Symphony of Storms

I asked some of you about this online. I have a completed story, which I will be posting here in chapters. I'm thinking one chapter a week so that you have time to comment and speculate. There is a sequel in the works, which I may need some help with, so let me know if you'd like to trade in the suspense of not knowing for the gritty of brainstorming.

A bit about the story in general. This actually stems from real interactions that I saw within my legions on Yustiel/New Vaizel, and nearly all of the named characters are based off of someone (my boyfriend is miffed he is actually not included). I also gave myself a set of challenges.
1. This story is told in first person narrative - something I'd never attempted before.
2. I could only name characters using names from MYST. Exceptions were made with actual NPCs.
3. To complete it within a year. This was done, and there are a total of eighteen chapters (18 is the value associated with life).

Table of Contents:
1. Life Begins Again

Chapter 1 - Life Begins Again

“Stories are just words, and words have no power. So give me your story young one.”

When your story is so large it clouds your own mind, it is best to start at the very beginning.

My ascension was well into the war. My father was a daeva, but my mother still human. It did not affect their marriage until I was older and the question of my potential immortality surfaced. After much arguing, my parents came to terms with what they knew would happen between the two, daeva and mortal. It was then my father seemed old to me, crying silently as he commented that her lifetime, their time together, was nothing more than a blink in his eye. My ascension and welcome into Aion’s graces came at the age of twenty three, the age I would remain forever until the day I faded, if ever. Daevas don’t count years after ascension, merely the number of enemies they have slain and friends lost eternally.

Life as a daeva is quite different from the life my mother led, but perhaps it was lucky they chose to live in Verteron, the sunburst citadel where winged immortals interacted with humankind on a daily basis. Soldiers greeted me, helped me to learn wind gales and eddies, how to morph the aether that now flowed in my veins and would mix with my blood. Healing became my call, my hand echoing that of Lady Yustiel, Empyrean lord of life. A cleric, a treasured friend on the battle field, I was trained relentlessly on shield holding, staff spinning and mace strikes. Daevas of any age would spar with me, try to distract me to build my concentration that my prayer of healing would still take flight if I were under stress or attack. I was outfitted in chain mail, a light but sturdy armor to protect the one who protected all. Knights clad in full plate would make themselves known to me. Templar and cleric - the most ancient and prized relationship as they defend each other no matter what.

The first real battle I ever took part in was culling krall near the Cantas Coast. It’s a lovely place filled with sunshine and clear water. The trees breathe clean air and the sand sparkles. It was there I learned the heat of battle and the need for focus. My templar did well, keeping my safe from those that tried to attack me. My armor needed very little repairs. The best lesson I learned was how to focus when my own leg might be broken. Praise Aion for chanters, fighters blessed with a healing touch, to get me through those first few injuries that I could continue healing the entire party. Life as a daeva is fast learning, which I would need for future when both the templar and myself are under heavy damage.

Orders came from Sanctum, floating capitol of Elysea, and I was moved to Eltnen to continue my training. Inside the bustling fortress, I heard daily reports about Asmodians that I might cross paths with. The first few months were spent visiting all of the major locations that I might be deported to, learning my superiors and helping on small projects. The most notable of my achievements was helping to rescue an engineer. The daevas in my party were far older than me, having lived decades if not centuries more in this newfound life. I would forget most of them, as I’m sure they have long forgotten me, but I still learned my steadfast nature beside them. A cleric cannot look weak to their own group lest they worry if the healing aether will come. Once again I took support from a chanter, but mostly in the knowledge of precaution. They told me I would be a fine healer.

My father would check on me from time to time, but when you stop measuring the days, it was any length of weeks before I would see him again. He used to write me constantly, inquiring about my new life and asking if I ever missed mortality. My mother and I grew more distant since I was under orders from the capitol, a fact of which made me grieve but in the end was for the best. Her death hurt, but was more distant than had I stayed in Verteron. Many daevas that I spoke to said they knew the pain of losing a mortal parent, more often than not both, but that I would learn to cope with the loss. Interaction with humans was a little more limited in Eltnen, but I did learn the wisdom of time as they aged years when I felt only a few weeks pass. Aether did not heal mortals as it does daevas, but I helped where I could, easing the pain for villagers that I had seen as children just the other day.

My first love was a brief thing, some ranger that I grouped with. He was lean with unruly hair, and his smile would capture your attention such that you would forget you had been talking. We would picnic in the forest, kiss and caress under the sun’s light. I took things slow, but he asked more than I was willing to give, and so it ended. I thought he would be angry with me, but perhaps he was more mature than I gave him credit for. He smiled at me a few days later and moved on. I have not seen him recently, but I know it would be pleasant to see him smile again.

My second love was with the armor smith I met in Sanctum. I sought him out originally because of the quality of his chain. Other clerics and chanters swore by his craft. He was very funny, easy to talk to and always had something interesting to tell you. From the moment he measured me for my armor, I liked him. I would see him around the city, walk with him while we spoke about anything that came up. I found out he was a few centuries older than myself, a former templar who had fallen in love with a human like my mother. He cherished her brief presence in his life so much that he swore never to take another lover to his bed. That did not prevent him from lewd comments or wonton looks, and our conversation was often flirting, but he kept his hands to himself. I fell in love with him in a way that was both as a friend and a lover because, as much as I envied this mortal woman who took his heart to the grave, I respected him for self discipline. Any lovers I took after that point were aware that I cared for him and, if they grew jealous or angry over playful banter, I lost interest in them for not being mature enough.

