The Age of Igtheon

An age long-prophesized has come to pass...

In the hour preceding a chill dawn, the city of Asphyr stirs. A solitary figure, statuesque and markedly sullen, stares out of a narrow window in the topmost chamber of the Tower of Anarain.

Carrinlar-Suth, the Grey Mage, keeper of Anarain, had seldom known fear, but she was no stranger to doubt.

Fear was folly, this she steadfastly believed, but the realization provided little comfort.

She had seen fear shake the foundations of resolve and crush burgeoning hope. She had seen it cruelly haunt otherwise impregnable minds with the spectre of dark tidings never to be heralded. She had watched it paralyze and mock those in its thrall. She knew, firsthand, that it begat hatred and spawned mistrust. She cursed fear as an unapologetic slayer of dreams.

Carrinlar-Suth shivered, withdrew from the window, and shivered again.

"My lady, they've returned from Alnwin."

The deep voice startled her. The master spellcaster turned to behold the stoic face of her most trusted man-at-arms. Yisryn's heavy frame nearly filled the entirety of the doorway leading into her chamber.

"Do you feel it, Yisryn?" Steel-grey eyes peered out from behind the cloth mask that concealed her face. The man in the doorway squared his shoulders and shook his head.

"Feel it, my lady?" he asked, his voice betraying a desperate, unshakable weariness.

"The night air," she continued, nearly speaking over his reply. "The very wind that now sweeps in upon us from the gardens below...from across the backs of the hills to the west...the mountains north. It's unusually cold for this time of year. Don't you think so?"

A lengthy and somewhat awkward silence followed, broken only when she again spoke.

"Fear is again growing," she said. "I have long sensed it, though I was content to deny even my own suspicions. Its grasp is potent and its domain vast, but from where does it come? Its form matters not -- vague doubt or faceless terror. A plague descends upon us under a shroud of darkness. None will be spared. You must think the whole thing utterly mad!"

Yisryn shook his head and smirked. She met his gaze and frowned playfully.

"You do think it mad, and perhaps think me mad as well," she said, mimicking his smirk. "I know you too well. You know, it really is a wonder we get on at all, you and I."

Carrinlar-Suth adjusted her flowing grey robes, strode across the chamber, and sat in a high-backed wooden chair perched atop an ornate, tiered dais. Her gaze drifted across the floor of the small chamber, before again coming to rest upon the man who had twice saved her life.

"You're no doubt eager to tell me what they found in Alnwin. What did they find?" She might easily have guessed at the answer to her question, but she posed it anyway.

"Shadow Paths, my lady," replied Yisryn, folding his arms and shaking his head. "There were four open portals. I regreat to also report that only Predrius and Neepsion have returned. The others fell in battle two nights ago."

"And the Shadow Paths? Closed?" she queried, her gaze wandering to the far corners of the room.

"All have been closed," he replied, "yet there is no telling what may have emerged from those gates before they were discovered. I've dispatched the Seven to Alnwin. They'll tend to what is left to be done and will no doubt have their own observations to report."

Carrinlar-Suth did not immediately respond. Her mind raced. Her pulse quickened. She struggled against the rising tide of fear welling up from the core of her being. An age long-prophesized had landed on the doorstep of the world as insidious whisper on the outskirts of the innocuous hamlet of Alnwin

She closed her eyes and prayed.

"We've been idle, I most of all, and that has proved dangerous," she said, opening her eyes and settling her gaze on her longsuffering confidant. "The signs were are all around me, and yet I refused recognize them. May it not prove our undoing. There is much to which we must attended, for there is yet time. Convene the council and make preparations for my journey to Alnwin. I'll want Predrius and Neepsion along."

Yisryn bowed and promptly exited the chamber.

"There's still time," she muttered, rising from her throne. "There's always time. It's never yet been too late."

She returned to the window and and with her cold hands gripped the cracked stone sill. She stared thoughtfully out into the darkness now rapidly receding at the coming of a fragrant late Summer dawn. The Grey Mage closed her eyes and carefully considered the bleak but poignant message she would deliver to the council.

Then, she smiled, for wafting in through the open window, having escaped from the kitchens far below, was the enchanting, irresistable aroma of strong, freshly-brewed palo.

If she waited, one of her servants would soon bear a steaming vessel of the stewed drink to her door.

Instead, she turned from the window, straightened her attire, and strode purposefully out of her chamber, bent on taking into her most capable hands the new day's first matter of import.

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