The Storm Mage
The Dust in the Wind
Strange Talents
The Infernal's Hate
.::The Storm Mage::.
The shepherd climbed up the jagged peaks of Havoc Mountain located in the mountains that connected the two continents of Athglöre and Jîulph. The cold, biting winds tore across the shepherd's face. His skin ripped in some places and he started to bleed. He hugged his body tightly, and wrapped his clothes around him tighter. The shepherd rubbed his hands together to keep them warm. He trudged along, his thin shoes wearing down. Stopping, the shepherd took out a flask of water and drank from it, glancing up at the sharp peaks that lay ahead. Beyond the peaks was a steep cliff, blocking the path. He crouched silently, examining the ground and surrounding bushes for any clue that might lead him to his prize ram. After a long while, his patience was rewarded with a patch of wool hanging from the bare branch of a bush and a few tracks. Satisfied, the shepherd followed the tracks, looking up every now and then, keeping an eye out for the ram.
Suddenly, a low hissing sound interrupted the silence, and the shepherd froze. A giant black spider with long, spindly legs scuttled over the giant boulders with surprising speed towards the shepherd. The spider smelled of rot and decay, and on its back was the purple crescent of the Venom mages. The shepherd was stunned by the blow as the spider land on him, spitting and hissing at the shepherd, nipping him with its pincers. The commotion dislodged a charm that the shepherd kept around his neck. The charm broke and thick, purple liquid spilled from the glass vial. It stank like rotten pallas egg. The stench must have meant something to the spider, for its aggression disappeared. Satisfied that the shepherd was not an enemy, the spider backed off and ceased its hissing. A few minutes after the spider disappeared from view, a loud snap filled the air and there was a peculiar gurgling sound. Breathing heavily, the shepherd, who had just recovered from the strange ordeal, advanced towards the sound, as silently as possible.
As he neared an outcrop of rock, his shoes scraped a small rock, sending it tumbling down the cliff with a muffled clanking sound. The shepherd's body went rigid and he clutched a nearby rock with his cold, stiff fingers. The cold rocks drove into his skin. He stood there sweating, waiting for the source of the noise to appear. Hearing and seeing nothing, the shepherd crept forward and gasped when he saw the black spider with its twisted, mangled body, spewing green blood. Stepping close to the body, the shepherd wrinkled his nose, as a wave a horrible stench overcame him. Suddenly, a dark figure appeared behind the shepherd. His short, white robe billowed around his body, matching the color of his painted face. The man had an eagle embroidered on his sleeve, across the hem of his robes, and a larger one across his chest, the symbol of the Storm Mages. His muscles were well defined and he stood proud and tall. On his back were two staffs. Both had one end that looked like a feather plucked from a bird of tremendous size. The edges of the feather were razor sharp. On one staff, the feather was like a fancy quill, except the quill was filled with a purple liquid that sizzled when it dripped onto the ground. The other feather had a sharp razor attached on it. The shepherd turned cold with fear and stood rooted to the spot. His legs would not respond, even as he urged them to carry him away.
"Kamen ankana!" the man thundered. A brilliant blue light burst from the man’s outstretched palm, and the shepherd felt a blast of ice cold wind, too cold to have come from the mountains, sweep him off his feet, and he felt himself falling off the cliff. "Atioc vez!" the man commanded, seeing the shepherd fall of the cliff. The shepherd sensed himself being dragged upwards. Wind howled around him, tearing at his clothes and cutting deep into his wounds. The shepherd closed his eyes and screamed in agony. Opening his eyes, the shepherd found himself face to face with the Storm Mage. He uttered a faint cry from his throat when he saw the man open his mouth again. "Voqia vef kamana!" and the shepherd fell unconscious. The Storm mage has a content look upon his face.
.::The Dust in the Wind::.
