Seeing what amounted to some powerful earth magic that the older human was knitting, the pooka quickly began a new weaving. This time, the soft green aura which might have easily passed as a trick of light, flared to life almost instantly. For just a solitary moment, the ley lines flooded. The weaving fitted itself with almost a separate consciousness. Al-kin’s eyes widened in shock and the slender body was suffused with magic.

Uncertain what caused the surge, Al-kin tore some of the woven powers free to fill broken lungs with magical dams against the infectious cough that had felled the earlier weavings. For that one moment, anything seemed possible. Al-kin grinned wildly. Black tendrils sprang free of their bindings and serpent like, swayed and twisted about in an invisible wind. There was a cessation of thought, as something free and true bore itself through the genderless creature, tearing Origin out of it’s spirit, pulling it forth. For that one moment, nothing civilized advanced, but rather a creature of a dark primitive past when magic itself was more wild then tame.

The Blade sang aloud, a high pitched hum that increased as Al-kin swirled it and reveled in the onslaught of power. Suddenly the small rock architecture of the mage seemed small, pitiful even. Al-kin’s teeth bared themselves, impossibly white against the glowing green.

Then just as suddenly as the ley lines had swollen with power, they were sucked dry. Like a rushing tide across a tidal flat, what had been, ceased. Al-kin, as helpless as a fish caught in a puddle, did not so much as pale as go colorless. Stumbling, sword fell to the ground in a soft clatter and Al-kin’s hands hit the ground with so much force that the soft voice broke into a cry of pain.

Weakened more by the return to original state from such a high position of being than by an actual loss of what had been there previously, Al-kin found that the charred ground held a great deal of fascination when one’s death was immanent.

At least.. the cough was gone, hey?

Up! Up you fool! They’ll spit you on their magic! the Voice screamed, choosing to no longer remain silent.

"I am so sorry… ishiba" Al-kin grunted, clutching the ground to keep in contact with it. Something was wrong with the very earth. It was emptying, as if the very spirit of it were siphoning away. It trembled under them all and Al-kin heard the deep groan of rock and sand as a mother at her birthing hour.

What good does sorry do me, Alarin! the sword cried. What good does it do me but to be left here, never to be freed? Get up, you fool! Don’t you suffer me this empty future!

Al-kin could not answer, for there was a separate pain in voices on the air. Were the mages tearing the village apart now? Al-kin could not bear to look, could not bear to know that such pains were brought on by their kindness. And here, what good would be done before the elderly mage’s rocks crushed this body to nothing?

Roused by the fear of such failure, Al-kin’s head rose and dove grey eyes sought out the old man’s magic. It was not the time to give up, no matter the odds.

[ooc: Bugger all. Terrible grammar, post, etc.. but I'm too tired to fix it. Do that tomorrow afternoon. Concept remains the same.]

__________________

‘What will my death be like?’ he thought- and knew at once
with abrupt certainty, that it would be just like his life:
... the same balance of bearables.
~Amis