Storm and Sanctuary
Seventeenth Day of the Second Month 294 AC
"That storm might have an army in it, but no army is going to deal with that, not even this one." Though the words end on a note of pride, the grim sentiment is undeniable. You cannot march an army under that cloud, not without knowing what it is that could set fear even in Amrelath's grave-touched bones.
"So then you're flying to have a look yourself?" Ser Richard only half asks as he downs the last of the watered Arbor Gold in front of him with an air of quiet finality. He knows you well by now, after all.
You consider the spells you mean to weave and the help you mean to summon.
Time will stretch that far, at least. "You and Dany can accompany me of course, but first there is another I would call upon..."
***
It is strange to see Zathir coiled on the ground under the branches of the godswood. At first you think it might be that this is another Power's sanctum, or perhaps that the ground ill suits him, his glittering scales piled one atop the other rather than flowing through the air herding clouds and chasing the sun and moon, but it is your sister who figures it out before you do. "You've grown!"
He
has grown, not in length or width, in the snap on his wings or the size of his feathers, but some indefinable quality upon the edge of perception, seeming somehow more real than the world around him, moving with care lest he snap it like gossamer strands.
"I have, yes, my temples grow, and my disciples learn and teach those lesson unto others," the winged serpent replies. You can hear he proud smile in his voice, though he has no lips to show it. Pride for them and not for his own budding power.
Good, he will need that strength for the task ahead, you think with no small measure of relief. God though he may be, Zathir does not seem to you one who can easily turn his powers to conflict and contention. In a better world perhaps he shouldn't have to. Alas, that this is not that world. "We have need of your aid, holy one," you begin, recounting your need.
"You shall have it," the words are as simple as they are unwavering.
***
You do not travel back to the legion camp, lest the Winged Serpent's presence be noted too soon by darker powers. Instead you
twist time to your will as four of you stand outside its reach under the branches of the Godswood. Space is next, an image in the mind, black clouds over defiled plains. Fourteen familiar syllables fall from your lips, then all the world seems to shake as though the fist of some giant had gripped and rattled you.
Reality stretches unbearably thin. It feels as though every bone in your body breaks, every fiber of muscle snaps. You hear a scream and know not if it is yours, Dany's, Ser Richard's, or even Zathir's.
Feathers shine bright as rainbow shards and for a moment you remember when the sky sang the god's ascension.
The world flows back into focus amidst roiling clouds that cast no rain, shadowing withered planes. The colors of the world seem muted here, and for a moment you think the air is thin as it gets when you rise high into the heavens, then you realize the truth. It is not air that is thin here. It's magic. Something is draining the magic from the world and pushing it towards of the eye of the storm, if this monstrosity could b called that.
Dany and Ser Richard appear strained. The ordeal had obviously cost them more than a moment of pain, but Dany nods grimly as she begins to weave magic all her own. She can still do her part so long as the warp and weft of magic holds.
Dany and Ser Richard take 1 Negative Level
Fractured magic zone entered, no spells higher than 5th level may be cast here. Currently negated by Zathir's presence.
"Cast it back, I have strength enough for this," for the first time since he had shed the cursed skin, you hear something like rage in the Winged Serpent's voice.
And so, buoyed by genie enchantments, dream-wrought blessings, and spells cast in blood, you command the clouds to break and the sun to shine through.
The...
sorcery, for it is too grand and terrible a thing to call a mere spell, tears and frays at the edges, shafts of light bleeding through, but it does not unravel. It's roots run deep and drink of blood unjustly spilled. It begins to contract towards Gornath.
What do you do?
[] Press the attack as deep and as swift as you can
[] Withdraw, you have dealt a telling blow, now it is time to withdraw and consider the implications in peace
[] Write in
OOC: I know negative levels are usually death effects, but in this case it was a low magic effect. As mythic beings Dany and Ser Richard (as well as Viserys) struggle to endure in areas where magic is not merely suppressed as with anti-magic but drained. It looks like whatever's out there is trying to even the field in terms of high level magics. Not yet edited.