Mistweaver
09-13-2005, 03:22 PM
This was originally written for my guild's forum boards (members are encouraged to write background storiies for their characters). I came up with this thing, it's a biggie, sometimes dull and cliche as hell. Basically I've wanted an excuse to make some reference to games/books/movies/places etc. I'd like to now what you think about it, constructive criticism is most welcome:) Used some lyrics by The Doors.
Multuniverse Theory (or: The Planes Theory) – designed by ArchM Zalaas of the Earthquakers in 477 FE states that an infinite of parallel worlds exist and rest upon a common axis which is manifested by a point in the space-time continuum of each dimension. Zalaas believed that by “merging” with the axis one may gain access to every single plane (world) that rests upon it. This theory has never been proved. See: Zalaas, Theodore; Earthquakers.
Focus – an ancient artefact of unknown origin; proved to be the source of magical energy (or: mana). It rests on the top of the Spire, a natural and exceptionally regular rock formation approx. 1500 feet high. The Spire lies in the centre of a heptagon (the vertices of which are powerful mana gathering devices known as the Pillars). The year of the discovery of the Spire and the Focus is the base of our timeline (BF-Before Focus; FE-Focus Era). This artefact has been protected by the Mistweavers since 251 FE. See: Spire; Mana; Heptagon; Pillars; Mistweavers.
Mistweavers – a conclave of mages; independent from the Royal Circle of Mages; founded in 247 FE by king Hamonthep IV in order to protect the Focus from any faction or individual willing to claim it (including the Royal Court and the Monarch). Mistweavers are trained in both arcane and elemental magic; their training is ended by a ritual (called Path of Enlightenment) during which the acolyte is exposed to the magical radiation of the Focus and chooses a new name for himself from the Book of Names. See: Royal Circle of Mages; Hamonthep IV; Book of Names.
The Beast: a legendary creature believed to be responsible for the Carthagi invasion and the darkling scourge of 1271. See: Carthagia; Carthagi Mercenaries; Darklings; Occult; Daemons.
Reference: Royal Encyclopaedia, Stelgaard University Press, 1272.
A Stranger's Hand
The Spire, 1275 FE.
Ashes everywhere. The air was filled with the thick, bitter stench of blood, pain and burning death. Dark, heavy clouds hung above the tormented soil. In the distance the horizons were burning. The delicate wind stirred the ashes and weaved the black mist of decay.
Death was on the move, it had crossed the southern sea, the great forests, the steppes and the plains. Death now set her thousand pairs of eyes on her goal, finally within her reach; the Spire, the great, holy monument of ancient powers, the spear which touched the skies... and under the roof of the world... a shard of godliness waiting to be claimed.
And claimed it shall be.
The Death of this world was The Legion; an army of soulless minions, the darklings. Some of them had once been men, mercenaries, but their souls had faded into the darkness, they became indistinguishable from their daemonic comrades. If you fight hand by hand with the Legion you will become a part of it. The Legion consumes its allies.
The time was right for the Legion to strike one final blow and claim the marvel.
The plan was simple; the only remaining archmage would merge with the focus, draw the raw magical energy from its heart and weave a spell. This spell would create an arcane explosion that, in theory, should cleanse the lands of the Legion. Such a great power was never unleashed before but now, when the kingdoms of men were consumed by the invasion and the last bastion of mankind, the Spire, was besieged, there was little to lose.
The Spire was protected by the remains of the Royal Army. The archmage, along with four younger mages, last of the Mistweavers, was preparing himself for the ritual of the weaving in the chamber of the Focus.
The circular chamber, about 60 feet in diameter, was roofed by a great crystal dome. In the centre of the floor was a carved runic circle with the Focus floating about 15 feet above. The Focus itself was a glittering crystal, illuminating the chamber with bright blue light (which, surprisingly, did not hurt the eyes).
The archmage entered the circle. The Focus illuminated him, bathing him in the light of a thousand suns. The runes lit up and the circle was filled with a bright light. The Incantation had begun.
In the silence that came afterwards a muffled sound of parrying blades could not go unnoticed. Somewhere on the stairs of the Spire a battle was fought.
The mages listened carefully: first where the cold sounds of clashing metal, then they heard the screams of man and then animal-like shrieks.
The sounds were closer than before.
“Galahad! Wards!” Edward commanded. Galahad quickly raised his protective wards on the mages. Edward, Rowland and Arthorus began to weave their fireballs.
Finally when they were ready they realised that the sounds had stopped. They could only hear the silent shimmering of Gallahad's wards. Suddenly three arcane bolts shattered the gates leading to the stairs. One was neutralised by Arthorus's protection ward, the other penetrated Gallahad's magical shield, struck him down and burned him from the inside. The third one shot past Rowland's head, crossed the border of the rune circle and hit the archmage. The old sorcerer was dissolved, partly by the bolt of energy, partly by the power of the spell he had intended to cast.
