First Steps.

[Towerblock]

The Master looked down at her student. The woman was small, greying, and well beyond her years. Waving her hands in the air around her, she made small syllables that meant everything and nothing. A swirling grey mist opened up, revealing tiny pinpoints of light. The wind picked up inside the hovel they both were in. She stood almost as high as his head, and looked into the eyes of the Atrox boy that knelt at her feet. In rich tones, her voice vibrated through the air. The quantum gate was open, and soon another spirit would be called forth, and bound by the master.

Her voice was that of the language of the beyond, by the beings of the netherworld. She called sweetly to the spirits, her tone in lyric and melody known to attract the denizens of the Beyond.

Her student looked onward, his eyes alert. The atrox boy sat very still, concentrating on the harmony inside their place. Without much effort of will, he attuned his energy to the mystical energy around him, wreathing his aura with power that is often gone unseen by any save those of the profession of Metaphysicist.

"It is important, my child, that you understand this one basic simple thing. There is a place in the world beyond, in the space between places.. the place where ALL minds meet. It is here that you will draw your strength. Your drawings of what you see and what you hear, is a gift of that knowledge. You are a seer. You are a storyteller of times and places that are here and gone. My child, it is you and I that bridge the gap of all that is real and is not. Your hands touch things that have no form. Your mind will grasp things that defy reason. You eyes will see things that never existed, and may yet still. It is the way of all that is beyond. Our world cannoy always see what is truly here. Your task is to determine the truth of what is, seperated from what is not. Learn what is truth, even if it hides inside lies. You must use illusion to seek what is real, and in the end, show that the world is not just rocks, trees, animals, and people. You must show the world what we know and what we see. You must break barriers and teach others that not everything we see, is how it is."

The boy looked on, confused by her words, but not letting on. In a way, the Master knew.

"The others will mock me. I am not like them. My burns and scars, they are a reminder to them that I am not one of them. How will I begin to help those who wish to not be helped? How am I to tell truth from lie, when the lie blinds them at every turn?"

The Master looked down at her student, smiling. "This is your task. It is not easy to awaken the minds of the sleepers. They only see the now, and then. They only see the future in numbers and words that could mean, but do not. The future is always unclear. Their ways need to be challenged, or else the ways mean nothing. Even your way is not of perfection. It is not our way to BE perfection. It is our way to turn every breath, every living thing, into ourselves. Your task is not easy, nor should it be. Even one so old as I, have not seen enlightenment in my lifetime. I fear, that day may yet never come. My greatest hope and dreams lie with the future, and that which is unwritten. You are that, my child. Carry this light with you where every you may go, and bring the stories of it to every ear that wishes to hear. That is our tradition, our legacy, and our burden."

Skribblez understood. It was hard for him, and he knew this. Inside, the pain of being cast out as a mutant, hardened him. But, he understood that pain builds the way. With pain and suffering come the first steps of understanding. And pain and suffering he understood well. One so young, should never be laid bare to the harshness of the world. He was an orphan of everything; Of society in general.

In the lights of the swirling tempest, a being emerged. Surrounded by the ether and the music of time and space, it came forth. It whispered words sweet and haunting. A muse.

The master spoke to the spirit, citing the litany of its honour befor Skribblez. "In our tongue, this being is called Calibri. It is a creature of passion. It is a fragment of a being that is known in ancient religions as an Angel. He comes to this place to whisper in the minds of others, taking away their pain and rage. He will be a good guide to seek a life compassion."

Skribblez nodded.

A second creature emerged, as a brilliant ball of swirling green energy. It pulsed, almost breathing. "This being is called Sharalasse. She is a mendicant spirit, from a place known as Arcadia. It is a place where those beings known as 'The Ffolke'. She will protect you and heal your injuries. In a world that would scorn you and cast stones, you will need her guidance to patience and wisdom."

Skribblez nodded.

