Post by K Man on May 8, 2007 16:26:16 GMT -5
Preface: The following story will not make much sense without at least reading the ending of Bring Out Your Dead or having read the entire campaign.
- 700 years ago -
Romar stood on the cliff, his feet cemented in place by the weight of his decision.
He had come here to take his own life.
He wondered if Veya had paused like this, contemplating the choice. He wondered if her heart had fluttered like his, if her lungs gasped for air to fan that little spark of hope that might still live in his chest. No. Her choice was swift and full of pain. Romar had replayed that night a hundred times in his head. A hundred nights and a hundred ways, she always fell to her death. She always slipped into the blackness.
A thunderclap overhead. Black clouds pregnant with rain gave birth to torrential downpour. Romar's cloak stuck to his body, weighted in place by the cold and heavy rain. His boots sunk even further into the sandy cliff edge as if the very earth itself were begging please, reconsider! Romar ignored all of this, his mind still spiraling out of self-control.
Romar Belamor, the traitor. Romar Belamor, the scorned lover. Romar Belamor, the suicidal...the list of names was endless, and none very complimentary. Each moniker he could think of was like a knife in the back, twisting and wrenching the pain all the way back through his family line to the beginning. Romar thought of his family and of his younger brother, Ludhèr, and suddenly began to cry.
"I have failed you brother." Romar muttered to no one, "I have failed you Father and Mother..."
Romar thought about the list of failures and it only drug his heart down further. He thought of Yuri, his good companion that had endured much with him. He thought of his horse, Húna. He thought of the list of souls he would disappoint by leaping to his death.
His mind made up, Romar stiffened and looked out over the cliff face, eyes staring into the foggy expanse of the storm. He thought that if any he knew where out there and watching over him, Veya, his Father...even Yuri, they would see him at this moment and know he was proud of this one act. That this was his choice alone, that this was his one shining attempt at salvation for life less than worthy. He would give his life back to the gods and accept their fate cast upon him.
The clouds far before him parted, showing the glimmering night sky beyond. The stars, each a soul he had known in this life, twinkled like diamonds in the night sky, glittering approval of this choice. He reached for one bright star in particular, a single word escaping his lips as he leapt to his death.
"Veya..."
Romar Belamor killed himself at age nineteen.
- 450 years ago -
There had been only two times before, in existence, when Emirikol the Chaotic had been surprised. The first was at age ten, when he first learned of magic or, more appropriately, how magic can utterly destroy a family barn. The second was at age...well, age wasn't important, but it was shocking to learn that there is no way to avoid prophecy--especially when it was written somewhere in really ancient text.
Thus, it was no surprise that the one prophesized to take his place stood just paces away in his throne room, fingers crackling with energy and ready to duel.
Emirikol had watched the prophesized one break through his barriers with ease and he admired the display of power. He had watched the man approach, calmly walking through the maelstrom of metal surrounding his finite plane, and he chuckled at the magic-starved as they were cast aside like dolls. Emirikol had been impressed by the creativity in dispatching his guards and bypassing his infinite layers of magical protection.
Emirikol was not, however, impressed with the prophesized ones' manners. He didn't even say hello as he battered down the door. With a distinct disdain for the arrogance, Emirikol sneered, "Hello Caelith. Finally figure out what that spiral birthmark is?"
Caelith simply nodded with a smile, a particularly bright bolt of energy dancing along his thin fingers.
"Well good." Emirikol continued, "The rest of your family never did."
Emirikol stood, smoothing out the rumpled lines of his ebony robes. He crossed his fingers and extended his palms as far out as they would go, resulting in a series of successive cracks that echoed in the empty chamber. "I suppose we had better get on with this."
As if to answer his rhetorical comment, Emirikol's own hands lit up with purplish bolts of energy like torches soaked in oil and sparked with flint.
Caelith nodded and charged across the chasm...
- 300 years ago -
"Is that the last of them?" The captain asked, his voice muffled by the cloth filter across his face.
"Yes sir!" The young sergeant saluted. "All accounted for and on the lightning rail."
