Chewy905
Chromatic ArchKnight of RP
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Bren. His very first steps within the legendary city were strange ones. Weeks of memories bubbled to the surface. Trips taken to the parks with different partners. Meals eaten at shops by a tongue that had never tasted such delicacies. A looming colosseum that pulled at his form, dragging him to take ever more steps towards it along perfectly known never-traveled streets.
The mage pulled at his hood, not noticing as his hand passed through it. The mage adjusted his mask, small droplets of water sticking to it and sliding down its surface before re-congealing with his form. The mage tapped his wooden staff against the ground, ignoring the unfitting vibrations of the metal umbrella that struck the stone. Stop. Head tilt. Thoughts.
Memories tugged at his brain, trying to pull his feet in several directions at once. Where was he to go? What had his friend, her beloved, their brother told them to visit first in such an expansive town? He was here for… what… again?
Revenge. No, that had been fulfilled years ago. Experience? Yes, experience. To practice his swordsmanship. To challenge opponents he had never seen before. More tentative steps towards the looming structure that dominated the town.
Taste. The tidal wave of memory struck harder than the pull of experience and purpose. Cold numbing his gums, tickling at his tongue, sweetness beyond measure filling his mouth and slipping down his throat. The term for it… it refused to come to mind. A drink alone at night, before bed, from the last bottle in the cupboard. A drink in the morning, from a mug beside his sister. A drink in the midday, surrounded by company in a loud tavern. Eyes scanned the buildings as more shy steps dragged him deeper into the city's pull. “The Leaking Horn”, its sign new, gleaming. Shambling brought him to its door. Wavering tugged it open. He advanced to the counter, oblivious to the gazes that caught on his shimmering form, on his inconstant shadow, on his covered face.
That taste. What was that taste? A fuzzy companion, hugs bringing warmth through a cold night. A bushel of red orbs, picked at their prime under the golden sun. There it was.
“Moglinberry Juice. One bottle.” Always mind your manners. Grandmother’s words. Said to them before they left home so many years ago. “Please.” His voice oozed out, muffled behind the featureless mask.
The blond tavern keeper raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he popped the bottle open and set it before the mage.
Manners.
“Thank. You.”
He did not remove his mask. He did not drink from the bottle. He simply sat there and remembered the taste he had never drank, the experience he had never had. The tavern keeper shrugged and moved on, preparing two more bottles and a plate of wings while mumbling about some “guest of the day.”
Fear. The wave struck once more, slapping his face aside and directing his gaze at the stall at the side of the room. Echoes bubbled up to his mind’s surface. A scritching of a pen on parchment as she prepared to sign her life away. A cry of her voice to tell the scribe to stop, to tell him she would not be participating. He lifted the steel silver of his blue-fabriced staff and separated from the counter and made for the stall, bottle abandoned. Once the line finished shifting, he stared at the scribe. What… was he supposed to do here?
“Hello, are you here to sign up for the Elemental Championships?” The scribe's voice was kind, reminding the mage of his son.
“Yes.” The mage tilted his head. The answer had come immediately, with no confusion. Where had the fear gone?
“May I get your name, then?”
That was a far easier one. It was always at the surface, no matter how much tried to drag it under. “Ulum.”
“And your element?”
“Water.” Another tilt of the head. There were so many memories of using other tools. Bolts of lightning and blades of shadow. The staff he carried now called the wind to its side. And yet… he found he could answer no other way.
“Excellent, I could tell at a glance. Please sign here.”
The scribe extended a hand, pen outstretched. Ulum took it gingerly, and scribbled his name across the line below the long, long list of risks. Droplets fell from his hand, wetting the paper beneath. “Thank you.” He whispered. The scribe nodded, a happy smile across their face. Ulum stepped aside. Where now? Out. Down. It was an entrant's duty to enter that looming colosseum. He turned and strode towards the exit, remembering the path down the streets and to the complex. Before he could open the door, it swung away by itself.
“Simon! I’m hereeeeee-OOF!”
The sing-song voice broke as the woman collided with Ulum, and he fell away and within.
The sun beats down on the quiet pondside, though the figure beneath their umbrella feels not a ray. Wind blows gently, rustling tall grasses as it passes over the rippleless surface of the water. The figure under their shade leans forward and looks down at their mask’s reflection, perfect and unbroken. Slowly, they remove the shroud over their face.