A third creature emerged, this one with a black myrk surrounding it. Its deep red maw was filled with many large and razor sharp teeth. "This is a being of anger. In its time it was called by the ancients to smite evil. It is a spirit of justice and vengeance, and sometimes even to war. It was called Hrothmir. There will come many times when the demons of Hate and Fear will come to you, seeking your blood. Hrothmir will protect you." The creature grinned, its frilled vibrating with a primal lust for combat.

Skribblez nodded.

In the circle of salt he knelt in, he took the effigies in which he gathered his temporal power. It comes in the forms of special things collected with utmost care, formed into simulacrums. Skribblez chanted aloud, and began to paint a white ashen mixture over his face, resembling that of a human skull. "I bind you all to me, spirits. For your service to me, I will honour you at the shrine of my teachers. I will make each of you the promise of peace between myself and each of your kind. I will offer this kernel of notum, as payment for our deals. For every time I call upon you, that will the price.

Hrothmir was the first to speak, as it maw opened. "How is it, fleshling, that I should allow you to do this? Why would I accept your command?" It sneered an eyeless gaze upon Skribblez, and the wind blew at his words.

Skribblez looked at the beast, and thought a moment. "There is no more world that is yours, ancient one. The frozen wastes where your worshippers once came from, is no more. Your people have forgotten the Aesir. For a time, in my service, you may yet make its presence known. Is it not enough you would consume my essence, in order to sustain your form here? Perhaps with this, you would have our world remember who the Aesir are again. They may even know that Tyr has not abandoned them."

The globe of darkness smiled. "I accept your offer, fleshling. I will come from the walls of Midgard at your call."

Calibri dazzled the room with burning essence, the rhythm of its form beating into the gathered people, it turned to face the master. "My lady, without question I will answer your summons. The sonnets of heaven shall be heard again. I do this without asking for anything in return. Of free will I make this choice. Your world is in much need of peace and understanding, for that alone I will accompany your squire."

The Master turned to the student. "There is one thing you must know child. That heaven protects those even without faith. Most people will not understand, nor believe. But above all things, know that heaven believes in you, boy."

Skribblez nodded and the Ffolke spirit spoke in anger. "I am not yours to be commanded! I was a figment of the Wyld before your kind was a gleam in creation's eye! What right do you have to make and unmake as you see fit? Your kind's arrogance will be your undoing! I have no time to coddle you, man-child. Any trouble you make, would be best served by the pain that follows!"

The Master nodded this time, questioning her gaze to Skribbles, "Sharalasse does not speak a lie. What is your answer?"

Skribblez bowed his head in supplication, and spoke "Our world has creation and destruction. I would not command you that which is not within your nature. My way is a way of balance, and I cannot have destruction without creation. That alone should be enough, but should my Hrothmir go too far..." Skribblez gestured to Hrothmir, who hissed in form of reply "the world will need this balance. As you act in accord with the universal truth, you will be compelled to respond anyway."

Sharalasse turned away in disgust. "Be warned, mortal. I will aid you only because I must. My mistress in the summer court would be most displeased should I not do my duty. You may yet owe my lady a favour in return. That is how The Ffolke do our business. A favour, for one in return."

Skribblez nodded. "It is settled then. A favour, for one in return. I honour your lady's price."

"Very well then, mortal. I am yours.... for now."

The Master looked down at her student. "You may break the circle now."

As she spoke, Skribblez hands went to the salt line, breaking its integrity with a simple stroke. Knees groaning, he stood up. The wind died down a little. The air had filled with he scent of burning wires, a holdover from the gateway. With a simple expressive wave of her hand, the Master closed the gate. The power in the room faded, as did the entities that were summoned from beyond.

"These spirits will do your bidding, but know respect, child You must act in kind, or the bargain will be broken and your oath will hold regardless. It is possible they may yet turn upon you. Spirits are a fickle lot. If you do not honour their purpose, they will not honour you. Use them wisely." With a small nod, the master spoke.

