[center][b][color=slategray][h3]Athulwin[/h3][/color][/b][/center]
[i][center]Addressing: [@Enigmatik] and [@Antediluvixen][/center][/i]

Athulwin emerges out of his caravan, stepping out firmly into the outside world by his own will for the first time today, with his face set like fire. [i][color=slategray]The Beyonder[/color][/i], he thinks, back straightening. [i][color=slategray]I [/color][color=red]cannot[/color][color=slategray] let it harm the Caravan[/color][/i]. He does not know exactly what form the thing that fell from the sky will take, but he knows that Gadri and Morvanne should not be facing it alone. Some creature has come from the void, for all he knows, some unknowable monstrosity, and the skills of a smith and an occultist are not enough. All the others are out fighting undead- Athulwin knows what duty must call him to do next. He has sent the message ahead of himself, the warning to stay away.

But now he will follow with it. And they will all face this thing together. He used to have to steel himself like this, before a hard Trial at Queensrock. The monastery he once belonged to was the strictest of monastic orders, more than either of the other sects of Frowen-worshippers who call the Old Marshes their home. In that entire land, they were the only religious body that regularly made the faithful go through "Trials." Tests of pain and bravery, is all they really were. 

The worst one was when Athulwin was maybe ten winters of age, and a much older monk, some graybearded sage, jostled him awake in the middle of the night. He was holding a nasty whip in his hands. He said to the boy, who was already quivering in his bed, "Don't fall back asleep. I am going to whip you with this. I am not going to do it yet, but I'm going to eventually. You must not cry out when you see the whip coming. You must not fall back asleep waiting for it to come. If you do either of these things, you will stand naked in the winter air tomorrow morning where everyone will see you." And then the old graybeard stood over Athulwin for hours. Every now and then, to tease him, he would lift the whip up as if he were about to bring it down, and then would seem to change his mind. Then he'd do it again. Athulwin, holding his blankets in white-knuckle hands, never cried out even when he was most sure he was about to be struck. At last, without a word, the old monk turned and walked out of the room. Young Athulwin was left in peace the rest of that night. That was the Trial of Anticipation.

There were other Trials, that had other names, but they were all of the same kind of thing. Sometimes you had to walk over hot coals. Sometimes you had to wrap your arms around a pillar behind you, and let the other kids hit you in the stomach. The Uttering Monks, the younger Athulwin daily thought, confuse masochism for piety.

The older Athulwin understands better. There are two kinds of trials in life, he believes. There are the ones that come on like storms, strike you as hard as lightning, and in turn harden you. Those are the trials that, properly endured, make a man stronger. One day you will be able to walk into that storm and you will not flinch at all its flashing and rolling thunder. To use a common kind of phrase, you can learn to take a punch.

But then there's the other sort of trials, and it's the second kind that are the truly poisonous ones: those tests that do not happen all at once, but come in the form of a steady drip of pain that has the capacity to go on for months, or years, or for a lifetime. A recurring illness. The inescapable feeling of poverty. Long years of bodily abuse. It is those trials that soften you, drip by drip, until you are too worn down to fight any longer. They are the hell that buries you.

All of the trials of the Uttering Monks were of the first kind. They could conceive of nothing else. It was the second that Athulwin found on the road, and from the mouth of Alder.

Like a boy preparing to meet the whip, Athulwin readies his soul to encounter the Beyonder.

Malleck had asked earlier [color=khaki]"Come on then Mr Athulwin, let’s go meet this God, hmm?[/color] He said it without the ending quotation marks, just like that. At the time Athulwin had politely pushed the suggestion away, citing the excuse that he'd be better use inside his Caravan, thinking on things and directing others via the Wind. That proved to be true only up until the moment that he realized what this thing that fell from the sky may actually be. A 'God' indeed. Now he goes to get Malleck, and off they rush together to the site of the Fallen Star.

[b][center]---                   ~--( )--~                   ---[/center][/b]

[center][b][color=slategray][h3]Some Time Later[/h3][/color][/b][/center]

The smoking crater is an easy mark to follow. The black tail trailing up into the sky is a sign that will probably be seen miles around. But Athulwin has to hold in a pained gasp once he finally gets close to it. The forest around where the star fell has been demolished. The trees around the crater have fallen down in a circle -Athulwin thinks they look like supplicants bowing down to the ground- and the earth itself is churned up like butter. There in the middle of it all, something shining and twisted that his eyes struggle to comprehend. This thing is an assault from the Void and a raping of nature. It's the fallen star.

And then he sees Gadri and Morvanne, standing in front of it stunned. Athulwin feels stunned too, at the site of this huge chunk of metal and abomination sticking out of Alwyne's side like a tic that's latched itself to a man's thigh. But that's not what they're looking at.

The angle is wrong. Whatever they're seeing, Athulwin's view of it is blocked by the star. As Athulwin creeps closer, as stealthy as he can manage to be while wearing his pair of walking boots, he sees that Morvanne has a look of horror marring her face. That makes him worry. Athulwin always thought she's the kind of woman he would find beautiful, but that stare has taken beauty right off the page. What is it that she's seeing? "[color=slategray]Go, Malleck,[/color]" he whispers behind him, "[color=slategray]go around the other way. I'll make the confrontation. I have the elements with me.[/color]"

He has brought his Moiling Chain along, too. It's a thick, iron chain, five feet long, heavy and enchanted. Like many of the tools of the Uttering Monks, it's attuned to the practice of Utterance. He speaks a few of the guttural barks that make up the language of Fire, and at their command the chain grows hot in his hand. Not good enough. He speaks more Fire. The chain gets redder, then redder, and finally magical flames begin to dance along it. He holds the flaming chain in his hands like a whip.

He emerges from behind the Fallen Star. Now he understands what has twisted up Morvanne's face so hideously. The thing is a cross between a fox and a woman, but not like the beastraces of Alwyne. It's features are incongruent: a pretty girl's face, a fox's ears, a girl's body, a fox's tails. And there's too many of them. The tails are too many.

Athulwin speaks.

"[color=red]Get back,[/color]" he says to the Morvanne and Gadri. In the direction of the Beyonder, he swings his flaming chain slowly in his hand, ignoring the memories it brings him of his own Trial of Anticipation. He's not trying to fight it, not yet. Just scare it away from the others. "[color=red]You-[/color]" he says to it- "[color=red]why are you here? For what purpose have you assaulted the world of Eld Frowen?[/color]" His every word brings [color=red]Fire[/color] out from his mouth.