They are greeted by the smiling face of a scarlet haired woman. As the figure tries to flee, reflected arms rise from the pond's crystal clear waters and wrap around their neck. Body meets reflection as they plunge within. The water floods up their nose, into their lungs, choking them with memories they do not wish to possess.
Scent. Burning flesh invades her nostrils, skin burning away from a ploy of her own design. She must survive. She will survive. She has a wager to win.
Wager. The word seems so entrancing for some reason. The figure chokes on it, breath stolen away as they sink deeper below the waters of the past.
Desperation. She convulses, limbs no longer under her control as heaven’s wrathful bolt ravages her body. She keeps her hand shut tight around her knife.
Why does she hold it so tight? What is she doing that she needs the blade so badly? The figure’s vision blurs, the light of the sun slipping away.
Sight. Her brother stands proudly before her. She embraces him, grateful to have returned, happy to have had such an experience.
What experience? What brought her such joy through such pain? They are losing themselves, becoming one with the life they have never lived and always lived. Every attempt to move, to stroke to the surface, is fruitless.
Sound. A voice reaches her ears, soft and soothing, but full of meaning. “Remember that now and forever you are Paragon still.”
Paragon. Paragon Paragon Paragon. That is who she is. That is who they now are.
Immediately the figure begins to sink faster. No. They are not Paragon. They cannot call themselves Paragon. That is this woman. If they wish to make this memory true, they must become They must become. They must truly become. Life and breath and soul slip away as Ulum becomes a soldier of scarlet hair and mirthful youth.
Ulum coughed, water that was never inhaled spilling out of her mouth and onto the inside of her mask. She groped blindly for her brother’s blade, grasping the umbrella tight.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, I was in such a rush. Here.”
Her own voice met her ears, spoken by the woman standing over her. Ulum looked up, gazing at her reflection as her hand met her hand and pulled her up from the floor.
“Woah, did you always look like me? You nailed every gorgeous detail.” The reflection smiled and tipped her hat down, admiring herself all the while. “Jacklin Elizabeth Smoke, pleasure to meet you, me.”
Tentatively, Ulum returned the gesture, though with less vanity. “Pleasure. To. Meet. Me…” Who is she? One is Jacklin, one is Ulum. Jacklin is a mirthful soldier of scarlet hair. Ulum is a mirthful soldier of scarlet hair. Jacklin has felt lightning kiss her skin, fire burn her flesh, as has Ulum. Jacklin is Paragon, now and forever. Ulum…
Ulum is not.
Ulum staggered back, ripples growing from her steps, hand gripping her sword so tight that her knuckles turned to the blue of true water. “Paragon. I want to become Paragon.”
Jacklin laughed. “Makes sense, that’s why most people come here, though most are trying to go further than that. You registered and all?”
The scribbling of the pen. The son-scribe’s voice. Their own name written on the line. “Yes.”
Jacklin stepped past Ulum, reaching for a pair of bottles as they slid down the counter towards her. She held one out, an inviting smile directed at her newly found twin. “Got time to spare before your match? I’d love to hear all about this neat little mimicry you’ve got going on!”
An itch pulled at Ulum’s mind, and she raised her hand forward towards the offered friendship. She had always loved meeting new people… Right? No… he hadn’t. He preferred to be alone, practicing spells at the crackling of a campfire. But that sounded so boring. There was something new to be done here; never had she stopped and shared something with herself.
Feeling. A wave of memory demolished Ulum’s senses, tearing her away from this new friend, away from this chance to share who she was with herself. Footsteps. Hundreds, thousands of them, taken down the paths of Bren’s streets, carrying a bevy of emotions impossible to feel all at once. Forced, Staggered steps took her out of the tavern, leaving a confused Jacklin with an outstretched bottle. Ulum shuffled after the echoed path, lost in the unstoppable current of memory. Was every one of these tread paths hers? Had she walked these streets this many times? Shuffling turned to walking turned to running turned to sprinting turned to a desperate rush. A path he had planned to tread, but never reached. A path she had walked once. A path taken by desperation, by pride, by confidence.
The colosseum towered over her, its presence palpable and threatening. She did not pause as her ferocious steps brought her through its entrance and her foot touched down in its sand, sending a ripple across its surface.
The memories. All of the memories. Fled. And Ulum fell forward and within.
There is no sun, no stars, no light over the pond. It is cold, yet the figure beneath their umbrella feels not a chill. There is no wind to rustle the grasses, no disturbances to the always rippleless waters. The figure under their unnecessary shade leans forward and looks down at the water. Slowly, they remove the shroud over their face.
