Arimas Ar'Drour
Archmage
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.
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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