Starting Over in the Empire of Islands

[Vocalist]

Welcome, pilgrim, to the southern frontier of Kailukari, the Empire of Islands, where land grows sparser and sparser between ever-increasing stretches of stormy blue. On the spine of this remote and unpopulated island, a stone temple perches on a mountain slope, above trackless jungle gorges. Pillars carved in the form of winged serpents surround cliffside meditation plazas, and devotees sleep in chambers hewn straight into the rock. Pilgrims come – despite the distance – to seek a certain resolution to their troubles. This is a place where the world may forget you, and in turn, you may forget the world.

A common reason for joining a monastery…but, no, this place offers a more literal version of that. For many years now, a master of Soul Evocation has resided here. This man has formed a blade, flawless and absolute, as the means by which his soul can touch the world. The blade cuts memories – such is the true expression of his soul, the unique magic he wields.

For those who wish it, the master offers a fresh start. Escaping pain, regret, failure, or heartbreak, they make the journey to this island, climb the mountain path, and stand a night of vigil in the shrine. Then they awaken in a nice, calming room…

"…And that takes us up to where we are now," finishes the priestess. A woman with a round-cheeked, sunny smile, you suspect that she is used to using that cheery disposition to calm recently treated 'pilgrims'.

Like yourself, you suppose. Heaven above, it's so strange not being able to remember anything. You try to swing your legs out of bed, but she wags her finger at you.

"Don't be in such a rush! You ought to take a few more minutes, just to make sure you're all right. And drink something, too." She points to a clay bowl next to you, filled with clear water and floating slices of lime.

Still disoriented, you meekly comply. The priestess bustles around, still talking, "Not too many come to seek Master Kan's solace – that's no slight, understand, but simply an observation. One or two every year. But right now we have three pilgrims present for, I believe, the first time ever. Why do you think Heaven would guide three new lives to start at the same time and place?"

You have no idea, but you don't think she actually expects an answer from you. The water is so cool and, thirstier than you realized, you finish all of it. Grateful, you put the bowl back on the floor, and look up to see the priestess has returned. She's holding a polished bronze mirror.

The face you see is not one whose name or history you can describe, but at the same time, it is not…unexpected. Like the face of the coffee-seller on a street you pass daily, never looked at for long, but still, in some inaccessible corner of the mind, logged and remembered. Asked a minute ago, you would not have been able to describe the details of your own face. Still, as you rediscover yourself in the mirror, it is a relief to see everything the way it is supposed to be.

[ ] You are a woman of middle years, with handsome, regal features and striking green eyes. Your dark hair is shorn close to the scalp in the fashion of a penitent – not neatly, either, which irks you. Your hands are smooth and well-cared-for, with nails that still bear some flecks of paint.

[ ] You're a man – and an albino, wow. Young and beardless and ridiculously pale. A scar twists through your left eye, violet clouded over by white. You preen until that eye is mostly covered by your shaggy bangs, then grin at your reflection. Mmm, that's more like it.

[ ] You are a woman, perhaps in your late twenties. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin – all of you seems very ordinary, which is probably for the best. Your hands bear thick calluses and bruised nails; your arms are stippled with scars from fire and blade.

[Hello everyone! It's been a while since I posted something. I'm trying to get my creative juices flowing again, with a simple narrative quest in an original setting.]

 

[Vocalist]

Name: Deo

Gender: Male

Age: ~21

Skills
Thievery - C: You are familiar with all the common ways people protect their riches, and the appropriate countermeasures to each. You suspect some of your skill was lost with the memory-knife, but you still have quick fingers, a light step, and (most of?) your old instincts.
????

Soul Evocation
Taking the form of a small thirteen-wave kris with striking patterns and a silver handle, your soul-blade has power over vision. All the magic it can perform stems from that theme.

Heat Vision: By painting blood over his eyelids, Deo gains the ability to see sources of heat, radiating their own special light. This spell lasts until the blood is removed.

Possessions
Writing-box
Holy symbol of Riung
Lockpicks
Letter from your old self

-------
This is a narrative quest. No math and no dice rolls will be used to determine the course of events. However, for the sake of bookkeeping (and the warm and fuzzy feeling of getting more power), your character's skills, possessions, and special abilities will still be recorded on this post.

