CainAndrews
Brood Commander
The Glass Tower - longtime home of the Academy of Ixalis - haven for mages, warlocks, sorcerers. It stood in the center of the Island of Ixalis, a shimmering structure towering over the humble town below. For centuries, spellcasters of all kinds had flocked here to learn, to teach, to understand their abilities and how to control them. For centuries, it had been a neutral power in the land, disregarding politics in favor of knowledge.
Accessible only by flight, there was no point of harbor. No ships could reach the floating island, nestled in the center of ocean waters, the only morsel of land as far as the eye could see. It was raised out of the waters by Ixalis himself: the Grand Master of the Violet Robes, first to suggest the idea of this Utopian haven where magic users could come and be safe. Safe from persecution for their studies, for their experiments, for their mistakes. The floating island needed nor fortification. Wards, spells, and magical defenses had been put in place by some of the most powerful wizards. The Tower itself, a glistening spire crafted from sand and glass, fused with primal energies, and made impervious to magical attacks - a result of needing safety from experimenting with magic in the various classrooms and laboratories. The island was itself a fortress, but who would be brave or daft enough in the first place to bring war to a nation of mages?
One man...one man would be.
The sky darkened over the coast of Mirvahna, nearest nation to the Island of Ixalis. The townsfolk along the coastline prepared for rough weather. Fishing boats were called in, windows and doors were barred shut. Weather would not come. The black clouds moved out to see, leaving behind blue sky and sunshine. It moved with a ferocity, spiraling and reeling against a wind that wasn't there. Mist poured out of it, circling with tempest speeds, down and around the island, encircling it in an unlifting fog.
The mages of The Glass Tower broke their routine, moving out to the island coasts to view upon the eerie mist. Before they had time to gather their wits, calamity broke and spilled down around them.
Fel beasts, appearing as dragon and demon together as one, poured from the mist. Known as Lagras, these beasts were not as fearsome as dragons themselves, but just as deadly. Wizards and sorcerers lined the edge of the island, the courtyard of the Tower itself, sending bolts of primal energy, elemental fire and ice, and commanding massive bolts of lightning to strike at the beasts. They carried something in their ten miniscule arms - they appeared to be large wooden baskets.
As they moved closer, the Lagras collapsed against the unseen shields surrounding the island. This did not deter them. They threw themselves upon it, again and again, until green blood oozed from wounds this act was inflicting. They spat bolts of neon fire which sloshed upon the shield walls, sizzling as it attempted to dissolve the magical barrier. Some Larga were struck by the wizards below, but it did not seem to deter them. When the primal energies hit them, they staggered a bit in the air, but simply kept coming. Each time they were struck, red, burning runes would erupt on their skin. "They are rune-warded!" Someone could be heard below.
A type of magical armor, the rune-wards were protecting them against the brunt of the attacks. A full dozen of these beasts were now upon the shield, spewing forth their corrosive ichor onto it and weakening it. Eventually, the shield shattered, letting the Lagras move down to the island itself. They moved in quickly, dodging through the barrage of attacks coming from the wizards below. More mages and even now some students were throwing spells and incantations at them, in hopes to thwart this unprecedented attack. When they were no more than thirty feet from the ground, the Lagras released their payload, the wooden capsules crashing to the ground and rolling inland from the coast of the island. Within a matter moments, the wood splintered apart and barbarous infantry roared forth, blades in hand.
By this time, the Grand Magus Council had been alerted. Grand Master Telors, eldest of the Council, ushered the others to the courtyard, to aid in the defense. He then took himself out of the council chambers, moving to the inner cloister of the Grand Magus compound, nestled at the top of the spire. Very few were ever permitted to enter this wing of the Tower. He hiked up his robes, moving quickly, until he had come to a grand wardrobe. He tore it open, nearly cracking the doors of it from the hinges. Telors rustled through the trappings within the rickety cabinet, tossing random trinkets and scrolls aside, until he came upon a musty object, wrapped in a small blanket. Unfolding the cloth, he revealed the tome hidden within. The book was etched with red and black inks which seemed to spiral preternaturally upon its cover. He replaced it within the blanket, and hurried out of the cloister.
