The Dawncaster Chronicles [Mages, Arcane University], Have you ever thought about taking the dark and thorny path? Options

[Illydoor]

This is my first story that I've posted on the forums, it's not finished, so I'll probably be posting updates a bit sporadically throughout the year. It entails the story of young apprentice mage at the Arcane University, thrown into a world of mystery, murder and threat as the past returns and he is plunged headlong into it. I hope you like it...

~DAWNCASTER~

Prologue

Have you ever considered taking the dark and thorny path?

The voice was so sultry and alluring it made Magnus retch. Mysteriously dark, ominously sinister, like liquid poison running through his ears. The rich sound echoed off the thin walls of his house and filled the room with a soft, reverberating boom. Magnus shuddered.

It chuckled.

I know your type, boy, I know it well, but in a thousand years of painful existence I've never seen someone with so much…potential, as you.

Magnus did not dignify the compliment with a response. He was way past speaking, or even breathing for that matter. Abject fear had rendered him beyond speech or any comprehension at all of what was happening. He was utterly paralysed.

The thing chuckled malevolently again, a deep, sonorous rumble. It sensed his fear.

Speak! Only the foolish would summon me to their whim and not have the bravery to command me!

The voice rose suddenly and thunderously in volume, shaking the floor as if each syllable had the power to crush worlds at mere expression. The words echoed inside Magnus' head long after the monster had finished speaking, chilling him to the very core as icy trepidation laced the pit of stomach and his blood ran hot under his veins.

A low chuckling sounded once again.

I can feel your fear boy, your anxiety. It warms my essence, feeds my soul. Yet I can feel your power. I foresee great things for you, boy, great things.

Magnus remained silent, staring hard at the wooden floor beneath him and sweating feverishly.

Hmph. You have summoned me, and in return for the sacrifice of your soul, I shall see your ascension to greatness and immortality, if you should so accept my divine guidance. What say you, boy?

Finally, Magnus, roused from his terrified stupor, managed to stammer a few words out.

"Th-thank you, m-my master..." Magnus winced slightly as he noticed with great discomfort how weak his voice sounded, how insignificant it was compared to that of the monster.

The thing grunted, as if sizing him up. For a moment silence gripped the room, choking and stifling.

Hmm. Yes, indeed, you will do well. Come, young Magnus Dawncaster, I have much to teach you…

***

She was miles away, but the flames were still there. The pain still lingered like a terrible after-image, haunting and chilling, flashing every time on the backs of her eyelids whenever she closed them. She wished them away in frantic desperation, but the insatiable blood-thirst of the red flames couldn't be quenched, couldn't be stopped.

They burned brightly, burnishing the night-sky a tarnished red.

No matter how hard she tried, she could not shut them out. Their fiery gaze burned through anything, destroying, ruining, killing.

And still they burned. Never to cease, visions of fire and destruction, of vivid redness and anger. Elsa watched her world burn in her eyes over and over again. An eternal nightmare she could not wake from.

Hot tears stung her eyes as she ran, the dancing embers hot on her heels, their heat prickling and their roar terrifying, cackling and howling with malicious glee.

Pain engulfed her, clouding her mind with agony. She had no strength to scream, every iota of her energy spent entirely on just keeping awake. Yet she couldn't stop running. The flames chased her.

Branches and leaves whipped her face, but she ignored their sting. Roots and stray logs threatened to trip her, but she persevered, scrabbling quickly to her feet when she fell, a new, fresh gash on her person whenever she got up again.

All the while, the incessant burning continued in her ears. If only she could get away, escape, just anywhere where the flames could not reach her and her precious, precious cargo. In her heart she knew there was nowhere, the illusory flames that cursed her mind would stay with her to the abyss and back. They would burn in the darkness, in her dreams and sleep, they would smoulder on until death took her, and even then they would follow in her the afterlife, haunting her spirit.

She kept running, and fatigue dragged at her like an iron weight strapped to her soul, though she had lost the feeling in her wearisome legs a long time ago. She knew she couldn't keep it up forever, and already she felt her pace slowing, her feet falling heavily and stumbling amongst the dark undergrowth. She could tell she was at the end of her limits, her strength drained and her willpower spent. She knew soon she would fall, and the flames would catch up with her, devouring her in a swirling inferno of suffering and agony.

