I
The estranged archmage clutched the unfamiliar steel with a death grip, Loridian's tired hands aching. The cool sea air lapped against his time-worn face, ethereal green eyes jolted from tree to brush against the nearby coastline. The wind bellowed his deep purple robes, now stained with browns and singed by salt. The vibrance of his garb had washed away replaced by a distant and yet ever-present fear.
The sand accepted the weight of his exotic steps. Solace crept at the edge of his wounded heart, the fires of hope aching to liven once more. Though he chose to remain hopeful, grim bitterness settled in and clouded his optimistic mind. Only horrors and abominations waited with set maws and fangs sharpened for a fresh meal.
Loridian edged towards the brush into the island proper, the dark canopy shrouding what lied beyond in the abyssal darkness. He raised his hands for his former students and fellow practitioners in magic to halt. Frightened, they obeyed and waited for their next order, their breaths catching. With bated breath, worried eyes, and frightened souls they waited to obey the commands of a former archmage. Loridian sighed to himself, he would never grasp the reality of a former archmage. All those years of study and discipline in the ways of the arcane, gone.
Some eldritch horror held him there, stealing his resolve and planting his fearful steps a few paces from the treeline. The darkness howled with unknown whispers, no familiar sounds of wildlife chorused in the abyssal depths of the forest that laid beyond. Only creaking bark and lumbering vestiges of shadow welcomed them to the unknown platitudes beyond.
His longsword gave him little comfort, he had spent some time in his youth learning basic drills with his father and brothers; though those days felt to be of strange eons. All learned the basics of swordsmanship, war was always an ever-present danger. The song of war rages on, as they say.
Loridian swiveled his head, connecting eyes with one of the warlocks in their company, and said, "Come forward!"
His name was Modares Wella and from his youthful complexion, Loridian guessed his age to be around thirty years. A moppy brown mess of hair and brown washed tan robes wrapped measly about him. Green stained belts hung loosely over his shoulder and his waist. Upon the waist belt bore the insignia of Antorin, a bygone deity of nature that belonged to the Sylvari Pantheon. Loridian never took the time to study and to memorize the various deities that belonged to the group of gods. Loridian counted himself lucky to recognize it as the insignia of Antorin, he knew the insignia because of his brief holiday in Eddinbarge which bore many familiar signs of a few of the Sylvari deities.
Modares nodded to the archmage and said, "What is it?"
Loridian looked back to the abyssal woods and said, "I can feel the lingering touch of magic, do you sense anything?"
Alas, the archmage's acute senses of magic waned to such a degree that he considered himself lucky to have sensed anything at all. Ever since those dark days of the Mage War, he could feel his sensitivities towards magic beginning to bleed out, compounded by the great severing from the weylines. He, and all wizards, struggled to maintain their connection to the weylines, but he dared not reconnect to the wounded rivers of magic that flowed through the planes of existence, lest they dry out and the victory of the Spellguard Reavers all but assured and lay claim to the wounded world.
The warlock focused for a moment, dark green energy danced over his eyes and disappeared as soon as it had manifested.
Curiosity mixed with fear as the archmage asked, "What can you see?"
Modares pursed his lips and shook his head as he replied, deep worry encroaching upon his features, still maintaining his spell, "These forests are old. No one has set foot on these grounds in almost five thousand years."
Loridian felt relieved in that respect, they did not have to worry about persecution. At least for now. But that soft arcane thrum still pecked at the old mage as he said, "And what of the source of arcane?"
"One moment." A small burst of dark green energy erupted in the warlock's palm as he lifted it up.
Seconds passed and the spell quieted, he opened his frost blue eyes once more and said, "It is coming from somewhere underground."
"A creature?"
"No, while it is physically manifesting, it is not attached to anything animated."
"How strange."
The warlock sighed, "Unfortunately that's all that I could gather. What will we do?"
The archmage lowered his longsword, thinking for a moment.
