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I'm going to be posting this bit by bit, and I would like you guys to tell me what you think, please and thank you. smile
It started as eight. Eight heroes dedicated to protecting the small city of Spellstone, centered in a valley of the same name that carried its own inherent magic. Eight that protected their lands from barbarian raids of varying sizes, which descended from the mighty Kylos Mountains. They were eight parts of the same whole, born and raised together, becoming the mighty warriors that the village needed out of necessity only, no more, no less. Standing together, they pushed back the tide of barbarity time and time again with sword and axe and arrow and spell, the townsfolk gaining courage to stand alongside them in their purpose. However, they all fell to the onslaught, perpetuating the truth that those who live by the sword must die by it as well.
Alexander the Wise, the greatest wizard that Spellstone Valley’s inherent magic had ever produced, was cut down once the barbarians became a little more intelligent and used their priestesses and shamans to counteract his mighty magic with the blessings of their gods.
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He stood against the current, a lone figure of sanity in a whirlpool of madness, the swarm of barbarians centered on him, separating him from his friends. Alexander was a mighty figure, built tall, slender, and imposing, with thick dark hair that extended down to near the small of his back, and a beard that dangled in front of his chest. His nose was hooked, like a bird’s beak, and his deep green eyes offered the only color on his person. Magic lanced from his monochrome figure, his jet-black robes offering protection against any blades that slipped through his formidable defenses of stony skin, shields of light, and walls of air conjured to protect him. Arrows rained down on him, only to be deflected with but a wave of his dark staff, the various gems inset in the wood glittering with power, sending the projectiles back at those that had sent them.
Alexander’s hand shot out, fingers splayed to reveal a black iron ring on each finger, gems hidden from his assailants’ view, but their power not diminished by that fact. A vast column of fire lanced out, tearing through the barbarian ranks, leaving a ten-foot wide path of burned land and ashes of dead men in its wake. This powerful spell did nothing to quell the charge of the enemy, each charred corpse replaced by a fresh berserker, ready to die if only to land a blow on this mystic that was so easily tearing through their ranks like a razor through wet parchment. “Fall back, you fiends!” Alexander’s voice resounded with power that knocked back the barbarians closest to him as he cast spell after spell, “Turn away lest more of you be rent by Alexander of Spellstone!” His command held magical undertones, and some of the horde did turn back, but not enough.
On the outskirts of the torrent, far from the view of any and all of the heroes, a circle gathered. The ten strongest shamans from the ten strongest tribes stood with the ten strongest priestesses in the mountains in a massive circle, chanting in unison to the various gods that the barbarian people called upon for their own magics. Leading the group of the wild magic users was Vorrhen Stronghand, his emaciated and withered frame covered in furs and bones, talismans of the gods of the mountains hanging about his neck and shoulders. Chanting rose in volume, the unison terrifying the few warriors that stood guard over the ritual in order to protect their greatest strength, and the many talismans and symbols on the shamans and priestesses glowing an eerie, ectoplasmic green. Growing slowly in the center, a pulsing heart of wild godly magic shone green, sending its own power out to the battlefield in bright green waves.
Lightning shot out in eight directions from Alexander’s staff shortly before the first green wave reached his raven-clad form. He stumbled over, nearly retching as a creeping sickness washed over him, each green wave draining bit by bit of his magic, as if it was sucking a bit of his essence out of his person with each wave. “Wh-what?” the mage stammered as he felt his magical shields disappear one by one, letting the barbarian horde in closer with each one that fell away. Alexander of Spellstone let out a final yell of defiance as the last of his wards fell away to the green pulse, letting the ocean of berserkers wash over him.
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