Dive Into The Heart

Jericho remains sitting, shirtless, in the area that has been allotted to him within house Morneau as his living chambers. This is something that his father used to do, plenty a time and again - something he, himself, had been unable to fully commit to. The rigors of sparring arduously, extensively...they'd been painful, but something easier for a boy of short attention span to engage in. Win, lose, bow, and then onto the next thing for the middling attention span that coupled itself often with youth.

But something changed.

The first few hours after his father's death are perilous. They kind of drudge along in a manner that makes him feel as if he's quickly begun to lose his sanity - and lead to drastic lifestyle changes. Some stick. Some don't. Like that painting class you attended once, or that diet you tried for a week. Other new habits seem to have become lifelong...

Like this meditation, which, for months now, he'd stuck to, likehis dearly deceased before him. The strength he emit is a testament to the growth he's made - but is such growth to be celebrated, when it'd come at the expense of the only security he'd ever known?

Many mages in Osrona sought to be the mightiest. The best. That which stood tall amongst many heads, the fist rose above the masses that could never be broken. Jericho had never understood, never coveted such a thing. Society was largely foreign to him - indoctrinated from the wilds at a late age, there was much he simply didn't understand about how one was even supposed to be a person.

Much less what drove people to want things that were as fabricated and, in his eyes, nonsensical as political power, or financial freedom. His was a heart and mind free of worldly desire, at this young age - the smile and tilt of the head that was his trademark bereft of any darker inhibitions lurking underneath.

But with this meditation had come a journey of discovery. A dive into the depths of who he truly was...peeling away the mask, layer by layer, that had become his façade as a total moron.

Magic, in its purest form, is how it all began...and how it would end.
(Jericho)

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Marisol sought the strength of a star, to rip the light from the skies and grasp it in her burning palm. Asphira dove into the depths of the most frigid of lakes with the foolhardy curiosity of a child touching a hot stove, hoping to tame the cold. Holly, smiling, ever-capturing every moment, sought to move through time and make the fullest of every moment. Lion stalked through shadow and held onto secrets like currency, keeping them stashed away in the wrinkles of her cloak and the shadows underneath it.

Akira held onto bonds tighter than blood, and shed even his own in defense of those he loved.

Jericho wandered aimlessly through the world and even his mindscape, unable to manifest magics of any sort besides internal, for reasons unknown to even him. He can augment his strikes to shatter stone. His focused blow move far quicker than non-magical eyes can track. But fire does not spark when he thrusts forth his palms. Water does not pour from his fingertips, and the Earth does not sunder underneath his feet. He can't hear the name of the Wind, nor call down Lightning.

The magics he employed were something much more...base. Something more primitive. Backed into a corner, he shone, bright...and that trait was something he repressed, at all costs. Something he avoided, out of self-hate. Out of fear. Does that sound silly to you? That a person would do such a thing to themselves? How could he hate his own potential, how could he be afraid to bare his soul naked to the world and strike with his fullest might -

Well, that's simple, really.

He pushes past those walls of resentment, but it's not really 'pushing'. In the real world, his breathing is steady, measured, and there is little excess movement, only the slow heave of his shoulders that marked that he truly is alive and well. It's a guided freefall, with no parachute, trusting that when he finally hit the ground, he wouldn't be splattered to pieces -

The boy's descent ends somewhere between burning hatred and a feeling of total powerlessness.

(Jericho)

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His breathing goes labored. He strains. Jericho...feels as if he's suffocating, all of a sudden. As if he's stumbled upon a truth that'd been there from the beginning, that he didn't desire to face. Something dwells within this metaphysical realm within his very heart - there's something there that he does not like.

It is not something a predator needs.

It is not in line with the assassin's code.

It is not something his father would have approved of.

Jericho's eyes snap open, and he lurches forward, breaking his meditative state. He leans forward, unsure of what he'd just seen, or felt...sweat trickles down his forehead, and the boy runs a hand through his hair.

"No more meditation," he mutters.

An assassin had no need for a heart.