Fantasy RPG Forum - Standing Trials

Saun 24th of Arc 700

Somehow, Rokas had made it out of the quicksand without Zaruid’s help. Nature’s trap had swallowed him whole, dragging him down too far. He’d been beyond saving. And yet, he found himself back on the desert’s surface. Sand roughly caressing his skin, the suns baking him from above. The sky was as blue as blue can be, not a cloud in sight. The occasional breeze flowed around his body, bringing a few seconds of relief from the sweltering heat. Behind Rokas sat the treacherous quicksand, almost indistinguishable from the regular desert sand if one didn’t know what signs to look for. Rokas stared into the sky for a few moments, immediately blinded by the suns’ bright rays. He turned away a moment later, eyes squinting against the light, and sneezed.

Yes, he was unmistakably alive.

But he wasn’t the same Rokas he had been before. Something had changed, though he couldn’t put his finger on what. A primal, intuitive part of him was quite aware it was connected to his miraculous survival. It knew he hadn’t escaped the quicksand by his own power alone. Especially since he’d been barely conscious. Which could only mean Zaruid’d had a change of heart at the very last moment. So he had to be close still.

Rokas started walking, stumbling up a nearby dune. The sand was loose and offered little grip for his feet –or that’s how it should have been. He should have found it difficult to climb, losing footholds when the sand streamed down, giving away under his weight. But instead it felt as if the grains kilted together, forming a denser area to support him. He reached the top in no time at all, despite his sluggish limbs and clumsy gait.

Even from a vantage point, he couldn’t find Zaruid. There wasn’t even a trace of his presence. No shadow, no trail of footsteps. No figure on the horizon. Even the old mage couldn’t have gotten so far away in such a short time. Had the old man truly left him for dead then? Sure, Rokas’d watched the mage leave when he began to sink into the quicksand, but the unexpected rescue had felt like Zaruid’s work. Or at least similar to it. In terms of power, the difference was quite clear. So, if not Zaruid, then who--?

The earth crept up his lower legs, feet already fully covered, pulling at him, trying to drag him back down. Rokas jumped backwards, startled, a yelp escaping from his lips, and he tumbled down the dune. He flopped to a stop, spread-eagle on the hot sand, heart pounding. What in the blazes? No time to ponder over it; the earth began to swallow Rokas again.

Sand from around him rose up, flowing over his body. Adrenaline flared within his veins. Rokas scrambled to his feet, breaking free of the grasping earth, bolting up the nearest rock he could find. Blood rushed in his ears, breaths came out in quick bursts, and his eyes flitted left and right, near and far. Scanning the area for danger, for parts of the desert that roiled like water. For signs of quicksand where there had been none before. A powerful feeling of dejection emanated from around him. No, from beneath him. Apologetic, saddened, but most of all, hurt by Rokas’s reaction.

It couldn’t be…

The shirt tugged at his torso, fabric flapping and rustling. A gentle weight pressed onto his shoulders, nudging him down the rock. Encouraging and supportive, yet insistent and firm. Rokas eyed the sand with suspicion for a moment, but capitulated as the ethereal hands prodded him further. He lowered one leg first, foot planted onto the desert ground though only a fraction of his weight rested on it. He didn’t sink. The desert didn’t coil around his ankle to pull him into the sandy depths.

Two legs now, knees unstable. Rokas couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking down to the ground, and back to the rock. Color had long since drained from his knuckles, fingers digging into the stone as he held on tight. The earth grabbed hold of him, fingers of sand curling around his calves. Rokas stiffened for a precious second, unable to clamber back to safety. His heart stopped, as did his breathing.

But he didn’t sink. The sand had no real strength to it, only reaching halfway up his calves in a loose pile, the topmost particles rolling back down to the bottom. It was easy to break free too; all he had to do was lift his feet of the ground. Air escaped his lungs, chest deflating, muscles relaxing.

And finally, he listened.

No anger reached his ears, no frustrated rumbles or hateful cracking. In fact, he sensed no malice from the earth at all. No desire to finish the burial Rokas had barely escaped from. Rather, it sought his attention, clamoring for it. Clinging to his lower legs like a toddler tugging at its mother’s skirts. It was quite endearing. He laughed at his own rushed conclusions, at his jumpiness from before, at the power he realized he now possessed. The desert laughed along with him, and continued for a while longer after Rokas had stopped to ponder this development.

The elements had voices he could hear. Earth clung to his legs. It had carried him to safety when he’d been on the verge of suffocation. A well of power hereto unfamiliar sat within his soul, a reserve of fuel of some kind. At a base level, he understood its significance. Instinctual knowledge of basic things became accessible, as if Rokas had suddenly gained an extra set of limbs and immediately understood how to work their muscles.

A grin emerged. Rokas brought a hand to eye level, slowly clenching it into a tight fist. He could sense his potential. In his mind’s eye, Rokas sank cities into chasms, commanded towering waves, and created mountains. He rode the winds and produced great gouts of flame, reducing all who opposed him to ash. Feats worthy of legend. The elements would bow before the power bestowed onto him, and so would the rest of Idalos.

