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Ceramic DM autumn '03(final judegment: new ceramic dm champ!)
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<blockquote data-quote="Sparky" data-source="post: 1166638" data-attributes="member: 13681"><p>We’ve been chasing a storm called the Tears of Kahl for days. I can see it there ahead of us all failing bluster and slashing rain. It scourges the Phyrahnni Wastelands each year until it finds the Font of Aylse where it rages bitterly before dying out. Each year my Order follows the storm to its death and there the pilgrimage ends. There we perform the Rite of Sorrow. I gag and bite back a curse as I nearly swallow the bitter rock that I have carried in my mouth all the way from the Temple. What a laugh that would be, a Guardian choking on his own sorrow stone.</p><p></p><p>There is a hitch in the rhythmic beat of Sintka’s wings as she adjusts our course. Shifting slightly in the riding harness, I brace for the changing wind. I feel Buhrune lose his balance behind me and lean heavily against his straps. Sintka grunts. Though I have loved flying again, I am glad we will land soon. Sintka needs to rest. She is much too young to have made such a flight. </p><p></p><p>Over a shining wing I finally see the Font of Aylse. (pit) It stops my breath. The air grows hot and I feel the power of the place reach out to me – the righteous glory of divine wrath blazes and I am consumed by fire. I am fire. Visions are seared into my mind, things I will never speak of, things I will never forget.</p><p></p><p>I burn. </p><p></p><p>I am the Guardian.</p><p></p><p>Cold, acrid air returns, and breath and sight. My mouth bleeds, I bit the stone. Below the dazzling pool gleams, green and blue, gold and red, gemlike amidst this endless plain of rock and dust and mud. Shaking, I close my eyes and whisper a prayer to Aylse. Behind me Buhrune is very still. Leaning easily against the straps of the harness, I turn around. Panic stabs. Buhrune is slumped in his saddle, clothes bunched where straps strain over his girth. His impressive mouth hangs slack, the sorrow stone for the whole Order suspended by a thin chain between his formidable array of stump-like teeth. His goggles are gone and his protuberant, hairy eyes are open, rolling. (eye) His eyes scare me. I pull off my scarf and leaning as far as the straps allow tie it around his brow. Not as good as goggles, but it will have to do. I briefly wonder what visions he suffers and, shuddering, turn around. Sintka dips a wing and begins the curve of our descent, shreds of the dead storm trailing her wings.</p><p></p><p>The landing jars Buhrune out of his fugue for which I am grateful. Mobs of pitiful supplicants have been trailing our approach and pitiful supplicants are his area, not mine. Buhrune smiles weakly struggling with my scarf as I help him down, but his grip is strong. </p><p></p><p>Concern creases his already wrinkled brow, “She is not well,” he rumbles as we remove the harnesses and gear from Sintka. </p><p></p><p>I pause, “No. She is not.” </p><p></p><p>It seems strange to worry over a dragon, but she is young, and now she is exhausted.</p><p></p><p>“She will accompany us,” Buhrune intones with a note of decree.</p><p></p><p>It violates the strictures of the Rite, but I say nothing, I would not leave her here. I do not know how I will protect them both. She sighs as the saddles and gear slide to the ground. Collapsing, she falls immediately to sleep.</p><p></p><p>We have landed in the courtyard of a small, neat, white-washed shrine. The chants and cries of pilgrims reach us over the walls, but it is strangely quiet here. I stand for a moment getting a sense of the place. A gust brings heat and an acrid bitterness. It makes my nose twitch. </p><p></p><p>“Help me with this, would you?” Buhrune asks, arm half in the sleeve of a robe and stuck. He hasn’t wasted any time starting preparations. The bronze bowl he will carry tomorrow is already wrapped in its bright bundle even if he himself is having trouble with his own wrappings.</p><p></p><p>Dressing a healthy, adult Patamu is, by itself, a difficult task. Dressing a healthy, adult Patamu for the Rite of Sorrow is an order of magnitude beyond that. Layer upon layer later all that is visible of Buhrune is his broad, round snout and his stubby hands. His eyes are covered once again.