One Word Prompts

Drain - A Mage's Fight

Two mages stood opposite each other on the field of a crowded coliseum. A man and a woman. The woman, dressed in purple robes with a wide brimmed hat, tapped at the tome that hang at her side. She wore it like a purse, a heavy strap attached to its spine, a number of talismans hanging from it. She put her other hand to her lips, rubbing them in thought as she watched her opponent.

He, a necromancer in black, carried a skull topped staff in one hand and stroked his short black beard, regarding her in turn.

Both were Tower mages, affiliated with the renowned school of magic but not one of the great houses who would further fund their research. This duel was an exposition of their talents, just one of many matches for the grand prize: fame, glory, and recognition. To do well on this field was to earn the favor of one of those rich houses. To join one of those households was the goal of all Tower mages with any sense.

A flash of white light filled the arena. A sphere sprung up around the field, separating the two spellcasters from the spectators. It was a protective barrier, peace of mind for the combatants. Here they could fight without pulling their punches for fear of harming the spectators (or more importantly future sponsors).

A chime rung through the arena, then a second, higher pitched. On the third, a deep ringing gong, the two burst into motion.

The woman tapped her tome again, magic flowing through her fingers this time. It floated into the air before her, flipping to the desired page. Magic collected around her as she began the chant, the runes on the desired page lighting up as she spoke them.

The necromancer slammed his staff onto the ground, dark mist swirling around the point of impact. A deep humming escaped his throat as he pounded the staff several more times. With each impact the mist grew deeper, spreading to completely encircle him. The humming continued, even when he was lost in the ever-thickening cloud.

The witch raised her hand toward the mass of black, pointing with an extended finger. She whispered the last rune of her enchantment, letting the magic coalesce around her finger tip before it blasted off, ripping through the mist in a flurry of white blades. They sliced through his spell, thinning it enough to see his work.

In the mist he had drawn a circle, a seven-pointed star inscribed within, the lines glowing red with his magic. At each point of the star bony hands pulled skeletal soldiers from the coliseumground.

Her magic knocked several to the ground, slicing through the spines of many, cutting deep into the face of the necromancer himself, but more soldiers continued to pull themselves from the ground and those that the blades of light had missed continued toward her.

But she hadn't waited for the results of her spell to start her next chant. A couple words later, she held her hands palms out toward her tome. She swung them apart to either side of her body, two copies of her book following her hands. All three books flipped to new pages as she started her next chant, each to different pages. The spell she chanted was on none of the three, but each word she spoke unerringly lit up several of the runes across the disparate pages.

The necromancer too had not stopped with the summoning circle at his feet. He had his staff pointed at the witch, a red sphere of energy collecting there. With a downward swing, he sent it flying toward her, it expanding as it burst through the air.

She spun, pulling several talismans from her tome's strap and tossing them into the air. They exploded into fireworks, distorting space. The next moment, she stood behind the necromancer, one of her tome's spells complete. Another flurry of blades ricocheted across the field through the necromancer's army.

He swung his staff up as he spun around, a wall of bones forming before him, shielding himself from the worst, but unable to protect many of his soldiers. They fell in droves under the onslaught, piles of bones forming high.