They had two sorcerers and three warlocks in their midst, the only ones capable of using magic while the others; around fifty-five strong including himself, suffered from the disconnection to the weylines. None had any significant martial capabilities, other than Loridian's limited knowledge. Though the song of war rages on, Loridian wanted to keep the trappings of war from his apprentices.
Loridian said, "I will take you Modares and the rest of the warlocks with me. The sorcerers will stay here and guard the students while they make camp."
Modares nodded and fled back to the main body of the refugees, leaving behind the wisened tutor to gaze into the unknown shadows alone.
Long he stared, his eyes tight and suspicious. What ancient magic could be lying behind the veil of shadows? The captain of their ship told them they landed upon uncharted islands that they found themselves on. Time would tell if the sea storm dropped them into the laps of the Ravarian Empire or unto the only haven that existed for them.
II
Passing through the veil of shadows felt cold. Loridian felt the untouched shadows against him, branding him and all that now entered as strangers of the dark forest. He drummed his fingers against the hilt of his blade.
He clutched his torch tight, the beacon of orange flame his muse in the obsidian shadows of the forest before them. The light clung to the ground and the trees, of which bore muted browns and greens. He recognized the trees, even though the soil and brush remained unfamiliar to him.
Modares moved a hand over a trunk of the trees and said aloud, "Hmm...these bear similar characteristics to the trees that grow in the southern edge of Aebolon. But..."
As he trailed off another warlock piped up, a female drow named Tamun, "But what? Are we in Ravaria or are we not?"
"There is something different about these trees. They aren't dead, but they are not entirely alive either." Said the last amongst the warlocks, a human named Alarin Varas, who dedicated his worship to Judea, the god of death. Alarin was paler than all of them, bearing almost an eerie green hue to his eyes. Something put him off and Loridian took note of this.
Entrenched in the shadows of the forest, the small party of mismatched strangers wandered cautiously through the thorn laden brush. Loridian's muscles tensed, nervousness creeping over him like some bilious affliction. The shadows lashed and gnawed at his fragile understanding of the areas around him. He could not shake the feeling of eyes upon him, of some specter of the forest that bore down upon them. They might be alone on the island, but a specter lingered to haunt their souls.
Tamun was the first to speak, her priestly tone cutting through the dense shadows, "No wonder my people fled from the forests of Sarthalas all those millennia ago. No one should feel welcome by these shadows."
Loridian's wizened old voice replied, "Your people fled because of persecution, no more and no less. And do not cast your contempt upon the shadows of this wood. There are virtues in shadows, just as there is a degeneracy in light. Pride, greed, and lust plague all; not only the downtrodden."
She spat, "You cannot tell me that you feel welcomed by this forest."
Loridian remained calm, "There is a primal fear in that arises, yes. But that does not allow us to insult the ground upon which we tread. Whether the shepherds of this forest are present or not, do not cast contempt or judgment for a place we know not."
He paused, his face darkened as he finished his thought, "It might be our only hope."
The fiendish warlock motioned to continue their discussion but silenced herself seeing no reason to argue with the archmage.
They wandered close together, the comfort of numbers keeping the dark shadows from inoculating copious amounts of fear into them.
Loridian looked to Alarin and asked, "Do you sense any dead?"
Alarin took a moment, his eyes flashing eldritch green energy, and replied, "Not a soul."
The archmage sifted through possibilities in his mind, juggling location after location in his mind to try and figure out where they had landed themselves. Almost every coastline on Ketos did not have a forest so close to the sea. And to have such arcane signatures, it all seemed odd to the old mage.
A deep growl froze all in their tracks. A low rumbling tone that vibrated in all their chests, activating some primal fear in all of them. There was a hunger in its eyes as it snarled its fangs towards us. The archmage froze in place as it stalked ever closer to them.