"Good. Call the men back and get on the train. I'll be there shortly." The captain shouted, trying to make sure his orders where heard above the howling winds.
The young sergeant turned and disappeared, swallowed up by the dust-storm. The winds howled and shrieked, billowing choking yellow sand high into the air and blocking out the usually blinding noonday sun. By the gods we are doing this just in time the Captain thought, another week in this hellish desert and we would've all died.
Ravenshead had to be moved.
There simply was no way around it. For all its magic and technology, man could do nothing when the rivers of this once great plain dried up. He could not make the sun seem less hot, or the grasses thrive instead of shriveling up and dying. Man could only watch as nature ran its course and destroyed these fruitful plains, leaving sand behind like it was ash after a fire.
The royal family and rich were first, as always. The army was tasked with loading up private railcars with their extravagant goods and pets. Those people were moved to the large port town of Morten which was immediately elevated with the influx of income. Next to come were merchants, craftsmen and engineers, all of whom followed the trail of the rich to Morten. Last were the beggars and poor, who were to be collected on orders of the King and brought into the city.
It was in the middle of this operation that the Captain had found himself, and not a moment too soon.
The dust storm had killed many and it showed no signs of diminishing. They gathered who they could and put them into the lightning rail, the fastest way to transport thousands. Whatever could not be carried was left behind to be buried by the storm. Maybe, in a few years after the immense storm settled, man would return and unearth this once great palace and birthplace of the new age...but not until nature's fury subsided.
Until then, the Captain thought, let it not be forgotten.
The Captain bent down and removed a small glass vial from his belt. He uncorked it, scooped up some of the yellow-brown sand and stoppered the vial. He rolled the vial over in his gloves, admiring what he could see through the blowing storm. He pushed the vial back into his belt and watched the last of his troops board the train. He hopped up the stairs to the rear platform and signaled his sergeant to proceed to New Ravenshead...or Morten as some still called it.
With the crackle of a thunderstorm, the lightning rail lurched forward and the Captain watched Ravenshead disappear in the storm behind him...
- 700 years ago -
Romar would have been aware of the bright flash of light behind him had he been paying attention to anything but the star so far out of his reach. He might have even heard Yuri yelling had he been listening to anything other than his own thumping heartbeat as he leapt from the cliff.
But, as it turns out, Romar only became aware of Yuri during his rapid descent to the earth.
The undying vampire had not hesitated when his friend jumped and followed immediately after, hurriedly imbibing the potion he had paid handsomely for. Yuri desperately reached for the tail of Romar's cloak, digging sharpened nails through it only seconds before both meaty bodies slammed into the rocky ground below. The magic of the potion quickly activated and brought both jumpers to an immediate and feather-like descent.
The sudden stop nearly snapped Romar's neck. When his feet touched the ground, Romar spun around, tearing the cloak out of the Vampire's hands. He raised his fists to strike Yuri, willing to fight for the right to die properly--to die by his own hand. He had made his choice, why intervene?
"Why?" Romar blurted, "Why did you save me?"
Yuri turned his cool, icy eyes to Romar and said the one thing Romar did not expect.
"I wasn't saving you, I was saving the world."
Romar Belamor did not kill himself at age nineteen.
- 500 years ago -
"We cannot dig like this anymore great king!" The Dwarf laid the remains of the pick at the foot of his king's throne. "The humans mettle in affairs they do not understand."
The pick, if one could even tell what it was anymore, had been utterly destroyed. The once gleaming metal head was charred black and twisted useless. The handle was missing and the whole thing smelled of blood and sulfur. The Dwarf that had laid it at the King's feet was missing most of his right forearm and a patch covered his right eye--and these wounds were recent, the bandages covering them slick with blood.
Garor Skullsplitter, Great Dwarf King of Bazarkrak kneeled down and picked up the damaged tool. He turned it over in his hands, looking over the damage.
He spoke to his advisors, a group of wizened old Dwarves that aided the great king in decisions. "Vein-Riding?"
