More days passed.

The shapes he had chosen to create as his foci for re-establishing his physical self had not been picked by happenstance, or because of some over emotional attachment or fondness for children; they owed the shape of their form both to Angel being his primary initial anchor to the Nexus, and because each of the foci - the playground pieces - represented a simple machine. The slide, an inclined plane; the merry-go-round, a wheel; and the see saw, a lever and fulcrum.

The blue, man shaped shimmer that represented his condensed self wavered. He was disoriented, and tired; what he was doing was like awakening to find yourself trapped in a small box, and struggling to find the key - all based on only the assumption the world outside the box still existed. He could tell time was passing, but he had no way of measuring it; context without form was impossible to achieve.

He realized at some point that although he could bestow artificial life, the semblance of life, creating a vessel - a construct - to house his own essence was beyond his ability to do, at least from scratch. He called them, the Hounds, though he could not say how. He had no lips to speak or whistle, nor speak the words to Summon.

The baying of the beasts echoed across the field as the Etta'tyrn Ali'goth, the Hounds of Eternity, arrived at the singularity - and leapt into it, vanishing in flashes of ever darkening blue light. Stranger, Pagan, Frolic, Talos, Kinda, Cowl, and Delve were gone; their bodies consumed for raw physical material to be reconfigured into something more....fitting.

The blue gloam slowly died away, leaving a man on one knee kneeling in its wake. Atticus, eyes closed and fists planted knuckle down on the ground. Acclimating to his environment, the still cool weather - and his apparent nudity became quickly apparent to him. He'd used too much energy to open a gate to Horizon so soon after, and looked across the field to the Coven.

He said nothing, and what would have been the sense" There was no one there to hear him, anyways.

Focusing on the Coven, his body began to radiate the same blue light that had formed it, and Atticus veered into a cloud of azure winged butterflies that moved on the breeze towards the Coven, the fading remnants of excess energy arching between their wings as they flew.

After Atticus' departure, and the brilliant blue aura that accompanied him, the would be playground fell into shadow. The wind had all but died away, and when it did finally stop in full, the merry-go-round began to slowly turn, and the seesaw violently rocked up and down. An unfelt breeze carried with it the sounds of children, carrying on ever so softly. Were they laughing....or screaming"

In the trees above the line fence at the edge of the field, ravens sat watching the area with interest until all movement and sound there stopped, and they took to the skies heading southeast.

~~~ "Evil is nothing but a word, an objectification where no objectification is necessary. Cast aside this notion of some external agency as the source of inconceivable inhumanity - the sad truth is our possession of an innate proclivity towards indifference, towards deliberate denial of mercy, towards disengaging all that is moral within us. But if that is too dire , let's call it evil. And paint it with fire and venom." ― Steven Erikson, Toll the Hounds

~~~

~ ~ ~

"We keep moving forward, opening new doors, and doing new things, because we're curious and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths."

- Walt Disney

~ ~ ~

Memory Bubble Mini-SL

As Atticus lay in Lazarus Sleep, memories began to filter between the energy that was Atticus incorporeal form, and the Plane of Horizon where his Myriad, alternatively known as Archon or Arcfire maintains his Repository of Knowledge - what keeps him from going mad with information overload. These stories are condensed telling's of the memories which cycled back into his somewhat, now alien, mind.

~ ~ ~

Memory Bubble - Part II

The Gauntlet. Westgate, Outer Arc. Alluvius.

In Atticus mind's eye, there was a long hallway with seven doors; six on each side, and one at the end. Eight, if you counted the one at his back. But he was standing there and even he hadn't thought about it. Through each of the seven doors there was....a Source. Like a wellspring, but instead of drawing water from it, there was Power.

All one had to do was Open the door, and power could either be drawn through by force of will. Or, one could step through and seize it. Atticus had never given thought to the others did it, just because of the facility with which it came to him; some prayed to one, or a variety of different gods; some used a focus, such as a wand or words memorized or recited from a spell book. Of course there were casters Atticus had not yet met or even heard of yet, that used altogether different means as well. He found them all curiosities; for him it often seemed as simple as breathing - he imagined a thing a way, and then it was, and he could not understand why others didn't simply 'breathe' like he did. Of course, his style was completely unreliable as well, often times it worked, other times it didn't.

