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Warseer

Submitted By: Date: July 14, 2004, 10:37:24 AM Views: 1271
Summary: Scribed by: Rasmus

He was sitting in his chamber watching the slow curves of the runes floating just under the surface of the walls, forming and reforming patterns, over and over, telling him about the past, the present, and giving him glimpses of the future.

Then the runes scattered, falling from his eyes like rain from the skies, and a cry was emitted from every surface of the chamber. Not a scream he could hear in his ears, but his mind was awash with it, the intensity of it, the pain, and the horror. Before he knew it, he was in his antechamber, his robes flying about him and his helmet sealing itself on his head, his witchblade soaring through the air to his waiting hand before the door had even begun to open.

He felt the confusion and surprise rolling off his aide as he keyed the door to open, and found his master, Athzaryan, heading towards him at great speed, sword in hand, jewels glistening and runes smoldering on his blade, chest plate, helmet and pendants. He moved aside, wisely, as Athzaryan moved passed him into the hallway beyond, and towards the Chamber of the Last Throne. He knew where he was going, he knew where the scream had come from, but he was trying to figure out who could have uttered it. His aide moved behind him, speaking quickly and incoherently about an accident, and something else, but he was not listening. He didn't need to summon his council; they were as sensitive as he was, and were undoubtedly either there already or on their way.

As he entered the Chamber he was joined on either side by his two Warlocks, twins and among the fiercest of his fighting retinue. He immediately singled out Calwan Ianee Jobahnn, the most war-torn veteran of his council, standing a bit off in the crowd of his aides, warlocks and apprentices. He also saw Zaryanrea, the most recent addition to his Council, standing before the Chamber of the Last Throne, where the Avatar rests, her Singing Spear raised high, and lightning stabbing at a shape that was forcing itself upright under the onslaught. It was slowly trying to stand up, cowering before the door of the Chamber. Athzaryan checked, fleetingly sending his spirit aloft, and found that the seal of the chamber was intact, and the avatar sleeping its restless slumber, dreaming of War Never Ending. So much pain resided in there. But it was not waking the God of War.

The shape now stood up fully, and Athzaryan could hear and feel the horror and amazement of the people around him as the shape took a step out of the mist and smoke surrounding the Chamber's entrance. It was a shape not unlike the Avatar, encased in smoldering armor, hefting a huge heavy spear above his head, a cloak awash in blood, and hair like a mane of dark red metal and flying gray. It stood a man-and-a-half tall, towering in the clouds of smoke, smoldering like the incarnation of the God of War.

Athzaryan felt himself whisper "WarSeer" and was startled by the volume of his own voice in his helmet. He sensed, through the corner of his eye, Calwan nodding in agreement as the shape strode forward. Not even the mighty arcs of lighting that Zaryanrea hurled at him had any effect now, and Athzaryan moved forward, his two Warlocks stepping up on his sides, their blades coming to life in their hands. He stopped them with a motion of his hand as Zaryansalo entered the chamber. The old Farseer was blind; lead only by the psychic impressions he received. He had two Warlocks with him, but they stayed behind as well as the two Farseers approached the place where Zaryanrea stood, his Spear spewing forth lighting, striking a semi-circle around the feet of the WarSeer who walked slowly down the path from the Chamber. Calwan was standing behind them, and Athzaryan stood before the WarSeer, and raised his hand.

"WarSeer. Do you know who we are?" His voice was calm, and he felt no fear. If the WarSeer was going to attack them, there would be half a dozen Warlocks there in a moment to lay down their lives to let them escape. Zaryansalo turned his head, and his blind eyes behind the faceplate, covered with his rune towards the WarSeer, and said a word that rolled off his mind, and Athzaryan registered the word strike deep within the WarSeer. It was his name, Athzaryan realized. The WarSeer was a Warlock of Zaryansalo's retinue. Yes, that had to be it. He was a Warlock who went to meditate too near the Chamber, and was struck by the Rage of the Avatar. Some sort of terrible accident made him or her fuse in his or her armor, and change to the core.

Now the eyes of the WarSeer focused on Athzaryan, and he felt the mind behind the gaze. This was not the mind of a Warlock. This mind was as broad as his own, as powerful as his own, and filled with a sheer rage that made him take a step backwards. The eyes of the WarSeer burned in his mind, and flames poured from the sockets as the WarSeer spoke. "You are my Brothers. We are the Council now." Athzaryan nodded. The warlock was now a Farseer like himself. Zaryansalo extended a hand to the huge form, and took it in his own, and led him from the chamber, followed by his entire entourage of adepts and aides.

The WarSeer had come to his world, Athzaryan thought, and he sat on the low bench by the path, and now War could not be far behind. It was the way of the runes. He should have seen it. He would look closer in times to come, and look for the dark waves of war that could cloud the runes of his world. He would look for them, and prepare his world for the times ahead.

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