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The wind stirred, slowly at first, gaining a store of momentum for the journey at hand. Where it rose from to where it settled mattered not, and day upon day it ever gained in speed. The sun rose, and the sun set, darkness turned to light once more and the cycle of days travelled ever more into tomorrow. The wind flew past oceans, watching ever patient as storms and squalls prevailed in the absence of order, and from the heaving of the white caped oceans to the rolling of desert dunes; the two seas of unparallel beauty, it flew ever on. For both of those great seas of water and sand time meant nothing and the wind found solace in these great expanses, rising and falling, catching at clouds and grasping at dust, though wherever it went so did change. Change brought rain, and sowed drought, change saw beginnings and wrought endings. Curses assailed into the wind, as if it were to blame, though it paid little heed to the lives below and around it, its only concern was the path it followed. It saw the passing of ages; it saw the land give way to ocean, and ocean in turn give way to land. New courses shifted the winds path and high over mountains it flew and into valleys it abided. Great forests and dark caverns did it flow through, leaping from place to place until once more it returned and came once more. The momentum it had gained began to wane, and ever more slowly did its passing come. Great cities saw its passing as well as the glades of the woods, and slowly a voice began to ring from within it. Starting as a gentle whisper the voice called to the wind, beckoning it to a place it had never seen. The voice grew from a whisper into glorious song, singing of the harmony of cycles and the melodies of the future. The wind sailed on until it reached the place where the song cried out in earnest. A great white capped mountain stood solemnly at the head of a circle of peaks and into the centre did the wind descend, pushed by song and will. An arm stretched into the heavens and caught at the wind, caressing it with a calloused hand. From it did the song come, from this creature of time did will stretch over the endless wind. Slowly the wind flowed into the hand, enveloped in the light of the fusion. At last the hand closed and the wind breathed its last, no more lands would it explore no more oceans would it race. Instead the wind was no more, and the arm fell into a waiting lap. Curiosity burned in a figure hunched against the sudden cold, who watched her master’s movements with a vulture’s eye. It burned in her body and soul till her lips trembled with the unspoken question. Her master’s eyes opened, and the fire that filled them pierced her mind. His lips curled into a smile of unspoken mirth, and she shuddered but not for the cold. His lips parted yet no voice came from them, instead her conscious rang as his mind thundered to life. She sat, back straight and head level, trying not to let her fear show, trying to mask her trembling to the cold that enveloped them. She swallowed before her lips betrayed her thoughts and she spoke. Her voice was rich yet sharpened by the cold, accented slightly by the influence of her mother tongue. ‘What of the wind, master?’

Her master rose, and she with him, her joints and muscles protesting in the cold and for the lack of any movement for such a time. Her master’s smile only deepened as he looked into a sky marred by clouds carrying snow and hail. She followed his gaze to a break in the white clouds, where the moon Nakhti shone in a crimson reflection of the suns own light. His voice shocked her; it seemed distant and translucent when it normally was firmly decisive. He turned his eyes back to her as he spoke, ‘The wind brings change as it always has, and news.’

She held his gaze, challenging this very change in his voice and manner, but looking into his eyes only brought her closer to the fire in which they seemed to burn. ‘What news has this wind brought?’ she probed, eager for any information her master had gained.

He chuckled, a soft and warm sound which cast further doubt into her and she watched him carefully as he started to move out of the snow covered clearing. She followed his laughter into to thick woodlands that was their home, their sanctuary, and their prison. When he finally stopped laughing he turned to face her, spinning around all mirth removed from his face. For a time the only sound was of the forest of empty branched pine and birch and out of this silence his voice suddenly came, once more the deep and depressingly grim voice she had grown used to. ‘The news is of change of course.’

With those words his body seemed to fade into a shroud of darkness and with a sound akin to thunder he was gone. The apprentice opened her mouth in astonishment and looked towards the heavens where she befell her doom too late and was remembered no more. In the air above the trees, amidst the winds and clouds a trembling figure hung, a hand outstretched from which the doom of Narni, apprentice of Koloth had sprung.