The quadrupedal beast stalked closer and closer, each step bringing another hideous detail to life. It had the gait of a dog stalking its prey but stood three times as large. Its large spindly legs carried a malnourished form, covered in cracking tumorous pores with small patches of sleek black fur. It's skin detracted and bore all manner of pulsating sores, almost hardened leather. It had six bloodshot red eyes of hunger and hate along its wolf-like snout, tight lidded in its concentration upon them all. Yet, Loridian noticed something odd, each one had a milky overlay around them, compounding with this, it did not focus on any of them in particular, recognizing only that it had options for its next meal. It's lip curled and quivered with a growl, locking us all in place.
A dreaded silence filled their lungs, the noxious fear gripping them and daring them not to move a muscle. The carrion evil circled them, its muted senses trying to pinpoint their location. It waited for something, growling and hissing all the while. Its two rat-like tails whipped around, the pendulous motions trying to distract its prey.
Tamun grumbled, "What are we waiting for? Now's our opportunity."
Loridian raised a hand and said, "No, not yet it-"
The air erupted in magical energy engulfing the drow's hand, eldritch green energy clung to her stygian skin.
The carrion beast focused its attention on her and leaped.
They dispersed in opposite directions as it sprang towards Tamun, Loridian tucking in and rolling close but at its side. He pulled his sword back, ready to slice its cancerous flesh.
Tamun's spell livened and a nebulous green-ray burst from her fingertips and seemed to connect with the beast. As the spell made contact with it, the flesh of its neck unfurled like a scroll and warped the air as the spell landed. It made no obvious signs of damage and dissipated into nothing, its exposed neck undulated as if it drank something.
The archmage's sword connected and sliced off one of its tumors, a clear ichorous fluid burst from the exposed stump, it made no clear sign of acknowledging his strike. The aura around it thrummed with power and the stump healed slowly. Its malnourished form absorbing strength from the spell. Loridian's eyes grew wide at this revelation, it waited to gain strength from magic itself.
Tamun's fear evolved and worry crossed her face as the spell disappeared into its neck. She struggled against the mighty beast's strength, its maw of yellow dagger-like teeth inches from her face as she continued to cast the spell. Loridian saw fear and despair spill from her eyes.
Modares and Alarin readied spells of their own and poised to strike, Loridian raised his hand for them to stop and shouted, "You'll only make it stronger!"
He whipped his attention back to Tamun and said, "Tamun! Stop casting your spell!"
As she ceased her spell, a small appendage burst from its neck and pierced deep into her throat, silencing any reply she might have, her face locked in perpetual horror.
Loridian began to hack at the beast's form with reckless abandon and shouted as he tore flesh from its form but incapable of making it stop, "NO!"
The appendage undulated and he watched frozen in fear as the color dslowly drained from her face, her hands wrapped around it attempting to pull it from her neck. A muted aura formed over the dying warlock, her hair withering away and her skin tightening. It was draining all the magical reserves she had left and used it to feed upon the living magical energies that gave her life.
Loridian froze with fear as Tamun withered away into a desiccated corpse, steam rolling off of her form until the tightening coil of death strangulated the last light of life from her eyes.
Satisfied with its meal, it gnashed its razor maw at the archmage, rending flesh from his arm. Its retaliation did not rend deep but Loridian howled in pain.
He stumbled back, struggling to maintain his footing. He winced in pain, its teeth had sunk in deeper than he thought. It stung, though he could not linger on the pain for very long. He raised his sword in defiance of the beast, his face curling in hatred towards the creature.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
It wiped its wide maw with its tongue, tasting Loridian's blood that lingered on its teeth. It growled as it locked its predatorial gaze upon him. Then stalking in a small circle studying the three remaining that surrounded it. It looked for a way to escape.
The archmage looked to Modares and Alarin who debated with each other about what to do next. Their fear-stricken faces gleamed with muted hope.
With reckless abandon, Modares raised his hands and summoned forth vines. The beast leaped towards him but the vines seized its movement and pulled it down back to the dirt. It yanked and squirmed within the ancient roots but to no avail, howling in anger at its imprisonment of movement.