</p><p></p><p>He turns toward me, miraculously, “The sun sets, Guardian. We must begin our mediations.” </p><p></p><p>His use of my title makes the spark of divine wrath in my chest and hands flare and burn. Yes, it is time. </p><p></p><p>Buhrune points at the bright bundle of cloth, “Bring that.” He walks to the sleeping dragon and gently prods her ways, “Please, come inside, but do not speak.”</p><p></p><p>I turn away, taking longer to gather up the bundle than is necessary as she begins to change form. Shape changing magic always makes me uncomfortable. I feel a small hand tug at my belt loop and look down into Sintka’s gold-flecked eyes. Her hair is dark and short, to her jaws. She looks so thin.</p><p></p><p>Buhrune’s nose flares, “Your form,” he grunts nodding at me, “She must not think much of my riding.” He calls over his shoulder as he enters the shrine.</p><p></p><p>The long night of meditation begins. Sintka curls up in the corner and drowses. The moans and calls of the supplicants drone through the darkness, never stopping, rising in pitch and fervor toward the dawn.</p><p></p><p>As the light of dawn reaches us I stand, straightening stiff joints discreetly, and bring the cloth bundle from the altar to where Buhrune kneels. He unwraps the bundle and removes the bowl from the gaudy cloth. Rising gracefully he carries the bowl back to the altar and, standing there, carefully unhooks the chain in his mouth. He pulls the stone from its binding and kisses it before holding it skyward. His deep voice rolls out to the courtyard and over the walls as he begins singing a prayer to Aylse. </p><p></p><p>The pilgrims outside cry out and take up the song. Buhrune’s deep voice fades as he repeats the last verse and he lets the stone fall from his hands. It strikes the bowl. A resonant, keening ring rises from the bowl. It is unearthly. Chills crawl my spine. He turns toward me and I startle, realizing that we have really begun. I take the bitter stone from under my tongue and kiss it offering up my own prayers of remorse. I drop the stone in the bowl and the ringing changes, growing, not louder, but more powerful.</p><p></p><p>Buhrune picks up the bowl and my duty as Guardian begins. As I turn to gesture Sintka to me, she is already at my side, I had not even noticed her. We walk out into the courtyard and the drone of the bowl pours out, filling the air. The chanting and songs of the supplicants drops to a murmur. With a glance down at Sintka I walk to the gate and, throwing back the bolt, swing it wide. </p><p></p><p>The supplicants cry out again, an inarticulate sound from so many throats as they surge forward on either side of the high, narrow path that we will walk to the Font. The Tears of Kahl and thousands of feet have churned the fine Phyranni dust into a soupy mud. They chant and push and howl. Sintka looks wide-eyed at the fray. Behind me Buhrune steps up. My stomach clenches and I am uneasy. I draw my robes more closely around me and around Sintka. I don’t know how I will protect her. I step forward and the first stones hit. Wincing, I grit my teeth and take another step. Buhrune is close behind and at the sight of him and the bowl the throng goes mad. Slipping, flailing and falling over one another, the supplicants struggle to reach the path. To reach us. Covered in mud, they are indistinguishable from one another. They are, in their desperation, made one. (mud) Their stones rain down on us, sharp and hard, stinging, biting. Only a few strike the bowl as intended. I falter, barely able to see, let alone guide us down the path. Sintka peers out from under my robes, terrified, and takes a step forward. I step. More stones. The roar of the voices becomes unimaginable. We step. The ringing of stones striking the bowl grows. I begin to take more steps, glad of the distance, however small, that the crowd cannot cross to reach us. The falling stones, the ringing bowl and the screaming crowd are unbearable, but we are near the end of the path. Near the next gate.