The world I helped create is imploding on itself, The old elf thinks to himself. The world he is thinking about is much like ours, but in this world dragons, elves, dwarves, and magic are common. The elf looks around watching as his castle crumbles -- no, not crumbling, but dematerializing -- for his world really is imploding on itself. In this reality, there is a prime world much like Earth, but its moons are other worlds that are linked to the prime world. These other worlds have life on them like Earth, but not his; he has unlife, undead some call it. Abominations are what the people of the prime call it.
It is not just his world that is imploding, but the others as well. Every world -- or the moon if you will -- is dying. The magic is being siphoned from them by the prime world. Why is this happening? The old elf thinks. Something must have happened to make the prime need all this magic. That is what these worlds are made of, just pure magic. It takes a lot of magic to create one of these worlds: more than what a dragon can do, more than anything currently living can do. These worlds are created by powerful beings, some other elemental worlds such as fire, ice, and air are created by a force of nature like a storm of magic. Magic is raw, unyielding energy that gathers and coalesces, but like lightning, it must have somewhere to go. Whether that be a conduit such as a talented mage channeling the magic to her will or a build-up of roiling, shifting energy, it will find a way to create something. That is its nature, its purpose, but such incredible anomalies don’t just spring forth from nothingness, hence the old elf’s concern. Such a build-up is rare and nearly always a reaction brought forth by some catalyst.
His world dematerialized before his eyes, in a matter of minutes he found himself falling toward the prime world. He began forming a shield of magic to cushion his landing. The old elf looks for a nice place to land. Maybe some trees, better yet a grove. He smiles to himself, yes a grove. He thinks to himself, this is probably caused by the druids. They are always blaming him for the prime world’s imbalance. He snickers out loud. I will show them imbalance, he laughs as he crashes into a large oak tree in the center of the grove. As he hits the tree, necromantic magic disperses from him. The impact is so great it causes trees to bend and break miles from the crash site. Everything in the same radius starts to decay from the necromantic magic he releases. Nothing will grow there as long as this taint plagues the land. That's just a side effect of the spell he put on the land, though the real effect is far worse. This spell was designed to animate any creature that dies within the spell’s radius.
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He leaves a small crater from his impact. His magic does its job by softening the landing. Crawling out from the crater, he begins vomiting black ooze. I have not been sick for ages, he thinks. It matters not, What’s done is done. What he does not know is that the magic of his world was leaving him to create a new creature, a creature born of the natural form of one of the inhabitants of the prime and an infusion of necromancy. This creature will later be known as Zavet, but right now, he is unknown, anonymous, and infantile. The old elf leaves the grove and begins to make his way to a nearby town where he will kill its inhabitants to start building his army, for he knows he will need one for whatever brought down the outer worlds.