Skills are ranked as follows:

S – A genius found once in an age, or perhaps a case of divine intervention. Capable of performing deeds that will live on in legend.

A – A master at the peak of their art. People will go to great lengths to obtain such a person's services, and other practitioners dream of becoming their apprentice.

B – An expert, capable of easily dealing with mundane challenges and open to tackling the exceptional. Capable of innovating in their field.

C – A practitioner of some skill. They know all the basics, and some things beyond that.

D – A novice. Mundane tasks are still a challenge for them. They are prone to making mistakes and running up against gaps in their knowledge.

E – A complete beginner. Perhaps they've read a book on the subject, or something.

Plus (+) and minus (-) are used to denote comparative levels within a skill rank. As your character gets reacquainted with old abilities, or develops new ones, new skills will be unlocked. Skills can also be upgraded by practicing them, or seeking out teachers.

 

[Vocalist]

Spoiler: winning vote

[ ] You're a man – and an albino, wow. Young and beardless and ridiculously pale. A scar twists through your left eye, violet clouded over by white. You preen until that eye is mostly covered by your shaggy bangs, then grin at your reflection. Mmm, that's more like it.

You spend some time gazing at yourself in the mirror, fascinated by a face that is at once extremely exceptional and completely expected. You also need to get your hair just right. The long bangs are a little finicky – should you trim them? Or is there something else you would normally do? You need to ask the temple's inhabitants how you were wearing your hair when you arrived here.

Eventually, you achieve a satisfactory degree of roguish dishevelment and mysteriousness. Your left eye is almost completely covered, which is fine because you can't see out of it very well anyway. Just fuzzy colors. You throw the mirror a few experimental grins and glares; your eyebrows do a full workout through their range. You need to reacquaint yourself with the face you show the world.

It's a nice face, too. You'd call it the most handsome face you've ever seen, but – while true – that's not a very impressive title at this juncture. A hand on your shoulder awakens you from your thoughts, and the priestess hands you a satchel.

"These are your possessions, pilgrim. I think there's a letter in there for you." Her cheery demeanor has changed to solemnity. "Rest here as long as you need; after that, the path is yours to determine. Follow the Devas and go with Heaven, young man." She leaves you alone.

The first thing you unearth from the satchel is a carved onyx talisman, sewn into leather. It makes you smile with irony. 'Go with Heaven,' she said? Well, it seems you follow the one Deva who has nothing to do with Heaven. In your hand, two grinning bats circle a moonstone. It is a symbol of Riung, the Elder Brother, who is transgression, disorder, and darkness. You turn it round and round, considering what to do with this thing, at once sacred and profane – when your fingertips catch on a ridge that should not be there.

From a concealed pocket, you extricate several shaped wires. They are lockpicks, for the sort of delicate artisan mechanisms favored by those with a lot of money to lose. You doubt such a lock exists anywhere on this island, but even so you laugh and favor the talisman with a kiss, your earlier hesitance forgotten. You see it now – any right-thinking person would avoid handling a symbol of Riung, for fear of bad luck. A good way to keep your tools from being confiscated.

[Skill Unlocked: Thievery! Currently at rank C]

You dig deeper, eager to see what other treasures you have left yourself. There are clothes, candles, some cosmetics, a box of candied ginger – delicious – and a string of silver coins. A writing-box, too, lacquered with a scene of a city harbor at night. High-quality work, and, from the bat silhouetted against the moon, you suspect it was a custom job. Inside you find paper, reed pens, and inks in red and black, all situated in neat little compartments. The top sheet of paper has writing on it; this must be the letter that was mentioned.

Don't panic.

If this mind-mage is everything he's supposed to be, you must be very confused at this point. I, Deo, am writing this letter to myself to answer some of your burning questions.

Your name is Deo. Your family is none of your concern – they kicked me out at such a young age I've managed to forget all about them without magical help. The scar is from a rock someone threw at you about ten years ago, back before you figured out that begging is a dismal and unprofitable profession. You are something like twenty-one years old.