Alarin raised one of his hands, dark eldritch energy seeping from his eyes as his fingers pulled invisible strings, Loridian watched in horror as the beast screamed in pain. Its pores seeped a dark green ichorous fluid. It congealed and moved towards Alarin, a different ichorous fluid from when Loridian severed one of the pores.
It raised up into the air a few feet in front of Alarin, it stretched out as it rose through the air. It took on the form of a familiar shape. His fingers erected, palm facing outwards as the congealed mass hovered in the air. It pulsated with black energy. Loridian knew the bleak arcane, a black spell of forgotten lore. One of the spells from the Libram Maleficus, penned by Orobaleth the demon lord pledged to Ozyrinath. Such malevolent magic, Loridian cringed at the nebulous spell.
Pulling his hand back, the spear of eldritch energy followed his movements and burst forth as he pushed his hand outward. It sailed through the air and found purchase into the entangled monstrosity. It lingered, stygian energy rolling off haft and wound, thin wisps of smoke billowing from the black spear. It gasped almost, the living energy that gave it motion froze, the color disappeared for all but a moment as it felt death impale its cruel spear through its side.
Using this window, Loridian raised his sword and sliced through its thick neck. It did not fall all the way through, he had not the bloodlust to sever the head from its body. Blood splattered from the exposed stump, showering the injured archmage with fresh crimson.
The life that lingered, now slipped into the void along with the spear, disappearing from the prime material. They could ease their bewildered and estranged minds. His hands shook, the grief that he buried deep now echoed throughout his old veins. He fell to his knees and struggled to bury it further, mixing with the entropic energy from Alarin's magic, Loridian felt sick.
Modares knelt next to the archmage and used some magic and Loridian watched as a small berry bush sprouted from the earth, the druid said, "Come now... there is no time for us to linger, for the sake of her and the others we must continue on."
Loridian felt his mind wrench back to the cursed memories of the Night of the Silent when the entire countryside of Aebelon turned on its magically inclined citizens. Burned, maimed, tortured, screaming, wailing, blistering. All those black memories flooded his mind, his muscles succumbing to the horrendous weight of inaction and hopelessness. 'What good would this do?' Loridian thought, what waited for them but more pain and suffering beyond their comprehension. They only drove themselves to the mouths that wished nothing more than to feast upon their fear, their anguish, their suffering.
The archmage ate the berries with great struggle to remain in control, to keep his mind from divulging further into hysteria. The calm juices from the berries warmed his body as well as his mind, compartmentalizing the horrors and woes for another time. His shaking began to subside and his calm demeanor returned, drawing deep breaths to lull his jittery muscles.
Loridian said between sighs and grunts of pain, "What was that?"
He turned to Modares who looked at it with the same strangeness and mystery as he replied, "I have no idea. It used to be a wolf but something has... I don't know..."
He trailed off, Alarin remained silent as they mourned the loss of Tamun. The grave warlock whispered final rites to the dead drow and wished her safe travels to the lands of the dead. Of which, they all would likely see soon.
III
In the heart of the dark forest, Loridian's wounds stung. Modares' spell had eased the edge from the wounds but it festered with renewed boiling pain as time progressed. It danced on the edge of unbearable, he shouldered the pain all the same though. He would perish happily if it meant he could find shelter for his wayward apprentices.
Spears of light pierced through the canopy, sprinkling the lands of shadows with brief moments of light and familiarity. Yet even those comforts could not quiet their minds of the beast that assailed them not more than a few hours ago. No such creatures had found them since, as they refused to cast spells until they knew no others lingered nearby.
They spent a few minutes to study the creature, as Modares hypothesized it was once a wolf but something twisted its shape, malformed it into something more sinister. Such extreme levels of magic had such an effect, where it warped the caster to the loathsome magic they dared to summon. In such a case, they would warp to commonplace classes of magic i.e losing flesh for casting spells attributed to the Gravemind, the hordes of undead that hail from a distant hellscape; or of demonic conventions, always meddling in the affairs of mortals upon the prime material. Though no such familiarity coaxed them to such conclusions. It fascinated them and caused a great amount of fear as well. They had never seen such a cursed beast.