"Aye great king." The lead advisor spoke first. "So many travel this way that the frequency of these occurrences grows each day. If this continues we risk killing a vein-rider with each strike of the pick, each dig of the shovel. They fill the earth's ore-veins with their travel."
"It is not some harmless event, the magical explosion is significant. One day it may be great enough to bring down the mountain castle itself!"
"Ye should see the tunnel great King, there is flesh everywh..."
"Let us say the effect is...gruesome." The second advisor cut off the wounded miner. "Something must be done. Either we cease to dig any new rock or we stop the humans from using this vein-riding magic."
Garor rubbed his chin slowly, twisting about the fine hairs of his beard. Most that were close to the Dwarf knew this meant he was deep in thought. After minutes of silence, Garor spoke his mind. "We are in the new age of peace. We must speak with the Blackwing Kingdom and settle this diplomatically. The vein-riding must end"
"We are also in the new age of prosperity. Bring me every engineer and crafter in the kingdom. I want their designs for travel by machinery by morning and we make for Ravenshead!" Garor stood to his full height and made his proclamation, thrusting his fist into the air. He felt the sharp pain in his arm, a reminder of the price he had offered to pay one night nearly a century ago. The advisors rushed to his side, tying to aid the great king in sitting on the throne, but he waived them off.
Those in the throne room shouted, Aye Great King! Aye!" and the kingdom was abuzz with activity and pride.
The Dwarves would solve this problem and teach their human friends how to properly use the earth for travel.
- 700 years ago -
Romar slumped back into the plush leather chair.
He exhaled slowly and loudly, as though the very action could clear his mind of what he just read--but it would not. He gripped the top of the dusty old tome, fingers white with tension. He tried to formulate the words but could only shake his head.
"I know friend, I know." Yuri leaned over the low mahogany table between them, pouring some hot tea out of a pitcher. The vampire had no sense of taste for tea anymore, but he poured himself a cup out of habit and hospitality. "I had barely reached the end of the passage myself before I raced to find you. It was only through the help of a few clerics at the Hidden City that I managed to reach you in time."
"If I had...the world...she would have..."
Yuri only nodded this time, knowing exactly what Romar meant. The two sat in silence for some time. The cave Yuri had found afforded such solitude, only the intermittent dripping of water down the limestone walls made any noise. The place was dank, but the Vampire had done his best to make it feel warm to those with a beating heart. Torches of everburning light hung in sconces, fine rugs staved off the cold from the rock floor, plush furniture lined several of the walls in several rooms--all in all, it was a fine place to hide.
"You know what this means." Yuri asked in all seriousness.
"That I owe you a great debt friend...and that I can never die?"
For the first time in years, Yuri smiled. "If only Romar, if only. However, your death is a certainty. You are mortal and you will die. It is just important that it NEVER be by your own hands. It would fulfill the prophecy and you would become the gateway for Wee-Jas to walk this plane. Do you understand."
Romar had just read those words seconds ago, but they still shocked him into a stupor. He nodded half-heartedly. He was still wrapping his mind around the fact that his whole life had been a series of tragic fates designed to turn his suicide into a cataclysm.
"I am going to get you a few things and make it known that I'm still looking for you. There are those that would still see her will done and they must believe you are dead. I will return tomorrow."
"Be safe, old friend." Yuri flinched his whole body, turning into the cloud of gas he so commonly used to travel.
It was mere seconds before his flesh dissipated into insubstantial fog and he slipped out a series of cracks and crevices in the cave roof. It was the only way in and out of this cave converted to living chambers. It worked as an entrance for the vampire and the potion he gave to Romar hours ago got his friend inside, but Yuri wondered how long he could keep Romar hidden from those that would see evil walk the earth.
Yuri also pondered how to tell his friend Romar that, even after death, he would still be a threat to the world...
- 300 years ago -
Caelith flipped to the next page, running his fingernail along the text scrawled into the dusty tome. As he did, he muttered the words aloud as if speaking to the leather-bound book before him, "Hero... Friend... Lover... Traitor... Murderer... Martyr..." Caelith leaned back, rubbing his temples gently.
