Chronicles of A Wizard

[Black Mage]

Part – 1 : The Return

The market of Stormwind was bustling with merchants setting up their wares in the early hours of the morning. Many of them chatted amongst themselves in jovial tones, speaking about the weather, the king, and all sorts of trivial talk that made time pass quickly. Spaced at even intervals amongst the merchants stood guards standing at ease, watching the merchants with uninterested eyes. They felt confident among the walls of Stormwind, as they rightfully should. Its walls had held against any invader, ranging from wild beasts to the brutal horde. In the early light of dawn, the bell atop the Cathedral rang its chime, the sound majestically announcing the new hour and the beginning of a new dawn.

Slowly, the bustling city began awakening. Women and men alike were coming and going amongst the many stands that dotted the main street. Children, their curled fists rubbing away the sleep from their eyes, dutifully followed their parents, not yet having enough energy to run and play as they usually did on sunny days. The clear skies and the golden rising sun promised the citizens of Stormwind just that.

As the streets began filling up with the many people that lived within the capital city, the guards began patrolling the streets atop great warhorses, keeping the peace with their very presence. The people moved aside for the warriors in their gleaming armor as they moved amongst them. All around, sounds of merchants promoting their goods and the smells of freshly baked bread greeted the people, announcing a normal day in the capital city.

From atop his great steed, a man watched the people moving about their business, his white eyes following the daily activities. He stood under the great inner gate of Stormwind, the entry way to the market place. As he watched, lost in his thoughts, a guard advanced towards the figure.

“You need help?” he asked in a jovial tone, his young face an image of confidence yet unhindered by the burden of war.

The rider looked down at the man, his hand reaching up and removing the hood covering his creased face as if to get a better look at the guard.

“Yes,” he answered quietly, his voice barely audible over the coming and going of the people close to them, “Could you please direct me to the closest inn?”

The young guard smiled as he answered, pointing with an arm vaguely in the north-western direction.

“Ah, then you’d be wanting the town inn. A cosy little place, about 400 paces past the bank.”

The figure atop the horse looked the man over once. He was well-built for his age. As he stared into his eyes once more, he hoped that the young one could attain a life of peace, without having to fight a war that would not be his. But life does not follow hopes and wishes…

The man atop the horse nodded to the man, turning away. He muttered a small “Thank you” as he began trotting away in the direction of where the guard had pointed.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” cried out the guard behind him, “I strongly suggest you go see the arcane quarters later on this day, they’re having some sort of festival, and it is sure to be quite a sight!”

The man turned his head and gave a single nod to the guard, offering his appreciation, before continuing on his way towards the inn.

“That one is strange…” the young guard commented to his partner.

“Yeah,” the other answered, still watching the back of the rider, clearly visible above the heads of the common folk, “I don’t know why, but he gives me the creeps…”

A rather short and well rounded man greeted the rider as he approached the inn. With a rather large smile, befitting the round face he wore, the man introduced himself to the rider

“Welcome! Welcome to Stormwind!” he bellowed, “The name’s Charlie; you looking for a place to stay, rider?”

The man silently gazed at the man, Charlie, for a moment before jumping off his steed in one swift movement, a move unbefitting of one who looked so old. He turned to the horse and patted its neck, giving it an affectionate scratch under the chin before turning to the man.

“Yes, a room for myself, and a stable for my companion.” He responded in a gravely tone, his white eyes looking past the man at the establishment, judging it quickly and finding it suitable for the little time he would be staying.

Charlie, only momentarily surprised by the man, quickly regained his smile and advanced towards the horse, taking the reigns in one hand.

“Yes, of course. We have some of the cleanest stables in Stormwind,” he said, his pride clearly evident in his voice, “I am sure that your beautiful animal will be well cared for.”

“As for the room, if you would just go inside, Molly will get you set up in suitable accommodations.” He added as he began trotting away to the left of the building, leading the animal behind him.