Outside, the battle had erupted inward, the infantry and Lagras moving closer to the courtyard in front of the entrance to the Tower. Battle mages moved in tight formation from the Tower's defenses, pushing back the opposing infantry of barbarians and mercenaries. Swords clanged, spells flew, both sides lost numbers, all the while, the Lagras continued to drop in reinforcements.
Telors escaped the council chambers and took the spiral staircase upward, to the tip of the spire which held the portal rooms. The quickest form of travel from The Glass Tower was from these rooms, which held persistent magical portals to some of the more prominent locations throughout the realm. He turned, still clutching tightly to the tome, closed his eyes, and uttered a single word under his breath. Within the breadth of the island, every mage heard this command, Telors voice intense in their minds: RETREAT!
With that utterance, every wizard who still drew breath instinctively forced their will and instantly vanished from the field of battle. Inside, Telors pulled a small gem from his robe's inner pocket. The bright green glow showing immensely in the dull-lit room. He raised his hand, then threw the gemstone against the floor, shattering it and loosing the energy within into the air. It flowed around him, into the wall, and down through the stone and glass innards of the Tower. Outside, the infantry and Lagras had collapsed upon the Tower, forcing their way inside or battering at its walls. Telors turned from the room, passing through one of the portals...
Outside, the infantry stopped as a faint glowing light began to radiate from the walls of the Tower. Growing more and more intense every second, it soon became necessary to shield their eyes. The Lagras fumed and reeled from the light, turning in the air to move away from the vicinity. As the light began to resonate greater, the infantry turned and began to run from the Tower, the light so intense it had begun to burn even their skin. Men fell over each other, unable to see, crying in horror at the pain this light was causing. Without notice, the Tower itself erupted, sending boiling light and shards of glass and stone flowing outward at fatal speeds. Those who were not consumed in the light's blaze were immediately shredded to pieces. The island began to hum, the sound reverberating all the way to Mirvahna, sending waves crashing throughout the local shores. Then, the island collapsed into the sea, starting its slow descent through the ocean.
The mist dispersed, the dark skies opened to show sunlight beyond, and a lone figure climbed down through the air, riding on the back of a behemoth Lagra. His form was cloaked in darkness, as though the sunlight seemed to ignore his existence. He stretched out his hand, closing it into a tight fist, and the island halted its descent. Minimal hand movement from the figure caused the island to rebel against gravity and come back out of the water. Lagras once again moved in to drop soldiers onto the island, sloshing across the waterlogged surface toward where The Glass Tower once stood, now a pile of rubble. They scoured the stone and glass piles, searching, hunting, looking...
Hours passed, with nearly a hundred men heaving rock and boulder. Finally, one of the many barbarians, this one much larger than the others, came to the edge of the island where the man in darkness awaited, still atop the Lagra. He knelt and spoke, his voice rough and obviously full of fear. "My lord, we can not find the book..."
The dark-shrouded figure shook violently. Tenebrous shadows erupted from him, coiling out and around the barbarian. "General Gorthok...your family...your entire bloodline...will be destroyed...if that book...is not...brought to me..." The voice seemed to manifest somewhere within the center of the figure, not necessarily from a mouth. In fact, there was no mouth to even see. The shadowy tendrils lifted the barbarian - General Gorthok - from the ground, gripping him by his massive neck, pouring into every orifice visible. "The book...is either here...or somewhere else...regardless...I will have it...and you will bring it to me..."
With that, the shadow arms subsided from the General, dropping him to the ground. The figure pulled back upon the Lagra, flying up into the air, and disappearing into the massive dark clouds that lingered above...
Elsewhere...
