A Different Kind of Magic
by Fordus van Anen
Humble Mage of the Paper and the Music
Prologue
-------------
"Storm's coming," remarked one of the patrons of the
Dragon's Tankard Inn of Old Palanthas. The skies boomed with thunder
in reply to his words, followed by a blinding flash of lightning.
A short but rather thin, ruddy man, just begining to show the signs
of a ging, leaned on the bar and looked with grave eyes at the young
man who had just spoken. "Thank the heavens it's finally here. We
couldn't have lasted much longer without rain. We use as little
water as possible, and there's hardly any left for the crops.
Everyone suffers, even the nobility. I hear that Lord Amothus is
no better off now than we were before the War, much to his dismay,
and with quite an expense to his purse, too.
I would have enjoyed it... if we were better off."
The first speaker listened half-heartedly to the plights of
his companion and took a sip from his cup. Suddenly, he dashed it
and its contents to the floor. "Bah!! This ale is bitterer than
tears! I haven't had a passing fair drink since before this cursed
year!" Neither had anyone else on Ansalon. The scorching summer of
the Chaos War had dragged on, seemingly forever, into tenthmonth
of that year.By then, most all moisture to be found had been
greedily sucked into the dry air, carried away by the winds.
Raging rivers were reduced to trickling streams. Bridges were
unnecessary now. Small lakes disappeared in days;the large ones that
had tenuously grabbed onto small embankments were surrounded by
settlements, the precious liquid now disappearing even faster.
The little water that could be spared was spent on the
crops, on trying to coax a glimmer of life back into the limp brown
leaves, the wilted stalks, the fruitless branches. Most attempts
at farming ended in utter failure, due to either the lack of water,
the dusty ground, or the unrel enting, dry winds. Only a lucky few
would be able to harvest anything at all, and most of it was of
extremely poor quality. Some jested at their lamentable condition,
calling the age just past the Age of Mortals, the present one the
Age of Despair. Others just stared blankly at those who jested, and
turned their emotionless faces back to their unbearable life.
The Inn had grown pensively silent, each and every person
reflecting on their terrible, endless situation. A gust of wind
fiercely attacked the front door of the inn and flew through the
inn, chilling all to the bone, extinguishing the candles and lanterns
hanging in the corners of the common room. All was silent and dark for
a moment. A deafening clap of thunder sounded. A bright flash of
lightning revealed a figure standing in the door; everyone jumped at
the appearence of the unknown figure.Wild thoughts raced through the
minds of the assembled: was it a bandit come to kill us and take
our money? Was it a hobgoblin come to murder us for the fun of it?
Or was it something worse??
The heavily cloaked figure stepped into the inn and took a
seat. A haggard male voice rasped, "Are we all to sit in darkness?
Come, come! Light the candles, give us our sight back!" Their fears
allayed, the people returned to their business, now oblivious to
everything, as before. A waitress approached the man while one of
the servants relit the wicks with a glowing flame. "What'll ya
have?" asked the young woman, avidly trying to catch a peek at the
countenance of the mysterious stranger.
"No need to stare," stated the man in a foreign acccent as
he removed his headscarf and cloak. The waitress started for a moment,
then regained her composure. It was very uncommon to find an elf in
this part of the world these days. "Do you have any wine?" quietly
asked the young elflord. A dismayed look crossed his face when the
waitress shook her head no, but he gave a sigh and said, "I suspected so.
A cup of tarberan tea, then?" The waitress nodded and entered the
kitchen to fulfill the order.
The elf settled into his seat to wait for his tea. It began
to rain outside, first a pattering on the roof, then a stronger beating,
and finally it began to pour. Everyone looked out the windows and
smiled, probably the first smile for many of them in years. The windows
were thrust open, heads were stuck out into the stinging rain. The
slight annoyance was i gnored, and children and elders alike laughed
out loud. Someone pulled out a lute and began to strum it with adequate
skill, singing an old tune to the string's accompaniment. The
newcomer was at first surprised by the joyous action that sprung from
apparently nowhere, but soon was swept up by the festive mood and
laughed at the happy crowd. He even forgot about his tea as he let
himself enjoy the mood.
