The ritual was prepared. The ninth floor had been cleared of all tomes and delicate instruments in anticipation of the arcane winds that would soon pummel the interior of the tower. This particular chamber was often subject to the whims of the weather, courtesy of a gaping, brick-toothed maw in the eastward wall. But it was precisely this hole- caused by who knows what manner of ancient war machine- for which the room was chosen. Bricks made for poor windows, and the lack of bricks in this wall made the view over the nearby bay and- more importantly- the evening sky, all the more unobstructed for this evening’s demonstration.
The windstorm that would visit tonight would not be natural, it would be wicked. There were no torches lit, for they would only extinguish as soon as the ritual began, and besides, the dual moons and clear night sky lent ample light for the tower’s nocturnal inhabitants. There were no silly pentagrams of goat’s blood on the floor, no bubbling cauldrons; no theatrics. All that was needed was willpower and logic. How could the dead deny the truth?
In truth, more would be required for the ritual than willpower and logic, but the other ingredients were trivial to such a master of the dark magics as he who currently paced the moonlit chamber. Wrakilon was a tall, lithe elf with a long face. His face was pale and gaunt, making his skin appear to be stretched over his high cheekbones like bleached hide pulled taut over a bone drum. His gray eyes were sunken into shadowed cavities of sockets in his skull, though one could only guess as to whether they appeared this way due to weeks without sleep or from living many years beyond what was natural for an elven vessel. His once-gray hair had long since stopped growing, leaving him bald, but nowadays he took to concealing himself away beneath hooded cloaks.
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His cloak of choice for the evening was a deep black summer cloak with fine silver embroidery around the cuffs, collar and tail. The silver patterns traced miniature versions of well-known constellations and shone dimly in the moonlight, mimicking the originals peeking into the chamber from the night sky. Appropriate garb considering the focal point of this evening’s event.
The most striking feature of the man was his hands. His right hand was similar to his face; long and thin, the boney fingers protruded from the sleeve of his cloak like the first few legs of an albino spider beginning to crawl out from its nest. This hand clasped to a tall, black iron staff topped with a white crystal. The black iron provided the casting rod superior strength to normal iron, but at the cost of being terribly heavy. In his old age, Wrakilon often cursed his younger self for the shortsightedness of the decision to choose black iron as a material. It was a constant burden to lug around, up and down the tower, but for all the trouble it was, it would be more trouble to bind with a new staff.
Wrakilon’s other hand was foul. The fingers were shriveled and blackened- almost charred- and they were perpetually curled as if they’d been petrified while holding something. The blighting of the flesh on his left hand had caused his fingernails to fall off, never to regrow. The hand was feeble and could hardly be counted on to grasp anything requiring significant strength or precision. It was a permanent reminder of his dedication to his craft; his willingness to sacrifice. ‘Wrakilon the Broken’ they called him; if they only knew.
Wrakilon stood watching the night sky, right hand leaning his heavy staff against his shoulder, until his ears picked up the sounds of a dozen or so sets of muffled footsteps shuffling their way up the stone staircase outside the chamber. The dwergar were here.