With a flick of his wrist, the archmage commanded his throne to move away from the library of dusty old tomes. The book itself snapped shut and floated back into its place among hundreds more just like it. The throne floated under its own power out of library and into the main chamber, an empty void of infinite black space with but a single door and a landing hanging in the nothingness. The throne hovered into its usual resting spot, in the center of the blackened void.
All the while, Caelith kept running through the checklist in his mind. He had spent more than a hundred years in this private, finite plane, learning the secrets of the last archmage Emirikol, but this most recent tome kept his mind busy with possibilities. Why hadn't the material plane been destroyed yet?
Surely Romar Belamor fit the prophecy. His life was a series of tragic fates all controlled by the goddess of death, and enough time had passed that surely the human was dead...but where was the cataclysm? The only explanation Caelith could imagine was that someone had kept Romar alive and let him pass naturally and, more importantly, kept his remains safe too. If only for the sake of knowing the truth, Caelith the Chaotic decided to discover who had kept Romar secure in his final years and who protected his remains now.
Not that he cared to prevent the cataclysm--it would have no effect on his small plane of existence--but still, others deserved to know that could do something about it.
"Callian!" The archmage bellowed. "Come! We're going on a trip."
The door in the nothingness creaked open slowly, pushed by a metallic hand. A figure stepped out onto the landing, a machine shaped like a man...a construct. It stood a little over six feet tall, plated entirely in a shiny metallic skin not unlike mercury. At a distance, one could almost mistake the figure for a fully plated knight. It was only when one closed to within a few dozen feet and saw the complex machinery, gears, tubes, and gems operating as its innards could they tell it was a machine, not a man.
"Callian, let us gather our traveling clothes and make for the material plane. I'd like to talk to some old friends."
The machine simply nodded, a series of pneumatic hisses puffing out of the vents on its neck. The machine stared at the Archmage for a moment, unblinking, waiting for further commands. Receiving none, it turned and exited through the door. Caelith commanded the throne to advance with but a thought and had it deposit him on the landing to follow.
As Caelith the Chaotic left his personal chamber for the first time in a century, he couldn't help but comment with a smirk. "Who would've known he'd be so damn important..."
- 700 years ago -
Romar stood on the cliff, his feet cemented in place by the weight of his decision.
He had come here to take his own life.
He wondered if Veya had paused like this, contemplating the choice. He wondered if her heart had fluttered like his, if her lungs gasped for air to fan that little spark of hope that might still live in his chest. No. Her choice was swift and full of pain. Romar had replayed that night a hundred times in his head. A hundred nights and a hundred ways, she always fell to her death. She always slipped into the blackness.
A thunderclap overhead. Black clouds pregnant with rain gave birth to torrential downpour. Romar's cloak stuck to his body, weighted in place by the cold and heavy rain. His boots sunk even further into the sandy cliff edge as if the very earth itself were begging please, reconsider! Romar ignored all of this, his mind still spiraling out of self-control.
Romar Belamor, the traitor. Romar Belamor, the scorned lover. Romar Belamor, the suicidal...the list of names was endless, and none very complimentary. Each moniker he could think of was like a knife in the back, twisting and wrenching the pain all the way back through his family line to the beginning. Romar thought of his family and of his younger brother, Ludhèr, and suddenly began to cry.
"I have failed you brother." Romar muttered to no one, "I have failed you Father and Mother..."
Romar thought about the list of failures and it only drug his heart down further. He thought of Yuri, his good companion that had endured much with him. He thought of his horse, Húna. He thought of the list of souls he would disappoint by leaping to his death.
His mind made up, Romar stiffened and looked out over the cliff face, eyes staring into the foggy expanse of the storm. He thought that if any he knew where out there and watching over him, Veya, his Father...even Yuri, they would see him at this moment and know he was proud of this one act. That this was his choice alone, that this was his one shining attempt at salvation for life less than worthy. He would give his life back to the gods and accept their fate cast upon him.
The clouds far before him parted, showing the glimmering night sky beyond. The stars, each a soul he had known in this life, twinkled like diamonds in the night sky, glittering approval of this choice. He reached for one bright star in particular, a single word escaping his lips as he leapt to his death.