As the patrons settled back into their seats and pleasent
conversation buzzed here and there as it hadn't done for so long,
the elflord reached behind him into his pack and pulled out something.
This he placed on the deep brown wooden table before him and he
began to fiddle with the object. It was obviously very light and
pliable, for he handled it deftly and as if it weighed nothing. He
was very careful to look secretive in his doings, however. The lure
caught a number of children, who wandered over to the table and
interestedly looked on at what the strange man was doing. Finally,
one of the children spoke up. "Mister, what's that you're playin' with?
Can we see?" A chorus of young voices arose, imploring with the
man to let them see what he was doing.
The elf quickly turned his attention from what he was doing
and stared angrily at the children. A few of them drew back with fear,
but his gaze softened with compassion and they were drawn back, curious
as ever. The elflord looked as if he were in his early twenties, were he
a human. He had dark brown hair, unusual for an elf, and twinkling green
eyes.A long face accented with high cheekbones held a warm smile directed
at the crowd of children at his feet. Attired in a deep green tunic
and heavy tanpants, with sturdy leather travelling boots on his feet,
he made a dashing figure, exemplifying the grace and elegance the elven
race is known so well for.
The children craned their necks as they tried to get a good
look at what the elf had been working so intently on. They all
stared in awe as he revealed his work: a little figure of an elf
folded from a sheet of dappled yellow and green paper, amazingly
detailed in every way, with pointed ears, slanted eyes, and
equipped for a journey. The elf smiled delightedly as the children
remained motionless, unable to take their eyes off the delicate
little paper creature. One by one, the young ones ambled back
to their parents. The elf could see them telling their skeptical
parents about the wonder they had just seen. As parents do, they
brushed off their children's accounts of the paper elf and turned
back to their contented conversations. And as children do, they
grabbed their parent's hands and dragged them over to the elf's
table, to prove their amazing tale. One by one, the parents arrived,
apologizing, "I'm sorry my kid bothered you. He said you made a little
paper elf, and..." But as their eyes alighted on the little paper
elf, plainly displayed on the table, they too fell silent and stared at
the little miracle of paper, enchanted by its beauty, amazed by its
intricacy. Soon, most all the people in the Dragon's Tankard Inn had
gathered around the one table, looking at the figure, talking in hushed,
respectful tones to each other about the figurine. Even the waitress
who was supposed to be preparing the elf's tea and the servant who had
lighted the candles gathered in the crowd.
"I see I have an audience. Good. Now we can begin." The
elflord reached behind him and placed the pack he had taken his
original sheet of paper from next to him and opened it up. Contained
within it was a pile of paper. But not just ordinary paper. This paper
was thin, lightweight, about six inches square, and colored with all
the hues of the rainbow. Every color imaginable, and then some, were
there; every single shade of color had its representative present.
The dazzled crowd watched as he chose a few sheets of paper and
placed them next to him on the table.
And he began his tale.
"As you all well know, the elves were the creation of the
Gods of Good, the embodiment of all qualities inherent in truly good and
virtuous living. We were endowed with many special powers, among them
the abilities of music and art. We were also given the gift of magic,
and with this magic, we created a civilization of great strength
and prosperity. But we were foolish, naive. We isolated ourselves from
every other civilization of Krynn, believeing that we, being the chosen
of the Gods of Good, were superior to any other race imaginable. In this
oblivious isolation we lived for eons upon eons, ignoring all other
races on Ansalon. Our punishment was painful and devestating. The
Cataclysm struck our world, the fiery mountain felled Istar, the seas
were turned to deserts, the deserts to seas. The mountains fell away,
new ranges sprang up from the plains. Our homeland was fragmented, we
suffered irreperable damages -- we were punished for our transgressions"
As the elflord related his tale, he took a sheet of paper,
folding it in plain view for everyone to see. And what wonders he
did with the paper! He folded, creased, pushed in, pulled
out,stretched, did everything possible to the paper. Many wondered
how he manipulated the paper so amazingly, and yet it did not tear or
rip. He was extremely gentle in his touch, as if he showed respect
for the paper as he folded it into more figures. The tale wound on,
and the folding did not stop. As he finished his tale, there
appeared on the table four more exquisite folded figures: an
elfmaid of silver paper, a large pine tree in a deep green, a fearsome
blue dragon, and a tiny elven child of a realistic flesh tone. The
elflord continued his narrative.
