(This is a prelude to the novel I've decided to start.)
You must login to vote
An echoing thump ran through the dark room, and light flared into being. The steady white glow revealed a man, old, one might think him feeble. That impression would be banished the moment anyone saw his eyes. They were dark with purpose and secrets, and they held the grim resolve of one who had met the impossible and overcome it many times before. The man strode forward, spry despite his gnarled frame. The light he had created followed him. His clothing was dirty, and torn through journey, he carried with him a curious staff, thick at the top, and the bottom was thin, and blackened with ashes. On it was carved strange runic symbols that whispered of power.
But that was not all he carried. He also clutched at a green stone. It was not a pretty stone. It was near the size of the tip of his little finger, and it did not shine. In fact, for it’s colour, it seemed to draw in the white light, instead of reflecting it.
The aged man held it protectively to his chest, and though he was alone, he glanced suspiciously in every corner as he swept through dark corridor after dark corridor. After traveling through a veritable maze of shadowed halls, he arrived at a grand room, and the light he created reflected off many mirrors, all of which served to further illuminate the chamber.
Sketched upon the floor was a complex grouping of spheres and archaic symbols. It was massive and every inch held enough detail to have taken weeks to sketch. Directly in the middle of the circle was a small pot. It looked like greyish clay, but it had a quality that could be nothing but sheer, unbridled strength. It was plain, with fanciful drawings of winged demons and bright angels adorning it. The lid lay close to it, on the ground.
With trembling fingers, the man let the stone slip and fall into the jar. Kneeling swiftly, he put the lid onto it, with a silent sigh of relief. The lifting his staff he cried “Sansei, sansei malenkur ascendon, sansei!” And with a crash be ground the heel of his staff into the lid of the pot.
Within the room, a subtle shifting occurred, as if some being had reached into that plane of existence, and rippled reality. Quickly the lines of power settled on the jar, and an invisible weight seemed to have been applied.
With that, the man sunk wearily against his staff, and the light in the room faded noticeably. Lifting the jar slowly, he stumbled from the room, having completed his final task.
When the winds of the west blow, it is called Farror, for he is the god of all wind.