The World of Illusions

The wizard stood amongst the skeletons of shrubbery long since dead while the hot breeze blew dust from the sandy ground. Ignoring the elements, Zebadar stood with his eyes closed in a deep trance. He had been standing here for eight days without moving, and was now buried up to his waist, anchored to the earth by the drifting sands. As the breeze caught his clothing, it loosened the sand that was encrusted there. He appeared a statue on an endless plane; the wizard sought a force of unspeakable power that existed here. He had discovered this power while studying the eight mysterious towers of the octagon. It amazed and perplexed him; he had to find its origin. He had traveled a straight line south into the barren lands where he expected to find a structure, marked by specific hieroglyphs at the base of the seventh tower. Sensing the power here, the wizard was led by his instincts and discovered the remains of some ancient structures that formed an array of crumbling stones so old that they appeared to be part of the landscape itself. Overcome by the energies he felt in this place, the wizard had stopped and sought out the power that he discovered here. He stood feeling the energy, drawing it in. The ancients in this place had left an unmistakable presence of power, a message of some kind. It was then an unnatural storm came upon him. For hours it continued, blowing stronger and stronger and then suddenly it ceased and became calm. The wizard, having been buried further still, stiffly moved his hand to his face to wipe the layers of sand from his eyes. Blinking rapidly to clear the obstruction, he came out of his trance and squinted at his surroundings which the wind had transformed into a semblance of ruins, now recognizable as an ancient dwelling of sorts. There before him lay a walkway leading to an old doorway that stood vacant in the middle of a crumbling wall. Silently he looked about, making no effort to free himself from the sand which entrapped him. He stood, studying every inch of the ancient place. So much power–there was a magic here that even he could not comprehend. It was a source of power like a wellspring of life. There was a beauty in the very air. Every stone held a tale, a tale of wondrous times pleading to be told once again. He studied every inch of the place, looking, feeling, searching for the source. And then he stopped. He noticed an odd stone sitting precariously just beyond the archway within the broken wall. Only inches tall, it was not like the other stones which had been rounded by the winds of time. Untouched by the elements of thousands of years of change, it sat crooked in the sand, tilted slightly, with very sharp edges, like a rectangle standing on its end. It appeared to be floating above the ground at a peculiar angle. Staring at it transfixed, the wizard felt it to be the source of the power. Probing it with his consciousness, he knew that it was there he must go. Scooping the sand away with both hands, he freed himself of its warm, smothering grasp. Shaking the dust and sand from his robes, he reached within and removed a pouch from the many that dangled there. “Mavengentile cozengeara,” stated the wizard, raising both hands and preparing to counter any opposing force. As he watched closely, a dozen or more small vaporous vortexes appeared, seeming as serpents upon the ancient stones, wavering and spinning like guardians set at the tombs of ancient kings long since perished. “Secta venta laz,” he added. At that moment, the tiny twisters flustered in a flurry of rage, as dust and sand blew all about. And just as suddenly, everything stopped. Seeing a movement amongst the settling dust, the wizard knew it to be a soul of the dead. The spirit was black as the night sky; translucent, like a spirit of vapor, yet having substance all the same. It now stood motionless. Silent black ice. Its energy pulsated a powerful force of evil. Taken aback by the force, Zebadar prepared for a battle. As he did so, the figure sensed his intention and sent a wave of energy that rippled the very air with its force, knocking the wizard to the ground as a leaf in the wind. Dazed, the wizard chanted a spell while he lay on the stones. “Leventel neketel travkel,” he exclaimed and a glowing yellow sphere appeared all around him. The sphere of protection enabled him to right himself and prepare for battle once again.