Atlas of the World

Prologue/Chapter 1

Enter, Voidwalker

"2 years, 6 months and 2 days." Sylph murmured to himself, his sad eyes glancing from the window to his research. He went to write more research, only for a spike of pain to coarse through his skull. He groaned softly, pushing his brunnet hair back.

"I've lost myself..." He says bitterly, letting himself lean back in his chair. Ever since Atlas left, he felt more driven and prioritized, causing his abilities in the art of Thaumcraft to increase at almost an unnatural rate, but it caused other things that he cared not to notice. He had become spiteful and wiry, his eyes no longer with their warm glow, but a cold and collected one. He had let his warp go, letting it infiltrate his former sane mind. He felt empty, heartless, his former cautiousness gone. Sylph would never admit it, but he was almost scared, scared of what he had become.

I can't love him...

Or can I...

~<>~<>~

If destiny was something possible, than that's what happened that day, for Atlas, he felt a similar hurt. He had kept himself, but barely. The flux now curled up his arms, painting beautiful designs on his freckled, delicate cheeks. The messy but clean pale hair brushed his ears and forehead as he moved his head.

His once bright green eyes were dull, one slowly turning a deep Violet. He could feel that eye falling blind, but with the flux he knew that was the least horrible thing to happen.

"I need to go back." His monotone voice hummed softly as he broke his focus for a moment, looking out the window and into the foggy, damp day. His eyes went back to his wrists and arms, where he was wrapping bandages, to cover the scars. Blood magic had a price, and that price was his once pale, creamy skin to be abused and cut. Sacrifices must be made for power.

Getting up, he glanced back to his alter, sighing. The soft throbbing pain that gripped his legs told him it was enough. Atlas headed towards the winding stairs that curved their way up to his magic room, and further up to his bedroom. Holding the railing, he stepped down, one at a time.

Atlas felt comforted by the soft, moist wood mingled with a darker, musky underlay, the smell of his home. It reminded him of peace, tranquility, but something about it made his heart hurt. It almost smelled like-

No. He pushed that thought away as soon as it came. The lingering sense of sadness turned to guilt as his eyes rested on his China cabinet, or so it was supposedly called. In this circumstance, Atlas called it his "Memory Cabinet", a place to store his old antiques, finds and... A ring.

Ancient letters curved and marked the delicately forged band of gold, signing words of power. It was known as an Angel Ring, one of 5 in existence. A late gift from Sylph.

At the thought of that name, Atlas was caught off guard from the tears that started to form. Sniffling softly, he quickly wiped his cheeks with his bandaged hands, pushing the thought away. He continued the kitchen, filling the cast iron kettle with water, setting it atop of the furnace.

He froze, a shiver running up his spine. A cold hand creeped up his back, pausing at his neck.

Atlas was being watched.

Thinking wasn't something he needed to do, by muscle memory, they had their weapon out, and he was looking around.

"Who's there." Atlas spoke instinctively, keeping the cold, dangerous tone. He questioned if he would be able to fight. It had been a longtime, and he didn't keep up his skill much.

Nonetheless, he could still feel like he was watched.

Thwack

A hard object hit Atlas from behind the head, making him cry out from the pain that ran down his spine. He spun around, holding out his sword. A figure was at the memory cabinet, holding the angel ring.

Atlas felt protectiveness boil in his blood as he leaped, slashing shakily. He missed, and hit the wall with a slam.

The cloaked figure took the moment to barge through a window, vanishing into the woods. Atlas hissed in pain from his shoulder as he pushed himself up, running after them.