Hello everyone, this is Asclepius, with another great story from Elgarion De’Kahli. It is entitled
Pale robed sorcerers both venerable and youthful joined anxious hands, alternating old then young, adept then novice, in a circle of thirty that surrounded a deep-blue pulsating lunar rift. The entirety of the Order of the White Cabal stood stalwart, in solemn meditation, focused desperately upon the final hope for the City of Kahli. A spell of immense proportions was called upon. With each word of magic uttered, the weave of the enchantment grew. With every misspoken syllable, the magical energies trembled as if to burst. But few mistakes were made, for the Order of the White Cabal were learned in the arts of magic. Every breath of their lives was exhausted in devotion to such studies, and their destiny was now full at hand. When one singer of spells misspoke, the neighboring mage would repeat the words in proper enunciation, repairing the ethereal threads nearly lost or wrongly woven. But sometimes even the most perfectly spoken syllable caused falter. As the moons broke apart, words of magic broke with them. Once powerful incantations seemingly became fruitless whispers of nothingness. As each focused minute passed, the rift grew brighter yet more turbulent. But as each mage spoke their turn, and as the turns passed from old to young, young to old, there was one who’s time was quickly approaching who dared to stare into the sky upon their impending doom.
This day had been foreseen. Magic of immense power would be summoned by the Order. They would draw upon the fickle energies of a lunar rift at the outskirts of Kahli. They would harness this power to extend a protective shield over the city, safeguarding all within. Saving the citizens, the Grand Repository, and the Caverns of the Cabal far beneath their feet. The vision from the Overseer gave them only days to prepare. The entirety of the Cabal were put to task, learning the enchantments which would be recited upon this fateful day. Even the youngest of neophytes were given many lines to rehearse and commit to memory.
As his neighbor’s enchantments were recited, the turn passed to Kala-Sharee De’Kahli, a young but promising member of the White Cabal. But Kala-Sharee did not speak; the young mage still stared upon the despair in the darkening sky above. The dooming silence caused the magical energies to buckle and sway. Crackles of lightning flickered throughout the circle of mages, the circle of stones. An odd calm took hold in the eyes of Kala-sharee De’Kahli, grandson to Marquis Elgarion De’Kahli. The decrepit Elgarion squeezed his grandson’s hand in hurried alarm with the quivering voice of an old man, “Kala! Your words… your WORDS… recite them now!” Kala tore his eyes away from the rain of shards and cast a baleful and resentful glare upon the unsuspecting, then yanked his hands from the circle. To the dread and surprise of all, a sinister sneer formed upon the young one’s lips. “I shall do no such thing.” Kala-Sharee strode defiantly into the darkness of the surrounding woods. “May Larmenius take you all,” he cursed from the shadow in a disdainful voice.
Drenching rain and bruising hail pelted down upon their soaked velvet robes and frigid skin. Scholarly men accustomed to dusty libraries and solitary study were assaulted by the cataclysmic winds. Flustered and desperate, Elgarion grasped outward to the other empty hand, to the most elder of his order, Galdareen the White, but before they could complete the circle, the spell collapsed and the rift began to swirl in an immense burst of blue energy. Many of the mages turned to Elgarion with panic or blame in their eyes. Tendrils of furious lightning blasted outward in all directions from the torrent of the portal. Each mage struck was sucked into the vortex. More streaks flashed outward, each finding something to tear away from this plane. Stones from the circle vanished in a bending of space, pulled into the Void. Mages once numbering thirty, now only half as many remained. Some ran from the circle of stones but the flashes of light plucked them away, pulling them into the ever darkening portal. Once vibrant blue, now the rift took on a blackness which was nauseating to behold.
Elgarion was captivated by the horror. Betrayed by his offspring’s son. The end of the world was apparent as the shattered moons rained down a terrible fury. Could the Avatars save them from this calamity? Were they the cause? Kahli’s plan for survival was lost. Even before the first shard struck the lands of Kahli, the torn rift, now opened into an unknown darkness, was pulling in more and more, starving for all which the surrounding lands could provide. Stones… trees… buildings… spires… men, women and children… the tendrils showed no mercy as they stripped away all which surrounded the tear in space, save Elgarion, who still stood awestruck. As the rift’s turbulence lessened, the crackling energies waned. A moment passed in which only the sound of the storm could be heard. Eerie wind danced about Elgarion’s rain drenched robes as he looked upon the devastation and the diminished opening, now nearly shut. A moment of acceptance and clarity came to the old sorcerer; what had transpired finally took toll upon him, and Elgarion become overwhelmed with emotion. The White Mage cried in desperation, tears of agony mixing with the rain upon his wrinkled cheek. Just as Elgarion raised his eyes to meet the shard fall, a final accusing finger of lightning struck him, pulling him into the Void and tearing him from this reality. The portal slammed shut just as the shards made landfall, laying waste to all that remained of the once vibrant city of Kahli.
In unfathomable time, hours perhaps years, minutes or millennia, the peoples of Kahli roamed the Void in sickening despair, perception of time or space no longer possible to them. Darkness consumed all. By touch alone could they move about, all sounds muffled, distorted or deafening. The ground beneath their feet shifting with mocking and confusing intent. But all was not lost, for deep within the dark, a solitary glow emitted from a beautiful form. Hope had survived. A beacon that would not be discovered for centuries to come. For the sapling which grew from the blessed essence of the White Acolyte of Artenius, was now a mighty tree many millennia old. For so long, The Devout One had protected the citizens of Kahli under its umbrella of radiance and warmth. Now, it stood waiting within the Void. Waiting for an old man, in his aimless wanderings through the maddening blackness, to step into its light.