Awakening: Wrotek's First Vision

[TheGentleDuck 55]

 

 

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Proud warrior soul,
Filled with fire and flame.
The oasis denied him,
Cold and tired, never again sane.

The storm writhes, sweeping all away.
The Eagle screeches and rends the flesh,
Finding no one to blame. _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________



Wrotek gasped for air, dropping the hammer and leaning over the anvil. He held his throbbing head as the final whispers fell silent, the crackling molten metal in the forge his only company once more. The Forgemaster grunted, steeling his mind against the paranoia that assailed him and gripping his trembling wrist as he stumbled towards the stool by his workbench.
The world around him was spinning, denying him clarity. He felt his stomach churn and threatened to expel its contents over the stone floor. His limbs were like twigs, sapped of the strength they had held just moments before, but the old man managed to bring his fingers up to his neck to check his pulse. It was certainly quickened, but not to the point his physical state should be this affected.
“Is this… Is this a heart attack? Have I finally pushed too far?” Wrotek’s thoughts scrambled, trying to find a reason for this malady. He cursed, closing his eyes and fighting against the dizziness by regulating his breathing and taking a better posture. In that moment, trying to calm himself in the silence of his forge, his mind wandered to a different question.

“What is this?”

The Pankiewich Patriarch had lived a long life, travelling far and experiencing many things. He had been all across Aevos, as often a friend or foe to its people and sharing a good drink and knowledge with many different cultures and clans. He had come close to death enough times to know this wasn’t one of them, as the fatigue had acted faster than his fury could keep up with. Perhaps that was because he was older now, but he couldn't be this weak yet. It hadn't been long since he had braved the elements and scaled the Mountain.

 

KRAKOOM

 

The old man’s eyes snapped open. The vivid memory of what he had seen at the top struck him suddenly, sending him tumbling off the stool. He brought his hand up to shield himself from the light, but he still saw it. He was there, at the top of the world! He had never left!
He gasped for air but there was none to breathe, he tried to free himself  from snow that clung to his feet, he struggled against the wind that threatened to push him off the earth, tumbling down into the darkness below. He roared in defiance with a voice that was not his, fought with a strength that was long gone from his body and pushed forth with support that wasn’t for him alone.

IT WAS ONLY HIM, THE ONE CHAINED AT THE MOUNTAIN, AND HIS DOGGED FIGHT FOR CONTROL! NO, NOT CONTROL! MASTERY, THE MASTERY HE HAD SOUGHT ALL HIS LIFE, NO MATTER THE TASK. AS A MERCENARY, AS A CINGEDOZ, AS A FATHER! AS A PERFORMER, SHERIFF, COOK, BLACKSMITH AND SOLDIER! HE ACHIEVED MASTERY AT THEM, AND NOW HE HAD TO BE-

          WROTEK
 

He blinked away the dancing lights. He wasn’t sure where he was, with only the fading lantern glow illuminating his surroundings. He took a moment to think, to calm his racing mind. The fractured visions eluded him, a frustrating blank in his memory. He looked up at the window by his forge, noting that the sky above was pitch dark.
“Hold on… MY forge?”
He was home. In his basement smithy, not at his forge station at the barracks. Moreover, with how dark it was outside, hours must have passed since his last conscious thought. He let out a worried sigh, raising his hand up to his forehead. “What is this? Am I succumbing to dementia in my old age?”

Now that the confusion was over, he realised two things.

First, his smithy was completely clean. Wrotek had always been conscious about the clutter and leaving the space tidy, but hadn’t really minded the soot or small Ferrum shavings. Now, his forge was clean to a level of scrutiny he had thought impossible. There wasn’t a speck of dirt on the newly polished floor, the ingot pile was stacked to a precision that would make architects blush, and the tools were stashed away in their right spot for once, clear of oil and tarnish.

 

Second, and probably most important given his current predicament: he was topless. Wrotek had never been prudish about showing his muscles, but in the last decade they had certainly lost their prior luster. More alarmingly, there was something new on his chest.

A crude tattoo of  Cingedoz runes was present on his left pectoral. The reddening flesh indicated it was very fresh, with the black ink still wet.

The old man’s heartbeat quickened, and he bolted up the stairs of his basement up to his living quarters. His quick flight up the steps woke up his wolfhound, who sprang up from his sleeping and began barking and growling at the ruckus. Scrambling around, the old veteran pulled a kitchen rag from the countertop and furiously wiped the ink away.
“H-How could I do that?! Such an amateur attempt, not masterful at all!” He grumbled as he rubbed his flesh raw, ink mixing with a trickle of blood as he stressed the bruised skin “No, wait. Wait! That’s not what matters here!”

He stopped, panting as the world around him focused again. He looked down at his chest with growing worry. The tattoo had been scrubbed off, but there was still a faded mark on the aching skin. Wrotek gingerly ran his fingers on it and had to suppress a yelp as the pain shot through him. Bobdr sauntered up to his master with his tail between his legs, confused and a bit frightened. The big dog began licking his master's free hand, much to his relief and gratitude.

“Preprazsm, chopak. Didn't mean to startle you. It is all right.”

Bobdr gave a couple satisfied huffs, staying at his master's side for a while longer.

.… …. ….

After cleaning the new scrape and putting on his bed dressings, the Elder Pankiewich felt calm enough to think again. Bobdr followed him as he stumbled towards his bed, where the old man sat on the wool mattress with a very grave expression. Wrotek did his best to ignore the  pain coming from the removed tattoo. It would fade, and he had more important things to think about.

He still wasn't sure what had transpired, but he felt…Understanding. It wasn’t knowledge that gave him much comfort, but now he was certain about what he had seen. Those had been visions, much like the ones he had suffered after the Great Wave hit Aaun, or when he had gazed upon the Giant Ice Spires that stuck through Nau Valdev so many decades ago. But these were not twisted dreams that had eventually gone away. These felt far more real, far more… 

Wrotek shook his head. Whatever this was, it had done more than show him scattered images. It had spoken to him, made him understand concepts he hadn’t the morning before and compelled him to do things. So far his actions under this effect  had not been destructive or malicious to anybody.

 

Or so he hoped. 

 

Whatever the case, it was certainly not normal and definitely worth figuring out before he lost control again. His grip tightened around the bedsheets. How he loathed losing control, how much he hated the mastery over his mind and body slipping awa-

He stopped the stray thought before it got too far from him. There was that word again. Mastery. That word was very alluring to him now. Or had it always been like that? Tired as he was, the old Pankiewich could only wonder.

 

“And wondering is the fool's line of reason. I will know.”

 

Wrotek Pankiewich drifted off into a restless sleep, the whispers of his mind never subsiding. His dreams that night were of his children’s smiles.

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(OOC):
 

Spoiler

Thank you, whoever might you be, for reading my first short story post. Excited to see where the possibilities of Palmreading are taken, and many thanks to the team for putting it together. Also, should go without saying, but remember not to metagame this information :)