Davaris lifted his aching body from the depths of an enormous chair, unwrapping himself from blankets of dark fur. His bony fingers wound around the cane of oaken wood at his side. Leaning on the cane heavily, he felt the stiffness in his limbs that no cleric could cure and no magic could hide from him. Even the spells of some younger magician would not help, had there been any young magicians left to remember the words he had long ago forgotten. The silver droplets of the moon's light sparkled throught the only open window in the room. Spilling across the black stone floor, they gave Davaris the impression of a dagger piercing through the heart of the tower.
Running a hand over sparse white hair, he looked out into the night sky over Nork Village. At least it had been Nork Village at one time. In the passing centuries its name had changed. Now, New Something-or-Other lay outside the castle. Again he looked at the outline of moonlight. "And so the goods remind me of my impending death," he croaked, an elvish lisp in his decaying voice.
Turning with a rustle of black robes, his stooped form eclipsed the window briefly and stopped before an oaken door. Short breaths rattled in his lungs and his every muscle ached. He sensed the spirits in the darkness, the undead gaurdians of the keep. Many were gathered about him, some perhaps craving his flesh and waiting for him to surrender, and some perhaps looking at him with pity, as they had once watched Nicairius with pity. Nicairius, his teacher, the late revered masterof the blacker arts. Davaris was the only Black Robe left alive, therefore, the Castle of Bloodstone was rightfully his. But in truth, the castle always had and always would belong to the master, Nicairius. His soul was in every stone, his blood in every fire that burned within the castle's walls. His very life had been captured by this tower, where a thousand years ago he was consumed into the chaos of a most powerfull spell. Of course, he had never since returned or been found.
Davaris shook his head clear of the memories and images still giving him nightmares today. Instead, he tried to bring to mind a spell. It would carry him on the wings of magic to any place he chose, he wanted merely to go upstairs. In the last fifty years, the study around him had become his whole world. To leave it he had to cast a spell or walk, and he could more walk a hundred stairs then he could go ten paces in a straight line without difficulty. As he huffed out a string of dry coughs, Davaris remebered the spell words and whisked himself away.
Before him was a door, not at all unlike the one leading out of his study. This door was on an enchanted landing, however, and the landing extended over darkness. There were many such landings constructed to gaurd the chambers and their valuables beyond. The blackness below had no end, none that he knew. If the fear of falling overtoook the mind, as often it did to those unprepared, one would stumble, and - Davaris opened the Making the hinges scream and stirring up a cloud of dust. He coughed, then glided into the long forgotten room.
Shelves nestled in the shadows, filled with objects as many as the twinkling stars outside, a coat of dust their testament to existence. The wailing hinges had sent a ripple of life through the air, and in the instant he entered, the room burst with a display of magic. Each bottle, each pendant, longing to be touched. But Davaris, thier user, thier creator, was intent on only one object.
Resting on a delicate silver stand, an orb of crystal held his attention. It was an object he rarely dared to touch, one that hungered for his soul. The rainbow lights shrank back as he hobbled to the end of the room with an outstretched, gnarled hand.
Even in the dim torchlight filtering from the doorway, he could see the hairline cracks on the orb's surface, its shattered center. Davaris had created the orb long ago, and in its making the magic had gone awry, shattering its heart, altering its originally simple purpose. Its use would now drive a lesser mage insane . . . or an old one senile, but Davaris chose to overlook that. Cradled in purple satin and silver fingers, it was now an object that revealed to his eyes, occasionally, the deepest enchantments. Reaching his hand out farther, trying to still the minute quivers of age and excitement, he felt the cool surface beneath his fingertips.
There won't be much to see, Davaris reasoned, though he could not explain the feeling in his bones that had pulled him there. He thought to himself, deep magic nowadas meant an ogre swallowing a lucky penny.
Without uttering a sound, he concentrated and waited in a long silence. Soon, an image began to form in the orb as he felt the forces pulling at him. Another eye would have been captured in confusion and driven mad, Davaris was able this time to see and understand. His lips began to trmble as he watched. He slowly shook his head from side to side. However, his features sagged in acceptance of an unavoidable truth. Uttering strange words that only his heart might recognize, he turned away and left the crystal ball as cold and lifeless as he had found it.
The magical forces inhabiting the room eagerly questioned dark-robed Davaris. The things, inanimate things of the shelves, did not actually move or speak, he felt thier questions in his very being. Then he heard the whispers of the spirit gaurdians lick his pointed ears. In a strained voice he spoke the answer given to him by the spirits.
