined to pull himself from the cave.

 

Outward he hoisted himself, panting and shaking from the effort, before collapsing into mud that hadn’t yet turned dusty, though soot and ash fled from ground to the air after the impact. A hand rose, blocking the sun from scorching him further, yet he reveled in the heat and might of it all the same, staring off towards that which he could not see.

 

His brothers hid at the edges of his vision;

watching, they each lit their flames with his blazing eyes.

 

His mind wandered to the books he’d brought, now ruined as they were, and he found only the words of Azdromoth and Eresar, made immortal in tomes, lingered in his mind. His left hand clung to the warming sphere that hummed, his right undid the blindfold, shadows dancing at the edges of his vision. “Soon we will be brothers. You will welcome me as my parents never did.” He’d murmur, a smile forming at the thought.

 

Under the sky he laid, blistering and burning until the sun set in sympathy and the moon rose in pity.

 

Day Six

 

Morning found the elf rummaging through what tattered remains of his tent clung to the stakes in the ground. His blanket, by some miracle, had been staked by mistake and so clung to the soil below, ruined and dried with innumerous layers of dirt and ash. Yet- he pulled the wood free from it and pulled it close all the same. 

 

“Good morning.” He greeted the blanket, laughing in relief and horror before smiling and setting it down. “Azdromoth is good.” 

 

His stomach growled again, he sent a muddied fist to it, stumbling and doubling over.

 

“Quiet you…” he’d whine towards the internal organ. “You’re weak! I’m not weak!”

 

The voices were oddly silent, save for the wardren which hummed in delight.

 

His gaze went to the unearthed flower, somehow grown taller in the few days, unbroken by the storms.

 

The World was a fruitful womb of red earth: a cage.

Below, a white-gold seed, First-Born, became himself.

 

Thus a sapling of Asioth emerged unseen.

Lively knowledge was as sunlight upon its leaves.

 

Quiet words whispered in his ear, wizened and cunning. He smiled at the small plant, growing tall in a hostile environment. He dug away at some of the mud, creating a barrier for the flower from the wind. He smiled, cupping the leaves in a careful hand.

 

“Azdromoth is good, even flowers can survive in these lands.”

 

His voice was soft, reverence evident. He knelt, forehead pressing into the ash and soot below. He wept, deep and guttural, yet no tears came, too dehydrated from the sun to shed water beyond the sweat that chilled him at night.

 

“I am worthy. I am worthy.”

 

He rose, cupping ash between palms, pressing his bleeding lips to the powder within his fingers. “Praise Azdromoth.” A cry to the heavens.

 

The madness continued, the sun set, the moon rose. Stars shown and meteors danced across the sky in his dreams. Shadows danced at the edges, with reddened eyes and horns that appeared as though crowns. Betwixt fires he danced and cheered, within tomes of knowledge he was lost. On and on his dreamworld shifted and formed and vanished until the night fled and the day arose.

 

Day Seven

 

The final day greeted the blistered, battered, and filthy elf as he laid in the dirt. A lazy hand rose, spreading ash over his torso further. “Reborn…reborn.” He’d murmur in an echoing way, the other arm clinging to the steel sphere as though it was life itself. “I will be reborn.” Cheerful, he’d smile to the sun.

 

Mid day found him still laying amongst the ash and soot, aurelects dancing across his mind, delirious and shaken by the week long exposure to the hostile environment. He laughed, a raspy thing, throat raw and sore.

 

“Have you seen me yet, my soon to be father?”

 

He’d call out, no hatred or disdain to the tone, though it was barely above a whisper, his voice nearly lost in the strain. The wardren hummed terribly, trembled. The elf rose and bowed to the ash and lava. 

 

“My books.” He admonished, fleeing from the campsite, wrecked and ruined, back to the cave. Dirtied fingers dug into torn and tattered books, hoisting them up into a loving grasp alongside the sphere. He returned to the campsite, looking for the flower. 

 

It lay where it had stood, half broken in the ash. Yet he did not weep, for he understood.

 

“To build it up you must first allow it to be broken down…”

 

With careful hands, the elf set to burying the flower beneath the dust of the Firelands. 

 

With loving hands he grasped at the sphere and books, carrying them away.

 

On shaky legs he found his way from the hostile land and laid beside a lake, lapping up chilled water until his belly swished with liquid with every movement.

 

It was then that he returned to society, to his mentor with new found wisdom.