Tay M'real
Sorceror
New Age of Darkness Pt. 1
The lone flame flickered from within the latern as the brisk winds blew roughly through the single window that was bore through the stone walls of the tower. It travelled over the Bay of Lost Hope and over the cragged peaks of the Dragonspine mountains, travelling with an undetermined mind in an undetermined path. In the distance, the dark sky illuminated in flashes of brilliance as lightning struck the oceans below, a show of dancing light that dissapeared as quickly as it showed. It was accompanied by an orchestra of bone-ratteling thunder that rocked the grounds of Sosaria. The storm was steadily advancing, showering the peaceful night lands of Britannia with a thick and heavy rain. Deep within the keep, atop one of it's towering fictures and surrounded by the cold stone walls and masked in velvet shadows, the mage sat in solitude, his aged face a serious of deep ravines carved into thick brown skin. His deep brown eyes were sunk, overshadowed by thick grey eyebrows that hung and drew his face downward. His nose was thin and ended in a thick grey beard that hid his lips. Pointed ears pierced through his long grey hair that hung loosely over his ragged shoulders. As the wind began to blow harder, he drew his deep blue robes tighter and brought a frail hand to his mouth in a vain attempt to stop his convulsive coughing. He gasped and cursed at the coming winter, eyeing the storm throught the long thin window. He sat at a long wooden table, it's top covered in a serious of rolled parchment and magical artifacts ranging from jewlery to potion bottles, spellbooks and reagents. A thin grey mist hung throughout the room as a single leaf of nightshade burned atop an iron ring that sat over a burning flame.
The old man ran a long finger over the manuscript that was unrolled before him as he continued his reading. He read in haste as he considered the approaching storm and his desire to continue before night fell to the morning. The parchment was badily aged and threatened disinigration with every movement. The markings were faded by the passing of time and written in the language rarily used in Britannia. He read with intesity, a renewed vigor that drove his eyes and mind, capturing all the knowledge of the words he read; of their instruction and their lore. He tilted his head back in wonder, resting it upon the soft backing of the magincia style throne he had come so accustomed to. He envisioned the words meaning; the lore of the sages before him. He considered the length of time he had been waiting, of the years of research and venture and the many dissapointments they rendered. He thought of how long it had been since he touched it; the way the cool smooth edges made of gold felt in his hands. The thought of the power it possessed and how alive it made him feel, until it was taken from him. He could feel his teeth clench and grind; his hand now a fist resting on the arm of the chair as he eyed the shadows of the tower's ceiling. At last he thought.
"Mi'lord." The old man's thoughts were scattered as a desperate voice rang in his ear. Startled, he shot a look behind him to see a small boy knelt with his eyes facing the floor. The scowl of the other's look bore through the young boy as a cloud of oppression seemed to settle suddenly upon the room, it's stench and feel engulfing the two. In his ponderance of the words, the old man had not heard the door of the tower open and the boy enter. "Mi'lord, " he repeated "They've arrived and are awaiting you in the courtyard. Shall I tell them you will have council this eve?" The old man returned to the parchment, reaching for a pipe and a small pouch from the table. He proceeded to pull the root from the brown bag, re-drew the drawstring and stuffed it into the bowl of the pipe. Running his hand over it, it flickered to life and he drew it to his mouth and inhaled in silence.
He sighed heavily, a thick grey smoke sifting through the night air and dissapearing in the vast expanse of the room. "Tell them I shall be down shortly." The old man curled his lip in a slight smile, watching through the window and listening to the footfalls of the boy as he left the room, closed the iron bound door and proceeded down the staircase. He looked down at the parchment, reading the final sentence again and nodding with a look of satisfaction over his face. "Soon...ye shall grace these walls again." He reached for a gnarled staff that was leaning on the edge of the table and pulled himself up with a struggle. He continued to puff on his smoking pipe, finding a level of relief from his nagging cough in every breath. The mix of crushed black pearl and mandrake root ripped at his throat and lungs, but the suppression of his coughing was worth the price. He turned and walked to the door, waving his arm behind him and silencing the flames that burned on the table. The room immediately fell into the darkness and only the echoes of the staff upon the stone floors echoed and announced life, for the shadow had no life and it's prescence undetectable as it pulled itself way from the corner of the room.
