Making his wand.
Jan. 1st, 2017 04:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thewidewideworldSinric hiked up through the mountain paths, his furs tight around him. He held spells to keep warm, to create light but he didn’t use them. He needed to do it on his own. No magic, just his hands.
The hike was not so arduous. It helped that his pack was charmed to be light, despite all the equipment he was carrying. The bar had been overly protective about the amount gear he needed to be in the mountains alone in the middle of winter.
The snow was thick but light, falling in playful clumps like down-feather. But the trails were cleared. Sinric guessed the demon bunnies came this way, their fire melting safe paths.
He made his way up to the tree, feeling the pull of it. It wanted him back, wanted him back in the flow of time. Like a silent wind that ripped at him, driving him forward but he resisted. It wasn’t time. Not yet. He wasn’t strong enough yet. He needed more time to heal, to regain his strength and sense of self.
He pressed his palm to the silken bark of the ash, feeling the power of it ripple through him. “I’m sorry. I can’t go with you. Not yet.” He looked up, into the branches, seeing the place where he was bound, where he travelled.
“But I do need your help.” He pressed his forehead to the tree, letting the gold of his net flow into the tree. He doesn’t have the words but he can express the feeling of what he needs.
The tree understood. It protested, fighting him a little but Sinric held true, held the strength himself for what he needed.
Eventually the tree relented and give him what he needed. A branch a little narrower than his wrist and as long as his forearm.
It was perfect.
Sinric smiled and set the branch down. Now he could begin.
Two days later, cuddled up in the little tent the bar provided for him, he carefully drilled the last hole, shaping, and cleaning the last ridge. It still felt… hollow, unfinished. Like there was something… something missing. It needed life, vitality.
He slipped out to sit at the base of the tree, watching the sun rise over the bar.
And then the demon bunnies came.
After his last experience, Sinric felt as if he would be afraid but he wasn’t. He held a hand out to them, knowing they wouldn’t hurt him.
One bunny in particular came forward – old and scarred. And ill. Sinric could feel the sickness in it. He lifted it with care, holding the bunny to his chest and began to sing.
He sung peace, he sung sleep. The bunny was in great pain and Sinric knew he could ease it. He sung away the pain and the fear. He sung sleep until the bunny curled in his hands, it’s breathing slow and even. And sung it deeper still. Till the bunny’s breathing and heart slowed and stilled.
The others stayed, watched. There was no fear in them. No anger.
Not even as Sinric carried the bunny’s body to the fire and sat down to carefully remove its skin. He gently scrapped the later of fat from the under the demon bunny’s skin into a copper bowl. He rendered it, heating it slowly and straining it through fine cloth until it was clear. With knife made of glass, he cut his thumb, dripping blood into the bowl.
With great care, he dipped a cloth in the blend and used it to oil his newly made talisman.
It was not the wand or staff used by the practitioner of seiðr used. He may have learnt the magics of a seiðmaðr but he was not one of them.
He was himself. A thing apart.
And his talisman reflected that.
A simple four note flute. Ornamented with only a few engraved lines. The lines of the lark tattoo on his hip.
But just the lark. His talisman belonged to him and him along, not the raven or the dove.
This song is his.
He took the remains of the demon bunny and prepared to bury it but the other bunnies circled him, taking the fallen bunny away, leaving Sinric with the skin. Someone at the bar would know how to tan it, to make a pouch of it to carry his talisman.
He sat at the base of the tree and played. Played his joy at feeling a piece of himself fall in to place.
His music floated across the mountain, felt more than heard across the bar. A sense of warmth, of happiness, of joy spreads out from his song. Touching those who it finds lightly. Like a passing kiss. Like a momentary smile for no reason. Like s warm breeze on a chilled day. Like the taste of something almost forgotten.
His song complete, Sinric returned to his tent to sleep.
The hike was not so arduous. It helped that his pack was charmed to be light, despite all the equipment he was carrying. The bar had been overly protective about the amount gear he needed to be in the mountains alone in the middle of winter.
The snow was thick but light, falling in playful clumps like down-feather. But the trails were cleared. Sinric guessed the demon bunnies came this way, their fire melting safe paths.
He made his way up to the tree, feeling the pull of it. It wanted him back, wanted him back in the flow of time. Like a silent wind that ripped at him, driving him forward but he resisted. It wasn’t time. Not yet. He wasn’t strong enough yet. He needed more time to heal, to regain his strength and sense of self.
He pressed his palm to the silken bark of the ash, feeling the power of it ripple through him. “I’m sorry. I can’t go with you. Not yet.” He looked up, into the branches, seeing the place where he was bound, where he travelled.
“But I do need your help.” He pressed his forehead to the tree, letting the gold of his net flow into the tree. He doesn’t have the words but he can express the feeling of what he needs.
The tree understood. It protested, fighting him a little but Sinric held true, held the strength himself for what he needed.
Eventually the tree relented and give him what he needed. A branch a little narrower than his wrist and as long as his forearm.
It was perfect.
Sinric smiled and set the branch down. Now he could begin.
Two days later, cuddled up in the little tent the bar provided for him, he carefully drilled the last hole, shaping, and cleaning the last ridge. It still felt… hollow, unfinished. Like there was something… something missing. It needed life, vitality.
He slipped out to sit at the base of the tree, watching the sun rise over the bar.
And then the demon bunnies came.
After his last experience, Sinric felt as if he would be afraid but he wasn’t. He held a hand out to them, knowing they wouldn’t hurt him.
One bunny in particular came forward – old and scarred. And ill. Sinric could feel the sickness in it. He lifted it with care, holding the bunny to his chest and began to sing.
He sung peace, he sung sleep. The bunny was in great pain and Sinric knew he could ease it. He sung away the pain and the fear. He sung sleep until the bunny curled in his hands, it’s breathing slow and even. And sung it deeper still. Till the bunny’s breathing and heart slowed and stilled.
The others stayed, watched. There was no fear in them. No anger.
Not even as Sinric carried the bunny’s body to the fire and sat down to carefully remove its skin. He gently scrapped the later of fat from the under the demon bunny’s skin into a copper bowl. He rendered it, heating it slowly and straining it through fine cloth until it was clear. With knife made of glass, he cut his thumb, dripping blood into the bowl.
With great care, he dipped a cloth in the blend and used it to oil his newly made talisman.
It was not the wand or staff used by the practitioner of seiðr used. He may have learnt the magics of a seiðmaðr but he was not one of them.
He was himself. A thing apart.
And his talisman reflected that.
A simple four note flute. Ornamented with only a few engraved lines. The lines of the lark tattoo on his hip.
But just the lark. His talisman belonged to him and him along, not the raven or the dove.
This song is his.
He took the remains of the demon bunny and prepared to bury it but the other bunnies circled him, taking the fallen bunny away, leaving Sinric with the skin. Someone at the bar would know how to tan it, to make a pouch of it to carry his talisman.
He sat at the base of the tree and played. Played his joy at feeling a piece of himself fall in to place.
His music floated across the mountain, felt more than heard across the bar. A sense of warmth, of happiness, of joy spreads out from his song. Touching those who it finds lightly. Like a passing kiss. Like a momentary smile for no reason. Like s warm breeze on a chilled day. Like the taste of something almost forgotten.
His song complete, Sinric returned to his tent to sleep.