They had continued on in silence, not wishing to disturb the mourning between them, they knew of Tamun only from reputation. She was a sorcerer of the Pharaoh Menkara before he died during the Mage War. The vacuous state left behind when the Pharaoh died caused Tamun to seek lodging elsewhere. She often disagreed with those around her, very bull-headed. But she harbored the same sympathy for her fellow spellcasters. Hard not to, when the Spellguard Reavers hunted mages of all kinds.
The old mage shivered, an unnatural cold washed over his limbs like when one is sick. Though he felt no fatigue or burning sensation in his head or any other symptoms to speak of. An ancient chill locked around his bones.
Alarin spoke as they trudged through the shadowed brush, "How much further?"
"Close," Modares said, guiding those that remained at his heels. "Be patient."
The grave warlock looked to Loridian, sympathy bleeding from his eyes as he apologized to the archmage. The old wizard waved him off, pulling his robes tighter around himself. The blood on his sword hardened and dried, permanently staining the blade. He did not care, not that he could ever perish the sight of Tamun dying before his eyes. Loridian had seen many atrocities, more in recent decades than any other before, but this cut a cord.
The shaking returned, from the absence of some misbegotten essence. A missing piece, a part of Loridian that once gave him great meaning; great purpose. A deep dissatisfaction arose, a void that willed him to fill it. Inescapable darkness that pulled him closer and closer in. What could he do? What frightful actions might bid him? The shaking grew ever more violent, the stiff cold now deep freezing his bones.
He felt a bright hot hand touch his shoulder, he lurched forward away from it, his breaths raspy and short as Alarin said, "Archmage, are you sure you're alright?"
Like the passing of a breeze, he found himself collected once again. Many deep breaths followed that short eternity after he asked the question. Genuine concern crossed the warlock's emerald green eyes, eyes that knew the stewing darkness within.
Loridian rubbed his neck and said in a weak but confident voice, "Yes, I am fine. Let us continue."
***
A stone maw of pitch darkness gaped in front of them, the bleak abyssal depths ushering them forward. None acknowledged, nor agreed to, its invitation.
Loridian's condition seemed to worsen, the color had run from his face. Whatever malformed affliction clung to his veins, held tight reigns.
Alarin and Modares had given him some treatments that subsided the carrion shadow that now hung from his shoulders. He admired their concern, but he feared that he would not recover.
Modares broke the silence and said, "It is in there."
Alarin calmly stated, "So we are to abandon all sensibilities and follow the depths until we find..."
He trailed off, waiting for someone to answer him. Loridian answered, "Until we find the source of this strange arcane." Alarin looked to the ailing archmage and said, "Night is upon us and you are ill, there would be no shame in-"
"-For the sake of Tamun and the apprentices we must do this without delay." Loridian snapped and moved his attention to the druid, "Lead on."
They plunged into the oblivion darkness, the cold threshold danced over their forms as they were ushered into the gloom. The torch had glistened off the dampened stone walls. He could feel the frost from the ancient stone walls cling to him as the walls seemed to stretch on forever. Loridian welcomed the thin cavernous air, the deep frost that once clung to him now gave way to a horrifying heat. He welcomed the torridity, his shuffling steps echoing off the stone walls.
Agonizing hours stretched on, at least from Loridian's point-of-view. The cold air somehow stabilized his affliction, keeping the physical symptoms at bay. But his mind fell to an even worse affliction than any of his physical symptoms. Gnawing, gnashing, and carving away at the stretches of his sanity was this deep-rooted desire to fill. He hungered, though they had filled their stomachs before reaching the cave. No, this felt like a primal hunger. The void he tore open within himself, forced to live with a gaping wound within him. Languishing in the shadows of power he once held. That sweet, sweet formless energy that once gave him great purpose. He remembered the days long since past when he would lecture in the halls of Meibius, the Citadel. He remembered the days when he would study so many tomes of forgotten lore, tomes only meant for the archmage's eyes. He remembered the day when he cast his first spell, one of his greatest achievements. But now what was he; some old man that had no other skills than to waste away into a soulless husk for the rest of his days because of some power-hungry tyrants.
