40th Trial of Vhalar, Arc 718
Signing
"Signing while speaking"
"Speaking"
The wind was silent, but its words spoke truths loud enough to ring the ears of divinity, and in the far distance, Quiet could have heard a ringing, like bells being carried by the breeze.
The cattails and fish ripples of the small pond reminded Quiet of a world anew, yet familiar. The greens of this land were the greens of home. The blues of the waters - the grays and browns of the earth - they were consistent.
And how that gentle wind beckoned him through the leaves, as their autumnal colors brought new hues to the canopies and began to fall, landing gently in a swirl of golden care, spoke to him with a voice that caressed his cheek with such sweet care, almost feeling as if the wind which blew in zephyrs around him was as frail as he.
And there he sat.
At the edge of unfamiliar water.
Staff beside him.
Eyes shut.
Listening.
Listening to the scatter of unseen animals, leaping between branches in the trees behind him.
Listening to the subtle rustle of leaves rubbing against one another as delicate winds encouraged them to flirt with their neighbors.
The soft ripples of the water in the small pond, caused not by a disturbance of the small body’s surface, but by the nurturing hand of the breeze.
Quiet loved his ally.
He had friends - family, even - who hadn’t chosen the air as their ally. Those who preferred the sturdy, unforgiving challenge of the earth. Those who preferred the ebb and flow, the formlessness of the water. Those who preferred the life and the energy of a flame, and reveled in its natural rarity.
But Quiet?
He loved the air.
He loved the wind, and he loved its dichotomy.
He loved its gentle simplicity. How sweet and saccharine the breeze could be. Frail and considerate.
He respected and feared its strength. Its ability to hold within it incredible power and vivacity; that of tropical depressions, or of twisting funnels.
He trembled at its potential. The air gave Quiet the ability to breathe deep new understanding. The air was a blanket which covered the earth and all which found itself plastered within its influence.
Quiet had the ability to move that blanket. He had the ability to commune with it.
He had the ability to take it from someone else.
The Gift gave him many allowances, and the world around him entrusted him with that responsibility. That’s why he was chosen. It trusted him with the ability to bend that which is infallible to his will for short periods of time, for purposes defined. It gave him the ability to weaponize that which gives life.
It is an ability that Quiet uses sparingly, rarely, with heavy reservation.
He would never utilize that power without being absolutely certain that the elements would be at peace with his decisions. He had learned in roves long ago about the mutual respect he would need to maintain in order to continue utilizing The Gift. He was not keen on sacrificing it.
He inhaled deeply, taking in new air, and holding it for a moment.
The wind stopped.
Quiet exhaled in panic, although not deigning to break his meditative focus.
He was resigned to continue his meditation. Or, he was resigned, until a large gushing of wind pushed on the the back of his skull, nearly forcing him into the pond. His eyes snapped open, and were immediately drawn to the other side of the pond. Sitting, silently and alone, framed by the now motionless trees surrounding it, was a manifestation that seemed to have taken the wind from the surrounding area to create itself.
Quiet stared at it, squinting, attempting to determine a face, or any distinguishing features whatsoever within the humanoid mass of blowing wind, but nothing was found. It held out its hands, and Quiet found his hands following. The push and pull between the influence on its motions and its influence on his made it strictly impossible to determine whose hand was dominant.
He traced their movements, and immediately knew what it was. His mind relaxed; so accustomed to translating to common, now able to think clearly.
Thank you for listening, it signed, both its and Quiet’s hands forming the words.
As soon as Quiet understood the sentiment, he could have sworn he saw the figure smile before it dissipated back into the atmosphere.
Quiet jolted up, immediately, being under the previous impression that he had separated himself from the others he was travelling with. His quarterstaff in hand, he whipped around, attempting to find a hint of any hostility, or even presence in general, within his immediate vicinity.
All that was found, however, were those same trees. Those same leaves.
But Quiet felt different. He felt cared to. His skin raised in goosebumps as wind whipped around him gently, but incessantly. This was typical. But not to this degree. Not to this sort of insistence; the wind had always felt neutral to him. Its movement, and how he and it interacted, were forever in line with the natural order, and how it would typically behave. Its gusts were shaped like gusts and behaved like gusts. Waves in water, rippling in circles, as they should. But the air tickled his skin, lapping up against him like fire.
Emotional.
But it retained its personality.
Its kindness.
And in the distance, Quiet could have sworn that, in that gentle, zephyrous wind, he could hear bells floating quietly above the ground, whisked to wherever the wind desired them to be brought.
And Quiet listened to those sounds, wind given voice.
His grip on his quarterstaff loosened slightly as he came to an acute understanding of those bells, and of the apparition.
And he listened to those bells - the voice he had been following for so long, and just now was able to interpret its meaning into noise.
And, silent as the wind, Quiet began to appreciate the windchimes.