Grand Master Telors broke through the ebb of the portal, clambering out into the chamber of Silas, Son of Giliath, Venerable Guardian of the Elements, last Grand Master of the Violet Robes. He was the youngest among the clan of wizards and viziers that had been founded centuries ago, his age bearing no more than two hundred years. Telors was his mentor, but decades ago he had left The Glass Tower and took refuge in a small town in the Kingdom of Barinedes. Telors had held great contempt toward him for this, but at the same time he understood Silas was capable in his own right to pursue his own endeavors.
Telors stepped quietly through the study, the chambers much like his own: filled with tomes, scrolls, ever-burning candles, trinkets, potions, and gadgets. He clung to the tome with a death grip. His attention was poised at a stray corner, his eyes narrowing, waiting...
Finally it came. Silas, clad in a simple, gray robe, appeared with a poof of wind in that very corner, Telors having his eyes trained on him before even appearing. The younger mage came quickly to the center of the room.
"Might I ask, my mentor, what brings you to my humble home?"
Telors looked down to the blanket-wrapped book, then back to his former student.
"The Glass Tower has been destroyed...the...previous owners of this tome...The Book of Hydriss, Malfean Progenitor...are coming to reclaim it."
Silas took a step back, gazing at the dusty rags covering the dread book. "Who could muster the power to destroy a nation of wizards?"
Telors kept a narrow gaze at his former apprentice. "The same who can tame Lagras...who can manipulate the barbarians of the North...those who came to corrupt our brothers and lead them down the spiral to the Nether and the power it afforded..."
Silas glowered, anger seething in his eyes, upon his face, fists clenched. "Zevon..."
"Not Zevon," Telors corrected. "Those who corrupted even him. Those who tore through the facade of the physical world and spilled evil incarnate into it. They come now, and we haven't much time."
Telors stepped to the nearby desk, pushing aside a set of scrolls that nearly crumbled at his touch. "We need to destroy this book, and the command of evil it can grant. If we do not, Zevon will find us. He will destroy us, and he will have that command. The world will be enshrouded in darkness, and we will be helpless to stop it."
Silas dropped his stern resolve, moved to the desk, and silently asked his elder. "So...how do we destroy it?"
"Why, the same way you tame a Lagra..."
Silas thought for a moment, then begged the question. "So...how do you do that?"
Telors looked to him and gave a wry smile. "I haven't the slightest, my old friend."
Accessible only by flight, there was no point of harbor. No ships could reach the floating island, nestled in the center of ocean waters, the only morsel of land as far as the eye could see. It was raised out of the waters by Ixalis himself: the Grand Master of the Violet Robes, first to suggest the idea of this Utopian haven where magic users could come and be safe. Safe from persecution for their studies, for their experiments, for their mistakes. The floating island needed nor fortification. Wards, spells, and magical defenses had been put in place by some of the most powerful wizards. The Tower itself, a glistening spire crafted from sand and glass, fused with primal energies, and made impervious to magical attacks - a result of needing safety from experimenting with magic in the various classrooms and laboratories. The island was itself a fortress, but who would be brave or daft enough in the first place to bring war to a nation of mages?
One man...one man would be.
The sky darkened over the coast of Mirvahna, nearest nation to the Island of Ixalis. The townsfolk along the coastline prepared for rough weather. Fishing boats were called in, windows and doors were barred shut. Weather would not come. The black clouds moved out to see, leaving behind blue sky and sunshine. It moved with a ferocity, spiraling and reeling against a wind that wasn't there. Mist poured out of it, circling with tempest speeds, down and around the island, encircling it in an unlifting fog.
The mages of The Glass Tower broke their routine, moving out to the island coasts to view upon the eerie mist. Before they had time to gather their wits, calamity broke and spilled down around them.
Fel beasts, appearing as dragon and demon together as one, poured from the mist. Known as Lagras, these beasts were not as fearsome as dragons themselves, but just as deadly. Wizards and sorcerers lined the edge of the island, the courtyard of the Tower itself, sending bolts of primal energy, elemental fire and ice, and commanding massive bolts of lightning to strike at the beasts. They carried something in their ten miniscule arms - they appeared to be large wooden baskets.
