Prologue...
"There is no time! Years and years the Nine have spent and yet, here we sit as if it were the beginning. We are not prepared!" the magus' green robes swept and twisted behind him as his aging hands reached for a small blue leather-bound book, its' cover worn, and title masked by years of age and use.
He held it behind his back as he paced only to set it on the ledge of a book shelf, made three additional sweeping trips around the room, only to snatch up the book again muttering obscenities in a language not his own as he went. A long and fading golden plait held in place at the end with a dark metal clasp marked him as a Lore Mage of the Serpent Sect- Nine writhing bodies entwined within the body of another. For all of the dark that surrounded the Serpent Sect, a collection of great casters and warriors was now emerging, a truth not lost on the mage, who was now scanning over charts hastily, hoping for some large answer to strike at him like a snake.
"Stand still a moment, friend. You're making my head hurt," a sigh left the body of the Lore Wizard, who was seated comfortably rubbing his temples and watching his long time friend, slightly amused but internally just as bewildered by the signs. There were too many- too much far too fast, and all seemingly important. "We must take all of this into account before speaking with Pouty," the wizard said adjusting in his seat, tossing his braid of shock white hair, a natural color for all elves, behind his back and regretting it as he sat back and felt a spine from the sigil of the Dragon jab him in the shoulder blade through his robes.
"Are you not listening?" the mage spat irritably. "We have no time for the Gods sakes!" We must head to the Keep and share the news with him as quickly as possible! The council must be convened!" the mage was as tense as the wizard had ever seen before in their two hundred years of friendship.
The mage was human, his life extended by his craft and devotion to the Serpent's Lore, but he was not immortal like the elven wizard, which became very apparent to the elf at that moment. He sighed again, but this time in sadness. His dearest friends always seemed to be human, ever dying after short lives, while the wizard appeared the same as he had 400 years ago and would continue to for hundreds and thousands of years to come. 'Perhaps not, if these are the signs.' the wizard thought ruefully.
The blue book was in the mage's hand again.
"We don't know what any of this means yet, my friend." the elf tried to calm the flustered mage.
"Which is precisely why we must not wait! If the Son has been born..." the mage paused, thinking on another piece of evidence, then continued but leaving out several pieces the wizard always found odd- and important. "...in the waning moon, of the seventh month on the seventh day, Perlov's prophecy has begun. The child must be taken!" the mage stopped pacing, slammed down the book on his writing desk, and stared at the elf.
"Taken to where? To be raised by whom?" Now it was the wizard's turn to pace as he laid out the argument to his friend yet again. "No one will want 'It' or to bear that burden, and 'It", the child, cannot be raised to be anything other than what it will be."
"You keep saying 'IT'! Very distressing to me. As if 'It', as you so terribly put it, could be something else!" the mage argued.
"My friend, 'IT' could very well be a daughter," the wizard said softly, a hint of a smile.
The mage began to laugh mockingly at the idea.
"A daughter in deed. A paladin? A girl? In what world do you live in? 'It' could spell the longevity or the doom of us all and you toy with this notion of a girl! How terribly romantic of you, my friend."
"You are aware that there are many in the world today wielding swords, casting the darkest of magics as well as the brightest?"
"I am not suggesting that women are incapable of being powerful. Yet none before have been trusted to bear that singular title until now as you are suggesting and there is nothing within the text that It, that THE paladin would be a girl!" the Mage leaned over charts absently, chiding his elven friend in his mind.
"The orc word for Son is not the word used in the original prophecy, but the word for 'sun' is much closer. Over the years, it seemed logical that it would be the former. My recollection..." the wizard began, but the mage cut in.
"Based on a dream you had 50 years ago," the mage raised an eyebrow but did not avert his gaze from the charts.
"As I was saying," the wizard went on, "... This I believe could be the very heart of it, where the key lies. And while many sons and daughters were born on the seventh day of the seventh month, only one of them can be... 'It'. Only one can be the savior of all from impending chaos. Only one is the Paladin, if the portents are correct. And I believe the keys to many a success and doom for all, rest in the capable hands of women... from the very first breath we take. And so does Pouty."
... To Him they come, one by one to the World's End they wander, ever searching. One to lead, One to follow, through Darkness and passed the Light. No Shadow may bind, nor Magic destroy the bond forged through Death's promises. The Life Blood flows from finger to earth, from river to the Heaven's own grave stone. A Child of Old shall give their love, their lives to hold the chains entwined. In the Keep, the Dragons creep to find their own to love, entangled with Time as their slave. Pg 4 Perlov's Compendium
"There is no time! Years and years the Nine have spent and yet, here we sit as if it were the beginning. We are not prepared!" the magus' green robes swept and twisted behind him as his aging hands reached for a small blue leather-bound book, its' cover worn, and title masked by years of age and use.
