A Mischievous Tale of Magical Mayhem

11 | Dreams and Doubts

Ben dreamed.

Fire burst towards the sky, sending plumes of smoke deep into the atmosphere. Ash choked everything, blocking out the sun and smothering the earth. Ben's throat burned as plants withered, birds fell from the sky, and animals dropped dead, their corpses scattered like fallen leaves. Most horrific were the sentient trees—roots twisted and faces forever frozen in horror as the life drained from their features.

Somehow, Ben knew he viewed the distant past, and time progressed rapidly in the dream.

A monochrome waste replaced a once verdant land. Instead of a shining college, filled with scholarly practitioners of magic and alchemy, a formidable structure with scorched black walls loomed over the rugged cliffs. Remnants of an ancient landslide blocked the lowest easterly path to this day.

Behind the fortress, a pit had been constructed: the first several meters were built from rubble and brick, gradually giving way to the earth's natural rock the further it went. The pit extended so deep, one could shine a light and still not see the bottom.

It was not empty, though. Oh, no. Somewhere deep within lurked a monster, waiting for its next meal. Humans, orcs, the occasional troll... the beast didn't care. But what it really craved was elven flesh and magical blood. Sweet, delicious blood.

Within the fortress, the soulless shells of humanoids, representing every race of Nirvala, wandered the halls. Incoherent words echoed within the cold structure, praising and calling upon their deity, praying for the dark dawn of Volaer's reign.

Smoke swirled within their eyes, stealing the color that once defined their windows to the outside world. All any cultist saw was their master; an eldritch god on the other side of the veil, waiting to be set free.

Black magic poured from cracks deep inside the earth, saturating everything in its path while invisible to the naked eye. The antithesis of life, it poisoned the soil and leeched the arcane spark from any who possessed it. Those who could sense the darkness didn't survive long—especially elves and mature Arboreans.

Rage rocked the realm's thin walls beyond the vale. A half-elf didn't warrant much attention, except this particular soul had proved resilient in a way the others hadn't. This halfling had been perched at the edge, ready to lose himself to Volaer like so many others.

Then, he turned. Somehow, in this decrepit land, he'd found a light and followed it, but not before casting a powerful arcane spell. The action should have ended him.

Before Volaer could claim the halfling's life, both he and the magical source had disappeared. Then the prey had left the physical confines that elven bitch and her consort had constructed during the first summoning.

For the first time in decades, Volaer rumbled through the mind of his pit beast. Mentally, the god probed the minds of his followers, seeking a fresh novice—one with his soul still intact.

A subtle nudge was all the deity needed, and soon, the young orc praised Volaer before treading the broken stone path and approaching the pit. The fortress inhabitants followed, chanting their devotion in eerie unison.

The pit beast—a creature of unknown origins and features—waited with its maw opened wide in gluttonous anticipation...

Ben awoke gasping and drenched in sweat, sitting bolt upright in his bedroll and disturbing both Sprout and Fann. Sprout, who had been sleeping on Ben's chest, tumbled off and landed with a squeak. Fann, who lay at Ben's feet, lifted his head and whined softly. Ben pressed a hand over his racing heart and took a shaky breath.