</p><p></p><p>I feel strange, unsettled. There is a presence above, but I can see nothing. But stones are bouncing off of something above us. A man appears in the middle of the path, he is not muddy. He very much resembles Sintka. Buhrune bumps into me grunting as he does so. The bowl touches me and as it does the ringing magnifies a thousand fold. My bones feel like they will shatter and my nose jets blood onto my white, white robes. I look down. Dazed and slow, I watch the man’s arm dart out to grab Sintka. He backs down the path toward the gate amidst the hail of stones. With a cry of rage I step forward, the wrath of my god coming easily to my hands. Buhrune cries out behind me and I turn to see him slipping. Thrusting an arm back I grab his thick wrist and pull him along, another breach of ceremony. I am not supposed to touch him, only protect him. Swallowing a curse I look back and see the gate flung open and the man and Sintka disappearing through it. I run for the gate, dragging Buhrune behind, he is bellowing.</p><p></p><p>As we clear the gate, I see the man. He is backed into a corner holding a slim, black knife to Sintka’s throat. (psycho) She looks defiantly at me, determined not to show her fear. I am glad she understands the situation, the path to the Font is warded by very powerful magic. This man is dangerous. </p><p></p><p>Still holding a knife to Sintka’s throat he reaches into his mouth and pulls out a gem. It is the color of honey. He kisses it and holds it out.</p><p></p><p> “I have sorrows I wish to be rid of,” He hisses.</p><p></p><p>“All may put forth their sorrows to Aylse,” Buhrune’s voice is a growl.</p><p></p><p>“My sorrow is not for Aylse, it is for Kahl,” the man cinches his arm more tightly around Sintka’s neck and presses the blade nearer. A spot of blood springs up, she closes her eyes.</p><p></p><p>“Kahl!” bellows Buhrune, “It cannot be.” </p><p></p><p>The man’s mouth curls and his hand balls into a fist. His eyes begin to shine, “I assure you Patamu, it can. I have sorrows for Kahl!”</p><p></p><p>Drawing his hand back, the man readied to throw his stone at the bowl, and, never taking my eyes off of the bloodied blade, I moved between him and his target. He grinned, too many teeth, “Brave, Guardian.”</p><p></p><p>He threw. I tensed. Somehow, this would be more painful to take than all of the stones of the supplicants. Before I could fully close my eyes to brace for the impact my stomach lurched and Sintka had changed form. She snapped out with a wickedly fast draconic head and missed the stone just as it hit me square in the chest.</p><p></p><p>And my world blew apart.</p><p></p><p>(to be continued)</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Sparky, post: 1166638, member: 13681"] We’ve been chasing a storm called the Tears of Kahl for days. I can see it there ahead of us all failing bluster and slashing rain. It scourges the Phyrahnni Wastelands each year until it finds the Font of Aylse where it rages bitterly before dying out. Each year my Order follows the storm to its death and there the pilgrimage ends. There we perform the Rite of Sorrow. I gag and bite back a curse as I nearly swallow the bitter rock that I have carried in my mouth all the way from the Temple. What a laugh that would be, a Guardian choking on his own sorrow stone. There is a hitch in the rhythmic beat of Sintka’s wings as she adjusts our course. Shifting slightly in the riding harness, I brace for the changing wind. I feel Buhrune lose his balance behind me and lean heavily against his straps. Sintka grunts. Though I have loved flying again, I am glad we will land soon. Sintka needs to rest. She is much too young to have made such a flight. Over a shining wing I finally see the Font of Aylse. (pit) It stops my breath. The air grows hot and I feel the power of the place reach out to me – the righteous glory of divine wrath blazes and I am consumed by fire. I am fire. Visions are seared into my mind, things I will never speak of, things I will never forget. I burn. I am the Guardian. Cold, acrid air returns, and breath and sight. My mouth bleeds, I bit the stone. Below the dazzling pool gleams, green and blue, gold and red, gemlike amidst this endless plain of rock and dust and mud. Shaking, I close my eyes and whisper a prayer to Aylse. Behind me Buhrune is very still. Leaning easily against the straps of the harness, I turn around. Panic stabs. Buhrune is slumped in his saddle, clothes bunched where straps strain over his girth. His impressive mouth