Skribblez packed up his tools and implements, placed at precise locations. He put them away carefully, reflecting upon each of them. "I will do my best." He said.

[Towerblock]

ooc:

This is an interpretation of how metaphysicists might get a foothold on their powers. I use alot of imagery taken from mythology and mysticism in Skribblez roleplay, taking a lot of creative liberty. I do not expect many players of MP's to universally accept this particular interpretation, but I do enjoy it uniqueness nonetheless.

[Nulion]

OOC: That was really an awesome bit of fiction there Very well-written, and extremely interesting...Definitely makes the MP pets seem more alive, doesn't it? Good job, Crush!

[Towerblock]

Sometime several months later...


In the small sod covered shanty, somewhere near the lower river country, there lies the half waking form of an older solitus woman. Her breathing is slow, but rhythmic, pulsing in time with the fire that burns nearby. Huddled closely over her, is a large trox boy, barely a man. He reaches out and moves the loose quilt higher up to her chin level, looking on with solemn silence. She was very old; nearing the end of her days, some would say. A large resplendant shimmering orb hanging above the two, the shard entity known as Calibri. The shadows play as the fire ebbs and flows with a distinct thrum of energy, as if the room was a heart chamber, and subtle power moved as though passing through. A primitive as time can tell, even futuristic poverty can breed the strongest of barbarian cultures.

A gnarled hand reached over with a damp cloth and a clay bowl, in which lay the purest of waters, taking from the only non-contaminated spring in the Mutant Sector. He applies the cloth to her forehead, while Calibri hums an ancient melody. Moments later, her eyes open. Skribblez smiles faintly.

"My dear child. I have looked after you for so long." She spoke. The richness of her voice seemed cracked but still rang clear. Skribblez dabbed the cloth back into the water and then back to her brow. "You should rest, mistress. You must keep your strength." The older woman's expression faded. "There will be much rest for me soon, I think." Her eyes moved lazily to the corners of the room, towards the door, as if expectant.

A sharp knock on the shanty comes from behind the trio. Without even being let in, a tall thin man dressed in tattered homespun clothes appears through the archway, tossing aside the leather curtain.

Skribblez stands to meet him, face to face. They both trade daring looks, then back to the old mother on the mattress below, then meeting eyes once again. There is an obvious tension between the two, as the man flexes his fingers around the wooden rod he carries as his side. It was his rod of station, a poor man's sceptre, as it were. It was carried by the first tribal chief, his great-grandfather.

The tension breaks as Skribblez speaks, "You are not welcome here Gerrin. My teacher pushed you out long ago. You should respect her wishes." With a dismissing wave of his hand, the thin man responded bluntly,"Your old witch is dying, Skribblez."

Shuddering for a moment, he looked down. It is true, he thought, but that would only mean much more respect was needed, not less. "Perhaps, may I ask why this is so? She was healthy only four moons ago. I suspected that the food that was gathered at the northern hill was poisoned by the Iron Throne. This morning when I went there, their fruit had been taken. Do you know why this is so?"

With a venomous look, the thin man recoiled. "You have no cause to judge, mutant! If your witch ate of the wrong food, it is her own fault! No one else in the village is sick, only her. Perhaps your spirits are not as goodly as they say. She brought evil to her own self."

"...Care your words, mortal. I take very serious the claim of treachery." From out of the ether, Hrothmir materialized, leering at the headman with a threatening toothy scowl. "I have slain men for less. Speak truth against me or know my wrath." Hrothmir growled, as the thin man recoiled in fear. "You are not welcome here," Skribblez repeated. "It is best for us all, if you leave your ambitions and lead our village with loyalty instead of command. I do not challenge your authority, but I do challenge your wisdom, as my mistress did."

Hissing the man stepped forward, his hand reaching for a knife. "Harm no one in this hearth, Gerrin. You know what will come of those who try." The old woman spoke, letting out a cough near the end. "My eyesight is leaving me, but I can smell your stink. Go now, and we will forget this intrusion." Skribblez looked down, but Hrothmir stood firm. He waned to believe that Headman Gerrin would leave them alone, but it would defy his intentions.