Your trade is that of the thief. In fact, you were the best footpad and housebreaker in Tawalisi, until you decided to leave the service of a master who will get unreasonably angry if I write his name here. You were allowed to depart on the condition that you sacrifice your memories at this temple, because your former master is a paranoid, controlling, and secretive man. He also holds grudges, so while he says all my debts are cleared, I would be cautious about returning to the capital if I were you. Which I am.

Tawalisi's the richest, liveliest, most exciting city in the Empire, though. Wouldn't blame you for deciding to go back. What matters is that the decision is yours. From now on, you decide where to travel, who to target, who to make into your enemy and your ally. When to get involved in political bullshit (please don't get involved in political bullshit). This precious freedom is what you sacrificed your old life for.

If there's more that I have forgotten to include, well, you'll just have to search for the answers yourself. I'm not worried about you. You may be feeling unsure, lost, lacking direction, but take it from me: you are a phenom. You have every talent you need to cling to life and fleece it for everything you desire.

Cheers,

Deo

P.S. Almost forgot! Your Soul Evocation is Vision. Get blood with the dagger (doesn't have to be your blood), and paint it over your eyes.

What the…you're a mage? A soul-mage? That's too important to nearly forget! Urgently, you stick your hands back in the bag. A fringed scarf, you noticed it earlier, but on second glance it's wrapped around something. A small, light sheath, swallowed up by the fabric. Inside is a thirteen-wave kris.

It gleams darkly. Damascene patterns of silver and black ripple down the blade like moonlight on water. You trace its waves with a finger, enamored. It's like looking at your own face. It's like reading another letter about yourself. In your hand, you hold a piece of your soul. Grasping it, you feel a wordless completeness, the return of something you hadn't even noticed was missing. If you were the artistic sort, you could write a poem about this reunion.

Actually – who knows? Maybe you are. You should give it a try, later.

Right now you've got magic to do.

The pad of one finger pushes down on the kris's tip, deliberately, with more and more force until the skin splits and blood blooms about the puncture. You gasp a little – not from the pain, there's barely any – but from the sudden quickening of the kris's spirit. The feeling is intense, but its nature is sharp focus. The path of a blade, that ripples and wavers distractingly, seemingly aimlessly, before the point plunges into its target.

You remember what you were doing. Your pierced finger comes up. Squeezing it with your thumb, you paint your eyelids with blood. Staying with the kris's spirit, you open your eyes.

[ ] You see a deep-red shimmer from the sun in the air, and beneath your own skin. (Unlock Heat Vision)

[ ] You see a deep and comforting glow within your own dagger, as well as a few glittering traces on the walls – they must have used magic to hew this place out of the mountain. (Unlock Magic Vision)

[ ] You see traces of comfort and concern in this room, as well as old threads of illness and pain. All of it pales next to your glowing satisfaction, however. (Unlock Aura Vision)

[All these spells require Deo to paint blood over his own eyes, and last until the blood is removed.]

 

[Vocalist]

Spoiler: Winning Vote

[ ] You see a deep-red shimmer from the sun in the air, and beneath your own skin. (Unlock Heat Vision)

The air itself is luminous, you notice. From the doorway, a waterfall of light pours in. Golden sunlight stays in its place, respecting the bounds of shadow, but another, deep-red light ripples out and percolates through the room. From your own skin, too, it emits; you pace around the room, painting luminous trails on the things you touch.

The light's color is not exactly red, you admit. Akin to red, in the same way orange is, but on the other side. Deep-red. Below-red. As with the colors you see on the inside of your eyelids, you don't think the proper words exist outside of poetry.

Struck by a thought, you push back a sheaf of hair and close your right eye. No…your bad eye is still as useful as ever, which is to say barely. Deep-red has simply been added to the smear of colors that are all it sees. It stings a bit, you admit. If you have power over Vision, then it should be possible for you to restore your eye, right? If you work hard at it, if you develop your magic in the right ways?

It's common knowledge that a soul evocation says something about the wielder. Sometimes the connection is not obvious, but in your case…You strongly suspect that you have resented that damn eye for a long time.