The construct of the Doors, which was taught to him and the others being mentored by Azira, had helped him to establish control.

Now he was being Tested; the Gauntlet was a test for magic users to determine their level of ability or potential - depending on how the test was applied. In this case, the Gauntlet was a maze, and Atticus was being hunted by none other than Azira himself. The situation was at the same time vaguely insulting, and praising, and Atticus was simultaneously proud and annoyed. He had helped to design the Gauntlet, it had been largely his ideas, and largely Azira's magic which had allowed it to become manifest into reality. The inside of the Gauntlet could change unpredictably, creating spontaneous illusions, and rearranging its paths to lead people towards one another when they sought to get away, or vice versa. There was no exit, save to best your opponent, and the lethality of the circumstances were determined by the goals: a test of potential was non-lethal, while a test of ability - of learned skill and ability to use the power at your disposal - sometimes was. Or would be, given that those were the rules but a death had not yet happened.

Of course, Atticus was only the third person to take the test and run the Gauntlet, so there wasn't much precedent set.

The construct in his mind's eye of the Doors disappeared as pain lanced through him, and after the initial shock of the hurt left him he was chastising himself even as he ran for cover. He should have been able to maintain the Construct.

Azira's attacks were not for show, they were not flashy, and any observer would find little entertainment value unless they were an absolute sadist. They lacked the power signature of any spell set that Atticus had studied, and everything about them felt alien; it further frustrated him that he was unable to identify how he was being attacked - not because it made it almost impossible to defend against - but because he felt he SHOULD know by now. Even though he had only seen fourteen years. Every time he sought the Construct, it seemed Azira was right there waiting for him, pummeling him with round after round of spellfire; he felt the lacerations left by the malignant energy across his flayed skin, open wounds decorating his arms, legs, and torso. The only thing which had saved his face thus far had been dumb animal instinct which caused his arms to fly before his face whenever Azira appeared with his arms raised and in mid-cast.

Atticus rounded a corner and screamed out in agony as pain lanced through the back of his left ankle and calf; it felt like someone had taken a dull blade to the back of his leg and started slashing. He fell upon his hands and knees, and suddenly a full barrage of hot, intense, pain fell upon his back, trying to force him flat. For a moment, he wanted to just let himself fall flat, and perhaps die beneath the onslaught if Azira would take it that far. Everything hurt, and his eyes welled with pain, and frustration.

And growing anger.

Why did he deserve this" What had he done, to be punished like this" It wasn't right; Kristoph and Brend had as much warned him before hand, the first having been the first to run the Gauntlet, and the second simply claiming to have an uncanny ability to read Azira's character. Only Jonas, the second person to run the Gauntlet, had seemed to have any faith in Atticus, faith that was looking more and more likely misplaced. Could he have nothing good in his life" Nothing positive" NOTHING"

To any casual observer who could have seen his face, it would have looked like the anger had passed, but in reality it had only transitioned. Hot iron had become cold iron, cold Fury. He still felt the pain, but it was as if someone else were feeling it, and he sought out the Construct of the Doors. He had been pushed to far, pain had become too much a constant, there was no more shock to it. In his mind's eye, he saw the hallway and the doors. He glanced at one of them, and it flew open wide, power flowing into him. His body changed somehow, and looking down at his hands he saw that they looked like they were made of some type of metal.

'Good', he thought, 'Easier to beat him to death.' Except that wasn't right, wasn't just, wasn't satisfying enough. He had to beat him back, and beat him down in the same fashion Azira had so obviously delighted in inflicting upon the others who had taken - and would later take, the Test and run the Gauntlet. He gradually forced himself up onto his knees, facing upwards towards Azira, who stood with arms outstretched, making arcane gestures and calling out words of power. Unlike Atticus, Azira was quickly enraged, and the former could see it in the latter's eyes, even behind the veiled mask that he wore. Atticus didn't smile, didn't smirk, didn't betray any emotion at all as he stood, and the brunt of Azira's attack changed from a pulse to a continuous stream. Atticus's would be oppressor howled in rage and bore down completely on his ward, not holding back anything as the full fury of his assault struck Atticus squarely in the face and chest.