Signing
"Signing while speaking"
"Speaking"
The wind was silent, but its words spoke truths loud enough to ring the ears of divinity, and in the far distance, Quiet could have heard a ringing, like bells being carried by the breeze.
The cattails and fish ripples of the small pond reminded Quiet of a world anew, yet familiar. The greens of this land were the greens of home. The blues of the waters - the grays and browns of the earth - they were consistent.
And how that gentle wind beckoned him through the leaves, as their autumnal colors brought new hues to the canopies and began to fall, landing gently in a swirl of golden care, spoke to him with a voice that caressed his cheek with such sweet care, almost feeling as if the wind which blew in zephyrs around him was as frail as he.
And there he sat.
At the edge of unfamiliar water.
Staff beside him.
Eyes shut.
Listening.
Listening to the scatter of unseen animals, leaping between branches in the trees behind him.
Listening to the subtle rustle of leaves rubbing against one another as delicate winds encouraged them to flirt with their neighbors.
The soft ripples of the water in the small pond, caused not by a disturbance of the small body’s surface, but by the nurturing hand of the breeze.
Quiet loved his ally.
He had friends - family, even - who hadn’t chosen the air as their ally. Those who preferred the sturdy, unforgiving challenge of the earth. Those who preferred the ebb and flow, the formlessness of the water. Those who preferred the life and the energy of a flame, and reveled in its natural rarity.
But Quiet?
He loved the air.
He loved the wind, and he loved its dichotomy.
He loved its gentle simplicity. How sweet and saccharine the breeze could be. Frail and considerate.
He respected and feared its strength. Its ability to hold within it incredible power and vivacity; that of tropical depressions, or of twisting funnels.
He trembled at its potential. The air gave Quiet the ability to breathe deep new understanding. The air was a blanket which covered the earth and all which found itself plastered within its influence.
Quiet had the ability to move that blanket. He had the ability to commune with it.
He had the ability to take it from someone else.
The Gift gave him many allowances, and the world around him entrusted him with that responsibility. That’s why he was chosen. It trusted him with the ability to bend that which is infallible to his will for short periods of time, for purposes defined. It gave him the ability to weaponize that which gives life.
It is an ability that Quiet uses sparingly, rarely, with heavy reservation.
He would never utilize that power without being absolutely certain that the elements would be at peace with his decisions. He had learned in roves long ago about the mutual respect he would need to maintain in order to continue utilizing The Gift. He was not keen on sacrificing it.
He inhaled deeply, taking in new air, and holding it for a moment.
The wind stopped.
Quiet exhaled in panic, although not deigning to break his meditative focus.
He was resigned to continue his meditation. Or, he was resigned, until a large gushing of wind pushed on the the back of his skull, nearly forcing him into the pond. His eyes snapped open, and were immediately drawn to the other side of the pond. Sitting, silently and alone, framed by the now motionless trees surrounding it, was a manifestation that seemed to have taken the wind from the surrounding area to create itself.
Quiet stared at it, squinting, attempting to determine a face, or any distinguishing features whatsoever within the humanoid mass of blowing wind, but nothing was found. It held out its hands, and Quiet found his hands following. The push and pull between the influence on its motions and its influence on his made it strictly impossible to determine whose hand was dominant.
He traced their movements, and immediately knew what it was. His mind relaxed; so accustomed to translating to common, now able to think clearly.
Thank you for listening, it signed, both its and Quiet’s hands forming the words.
As soon as Quiet understood the sentiment, he could have sworn he saw the figure smile before it dissipated back into the atmosphere.
Quiet jolted up, immediately, being under the previous impression that he had separated himself from the others he was travelling with. His quarterstaff in hand, he whipped around, attempting to find a hint of any hostility, or even presence in general, within his immediate vicinity.
All that was found, however, were those same trees. Those same leaves.
But Quiet felt different. He felt cared to. His skin raised in goosebumps as wind whipped around him gently, but incessantly. This was typical. But not to this degree. Not to this sort of insistence; the wind had always felt neutral to him. Its movement, and how he and it interacted, were forever in line with the natural order, and how it would typically behave. Its gusts were shaped like gusts and behaved like gusts. Waves in water, rippling in circles, as they should. But the air tickled his skin, lapping up against him like fire.
Emotional.
But it retained its personality.
Its kindness.
And in the distance, Quiet could have sworn that, in that gentle, zephyrous wind, he could hear bells floating quietly above the ground, whisked to wherever the wind desired them to be brought.
And Quiet listened to those sounds, wind given voice.
His grip on his quarterstaff loosened slightly as he came to an acute understanding of those bells, and of the apparition.
And he listened to those bells - the voice he had been following for so long, and just now was able to interpret its meaning into noise.
And, silent as the wind, Quiet began to appreciate the windchimes.