Gerrin drew a pointy finger at Skribblez, as the sound of footsteps approached outside. "You should leave when your witch mother dies, boy!" The warning was sharp. He left, joining the other footsteps outside. He heard the sound of him laughing as the distance grew.

Skribblez turned back to the fire, nodding at Hrothmir as he did so. "Thank you, Einheriar, for your aid. Although I do no want harm being done-" Hrothmir interjected quickly, "Harm will come to you, manchild. You can always count on two things to be very certain. Those who hunger for power will always fear loosing it, and if they wish conflict with you, it will come." The old woman nodded in agreement.

"We all suffer in this life, dear boy. It is only a matter of what peace you may bring, and where the suffering will come from. No one may control the whole of it, but for a time we may take our ease." She broke off into a fit of wracking coughs.

Skribblez leaned down towards the old woman. Calibri spoke gently, "I have done all that I can. From here, the last steps are her own to make." The old mistress closed her eyes, the fires dimming somewhat. In a half silence, her words seemed to drift from her lips. "Do not fear my leaving. Do not sorrow. I wish this journey, it is the way of all things to return to the Loom. We are born, we die, we pass on. It is a cycle. While I may be no more here on this plane, I will be something else in another. Part of me, will be with you. Do not see such loss as cruel. I go to it willingly. It is a good thing."

Skribblez eye's welled up, his burn scarred hand wiping away at them. "It is not that. I do not know what I will do now..."

"Shhhh," The old lady put her finger to his lips, her voice growing faint. "I have nothing else to teach you. It is a time for you now. You will undergo your rite, and you will be a man. You know all that which you need to know. From here, it is your choices that will define you. No. No... more.. lessons.... " He voice trailed off, distant. A single breath of air passed between her lips, and along with it, a tiny bright light. Amazed, Skribblez gazed at it, as it bobbled and floated. Within moments, the light zipped through the air and disappeared into the ether.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Rock by rock, Skribblez placed them carefully onto the Cairn. At its foot, was a Ankh symbol, shaped by wooden branches and bound by twine. The burying ritual was carefully done, with the utmost respect, and tense sadness. Others from the tribe gathered around, paying their respects in quiet supplication.

"She wished the best for us all. Too keep us from sickness, and away from beasts that could cause us harm. When she left us, she leaves behind her wisdom. So, she is not truly gone. We may live best upon the words she spoke to us. Our health, children, and ways were protected by her songline. Some of you may not have agreed with her, but it did not speak ill of her intent. When the beast of the waters attacked our village, it was she who fought it. Not for herself, but for all of us."

Each in turn, several women elders of the tribe passed over the Cairn, gently placing one hand upon the marker, the symbol for rebirth. Quietly, the circled the mound of stones, each making their own prayers to the spirits of the hereafter.

The headman stood in the rear, with two stronger men by their side, each with clubs on their belts, and crude shields strapped to their arms. Before long, Gerrin coughed, and a small amount of blood trickled from his mouth. Without thinking, he wiped it with a stray piece of dirty cloth from his nomadic head dressing. He looked at it in astonishment. Skribblez watched carefully, unflinching.

The two traded scowls until the ceremony ended.

[Keely]

[[\o/ WOo go bubba! good job ]]

[Towerblock]

The sound of dripping water rang heavy in the makeshift shelter, scratch built as it were. A lone cracked ceramic bowl, decorated with some common cereal logo across the side, lay off to one side. Each droplet falling from the hole in the rooftop, plinking into the bowl beneath. Outside the front exit, the rain was coming down in a vast torrent. The clouds just above the rain were carrying the heavy dark grey hue that never seems to clear. It had already been two days since the incident, and a cold boy shivvers inside, wrapped in a tattered leather sheet.