hangs slack, the sorrow stone for the whole Order suspended by a thin chain between his formidable array of stump-like teeth. His goggles are gone and his protuberant, hairy eyes are open, rolling. (eye) His eyes scare me. I pull off my scarf and leaning as far as the straps allow tie it around his brow. Not as good as goggles, but it will have to do. I briefly wonder what visions he suffers and, shuddering, turn around. Sintka dips a wing and begins the curve of our descent, shreds of the dead storm trailing her wings. The landing jars Buhrune out of his fugue for which I am grateful. Mobs of pitiful supplicants have been trailing our approach and pitiful supplicants are his area, not mine. Buhrune smiles weakly struggling with my scarf as I help him down, but his grip is strong. Concern creases his already wrinkled brow, “She is not well,” he rumbles as we remove the harnesses and gear from Sintka. I pause, “No. She is not.” It seems strange to worry over a dragon, but she is young, and now she is exhausted. “She will accompany us,” Buhrune intones with a note of decree. It violates the strictures of the Rite, but I say nothing, I would not leave her here. I do not know how I will protect them both. She sighs as the saddles and gear slide to the ground. Collapsing, she falls immediately to sleep. We have landed in the courtyard of a small, neat, white-washed shrine. The chants and cries of pilgrims reach us over the walls, but it is strangely quiet here. I stand for a moment getting a sense of the place. A gust brings heat and an acrid bitterness. It makes my nose twitch. “Help me with this, would you?” Buhrune asks, arm half in the sleeve of a robe and stuck. He hasn’t wasted any time starting preparations. The bronze bowl he will carry tomorrow is already wrapped in its bright bundle even if he himself is having trouble with his own wrappings. Dressing a healthy, adult Patamu is, by itself, a difficult task. Dressing a healthy, adult Patamu for the Rite of Sorrow is an order of magnitude beyond that. Layer upon layer later all that is visible of Buhrune is his broad, round snout and his stubby hands. His eyes are covered once again. He turns toward me, miraculously, “The sun sets, Guardian. We must begin our mediations.” His use of my title makes the spark of divine wrath in my chest and hands flare and burn. Yes, it is time. Buhrune points at the bright bundle of cloth, “Bring that.” He walks to the sleeping dragon and gently prods her ways, “Please, come inside, but do not speak.” I turn away, taking longer to gather up the bundle than is necessary as she begins to change form. Shape changing magic always makes me uncomfortable. I feel a small hand tug at my belt loop and look down into Sintka’s gold-flecked eyes. Her hair is dark and short, to her jaws. She looks so thin. Buhrune’s nose flares, “Your form,” he grunts nodding at me, “She must not think much of my riding.” He calls over his shoulder as he enters the shrine. The long night of meditation begins. Sintka curls up in the corner and drowses. The moans and calls of the supplicants drone through the darkness, never stopping, rising in pitch and fervor toward the dawn. As the light of dawn reaches us I stand, straightening stiff joints discreetly, and bring the cloth bundle from the altar to where Buhrune kneels. He unwraps the bundle and removes the bowl from the gaudy cloth. Rising gracefully he carries the bowl back to the altar and, standing there, carefully unhooks the chain in his mouth. He pulls the stone from its binding and kisses it before holding it skyward. His deep voice rolls out to the courtyard and over the walls as he begins singing a prayer to Aylse. The pilgrims outside cry out and take up the song. Buhrune’s deep voice fades as he repeats the last verse and he lets the stone fall from his hands. It strikes the bowl. A resonant, keening ring rises from the bowl. It is unearthly. Chills crawl my spine. He turns toward me and I startle, realizing that we have really begun. I take the bitter stone from under my tongue and kiss it offering up my own prayers of remorse. I drop the stone in the bowl and the ringing changes, growing, not louder, but more powerful. Buhrune picks up the bowl and my duty as Guardian begins. As I turn to gesture Sintka to me, she is already at my