They are not greeted. The black waters reflect not a thing. And the figure feels relief.
Ulum caught themself mid-fall, stabbing their umbrella in place to prevent a sandy faceplant. Their form flickered for but a moment, becoming naught but the waters they always gaze upon, but a moment of concentration forced it back into the form of the soldier, that Jacklin they had met. They stood up straight, taking in the crackling power of the structure around them, and took a deep sigh.
Sixty-seven days since their last lucidity. If they remembered correctly (and they always did), that had been the result of a mind-mage, probing too deeply at a lost child in the woods. A conversation with that mage had revealed the details of the Elemental Championships, and a caring, careless pat on the back had caused Ulum to fall within once again. They tilted their head, feeling the pull of the colosseum's force. Had the magic of the structure really called to them so strongly? It was convenient, for sure, but it brought with it a distinct sense of unease. It had been too forceful, too much like the storm of memories that controlled Ulum’s whims. Still, they had made it to Bren, they had successfully signed up, and they were standing within the famous colosseum now.
They slid the lower half of their mask away and spit, ejecting some of their own water onto the grains as they stepped deeper into the complex. It was such a human action, such an alien thing for an elemental to do, but that one warrior they had met did it constantly and the motion had become second nature. Ulum adjusted their mask and flipped their umbrella upwards. A click of a button shot Home open, the sight of their pond filling them with melancholy. Perhaps, once this was all over and Ulum was truly Ulum, they would return. Ulum shut their eyes, turned in the direction of the magic’s current, and strode forward with confidence.
There was an amount of humor to it, in a grim way. Ulum moved calmly past clerics and surgeons and healers as they anxiously fingered their little tools. Holy symbols for gods that paid Ulum no mind, scalpels for flesh that Ulum lacked, and potions that would simply mix with their watery form and bubble away uselessly. It wouldn’t matter that this accursed Cellar provided no repair; if Ulum’s body gave out it would mean their mind had died long before. They gave a gentle nod to the gathered convocation and continued down the spiral steps before stepping onto the raised ivory platform.
With a rumble the platform began to descend, and Ulum quickly stepped away from their compatriots and adversaries, retreating under the shade of Home and away from the threat of an accidental bump. Their stolen eyes peered through the eyeless mask, assessing the company one-by-one. One harpy, who was already seeming to lose hold on herself. Four humans. No. Three. The gray-haired man had lines and grooves that seemed far more machine than flesh. Did machines have memory? Ulum hoped they wouldn’t have to find out. That left a knight in earthen armor, a large woman as masked as Ulum themselves, and a prideful warrior in unprideful leathers.
It was a shame. Each of these combatants had their own lives, their own histories, their own goals, and all would need to end so that Ulum could finally have Ulum’s own. They raised their free hand to their mask. Should they remove it, and address their equals with their false face? No, a simple handshake and Ulum would be lost again. They needed to stay lucid for as long as possible, or else they’d be left to the current of these foes' memories.
High-pitched humming met Ulum’s ears as the slab slotted neatly into the floor and the stoney sky above began to glow in a rapid kaleidoscope of color. Then the air fled, bubbles rising in Ulum’s form to try to join it. There was a memory there; the choking breaths of a climber, a pick triumphantly raised overhead as her lungs battled the atmosphere. Ulum tilted their head in interest; breath was such a foreign concept. A collective, required act taken by every last form they had been, but never themself. Yet as they focused they realized their chest rose and fell as if they, too, were partaking, even now while lucid. They stopped their false breath as the air returned and the light shifted to match Ulum’s true watery hue. With interest Ulum noticed the blood bounce off Ulum’s functional kindred in the corner of the room. A curious thing; a mirror that repelled as it reflected.
“And so begins the Trial of Impulse. Fight or Die, adventures, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”
The call had barely finished as Ulum backed off the platform and away from the liability of touch, exposure, and sentience. The retreating, rippling steps carried an extra spring, a weightlessness that Ulum, oddly enough, possessed no memories of. To soak up as much of this newness as they could, as themselves. That was their goal.
They touched down next to one of the lovely, horrible mirrors. Perhaps, beside the reflection of their reflection, they could simply watch as the others fell upon one another, and Ulum would be as unnoticeable as a ripple in a rain-soaked pond.
Ulum held Home open overhead, gazed into its pleasant view, and wished for such an unlikely conclusion to the coming storm.
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