She ignored the icy pain that clawed at her consciousness and pressed on, finally breaking through the shadowy woods, forcing herself onwards on sheer determination alone.

She was nearly there. So close to being liberated from her haunted life, freedom from the ravenous flames at last. She only had to make it.

Through the writhing and hissing flames that consumed her mind's eye, the Arch-Mage's Tower loomed in to view. Its steep grey walls promised salvation and release from the pain.

Deep within the dark fire that raged inside her, a shadow of hope flickered, and with renewed vigour she fought away the flames for one last time, stumbling through the giant iron gates and scrabbling helplessly at the door.

Blackness began to seep into the corners of her eyes, and the flames began to deaden. Her breath slowed, and everything went into a time lapse, her movements sluggish and her vision blurred like a misty window.

She fought it, struggling to keep the flicker of hope in sight. She knew she was living on borrowed time. Any second now, death would take her, siezing her in it's inescapable grasp.

Through bleary eyes she saw the heavy wooden door creep open, and the Arch-Mage stood there, silhouetted in the yellow light that spilled from the open gap. Not able to keep herself up any longer, she slumped to the floor with a cry of supressed relief. The Arch-Mage ran to her immediately, holding her head in his hands and uttering inaudible words.

Darkness. It was beginning to consume her, her gaze narrowing as death prepared to embrace her, to finally make the flames stop. She beckoned the release.

With her last dying breath, she pushed something into the Arch-Mage's arms and whispered a final word before her world was plunged into blackness.

"Nathaniel..."

As he watched the life seep out of Elsa's eyes and her motionless body settle against the cold stone floor, Arch-Mage Honorius Greymane stood frozen in shock and grief, and in his hands a newborn baby began to cry.

This post has been edited by Illydoor: Apr 25 2009, 08:50 PM

[Illydoor]

Chapter I: A Decision to Make

“Nathaniel! Pay attention!”

The austere voice cut across the classroom like sharp iron scraping horribly against rock, piercing and shrill. The walls waned at the mere sound, and many of the students clapped their hands to their ears in evident pain.

It was made worse by the fact that the gloomy room was completely enclosed, only a single shaft of light penetrated the pall of murkiness, spearing down from a window high up on the tall-beamed roof. This made the terrible shriek echo loudly and horribly, reverberating from within the shadowy corners of the chamber and cawing like a crow’s birdcall around the sombre classroom.

When the culprit didn’t pay heed, it was quickly accompanied by another screeching noise, even more horrendous than the first, as sharp nails were painfully dragged across the blackboard in an agonisingly deliberate motion. They scored deep grooves across the black surface, and it squealed in response as if it were alive.

The pupils shuddered at the horrific sound. A coal-black raven crouching on a perch beside the single window winced, ruffling its feathers in protest.

“Do you not respect the arts of our past?” Miss Harpfeather inclined in a high-pitched tone, rapping so harshly on her dark wood table that a quill fell out of its inkpot and spilled a vivid inky spider across the worktop. She ignored it, and with an audible snort of frustration began to walk slowly through the classroom to the wrongdoer, her extravagant plumed headdress bobbing like an apple in water as she did so.

The whole classroom withdrew as if not to disturb her. They knew better than to get in her way.

She stopped halfway at one of the tiny desks, peering down at a rather unruly boy with an unkempt mane of dark hair, slumped across the desktop unnaturally with his head resting in between the pages of a large textbook. He snored quietly to himself, each time blowing a piece of dust to and fro, like a game of cat and mouse.

Another sharp rap on the table. This time, Nathaniel awoke.

Though when he saw what was waiting for him on the other side of his eyelids he sorely wished he hadn’t. His gaze was met by the furious pinched face of Miss Harpfeather the history teacher, her hooked noise pointed accusingly at Nathaniel face.

Uh oh, thought Nathaniel. He was definitely in for it now. To be caught catnapping during the lesson was one of the most punishable offences in Miss Harpfeaher's class, Nathaniel had found to his displeasure too many a time. It was true, he had been sleeping, but who could blame him when the lessons were just so… mindlessly boring?

Every feature of her face seemed to narrow down into one centre point, aimed directly at Nathaniel. Her lips were tightly pursed and seemed to protrude from her mouth; her conical, beak-like nose sharper than an arrowhead. He could even feel her steely gaze boring into him like two icy needles, crow-black and imperceptible through her anger. Involuntarily he gulped nervously; she was not in a good mood today.

