A storm raged outside, rain pounding against the stone tower, slapping at the structure violently. The water from the sky had been a nuisance for three days now, tormenting the sorcerer, driving him to delve further into his study of the dark arts to drown out the sound that echoed all around him. No doubt the ground around his home was riddled with beaten earth brought to the surface to stare back at him like a dark abyss, calling him to come and sink below, to give up his being to the malnourished planet. He stood beside a fire, his opal pupils watching the orange and yellow colors dance around to a silent tune, to their own music. Freedom was a glorious thing, but one was always in captivity. The fire's master was this sorcerer and his fireplace, the home to the flames, and its dungeon for eternity.
The master of dark arts, a tall, lean figure cloaked in a brown shawl, clenched his fist and shook his head, sighing inwardly. His thoughts were puzzled, mismatched, insane. His violent studies had forced him to turn to this beautiful wonder, to watch in all of its glory as it attempted to break free of its captor, to become its own master. The warlock wished for the same, but such wishes were heresy and mutiny against his creator. Shaking off the weary stare, his face turned to avert his gaze. The figure's arm reached over, grasping the purple orb shrouded by shadows within the confines of this dark room. Other than the fire, there was no light making its way in or out of these quarters, masking all that the man owned in darkness, pouring depression about him like the rain outside; endless.
Drapes hung over the windows, blocking sight of the rain and the deviant earth outside. He had not seen daylight for all three days, and would likely see it no more if his master had it his way. The burning brilliance spotted light all over the place, but only managed to show books. Tomes were scattered everywhere around the dormitory. They sat on tables, opened to irregular places, on the floor, pages torn. Treatment of this material was the last thought on this being's mind. He was looking for something, searching for something that literature had declared he could find. And he had found it. The book set next to the orb he now held was old, musty, covered in cobwebs and the like. However, it was open, and the title of the page read Incantum Mortalus. For days he had been trying to perfect some sort of spell, some conjuration that would solve his problem in this eternal prison.
Suddenly, silence shrouded his being, and no sound fell upon ears covered by a tattered hood. The fire raged inside its home, only to go out seconds later, leaving the room cold, quiet. The rain outside stopped falling, stopped moving, much like he had when he realized that he was no longer alone in the confines of his tower.
"Tis been too long, Warius. How have you been in your dungeon, being?" A dark, raspy voice spoke from behind the warlock, billowing with power and exuberance, but riddled with mystery and malice. The sorcerer, Warius Itham II, stood still, eyes widened, dark pupils fixated on nothing but the stone of the wall before him. His breathing had slowed, almost to a stop, and within seconds, Warius was gasping for air he could not seem to find. His heart quickening, he turned around slowly to stare down his master. The voice now had a face; a dark, slender man with eyes the color of blood and clothes the color of coal. His hand was outstretched, bearing a small symbol within his palm that resembled the orb that Warius had seemed to have dropped onto the floor. It slammed to the cobble ground, rolling to the foot of the mysterious figure. "Nothing to say to your king, warlock?" Warius had no words to speak, couldn't, for he was still unable to breathe. His heart still quickened to the point of embracing the man with a sharp pain, causing him to wince. Without warning, he dropped to his knees, his hand clutching to his chest, the being before him smirking wildly. The orb before him began to glow, as did his palm, and the sorcerer could only gasp his dying breath one moment too late. His body crumpled to the floor, the life squeezed from within in a moment's notice.
"Pity. He was one of my most loyal subjects. However, it is time to reclaim what is rightfully mine. The throne of Jevai shall be mine again..." The figure smiled, looked down at the lifeless corpse, then kneeled to pick up the orb at his feet. His cold digits grasped the vibrant sphere, only to watch as the color faded from the globe and the symbol on the man's palm glowed ever brighter. Dropping the orb, the figure smiled, watching it crash into the floor, shattering. "That is all I need from you now, Warius. Have a nice time in the afterlife. Let them know that Gorn of Luxan sent you!" And with those words spoken, the figure dissipated from the dungeon, the fire beginning anew, the rain pounding as it had before against the mysterious tower. Off in the distance, eyes turned from their view, and a scream called out into the night. "Warius is dead! Gorn has returned! Find the queen!"
OOC -- It's a work in progress. Not really feeling creative, but you guys wanted a plot to begin with, so here is one that may interest some of you, may not appeal to others. I'd like criticism on it, and if you'd like anything changed so that we can start another epic roleplaying thread, please let me know. If you need more information than what was provided, feel free to ask and I will come up with a short timeline and history for this era and this roleplay.
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