Throwing a rock at a begging child. What an asshole. They probably continued on with their day without sparing the incident another thought. Or perhaps they mentioned to their friends, anecdotally, a creepy albino beggar that had tried to curse them with its ill luck.

Hmph. Well, there are many happier, more productive things you could be doing besides stewing in resentment. Taking the bowl, you wash the blood off your face until the only red you see is the rusty taint in the water. Then, using a black pencil, you trace some understated outlines around your eyes and re-adjust your hair. You could do more – you have some very nice cosmetics in that bag – but you think the clerics might look askance at excessive displays of vanity. Refreshed, you step through the portal, into the sun.

Ow. Bright. Squinting, you locate the nearest patch of shade and shuffle into it. You emerged from a row of sleeping cells: rooms carved into the rock that all let out into this narrow green. The jungle menaces at its irregular edges, and you suspect efforts to cut it back are sporadic and half-hearted. Still, there are several other people here, meditating or exercising, and the overall atmosphere is one of quiet contentment. From your place beneath a fig tree (no ripe fruits, sadly) you cast a curious eye at the others.

The priests all wear their monochrome sarongs, colored according to the Deva they serve. This appears to be a pantheonic temple, not dedicated to any one in particular. You see a man and a woman in the green of Eshvara discussing something with a woman in the yellow of Melyati. A party in the white of Wardhani is doing exercises in the shade. No one is wearing the black of Riung, of course. You believe he does have priests – an image comes to you of skullduggerous witches who meet in the black of night to lay down curses on the mighty – but who knows how much truth there is to that?

Not being in uniform, the pilgrims stand out. You recall the priestess from earlier saying that there were three of you here at once. The other two are both women: One, middle-aged, hair shorn in the fashion of a penitent, is brush-painting a view of the forest. She puts you in mind of a minor noble or court bureaucrat, retiring to pursue her hobbies in the country – except, of course, for her penitent's scalp, which indicates a past that is far from socially graceful. The second is a warrior. Her hair is also cut short, but simply in the functional way of one who fights a lot, and she's leaning on a sword as she gratefully gulps down water. Her sword…wow. An oversized slab of gray metal, no adornments to pretty it up or distract from the fact that it is big and huge and will hurt very bad if it hits you. Resting it point down, the hilt starts somewhere around her breasts. And she's a tall woman, too. Watching her swing that thing around must be a sight to behold, and you regret that you seem to have just missed her practice.

The warrior comes your way – you sidle over to make space for her beneath the shade of the fig tree. She continues sopping her red face with a wet rag, resting her sword on one shoulder, not saying a word. She keeps looking at you, though. You suppose you're an interesting sight.

"Hot day for weapons practice," you comment.

"…You must be Deo, the thief," she says.

"That's a bit blunt. Do you always accuse your new acquaintances of being criminals?" She's not incorrect, but you're not going to admit it.

She shifts her weight a little, but the sword stays on her shoulder. Up close, you note the broken nails, the scars stippling her arms. The flagpole-straight posture, effortlessly maintained. Even without seeing her in action, you have no doubt that she's an experienced soldier. "We're not new acquaintances. We travelled to this monastery together. So I'm told."

"Ah? The letter I left for myself didn't mention you."

"Well, mine mentioned you. It was not complimentary." She glowers. "Still, this shrine is a place of absolution and new beginnings. It is possible, I suppose, that you will use your second chance to pursue a different, more upright way of life."

You give an ambiguous waggle of the head, "I'm considering my options." Such a thought had not occurred to you, in truth. If you swore off thievery, what could you even do for a living? "I still don't know your name, by the way."

"Call me Chennai," the warrior says. "And if you try to rob me, I will break every bone in your body. Now, if you will excuse me."

You revise your estimation of the woman. Perhaps she once was a soldier, but stiffness like that isn't taught. It must come naturally to her. At least with people she disapproves of, like you.

Hmph! Well, if you were scared of general disapproval, you don't think you would have ever become a thief. No, the Deo who wrote that letter sounded quite proud of who he was and what he'd done. What should you care for the opinions of those who would judge you despite not knowing you at all? Or well, who used to know you but don't remember…Chennai's case is a complicated one. The important thing is that her opinion doesn't really matter.

