Kirazi's Element: Finding the Tempest Within

Kirazi is resting alone on the edge of the old road, watching the last remnants of twilight disappear into the darkness. Grey clouds stretch across the horizon, and rain pitter-patters against the grass and the brim of his hat. Pilgrims and explorers carved this road through the rolling grassy hills decades ago, some seeking safety and fortune. And now here’s Kirazi, sitting beside a crude campfire that’s more smoke than flame, struggling against the cold and rain. As the sun disappears, he breaks away from the horizon and turns towards the flickering flame. He sighs and pulls himself up before walking to it, kneeling so the orange embers reflect off his grey eyes, illuminating his wet brown coat. Kirazi looks contemplatively into the fire. His eyes were intense, reliving an old memory. Sometimes on nights like this, he can hear echoes of his past. Thoughts designed to torture him, remind him who he was or is. One of the logs cracks, and a gunshot echoes in his mind, the smell of gunpowder hanging in his nose. More gunshots fired back. Repeaters, six-shooters, rifles. Bullets whizzing past, shouts of command and retorts of intimidation, the desperate rolling wheels of a fleeing stagecoach, and the thundering hooves of a gang looking for a payday.

His gang.

“Hey, Kirazi.” Spoke a dulcet yet rugged voice with a southern accent, stirring Kirazi from sleep.

The rough, lonely night is replaced with a warmly lit bedroom and comfortable feather bed. The sun peeked into the modest, wood-floored and walled bedroom from a window that hung half open above his bed. The sounds of casual gunfire and boisterous laughs could be heard at the distant range. The rest of the gang was up, and this was one of their clubhouses. A wardrobe, trunk, and mirror are tucked in the opposite corner of the room from him, where he lies in bed. On the opposite wall is a large desk filled with less-than neatly stacked papers and books relating to studying spells and incantations. Kirazi’s gun belt hung on the back of the old wooden chair at the desk, and next to the desk was the door, which now turned open, where a maroon-skinned, black horned devilkin stood, leaning against the open door, which creaked slightly against his weight. Kirazi sat up in bed with a yawn and a stretch, the blanket sliding down to his waist, showing his lithe but strapping frame riddled with scars.

“Guess you just figured you’d, uh, sleep in today, boy?” He speaks with half-joking, half-disappointed energy and a cheeky smile, showing his sharp incisors.
Kirazi cocks an eyebrow and looks at him, returning the look.

“You know damn well…” he let out another yawn. “...Exactly why I needed a few extra this morning, Bandit.” He said, pointing the finger at the devilkin, also speaking in a rugged, southern accent.

The devilkin strode into the room, leaving the door to hang open. He was tall and muscular, with a chiselled jawline and hunter’s eyes. He wears a black hat with golden studs on his brow and ears. He has a well-groomed black goatee and emerald eyes more precious than a dragon’s horde. He wears a white shirt with sleeves rolled past the elbows and a dark red vest with golden chains hanging from the pockets. He wore black pants and, of course, leather boots with spurs that rattled with each step. He looked much cleaner and fancier than most of the gang members. But that made sense. He was their leader, after all. He raised his eyebrows as he looked at Kirazi’s desk curiously.
“Oh yes. And how’s all this book reading coming, boy?” He says as he runs his hand across the disorganized mess.
“Well, enough. I still haven’t quite figured out the elemental stuff you were telling me about. I’ve read every bit about it, but I can’t manifest it like they’re saying.” He explains with a frustrated tone, standing up, quickly pulling up his drawers while Bandit’s back was turned, and standing up out of bed, walking over to the desk.
Bandit looks at Kirazi and shakes his head.
“Come on, boy. How many times have I got to tell you this? No amount of reading or practice is going to bring that out. It’s all about the heart. Books are a guideline, but your magic, your element, needs to be unique to you. Needs to come out… of you.” Bandit presses one of his strong hands on Kirazi’s bare chest as he explains. Kirazi swallows nervously, feeling his strong hand on his chest. He couldn’t deny he liked the feeling, but Kirazi was good at hiding his emotions.
“Right. I guess I get caught up in the steps and forget to be natural.” He says as he moves away from Bandit’s hand, trying to clean up the embarrassing, disorganized mess.

