The Legends of Roil

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The Mist~Weaver He had journeyed alone, leaving his companions in the safety of the camp. He had ridden the botok across the dry plains until, finally, its instincts had warned it of what lay ahead. Once the stupid beast was unwilling to travel further, Elet Parr had continued on foot. He had not rested during the night, for though the sky was tranquil in its darkness, he could feel the mounting tension. The indigo of the night was fading now, with the coming of the dawn. As he felt the warmth of the sun upon his back, Elet Parr could see the storm clouds on the distant horizon. He would have to walk most of the day to traverse that distance, but he knew the Mists would not wait for him. He did not know if the Mist was alive, but it was aware. It sensed his presence as certainly as he felt its fury. As he continued closer, the dark fog rolled and thrashed, its intensity growing as he came nearer. He rubbed his hand across his short-cropped black hair, and lifted his hood over his head. The sun was warm now, but by mid-day the heat would be stifling. Elet Parr knew incantations to protect himself from the burning sun. But he also knew he could not approach the Mists with magic. He had to come alone, for the Mists would devour the minds of any with him. And it would be drawn to sources and spells of magic just as it was lured by his very presence. It would consume his spells and magics, just as it would try to destroy his sanity. Others before him had tried to command the Mists, and all had been broken by the fabric of chaos. Once before, Elet Parr had challenged Kaichea's Mists. But he too had failed. The rush of wind and the driven sand stung and blinded him. Then his face was cool and damp as the wetness of the Mists was upon him. Elet Parr's clothing flapped wildly as the winds tore about him. As his vision cleared, he could see the shadows in the Mists, taunting him into madness. His arms outstretched, Elet Parr shouted the ritual of submission, but the roar of the winds drowned his words. He was falling. There was no solid footing beneath him, and about him there was only the swirling Mists. His arms were weary and spasms shot through his aching limbs. As he began the ritual of creation, he could hear himself. His voice, once proud and commanding, was now hoarse and broken. But he could feel rock beneath him now, and as suddenly as it had come, the Mists receded. Like the waves of an ocean against a shore, the dark fog flowed away from him. He could feel himself rising, lifting up as boulders burst from the ground. The emerging mountain continued to grow, and rumbled into the air. Atop the peak, Elet Parr could see the open steppes about him. To the north, the distant Silverpeaks were the dark boundary of the Ivory Plains. From its foothills the ground tore as more mountains erupted. Driven by his will, the Mists squeezed the rock from the earth, and the range raced toward him. As the mountains encircled him, the Mists pressed into them, forcing their peaks higher into the sky. Tendrils of the Mists snaked into the crevices, and as if they were tears upon the granite face, streams began flowing down the sheer cliff. Upon the valley floor, the Mists swirled like whirlpools, transforming the dry earth into moist, fertile soil. Dwarf shrubs erupted into towering trees, and across the basin, lush, dense grass covered the ground. As the last of the Mists near him dissipated, Elet Parr lowered his arms and gazed for a moment into the morning sun. His sanctuary created, one small portion of the Ivory Plains was now his. As he turned back, he could again see the great gathering of storm clouds upon the distant horizon. Then, in thoughtful silence, he fingered a lock of his long, snowy hair.