Bold footsteps approach. "Something on your mind, traveller?"

You look up. "You have business with me?" It comes out harsher than you intended.

It was the other pilgrim who spoke, the middle-aged woman with handsome features and shaven hair and piercing green eyes. "You've been pacing, stormily, ever since Chennai spoke to you. If there's some quarrel, I thought I might be able to help."

"Ah. Well, that's kind of you. But there's not much to be done. She knows something of my past, and she disapproves of it." You shrug. "I get the feeling she disapproves of a great number of things."

"She's a woman with high standards, but she applies those standards to herself as well."

"So she's insufferable to herself, as well as everybody else?"

The penitent sighs. "I suppose whatever's going on between the two of you is not my business – though I do think it's a pity that you're carrying over bad blood from your previous lives."

You scoff. "You're right, it's rather pointless. Let's not waste time talking about it." Giving her a smile, you say, "We haven't been properly introduced. I'm Deo."

She gives a shallow bow. "It is a pleasure. I would give you my name, but I have left it behind."

You raise your eyebrows. "That's…a bit extreme."

"I did a thorough job of cutting myself off from the past. My goal in coming here was to find an entirely new way of living." Her eyes flicker to the edge of the clearing, where she left her scroll, brushes, and frame. "So far, I've been trying my hand at painting."

"And how's that going?"

She grimaces. "It…well…I do believe I am improving. And it has only been two days."

"Have you discovered anything you are good at?"

She clasps her hands together, thinking. "I have excellent handwriting. And…and I have my health. That is something to be thankful for, yes."

You feel something like pity for this woman, so bereft of anything to say about herself. What was she, a socialite? Outcast for some scandal, or driven mad by some private grief? Whoever she was, you think she was wealthy – your eye catches a few last flecks of gold paint on her nails.

Mmm, you wonder…no, gold makeup would overwhelm your pale complexion. Not a good idea.

The sound of a gong rings out from the main building, and you see people ending their conversations, starting to walk. "That's the signal for lunch," the penitent tells you. "The food here is humble, but you won't go hungry."

Her assessment is accurate, you find. In a communal dining hall, everyone takes handfuls of rice and slices of herb omelet. You eat to your satisfaction, listening idly to the conversation of the priests (only a few of which are staring at you). Besides the arrival of you and the other pilgrims, there is absolutely no noteworthy gossip. Apparently the temple's only connection to the outside world is a narrow mountain road leading to the island's port. You make sure to get the details – you'll have to take that route when you leave this place, which you think will be in a day or two. It's too boring to stay longer.

People drift away one by one as they finish eating. You have your eye on one person in particular – when they get up, you follow them out. You're interested in having a longer conversation with:

[ ] Chennai, the ex-soldier She may dislike you, but that means she has information on you. She might well be your only lead on your mysterious past.

[ ] The Nameless Penitent She's a bit depressing, but she's also the only person here who seems like she wants to spend time with you. Why not make a new friend?

[ ] Master Kan It seems prudent to have an actual conversation with the man who took away your memories. If nothing else, a master of Soul Evocation should be able to offer some insight on your own magical practice.

 

[Vocalist]

Spoiler: Winning Vote

[ ] The Nameless Penitent She's a bit depressing, but she's also the only person here who seems like she wants to spend time with you. Why not make a new friend?

You call out to the penitent as she leaves. "I'm not planning to stay at this place very long, but I'd like to enjoy my time here. What say you to sharing some tea with me? There is tea here, right?"

She looks a bit surprised at your forwardness, but soon that turns into a grateful smile. "I can do even better than that. I traded a painting to one of the priests yesterday for a jug of tuak. Would you be interested in sharing the rest with me?"

Accepting her generous offer, the two of you retire to a terrace high in the stone complex. "Ah, look at that view!" The jungle spreads down around you, waves of variegated green covering the sloping land like fur. Sunlight pours down and pools in the valleys like water. This stone outcropping, carved into habitability, is one of the few places where the flinty flanks of the mountain emerge from its verdant blanket. And above you, almost nothing impedes the pearly dome of the sky – beneficently radiating so much light that it overwhelms your eyes. "This place still isn't for me – too isolated, too poor. But I can see why someone might wish to live here."

