The Undying Art Rises

[Treshure 5817]

 

Valmuel slowly extended her hand over the lake, glancing at the hands that had worked for centuries. Power flowed through her and exerted out of her fingertips, a purple mist curling around her hand. Glancing around the silver cihi of Lin'everal, the prosperity of the Mali'aheral was evident through the serenity and quiet of the cihi. Those tall, unified, mighty walls had shielded them from all harms and evils that the mortal races could ever wage upon Malin's sacred. Here, the Elibar'acals, of which Valmuel had hailed from, thrived. The once destitute and abandoned art of Fi'hiiran'tanya showed promise through the new generations that would bear it's gift, and curse. Valmuel clenched her fist together, the purple mist intensifying into a bright glow. Only one thing plagued her mind among paradise.

 

---

 

Fireballs and lightning arced through the sky only to be consumed in bouts of purple light. Through the furious aftermath of the destruction of Anthos all the way into the trapping hands of the Fringe, Valmuel and her kind battled countless hours against Setherien's foes and magic users alike. Those who would seek to topple Magic's Bane were fought back with vicious strength. In her prime, Valmuel had used Fi'hiiran'tanya for one purpose: to eradicate ailers. Harbingers were now the hunted, and those who blatantly misused the void were siphoned of their power. In her wake, she believed nothing could stop her on her supposed righteous conquest. As the world aged through years gone by, her silverly hair did not lose one strand. She was Mali'aheral, immortal! Could she be?

 

In her strength, Valmuel had ultimately fell. In her blatant ignorance, consumed by the lust for power and advancement, she fell victim to her prey. In her death, she wished of all the things that could've been. She had stolen her own destiny from herself the moment she was given the knowledge of Fi'hiiran'tanya. It ate at her, it gave an ability none had, and in the end, it was her undoing. With her kin dying quicker than they were born, this accursed art was destined to perish.

 

---

 

In the unhindered storm of sand stood a young man. His physique was molded by the wastes, he saw desolation around him and knew nothing more. He had traveled the world and seen many Gods, yet believed in none. In these dunes he could see the true world for what it was. And in these dunes he found a single written tome. It was eloquent writing, filled to the brim with precise strokes. This was the work of none other than a Mali'aheral. It was written quickly, it spoke of a power he had never heard of. This was the gift of the wastes, he had thought. It was the message he craved for and desired. Amongst nothing he had discovered a forgotten art. It told of one thing that did not hold to any dogma. It commanded attention, out if it demanded that all return to the void.

 

To him, the world was an ugly, insufferable place plastered with false hopes and motives. He had watched humanity's wars against each other, pitting themselves brother versus brother over the word of a God who did not show himself. He could see the Dwarves lie in desecrated pits, clawing at the earth for it's worthless yields. He had watched Elves indulge in their own self-actualization, be it in study of the magical arts, or the forbidden arts. The world would go and pass by, and they would lift not a finger. He could see the Orcs, consumed and destroyed by their bloodlust. What use is trying to make something of nothing? For in the end, everything will return to the void.

 

[Rael 935]

Very cool post Treshure. I'd like to see more come out of this. :)

[Huh 91]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.