Black Magus

“My name is Wilson Koorb. It is the Eighteenth day of Trescia. I know not how long I remained in my bed. Nor how I got here. I only remember waking at the thirty-second minute of the seventh hour of the morn. It was then that I noticed the correction I will now make.

"I was not lying on my bed but floating above it. The levitation potion is still in effect. Additionally, there were changes to my body. Trauma I remain unable to find the cause for.

“Though I awoke in the morn, gasping for air as if I was under threat of drowning and drenched in cold sweat, I found my skin burned dry by the intense rays of the sun. Dust and grime caked my face as if I had been crying in the dirt. My fingers and nails have been chaffed and clawed raw as if I spent the night scratching at the stone. I found no more injuries whilst bathing. But therein… I remembered.

“I remembered the denial of my wish. And so, with little remorse, I make note of the sorry state of my lab. In my anger, I lashed out, throwing gold and trinkets into every corner of my lab like a child. Only this grimoire and pen, the Potion of Expeditious Haste I brewed, and my self-defense kit- a dagger coupled with a Potion of Red Dragon’s Breath and some provisions- were spared. Everything else from my hands to my material case was thrashed to mangled pieces. What potions I had in storage were thrown against the walls. My storage box was emptied and tarnished. And in a final fit of rage, I consumed both remaining potions and let loose on my abode of over thirty years.

“Only after my house burned to ashes and I moved like the wind through the smoke-filled alleys with my hood pulled tight over my head, did I remember. I rarely dreamed throughout my life. The times I did were not worth remembering. Most, I didn't remember at all. But the dream I had last night was the most vivid of all.

"I know not when it started. But when I realized I was indeed dreaming, I felt myself falling- plummeting ad infinitum between vicious pits of wicked darkness and holy motes of benevolent light. Other than creeping vines, worn stone, and rusted braziers, I remembered naught. At first. Somehow, as time passed, I came to know of an ancient crypt beneath some ruins of a forgotten city. Ruins that overlook the Cakewime Stream to the northeast. Ruins that contain the desires of my soul. With that realization, however, came the loss of my insurmountable rage. No longer was I angry at being denied, for the Owl granted my wish after all.

"Strangely enough, though, I was not remorseful or disheveled over my recent act of rage. My life is over, that I realize. Now I am in a state of limbo, on a journey to be born anew. Thus I look out at the distant city of Shavew for perhaps the final time to watch the embers of my old life go up in smoke. My only thought is the hope that Marsha found what he was looking for without as much turmoil.

"With that, I turn to you and ask, what are you?”

My favored pen, as always, inscribed my words without error or complaint. But this time, it seemed to perk up and turn once the final question was written. It seemed to face me, rotating as I sidestepped the grimoire. But it said nothing; did nothing other than drift into my finger as I approached, and once it was tightened within my grip, it pulled me toward my destination.

Conceding to the pull, I did as I’d done before and used my newfound Expeditious Haste to skip across the ground, allowing the Levitation Potion to carry me with the momentum gained. Through such means, I calculated I could make it to the ruins in just over three hours; were I in the city at least. Were I traveling on the road, the time would’ve been comparable. But alas, the only eastern-heading road paralleled the Bridbayvein River going east-southeast, and only crossed it over a hundred kilometers past my destination. And so, I left the city of Shavew unseen and moved through the snow-lined forest as quickly as I could- which, even with my potion, wasn’t quick at all.

I was never the athletic type.

Sudden and unseen dips in the terrain threatened to snap my legs in two with what felt like every other step. Branches came out of nowhere to smack my chest and lacerate my face before they disappeared into the ever-present fog. And when I finally came across open fields, horrendous growls and threatening outlines forced me to take other paths. What should have been nearly three hours of travel wound up taking half a day of suffering through the unforgiving wilds. Having no experience with survival outside the confines of a city, I consumed all my food and water hours ago, thinking myself close to my destination. My dagger remained strapped to my hip. But with no training, its purpose was for brandishing rather than fighting. And though I kept my body heat up by remaining active, I’ve since learned that periods of inactivity resulted in my shivering horrendously.

The light in the Darkworld was that my Levitation Potion remained in effect; as was my potion of Expeditious Haste and the Potion of Red Dragon's Breath. Neither potions nor the thin clothes on my back served to help keep the cold at bay, though, as I couldn't generate anything less than a self-immolating conflagration and the whispers scratching at the back of my mind hardly gave me any warmth. On the contrary, it pulled me deeper into the realm of a long-gone era frozen in time. Thus I continued without delay.