The rider watched as Charlie hobbled over to a small alcove hidden off to the side of the building before turning and walking into the inn, his cloak billowing out behind him with the abrupt movement.

As Charlie had said, the innkeeper, undoubtedly Charlie’s wife, set the man up in a small room on the left side of the second floor, with a window over-looking the bustling, busy market that resided on the streets of Stormwind. The man looked around his quarters, finding them adequate before dropping into a comfortable looking chair beneath him. As his eyes closed, he thought about the purpose for which he had come to the capital city. He had returned, after more than half a century away, and he was going to reclaim what was rightfully his…

((THIS is my story, not the other one... I reconsidered :P ))

[Black Mage]

Part 1 : The Return - Continued

The fire danced around the mage’s fingers like fiery dragon, silkily moving about as if it had a life of its own. The crowd gaped and gasped as he expanded the small, serpent-size flame serpent to a towering dragon that opened it’s blazing maw before disappearing in a blinding flash of white. The people who had come to see the festivities stood gawking for another moment before they quickly began clapping their approval. Their tone quickly began a roar where people shouted, asking for another trick. The glass-eyed mage, young for his profession, obliged the crowd, his face wearing a large grin. As he began casting another one of his elementals into being, the dark figure that had been watching from the back began moving off towards the great tower that was home to the mages of Stormwind.

The sounds of the crowd slowly began fading away as the man disappeared into the greenery surrounding the tower, his muffled footfalls soon becoming the only unnatural sound one could hear. As he approached the ramp that led up to the higher levels of the tower, a mage, apparently standing guard to ward the prying eyes of the common folk away, appeared to his side. He spoke in a bored tone, as if he had been forced against his will to take the post.

“I am sorry, this area is restricted, the festival is away to your right,” he said, his eyes looking elsewhere, “and, as for inquiries to the arcane school of Stormwind, our office is beside the main entrance to the mage quarters.”

The figure slowed to a stop, looking at the mage. “I am going in that tower.” He said, his low voice sounding as if it contained a thunderstorm.

The mage’s eyes immediately shot to the figure, immediately loosing their boredom and being replaced by a look of caution, backed by fear. He looked him over, seeing his dark, earthy clothes and long cloak, the hood covering his eyes in shadow.

“This area is restricted.” He said, this time with more ferocity.

The figure stared at the mage from under the hood, his cold glare would have made the mages knees buckle had the shadows not obscured his eyes.

“I am passing,” he said with finality, as he began moving forward, “whether you want me to or not is none of my concern.”

The mage had readied a spell, just for such an eventuality and before the figure could take his first step onto the ramp, a shield of air sprang into existence, blocking the path of the man.

As soon as the man felt the resistance provided by the air, his hand shot up, directing not to the ma, but straight in front of him. Between his fingers an odd purple glow formed itself, cackling with arcane energy. His hand deftly drew a semi-circle in the air, the purple lines he drew staying as if he had drew them onto the air itself. As his hand finished the curved line, the shield of air withered and then, as quickly as it had come, disappeared into nothingness.

The mage, shocked for a second, began regaining his senses and quickly brought up his hands, ready to cast another spell to thwart the figures attempt to make it up the ramp to the tower. Before the spell had even left his hand, he knew it had been a mistake. As the frost bolt began materializing in his hand, the figure held up a hand, palm facing the mage, and the same tone of blue that was forming between the flexed fingers of the mage appeared, instantly in front of the mans palm. The cold, chill blue spread like a frosty taint from the mages own hands, quickly enveloping him in a case of ice.
The hooded figure, one foot on the ramp, the other still on the grassy path, turned to the mage, the hand that had remained at his side reaching up to his hood, pulling it over his head, revealing the completely white eyes underneath. His gaze looked the man over before swivelling around to face, once again, up the ramp. He began to ascend, leaving the frozen mage to try to figure a way to counter the spell that entombed him.