Atticus could see both Azira, and the hallway with the doors simultaneously in his mind's eye. It didn't manifest outwardly, but inwardly he smirked and suddenly, just for a moment - and it was all he needed - ALL of the doors flew open and power tore through them and down the hallway, and into Atticus.

Suddenly the illusion of the Gauntlet vanished, and the energy seemed gone from Atticus as he stood in the center of a large coliseum. Before him, Azira was flying backwards in mid air, his robes smoking as he struck the wall of the arena hard, bouncing off and onto the ground. All was silent until Azira issued a cough, smoke coming from whatever mouth lay behind his mask. Atticus turned silently to face the stands looking down upon the floor where the Gauntlet was run. Above him was Damon, and a few of the other recruits of the would-be 'First Sword', Kristoph, Brend, and a gaggle of others. Brend sat slack jawed, until a goofy grin spread across his lips. Kristoph, who contended with Azira for Damon's 'favorite' spoke, his voice snide and echoing across the open yard.

"Since you insisted I choose one of the youth for my squad mage, rather than Azira, I think I'll take him. Not that I really wanted Azira."

"That one will never master a blade..." Damon attempted to make Kristoph second guess his choice, the two of them being more collegial perhaps, than most of the other 'recruits' were with Damon. From most other than a few in the burgeoning 'First Sword', a remark like Kristoph's would have resulted in at least a reprimand. And for the tone, likely corporeal punishment. Now though, he simply sounded sour.

"Brend, can you teach him the Sword?" Kristoph glanced away from Atticus, to Brend for a moment. He was intentionally speaking loud enough for his voice to carry across the arena. Brend's answer was punctuated by almost barking laughter.

"When he can do THAT" Yeah," Brend's tone between laughs was so dry, "I can teach him well enough."

The 'boys' Atticus was looking up at in the stands weren't much older than him, perhaps four or five years. Emotion raged behind the blank slate of his face as he listened to the conversation take place as though he wasn't even there. They'd warned him before the Test, not that they could really prepare him. But at least they tried. He didn't know what to think as Kristoph winked at him before he turned to Damon.

"I guess it's settled. He's with us." Kristoph smiled at Damon, but it was in the same way a child who's been proven right smiles at a parent who insisted they were wrong. Brend leapt down onto the sand and jogged over towards Atticus, unfastening his sword belt and offering it outstretched.

"C'mon my friend, let's get out of here while, um, we can." Brend glanced upwards towards where Kristoph still sat, then turned back to Atticus, and handed him the sword. "Here, take this, you'll need it."

"I have never had one before." Atticus forehead wrinkled as he listened to Brend. He almost never used contractions, and Brend's lazy speech was almost amusing.

"Wha" A sword? Pfft, everyone's got a sword." Brend shot him a look as though Atticus were crazy, and clapped him on the back as he escorted him off the sands.

"No," Atticus replied too easily, and with heartbreaking sincerity, "A friend."

In order to mitigate the danger posed by this condition, the room that he slept in was heavily warded beyond those already laid upon his residence in either Horizon, or Bristle Crios. The final mithal laid upon the room even included his personal variation of a prismatic sphere for protection.

But not all danger lies without, some lies within.

Atticus stood within his Sanctum, looking at boards of formulae, checking and reworking the codes of a spell; he never tired of looking for ways to change the parameters of spells and magic, both from his native schools of arcane theory, and those exotic and foreign he mostly learned from books, and tomes, though some rare lessons from other casters who'd by chance also congregated for a time within the Nexus. He paused, raising an eyebrow as the Sanctum seemed to shake ? if only slightly. It wasn't unheard of, and happened on those rare circumstances in which his slumber was disturbed; he'd often considered on such occasions whether or not his subconscious activities weren't the source of his own troubled mind.

The ceiling above him didn't resemble a ceiling so much as the massive screen of a projection television; memories played above him on that screen, their images throwing down upon him what light he needed to work. At first consideration, most people might find the thought disturbing, or off putting, thinking it might hinder their ability to work. But the memories, the thoughts, were his own; except they were now in a way outside himself, leaving his mind less fettered. There was a certain synergy to their existence outside his mind's eye that let him work in tandem with their otherwise psychoactive seeming.

And then something passed across the 'screen', something not his own. Dark, shadowy, and serpentine, and not at all originating from him; the aforementioned synergy caused him to pick up on the aberration immediately and his were cast upward.