Several darklings ran into the chamber. Some of them had armour and blades, some were unarmed. All were pitch black.
The mages shot their fireballs burning most of the intruders, Arthorus wove a new set of protection wards, Edward and Rowland burned the remaining darklings.
“The circle!” Edward shouted “The spell must be maintained! Art?”
“Can't! Wards” Arthorus replied.
“Rowl!”
“Resurrecting Gal, can't.” Rowland was kneeling by his dead friend.
“He has slipped away, nothing more can be done, go! 'Tis thy duty! Haste, more are bound to come!” Edward shouted.
“Why won't you go?”
“I kill faster.” Edward informed.
Rowland knew that. Edward was the fastest spellweaver among the mages. His cold, simple logic made him dangerous to his enemies. A natural leader.
Roland ran into the runic circle. He reached out his hands to the great crystal above, closed his eyes and spoke the first words of the ancient incantation. The runes lit up with blue light, the air became thick with arcane energy, the faint, bright mist began to rise...
Rowland carried on, unaware that the protective magical wards of his colleagues had begum to fade, their screams of terror barely reached him, as the power of the focus flowed through him... Time started to slow down, Rowland opened his eyes and, still whispering the ancient words, saw the darklings breaking into the chamber...
From his point of view it all seemed unreal, as if the whole world beyond the circle was a dream.. less than a dream, a faint memory from the past... a memory of things that had never happened.
Suddenly he realised that deep inside his head the Focus spoke...
No, the Focus sang...
This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end
The silent song was the only sound he could hear. He could see Edward weaving a fireball, he could see Arthorus being slayed by the darklings in slow-motion...
Was it real? Was he really there? What was the truth...
The Focus was real, that was the only thing he was sure of...
Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
I'll never look into your eyes
Again
Edward was falling down on his knees, black arrows in his chest...
Can you picture what will be
So limitless and free
The Focus was singing, the incantation was almost completed. That was real. A darkling slowly entered circle.
Desperately in need
Of some
Stranger's hand
The black daemon became real.
In a
Desperate land
Rowland realised that he could not speak the words anymore. He looked down he could see a broad bloody blade sticking out of his chest...
He felt no pain...
The blade retracted, Rowland fell.
He was alive, the fading energy of the spell was keeping him in this state... nevertheless it was only a matter of seconds now. Fate has sentenced him to death, the glowing thread of his life was removed from the pattern of reality. He was alive...
But he was dying.
The Focus glowed above, like a great blue sun, time was slowed down, the circle was there. He was dying but he was still merged with the Focus.
Roland
Something came out of the blue sun. A tall, white figure was floating down. It's features were concealed by long white robes woven from the mists of time and space.
Roland of the Mistweavers
You are dying
As if his own body wanted to assure Roland of that fact, everything started to blur.
Your fate has been sealed
Although Rowland was bearly concious he was afraid of death. Shards of his living mind screamed in terror...
I can break this seal
In return for
What?
Your will
Serve me, Roland of the Mistweavers
And you shall live
Rowlands dying lips tried to speak, desperately pronouncing one word.
“Yes”
It was not Rowland talking, it was his fear, his instinct, his fading, selfish conciousness. But for the white figure it had made no difference.
You will go now elsewhere
Where you will await me
And your tasks
A sudden feeling of motion, great, blue light, silence, then whispers, words he did not understand, screams, prayers, songs, laughter, a woman crying over the body of her only child taken away by a disease, a young boy's promise of true love to a girl with pretty eyes, an old man's story of times gone by.
He did not understand the words but he understood the messages. He was listening to the sounds of countless worlds chained together by the axis.
The light became dim, images appeared, one by one, he saw...
...the lights of the city of Stormwind as he walked among the trees of Elwynn Forest....
...the restless waves of the Baltic and the rage of the storm high above...
...the great fairy forest, illuminated by the full moon and the servants of Queen Titania completing their mystical quests...
...a dark tower and a man he had shared his name with seeking it...
More images came, the speed of their passing increased, a slideshow of worlds before his eyes, deserts, forests, oceans, cities, ruins, cathedrals, people...
...until one image remained. A city of high towers, great blue sky, green grass, a bridge in the distance, wind in his hair.
Tyria. Ascalon. These names slipped into his mind. He realised he knew where he was, he understood the language of the people around him.
He did not see the white figure anywhere, though. He knew nothing of it's intentions or goals, he was alone in a new world, cursed to await the coming of his mysterious master.