Dilapidated long houses stood all around me, collapsed and shivering under the oppressive weight of snow, rot, and the despair of long-forgotten inhabitants. Through the last standing structure I entered, using the extent of my fire manipulation abilities to light sconces and torches as I made my way through a hardly hidden trap door. In time, the oppressive cold began to make way for stagnant, humid air rising forth to release ancient spores into the air above. But far below were signs of a long-since abandoned drow outpost.

It could’ve been another subterranean species. But the spiders carved into the walls were more than enough evidence for me. At least until I descended further and entered a clearly repurposed burial chamber.

The walls were lined with the empty tombs of soldiers or nomadic warriors, probably. Fighters who died in such a time that required they be buried here rather than near their homes. All for naught, considering they all got up and walked away at some point. At any rate, only rats, spiders, and bugs called the place home until recently, as the only noteworthy object seemed so pristine as to have been crafted yesterday. It was the object of my visions. A sarcophagus of black marble, onyx, and gold, depicting an abyssal monstrosity of horns, scales, and a sharp maw; ajar and waiting to be discovered. Set on hinges, the cover was tilted back longways to rest against the wall behind it. What was worse, my suspicious pen pulled me forth to gaze inside.

What I saw would have brought me to my knees just days ago. But on this day, I could only gaze and wonder about the implications and possibilities of what I bore witness to: A skeleton, donned in a silken robe of black and gold. The bones were covered in metal that reflected a clear green under the light of the freshly lit sconces. Adamantine. Yet it had gold accents just like the coffin and the menacing glaive resting next to it.

Therein was my key.

In the weapon's pommel rested an onyx gem, emitting a rim of golden light as if it were held before a candle. Following the whispers and the pull of my suspicious pen, I bade my breath and unscrewed it, taking the utmost care and caution not to wake this avatar of death. Levitating above it made it as easy as it was terrifying. I could position myself most efficiently with ease, but I was somehow drawn to gaze into the endless pits of the skeleton's eyes. To make matters worse, as I focused with an expeditiously hasted body, the otherwise quick motion was perceived in hours rather than minutes. But eventually, the deed was done. And so, without looking back, I wedged myself between the sarcophagus and the wall, feeling a sense of solace from the lid acting as a roof and the torch acting as a little fireplace.

A long, deep breath later, my back was against the wall. My focus was forward, centered on the head of this sarcophagus.

Inlaid on a golden plate was a mural that stole every emotion from my heart and every intention from my body, leaving only a muted sense of awe paired with a silent demand to gaze on into eternity. In that mural that moved in stillness, I witnessed a battle of titans who used explosive-propelled projectiles and hunks of metal that burst with the power of the Gods to wage an eternal war beneath a golden sun. And among all those titanic weapons, one stood as the most abhorrent. So atrocious it was deemed a war crime.

I realized their natures at once. They were atrocities that would be unleashed should I follow the demands of this suspicious pen by occluding the mural's gilded sun with this onyx pommel.

Even if my sudden disconnect happened not; even if the pull of this fiendish wand had been weaker, the gem would have found its resting place all the same. In this case, however, I realized the gem locked into place only after a soft but violent buzz radiated from within the sarcophagus. The most subtle grinding of stone befell my ears next, followed by a soft rush of wind coupled with dust and pebbles falling overhead. Then came the loudest crash imaginable.

My heart leaped out of its chest with enough force to shatter my soul. What remained of my mind was left frozen in time, listening to the echoes of perilous darkness, sniffing the ever-stagnant air as I stared at what became of the mural.

Knocked over by the crash of the sarcophagus sealing shut, the metal pane fell to the stone and dispersed into a cloud of darkness. Opening, to my eyes, a vault stocked with several ingots of adamantine, gold, and mithral arranged neatly around my prized item. A grimoire bound in a patchwork of wrinkly leather.

The face beheld no title. Only a prominent wrinkle of a line promoted the idea of one. Or a name- my name, to be inscribed on the leather.

My suspicious self-scribing fountain pen, my fiendish wand that somehow became sentient, seemed to agree with me; given the way it ejected from my pocket and plunged itself into my right forearm, drawing enough blood to fill its reservoir and leave my limb wet and numb as it dangled readily above the tome.

I needed not to ponder what to do next. I only took a deep breath as I had done every day for decades and whispered as quietly as possible. “My name is Wilson Koorb.”