Fine golden hair billows out across bloodstained shoulders, strands catching and blackening in the residual heat, the air heavy with the stench of charred flesh. It cascades across the floor as she slumps bonelessly, ad mingles with the cahr and muck cooked onto the rough cobblestones. Between light and shadow, she wavers, feeling the vortex of exhaustion pulling at her soul as it struggles to avoid the dark places calling her. One hand summons the strength, moving as if detached, and the wand it holds falls from numbed fingers. She notes the graceful arc it makes, gently tapping along deep blue robes and finally rolling along the blackened floor towards the sizzling lump that had once had been a mighty dragon. Then the darkness comes, and exhaustion claims her.
Sunlight streams through the tall glass casement window, dark gold in the afternoon sun. With a light crash announcing her presence, the kitten runs along the mantle, eagerly playing her favorite game of "does it break or does it bounce". Face dazzling dusky gold in the sunlight, the little girl glances up crossly, and mutters imprecations at her new familiar. Pulling one blond lock of hair down and twisting it into a curl, she absentmindedly begins chewing on the end. The book is older than ancient, and smells of many things. But her brow furrows, and she suddenly snaps the tome shut with a loud sigh, sending a puff of dust motes glittering in the late afternoon sunrays.
Determinedly pushing up her sleeves, she stands, and the kitten peeks at her curiously from behind a large vase which seems to resist the break or bounce game. "It is now or never. I shall feel what it is to cast a real spell. The most powerful spell in the world." Her small arms reach out, and her bright blue eyes focus intently on the lectern by the window. She reaches out, feeling along the lines of power, feebly at first, then in wonderment as the lectern begins to come alive in her fingertips, though it remains several feet away and unmoving. Slowly, carefully, she speaks the syllables, her toungue beginning to lose itself in the afternoon sunlight. A prickling sensation begins at her fingertips, and lightheaded she begins to smile, feeling the power and the joy, the rightness, the velvet smoothness of power. Time stops for a moment, but still moves forward, and suddenly, it is done. A spark leaps into existence as if unbidden, the sharp crack sending both kitten and vase in different directions, but her attention is drawn into the wonderment and energy as the spark glistens at her fingertips, poised, then leaps to the lectern.
"Taisha, what in Corellon's name are you doing?" The warm honeyed adult voice snaps her from the trance. The girl turns quickly, radiantly, spinning with unbounded joy; "Mother! I did it! I did it! It must be the most powerful spell in the world! I did it!"
Aurelle stands in the doorway, smiling at her daughter, warm chestnut hair echoing deep brown eyes. "Yes, little one, you did cast a spell. I see the mark. But you have not found the most powerful spell yet, my daughter. Give yourself time. It will come."
The quietness of Trademeet is somber, sullen, and matches Taisha's mood. Dispossessed men and women, angry tones, trouble. The snap of blade on blade startles her, but no fear comes; she is a woman hunted, a lover disposessed. She is power and vengeance, and she will not yield.
The two men stand forth from shadow, contemptuous of soft robes and softer hair. They speak, but she only recognizes the tones, not the words. Her anger mutes the syllables, and their rough demands carry their own power. She turns without thought, and gestures carefully, her subvocalizing trembling along the weave and gathering power from the surroundings like a cloak of black flame. The men pause, but it is too late. Idly, Taisha's hand reaches out, and she caresses fire out of darkness, the spiderweb of heat sparkling along her nerve endings like small pinpricks, the ball of flame growing strong. With a negligent flip of her wrist, the force lines draw arrows into the armored figure on the left, and he screams once briefly before being consumed. His compatriot hurls a knife, but the lines of force converge, and she feels the sharpness moving along the weave. A second gesture, and the man curses, his own dagger sheathed in his thigh. Fear marks his eyes, but it is too late for mercy. He feels his stomach rumble, and the world distort into a strange mixture of light and shadow, the pain and knowledge in his mind numbing to nothingness as her polymorph spell readjusts his reality into a squirrel world of nut smells and fierce whiskers. He sees little, but smells all, including a strange scent that he cannot place, until he feels the swat of cat's paw on his neck, and for a time there is only blood, and fear, and death.
Taisha cries silently, regarding her cat feasting as if looking at a distant painting of pain and regret. She speaks through her tears, cursing the universe; "So that is power, raw rage uncontrolled. That must be the most powerful spell in the world."
She starts at the shadow that detatches from the far wall, regarding her friend Volo replacing his lute back across his back. The old man looks at her quietly for a moment, then lights his pipe. As the smell of tobacco mingles in her senses, he shakes his head silently, and his baritone voice soothes her; "No, my dear one. You have tasted the power, and felt the weave, but you have not yet felt the greatest of the spells. It will come. Let us go in and settle you down for a bit."
"taisha." "Taisha" "TAISHA."
The voice is insistent, and familiar. The darkness is comfortable, and the memories both sad and happy, but the voice calls from another place. A place with pain and loss, with fire and battle, with friends and companions. It is a small voice, growing louder, recalling her to the outside world.
"Taisha, by Helm's Sword, if he has killed you I will resurrect Firkaag just to torture him to death. I will renounce my vows and hunt him to the nether planes, I swear... Taisha, hear me..."
The world regains focus, and a familiar face hovers overhead, creased and worn. The visor is bent and twisted, the helm scarred with clawmarks, but Aldaron's face is close. His brown eyes focus intently on hers as the warmth of healing magics move through human hands from divine energies, caressing and soothing the burns and blood.
Slowly, carefully, the lines of power form, this time from outside of herself. From fate itself, the weave ripples and changes, and her heart beats faster. She is alive. She is more than alive. She reaches up, gently encircling the careworn neck of the paladin, *her* paladin, and draws his lips down to meet hers. Spiderwebs of force ripple along her body, along her soul, and a bright spark plays between them. The world pivots on a point.
She whispers into the mouth of her new found true love, "Aldaron, I am all right. I have discovered the most powerful spell in the world."
Edited by cmorgan, 14 March 2008 - 02:36 PM.
Cheers! And two horns up for metalheads all around the world!