The seals are broken
He has no fate
He is not chained to his destiny
He is a valuable pawn
Let us make use of him
Elsewhere, in a circular chamber roofed by a crystal dome, the Beast, lord of Death, was admiring his new possession.
“I've imagined it would be bigger” it thought.
Multuniverse Theory (or: The Planes Theory) – designed by ArchM Zalaas of the Earthquakers in 477 FE states that an infinite of parallel worlds exist and rest upon a common axis which is manifested by a point in the space-time continuum of each dimension. Zalaas believed that by “merging” with the axis one may gain access to every single plane (world) that rests upon it. This theory has never been proved. See: Zalaas, Theodore; Earthquakers.
Focus – an ancient artefact of unknown origin; proved to be the source of magical energy (or: mana). It rests on the top of the Spire, a natural and exceptionally regular rock formation approx. 1500 feet high. The Spire lies in the centre of a heptagon (the vertices of which are powerful mana gathering devices known as the Pillars). The year of the discovery of the Spire and the Focus is the base of our timeline (BF-Before Focus; FE-Focus Era). This artefact has been protected by the Mistweavers since 251 FE. See: Spire; Mana; Heptagon; Pillars; Mistweavers.
Mistweavers – a conclave of mages; independent from the Royal Circle of Mages; founded in 247 FE by king Hamonthep IV in order to protect the Focus from any faction or individual willing to claim it (including the Royal Court and the Monarch). Mistweavers are trained in both arcane and elemental magic; their training is ended by a ritual (called Path of Enlightenment) during which the acolyte is exposed to the magical radiation of the Focus and chooses a new name for himself from the Book of Names. See: Royal Circle of Mages; Hamonthep IV; Book of Names.
The Beast: a legendary creature believed to be responsible for the Carthagi invasion and the darkling scourge of 1271. See: Carthagia; Carthagi Mercenaries; Darklings; Occult; Daemons.
Reference: Royal Encyclopaedia, Stelgaard University Press, 1272.
A Stranger's Hand
The Spire, 1275 FE.
Ashes everywhere. The air was filled with the thick, bitter stench of blood, pain and burning death. Dark, heavy clouds hung above the tormented soil. In the distance the horizons were burning. The delicate wind stirred the ashes and weaved the black mist of decay.
Death was on the move, it had crossed the southern sea, the great forests, the steppes and the plains. Death now set her thousand pairs of eyes on her goal, finally within her reach; the Spire, the great, holy monument of ancient powers, the spear which touched the skies... and under the roof of the world... a shard of godliness waiting to be claimed.
And claimed it shall be.
The Death of this world was The Legion; an army of soulless minions, the darklings. Some of them had once been men, mercenaries, but their souls had faded into the darkness, they became indistinguishable from their daemonic comrades. If you fight hand by hand with the Legion you will become a part of it. The Legion consumes its allies.
The time was right for the Legion to strike one final blow and claim the marvel.
The plan was simple; the only remaining archmage would merge with the focus, draw the raw magical energy from its heart and weave a spell. This spell would create an arcane explosion that, in theory, should cleanse the lands of the Legion. Such a great power was never unleashed before but now, when the kingdoms of men were consumed by the invasion and the last bastion of mankind, the Spire, was besieged, there was little to lose.
The Spire was protected by the remains of the Royal Army. The archmage, along with four younger mages, last of the Mistweavers, was preparing himself for the ritual of the weaving in the chamber of the Focus.
The circular chamber, about 60 feet in diameter, was roofed by a great crystal dome. In the centre of the floor was a carved runic circle with the Focus floating about 15 feet above. The Focus itself was a glittering crystal, illuminating the chamber with bright blue light (which, surprisingly, did not hurt the eyes).
The archmage entered the circle. The Focus illuminated him, bathing him in the light of a thousand suns. The runes lit up and the circle was filled with a bright light. The Incantation had begun.
In the silence that came afterwards a muffled sound of parrying blades could not go unnoticed. Somewhere on the stairs of the Spire a battle was fought.
The mages listened carefully: first where the cold sounds of clashing metal, then they heard the screams of man and then animal-like shrieks.
The sounds were closer than before.
“Galahad! Wards!” Edward commanded. Galahad quickly raised his protective wards on the mages. Edward, Rowland and Arthorus began to weave their fireballs.
Finally when they were ready they realised that the sounds had stopped. They could only hear the silent shimmering of Gallahad's wards. Suddenly three arcane bolts shattered the gates leading to the stairs. One was neutralised by Arthorus's protection ward, the other penetrated Gallahad's magical shield, struck him down and burned him from the inside. The third one shot past Rowland's head, crossed the border of the rune circle and hit the archmage. The old sorcerer was dissolved, partly by the bolt of energy, partly by the power of the spell he had intended to cast.