"Veya..."
Romar Belamor killed himself at age nineteen.
- 450 years ago -
There had been only two times before, in existence, when Emirikol the Chaotic had been surprised. The first was at age ten, when he first learned of magic or, more appropriately, how magic can utterly destroy a family barn. The second was at age...well, age wasn't important, but it was shocking to learn that there is no way to avoid prophecy--especially when it was written somewhere in really ancient text.
Thus, it was no surprise that the one prophesized to take his place stood just paces away in his throne room, fingers crackling with energy and ready to duel.
Emirikol had watched the prophesized one break through his barriers with ease and he admired the display of power. He had watched the man approach, calmly walking through the maelstrom of metal surrounding his finite plane, and he chuckled at the magic-starved as they were cast aside like dolls. Emirikol had been impressed by the creativity in dispatching his guards and bypassing his infinite layers of magical protection.
Emirikol was not, however, impressed with the prophesized ones' manners. He didn't even say hello as he battered down the door. With a distinct disdain for the arrogance, Emirikol sneered, "Hello Caelith. Finally figure out what that spiral birthmark is?"
Caelith simply nodded with a smile, a particularly bright bolt of energy dancing along his thin fingers.
"Well good." Emirikol continued, "The rest of your family never did."
Emirikol stood, smoothing out the rumpled lines of his ebony robes. He crossed his fingers and extended his palms as far out as they would go, resulting in a series of successive cracks that echoed in the empty chamber. "I suppose we had better get on with this."
As if to answer his rhetorical comment, Emirikol's own hands lit up with purplish bolts of energy like torches soaked in oil and sparked with flint.
Caelith nodded and charged across the chasm...
- 300 years ago -
"Is that the last of them?" The captain asked, his voice muffled by the cloth filter across his face.
"Yes sir!" The young sergeant saluted. "All accounted for and on the lightning rail."
"Good. Call the men back and get on the train. I'll be there shortly." The captain shouted, trying to make sure his orders where heard above the howling winds.
The young sergeant turned and disappeared, swallowed up by the dust-storm. The winds howled and shrieked, billowing choking yellow sand high into the air and blocking out the usually blinding noonday sun. By the gods we are doing this just in time the Captain thought, another week in this hellish desert and we would've all died.
Ravenshead had to be moved.
There simply was no way around it. For all its magic and technology, man could do nothing when the rivers of this once great plain dried up. He could not make the sun seem less hot, or the grasses thrive instead of shriveling up and dying. Man could only watch as nature ran its course and destroyed these fruitful plains, leaving sand behind like it was ash after a fire.
The royal family and rich were first, as always. The army was tasked with loading up private railcars with their extravagant goods and pets. Those people were moved to the large port town of Morten which was immediately elevated with the influx of income. Next to come were merchants, craftsmen and engineers, all of whom followed the trail of the rich to Morten. Last were the beggars and poor, who were to be collected on orders of the King and brought into the city.
It was in the middle of this operation that the Captain had found himself, and not a moment too soon.
The dust storm had killed many and it showed no signs of diminishing. They gathered who they could and put them into the lightning rail, the fastest way to transport thousands. Whatever could not be carried was left behind to be buried by the storm. Maybe, in a few years after the immense storm settled, man would return and unearth this once great palace and birthplace of the new age...but not until nature's fury subsided.
Until then, the Captain thought, let it not be forgotten.
The Captain bent down and removed a small glass vial from his belt. He uncorked it, scooped up some of the yellow-brown sand and stoppered the vial. He rolled the vial over in his gloves, admiring what he could see through the blowing storm. He pushed the vial back into his belt and watched the last of his troops board the train. He hopped up the stairs to the rear platform and signaled his sergeant to proceed to New Ravenshead...or Morten as some still called it.
With the crackle of a thunderstorm, the lightning rail lurched forward and the Captain watched Ravenshead disappear in the storm behind him...
