The library of Forgotten Pleasures stood still and empty until it didn't. A breeze ran it's way down below floral court, a wail and a sob mixed together as it blew through the cavern that was root court, moving through the open doors of the library and forming with a swirl into the form of a tall, muscular man with dark skin, short tusks, and feathers running down his arms. More unusually for him, his hands were currently made of stone, and a continuous stream of glowing blue tears ran down his face. Running over to the large mirror, he stared with anger and sadness into his own reflection. Angry he was cursed, upset with himself for attacking the Maraya-especially as she wanted to help him. Was this who he was now? Xobek was right. Cahal are no better than Sanguine. The tears were now no more than lines, left on his face in their salty absence. Still shaking, he slid down the wall, clenching his knees and...not crying. He couldn't cry, so instead he just sat, and waited for time to pass. Why here? Of all the places he could've appeared, why had he thought of the library? Probably some cosmic reminder he needed to read for the day. After sitting in silence for some number of minutes-by the grace of Estel not being discovered-Topilli stood, deciding there was better things he could be doing than self pity. He had been curious before on lie at the top of the stairs, but hadn't made it all the way up yet-still oblivious to the curse placed on them. Dusting off his blue-stained pants and adjusting his feathers, he stepped towards the. He had to assume there were books-this being a library-but what kind, he didn't know. With a deep breath, he took his first step upwards. Something like a wave of memory blew through the Cahal as his heart broke the first veil. Something between a vision and memory came to mind: He recalled sitting in a dark, candle lit room, grinding a mortar and pestle. He knew the ingredients and their smells well, it was about the only salve he knew. Ingesting it after being fed on by a Cahal would keep one's soul from shattering, becoming one of them. It wasn't often those in his village fed on him, thanks to his mother's warning, if she could be called that. When they did, however, they often did so to infect, so he had taught himself a way to fend it off. It was at times like these, though, that made him re-consider. Why not accept the gift they spoke of? They were supposedly chosen warriors of Estel. Why not join them? An answer came to mind, one he wanted to reject. I do not want to be trapped in Estel. He did not want to be stuck, always trying to reach impossible standards like she would have him. Staying unafflicted was all he could do to keep from becoming a slave to that ideal, that constant perfection. The vivid...remembrance ended as Topilli took another step. The second memory was many years later, as a not-much younger Topilli bolted through the woods. He knew them well, and managed to keep from tripping, but so did many of the other young Cahal that were chasing him. This was no normal hunt- this time he had been betrayed, by his best friend. Darkness stung as he entered a field, wondering how much further it was to Dai'targon. It was the nearest village, and his last stop before reaching the port city Elloban. From there, he would be truly free. In his original plan, he would have all the time in the world to reach the city, but he had made the mistake of sharing it. Viro was probably among the pack hunting him right now, heading to the same city. Twenty seven year old Topilli entered the forest again, breathing hard. Normally, he would soar above the trees without issue, forming into a bird without much effort, but now he knew better. The exist magic would be like a beacon to these cahal, letting them know exactly where he was. So, he ran, and ran, trying to ignore his tiredness, and the sound of grinding stones behind him. Twenty eight year old Topilli now breathed hard, taking a third step. Topilli was young again, standing behind the small cabin-no, shack, he lived in with his mother. Having finished all his chores for the day, it was time to practice. He grinned at a young boy nearly his age beside him, watching as he summoned a grand sparkshow from his hands. An outsider-though none would ever be seen here-could've assumed the boys were siblings, as much as they looked alike and with how much time they spent together. As the array of orange lights came to a stop, it was again Topilli's turn. He focused. Breathed hard. Imagined a needle plunging through an endless layer of silk, letting the white light on the other side shine through. And with a breath, he pushed his hands out on either side. Nothing happened. He tried again, thinking. Willing it to happen. No answer. Letting out a Saan curse, he sat down on the steps of the cabin. The boy sat down next to him, assuring he would get it next time, which brought him some modicum of hope. Viro was so effortlessly good at everything, so why couldn't Topilli be? Surely something would rub off. Still, frustration gnawed away. Maybe he just wasn't any good at magic. He should just stick to baking for now. Stay in his lane. Topilli's stone hands ran along the wall as he took a fourth step. A thousand instances all took the same shape: Topilli, sat on his bed, looking down with folded hands. His mother, the witch, on a stool across from him. Her white hair, long in a braid on her right side, not a hair out of place. Even her wrinkles were perfectly symmetrical, giving her a strange beauty. She critiqued what he had done that day, finding the smallest imperfections to pick at and call out. During this morning's prayers he had held the ash-bowl unevenly. The gods won't like that, she insisted. This afternoon he was fourty-five seconds too late to lunch. Those seconds pile up, she scolded. Topilli listened, trying to keep his glare away from her face. The stupid lectures, oh how he hated these lectures. Always some problem, no matter how many I correct. After she finished, she would stand, turn to the door and leave. Topilli knew what to do. Stepping outside into the setting sun, Topilli would take the two buckets, attached to a stick, outside the door, and fill them both up. He held them up, arms out, for as many minutes as mistakes the woman had named. If he spent a second less time holding them than instructed, he was to start again. If he could not finish his time, he would sleep outside, with no dinner. He did not eat dinner often. A hungry and tired Topilli took a fifth step. Ok so to preserve my sanity I am writing these four at a time. This is a super cool promt @PresentMediator did in their Library and I wanted to do it so it's here woo. I'm not a super great writer and maybe this'll help with that, who knows. If you're curious, the four memories were supposed to be based on: Religious Shame Fear Frustration Resentment There are sixteen in totally, so I'll do four batches of four. Hope you enjoyed!