"We suffered dearly from the anger of the Gods, but as did
everyone else , we picked up the pieces of our shattered people
and rebuilt answer, stronger way of life. We had by now separated
into two different kingdoms: Silvanesti and Qualinesti. The
Silvanesti maintained the old beliefs that isolation was the
necessary method to maintain a successful culture; the Qualinesti
opened their arms to the other races of Krynn, allowing the many
people of our world to interact and flourish. Each kingdom prospered,
in its own way, for a period of time. Then came the War of the
Lance. Both countries were driven from their homelands by the powerful
Dragonarmies, driven to the two Ergoth. As all have heard in the
tales and legends, the Heroes of the Lance entered onto the stage of
Life, and fought against the omnipresent evil, at long last, not
conquering, but reestab lishing the balance between Good and Evil.
And the races of Krynn were safe once more. Or so we thought. The
Chaos War came and went, taking millions of lives with it, as well as a
number of other qualities that made Krynn what it was. The Gods.
The clerics. The magic."
Here, he paused and looked at each person in the Inn,
communicating with out words the gravity of this statement. "The
magic that had built our culture was gone. Gone. Never to return,
just as the Gods are forbidden to intervene with the people of
Krynn for the rest of eternity. The search for magic has been occupying
the minds of all those once dedicated to its study; unfortunately,
all attempts to recover the magic of old have failed. The life we once
knew will never be again."
A child whimpered, saddened by the story the elf told. In a
comforting voice, he consoled the small human, "No, my child. Do not
cry for us. We have no need for tears." He leaned over and brushed a
tear from the child's cheek. "I would not be a very good storyteller
if all I related we re sorrowful tales of our people. Be reassured,
Sarostranolos would never tell a woeful story when he has his paper
before him!" With that Sarastranolos waved his hand over the five
paper figurines before him.....
Chapter 1
----------------
Sarastranolos' hand gracefully waved over the five paper figures
resting on the table before him. From the supple, delicate hand fell
a sprinkle of shimmering light, slowly floating down, dancing through
the air, descending on the five. The points of brillance settled
quietly on the wings of the dragon, the shoulders of the elves, the
branches of the ancient pine. As they slowly faded, some of the
adults in the crowd slowly nodded in admiration, the children with
awestruck stares watching the display before them. Illusionists
frequented the inns of Ansalon, preforming their tricks for their
keep, entertaining guests for a bite of food or a bed for the night.
Gradually, one of the children approached the table, an expression of
wondering confusion growing on her face. Two little hands clasped the
edges of the table, and two little, round eyes rose to the level of
the table, concentrating on the figures before them. The face
containing those deep brown eyes looked up to the elflord, a small
feminine smile creeping onto her lips. Sarastranolos reached out,
softly brushing the young girl's dirty locks off her face. Slowly, he
leaned over and whipsered a few words in her ear. "Yes, little one.
You saw, didn't you?" The little face bobbed up and down emphatically,
a beaming grin shining at the elflord. The girl turned around,
searching the crowd for someone. She reached out and grabbed at a
boy's hand, perhaps a brother, or a playmate. He shyly patted her
hand away, but finally relented, allowing himself to be pulled over to
the table. She pointed to something, and he, as she had just done,
closely watched. Suddenly, his eyes widened. A little laugh escaped
from a stunned mouth. Other children strained to see what it was that
the two had been so amazed by, a few parents discreetly joining their
children to see what was happening on the table.
