NAME: Last Spark Of Magic
DATE: 2024-07-19
TAGS: phantasy, action, wizard, federal agents

An ancient tower of stone pierceth the heavens at a mountain's foot, its spire pointing towards the celestial tapestry above. Within its circular chamber, twenty paces wide, chaos reigneth. Dusty tomes and scrolls lie scattered like fallen leaves upon oaken shelves and floor, their pages whispering forgotten secrets. Bed and desk are overturned, testament to a frantic search for that elusive spell of grand spatial translocation. Though most of these ancient texts long reside within the chambers of my memory, their physical presence, the weight of history they bear, remaineth indispensable.

A near stumble over a fallen volume remindeth me of the folly of neglect. A cloud of dust riseth, coating my throat with grit, and I curse my procrastination. Why have I not cleansed this hallowed space? Why did I linger here when fate's whispers foretold impending doom?

Escape is but a phantom dream. Where could a lone wizard find sanctuary in these perilous times? The Institutes, once bastions of our craft, lay shattered, their halls echoing with the ghostly lamentations of fallen brethren. The common lands are under the watchful eyes of those soulless fiends - monsters who learnt of our existence and extinguished every spark of magic save mine own. Those petty bureaucrats sought to harness our power for their own sake... We refused.

At the mere remembrance of the tragedies of this short-lived war, a searing rage igniteth within my heart. Mine aura flareth, a torrent of violent golden light scorching the very air, etching fiery trails upon the chamber walls. Yet even this tempestuous power recedeth, leaving behind a cold truth: defiance is futile. I must flee. The knowledge I possess, the legacy of our kind, must be preserved.

A disquieting symphony of sounds pierceth my concentration - the heavy tread of myriad boots, the clatter of metal contraptions, and voices shouting orders in that clipped, officious tone. The federal agents are upon me. My familiars... Runepaw, dear Runepaw... had they not been spirited away by those infernal `animal control' chaps, their keen senses would have warned me of this siege.

I peer from a window. Below, a verdant plain stretcheth out, bordered by majestic snow-capped mountains to the south and an overgrown deciduous forest to the north. A tapestry of vibrant blooms painteth the landscape with every hue of spring, but the beauty is marred by the sight before me - a company of armed men arrayed below my tower. Their arrogance is palpable - they stand in a clear shew of force, expecting surrender. Fools!

Staff clutched tightly in hand, I descend from my sanctuary, choosing the eastern window as mine exit point. The air is crisp with the promise of dawn - once my comfort, now a reminder of a world that no longer welcometh our kind.

I traverse the air, landing softly at the edge of the darkened wood. My gaze seeketh out the path - a treacherous gauntlet lined with Sunfire Thistle, its fiery thorns a deterrent to any who dare tread upon it. Thankfully, these plants bend to my will. Before venturing forth, I cast one last mournful glance at my tower. 'Tis painful to do this, yet necessity dictateth destruction.

Let those wretched fiends never lay their hands upon the tomes within. A silent prayer escapeth my lips as flames engulf my home. With a final, heart-wrenching look, I turn and flee into the embrace of the forest - this is my last resort, my desperate gamble for survival.

But fate, it would seem, hath other plans.

The thorny path, once an impenetrable barrier, lieth vanquished. Steel behemoths, monstrous contraptions of war, have blocked the way. I am surrounded. Their faces are grim masks devoid of empathy or understanding - vile puppets dancing to a discordant tune. Peculiar-looking weapons track every shift of my body with sickening precision. A group attempteth to flank me, their movements calm and organised, like wolves circling their prey.

My fury surgeth anew. My miasma, a force of nature I swore never to unleash upon living creatures, erupteth in a cataclysmic storm. Walls of fire dance around the terrain, climbing even those seemingly unreachable alpine peaks.

My voice, hoarse yet filled with ancient power, thundereth across the battlefield: `I am Alaric Ashworth, the last bastion of wizardry in this forsaken world! Tonight, the heavens weep for your folly, for ye shall face the fury of a raging star!'

The bloodlust of wizards manifesteth physically - it washeth over the land as a tidal wave, consuming all. Even these hardened soldiers recoil before the unfamiliar sensation, their bodies trembling with primal fear. This must be their first encounter with combat magic, their first taste of our ancient might. Let this be a lesson they never forget.

For every tower consumed by flames, for every life unjustly extinguished... I shall repay them a thousandfold. In a voice tinged with both sorrow and righteous anger, I begin to chant the forbidden words: `Calor infernalis, terrae penetrat, omnia combustae, nihil retractat.'^1 The words flow from my lips like molten lava, igniting the air around me. The wicked flames command a chorus of mangled screams, leaving nought but ash and embers in their wake. Those foul, tarnished souls shall rue the day they crossed paths with Alaric Ashworth, the Sculptor of Molten Dreams!

[1] `Infernal heat, pierce through the earth, all things consumed, nothing preserved.'