He held it behind his back as he paced only to set it on the ledge of a book shelf, made three additional sweeping trips around the room, only to snatch up the book again muttering obscenities in a language not his own as he went. A long and fading golden plait held in place at the end with a dark metal clasp marked him as a Lore Mage of the Serpent Sect- Nine writhing bodies entwined within the body of another. For all of the dark that surrounded the Serpent Sect, a collection of great casters and warriors was now emerging, a truth not lost on the mage, who was now scanning over charts hastily, hoping for some large answer to strike at him like a snake.
"Stand still a moment, friend. You're making my head hurt," a sigh left the body of the Lore Wizard, who was seated comfortably rubbing his temples and watching his long time friend, slightly amused but internally just as bewildered by the signs. There were too many- too much far too fast, and all seemingly important. "We must take all of this into account before speaking with Pouty," the wizard said adjusting in his seat, tossing his braid of shock white hair, a natural color for all elves, behind his back and regretting it as he sat back and felt a spine from the sigil of the Dragon jab him in the shoulder blade through his robes.
"Are you not listening?" the mage spat irritably. "We have no time for the Gods sakes!" We must head to the Keep and share the news with him as quickly as possible! The council must be convened!" the mage was as tense as the wizard had ever seen before in their two hundred years of friendship.
The mage was human, his life extended by his craft and devotion to the Serpent's Lore, but he was not immortal like the elven wizard, which became very apparent to the elf at that moment. He sighed again, but this time in sadness. His dearest friends always seemed to be human, ever dying after short lives, while the wizard appeared the same as he had 400 years ago and would continue to for hundreds and thousands of years to come. 'Perhaps not, if these are the signs.' the wizard thought ruefully.
The blue book was in the mage's hand again.
"We don't know what any of this means yet, my friend." the elf tried to calm the flustered mage.
"Which is precisely why we must not wait! If the Son has been born..." the mage paused, thinking on another piece of evidence, then continued but leaving out several pieces the wizard always found odd- and important. "...in the waning moon, of the seventh month on the seventh day, Perlov's prophecy has begun. The child must be taken!" the mage stopped pacing, slammed down the book on his writing desk, and stared at the elf.
"Taken to where? To be raised by whom?" Now it was the wizard's turn to pace as he laid out the argument to his friend yet again. "No one will want 'It' or to bear that burden, and 'It", the child, cannot be raised to be anything other than what it will be."
"You keep saying 'IT'! Very distressing to me. As if 'It', as you so terribly put it, could be something else!" the mage argued.
"My friend, 'IT' could very well be a daughter," the wizard said softly, a hint of a smile.
The mage began to laugh mockingly at the idea.
"A daughter in deed. A paladin? A girl? In what world do you live in? 'It' could spell the longevity or the doom of us all and you toy with this notion of a girl! How terribly romantic of you, my friend."
"You are aware that there are many in the world today wielding swords, casting the darkest of magics as well as the brightest?"
"I am not suggesting that women are incapable of being powerful. Yet none before have been trusted to bear that singular title until now as you are suggesting and there is nothing within the text that It, that THE paladin would be a girl!" the Mage leaned over charts absently, chiding his elven friend in his mind.
"The orc word for Son is not the word used in the original prophecy, but the word for 'sun' is much closer. Over the years, it seemed logical that it would be the former. My recollection..." the wizard began, but the mage cut in.
"Based on a dream you had 50 years ago," the mage raised an eyebrow but did not avert his gaze from the charts.
"As I was saying," the wizard went on, "... This I believe could be the very heart of it, where the key lies. And while many sons and daughters were born on the seventh day of the seventh month, only one of them can be... 'It'. Only one can be the savior of all from impending chaos. Only one is the Paladin, if the portents are correct. And I believe the keys to many a success and doom for all, rest in the capable hands of women... from the very first breath we take. And so does Pouty."
... To Him they come, one by one to the World's End they wander, ever searching. One to lead, One to follow, through Darkness and passed the Light. No Shadow may bind, nor Magic destroy the bond forged through Death's promises. The Life Blood flows from finger to earth, from river to the Heaven's own grave stone. A Child of Old shall give their love, their lives to hold the chains entwined. In the Keep, the Dragons creep to find their own to love, entangled with Time as their slave. Pg 4 Perlov's Compendium
No comments:
Post a Comment