side, I had not even noticed her. We walk out into the courtyard and the drone of the bowl pours out, filling the air. The chanting and songs of the supplicants drops to a murmur. With a glance down at Sintka I walk to the gate and, throwing back the bolt, swing it wide. The supplicants cry out again, an inarticulate sound from so many throats as they surge forward on either side of the high, narrow path that we will walk to the Font. The Tears of Kahl and thousands of feet have churned the fine Phyranni dust into a soupy mud. They chant and push and howl. Sintka looks wide-eyed at the fray. Behind me Buhrune steps up. My stomach clenches and I am uneasy. I draw my robes more closely around me and around Sintka. I don’t know how I will protect her. I step forward and the first stones hit. Wincing, I grit my teeth and take another step. Buhrune is close behind and at the sight of him and the bowl the throng goes mad. Slipping, flailing and falling over one another, the supplicants struggle to reach the path. To reach us. Covered in mud, they are indistinguishable from one another. They are, in their desperation, made one. (mud) Their stones rain down on us, sharp and hard, stinging, biting. Only a few strike the bowl as intended. I falter, barely able to see, let alone guide us down the path. Sintka peers out from under my robes, terrified, and takes a step forward. I step. More stones. The roar of the voices becomes unimaginable. We step. The ringing of stones striking the bowl grows. I begin to take more steps, glad of the distance, however small, that the crowd cannot cross to reach us. The falling stones, the ringing bowl and the screaming crowd are unbearable, but we are near the end of the path. Near the next gate. I feel strange, unsettled. There is a presence above, but I can see nothing. But stones are bouncing off of something above us. A man appears in the middle of the path, he is not muddy. He very much resembles Sintka. Buhrune bumps into me grunting as he does so. The bowl touches me and as it does the ringing magnifies a thousand fold. My bones feel like they will shatter and my nose jets blood onto my white, white robes. I look down. Dazed and slow, I watch the man’s arm dart out to grab Sintka. He backs down the path toward the gate amidst the hail of stones. With a cry of rage I step forward, the wrath of my god coming easily to my hands. Buhrune cries out behind me and I turn to see him slipping. Thrusting an arm back I grab his thick wrist and pull him along, another breach of ceremony. I am not supposed to touch him, only protect him. Swallowing a curse I look back and see the gate flung open and the man and Sintka disappearing through it. I run for the gate, dragging Buhrune behind, he is bellowing. As we clear the gate, I see the man. He is backed into a corner holding a slim, black knife to Sintka’s throat. (psycho) She looks defiantly at me, determined not to show her fear. I am glad she understands the situation, the path to the Font is warded by very powerful magic. This man is dangerous. Still holding a knife to Sintka’s throat he reaches into his mouth and pulls out a gem. It is the color of honey. He kisses it and holds it out. “I have sorrows I wish to be rid of,” He hisses. “All may put forth their sorrows to Aylse,” Buhrune’s voice is a growl. “My sorrow is not for Aylse, it is for Kahl,” the man cinches his arm more tightly around Sintka’s neck and presses the blade nearer. A spot of blood springs up, she closes her eyes. “Kahl!” bellows Buhrune, “It cannot be.” The man’s mouth curls and his hand balls into a fist. His eyes begin to shine, “I assure you Patamu, it can. I have sorrows for Kahl!” Drawing his hand back, the man readied to throw his stone at the bowl, and, never taking my eyes off of the bloodied blade, I moved between him and his target. He grinned, too many teeth, “Brave, Guardian.” He threw. I tensed. Somehow, this would be more painful to take than all of the stones of the supplicants. Before I could fully close my eyes to brace for the impact my stomach lurched and Sintka had changed form. She snapped out with a wickedly fast draconic head and missed the stone just as it hit me square in the chest. And my world blew apart. (to be continued) [/QUOTE]
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