The Dragon's Tankard Inn grew quiet as all waited for the paper to do
something -- anything -- that would have caught the children's interest
so. Quietly, like a silent thought, a little noise was heard. A
soft, rustling noise. It couldn't have been from outside. The rain
was still coming down forcefully; any noise from outside would have
been drowned out. And the Inn had been built so that noise from
outside was somewhat muffled, even it the Inn's current state of
disrepair. It had to have come from within the Inn. There it was
again. Ears were strained to determine the source of the nearly
inaudible, intriguing sound.
"By Paladine," whispered one of the women as she brought a hand to her
mouth. A gasp of surprise, and a bit of fear, followed the sudden
outburst. Her eyes were locked onto the little paper elf, as if she
had seen a long departed spirit. Heads turned to her, many disdainful
of the oath she had uttered, but they turned to an unresponsive face.
She had fainted. Sarastranolos' smile widened into a grin.
And then they discovered the source of the children's surprise, of the
rustling, of the woman's fainting spell, of their suspense. The
little elf on the wooden table, momentarily forgotten for the woman's
sake, took a step forward.
Oaths to Paladine, Majere, and some less desirable gods were heard,
yet no notice was payed to them, no displeased eyes sent wandering
about the crowd. The figure before them had been enchanted.... had
been magicked.... this couldn't be an illusion. It was too real. And
the other figures had come to life too. The silver elfmaid, the blue
dragon, the little child, even the tree gained motion. The pine's
bristling branches swayed in an invisible wind, a breeze of magic, and
stood steadfast. The dragon gave an impossible yawn, and turned its
head to preen itself. The little journeyman elf sat down and
sharpened a set of arrowheads with a grinding stone; the elfmaid took
a comb out of her shining robes and brushed it through her long,
shining hair, humming a soft melody. The infant slept peacefully on
the table surface as if it were a soft, comfortable crib, waving its
little hands in the air as it silently dreamt.
Sarastranolos raised his hands, to quiet his audience, then clasped
them together and placed them on the table. "My tale.... is a common
one. You may have heard it before, or something similar to it. Some
say it can be traced back to Quivalen Soth, but I think it goes back
further. Look at any race of Krynn: elf, human, dwarf, kender,
plainsmen, gnome, minotaur, ogre, and even goblins, and gully dwarves,
they all have a tale or myth that is what I am about to relate. It is
universal, it is individual, it is something everyone can know and
relate to, no matter what race it is told by. This story belongs to
us all, and it holds meaning for everyone." The five figures stopped
their individual actions and silently took their places on the table,
waiting with endless patience for the tale to begin. The elflord
paused, looked up at the ceilings of the Inn, but saw a night sky,
full of familiar constellations that no longer were there, that were
there not so long ago. "Perhaps.... in the Age of Dreams, or even the
Age of Starbirth, these five did exist; perhaps this did occur, and we
all have a bit of memory from that time so, so long ago. And maybe we
still can remember...."
Chapter 2
---------------
The river Thon-Thalas rushed through the forests of Silvanesti, its
glittering waters flowing in ripples and eddys down its length,
leaving its damp kiss wherever it went. The forests grew because of
this river, and the river lived because of its forests. Life glowed a
joyous and vibrant light, flowing as did the river through all parts
of the forests. But this light shone most brightly in the heart of
the forests, in the deepest reaches of the groves. For those who
could see, the light of Life crowned the boughs of a great and ancient
pine in this heart of the forest most brightly, throwing patterns of
shadow and light on the floors of the forest. But there are many who
cannot see this light, who cannot feel the warmth of purest Life and
be thus full with Life themselves. Even for these, this one ancient
grandfather of the forest was made important. The mirroring waters of
the Lord's River surrounded this one just as the flow of Life did. On
a small island of lush land, the great tree reached skyward, its
topmost branches cradling the stars, its roots expanding over the
floor of the forests of Silvanesti.