“Tell me, young Nathaniel, what it is so boring about my lesson that provokes you into catching forty winks every time my back is turned? Hmm? Come on, out with it!” She scowled, cocking her head to the side in a very pigeon-like manner and tapping her foot impatiently on the floor beside Nathaniel’s desk.

“I was merely resting my eyes, Miss Harpfeather…” His feeble excuse fell on deaf ears, and the foot-tapping increased.

Nathaniel could feel his brow sweating nervously. Miss Birdie was already at stage two of her fury, the irritated tapping of her foot and the bobbing of the head. Another stage and Nathaniel’s eyes had a very good chance of getting pecked out by her ridiculously elongated nose – he had to choose his words very, very carefully.

“Actually, Miss Harpfeather, it was more like forty hundred winks – Natty has been asleep from about ten minutes into the lesson, miss.” A snide voice sounded from the back of the classroom, accompanied by a chorus of sniggers and spiteful whispers. Nathaniel shot Patrickus Grinlime a venomous glare.

“Oh really, Patrickus? Thank you for your honesty, extra portions of sweet-roll for you come lunchtime. So, Nathaniel, what is it? What makes my lessons so extremely boring? Spit it out!” Miss Harpfeather demanded, adopting her horrible screechy voice once more. Nathaniel eyes averted to the floor, as his mind worked overtime trying to think of a legitimate excuse.

“I-I…” He stammered over his words. Miss Harpfeather cheeks began to flush red in impatience. The third stage.

“It’s not that I find your lessons boring, Miss Harpfeather, it’s just that… I don’t understand the importance of them. Why do we need to know about our past when it’s the future or the present we should be concerned about?” Nathaniel explained cautiously, not really knowing what he was saying.

“Importance! Importance! History is the most important subjects of all, Nathaniel. Do you think Arch-Mage Greymane got to his position without studying the stars of his past? The present and future is shaped by our past, Nathaniel, we need to have knowledge of the history of our people in order to succeed in life! Do you know nothing of your heritage, you insolent little boy?” Miss Harpfeather shrieked, the numerous feathers on top of her head shaking furiously, as if mimicking her outrage. Nathaniel cowered.

“I cannot believe you disregard history as an unimportant lesson,” She shook her head brusquely, causing a feather to fall out from her diadem and float slowly to the floor. “Is that why you don’t pay attention Nathaniel? Because you don’t believe in the past?”

Nathaniel thought hard for a second.

“Well that, plus your voice is really annoying and in truth, your lessons are pretty boring…”

Ah, he thought. He’d meant to say the second part in his head.

Miss Harpfeather’s face was motionless for a few still, uncomfortable moments. The feather continued to drift slowly to the floor, and the whole classroom was gripped in a deathly silence. Even the raven stopped in its preening to observe, cocking its head to look down in a sort of hopeful expectancy.

Nathaniel could feel the air around him peal with the anticipation of impending doom. He was a dead man, folly for the executioner’s black blade – or in this case, Miss Harpfeather’s dangerously sharp nose, which was just as deadly.

The morbid silence and motionlessness of the room seemed to go on for so long that it occurred to Nathaniel that Miss Harpfeather could have possibly frozen in anger. Her eyes bulged at Nathaniel with unrepressed shock and fury, and her hands, curled into claw-like fists, trembled with rage. She barely breathed, and her face was transformed into a mask of pure contempt. Nathaniel found he could not meet her gaze, for it pained him to do so.

When she finally spoke, it was but a whisper.

“Get out, you filthy little fetcher of a boy. I shall be seeing to you personally after this lesson. Get out before I tear out your eyeballs and pin them to your desk so next lesson you have to pay attention. Get out.” She fumed, her voice audibly shaking with unbridled anger.

Nathaniel gulped, but remained sitting, too afraid to move.

“You don’t deserve to be in this university, get out!”

Nathaniel didn’t hesitate any longer; he gathered his belongings and quickly exited the classroom. But when he got out he didn’t stop there, he ran, sprinting through the winding corridors, past the History classrooms and the dormitories, running until his legs burned and his chest heaved, Miss Harpfeather’s insults still echoing painfully in his mind, stinging a little more each time.