He lets out a sigh, rolling in his not so awakened state. The thoughts of the previous event still ringing in his ears. The sounds of people screaming, the blood, oh dearest of creations of heaven and earth.. the blood was everywhere. Skribblez pressed a dirty, damp cloth to his scarred and damaged face, hoping to stanch the flow of blood.

The image haunting him of the lifeless eyes he helped create. It was against everything he had ever been instructed. Making his magic is tapping the energies of the universe, of creation and life and all the beauty that is made within it. He was warned about its opposite; The Yang to the Ying; The Darkness that is beyond the Light. The loa had taught him to respect everything, but the words did not come to his mind when the world came to call upon him with angry fists and harsh words.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


"I cant make it work!" Skribblez called out angrily, as two stones clanked against each other unsteadily, before falling to the ground. What could only be construed as a look of frustration upon the reddened burned and scarred flesh that covers the bulk of his face. His eyes gleam and his hand is forward, his aura pushing forward.. before flickering and failing.

The Mistress looked on from her fire, stirring a large cauldron of boiling water and dirty laundry. "You're not thinking it right. Do not force it, you will only awaken and anger the spirits inside them. You forget, that this way is a way of opening yourself to the world around you. Push the rocks from the ground and make them want to cooperate. Speak to them, ask them for help. The way of control is a way of accord. The spirits of the rock must want to do this for you. Shouting will not make them fly. Once you have done this, the rest is easy."

Skribbles looked up from from his concentration, "But Mistress, it is so hard!"

"No!" She firmly resolved. "It is only hard because you allow it to be. The difficulty is your mind, not the rocks. It is not their nature to change. A rock will be a rock today, much as it was hundreds of cycles ago, and hundreds of cycles from now. You want to move the rock, change yourself first."

Skribblez, trying not to cry at his own failure, nodded. Instinctively, he pushed his energies forward again, the stones slowly raised from the earth, tittered and pitched several times, then suddenly trembling and then falling slowly back down. Skribblez gritted his teeth, sending a pulse of agitation through his being, and toward the rocks. They suddenly stopped floating, and screamed through the air, altering trajectory and tearing through the walls of the hut. He threw his arms up, with the boiling fire of anger in his eyes.

"Bah!" He cried, enraged. "I give up! I cannot make this kind of magic!" Skribblez folded his arms, scowling.

The mistress shook her head, and went back to her laundry, with a short gleam in her eye. Stirring the pot in time, making each stroke of her rod count in agitating the boiling liquid.

"Your anger undoes you," she said. "Anger is a powerful tool, and many shamans use it to control and to destroy. But it is not the only way. The path of that control is utter destruction. Like the light, you can make the spirits do what you wish because they believe in your right. All spirits will agree and do what you ask them. On the other side of this is the path of the Bokor. The Bokor commands the spirits, making them do as he wishes without their consent. If you push this discord onto others, then it is the same. What you reap, may be what you will always sow. You may choose the stronger path, but the stronger path will come at a cost."

"Tell me about it." Skribblez asked, "What makes the Bokor stronger?" He looked over to his Mistress; His curiosity had been piqued.

"The Way of the Bokor is close to ours, but not the same. They would use the energies of the world to make their way, but the heart is filled with themselves. They are always in control, always needing more. You will make great wonders happen, as it has much power. But, that path is of little responsibility to the world. It is faster to seek power this way, but to call upon so much, there are times when the devils will call upon you as well. It is a choosing of your own make, and no one can make it for you." The wisdom of years filling the space between the master and her student.

Skribblez looked down at his own hands. He cursed his own failings inside, silently.

"I want my magic to work." He simply stated. The mistress turned back to Skribblez, her eyes moving across the landscape of her shelter, finally resting on the boy.