As the millions of leaves surrounding it turned to their multitudes of
colors, their reds and oranges and golds reflecting the hues of the
skies as the sun set each day, the gods of Krynn wandered through
their creation, admiring their work, sighing with contentment. They
watched their favored races prepare for the oncoming winter, bestowed
their gifts upon them. Zivilyn walked among his favorites, the
Silvanesti, in the guise of a journeyman elf, watching with delight as
his people flourished and lived in bliss. His discerning eyes were
not limited to his elves, though. Zivilyn reveled in the nature that
surounded him and spent much time wandering throught the forests,
following his whims and letting his feet lead him about for days at a
time. Yet of all hidden waterfalls and magnificent views and towering
groves, Zivilyn felt most at peace at the great pine, the center of
Life in the forests.
At the heart of the forest, suspended in time in the sheltering,
gigantic branches of the tree, the god watched as the forests fell
asleep at sunset and the stars, one by one, emerged from the dark
embrace of the night sky. He watched as his brethren placed their
images in the sky for all people to see, first the Gate of Souls, then
the Silver Dragon, and the Dragon of Many Colors of None, eternally at
battle on opposite sides of the Great Book. The others eventually
appeared, along with all the planets and moons. Zivilyn placed his
ruddy point of light in the night sky, and watched the heavens slowly
dance about in their everlasting waltz, smiling down at their world,
their people, their creations. The gods were happy.
"Magic," she said shyly and she held out her hand. Lying in the gully
dwarf's grubby palm was a dead rat, its teeth fixed in a permanent
grimace.
Chapter 3
--------------
A stirring had come upon the lands of Krynn. An imperceptible,
whispering movement below the surface of the young world, a shifting
current of living magic that snaked for endless miles below the feet
of the oblivious creations of the gods. A dormant, primal force
that would soon no longer sleep. As night pushed the sun out of the
skies and enfolded a drowsy people in its comforting embrace each
peaceful night, the gods good, neutral, and evil would withdraw to their
Celestial Realm. Krynn was a wondrous sight from the heavens, a
shining sphere of emerald and sapphire, swirls and eddys of wispy
cloud extending about its surface. In their divine sight, the gods
beheld the glow of life, in its branching, slowly wavering streams,
spread across their greatest achievement. Wheeling the night
through the heavens in their starry representations, the gods held much
pride and affection for their creations, made from their combined will
and desire, the crowning achievement of their life's work. The
fires of the creative spirit had not yet been extinguished in them,
not by any measure - it was the successes of elf, ogre, and man that
stirred the fires into a greater, brighter blaze.
With the need to create burning deep within them, the gods
once more descended onto Ansalon to bring life into being.
Inspired by the vibrant colors and ever luminescent glow, the eternal
majesty and strength of their world, the powers good, neutral, and
evil convened to make a creature that would be master of the elements,
master of Krynn, the ultimate perfection of life. A creature called
the dragon.
* * * * *
Zivilyn trudged through the darkening sylvan expanses of
Silvanesti, muttering to himself in a hopeless, downcast state of
discontent and frustration, aimlessly plodding through his unhappiness.
Tempestuous rushes of angry accusation whirled about in his head.
"Oh, yes, Paladine and Takhisis deserve to bring the dragon to life.
As much as they deserve to rule undisupted over our world, our labors.
All of our labors - not just theirs. We strained and suffered just as
much, more, than they ever did." The brooding god sat himself down on a
moss covered boulder and glanced up at the darkening sky. Soon they
would be up there. And of course, The Platinum Dragon and The Dragon of
Many Colors and None, Paladine and Takhisis' newest images, would be
first to appear. All will undoubtedly stare at these new stars, make
their constellations, and we will be just those little red points in
the sky, eclipsed and outshone. "Fill the black night with your
brilliance, my siblings! Fill the hearts of our creations with wonder
and fear! See how long you shall last, see how long!" hurled the
angered Zivilyn at the dusky heavens.