The air felt strange, it drew Loridian out of his stupor. It remained cold, but it felt different. The archmage could not tell for how long they had been wandering the stone-carved halls of obsidian shadows. But the weight of it changed, the air grew thicker.
Confirming his hypothesis, Modares said, "We are drawing near, I'm sure of it."
Loud in Loridian's ears was a choir of the most beautiful chimes he had ever heard in his long life. They almost sang the hymn of Rulis itself. This caused his hunched form to straighten and he perked up.
Alarin said, "What is it?"
The archmage stepped past Modares and said to himself, "It's beautiful..."
Closer he drew to the beautiful sound, it livened as if it beckoned him forth further into the darkness. He quickened his steps as he made his way through the darkness, paying no mind to the warlocks that gave him company. He heard their distant pleas to wait and slow down, but he ignored them. Something deep in the caves invited him. They sang of a cure for his affliction, of the maddening toxins that burned in his veins. For once, in what felt like an eternity, hope livened within him.
Fumbling through shadows he came upon a deep cavern, an ancient escaping breeze blowing out his torch. Loridian looked upon the cavern with his mouth agape in wonder.\
Breaching the cold stone were various sized crystals, glowing and humming with ancient magic. Not warded, not latching enchantments, but sources of magic. These energies he felt only when in the presence of the Weylines, they sang in a livening chorus so beautiful it rivaled the choirs of the heavens. Loridian started to weep with maddening delight.
He stumbled into the cavern as his compatriots stopped at the threshold.
Loridian looked over his shoulder, beaming with joy as he said, "Look, look now my friends. Here in this cavern lies our salvation. Sent to you, Modares as providence. What a great blessing from Alhaziir himself. For the god of magic is smiling upon us, he had not abandoned us as we had thought before. No, he was waiting for us to find them-"
Modares said, "Loridian-"
But Loridian did not pay him any mind as he continued, his voice rising in pitch, "-Can you not hear them? They sing, they sing to us. They bid us use them..."
He heard Alarin step closer as he said, "Archmage before we jump to conclusions we need to-"
"AND WHY SHOULD WE STOP!" Loridian shouted as he knelt and clutched one of the crystals in his hands and continued. "Have we not waited long enough!? Have we not suffered enough, brother? The persecution, the agony, the pain, the toil, the bleak certainty of our existence that echoes with constant suffering! They wait like starved wolves for us, I guarantee that they hunt for us even now. If not them, then the Vindex Certum will surely come for us."
The crystal he clutched was about the size of a shortsword, deep orange that pulsated and hummed with magical power. His tears welling as he stroked the crystal with a trembling hand, "For too long have I lived without it. Too long have I lived empty, devoid of the blissful energy that once gave me great purpose. They stripped me of my title and my station. They took my power away from me."
He rested his hand upon the crystal and began to draw power from it, mimicking the ritual of drawing power from the Weylines. He trembled and shook at the filling power, drinking in its energy. Familiar to the Weylines, but different. It felt pure.
As he absorbed the power from the crystal he heard them shuffling towards him, slowly inching their way towards him.
The druid said, "Be that as it may we do not know the effects of using such crystals before we use them we must study them."
The other joined in as he said, "Yes, archmage, we cannot jump to reckless abandon."
He heard their words but he cared not, he could feel his affliction healing. The boiling in his veins subsided as he drank the magical energy. His hand hovering a few inches above the chilled surface of the crystal. He shivered at the ever-growing threshold of power. The orange energy he pulled from the crystal wrapped around his hand and wrist absorbing into him. It felt so freeing, fulfilling even. Ever so sweet to the last of the energy that resided within the crystal. As it swirled in his body he felt his form change.