The lone flame flickered from within the latern as the brisk winds blew roughly through the single window that was bore through the stone walls of the tower. It travelled over the Bay of Lost Hope and over the cragged peaks of the Dragonspine mountains, travelling with an undetermined mind in an undetermined path. In the distance, the dark sky illuminated in flashes of brilliance as lightning struck the oceans below, a show of dancing light that dissapeared as quickly as it showed. It was accompanied by an orchestra of bone-ratteling thunder that rocked the grounds of Sosaria. The storm was steadily advancing, showering the peaceful night lands of Britannia with a thick and heavy rain. Deep within the keep, atop one of it's towering fictures and surrounded by the cold stone walls and masked in velvet shadows, the mage sat in solitude, his aged face a serious of deep ravines carved into thick brown skin. His deep brown eyes were sunk, overshadowed by thick grey eyebrows that hung and drew his face downward. His nose was thin and ended in a thick grey beard that hid his lips. Pointed ears pierced through his long grey hair that hung loosely over his ragged shoulders. As the wind began to blow harder, he drew his deep blue robes tighter and brought a frail hand to his mouth in a vain attempt to stop his convulsive coughing. He gasped and cursed at the coming winter, eyeing the storm throught the long thin window. He sat at a long wooden table, it's top covered in a serious of rolled parchment and magical artifacts ranging from jewlery to potion bottles, spellbooks and reagents. A thin grey mist hung throughout the room as a single leaf of nightshade burned atop an iron ring that sat over a burning flame.
The old man ran a long finger over the manuscript that was unrolled before him as he continued his reading. He read in haste as he considered the approaching storm and his desire to continue before night fell to the morning. The parchment was badily aged and threatened disinigration with every movement. The markings were faded by the passing of time and written in the language rarily used in Britannia. He read with intesity, a renewed vigor that drove his eyes and mind, capturing all the knowledge of the words he read; of their instruction and their lore. He tilted his head back in wonder, resting it upon the soft backing of the magincia style throne he had come so accustomed to. He envisioned the words meaning; the lore of the sages before him. He considered the length of time he had been waiting, of the years of research and venture and the many dissapointments they rendered. He thought of how long it had been since he touched it; the way the cool smooth edges made of gold felt in his hands. The thought of the power it possessed and how alive it made him feel, until it was taken from him. He could feel his teeth clench and grind; his hand now a fist resting on the arm of the chair as he eyed the shadows of the tower's ceiling. At last he thought.
"Mi'lord." The old man's thoughts were scattered as a desperate voice rang in his ear. Startled, he shot a look behind him to see a small boy knelt with his eyes facing the floor. The scowl of the other's look bore through the young boy as a cloud of oppression seemed to settle suddenly upon the room, it's stench and feel engulfing the two. In his ponderance of the words, the old man had not heard the door of the tower open and the boy enter. "Mi'lord, " he repeated "They've arrived and are awaiting you in the courtyard. Shall I tell them you will have council this eve?" The old man returned to the parchment, reaching for a pipe and a small pouch from the table. He proceeded to pull the root from the brown bag, re-drew the drawstring and stuffed it into the bowl of the pipe. Running his hand over it, it flickered to life and he drew it to his mouth and inhaled in silence.
He sighed heavily, a thick grey smoke sifting through the night air and dissapearing in the vast expanse of the room. "Tell them I shall be down shortly." The old man curled his lip in a slight smile, watching through the window and listening to the footfalls of the boy as he left the room, closed the iron bound door and proceeded down the staircase. He looked down at the parchment, reading the final sentence again and nodding with a look of satisfaction over his face. "Soon...ye shall grace these walls again." He reached for a gnarled staff that was leaning on the edge of the table and pulled himself up with a struggle. He continued to puff on his smoking pipe, finding a level of relief from his nagging cough in every breath. The mix of crushed black pearl and mandrake root ripped at his throat and lungs, but the suppression of his coughing was worth the price. He turned and walked to the door, waving his arm behind him and silencing the flames that burned on the table. The room immediately fell into the darkness and only the echoes of the staff upon the stone floors echoed and announced life, for the shadow had no life and it's prescence undetectable as it pulled itself way from the corner of the room.