As they moved closer, the Lagras collapsed against the unseen shields surrounding the island. This did not deter them. They threw themselves upon it, again and again, until green blood oozed from wounds this act was inflicting. They spat bolts of neon fire which sloshed upon the shield walls, sizzling as it attempted to dissolve the magical barrier. Some Larga were struck by the wizards below, but it did not seem to deter them. When the primal energies hit them, they staggered a bit in the air, but simply kept coming. Each time they were struck, red, burning runes would erupt on their skin. "They are rune-warded!" Someone could be heard below.
A type of magical armor, the rune-wards were protecting them against the brunt of the attacks. A full dozen of these beasts were now upon the shield, spewing forth their corrosive ichor onto it and weakening it. Eventually, the shield shattered, letting the Lagras move down to the island itself. They moved in quickly, dodging through the barrage of attacks coming from the wizards below. More mages and even now some students were throwing spells and incantations at them, in hopes to thwart this unprecedented attack. When they were no more than thirty feet from the ground, the Lagras released their payload, the wooden capsules crashing to the ground and rolling inland from the coast of the island. Within a matter moments, the wood splintered apart and barbarous infantry roared forth, blades in hand.
By this time, the Grand Magus Council had been alerted. Grand Master Telors, eldest of the Council, ushered the others to the courtyard, to aid in the defense. He then took himself out of the council chambers, moving to the inner cloister of the Grand Magus compound, nestled at the top of the spire. Very few were ever permitted to enter this wing of the Tower. He hiked up his robes, moving quickly, until he had come to a grand wardrobe. He tore it open, nearly cracking the doors of it from the hinges. Telors rustled through the trappings within the rickety cabinet, tossing random trinkets and scrolls aside, until he came upon a musty object, wrapped in a small blanket. Unfolding the cloth, he revealed the tome hidden within. The book was etched with red and black inks which seemed to spiral preternaturally upon its cover. He replaced it within the blanket, and hurried out of the cloister.
Outside, the battle had erupted inward, the infantry and Lagras moving closer to the courtyard in front of the entrance to the Tower. Battle mages moved in tight formation from the Tower's defenses, pushing back the opposing infantry of barbarians and mercenaries. Swords clanged, spells flew, both sides lost numbers, all the while, the Lagras continued to drop in reinforcements.
Telors escaped the council chambers and took the spiral staircase upward, to the tip of the spire which held the portal rooms. The quickest form of travel from The Glass Tower was from these rooms, which held persistent magical portals to some of the more prominent locations throughout the realm. He turned, still clutching tightly to the tome, closed his eyes, and uttered a single word under his breath. Within the breadth of the island, every mage heard this command, Telors voice intense in their minds: RETREAT!
With that utterance, every wizard who still drew breath instinctively forced their will and instantly vanished from the field of battle. Inside, Telors pulled a small gem from his robe's inner pocket. The bright green glow showing immensely in the dull-lit room. He raised his hand, then threw the gemstone against the floor, shattering it and loosing the energy within into the air. It flowed around him, into the wall, and down through the stone and glass innards of the Tower. Outside, the infantry and Lagras had collapsed upon the Tower, forcing their way inside or battering at its walls. Telors turned from the room, passing through one of the portals...
Outside, the infantry stopped as a faint glowing light began to radiate from the walls of the Tower. Growing more and more intense every second, it soon became necessary to shield their eyes. The Lagras fumed and reeled from the light, turning in the air to move away from the vicinity. As the light began to resonate greater, the infantry turned and began to run from the Tower, the light so intense it had begun to burn even their skin. Men fell over each other, unable to see, crying in horror at the pain this light was causing. Without notice, the Tower itself erupted, sending boiling light and shards of glass and stone flowing outward at fatal speeds. Those who were not consumed in the light's blaze were immediately shredded to pieces. The island began to hum, the sound reverberating all the way to Mirvahna, sending waves crashing throughout the local shores. Then, the island collapsed into the sea, starting its slow descent through the ocean.