In a surge of temper, the young god lept out of his seat,
the great stone rocking back in its depression, and flew through the
tall stands of shadowed forest, ducking out of the grasp of clawing
branches and brambles, making his way to a destination slowly realized
in his mind. His feet felt running water beneath them; the mighty
Thon-Thalas parted for him; he raced up the stream bed, walls of water
on either side of him, until the trees fell away and it came into view.
The bristling arms of the pine stood in steadfast vigil over its forest,
beckoning Zivilyn to join it in its unmoving watch. The god raced to
the enormous tree's trunk, grasped hold of its lowest branch, and swung
up and up, always up, to the pine's peak. Perched on this highest of
aeries, he glanced at the panorama around him, the darkened shades of
nighttime landscape, slashed with streaks of bright life, blurring into
a sea of shivering, blackened greenery.
Zivilyn concentrated, focused his mind on the engulfing
hues, and opened his eyes to time. The surge of energy that always
preceeded the Sight coursed through him, pushing him farther into his
searches. He traced back, back through the creation of the races,
through the forging of Krynn, back to the birth of the young gods,
to the calling of the first gods, to the awakening of chaos. To
when all was nothing and nothing was all that existed. Zivilyn frowned,
unsatisfied, not having found what he hoped he might find. Once more,
the god pushed his Sight, this time into what lay in the future. The
command spoke in his mind, a ceaseless call that urged him to search
more and more deeply. Find it. Find it. The god re doubled his
efforts, examining each possibility, each unlikely path of time that
lay before him.
The sky began to lighten as the sun rose, dawn pulling off
the blanket of night from the world. As the depths of night gradually
faded, Zivilyn realized something was unmistakeably, terribly wrong.
The light that poured over the horizon was coming from the west, in
a twisted parody of the sun's death each night - the light, the sun
itself, was red, red as blood and fire. As this corrupted dawn
pushed the darkness back, the land around him appeared in horrid
silhouette, dark masses crumpled against a red soil, stretching in all
directions, silent screams of long gone lost life murmuring their final
strains to the deaf surroundings. The god stared around in shock and
agony. "What has happened to my Silvanesti?" he whispered to himself.
For it was that pristine forest, that bastion of goodness and purity
and natural beauty, utterly destroyed and lost.
The disconsolate god descended from his heights, bereft of
emotion. Land stretched for miles on end, always the exact same scene
presenting itself, a grim harbinger of what was to come. As Zivilyn
slowly climbed down the grandfather pine, he repeatedly questioned
himself, "What could have destroyed so completely? What has
happened in this future?" Wrapped up in his musing, he continued
down the trunk when something hit him like a physical blow. His
eyes widened in horror as he finally saw the tree be
fore him. The dead tree before him. From the top, it seemed as if
the branches and needles were still intact, just in dire need of
water and good soil. Lower down, though, the fire scarred, scorched
wood of the pine stood exposed to the biting wind, little bits flaking
off and fluttering in the wind, only to land on the heap of
decaying material laying at the foot of the once majestic, noble tree.
Zivilyn strained to see a glow, the minutest glimmer, of life still
there... but there was none. Landing on the nauseating pile of dead
bark and wood, the god quickly studied each nearby burnt stump for a
sign of life, any life at all... but there was none. He raced with
an anticipating heart to where the city of Silvanes ti, the
beautiful, shining city of Silvanesti, lay. A glimmering point crept
over the last rise that hid the city, a blood bathe dturret that gleamed
with metallic sheen, its hue imparted by the oppressive sun that rose
beside it. A corresponding glimmer arose in Zivilyn's heart, a ray
of distorted and desparate hope that spurred him onwards, to his
people.
But his people weren't there. The plentiful evidence that
invaded and choked off all senses attested to the unquestionable truth
and reality of it all. More scenes, numberless scenes, of destruction
surrounded him. Carefully tended homes and grounds, burnt beyond
recognition, the great stones the structures had been crafted from
scattered about. Crimson orbs sliding onto reflective pools of motionless
, tainted water, hardened, stony water that had been melted then
frozen from those same scorched stones lying in disarray, like the
abandoned toys of some monstrous, fiery child. Overgrown paths where
roads used to be, where tortured, lamentable new life had sucked scanty
nutriment from the poisoned earth.