The shapes that had invaded his memories were....chains. They were clearly not a part of the memory which was providing the light, but in their passing the memory seemed to flicker, and change. He couldn't recall whatever memory had existed there before, had it been the day he'd been visited by Damon' That seemed like it could be right, given what he was now looking at, which seemed to be a version of that event, but different. Jonas Youngblood stood over him, his hand poised between Atticus' eyes, a flow of dark energy spiralling into the latter's forehead.

A black substance, reminiscent of either oil, or smoke, or some foul hybrid began to seep out of Atticus where he slept, leaking dark trails from his ears, nostrils, and tear ducts, down onto the pillow beneath him and away from the bed spreading out to the sides of the room and " finding the prismatic sphere " trailing up the sides of it until, from within, he appeared within a black pulsating sphere. The substance, if one could say it exhibited sentience was stuck. It could not stay inside him, nor could it get out, and suddenly it found itself assailed yet again as the sphere was filled with a high pitched noise which lacked definition. Nails on chalkboards, the brakes of cars, and metal on metal at a decibel which would be cruel to be subjected to at the least.

A figure stood outside the sphere, it's image distorted by both the pulsating darkness and the whorl of colour which constituted the prismatic sphere. It had a weapon levelled, it's tip pushing against its wards and enchantments but unable to press through. It's wielder stood behind it, one hand on the grip, the other palm pushing firmly against whatever passed for the weapons hilt. The ungodly sounds were the result of the assault as the inherent protective magics sought to flee.

The chains once against moved across the screen, clearing just as the memory playing there seemed to change, and once against surging across en mass, seeming to disrupt or change the scene. And once again, Atticus did not recognize all the features of the memory playing before him, but enough to know what it referred to. He had returned the Hammer of Storms to Damon, allowing him to open the Arcwall, as was prophesied. He recognized the hammer which Damon now held, and vaguely the area being displayed where he'd recovered it. Except all the other mages who had had accompanied him " all of those who were to be promoted to High Mage along with Atticus after they returned, were dead. Torn apart, either by hook or claw, or some terrible weapon, whose edge must have been ragged. Though from the sounds which played in the distance, Atticus guessed it was the latter.

They stood in the holding cell of Tiama, it's large double doors at the far end of the structure thrown open " the locks outside having been removed. Outside there were screams, cries, and voices both human and terribly alien, and inhuman. Tiama, the creature that had guarded the Hammer of Storms, had been loosed.

"Who are you?" his confusion was, in a way, childlike.

"You don't recognize me?" the figure asked, sheathing his sword " an item that seemed to big even in his admittedly large grip, and sitting at the end of Atticus' bed.

"No," Atticus raised a hand to rub the bridge of his nose, then glancing around as if both recognizing his surroundings and seeing them for the first time. "What are you doing in my bed?"

The figure laughed, his head tilting back in amusement. "It will come back to you. Some of it, I think. Brend said....you were in the Matrix. I didn't understand, but he said now was a good time to come ask you about it."

"What's the Matrix?" Atticus confusion was growing more apparent on his face.

"A....film, I think. I'm not quite certain, and it doesn't matter, I'm sure. That thing," the man's brows furrowed. He wasn't certain if Atticus had even seen it. "There was something in here. I chased it out, but I fear I've interrupted your rest in the process. Thankfully, it seems. You won't be able to renew your wards, though. You should stay the night at Eternal House, or Rosa Nova. The thing won't be able to follow again; it hitched a ride into here, and has been for some time. Since you can into the Nexus, I think." The hint of a smile had formed on Atticus' face, but it was somewhat detached, formed with the practiced grace of someone who knew the proper etiquette and when to use it. Nothing could " or should " rewrite the memories within him again, for good or bad, and 'fix' him. But it was a start. "What?"

"I recognize you, now. You're-" Atticus was speaking slowly, his senses finally gathering, though as the fact from fiction was separated in his mind.

"Your friend." The figure smiled.

~FIN~

~ ~ ~

"We are not simple creatures. You dream that with memories will come knowledge, and from knowledge, understanding. But for every answer you find, a thousand new questions arise. All that we are has lead us to where we are, but tells us little of where we're going. Memories are a weight you can never shrug off.?" - Steven Erikson, Deadhouse Gates

~ ~ ~