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A man once said that a forest is always a good place for the workings of magic. To those trained in occult arts, perhaps a forest is merely the disguise worn by magic in a physical world.
In one such forest, a small group of red-clad people bowed before their leaders, the man sitting on a throne of flesh and tissue, material stripped from the bodies of the skeletons that made the woman's throne.
Though both wore hard, cruel expressions on their faces, the woman looked fatigued. Cradled in her arms was the reason for her condition - the baby she had brought into the world mere hours ago.
The group had been waiting for half the night for a sign. At one hour past the boundary between two days, the sign came. The moon's pale light reflected at a certain angle, and the stone alter was seen to glow in response. The man stood.
"My followers, you see the sign. It is time to proceed. A year ago this very night, we prayed to our master for this. We prayed for the power to conquer a world. We prayed for the favour of Tyryft! And in a dream I was given our answer. For the power we need, we would make the ultimate sacrifice.
A soul as pure as the water from the rivers that flow from the ice to the north. The soul of the child born to myself and my beloved Cradle."
Cradle stood to join her husband, laying her baby down on the alter. She smiled, though there was the smallest trace of sadness in her eyes.
"No one will ever know how much it grieves me to take the life of my child. But take it I must, for our greater cause." Cradle drew a knife from her belt. "And when the child lies dead, it's body will host Tyryft himself. We will raise the one who..."
The knife in her hand exploded. The glowing silver arrow that had destroyed it embedded itself in the soft throne of flesh. The shocked crowd quickly turned to see who had committed this act of blasphemy.
"Oman." Growled the man.
Oman smiled coldly. "Surprised to see me, Deveronne?"
"You should have stayed in the canyon." Deveronne snarled.
"Even from here I can see that you're in no condition to fight us."
Oman jumped forward, but Deveronne was right - previous injuries, including a still-broken ankle slowed him down. The cult beat him from every direction until he found himself in a death-grip at the hands of his nemesis.
"Pathetic. You never had a chance. Why did you even try?" Deveronne sneered.
To his surprise, Oman laughed, coughing up a little blood.
"Tell me, Deveronne..do you know where your children are?"
Deveronne whirled around. The baby that Cradle had placed on the alter had disappeared. He span back to face Oman. "Damn you!" He squeezed, crushing bones and muscle in Oman's neck.
"Too late..." gasped Oman. "I've...won..." His body slumped.
Two days later, a young man finally stopped his fearful running and rested in a small cave. He looked wearily on the child he had snatched while his brother distracted the cult at the cost of his life.
"Poor child..." he whispered. "They never even named you." He paused. "My brother sacrificed his life for you.."
The man scooped a handful of water from a small puddle in the rocks and splashed it over the baby's head. "I name you in honour of the one who died saving you. I name you in honour of my older brother."
"I name you Oman."
"Oman...come here..."
The twelve year old boy knelt down next to Pine. Pine's shaking hand grasped the boy's in his own.
"Oman....it's been twelve years since I took you in and raised you." Pine coughed weakly. "I've often told you that there was much to tell you...things you should know. I wanted to wait until your sixteenth birthday, when you became a man. But I don't have any time left. I won't last the day."
"Father..." Oman whispered.
"Please, listen to me. In the chest in my room...the chest with a silver lock, there is a letter from Oman...I mean my brother Oman.." Pine's vision was fading fast. He had to get this out while he could. "It'll tell you all you have to know."
"Father, please..."
"I'm sorry...I've run out of time..." Pine struggled to draw in one final breath. "The letter...terrible, but you must read.." Pine's arm went limp.
Oman mourned his adopted father for many days. Pine was buried and missed by Oman, and by the friends they had in the local town. So upset was Oman that it was almost a month after the funeral that he remembered the chest in Pine's old room.
The chest was unlocked - perhaps Pine had unlocked it before his death. In any case, the letter Pine had mentioned was the chest's only content. Oman sighed and opened it.
To the child, it read.
If you are reading this, then I must assume that my dear brother Pine has passed on before he deemed you old enough to know how you came to be. I write this letter knowing that I will probably be dead within hours, having laid down my life to redeem yours.
I will start from the beginning. Knowing my brother, you probably know that he is not your blood-father already. Your blood-parents are a couple named Deveronne and Cradle. I pray that they do not find you and Pine before you are prepared for them.
A year before I write this, a small cult developed just outside the town in which I was born. I was asked by the town mayor to investigate the cult and evaluate any threat it posed. At first it seemed no more than a simple coven of the type that often appears, only to fade away a month later.