A warm breeze blew over the sleeping town. Blood was in the air. The villagers called the town Inoq Aibb. It was the city in which the Temple of Blood was located. The villagers slept peacefully and quietly, knowing the Gate’s Sentinels would guard over them. Two screams pierced the darkness, yet the villagers slept on. As the sun rose, the Blood Wolves began to howl, and the villagers awoke from their slumber to find something amiss. Everyone, even the children, could smell blood in the air, but found no trace of the origin. Alarm quickly spread only to find the sentinels at the gate, their bodies torn apart by an invisible claw, and their clothes and hair were matted with dirt, sweat, grime, and blood. As the villagers gathered around the bodies, the sky turned blood red. The villagers screamed and clung to each other as a phoenix made of fresh blood streaked across the sky. With each beat of its tremendous wings, the trees shook and the ground rumbled. As the phoenix approached the villagers below, it morphed into a person, his long, flowing, blood-red robes trailing behind him. The man had a staff on his back, with a long durus handle and a large, white, 4-fingered hand attached to the top. The man wore a white mask that covered his face in its entirety, and had a total of five holes, two narrow slits for his eyes and three circular holes across his mouth. The only colors on his body were either white or red. No flesh showed through his garments. Without waiting for an explanation, the man stepped over the corpses of the Gate Sentinels and plucked his staff from his back. The gloved hand sprang to life and extended to pick up the bodies, and the man muttered, "Venia quesi." Upon the last syllable, the bodies faded to dust and blew away into the wind. The masked figure looked up at the villagers as he slid his staff back onto his back.
Later, the villagers gathered in the town hall and welcomed to strange visitor. As the visitor took off his mask, a murmur spread threw the crowd. Their guest revealed a face that was pale and thin. Thin strands of white hair dangled in front of his eyes which gleamed red. The features of his face were not well defined, and the people in the crowd realized he could not have been older than 17 moons.
“Argilla puallus!” cried some.
“Yes,” said the boy, “And I have been called worse. But that is not the reason I am here .The sentries at the gate were killed. Someone is plotting against us. That is why I have been sent here. I must travel with another mage to find who the aggressor is.”
.::Strange Talents::.
17 moons ago, a boy was born in the village of storm: the Vicanus Asper. His parents were gathered as their child was blessed as a mage and trained to do all forms of magic. He quickly surpassed all other mage, even the ones older than him.
The Elders of Vicanus Asper were gathered around a small, round table carved from a durus tree. A dim lantern hung above them, casting wavering shadows.
“He is a boy of unique talents,” remarked one of the Elders. He was clothed in a grey robe that wrapped tightly around his body.
“Yes,” replied another, “but I do not know where his talents can be used.”
“There have been requests from some of the most powerful clans about sending a party into Jîulph to-“
“There will be no such thing. The number of trained mage we have right now is very little. Sending any one of them to Jîulph would be suicide.”
“In many villages, there have been uprisings. The clans are restless for activity.”
“No. We are to lay low until the mage population has increased to a reasonable amount. Then we might consider plotting an invasion of Jîulph.”
“Very well.”
“However, there could be one way to…”
The second Elder reached across the table and the others leaned closer. There was a buzz of conversation and when the meeting was adjourned, the second Elder had a smile of satisfaction on his face.
He went to visit the family of the boy. He still felt surprised when he saw the boy’s white face. He had always been eating healthily, so this strange phenomenon was perplexing.
“Hello.”
The boy’s sister greeted the elder.
“Mommy!” she called, “Ergret is here to see you!”
There was a shuffling of footsteps and the boy’s mother came to the door.
“Oh, I am so glad you are here. Argöl’s condition is not improving. I am so worried about him,” wept Argöl’s mother.
Ergret went to see Argöl. Indeed, his condition had not improved. His skin was a pale white and his forehead was damp and hot.
“He is sick,” informed the elder, “he is terribly sick.”
.::The Infernal's Hate::.
In a cage of pure magic, the Infernal Titan shook the bars of his prison and roared in fury. His hate for the Conciliatio Titan grew with each passing moon. Ideas and thoughts swirled around him; soft wisps of smoke-like substance. The Infernal Titan was covered with scars and bruises. His grey skin was held tight by magical threads. Some burst, and green, toxic fumes sprayed out, as tall as a mountain. The Infernal gritted his yellow, sharp, fang-like teeth and muttered a spell that formed a light-blue thread that dove into his skin. Seconds later, the scar was closed again. A happy thought floated past the Infernal. Its size was microscopic compared to the size of the Infernal. The Infernal crushed it in his fist. The Infernal twisted backwards and swung forward at the bars. Bone, muscle, hate, anger, and blood collided with the magical bars of the prison. Bone crunched, muscle snapped, yet the magical bars remained unscathed. The Infernal knew his strength was deteriorating. Those damn Elementals, those backstabbing, cowards... His rule pleased many. The art of magic thrived under his influence. He could not understand why he was now imprisoned.
