The people of Travance waited with bated breath, praying for the release from the curse of the Hollow Song. Serevar, the Visraki Arcanist, led the Sorcerers of Travance in a ritual to remove the powerful curse and return the time stream to normal. Arcane power swirled about as magical strands were pulled and twisted and shaped. Ardin Silverbow looked on with longing in his eyes, subconsciously knowing, but no longer seeing and understanding what they were doing. He knew in his heart that the sacrifice he and Gideon had made was right, but he stared at the event with a deep longing for lost memories.
The Visraki took notice of Ardins turmoil, knowing that his knowledge would help them. Utilizing mysterious magics, the Visraki manipulated the time strands around him to temporarily bring the old Ardin back. The sullen elf’s eyes lit up with wonder and excitement as he began to see the familiar web work of colored strands. His purpose was known and he quickly joined the others in their ritual.
Failed attempt, after failed attempt their minds began to slip into sadness, but the power of desperation would endure. Time froze and the sorcerers beamed with excitement for what they had just done. To all watching, this only seemed like a moment, but for those at the epicenter, it was the longest moment of their lives as they waited in anticipation for what was to come next.
With a blinding flash of orange light that pulsed outward across the face of Arawyn, night became day and then night again at an alarming rate. Time was catching up to itself. Days and nights blurred together for only a few seconds before the darkness of the night sky remained above again. The people of Travance cheered at the success of their journey and slept soundly for the first time in weeks.
And so, after all their turmoil and strife, the next morning had come…
* * * * *
The very next morning in the early afternoon, in the bowels of the earth a powerful demon screamed so loud that the denizens of the Darkholme scrambled frantically for cover. Balfurous clawed at his own eyes in anger; at the burning sensation he felt each time he tried to inhabit his chosen and most prized vessel. She was his best chance at finding the key he so desperately needed. “She will pay for her defiance,” he thought.
The time for parlour tricks was now at an end and he would take what he needed by force. Once again he let out a roar of anger, and this time his minions where called to attention. From their skin, select veins filled with ice and bulged, a pattern the likeness of lightning. When this happens they know that they are no longer in control, they know the horror of demonic puppetry, and that it means success for the master... or death.