- 700 years ago -
Romar would have been aware of the bright flash of light behind him had he been paying attention to anything but the star so far out of his reach. He might have even heard Yuri yelling had he been listening to anything other than his own thumping heartbeat as he leapt from the cliff.
But, as it turns out, Romar only became aware of Yuri during his rapid descent to the earth.
The undying vampire had not hesitated when his friend jumped and followed immediately after, hurriedly imbibing the potion he had paid handsomely for. Yuri desperately reached for the tail of Romar's cloak, digging sharpened nails through it only seconds before both meaty bodies slammed into the rocky ground below. The magic of the potion quickly activated and brought both jumpers to an immediate and feather-like descent.
The sudden stop nearly snapped Romar's neck. When his feet touched the ground, Romar spun around, tearing the cloak out of the Vampire's hands. He raised his fists to strike Yuri, willing to fight for the right to die properly--to die by his own hand. He had made his choice, why intervene?
"Why?" Romar blurted, "Why did you save me?"
Yuri turned his cool, icy eyes to Romar and said the one thing Romar did not expect.
"I wasn't saving you, I was saving the world."
Romar Belamor did not kill himself at age nineteen.
- 500 years ago -
"We cannot dig like this anymore great king!" The Dwarf laid the remains of the pick at the foot of his king's throne. "The humans mettle in affairs they do not understand."
The pick, if one could even tell what it was anymore, had been utterly destroyed. The once gleaming metal head was charred black and twisted useless. The handle was missing and the whole thing smelled of blood and sulfur. The Dwarf that had laid it at the King's feet was missing most of his right forearm and a patch covered his right eye--and these wounds were recent, the bandages covering them slick with blood.
Garor Skullsplitter, Great Dwarf King of Bazarkrak kneeled down and picked up the damaged tool. He turned it over in his hands, looking over the damage.
He spoke to his advisors, a group of wizened old Dwarves that aided the great king in decisions. "Vein-Riding?"
"Aye great king." The lead advisor spoke first. "So many travel this way that the frequency of these occurrences grows each day. If this continues we risk killing a vein-rider with each strike of the pick, each dig of the shovel. They fill the earth's ore-veins with their travel."
"It is not some harmless event, the magical explosion is significant. One day it may be great enough to bring down the mountain castle itself!"
"Ye should see the tunnel great King, there is flesh everywh..."
"Let us say the effect is...gruesome." The second advisor cut off the wounded miner. "Something must be done. Either we cease to dig any new rock or we stop the humans from using this vein-riding magic."
Garor rubbed his chin slowly, twisting about the fine hairs of his beard. Most that were close to the Dwarf knew this meant he was deep in thought. After minutes of silence, Garor spoke his mind. "We are in the new age of peace. We must speak with the Blackwing Kingdom and settle this diplomatically. The vein-riding must end"
"We are also in the new age of prosperity. Bring me every engineer and crafter in the kingdom. I want their designs for travel by machinery by morning and we make for Ravenshead!" Garor stood to his full height and made his proclamation, thrusting his fist into the air. He felt the sharp pain in his arm, a reminder of the price he had offered to pay one night nearly a century ago. The advisors rushed to his side, tying to aid the great king in sitting on the throne, but he waived them off.
Those in the throne room shouted, Aye Great King! Aye!" and the kingdom was abuzz with activity and pride.
The Dwarves would solve this problem and teach their human friends how to properly use the earth for travel.
- 700 years ago -
Romar slumped back into the plush leather chair.
He exhaled slowly and loudly, as though the very action could clear his mind of what he just read--but it would not. He gripped the top of the dusty old tome, fingers white with tension. He tried to formulate the words but could only shake his head.
"I know friend, I know." Yuri leaned over the low mahogany table between them, pouring some hot tea out of a pitcher. The vampire had no sense of taste for tea anymore, but he poured himself a cup out of habit and hospitality. "I had barely reached the end of the passage myself before I raced to find you. It was only through the help of a few clerics at the Hidden City that I managed to reach you in time."
"If I had...the world...she would have..."