I learned to feel the same pangs of jealousy. My third lover was a talented assassin. His body was made more perfect by scars, if that is conceivable to you. It was with him that I learned to explore passion to its fullest, letting him work clever fingers and explore all he wanted. I had the emotional relationship with the armor smith and the lustful end with the assassin, which he was accepting of. He wasn’t looking for a woman to spend eternity with, so he took a second lover. I grew irritated when he asked if I would take part with her, mostly because he had the audacity to ask more than once. Sharing bodies with one person was a celebration of the bond, but to spend those intimate moments with two people at once, and one you did not know at all, felt like a diminishing return. He grew more cold to me from then on, and she was nothing short of a worg on hind legs, so I felt little remorse when we stopped meeting in the night.

The first Asmodian I met was a spirit master. His wind pet barreled into me so fast and sudden I was confused about what had happened. Training took over and I was healing myself before I fully understood his presence. Every mace hit to the beast felt like a crime in retrospect, but I know that it was the only response since it attacked me first. I rooted it and went after him, and while he was a faster runner, my spells hit harder. I would have won had the root not broken and the pet knocked me down. That fight was also my first death. It was painful, fire ripping into me until my obelisk pulled me back to the fortress. I almost didn’t recall his hand on my cheek through the agony.

My first legion was very small, a wing that accompanied a much larger force. The Sun’s Envoy was very amiable, and we were formidable on the field. We would line up shoulder to shoulder with our red and gold capes draped over one side, fastened with a sunburst clasp. My brigade general would lead us around the desert in search of Asmodians. I was usually the first target since I hung in the back to heal. Teamwork was essential, as well as instinct. My templar had to protect me, the sorcerer had to deal with any extra interference, the ranger had to silence their casters, the assassin targeted their healer. Chess with live pieces is a much faster game, though you take more turns. We saw that dark winged spirit master a few times. The first my legion met him, he looked at me directly while being killed. Our gladiator never let me live it down, jeering and saying I had a not-so-secret admirer. Perhaps she was jealous, but she had no right to be with eyes and hair a stunning purple. The spirit master always looked at me if we crossed paths, so I took the gladiator at her words, and then dismissed them. He was Asmodian, and I Elyos. Our fates were already cast in battle the day of my ascension.

I will never forget the first day I went to Heiron. Eltnen was beautiful, but this was a place to revere. The hills practically sang of ancient glory and the beasts were vicious. I took delight in gliding over the ruins and walking near the observatory. I think the Asmodians thought it was beautiful, too, because I would see them pause to take a moment sometimes before they would catch sight of me.

Very rarely did I ever hope to see their dark faces. It was easy for me to think and focus in a group, but Asmodians often found me when I was alone. The worst ones were those that jeered and toyed with you, laughing at your pain when I don’t think I could ever rejoice in theirs. Perhaps I should have learned to be more alert when walking alone, but my mind only truly stays in place when there are people for me to protect. You would think protecting yourself would count when it comes to frequent visits to your local soul healer.

There was one particularly bad day, when my brigade general said I would be moved to a different legion. I asked why because I had never encountered their centurions or their brigade, the response to which was that I was a cause on tension in my own legion. Shock was the initial response, followed by anger when I found he was sleeping with the purple-headed gladiator. Clearly, she hated me for something and I hadn’t the faintest. I went looking for Asmodians that day, and who did I meet but that same spirit master. Wind spirit must have been his favorite because it was padding along beside him when I cast my first blow. I attacked him with such a fury that I might have shown promise as a solo fighter. I swung, rooted, blocked, healed, rooted again. I tripped him repeatedly so that he could not run and attack me in the same breath. The wind spirit latched onto my main hand, but I was so angry I let go of my mace, slipped out of my gauntlet and punched the spirit master outright. Tears were streaming down my face in frustration that perhaps he figured it out, because the pet stopped trying to tear my throat. It knocked me down and pinned me more easily then I would give a wind spirit credit for. No more casts came my way, and the spirit never attacked despite its growled threats. I was left to cry my eyes out, pinned beneath a dark wind servant while its master sat nearby and rested. My fingers caught wisps of air off the pet, and I slowly began to stroke it from my restricted position. Harsh words were spoken so gently that I strained to understand my enemy. The weight lifted, and the spirit stood guard with my mace in jaw. It was very strange, but it made sense at the time, to sit and finish my crying with an Asmodian for company. He moved to sit by me, I put my head on his shoulder, and he stroked my hair. We sat like that for a while; even the spirit came to rest at our feet where I could pet it. The slightest noise set us off because a person of either side would break the truce. We exchanged names - his was Voltaic. His eyes expressed the concern that hundreds of years and divergent languages could not, and I picked at his legion cape so that he would notice the lack of mine. He kissed me gently on the mouth and returned back to his half of the world. And thus became an infrequent friend and eventual lover.