One hand whipped out in a commanding, dominating gesture. Fingers clawed, as if gripping something intangible. Mind focused, tapping into the new wellspring of power. Gathering it, channeling, making it an extension of his will. The earth laughed no more. The wind howled in disapproval. It was just a small test of power, a small change to be made; creating a little mound of sand where there was none. By hand, it would take two seconds. Through elemental control, it should be even faster. But the earth resisted, digging its heels.

Rokas pivoted around, shifting his attention onto a pebble laying on the boulder. Hand still outstretched, muscles tense and trembling. Move! Move! Move! Move! It didn’t even budge. Not even a little. Sweat began pearl down his brow, a new kind of exhaustion starting to set in. Rokas was expending power and energy, but it went to waste. What am I doing wrong? It’s just a tiny stone, it can’t be that hard to make it move. Move, dammit, move! Move! Just move!

The earth did no such thing, flat out ignoring the mental commands. Rokas pushed harder, drawing on more power, more force of will, but it was futile. No matter how much he tried to force it, the earth remained stubborn and immovable. Rokas tried to change the direction of the breeze next, imagining the stream in his mind. Yet, just like the earth, the air did not obey, no matter how much effort he put into his commands.

He gave up, limply falling onto his knees. Sand pricked through his clothes, flowed into his shoes to stab his toes. The wind threw more grains into his face, aiming for the eyes and mouth.

Anger, disappointment, confusion. A cocktail of emotions flowed freely as the desert itself chastised him for his behavior. Rokas couldn’t move a single pebble, he couldn’t even create a heap of sand. The power given was worthless, useless. Unable to influence even a single stone. Incapable of displacing a puff of breath. And yet, Zaruid carved caves in rocks, made water flow through the air, and walked on the wind. The old man had even created fire between his palms, letting it dance on his skin without singeing a single hair. Did Rokas simply not have the talent for it? Was he hampered by his own incompetence? It couldn’t be, he had used this power already when escaping the quicksand. Perhaps he could access it only in times of need, when his very life was in peril. It seemed unlikely, after all, he’d tapped into the power easily enough while trying to move the pebble, regardless of the lacking results.

In what ways did his first usage differ from his last? Subconscious and conscious use, yes, but that wasn’t it. The sensations he’d picked up on were different, the feel of it all. Despite the subconscious accessing of the power had occurred while Rokas was in a daze, he could recall the radiating emotions accurately. Helpful and worried versus stubborn and standoffish. It wasn’t like Rokas had been unable to influence the element during his tests, it was simply that the elements refused to obey. Why? Why lend assistance when he was on the verge of death, but not when he was safe? The harder he’d pushed, the less willing the earth had been, the more it had ignored him.

Action, reaction. There was a connection there. One time he’d begged to be rescued, and the earth had obliged, contrasting the time Rokas had tried to force it to obey. Impossible! The elements are not sentient. They don’t have emotions! They shouldn’t respond better to pleas rather than commands. That’s ridiculous! And yet, there was no denying that they had.

Zaruid’s voice echoed in his mind. ”I don’t control them, boy. We talk. I make requests, and they consider. If they feel like it and I asked nice enough, they might just do what I want.”

Rokas had dismissed the notion back then too. Though Zaruid had proved that influencing the elements was no empty claim, Rokas had still considered the concept of communicating with the forces of nature to be absolutely ridiculous. Now however… now it sounded more plausible. It made him doubt his prior assessment. Perhaps he could give it a try, think of the wind and earth and water as sentient entities with a mind of their own, not unthinking and unfeeling forces. There was nothing to lose. Only his dignity, perhaps, but there was no-one around to witness it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “That wasn’t nice of me. I didn’t know what I was doing, but that’s no excuse. My actions were uncalled for. Please forgive me.”

Wind breezed past, warm and gentle. The earth ceased stabbing his skin with edged grains of sand, though it remained somewhat distant and suspicious. So Rokas chose to address the air, considering the phrasing of his request with care, adding a ‘please’ to the end. Minutes passed where nothing happened, causing Rokas try again in the meantime. The same request, but phrased differently, less entitled. He negotiated, bargained, presenting persuasive arguments. When that failed, he resorted to begging. The wind hesitated, pausing as if to consider. Opportunity presented itself. Just a little will do. A moment or two. Nothing extreme. Please? I just want to know if I’m doing it right. A sign of goodwill? Please?

It didn’t yield any results. The wind continued to blow, carrying sand and dust. Rokas sighed. Of course talking to the wind wasn’t going to do anything. It was air. Not a person. Making polite requests or pleas would have no effect. He sat himself down on the big rock, cupping his chin.

The breeze subsided, gently laying down the grains of sand it played with. For a few moments, there was no sound, no rushing of air through the sloping land. The earth remained undisturbed as the playful wind rested.

And then, Rokas gasped in surprise. The wind ruffled his hair and clothes for a brief instant, blowing directly upwards.