"It is sublime, isn't it?" The penitent creeps over to join you. "To be surrounded by such grand solitude…one feels closer to inner quiet. When I look at this scene, I feel so small. And yet, the world is so beautiful that I cannot feel scared." You study her face. Despite her words, you think you see something grim and tired about her – and you realize it's been there all along. The hope in her eyes is a fragile thing. Standing there with her plain shift and roughly-shaven head, she looks like a woman who has lost everything.

You pity her, as you would pity the shattering of a masterful craftwork.

"Are you planning to stay here?" you ask gently. "Become one of the priests?"

She shakes her head. "Perhaps I might eventually settle down in a place like this. But I owe it to myself to try finding a purpose in the outside world. My past self, I mean." She takes a long draught of the tuak, clearly not relishing the thought.

She passes you the jug – day-old palm wine is strong and bitter, but you don't mind. "What do you mean by that, exactly?"

"I mean that she wrote a letter to me, asking myself to 'find that which fills you with joy, which adds to the world, which brings you closer to Heaven.' I don't yet know what that could be – a profession? A person? A cause? I must see this world, as much of it as I can, in order to find my purpose."

"What, and you didn't give yourself the slightest hint? How unhelpful. You must feel so directionless." Passing the tuak back and forth, you fall into an easy rhythm, and your words become less guarded.

"True! But I try to have some sympathy for the old me. She wrote that, before she came here, she was utterly lonely and miserable. She cut off all ties to her old life, and left me no information so that I would not be tempted to return."

You shake your head. "That's extreme."

"If her actions were extreme, they must have been motivated by extreme circumstances. I don't resent her. Instead, I respect her courage and her sacrifice. She left me little, but that was because she had faith in me – 'all you need can be found within your own soul.'"

"Hm. Maybe that was a hint for you to become a soul-mage."

She takes your joking suggestion seriously, sitting up and beginning to lecture like a teacher. "That's very difficult. It takes a great deal of ritual meditation to manifest your own soul-blade, and the process is not always successful. Teachers can be hired to guide you through it, but they often charge high fees or take students according to idiosyncratic criteria. Superstitions abound about how to determine who has the talent – but in my opinion the best theory is found in the Record of Majapahit, which posits that the blade is a shard of the soul. Therefore the soul must be broken to create it, and those who have experienced painful trauma have a much easier time manifesting their blades. There's quite a bit of evidence to recommend that theory." You're a little overwhelmed as you try to parse this. Painful trauma? That…probably describes you, yeah. Meanwhile, your companion – you quietly change her designation from 'penitent' to 'scholar' in your mind – continues talking. "My old life must have been something miserable. The question is, does my soul still bear the marks of that misery, even with my memories gone? I'm not sure it's worth pursuing otherwise. Although…I think I actually remember some of the mantras in the Record. Could I try it on my own?"

"…If you wish. I have a soul-blade myself, but I wouldn't be able to tell you how that happened." You look at her, impressed. "You know a great deal about this, scholar."

"I suppose I must have read a lot, but knowledge is not valuable unless it informs action. In fact, I don't even know what I know – all that I just quoted at you was shrouded from me until it," she flutters her hands, "appeared." Taking another drink, she then says, "I have had enough of talking about myself. Who do you think you are, Deo? No – who do you wish to be?"

"Those are weighty questions, scholar."

"Well, it's not as if we can start out with the usual niceties about number of siblings and favorite food." She chuckles. "Fine, if you're intimidated. I'll approach from a different angle: you said you have a soul-blade. What is your evocation?"

It's not that you're intimidated by introspection, but that you'd prefer to avoid scaring her away by admitting to a criminal past. And, if you're being really honest, your plans for a criminal future. But your magic is totally innocent on its own! So you gladly bring out the thirteen-wave kris. "I have power over vision. I'm certain I used to be able to do more, but for now, I can only manage a spell to see heat."

"To see heat? My, such creative things our mages can get up to. But what would you use it for?"

You shrug. "I have to admit I'm still figuring that out. Cooking, maybe?" A silly, hapless grin.