"Then you will either need to harness your anger, or your calm. You decide."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Coughing heavily, blood trickled from his nose. It had been broken in the struggle with another man. He remembered the strike clearly, and the feeling of the cold wet impact it had made. The sound of the fight, the screaming, and the sounds of the angry crowd that came with it rang with perfect clarity in the hallows of his mind. Welling up, he pounded the damp ground with a balled fist. So many mistakes have been made, and more than one had died because of it. It is one thing to fight for your life if you must, it is entirely another matter when you kill another being in anger. He had been warned before, he recalled. The mistakes of his innocent youth now coming clearer with the wisdom of today. He needed clarity, and to be free of the chains of his own internal pain. He felt cold, and in the presence of his beholden, even lonelier still.

He even tried to call upon Calibri, but when the dancing ball of brilliant azure light came forth from the Ether, it spoke nothing to him. The path of peace does not cater to destruction, and Skribblez knew this.

"Please, I cannot have this guilt. I have done wrong. I am sorry for this. I was angry."

Calibri did not speak. The hollow thrum of energy that pervaded the manifestation throbbed, echoing a pulse. Still, Calibri did not speak.

"Spirit, I am in error, and I need your help to seek a better path. I beg of you, what is the way of redemption?"

Calibri turned to face him, away from the entrance. "The child is bold, but does not see the consequences of his actions. There is indeed a path to redemption, but you would need to give up the darkness inside of you. When your mistress was killed, you understood then what was upon you. You need to face this anger, and be rid of it." A sigh of energy wafted from Calibri, as it spoke. "The song around you is broken. You must repair it. I cannot tell you how this is done. You know the answers already. But you must fashion your mind to remind you your actions, and what follows."

Again.. so many decisions, so many paths to walk.. which are the right ones? Skibblez had a hard time defining it. But, remember the dead made it clearly stick out what should not be done. His mistress once spoke, that everytime you destroy a part of the world, you destroy a part of yourself. For every bit of that that keeps on, more and more of it will fall. What good is the world, if there is only you? But the hardest of choices, is what is right, and what is easy.

[Towerblock]

(slight editing to add depth)

[Nulion]

((This is really excellent, Bubba Thoroughly enjoying it! I love the depth you add to these things, and how strangely real it feels ))

[Towerblock]

((Bumping this because im going to add a new section soon, and it was buried))

[StanimirB]

(( waits with great anticipation...... ))

[Towerblock]

It came to Skribblez in a dream. In this state, the shaman was always most vulnerable to the flow and ebb of imagination, creation, and matters of spirit. The root chewed the night before, laid in fibers in a small bowl nearby. The stone floor offered little warmth, but none of it was necessary. In the world of dreams, they are literally worlds upon worlds, and gates to places that humanity could not ever know the truth of. Throughout history, it has been a place where the greatest waking masters of thought could never explain. The mind quakes and stirs, and brings visions of the past, present, and sometimes the future.

To Skribblez, the past was always the most important. "The future, is always yet unclear." His mistress would say. There is no prediction to events that are not always meant to be known. The path of is often lies jagged, and only comes together by choice. We draw lines to bring the events that make up our lifes, and sustain meaning from them, by the choices we make. The past is not always so. The past are choices already made, in the river of time that it once was. We walk into it so deeply, and sometimes not, only to discern that even in the times we are most in control of our lives, it is still awash in a river that refuses to do bidding.

Such is a deeper mystery, the change and evolution of all things. It is beyond mortal knowing.

The shadow behind his eyes, slowly lighted. The sound of cracking glass, the first he had ever heard of it. There were tiny sounds in his mind. There was a foreboding pitch to it all. He understood something of the motherwomb, but it was not a understanding of knowledge, but of instinct. There were words forming in the darkness behind his eyes. An unsureity. Perhaps a warning? Skribblez opened his new eyes, to take in what little light was beyond him. Surprisingly, only a little. The umbilical that was strapped to his face and mouth, fed him and helped him take in fresh air. The caul of it was uncomfortable, but necessary.