As I pressed further, though, I discovered that it was much more than this.
Your parents were the self-proclaimed monarchs of the cult, and had prayed to a demon to grant them the power to dominate this entire world. I was watching as they prayed, and I saw their prayers answered.
The cult believes that a demon from the pits of Pandemonium has favoured them. I do not know what this "Tyryft" is, but I do know one thing - it is no more an agent of Pandemonium than a plague rat.
Soon after Cradle found herself with child. Tyryft declared that he would grant them their power in exchange for the life of their baby. It sorrows me to tell you that the child is you. From conception, your parents intended to use you as a key to summon Tyryft.
But I believe that you have power within you. I know that magic was poured into you every day you were in the womb, but magic is not evil or good. That burden is placed on the shoulders of one who wields it.
Maybe fortune will smile on us, and your parent's cult will evaporate before you ever know about it. But I ask you to visit a friend of mine, the Seer Deacia. If she still lives when you read this, she will help you find your destiny.
I wish you well, and pray for your success.
Oman
Oman stared at the letter aghast. He could barely believe that his true parents had intended to kill him almost as soon as he'd left the womb. Soon, though, his shock turned to rage.
'How dare they..? How dare they think they can just cut me apart like I was some animal ready for the slaughter?' Oman stood up sharply. He went about the house preparing for a journey. He gathered food and clothing, and stuffed them roughly in a large backpack. 'First thing tomorrow, I'll set out to find the Seer.'
That night, as Oman slept in his own bed for the final time, he had a dream. He was standing on a tall rocky cliff, right in the middle of a raging ocean. A few metres in front of him was another cliff. Standing on this cliff was a woman with long flowing red robes, and glittering green hair. She regarded Oman curiously.
"You are the child Oman set out to save?"
"Yes. Who are you?"
"Child, I am Deacia. You intend to find me. I admit, I never expected you to begin your journey at such a young age."
"I have to speak with you!"
Deacia shook her head.
"Not yet. I've seen a little of your future. Not much, but I have seen you approach my home. You were at least three years older than you are, and you carried Crystarr."
"I carried what?"
"In the ice of the north, there exists a shrine made entirely of ice and crystal. Millennia ago, a sorceress built it to protect her weapon. This weapon was known as the Golden Spear, when in fact the golden aura was mere illusion. The spear was a core of an iron-silver metal encased in crystal magic.
It was infused with a familiar spirit, and was given the name Crystarr. It is said that the wielder of the spear holds the ability to control the five elements of reality, but the spear can not be held by just anyone.
Oman believed that one bathed in magic as you were before your birth can retrieve it. If this is true, then you must quest for it as a matter of urgency. Once you have it, find me. As you say, we must talk."
Oman's eyes opened. He was sitting up in his bed.
'Was it a dream?' he wondered as he ate and prepared to leave. As he left his house. He pondered on which direction to go. He chose north.
It had taken Oman almost two years to work his way to the Ice Temple. He was older and far more experienced. He wore a thin black cloth outfit that was adorned with silver runes, a gift from a strange man who's life he had saved less than a week before - the cloth would protect him from the natural cold of the ice and the unnatural cold of the Temple, the man had said.
As Oman stepped through the huge cavern he thought he heard a whisper from a chamber some distance in front of him, inviting him to enter. The chamber was empty save for a small ice alter with the spear resting on it. Eagerly, Oman reached for the weapon.
Hold.
"Wha..? Who's there?"
I am Crystarr, the Golden Spear. Five thousand years ago, I was forged and wielded by one I called Mistress. Since her final day in this life, I have seen many who would take me in their hands. Not one of them could wield me. My cold flame froze them in body and soul, and they became part of this sanctuary. Will you join them?
Oman swallowed.
"No. Others have said that I have the power to wield you."
Then grasp my hilt and offer your blood to me.
Oman took hold of one end of the spear. Immediately his hand was almost numb with cold, and tiny streams of blood streamed from his hand to be absorbed by the clear crystal of the spear, eventually sinking into the metal core. Yet, as his wrist started to shake, he felt a warmth spring up from inside of him, dispelling the numbing cold. As his arm settled down, he heard the spear's voice once more.
You have no blood in your veins, but red liquid magic. Remove me from this sanctuary and I will serve you in combat. You now are the Master of the Golden Spear.
Oman looked at the crystal spear in awe. As he raised his head he noticed his reflection in the ice. In the reflection his spear was not crystal, but a shining gold.
'This must be the reflection Deacia mentioned. I wonder if anyone other than myself will see through it?' Oman pondered. 'It's time to find the Seer.'
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