Several darklings ran into the chamber. Some of them had armour and blades, some were unarmed. All were pitch black.
The mages shot their fireballs burning most of the intruders, Arthorus wove a new set of protection wards, Edward and Rowland burned the remaining darklings.
“The circle!” Edward shouted “The spell must be maintained! Art?”
“Can't! Wards” Arthorus replied.
“Rowl!”
“Resurrecting Gal, can't.” Rowland was kneeling by his dead friend.
“He has slipped away, nothing more can be done, go! 'Tis thy duty! Haste, more are bound to come!” Edward shouted.
“Why won't you go?”
“I kill faster.” Edward informed.
Rowland knew that. Edward was the fastest spellweaver among the mages. His cold, simple logic made him dangerous to his enemies. A natural leader.
Roland ran into the runic circle. He reached out his hands to the great crystal above, closed his eyes and spoke the first words of the ancient incantation. The runes lit up with blue light, the air became thick with arcane energy, the faint, bright mist began to rise...
Rowland carried on, unaware that the protective magical wards of his colleagues had begum to fade, their screams of terror barely reached him, as the power of the focus flowed through him... Time started to slow down, Rowland opened his eyes and, still whispering the ancient words, saw the darklings breaking into the chamber...
From his point of view it all seemed unreal, as if the whole world beyond the circle was a dream.. less than a dream, a faint memory from the past... a memory of things that had never happened.
Suddenly he realised that deep inside his head the Focus spoke...
No, the Focus sang...
This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end
The silent song was the only sound he could hear. He could see Edward weaving a fireball, he could see Arthorus being slayed by the darklings in slow-motion...
Was it real? Was he really there? What was the truth...
The Focus was real, that was the only thing he was sure of...
Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
I'll never look into your eyes
Again
Edward was falling down on his knees, black arrows in his chest...
Can you picture what will be
So limitless and free
The Focus was singing, the incantation was almost completed. That was real. A darkling slowly entered circle.
Desperately in need
Of some
Stranger's hand
The black daemon became real.
In a
Desperate land
Rowland realised that he could not speak the words anymore. He looked down he could see a broad bloody blade sticking out of his chest...
He felt no pain...
The blade retracted, Rowland fell.
He was alive, the fading energy of the spell was keeping him in this state... nevertheless it was only a matter of seconds now. Fate has sentenced him to death, the glowing thread of his life was removed from the pattern of reality. He was alive...
But he was dying.
The Focus glowed above, like a great blue sun, time was slowed down, the circle was there. He was dying but he was still merged with the Focus.
Roland
Something came out of the blue sun. A tall, white figure was floating down. It's features were concealed by long white robes woven from the mists of time and space.
Roland of the Mistweavers
You are dying
As if his own body wanted to assure Roland of that fact, everything started to blur.
Your fate has been sealed
Although Rowland was bearly concious he was afraid of death. Shards of his living mind screamed in terror...
I can break this seal
In return for
What?
Your will
Serve me, Roland of the Mistweavers
And you shall live
Rowlands dying lips tried to speak, desperately pronouncing one word.
“Yes”
It was not Rowland talking, it was his fear, his instinct, his fading, selfish conciousness. But for the white figure it had made no difference.
You will go now elsewhere
Where you will await me
And your tasks
A sudden feeling of motion, great, blue light, silence, then whispers, words he did not understand, screams, prayers, songs, laughter, a woman crying over the body of her only child taken away by a disease, a young boy's promise of true love to a girl with pretty eyes, an old man's story of times gone by.
He did not understand the words but he understood the messages. He was listening to the sounds of countless worlds chained together by the axis.
The light became dim, images appeared, one by one, he saw...
...the lights of the city of Stormwind as he walked among the trees of Elwynn Forest....
...the restless waves of the Baltic and the rage of the storm high above...
...the great fairy forest, illuminated by the full moon and the servants of Queen Titania completing their mystical quests...
...a dark tower and a man he had shared his name with seeking it...
More images came, the speed of their passing increased, a slideshow of worlds before his eyes, deserts, forests, oceans, cities, ruins, cathedrals, people...
...until one image remained. A city of high towers, great blue sky, green grass, a bridge in the distance, wind in his hair.
Tyria. Ascalon. These names slipped into his mind. He realised he knew where he was, he understood the language of the people around him.
He did not see the white figure anywhere, though. He knew nothing of it's intentions or goals, he was alone in a new world, cursed to await the coming of his mysterious master.
The seals are broken
He has no fate
He is not chained to his destiny
He is a valuable pawn
Let us make use of him
Elsewhere, in a circular chamber roofed by a crystal dome, the Beast, lord of Death, was admiring his new possession.
“I've imagined it would be bigger” it thought.