THE THEME RAISER, part 1.
Something is about to happen.


Titled: When the Archwizards are wrong

It was late. Actually too late, for the candles in most of the Shadowkepian
windows had long ago burnt down, flickered and simply just whisked out. The
darkened skies had been pouring down water heavily for several days, making
the air very thick and damp. The darkness itself was not frightening, as it
was a very typical setting for a night in Shadowkeep, only the continuous
downpours made it different. As mountains engulf part of the Keep, towering
high over its eastern side, the effect of darkness is ever present until
very late early morning.

A sizeable chariot, a combination of black steel and brown wood rode hard on
Garrison Street, its steeds whinnying of the driver's hard twists on the
reins. The horses' leather harnesses, reinforced with thin metal strings
almost ripped the mounts' bulging muscles, as they struggled to dart towards
Honor Road in an almost impossible angle. Gliding and sliding seemingly
uncontrollably on the wet cobblestone streets with an irresponsible pace,
the one wagon convoy shot up resolutely towards its destination. It would've
been a disastrous and a gruesome sight to see a chariot of this magnitude
wound up in a collision with anything, no ordinary driver could guide his
steeds like this. But Noitulove was no ordinary man.

Shadowkeep was not unfamiliar to strange convoys, not even in its darkest
hour, usually they were about important deliveries to or from the local
nobles or perhaps escape wagons, the tools of some dark deeds. They were
generally considered business as usual during the late era of Shadowkeep,
the city of unknown perils. Thus, nobody asked too many questions or tried
to influence this peculiar behaviour; as even the good and just had their
limits in the city politics. Shadowkeep surely shifted towards evil yet once
again.

The chariot came to a screeching halt, snapping one metal bolt from
somewhere of the undercarriage, springing out more metal which in effect
tore on the flowing streets. A small wall of water arched in tangent of the
chariot's wild sideways slide, drenching a wall (and someone's home, had
they had left a window open).

The lone driver jumped down with ease, as heaving himself about in his
truly drenched leathers seemingly required no effort at all. It had been a
long journey, halfway through the Realm and it had been the same everywhere
- heavy, immensely heavy downpours. Not pausing, taking a few sharp strides
and not really caring for his hoarsely breathing and sweating horses or the
suffered chariot, he went straight through the doors of the Conservatorium.

Elsewhere within the Shadowkepian towers, somewhere high above the
Conservatorium, an archwizard shifted with great unease. Someone had come
and not just someone, but He had come. It had been over a decade since the
two had met and they had not come into terms in their last confrontation. If
one would've been in the vicinity to see the reaction of the Arch, one
could've said that the great wizard was...afraid.

The grand Conservatorium, suitably nicknamed as the Imposing Conservatorium
seemed empty. No bards were present, no bards except for the most powerful
bard alive, Noitulove himself. He, who thought the bards' stronghold as a
lascivious and an impure breeding burrow, a dismayable attempt to gather
valued artifacts of the craft, ending only in the distortion of real
melodies of power. This rotten cobhole, even though it was lavishly
decorated quite much to his taste, the place meant nothing to him, in fact
it infuriorated him greatly. But, then why was he here to save it? Fighting
his inner turmoil, Noitulove uttered some commonly long forgotten curses in
his quickly building rage.

Dual uneven length daggers flashed out tentatively in a lightning-fast
movement, the arms being a late favourite, evil setup of his. He drew thin
lines in air, leaving a trace of bluish hue behind as he practiced a mock
assault, a habit of his, a habit that had kept him alive for what seemed
centuries. This time nothing struck back, which only stimulated his rage
more. Noitulove stormed through the corridors, toying with the idea of
attacking his host, the lord Shadowstring at first sight. Sinking of the
poisonous fangs deep into the assumably immortal frame of an archwizard '
brought a ravenous smile on his lips. He reveled lost within himself,
letting the evil flow about, inside him. Only after some time, he shook
away the images and suggestions, in which the two powerful weapons' played
no small part - by projecting them directly into his mind. But still, the
demigod continued to smile at the prospect..

Outside, the heavy downpours continued to beat the streets with an ever
increasing pace. Something was about to happen.


[TO BE CONTINUED.]
Author: Amarth Shadowstring