Ferds Of Time

PROLOGUE

The heavens lay suspended above a darkened sky, as a brilliant display of aurorae bathed the scene in an ethereal glow, contrasting against the pearly light of the moon. In front of an ancient shrine, long since forgotten by time, stood a man of peculiar bearing. Clad in silken robes, his frame almost blending in with the shadows, he held a wooden staff in one hand, while a strange green amulet dangled around his neck. The man stood, surrounded by the colossal Snowspine Mountains, his gaze fixed on the ancient runes that adorned the shrine walls. The wind whistled faintly, carrying with it the scent of the highlands, as if the whispers of the mountain spirits were beckoning him to the secrets hidden within the stone. The blades of grass that had once been lush and green were now dry and brown, their colors faded by the winter's approach. The air had grown chilling, heralding the arrival of colder weather, yet the trees held on firmly to their last vestiges of wilted foliage, each leaf a testament to the resilience of nature's enduring cycle. The wind, like an unseen sentinel, glided through the forest with a soft, whispering hum. The trees and shrubs responded to its caress, swaying gently to its tune, producing a soothing sound that echoed through the silence with a gentle rustling dance.

A Sun Elf, majestic and fair of skin, stood hidden behind trees and shrubs, his golden locks gleaming in the moonlight. His splendid meteor armor, fitted to perfection, contrasted against a crystalline blue blade sheathed across his back. Alongside the Sun Elf, stood his companion, a Trok, tall and slender with a long face, his body covered in bone-made armor that was held together by cloth. In his hands, the Trok held a formidable sword, its blade crafted from dark, dried flesh and bones of varying hues, runes etched across its surface, glinting with an arcane light. The short elf looked tiny in comparison to the usually tall troks. Both the Sun Elf and the Trok stayed silent, hiding behind trees, as they watched the Man in the robe take hold of his amulet and begin to chant in an ancient tongue. The words, spoken in a low, steady voice, carried an otherworldly and compelling quality that resonated through the air. The runes etched onto the man's amulet and the ground around him began to glow in an enchanting green hue, its brilliance illuminating the surroundings. As the amulet became visible to the pair concealed in the shadows, the pair could discern that the amulet was intricately crafted. It was fashioned from a small green vertebral bone of unknown provenance, cast in a striking pinkish orange rostygold. The amulet's design held an air of mystique and ancient power. The area felt like a mighty earthquake was engulfing the entire valley they were in. Then suddenly the caricature of a mighty wyrm appeared in front of the man as if awoken from a slumber of thoughtless time. It lay there in front of the robed man judging his words. Then suddenly as if hit with a revelation and panic it’s face snarled in anger as it went after the the man’s flesh  and then suddenly disappeared.

As the Man finished his chanting, the runes on the ground dimmed and faded, losing their luminous glow in the darkness. However, the amulet still held onto its brilliant gleam, the green light continuing to shimmer and glow with a steady intensity that seemed to pulsate with some unknown magics. "Is that it?" the Trok inquired in a deep voice, his tone filled with skepticism. "I thought we were sent to prevent the man from summoning a long-lost god, not just watch him perform a ritual  on the projection of a giant snake." "It seems so, Rudgrak." replied the Sun Elf, his voice tinged with condescension yet maintaining a calm wisdom. "It appears the High Wizard still has his human limitations. Perhaps he failed trying to summon the lost god. Though, there's still something unusual about him and that amulet. We should keep caution. The robed man turned and spoke directly to the pair concealed in the shadows. "Ah, I see you've taken an interest in the lost gods," he said, his contorted frame shifting and creaking audibly as he stood.

"You see, Araneir," the wizard said, his voice carrying an otherworldly echo, "the lost gods have long since lost their former forms. They exist now as abstract concepts, fragmented remnants of forgotten power." With an eerie creaking sound, the bones of the wizard continued to contort and shift, as the hood of his cloak slipped off, revealing the pearly white hair below. The wizard's countenance was changing rapidly, becoming more and more alien in appearance. His features bore a resemblance to a moon elf, yet his pallor was tinted a deep teal and white, starkly contrasting with the usual brown and black tones of the moon elf race.

The wizard's lips curled into a sinister smile as he looked at the pair, his transformation now complete. His voice, though altered by his changed form, still held a chilling tone. "Ah, and as you can see, I am no longer a human," he declared. "What you were tasked to prevent has already been done. The ancient god Satakal has been consumed, his essence now flowing within me and the amulet I possess."  Rudgrak's voice trembled with a mixture of trepidation and awe, not out of fear of the wizard but due to the magnitude of what he had just witnessed. "Satakal," he repeated in a hushed tone, "the serpent god of time and mortality. Do you even understand what you've just done, Arnoth?" The wizard, now standing in his altered form, spoke with a tone of determination and conviction. His voice had a chilling edge as he responded.

"I have a vision," he repeated, "and neither you nor your order will stand in my path." As Araneir and Rudgrak leaped towards the now transformed Arnoth, the wizard's eyes flared with a bright crimson hue, watching their approach with a cold, unflinching gaze.

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