Bandit leans against the wall. “This ain’t like other spells they teach at the schools. This is primal magic. It ain’t something anyone else can teach you. You need to feel it.” He says, scratching the back of his head.
“Well, that’s so very helpful, Bandit.” He says indignantly.
“Hey, no need to give me lip, Kirazi. I’m just telling you how it is.” He responds defensively.
“Yeah yeah. It’s just confusing.” He whispers, rubbing his eyes as he leans over the table.
Bandit comes next to him and puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Way I see it, when the time comes, you’ll know. For now, best not to get muddled in it all. Come on now; we’ve got a job today.” He says, lifting his hand off Kirazi, walking towards the door, and lighting a cigarette in his mouth.
“What do we got?” Kirazi asks begrudgingly.
“Stagecoach. Need all hands on deck.” He responds candidly before walking out the door, closing it behind him, not leaving time for Kirazi to ask questions.

As the door closes, Kirazi raises a finger, sighs, and drops it before getting dressed and gathering his gear.

Everything else blurred together, climbing on his horse with the gang, a last rousing speech from Bandit, and before he knew it, he was thundering down the road on horseback, mask on and revolver in hand. The stagecoach was manned with guards carrying guns, defending it with their lives. Bullets flew past Kirazi as he closed in on it, him firing his shots in turn. The carriage wheels were moving so fast they blurred, and his horse’s hooves thundered. He could hear the horse losing steam, he knew he had to act, or the stagecoach would disappear. The rest of the gang was dealing with the other guards on horseback. He took a deep breath and aimed at the wheel of the carriage. Everything seemed to stop briefly, but as the hammer slammed back and the bullet fired, everything started moving again. With a sickening splitting sound, the stagecoach tipped over. The wheel broke off, and since the stagecoach was moving so fast and now unbalanced, the back wheel snapped under the weight, causing it to fall. The horses broke off their restraints, turned off the road, causing the stagecoach to tilt left, and started rolling down the road over its sides. Kirazi jumped forward off his horse to avoid it as the carriage came crashing. He rolled along the dirt road, battering and bruising his body.

As he dazedly sat up, he heard the carriage crashing down the road straight towards him. Instinctively, Kirazi raised his hands to protect himself as a blast of magical wind burst from his hands, grappling onto the stagecoach. As he waited to be crushed, he opened his eyes and saw what was happening, a look of pure joy on his face. The stagecoach stood frozen in the air before him, pieces of splintered wood floating around it as well. Kirazi focused on it, his hands shaking, as he gently brought the stagecoach down before him. Landing on the dirt road with a thud. The rest of the gang rode in, having disposed of the other guards. They got to work looting the stagecoach and dealing with any stragglers. Bandit lowered his mask and smiled at Kirazi.
“Told ya you’d figure it out, boy.” He said, helping Kirazi up.
“Guess you did.” He said with a smile.
At that moment, Kirazi could see burning in Bandit’s eyes. A burning of pride. This unforgettable feeling of appreciation and respect boiled up in Kirazi. This was what he always dreamed of.

With a flash, the skies are grey, rainy and gloomy again; the pathetic fire has gone out, leaving only red-hot coals. Kirazi raised his hands as the wind picked up around him. A log blew through the air, landing on the coals. He focused on adding fuel to the coals before they eventually burst into a larger flame. The wind died down, and with the fire lit, Kirazi returned to resting. The power of the sky. Of the air around him. What a boon. He wished he could’ve used it for the right reasons instead of the years of hurting others. In a way, he regrets such a tool, such a weapon, being put into his hands, but on the other, he knew he could use it for good now. He lay on his cot underneath his makeshift shelter and closed his eyes as the fire crackled forever into the night.