The land was blanketed under the oppression of winter, the colours of life drained and funnelled into icy winds which never relented. As the sun slowly made its ascent into the heavens, darkness in turn making a hastened retreat, light funnelled onto the land. The plain shone in a brilliant morning light, the snow and frost creating a blinding reflection to which birds harkened their calls. The plain was in itself vast, and stretched onwards though never to a horizon. To the north great pillars of stone rose from the earth, capped in white and gathered in the clouds, ever reaching out to the stars above. They were the peaks of Amun, a range of mountains which ever forbade the horizon to the viewers of the plain. To the east the empty forests of Garadon grew, silent for now as winter stalked its frozen fields. Two great rivers ran through its centre carrying the waters provided by the peaks of Amun. One river never left the trees company, but the greater of the two continued on and curved away south, meeting there its mate and created the great falls of Sirin. The mists of these great falls and waters created a shroud that always obscured anything that lay beyond it. To the west were the ranges of Yuron, and in these peaks did the ruins of a race long forgotten by most lie. The ruins were of the first Dwarfish Kings and their great halls and quarries still host the forgotten memories of ages past, and the echoes of ghosts still reside there. On all sides was the horizon lost to the plain and its barren fields, though it was not forgotten. From the centre of the field a shadow slowly started to grow, and as the light of day lifted over the leafless branches of Garadon it grew, reaching a lake, the plains only other companion. The shadow was that of a mountain, a mountain of man and his endeavour to have what the plain was denied. A tower rose up from the ground, its foundation was a great black stone that had fell to earth as a star. From that stone the tower rose, straight and tall, calling upon the clouds and challenging even Amun in height. Like a sword aimed at the heavens or a needle pointing towards the sky the tower stretched upwards, and shone as white as the snow which glimmered off the plain. From the towers peak, when the mists of Sirin were lessened it was possible to see far off into the distance, and it had been claimed that the horizon had been met. The tower was known as the Tower of Sorcery and it was from there that much of the lands beyond were shaped. Deep within it water fell from a stone ceiling and made a small sound as it met the floor and its fellows that had gone before. On a far wall a lone torch burnt, emitting a grimy light and a odour of oil. The room was lined with empty shelves and empty webs cast in days were both had been filled. The usually empty storeroom had a lone occupant who stood with hands clasped behind a ridged back. Dark black robes fell from narrow shoulders that hunched slightly forward to the moist floor and mixed with both the water and dirt there. The robes instead of hiding the owner’s frail stature only seemed to mark it out, making him seem a wraith capable of being blown off large and narrow feet with the weakest of winds. His face was obscured in the dark light, though it was hard to miss the long disarray which was his hair. Weight was shifted from one foot to another, and from parted lips a long breath escaped. The tall figure then moved to face the rotting wooden door which lead to the outside but made no move to exit. Another drop of water fell from the roof and its echo was met by a gentle tap on the door. The tap was followed by some nervous shuffling and eventually the door was opened, swinging into the small storage space. A man entered, of medium height, his build was of a man who regularly practiced with the sword. He had of course no use for such weapons, and the frail tall figure smiled he saw a sword buckled to his waist. The other man moved inside and closed the door which obliged though not without complaining loudly of state of its hinges. The man then turned to the taller and bowed slightly, his face catching the light of the torch opposite him. His face was handsome and young, a light tan matching his golden hair. His eyes were as blue as sapphire and shone just like the jewel in the light of the torch. The taller and dark figure took in a breath before speaking, his voice was deep and mirthless, any hint of emotion long removed from it. ‘Your late, Kalin.’

The criticism didn’t seem to mark the young man, who simply lifted his head from the rebuke. His eyes shone and he tried to pierce the veil of darkness which hid the talkers face. ‘Better late then never right?’

Kalin let out a short laugh though it wasn’t met and silence waylaid the intrusion of mirth. ‘Um, yes I sort of had to do a few other things, and Luke wasn’t much help.’

He laughed again, hopelessly getting lost in his own musings. The taller quickly intercepted him least he became affected by humour as well. ‘Please keep what ever you’re laughing about to yourself even though, unfortunately, I can probably imagine what it is.’

Kalin’s laughter slowly subsided and he finally shared what they both had come here for. ‘Yes, um I sort of did what I thought you wanted me to do and, um, yes.’

The taller lifted an eyebrow; the question seemed to hang in the darkness for a while before it was finally spoken ‘sort of?’

Kalin’s reply was quick if rushed, ‘Well it’s not like you made it that easy for me, with stupid little metaphors and riddles. I had to guess through most of it, though in the end I got what you wanted.’

The taller lent back on a shelf feeling slightly uneasy at his knees, his mind going through every possible thing Kalin might have done wrong. ‘I’m almost afraid to ask but, what exactly did I want?’

Kalin folded his arms and responded, if slightly indecisive. ‘You wanted Koloth freed?’

The taller slapped his hand to his forehead, ‘No! What have you done! I wanted him killed, not freed!’

Kalin stood a bit straighter, ‘You wanted Koloth killed? I thought you wanted his apprentice killed?’

The taller almost started to pull at his hair though managed to stop him in time. ‘I wanted Koloth’s apprentice freed and Koloth killed!’

‘Well it’s not my fault. Anyway Koloth was gone before I got there,’ Kalin quickly countered.

The taller stood in silence for a time, his façade of darkness and superiority slowly slipping, ‘So he escaped the vale of exile?’