Yuri only nodded this time, knowing exactly what Romar meant. The two sat in silence for some time. The cave Yuri had found afforded such solitude, only the intermittent dripping of water down the limestone walls made any noise. The place was dank, but the Vampire had done his best to make it feel warm to those with a beating heart. Torches of everburning light hung in sconces, fine rugs staved off the cold from the rock floor, plush furniture lined several of the walls in several rooms--all in all, it was a fine place to hide.
"You know what this means." Yuri asked in all seriousness.
"That I owe you a great debt friend...and that I can never die?"
For the first time in years, Yuri smiled. "If only Romar, if only. However, your death is a certainty. You are mortal and you will die. It is just important that it NEVER be by your own hands. It would fulfill the prophecy and you would become the gateway for Wee-Jas to walk this plane. Do you understand."
Romar had just read those words seconds ago, but they still shocked him into a stupor. He nodded half-heartedly. He was still wrapping his mind around the fact that his whole life had been a series of tragic fates designed to turn his suicide into a cataclysm.
"I am going to get you a few things and make it known that I'm still looking for you. There are those that would still see her will done and they must believe you are dead. I will return tomorrow."
"Be safe, old friend." Yuri flinched his whole body, turning into the cloud of gas he so commonly used to travel.
It was mere seconds before his flesh dissipated into insubstantial fog and he slipped out a series of cracks and crevices in the cave roof. It was the only way in and out of this cave converted to living chambers. It worked as an entrance for the vampire and the potion he gave to Romar hours ago got his friend inside, but Yuri wondered how long he could keep Romar hidden from those that would see evil walk the earth.
Yuri also pondered how to tell his friend Romar that, even after death, he would still be a threat to the world...
- 300 years ago -
Caelith flipped to the next page, running his fingernail along the text scrawled into the dusty tome. As he did, he muttered the words aloud as if speaking to the leather-bound book before him, "Hero... Friend... Lover... Traitor... Murderer... Martyr..." Caelith leaned back, rubbing his temples gently.
With a flick of his wrist, the archmage commanded his throne to move away from the library of dusty old tomes. The book itself snapped shut and floated back into its place among hundreds more just like it. The throne floated under its own power out of library and into the main chamber, an empty void of infinite black space with but a single door and a landing hanging in the nothingness. The throne hovered into its usual resting spot, in the center of the blackened void.
All the while, Caelith kept running through the checklist in his mind. He had spent more than a hundred years in this private, finite plane, learning the secrets of the last archmage Emirikol, but this most recent tome kept his mind busy with possibilities. Why hadn't the material plane been destroyed yet?
Surely Romar Belamor fit the prophecy. His life was a series of tragic fates all controlled by the goddess of death, and enough time had passed that surely the human was dead...but where was the cataclysm? The only explanation Caelith could imagine was that someone had kept Romar alive and let him pass naturally and, more importantly, kept his remains safe too. If only for the sake of knowing the truth, Caelith the Chaotic decided to discover who had kept Romar secure in his final years and who protected his remains now.
Not that he cared to prevent the cataclysm--it would have no effect on his small plane of existence--but still, others deserved to know that could do something about it.
"Callian!" The archmage bellowed. "Come! We're going on a trip."
The door in the nothingness creaked open slowly, pushed by a metallic hand. A figure stepped out onto the landing, a machine shaped like a man...a construct. It stood a little over six feet tall, plated entirely in a shiny metallic skin not unlike mercury. At a distance, one could almost mistake the figure for a fully plated knight. It was only when one closed to within a few dozen feet and saw the complex machinery, gears, tubes, and gems operating as its innards could they tell it was a machine, not a man.
"Callian, let us gather our traveling clothes and make for the material plane. I'd like to talk to some old friends."
The machine simply nodded, a series of pneumatic hisses puffing out of the vents on its neck. The machine stared at the Archmage for a moment, unblinking, waiting for further commands. Receiving none, it turned and exited through the door. Caelith commanded the throne to advance with but a thought and had it deposit him on the landing to follow.
As Caelith the Chaotic left his personal chamber for the first time in a century, he couldn't help but comment with a smirk. "Who would've known he'd be so damn important..."