Out of Character:
Phoenixes, the desert tribes claimed, were born of the moon goddess Suravani’s blood. Shed in her battle with Mishra the Merciless Sun, it dripped upon Fallien’s highest peaks, bursting into flames in the light of the first dawn. From those flames the first phoenix rose. Like dragons, legend prescribed divine lineage to the mythical birds; remnants of the Old Magic surely still coursed through them.
Elijah Belov resolved to see one himself.
Dunes glistened beneath the blood moon. The sorcerer pulled a scarf over his face against the cold, sandy wind. Wrapped in layers of flowing linen, Belov looked like any other desert nomad, save for the magnificent sword strapped to his back. Mount Fayari, ancestral home of all phoenixes, loomed before him, a great fang jutting from the desert. And all around him were strewn freshly charred corpses, already half buried in sand.
Those were his doing, of course. Bandits and religious fanatics, two of his least favorite things combined into the most wretched of villains. They mistook him for a pilgrim, but he sent them to their gods instead. Former Master of the Dajas Pagoda and one of the most infamous sorcerers in Salvar and the known world, Elijah Belov no longer feared such mundane threats. He departed his self-made scene of carnage, smoke still trailing from his fingertips.
No, Belov now feared himself more than external threats. He feared his own power and the constant risk of arrogance and corruption great power brought. He feared the cost of his own failures, which dwarfed any ordinary man’s. Most of all, he feared not being powerful enough to face the challenges arrayed in his future. Thus he journeyed here, seeking to increase the power he already feared.
The ground shifted from sand to rocks as Elijah swiftly traversed Fayari’s outer escarpments. As the incline steepened, he only hastened his pace. He scrambled up sheer cliffs, channeling his magic to make the wind itself gather beneath him and propel him skyward. Another spell hardened his skin, letting him skid across jagged stone without a scratch.
He reached the top, chest heaving, mouth grinning. Fayari’s summit was oddly flat, as though sliced cleanly by a huge knife. A crescent of rocky protrusions bordered the northern edge, thirty feet high, smooth and glassy. Caves lined the formation, glowing orange shapes nestled within. They’re real.
He froze mid-step; he was not alone.
Submit Thread for Judgment
Reply With Quote