"A visitor comes. . ."
He left the room, dust clinging to his robes as they brushed the floor. With all his stregth, he pulled the door shut and disappeared.
Davaris, the apprentice of Nicairius, Davaris, head of the order of the dark arts, Davaris, master of the Castle of Bloodstone in New Something-or-Other, Davaris, the last of the ancient users of true magic. Davaris sat quietly and alone in a huge black throne. The high ceiling of the great room stretched out before him, supported by black pillars. Each pillar gaurded an alcove, sentinels of the many staircases spiraling away. A glow filled the room, lighting from some unseen source. The high-backed chair was cold and hard, stinging his old bones. There were tiny lines of white running through the black marble, and he began tracing over these with his finger on yet another. Many decades had passed since he'd last sat there. Even in the days when hundreds flocked to the castle, this entry hall was rarely used. And there was only reason why.
The huge, magically sealed door opposite Davaris led out into a deadly garden. Foliage and creatures of all types; alive, dead, and undead surrounded the castle, had gaurded its existence through every war, against every intruder. Nothing living or dead passed the bewitched grounds without a powerful charm, an even more powerful will, and perhaps a god or two for luck. Yet, the crystal had shown a visitor passing, a hideous monster that would survive to face Davaris at the door.
He did not sigh, though the air seemed to project with all its substance that he would. He did not, leaving the air to wait expectantly. Tension almost burst stones from their mortars as Davaris sat deciding his strategy. What would he say? What spells could he remember? What magic should he work?
Magic. Davaris rolled the word around in his mind. How people had grown to detest the word he worshiped. With peircing suddeness he recalled the last time he'd walked the city streets. He was laughed at, asked to do some card tricks. "Pull a silver piece out of my ear!" Streetside performers did "magic" with scarves and half-naked females. Whispering voices did not even murmur with reverence, in the darkest dark of the latest late, when magic was mentioned. Well, what did people know? Humans, elves, dwarves, halflings . . . it was interbreeding, Davaris decided. An elf wasn't an elf anymore, nor an ogre an ogre. No wonder the world was a mess.
Davaris had more important things to think about. He would protect the honor of the castle, its towers, even if it meant his death. And his death would have been easier ot face, walking up the unwalked steps, ignoring around it the most fearsome place on the face of any world. His death could pound at the door and he would gladly answer it before he would face the creature that was coming. The monster wouldn't let him die, it would inflict its terrible tortures. Davaris knew well. It had come once before, a mere three years ago. He stared intensely at the rune-etched door.
This time . . . This time he vowed, he'd turn it away. He ceased tracing the white lines and sat. He just sat arms extended over the armrests, body slouched against the midnight black of velvet cushions. Unmoving, he stared continually at the sturdy door. The one and only heartbeat in the halls, his own, stilled and almost forgotten. The walls let go of him, and his mind went deep within himself. Still, he was acutely aware of every nerve in his body, every rune and glyph on the door.
Suddenly, though there was no sound to stir him so, every thin muscle went rigid, every aching tendon went tight, and he straightened. The pillars, the alcove, the ceiling, all seemed to sway, startled by his movement. Then the room seemed to lean, as Davaris leaned, expectantly. He became aware of his heartbeat again. Reminders of just how weakly it beat ran crazily in his head, he tried to push them aside and ran a hand over his balding scalp. The other hand, thick, purple veins almost bursting from the skin, held the oak cane tightly.
Within a few long seconds, heavy knocking echoed through the chamber. Davaris had expected this, but he started as if in pain when the loud sound broke the silence. The light in the room continued to glow.
Open the door from here with magic, giving myself time, giving myself room? He wondered. Leave the throne and meet it standing? Open the door myself and surprise it? He rose from his seat and went forward leaning on his cane.
He stopped halfway, as much from pain as from strategic consideration. No, he reasoned, I'll meet it at the door. It may be harder to drive out once inside the doorway. The mage went on, seeming calm though his stomach quivered. He stopped and placed a hand on the knob.
The knocking came again. This time he did not flinch but released the wards placed on the door and clenched the doorknob tighter. Sweat trickled down from his pate, dripped from his brow.
In one swift motion he threw the door wide, ignoring the throb of pain in the tissues in his body. Agony and aversion washed over him all at once as a squat, green hobgoblin leered up at him. No, not again!!! He felt his will crumble, exhastion creeping over him. The loathsome creature waved a box shaped talisman in his face.
"Buy some cookies mister?" the young girl asked.
"Ten boxes of sugar," he moaned and offered up the gold.