But, there were strange and unusual marks in the view before him. The fluid he rested in was getting warmer, and more uncomfortable by the moment. He knew this was not normal. In the time of his sleeping and yet awake mind, there was something amiss. It became an instant panick. Sometimes, in the view, there would be other faces, friendly but not, in the view in front of him. Today, there was only a little light, and empty space with but a small table, a machine of some type, and a doorway to the beyond. Skribblez often wondered why there was a beyond, because his world knew only what he saw. Where did the people in the white clothing go? Were they angels? He never did find out.

A red flashing light pulsed before him, at the roof of the liquid that he was submerged in. There was very little room beyond that, and generally speaking, there was very little need to ever push his way out. That is, until now. The light frightened him, and spurred him to blows on the transparency before him. His body took in deep breaths that the umbilical was strained to take. The mechanical sound of his breathing quickened.

From beyond, there came an even greater light. And in that instance, a person bearing the white uniform ran past it, covered in light. The man was in agony, but he could not hear the sounds. The light was bad. It must be the cause of the suffering. The light licked everything it touched, and left dark marks of its passing.

Skribblez resumed. His fists pounded at the view in front of him, at the marring that formed on its own. Seconds later, a muffled crash came, and something struck what contained him. There was a ripping noise, that almost chilled his blood, even as the temperature of the fluid rose. There was nothing but fear in his mind. It was maddening. The terrible wrongness brought with it a sense of survival. It felt right to break free.

And then, the umbilical stopped. No more breath would come of it. Skribblez inhaled deeply, pounding at the sides of his prison, but to very little effect.

The crack widened in the portal in front of him. Another person, too much covered in the giant orange light to make out a face. It burst through the door, and landed on the floor beneath it, halfway. A large dark cloud began to pour into the room from the top, now that it had a clear path.

And thats when the most horrifying vision came though the light.

It was as tall as the angels in white. Its skin was a mottled blue, with strange colours veined through it. On its back were small flaps of something, that looked as if they were short arms. However, the worst of it was when the creature turned to look at Skribblez, who thrashed terribly inside the machine that bound him.

He could not breathe... and the darkness would come soon.

The demon's lips curled at the sight of him, but did not enter. It turned back down the beyond, continuing its path.. unharmed by the lights themselves.

Pain, sharp and hot, trickled down Skribblez face. On the wall before him, he could see something spilling over on the other side of it. The view became blurred, and the heat of the liquid around him began to sizzle and sting.

The crack drew wider... and the fluid mixed with the outside.

With a mighty heave, Skribblez thrashed again in such a frenzy, that the sleep overtook him. The heat was leaving, but a strange sense of peace started to overtake his body. His eyes rested. The pain began to subside.....

The shadows behind his eyes came to rest again.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He awoke a moment later, but feeling no fear of it. The lessons that Master Neleb had taught him, paid for themselves. Skribblez eyes came open, but without a panick.

He took in several laboured breaths, and drew his gnarled and leathery hands up to look at them. Such a time has gone by, he thought. So many moons and seasons had passed since he became aware of himself. It seemed amazing at times, once you have the perspective to see it. We often take advantage of our fast paced lives, to get away from the everyday troubles we face, but would rather not think of. Its easy to loose ourselves, justifying it with time and business. Our focus doesn't always lie on our problems of the past, but most often concerning our future. The future, that was said, is so unclear and unwritten.

But is that to say that the past presents a forward moulding of our futures? Coupled with the decisions of now, so that they became the past withing moments after conception?

Its one of the greatest mysteries of our human identities, to discover a path or ourselves. No one would believe what he had come to know as his self. A genetic experiment performed in a lab of unknown origin, and the removed from it before his time, by a mysterious woman of great power.

She often spoke of it, but never quite alluded to why her presence was there. Skribblez had learned to not press the issue either. She was a wise and world weary person, worthy of respect for her deeds with, and without her magic. She became his teacher, his mentor, and a mother to which he could have not understood should his life had been what it was.

A strange act of fate, it was. He would have to meditate upon this.