The scholar gives you a very intense look. "It would be impolite to point to your albinism, but…"

Your smile drops. "You just did. If you have something worth saying, then say it."

"Only that albinism is commonly associated with poor vision. It's possible that your evocation is an attempt to compensate."

You were expecting something much more insulting. Some of the tension leaves you as you consider her words. "I didn't know that. I thought – well, I assume you're talking about the inborn kind of poor vision. Not…" She quirks her head, not understanding. You see something that might be concern in her eyes, and for that, you feel safe enough to draw back the curtain of your hair.

Seeing your left eye, her eyes widen and but she leans forward to study it. "That's an old wound…how young were you? Foolish question. No, I was referring to the very high rate of blindness observed in albinistic children, not injuries your kind might suffer because of…superstition. I had not considered that. Forgive me."

"Well, I'm not angry," you say quietly. "Not at you. Scholar, do you think I might one day use my magic to heal my eye?"

"I hesitate to answer that question. Soul magic is considered the highest art because there are so few limits to what it can do. Within the realm of their evocation, a practitioner may challenge the power of the Devas. Have you ever heard of the Great Ice Dragon of Taiyang? They say he used his power to freeze time, such that his heart never beat and his body remained young for hundreds of years. But few ever reach such astonishing heights, and I simply cannot describe the contours of someone else's soul, so…for now, all I will say is that it's not impossible."

Has anyone ever told her that she can be long-winded? Hah, but she wouldn't know even in you asked her. "That's all I was hoping to hear. I don't have any great ambition to shatter stars and topple thrones. That sort of thing seems like it would get me a lot of enemies. Didn't the Great Ice Dragon get burned to death in a pit of tar, anyway?"

She sighs. "So the popular story goes. But there's some confusion in the historical record, with someone else of the same name appearing a scant generation later…"

It's fun, trading anecdotes, but – can you really call them 'anecdotes', the stories you tell each other? You can remember so much information when you try, but not where you learned it, if the source was trustworthy, or what price you paid. Stripped of context and emotional color, the stories you tell each other are but rumors and legends. Still, for two people trying to find anything they can cling to when all their ties have been severed, they are better than nothing. They are currency.

With these ghosts of your old connections, you buy one new one.

You pass a few hours with the penitent scholar, but under the relentless light of the sun you eventually become tired. Making your excuses, you creep down into the stone halls and back to your chamber, where you flop down for a nap.

It's dark when you awake. You squirm around groggily, scratching at your neck, your shoulder. Weak and sticky, something gathers under your fingernails – it's strange enough to wake you up properly. You go out into the green and, when your good eye adjusts to see by starlight, your unpleasant suspicions are confirmed.

It's sunburn, radiating feverish heat just about everywhere your shirt didn't cover and even a few places it did. It itches; where your careless nails stripped the dying skin, it burns. You stare up at the winking moon and curse viciously.

You really are an idiot. Was it not obvious? Was there not an abundance of evidence in your possessions, your letter, your fucking skin tone, that you are not friends with the sun?

Riung loves laying low the prideful, doesn't he? You hope this has bought you some fucking favor with him.

Back in your room, you discover a jar of aloe gel mixed in with your cosmetics. Grateful to your past self, you use the entire thing. Then you steal into the kitchens and eat all the sweets.

It's not a polite thing to do, but you're hungry and in pain and this lovingly-baked box of coconut macaroons is the most appealing way to soothe your misery. You also eat some rice crackers.

You feel a lot better afterwards. Around you, the temple sleeps, but you suspect that you need to distract yourself, or else the painful itching will drive you mad. Padding through the empty hallways, munching on one last cracker, you consider your options.

[ ] Chennai said something about stealing from her. What a great idea! She has something on your past, right? This way, you can get that information without actually having to endure a conversation with her.

[ ] You're in a temple; you should take some time to pray. To some socially-acceptable deities, even. Maybe you feel a little regret for the food you just stole. Maybe you wish you could find a way to walk Heaven's path.

[ ] The penitent scholar is sitting cross-legged in the shadows of the green, so still you would not have seen her without your heat-vision spell. "I'm meditating. Stay if you like, but don't disturb me – I know I almost have it!"