Behind closed eyes, the First Talon of Sacramento meditated, crosslegged, in the Tower of the Adamantine Arrow.

Paradox

4 successes


She winced as she absorbed the backlash, bruises forming on her stomach and back.

Slowly, certainly, She rose up into the air and hung there, suspended.

-----

"Magic is not about control, Kamiko."

There was a scowl. That was not her name, not any more.

Fists lashed out, back and forth in a standard drill.

"It seeks to be free. Unleashed. Control is what keeps if from the world. Keeps them blind. Asleep."

Punch. Punch. Kick. Punch.

"To be a Master still does not guarentee control, nor place you above others. To believe so is the hallmark of Hubris. A Master's knowledge of an Arcanum is great, but never confuse this with total control. All we can control is ourselves, employing true discipline. Chosing when and how to act. Accepting all that stems from our actions. Thought, word, and deed as one. The Honourable path."

The teenager looks almost the same. The same, lean form, the same dark brooding look. She stops after a kick and turns to face the old man lecturing her.

"Sensei..."

"This is knowledge of the Primal Wilds. But it applies to all. Every Watchtower has an icon of belief in what magic is, but only collectively does the truth take shape. Obromi are defined by their will, their purpose. Some say we gain the name "Will-workers" from their... from your path. They remind us that Magic is in all things through the ever-present sheres of Force and Prime."

"Sensei, I..."

"THERE ARE THINGS YOU CANNOT CONTROL," The old man raised his voice over her. "NO two paths stand in opposition. All have a fraction of wisdom. The Supernal is the Self. We encompass all things. Will alone IS NOT ENOUGH."

The girl falls silent.

"You sought to employ Life. You released a Paradox into the world. This is why we are here, far from others, that I may deal with such failings. But Existance is War, Kamiko, and you will use Life again. And again. Until you know the difference between fear of failure, and certainty of the right choice."

"Phoenyx."

A pause taught as iron filled the room.

"My name is Phoenyx," she answered firmly.

The old man reached in his robes, and withdrew two simple but wicked-looking knives.

"Will and defiance are not enough. You may have inscribed your name on the watchtower of the Golden Key, but These things do not make an Arrow. They do not even make you a mage. Refusing any part of the Arcana is to retuen to sleep. Shame of failure is another shackle that stops you doing what is needed. You will use the life Arcanum. I am certain."

The old man moved in a flurry of action, the blades dancing like snakes.

Unarmed, unarmoued, the young girl stood her ground.

-----

Phoenyx exhaled slowly. She was clutching her left arm in her right hand - a memory of the wounds she had taken. The blood had been everywhere.

She opened her eyes, unfurled herself and drifted back to the ground. Her abdomen was still tender from the backlash.

Some lessons needed reminders, even if you were not the one delivering them. One had to be willing to accept them as they arrived for you as well.