[hider=section 13] [center][img]http://67.media.tumblr.com/d85404396cd920ea481c9dd2a3d8d632/tumblr_o8rjgeiPvk1u5gf80o1_400.png[/img][/center] Plains are gentle to the winds that stride upon them. The air sifts between long grasses, soughing. Each gust carries a subtly different note. I am well familiar with this ambience. It is the sound of waves. Over the great length of the golden barrens, a tide is coming in. The acacia is an island, its canopy broad and lonely. The only place of shade for many tired footfalls on the way to the venomweald. High are its leaves, and high am I, among them. A view of splendour. It is gratifying, to own this land and rule it. But my reign is not placid. I set myself to the dirt. As days flicker by and become seasons, as the moons come and go, tireless, restless, with all the hands I possess, I surge forth. By the tree, the ground falls under my fists, into a pit that becomes a crater. When it strikes stone I bite the rock and chisel it into a well. On my back I bear the earth and take it up onto the plain, weaving veils of grass to block the wind from the dusty shoulders of the mounds. The barrows multiply and grow larger, spiralling, forming narrow valleys and paths in a pattern only I can see. They align before my eyes and I paint with their shadows, that every moment of every day shall show a different silhouette. Every view displays its own geometry, each one disguising and revealing hidden spaces that lie between the conical pyramids. On straining wings alone does one see the spiralling pattern for what it is. In cupped hands I draw water from the well and plant the seeds of jagged flowers I bring from afar. I stretch their roots and tie them that they may hold the earth in place. My palms scoop the pit around the well into terraces and line them with stones from the carving. In the hidden spaces, the darkness grows cool enough for the acacia's own children to take root at last. Around the Well of the Barrens there is an earthen maze, upon which rises a grove of many trees. The islet which has become a continent. As the saplings grow tall enough to cast their own shade on the green barrows, I tie bird bones to their branches. The hollow forms tap lightly together in the wind, a gentle chime in a garden place. [color=9e0b0f][i]Flux?[/i][/color] [color=00a99d]"An old vagabond returns to my presence,"[/color] I whisper. My work does not pause, nor does it slow. [color=9e0b0f][i]It has been some years.[/i][/color] [color=00a99d]"Many."[/color] [color=9e0b0f][i]You've roamed far.[/i][/color] [color=00a99d]"And soon, further still. I have graced these plains long with my toil. Now they are in the hands of Fate, and I- I will find myself again elsewhere."[/color] In the far, high distance, from atop the tallest mound, I can just see the true hills, the stone where the Ironhearts find their northern end. [color=9e0b0f][i]I... I bid you not to travel south-west. There has been an- There is a peril spreading from the savannah. The Djinni have marked the fair folken out for genocide. Word is catching.[/i][/color] Interesting, and not remotely surprising. Gods do not easily grow out of their flaws, and the princes of Galbar are proud. [color=00a99d][i]Such was my way, such is theirs.[/i][/color] I spare a glance to my flock of fae. They are a beautiful weapon. I wonder how much they can take. [color=9e0b0f][i]There is another place you can go.[/i][/color] I unlace my hand into a splay of tendrils and rearrange the vine-bound cluster of chimes. [color=9e0b0f][i]To the north, beyond the Ironhearts, there is a plateau. A people lives there, Angels by name, in a valley that may provide sanctuary from the elementals. But a divine force has risen to slaughter them. I don't wish to see that come to pass.[/i][/color] [color=00a99d]"Maybe,"[/color] I say, as if to myself, [color=00a99d]"I do not wish to go. It may be that I do not fear those who were once my kin. It may be that death is an aspect of life, and I do not hate it."[/color] [color=9e0b0f][i]Others said that too,[/i][/color] and I can hear dejection in the voice of Yivvin. [color=00a99d]"It may be that I do not care much for your wishes, and would rather act of my own accord."[/color] Silence. [color=9e0b0f][i]As you wish, Flux. I'll leave you to your own.[/i][/color] [color=00a99d][i]Good,[/i][/color] I think, and pluck a fuzzy yellow floret from the acacia, folding it into my hand. And I gaze out, once again, to the distant foothills. [center][img]http://67.media.tumblr.com/d85404396cd920ea481c9dd2a3d8d632/tumblr_o8rjgeiPvk1u5gf80o1_400.png[/img] [color=00a99d][i]Wavering between the profit and the loss, In this brief transit where the dreams cross The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying. From the wide window towards the granite shore The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying Unbroken wings And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices And the weak spirit quickens to rebel.[/i][/color] [img]http://67.media.tumblr.com/d85404396cd920ea481c9dd2a3d8d632/tumblr_o8rjgeiPvk1u5gf80o1_400.png[/img][/center] [i]The dew is cold and glittery-grey, strings of it lined up on the edges of the stones. Dancer wears nothing and does not shiver. Their hands moves swiftly over the toughened leather, sewing the inner and outer layers together, sealing in the warm fleece of a mountain goat suspended on spokes of flexible wood. Tira shivers plenty under her tunic, waiting, not too patiently, for the Sculptor to finish repairing the reinforced coat. Youthful energy must find an outlet, though, and she sprints, leaps, jams her quarterstaff into the ground and practices her landing. Her vault is excellent but her sandals skid on the gravel and Tira slips as she falls, letting out a cry. The Urtelem matriarch uncurls instantly, sensing distress, but she's already laughing as she gets up, and Dancer's third hand signs teasingly in her direction. Their head doesn't move. It doesn't need to. Three pairs of eyes leave few blind spots, and Dancer flicks to attention long before their companions, lifting a club cautiously, talons tensing. Tira spots their pose and follows their gaze. The being coming down from the sky is a strange one, the strangest yet in their party.[/i] "Osh kia yem weit," [i]she mutters, holding the staff defensively, as she's learned to do. Shapes resolve themselves and break up as they near. The glowing core of the mass, an ever-shifting flurry of wings, descends from a thick cloud of fae that scatter into their own swarm. Dancer relaxes. Tira follows their lead.[/i] "Runati as-nu?" [i]The newcomer laughs, a low sound, an old sound, an emissary of authority far away and long lost. [color=00a99d]"My name is Flux."[/color][/i] [center][img]http://67.media.tumblr.com/d85404396cd920ea481c9dd2a3d8d632/tumblr_o8rjgeiPvk1u5gf80o1_400.png[/img] [i][color=00a99d]Where shall the word be found, where will the word Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence. Not on the sea or on the islands, not On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land, For those who walk in darkness Both in the day time and in the night time The right time and the right place are not here. No place of grace for those who avoid the face. No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice. O my people.[/color][/i] [img]http://67.media.tumblr.com/d85404396cd920ea481c9dd2a3d8d632/tumblr_o8rjgeiPvk1u5gf80o1_400.png[/img][/center] [/hider] [hider=Summary]This post introduces Flux, a water elemental who claims as his own a lagoon on the shores of the Fractal Sea. One night, Flux encounters the long-dying First Sculptor, who has far outlived even the extended lifespan of the Jvanic Cult. Old Fishbones leaves the Djinn a gift, and he finds, to his later rage, that he has been given something far more than simple inspiration. Much later, Flux finds his way to the foothills of the Nice Mountains, where Tira and Dancer are making their final preparations to battle against Grot. [/hider]