‘From what I could tell all the enchantments had been broken and from the residue I think that Koloth might have restored his, um, yes.’

Kalin stopped and unfolded his arms, ‘I mean he is your brother after all Lang, don’t you feel the least bit happy for him?’

‘I want him dead,’ Lang replied, and the torch seemed to flicker slightly at the icy words.

Kalin looked at Lang curiously before replying, ‘Are you all right Lang, what’s with you? You like totally weird lately, totally obsessed with your brother. I thought you would have been happy?’

Lang stood up from his leaning and took a menacing step toward Kalin, his eyes burning with a fire which consumed the torch and left the room dark. ‘You must have helped him, he couldn’t have simply escaped. I helped in making those enchantments that bound him to that vale. You must have helped him!’

Kalin looked with a mixture of pity and alarm at Lang who seemed to be losing total control of his mind. He had seen it before, and the memories of his family still haunted his sleep, and as he looked into the eyes of Lang he couldn’t help but see another’s eyes there. ‘Lang, don’t take this personally but I think your getting totally worked up about nothing here.’

At first Lang seemed to stop his slow advance his face curved into an unseen smile. Slowly the smile grew and he was laughing, louder and louder. ‘Nothing you say! Nothing here indeed!’

With that Lang clasped his hands together and a white light consumed them both.

The tower had been created when the world had been young, and over countless years had grown into the greatest centre of learning. Hundreds of people worked there, studied there, and lived there. Some had been there their entire lives, and some had only arrived the day before. Near the bottom of the tower a light seemed to be growing, slowly at first, then rapidly, and with a sound that shook the earth it enveloped the entire tower in a blinding light. After a time it seemed that that was all, and as the light and sound slowly ebbed silence again took hold of the morning. It was then, with no sound at all that the tower exploded in fire and light. The entire tower was sent in fragments across the entire plain, rending the earth as pieces of wall and ceiling came down from the sky. Dust and debris rained on the plain for what seemed an eternity, though it did settle. The sight was beyond words, and it seemed that the entire plain was heaped in rubble. Where the tower had stood was now nothing but the foundations, the black stone still shinning as if nothing had happened.

The forest seemed to be unaffected by the winter that assailed the world, and lay hidden in enchantment and song and forever stood in spring. Trees that stood higher then any other here, and in a diversity which took onlooker’s breath away. Flowers were arrayed in fantastic grandeur, violent purples and passive yellows created a vast symphony of colour. Light trickled in from the canopy above, though light seemed to emanate from the very air and grass. It was a place where song seemed to pass in and pass out of hearing making the witness to its passing question its very existence. In a small clearing a figure rose from a sitting position on the floor. Robes of white mixed with blood red fell about a figure which marked the wearer in more ways then one. From bare feet to her shining golden hair she was an elf, and as she started to walk the wind seemed to stir in the direction she travelled. Her eyes shone with the light of her race, and the tips of her ears reached through her hair, a point of continual frustration. Her light carriage and high stature hid well the calluses on her hands that any sword-master would be proud of. As she moved her hair trailed behind her, like the flames of a fire reaching out to no avail. Her lips seemed to glow with the same fiery colour of her hair, and contrasted magnificently against her pale skin. It took little time for her to reach the place that she had been walking towards and wasn’t surprised to see the tall dark figure waiting for her. He was seated upon a stone that stood itself by the course of a small brook. The clear water ran with cold and refreshing water, and she noticed that two recently filled flasks lay beside the stone. While continuing to move towards the figure she smiled at past memories and it was then that she spoke. ‘Then it is true, Koloth strides the world still.’

The figure suddenly spun around on the rock, a smile on his gaunt face. His skin was pale and his eyes were a dark contrast, almost fully black. His hair was in total disarray, the brown threads forming a highly complicated mess. He wore black trousers and an equally dark tunic, small rounded spectacles firmly pressed onto the ridge of his nose. He stood up and his height, although overwhelming, held equilibrium with his almost skeletal stature. As he formed a low bow light caught at the ring which was worn on his right hand, upon his first finger. As he came up from his bow, still smiling he spoke, ‘As far as strides are concerned I do not know, though the world I am in.’

He chuckled at this, though his humour was lost on his company who only looked at him curiously. ‘Let’s go to my home, you look as if you haven’t eaten in days and there is much to speak of,’ said the Elf as she started to make her way away from the brook.

‘It would be my honour to feast in the home of Trinun, though I fear I have much to learn of the world,’ Koloth said as he ponderously gathered his flasks together and took up an awkward gap after the graceful lead of Trinun.

Trinun looked back at Koloth in a manner which set his mind racing, and caused a disquiet to linger in his heart. ‘Much indeed Koloth, for the world has changed since you saw it last and none for the better.’