He felt his skin tighten, clinging closer to his flesh. He felt energy flood to his eyes, seizing them and causing them to cease their weeping. His veins pumped with renewed vigor, strength, and conviction. He had not felt as such for many years. He looked at his hands, his skin was leathery and his nails had grown longer and sharpened like claws. He looked into the reflective surface of a crystal.
His eyes burned with green fire, pulsating with unbridled energy. His skin clung tighter to his skull. His hair gone, instead sharpened spines erupted from his thickened neck and along his back.
He turned to them, dumbfounded at what they saw, anger festering as Loridian said, "Why do you look upon me with fear? Why do you wish me to stop?"
He raised his hand and pulled them closer to him. Alarin succumbed to the cursed arcana that willed him across the stony room. Modares raised his magical defenses and stood defiant against him, what hubris.
His hands wrapped around Alarin's shoulders as he came closer, his fearful face alighted from the eldritch energy that raged within Loridian's eyes. They connected gazes and the fear turned into pain as he pressed both hands against his head, flesh starting to tear from his skull.
Loridian laughed, "Why do you resist, brother? Is it because you already have magical energy that you refuse mine? You warlocks and sorcerers with your pre-existing reservoirs of magic. It sickens me."
His mouth widened, the air rippling with a shrill screech as Loridian feasted upon the magical energy within Alarin. Like with Tamun, his skin tightened and his youthful face shriveled until all that remained was dead flesh and skin.
His power welled, Loridian cast the body of Alarin aside and hungrily looked for Modares who had gone from the threshold. Loridian scanned the cavern looking for the wayward fey warlock. He whipped his head around the room for the late fae warlock. There had been no sign of him, he must have fled.
His maddened gaze soon fell upon the crystals of varying size and whispered to himself, "I have found our salvation."
IV
Modares never ran so fast in his life. He breached through the stone maw and into the cold night air. He could smell smoke from a bonfire. They must know what befell Archmage Loridian Selenas. He trudged on through the forest back to the shoreline.
His pack clanked and jangled, the crystals knocking against one another. He hoped he grabbed enough of them for them all. There had to be some way to filter the magic within until they can be used without such harrowing effects.
As he made his way through the forest, he thought back to the cause of the archmage's madness. He remembered the wound he suffered from the wolf, he remembered the mucus-like substance that dripped unto the open wound. That had to be the cause of Loridian's psychosis. Nothing else could explain his deliriousness. They should have stopped for the night and allowed Loridian to fight the affliction. But that time had passed, his descent further into delirium was all but assured.
With sufficient distance from the cave, Modares knelt in the shadows and procured a crystal. He laid his hand on the palms sized crystal, magic emanating from his palm. The magic connected, the energies interacted with one another, but nothing appeared to be cursed about the crystal.
The estranged fae warlock, curling his lips in frustration, clutched the unfamiliar crystal. The edges threatened to cut his forgiving hands. His tired mind ached against its use, his reservoir of energy ran low. He thought about how the arc-rivers of Korodon Peaks over centuries purified into usable arcane energy. He thought about the Weylines and how they repeatedly created raw magical energy and filtered it as it ran through the many planes of existence. He had an inkling of an idea on how he could make the ritual work. He hoped that it would work.
He focused every last drop of energy as he raised his other hand to a nearby plant, begging his patron to forgive him. As he drew in the magic, he channeled the chaos energy that was embedded within it and cast it through the plant. The toll of the mental strain caused Modares to struggle to maintain concentration. Not only did he focus on drawing the chaos energy embedded within, but he struggled to keep the magical energy inside the crystal. Dark effects could be made from the mixing of magical energies.
As the last of the energy clung to the plant, Modares released his magical connection to the crystal. His mind grew fuzzy, arching his back, and supporting his weight with his outstretched hand. His wonderment of whether it worked soon answered itself, now he could hear the chorus of the crystal. The beautiful hymn-like tune caused Modares to relish in its pleasant melodies.
A smile crept across the estranged fae warlock's face, hope returning. All that remained was to deal with a dark eidolon that they once called their archmage.