It was one of these indistinct roads, the leafless, dull
brown, strangling vines twining within the dead branches of once
magnificent trees and creeping across the pathway, that Zivilyn's eye
was drawn to a familiar shadow. No hope showed in the god's breast,
little emotion appeared at all, only a small touch of expectation at an
explanation, a rational explanation of the catastrophic events that
must have taken place. The comforting shadow of the elf, for only an
elf would it be in the heart of Silvanesti, lay in long, stretched
facimile of its owner on the sullen ground. Puzzlement overcame the god
as he approached; he searched for the shadow's source, but could not
find it. Invisible? he asked himself. Not impossible, a few favorites
of the gods had been blessed with the gift of magic. But no, it would
have heard my approach, it would have moved by now, he reasoned. He
looked to the twisted remains of the orchards and groves that stood
everywhere for a possible explanation. The terrible sun, which afforded
no warmth to this chilly morn, shone down with its slanted scarlet rays,
throwing shadows behind any obstacles that stood in its dread path.
The pitiful foliage obstinately refused to give up any answers to
Zivilyn's enigma, and the formations of the charred, cracked limbs
held no distinct resemblance to the shadow.
The god walked around to where the phantom elf should have
been standing. Bloodied hands reached down to the barren soil to
examine more closely the strange phenomena. He touched the ground
around the dark shade, brushed away the dusty soil that surrounded it.
Little bits of shadow disappeared, as if someone was pricking pinholes
into its still unidentified source. The more he stirred up the loose
soil around it, the more discolored the shadow became. A careless hand
dropped down and brushed agains the left leg of the peculiar figure;
a red stread tore across the limb; what seemed blood spread out in an
enormous pool around the flat figure, the effect of the stange, cold
light from the unfamiliar sun. Zivilyn pinched a bit of the shadow's
soil between his fingers - its acrid, pungent smell could signify
but one thing - flame. Just as every other living being, every
other inanimate stone, every other object in Silvanesti had been
destroyed by fire and heat, this shadow had been burned into the
ground. Conviction gripped his mind and heart as a gust of wind swept
through the dead tree-lined path and blew the remains of the testament
of destruction, the preserved shadow of a once living being, away in
a cloud of dust.
He stayed kneeling for a moment, trying to remember the
outline of the shadow, trying to remember the details of the long gone
elf captured in the empty dirt. All he could recall was that it had
been an ordinary shadow, unalarmed and undisturbed in bearing and stance,
an unspectacular, normal shadow. Whoever the poor creature was, it
had been caught completely unawares when the destroying, effacing
fires had struck.
A gleam of gold, the same that had innocently beckoned him
forward when it had first appeared over the hill, flared in the sunlight
. The god solemnly paced over to the once magnificent tower, now
crumbling at the foundations. The only standing structure remaining
in eyesight, it dominated the sparse landscape, retaining a shred of
dignity and majesty, even in its decrepit state. Anger shot through
Zivilyn's body, a deep seated, co ursing anger that suffocated his
mind and took control of his actions. With a long repressed scream
of torture, pain, and frustration, he lashed low rumbling slowly
arose in harmony with the vocalized rage, then overpowered it. Zivilyn
looked above him and saw the gilded, domedturred, turning end over end,
falling rapidly, the tower falling apart, chunks of masonry breaking
away and descending in a deadly shower. The god thankfully closed his
eyes, the horrid scene before him disappearing into darkness, and he
opened himself to the Sight and Time once again. Just as the destroyed
homeland of the elves had almost completely faded from his sense
s, Zivilyn thought he felt a freezing shadow pass over him, a rush
of wind as large leathery wings beat in a powerful downwards stroke,
and a shrill cry echo throught the desolate morning of a destroyed world.
- Bupu, DoAT
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