The figure slowed his pace as he entered the tower, his steady gaze taking in every detail. One hand swung limply at his side, the other resting on his dark brown belt that held several small pouches of leather, tightly bound shut with the help of string. His long black travelling cloak swung limply from his shoulders as it lightly feathered the ground at his feet.

The assembly of mages and sorceresses that were on the first floor turned his way, clearly not expecting a visitor on the day of the festivities. A tall, older mage took a step towards the figure, calling the attention to him. He spoke in a powerful voice, conveying the power he yielded.

“What is your business with the school of magic?” he said, calling the attention of the figure, as well as his raptor gaze.

The darkly clad figure regarded him coolly, seemingly unafraid by the dozen or so magi that surrounded him.

“I wish to see the Director.” He stated simply, his voice betraying no emotion.

A bushy eyebrow lifted as the mage in charge looked him over once more. “How did you get past the guard?” he asked, acting as if he didn’t hear the man’s response.

“Oh, he gave me a bit of trouble so I had to incapacitate him. Now, where can I find the Director?” he responded, his gaze remaining on the mage in charge, unwavering.

The magi surrounding him visibly tensed at hearing this news. They were not used to anyone getting into their sanctum without prior invitation. They did not like the idea of threat being within their own walls.

“What did you do?” the mage hissed, his hands preparing to cast a spell at the man who had dared defile the sanctuary of the mage’s keep.

The figure, seeing that he was not going to answer his demand, turned away, towards the step as he responded.

“He is frozen. For now, at least.” He said dispassionately, having lost interest in the conversation.

The mage instantly threw a green bolt of power at the cloaked man, apparently to paralyze him. The others in the room watched in shock as the bolt flailed across the room, too confused to do anything but stare. They were not used to such excitement; they were scholars, and not used to the fast-paced action that was the battlefield of magic.

The figure rapidly turned around to face the incoming bolt, just as it was departing the hands of the mage in charge. His own hands came up with lightning speed, stopping in front of him, elbows locked; palms open as if to create a shield in front of him. The around him crackled with blue lightning as an eerie blue sphere materialized around the man. The bolt of green light hit the sphere in a blinding flash of white, before flickering out of existence. The mage began casting an arcane bolt of power towards the man, who now had become a threat, but the other was quicker. A green bolt, much the same as the one the mage had sent just a moment earlier, slammed into the chest of the lead mage, who had abandoned his attempt to cast a harming bolt and had quickly conjured a shield to protect him from the counter-attack. The bolt shredded through the quick defences, instantly paralyzing the magi.

The man stood un-moving in the centre of the entrance hall, the other students and scholars not daring to move as long as the figure, who had beyond any doubt proven he was a dangerous foe, was there. The man, still in the stairwell, looked over the rest of the ashen faces, judging if they posed a threat before turning on his heels and completing his journey up the steep stone steps.

As he arrived at the final landing, having passed about half a dozen other stories, similarly occupied by mages and sorceresses, he arrived at the top of the tower, where he assumed the Director would be. His assumption seemed right because as he reached the top landing, he was presented with two experienced mages, who had their heads bowed, their feather-pens scratching away on parchment.

Before he had even placed both feet on the floor, one of the two mages looked up, to inspect the new arrival. His face blanched when he saw the face of the man, knowing who stood before him. He sagely whispered to the other, younger mage to let the figure pass.

The man looked at the older mage, who was staring with awe at him, and nodded his head before marching purposefully towards the double doors that were the offices of the First Magi. He slightly lifted his arm, making a fist of his hand and the doors responded by gently opening on well-oiled hinges.

As he entered the lush offices, the Director, an older man with greying hair, looked up from where he sat, behind a great desk adorned with numerous magical artefacts. His eyes widened and his chair clattered onto the ground as he got up in a rush. His face went ashen as he looked for the right words to say. His voice was barely more than a whisper, but loud in the utter silence that lay like a mist in the office.

“Master…”