She was right. He didn’t deserve to be here.

***

Nathaniel leant against the back-alley wall panting, hands on his knees and staring hard at the cobblestone floor. He was afraid, afraid to face his predicament and afraid to run away any further, knowing it would just follow him. He remained there for a good half-hour, deep in his thoughts before he finally stirred.

He stood up, straightening his student’s uniform and trying to make himself look at least a little presentable when he faced his fate at the hands of his professors, who were know doubt already deciding on what degrading and horrible chastisement to inflict on him when he returned. He was just about to make off to the professors' quarters when an old voice rasped beside him.

“Hello Nathaniel.”

He jumped in surprise, and spun around to see a blue-robed figure concealed in the darkness. He stepped forward, and the darkness receded to reveal his face and identity. His features were deeply wizened and proud, like that of an old lion, and though his skin was aged and wrinkled his blue-grey eyes shone with a look of cunning wit and razor-sharp intelligence. A silvery mane of grey hair sprouted from atop his head, giving him a sense of a stone statue, looming above Nathaniel and fixing him with an equally stony stare of disapproval.

It was the Arch-Mage.

Nathaniel groaned and tried to escape, but a hand shot out and gripped him, vice-tight on his shoulder.

“Do not patronise me, boy. Face me.” Arch-Mage Greymane growled sternly, his voice coarse and unforgiving. His bushy eyebrows, which sat atop his forehead like two grey and hairy caterpillars, descended into a pointy frown.

“I heard of the incident in Miss Harpfeather’s History class. This is not good, Nathaniel. Your records of behaviour are fuller than any other student’s in the whole university. You have more black marks than a forgetender’s apron.” The Arch-Mage spoke quickly and austerely, his voice completely unsympathetic.

Nathaniel hated old Whiskerface more than any other teacher. Nathaniel had no reason to, for he had found only one explanation; because the Arch-Mage had hated him first. Ever since he could remember, Arch-Mage Greymane had despised him, neglected and rejected him, and when he did acknowledge him, it was with the utmost disapproval. Nathaniel had never understood why the old fool had hated him so, but for that reason, and that reason alone, Nathaniel had hated the old man back for all his worth. He had nothing but resentment for Greymane.

Their relationship was not helped by the fact that Nathaniel insisted on pulling all sorts of pranks and tricks on the Arch-Mage, mostly failed and unsuccessful ones. But the attempts that did succeed produced spectacular effects. It had earned Nathaniel weeks, even months of punishment, but it was all worth it in the long run, Nathaniel had compromised. It made the victory all the sweeter.

“Listen to me boy,” the Arch-Mage fixed him with a merciless stare; his incredibly bushy eyebrows deepening into an even steeper frown, if that were even possible. Nathaniel reckoned he could rotate them in a full circle if he wanted to.

“None of your punishments seem to be working, Nathaniel, no matter how arduous or harsh they may be. You return with yet more vigour to disobey the rules and undermine the professors' authority. This is not the actions of a future mage at this university, do you agree?” At this rhetorical question one of the thick eyebrows rose with a sudden swiftness, like a furry worm trying to wriggle and escape his forehead altogether. After a few moments it sank down again, and Nathaniel abruptly realised he had been observing his eyebrow’s movements a tad too much.

“Thus, Nathaniel, I have decided that if you fail tomorrow’s Mysticism examination I will have to detain you a year. You will not ascend to be a university apprentice, and will be held back another term to continue your associate-level studies until you have proven yourself worthy of acceptance into the mages society.” Arch-Mage Greymane glowered at him, removing his hands from Nathaniel’s shoulders and clasping them at the small of his back. A faint smile escaped the corners of his mouth.

“That is, if you fail. I hope this is a necessary amount of incentive to get you to start acting like a proper mage, and not some young scoundrel barely civilised enough to become a bandit. And don’t think your actions are to go unpunished Nathaniel, you are assigned to an afternoon’s cleaning of the University stables. Go, rejoin your lessons, I will see you tomorrow to give you an apprenticeship. Or not. It's your choice boy.”

And with that the Arch-Mage left the alleyway, whistling a merry tune, leaving Nathaniel confused and shocked rigid in the empty passageway, frozen with distraught at the Arch-Mage’s words.

This post has been edited by Illydoor: Apr 25 2009, 11:06 PM