The Arrival of the Archmage

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Night shrouds the quiet city as a comforting blanket, disturbed only by the slight breeze of a warm summer's eve. Heat lightning flashes in the distant sky, playing for the weary night watch falling asleep upon the battlements. The citizens lie in their beds, sleeping restlessly as nightmares of the recent attack shatter the serenity of rest, unknowing of what fate has in store for them.

In a dark alley of the township, reality is suddenly shredded and singed as opens a portal of searing flame, parting the plane for entry. A figure steps through, untouched by the flame. As it steps free the portal begins to rapidly diminish until the only evidence of its occurance is the being it spat out. The figure slumps to a knee and coughs a baritone hack. He stays for a moment in this position, allowing his body to familiarize with the change in climate. Satisfied, the figure stands. He glances around from the depths of his black hood, opening himself to his surroundings.

"There are many here," he says to himself softly. Immediately the Archmage recognizes familiar power signatures from long ago. His eyes narrow slightly. His lifts a hand to caress a medallion hanging from his neck. Upon contact with the Onyx setting, his hand flinches back as if remembering suddenly not to touch it. His jaw clenched, the Archmage moves out of the dark alley. His only option was to rest at the local tavern, open up his own power signature to be recognized, and hope that those who sought him would be allies. He was not confident. He could feel the presence of old enemies. Powerful enemies. He was sure that they could feel him as well. He had been summoned. By whom he knew not.

The city seemed somber, as if the stones themselves wept for some great and recent tragedy. Arimas pondered this as he made his way to the Tavern. It had been many long years since his travels had led him here and almost half again that time since any news of Ayenee had reached his ears. He knew, however, that after his departure, his Order had gained some amount of popularity before it had fallen. But that was the past. The Conclave was no more. His closest friend Morath was unaccounted for. Bespian, Coranthalis, Kageshadow, Kelemvor, Nafaustu, Kranyus, Suillaruin, Kadas, Arigause; the names burned into his memory. His recent attempts to locate any remaining members had led him either to graves or no where at all. The Towers had been desecrated. Their secrets stolen. That would need to be answered for.

As he approached the Tavern, the Archmage looked up at the sign swinging slightly in the warm summer night. It creaked as it's rusted hinges ground against their base. The wizard turned to look upon the city once again, his eyes narrowed. Closing those glittering green orbs, he released his power signature to the city, acting as an unseen banner with his name upon it. Turning, he entered the Tavern to await the response of his arrival. A response that he could not predict.
 
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Immediately upon entering the Gully-Goblin Tavern and Inn, the Archmage was assaulted by the stench of stale alcohol and sweaty bodies. This was obviously not the cities premiere establishment, but it would serve his purpose. A crowd did not suit his needs. He needed only draw the attention of a few.

The room was dimly lit by a low burning fire dying in the hearth. Most of the torches and lanterns had been doused in this late hour by the proprietor, a portly man sporting a dour face who stared at the wizard from behind a grimy bar. He lazily wiped the counter with a cloth that looked as if it had been rinsed in mud.

"Somethin' I can help you with... friend," he said in a grating voice, feigning sincerity. Arimas removed his hood from his head displaying a handsome, but battleworn face framed by shoulder length, dark brown hair. He was clad in velvety black robes and from a belt at his waist hung several pouches of various sizes. Intelligent green eyes studied the few patrons left in the commonroom, instinctively judging their strengths and weaknesses. He quickly dismissed them as inconsequential. Hanging from his neck was an intricately crafted medallion setted with a large onyx stone. As his gaze rested on the innkeeper, he noticed the man's greedy eyes lingering upon the dark necklace. Narrowing his eyes the wizard waved a dismissing hand at the vile man.

"I require nothing," Arimas answered as he moved to a table near the hearth. The innkeeper's derisive snort brought no reaction from the wizard. As he settled into his chair, the Archmage waved a hand almost absently, conjuring before him a glass of fine red liquid. Even if this establishment were well kept, Arimas did not have a taste for the regional drink, which seemed bitter to his tongue. He rested his weight against the back of his chair and sipped from his glass. He had as of yet felt no response to his power signature. He was certain that those who sought him had desired his presence in other locales, but he would not be beckoned into an unknown situation. He had once been the Master of the Conclave of Wizards, a title that had forged within him caution. With this thought his mind once again wandered to the fates of his former brethren.

The Archmage sighed heavily, taking another sip of his wine. His eyes remained on the low leaping flames in the hearth. His mind remained on who had summoned him... and when they would approach him....
 
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