They travelled the rest of the way in a mutual silence, the lights of day slowly diminishing as the forest grew deeper and deeper.

The laboratory was empty, which it ever perpetually was. Darkness filled the defiled room, used beakers and other equipment lay strewn about in an order that put the onlooker in the very mind of a mad man. Books lay scattered on the floor, on benches, in sinks, anywhere but upon the empty shelves which they had abandoned in a burst of suicidal melancholy. Some lay open and the pages that screamed to dark ceilings where shunned as grotesque and impure. Words filtered from those books regardless, or in spite, their pictures and their meanings leaking into the floor and walls, into tables and chairs. The walls had been estranged from the floor and the floor from the walls, distrust danced merrily in the shadows of cupboards and drawers, his tune the bitter curses that were flung to and forth by chair and table. Once where books had stood proudly only jars now lay, some bent and some twisted all of them containing eyes that screamed death for all eternity. In a far corner of the room a barricade of books, equipment and jars imprisoned a long wooden writing table. Pages upon pages of sheets lay dead upon the ground, the almightily appetite of the waste basket fed till overflowing till it fell upon its own side, killed by its own greed. The pages clutched at the books of their brethren but were hypocritically pushed ever back, the scrawling of black marks upon them both frightening and terrible. Two sounds pitched for dominance in the room, both untrusting allies against the silence which ever waited, tapping at the windows and rattling at the door. One sound was the wailing of a broken tap, the continual dripping of its water a wound that never healed. It cried out its pain to the room, but only finding an audience to its agony instead of a saviour. The other sound came from the desk, were a candle burnt with a grimy light. Towers of paper reeled away from the light, fear of the change it could bring. The flame spluttered noiselessly, sending parcels of wax like seed from a flower hoping for offspring. They never fell upon fertile ground; instead the ink stained writing table consumed every one in a flash of carnivorous teeth with the screams of children being muted by a gloved hand. By the grimy light an ink pot rested its wide girth upon the table, its black depths immeasurable and unconquered. The only thing foolish enough to enter its tranquil waters was the quill, as stupid as any fool it plunged its tip into the ink, and as foolhardy as any innocent child rose from them again, dropping ink upon the table, laughing to its shouts. From its union with paper did the other sound arise, their romantic embrace falling upon ears that were covered in silent embarrassment. The papers and pens children lay littered upon the ground, all falling dead soon after their birth, but for a few lay a tray, a rough label marking its name; “Out.” It was to this place that the living were placed, so far only seven lay protected by the cold steel womb of the tray, sleeping in the dark corner of the desk. Upon their closed eyes were written words that would have destroyed the barrier that had been constructed around the desk, words that would have caused the windows to fly open and the door to burst into splinters. The words would have caused light to descend from the heavens, would have caused a warm wind to blow the dead children off to a place they could rest. Words most of all that would mark change, words which would bring an end and establish a beginning; words that were dangerous. Looking into the tray it seemed a nest of warmth, though looking out its black bars were a prison more than a home. Perspective of their children was lost on the two lovers that continued to leave their mark on the endless pages. The tool that fate and the quill had chosen was tall and dark, clothes hanging from his skeletal frame. His back was hunched over the page and pen, a shield of privacy for the two. His eyes were barred by a pair of small and narrow spectacles which joyously screamed in childish delight each time they slid down the slide of his nose. His hair was wild and in disarray, though not overly long. It was however as dark as the eyes that were allowed sight for a few moments when the glasses had reached the bottom of its ride. The eyes made the ink well the light of an exploding star, made it as luminous as the full moon. The eyes seemed to be the event horizon of two black holes, already they had consumed each word of the books that lay, raped of their purpose, upon the floor. Now they consumed the union of the pen and parchment, the grimy light of the candle not escaping their heavy glare. Though even in darkness there were times, times when the pen slowed its dance, times where silence slipped underneath the door and choked the neck of the tap in fury and in maddening delight. Times where thoughts seemed to collect, when reality seemed to be only centimetres away from reaching the summit. Times when, for a second, light seemed to fill those eyes and a smile started its own assent. However Insanity seemed to have always reached the summit first, and with an eager heart, and willing feet always stood upon the fingers of reality until the pain was so much that they failed and fell once more in the abyss. As automatic as a dog sitting at a barked command his hand picked up the page and placed it into the tray. For a few moments the dance of the pen stopped, and with a confused look the eyes consumed the table. There was no more paper, the pens lover had finally left, without word or warning. A feeling of betrayal only lasted moments and forced by the hand of the writer the pen sort out a new partner, and soon the sound of the pens unwilling embrace of the wall was heard, and even silence turned its back upon it.

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