The mist dispersed, the dark skies opened to show sunlight beyond, and a lone figure climbed down through the air, riding on the back of a behemoth Lagra. His form was cloaked in darkness, as though the sunlight seemed to ignore his existence. He stretched out his hand, closing it into a tight fist, and the island halted its descent. Minimal hand movement from the figure caused the island to rebel against gravity and come back out of the water. Lagras once again moved in to drop soldiers onto the island, sloshing across the waterlogged surface toward where The Glass Tower once stood, now a pile of rubble. They scoured the stone and glass piles, searching, hunting, looking...
Hours passed, with nearly a hundred men heaving rock and boulder. Finally, one of the many barbarians, this one much larger than the others, came to the edge of the island where the man in darkness awaited, still atop the Lagra. He knelt and spoke, his voice rough and obviously full of fear. "My lord, we can not find the book..."
The dark-shrouded figure shook violently. Tenebrous shadows erupted from him, coiling out and around the barbarian. "General Gorthok...your family...your entire bloodline...will be destroyed...if that book...is not...brought to me..." The voice seemed to manifest somewhere within the center of the figure, not necessarily from a mouth. In fact, there was no mouth to even see. The shadowy tendrils lifted the barbarian - General Gorthok - from the ground, gripping him by his massive neck, pouring into every orifice visible. "The book...is either here...or somewhere else...regardless...I will have it...and you will bring it to me..."
With that, the shadow arms subsided from the General, dropping him to the ground. The figure pulled back upon the Lagra, flying up into the air, and disappearing into the massive dark clouds that lingered above...
Elsewhere...
Grand Master Telors broke through the ebb of the portal, clambering out into the chamber of Silas, Son of Giliath, Venerable Guardian of the Elements, last Grand Master of the Violet Robes. He was the youngest among the clan of wizards and viziers that had been founded centuries ago, his age bearing no more than two hundred years. Telors was his mentor, but decades ago he had left The Glass Tower and took refuge in a small town in the Kingdom of Barinedes. Telors had held great contempt toward him for this, but at the same time he understood Silas was capable in his own right to pursue his own endeavors.
Telors stepped quietly through the study, the chambers much like his own: filled with tomes, scrolls, ever-burning candles, trinkets, potions, and gadgets. He clung to the tome with a death grip. His attention was poised at a stray corner, his eyes narrowing, waiting...
Finally it came. Silas, clad in a simple, gray robe, appeared with a poof of wind in that very corner, Telors having his eyes trained on him before even appearing. The younger mage came quickly to the center of the room.
"Might I ask, my mentor, what brings you to my humble home?"
Telors looked down to the blanket-wrapped book, then back to his former student.
"The Glass Tower has been destroyed...the...previous owners of this tome...The Book of Hydriss, Malfean Progenitor...are coming to reclaim it."
Silas took a step back, gazing at the dusty rags covering the dread book. "Who could muster the power to destroy a nation of wizards?"
Telors kept a narrow gaze at his former apprentice. "The same who can tame Lagras...who can manipulate the barbarians of the North...those who came to corrupt our brothers and lead them down the spiral to the Nether and the power it afforded..."
Silas glowered, anger seething in his eyes, upon his face, fists clenched. "Zevon..."
"Not Zevon," Telors corrected. "Those who corrupted even him. Those who tore through the facade of the physical world and spilled evil incarnate into it. They come now, and we haven't much time."
Telors stepped to the nearby desk, pushing aside a set of scrolls that nearly crumbled at his touch. "We need to destroy this book, and the command of evil it can grant. If we do not, Zevon will find us. He will destroy us, and he will have that command. The world will be enshrouded in darkness, and we will be helpless to stop it."
Silas dropped his stern resolve, moved to the desk, and silently asked his elder. "So...how do we destroy it?"
"Why, the same way you tame a Lagra..."
Silas thought for a moment, then begged the question. "So...how do you do that?"
Telors looked to him and gave a wry smile. "I haven't the slightest, my old friend."
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