|Orly~! (maliciousintent) wrote,|
@ 2010-11-13 01:45:00
|Entry tags:||avatars, inspiration, original work, prompt, random, writing|
Random Prompt 01 - Air
Prompt: Random - Prompt 01: Air
Fandom: None; Original
Title: The Avatar of Air
Warnings & Ratings: G.
Character(s): The elemental avatars from my original works.
Summary: The air avatar reflects.
Word Count: 1,001
Disclaimer: All mine.
In his mind, war had always been a thing of glory. Bards sang of the deeds of great warriors and mages as if they were the things that dreams were literally made of. No one ever sang the a farmer and how he had supported his family faithfully throughout all his life or about the seamstress that kept her family in the best clothes they could afford to create on their meager salary. No one was every greatful to the miller or the baker. These were not the people of dreams and glory. It was the warrior and the devout. The people who sacrificed everything for their belief. Then why was it that he could not get his own mind to wrap around what this so-called blessing meant to him? He could be praised as he had always wanted to be, but as he watched what was happening around him he couldn't help but wonder if these really were the deeds of the glorious. It was one thing to listen to the stories of those that peddled death, but it was an entirely different thing to be the one that stole the very breath from those that you faced. To see the look of horror on another man's face as what was left of his life slipped away was just as frightening as the thought of having your own life cut so short. Were these really the deeds he was meant for?
Motion near the fire of their encampment broke the young man from his thoughts and he turned his head to see who or what it was. One of his new companions, others chosen by the divine to bear their power and their curse, had merely rolled around in her blankets, but he was quite sure there would be no sleep for him. There were too many questions milling around in his mind about this new journey. A part of him wanted to embrace it fully, but seeing the look of absolute horror on the priestess' face made him wonder if this really was a divine calling or possession by the forces of evil. The quiet and tender woman was now scarred by her own role in the war that was playing out around him. There were nights when he could hear her crying in her sleep, but no one made mention of it to her as they did not want to hurt her any more than she'd already been. They all chose to deal with these things in their own way rather than share their pain or pride with each other. Pride was something he could see on the young soldier's face as he sat and played with the power of the earth at night. He had worked all his life in hope that someone would find him to be suitable for power and, somehow, the god had chosen him. Pride seeped from every single move the soldier made and every command he issued. The woman that had been chosen to bare the powers of fire was less easy to read. She usually sat quietly and made no reference to the god that had become her patron. It was as if she didn't really believe in the divine beings. Instead, she chose to forget whenever she could. It was a strange tactic to deal with the situation, but it seemed well-suited to her and her way of life as it wasn't often that a common thief became the bearer of powers beyond mortal comprehension. Perhaps she was just as stunned as the priestess?
A small breeze blew through the camp and he had to push his hair back out of his eyes. He wondered if it was of his own will or just nature taking its course? They had the powers over the elements, but they could not stop the normal progress of the weather and nature. They could delay it, even change it, but eventually the natural ways of the world took back over. Perhaps it was the divine's way of saying that, no matter what, they were still in control. He didn't necessarily care. The young man still felt as if he was himself. Had he changed since this power had been placed into him? If he had, it was undetectable to him. Sarcasam still flowed freely when he spoke and the magics that he had weaved in his spare time were still as pathetic as they had been before, mere parlor tricks that did no more than entertain him. Of course, when he tapped into the avatar powers he could cast spells that he had never imagined possible, but it was rare that he chose to do it. Perhaps he was afraid of letting the power take over again? Of course not. Why would someone be afraid of the will of the divine? Perhaps because to be taken over by divine will was to lose the freedom that being mortal allowed? Oh, why did he have to think this much anyway? He'd always been a bit of a free-spirit, moving without thought and enjoying a good time, but now his brown always seemed furrowed in deep thought. He was so full of questions about the truth behind divinity and why mortals were even needed to battle for them. It was as if they couldn't quite cross the veil on their own and needed these motal anchors to keep their connection.
The magician raised his hands to his temples and began massaging them lightly. All this thinking, all this questioning, it did nothing but cause him a truly horrible headache. That was probably why he hadn't done much thinking in the first place. "Ugh," he muttered to himself as he settled himself down in his own blankets and tried to find the sweet embrace of sleep. The nights would be long if he kept trying to make sense of everything. He hoped that, eventually, his mind would just give up on questioning things and leave him be.