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[Dryzzid]

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(This will be a collection of stories describing fictional, out-of-game events that explain my time away from the game. I will post all of them in this thread to keep them together and fluid. The time passed uses the scale 1 real life month = 1 year in-game time. )

Part I - The Beginning of the End

Approximately 55 years ago, not long after the destruction of Levas Dazu’la, during the reign of Tyranthraxus, shortly before his disappearance and desertion of the Order of the Ebon Skull.

(c. July, 2005)

The sun had fallen behind the jagged horizon formed by the mountains that divided the southern continent of Malas. Hearth-born lights appeared in the windows that dotted the blackened landscape surrounding the city of Umbra. Campfires sprung up outside the derelict slave huts that lined the city’s obsidian walls. Dry winds from the Malas desert brought the smells of roasted rat and mongbat north of the city to the looming crypt known as Charnel Hill.

Charnel Hill, a massive, unadorned, grey stone structure, served as the clandestine headquarters of the Order of the Ebon Skull. The dilapidated collection of catacombs purveyed the illusion of insignificance compared to the grandiose of nearby buildings such as the Temple of Oblivion, which neighbored the Hill on its eastern side. Inside its vine-covered walls, however, was the hierarchy of the Order and its most valued relics: the chamber of the Ancients, the throne room of the Lich Lord, and the dais of the Ebon Skull. Worshipped as the physical manifestation of what one may interpret as the Order’s god, Oblivion, the Ebon Skull had wrought terror and seeded corruption throughout Britannia for centuries. Its followers had slain the righteous, undermined regimes, and sewn deceit into the very fabric of the land since times long before the arrival of Cantabrigian British.

From the time of its inception, the Order’s armies had rallied behind the banner of the Skull’s spokesperson, the figurehead of the Order and the apex of its hierarchy; the Lich Lord. Storing his essence inside the Skull itself, using it as a phylactery, the Lich Lord interpreted the will of the Skull and guided the Order toward its ultimate goal; to snuff out existence, to end creation. Since the beginning a Lich Lord had always led the Order and it was an absurd concept that any other being would sit in the Throne of Skulls. However, in the time after the destruction of the Lich Lord Levas Dazu’la, absurdity had become reality.

Torches burned low inside the throne room of Charnel Hill, though they could glow as bright as the sun and still a Lich Lord would not be seen. Instead, slouched and brooding, for the first time ever, a man occupied the Throne of Skulls. A grey-white robe, similar to those that were worn by the Order’s slaves, poured down his lanky frame and flowed over his long legs, barely revealing the black leather boots he wore on his feet. His forearms rested on the arms of the throne and his fingers draped over the edges. On the ring finger of his left hand was a plain, gold band, which on closer inspection was imprinted with five ebony skulls equally spaced apart around its circumference. Writings in Stygian, the ancient language of the Order, were engraved in the empty spaces between the skulls. Long, straight, white hair, parted in the middle, hung down from his head. The man’s head drooped forward and his hair covered his face, obscuring his vision of the room around him. He appeared as if he was sleeping, but he was far from slumber.

The man was Tyranthraxus, a powerful necromancer and current leader of the Order of the Ebon Skull. How his unlikely ascension came to pass was an atypical tale for an atypical situation. The former reigning Lich Lord, Levas Dazu’la, had abdicated his throne by his unforeseen destruction. Members of the Order assumed that the Ebon Skull would select one of the Ancients, the Order’s ruling council, to begin the Rite of Lichdom, thusly naming the next to be Lich Lord. However, none were chosen. The Order continued for a short time, blind and leaderless, unable to interpret the will of the Skull themselves. This continued until Tyranthraxus, whose prophetic return to the Order just before the destruction of Levas had left the ranks faithless in the Ancients, stormed the top of Charnel Hill and took the Ebon Skull in his hands. He gazed directly into the Skull’s hollow eye sockets while the members of the Order watched on. It was thought that anyone bold (and foolish) enough to do such a thing would be stricken from existence as punishment for such blasphemy. Conversely, Tyranthraxus stood strong amidst the amazement of the Order. He was hailed as their new leader. He had accomplished the very goal he had dreamed of since first hearing of the Order, or so he thought.

Now, Tyranthraxus sat in doubt upon a throne that he felt he did not deserve. He had refused the Rite of Lichdom, instead embracing his mortal coil, unable to relinquish the indulgences of mortality: carnal pleasures, alcohol, and free will. He chose to lead the Order as a mortal, much to the skepticism and dismay of the Ancients as well as the members who were strictly loyal to them. Tyranthraxus’s unorthodox methods and human views on the affairs of state offended some and enraged others. The very people he undermined to gain his rule began to undermine him. His orders went unfollowed, his mandates were taken lightly. The Ancients resented his rule and they made little or no attempt to support him. Now the leader of the Order of the Ebon Skull wondered if he had been too brazen, too brash. He wondered if it was too late to perform the Rite of Lichdom and save his reign. He wondered if a Lich Lord would have these doubts. His questioning of himself had reached a critical point.

Finally snapping out of his contemplative daze, Tyranthraxus raised his head and looked about him. The throne room was not meant for the living, it was meant for the undead. Void of amenities such as a kitchen, a bed, and a bathroom, Charnel Hill was not the place for a human to reside. It felt as if the walls themselves did not want him there. Tyranthraxus spent much of his time under guise in the city of Umbra and when he craved solitude he knew he could lock himself in the hidden throne room of the Hill. This was one of those times. Feeling drunk without imbibing, feeling detached from the wicked world surrounding him, the Entropic Seer could not recall how long he had been sitting in there; wallowing, pathetic. He did not know that it had been a week. He brushed his hair out of his face and behind his ears with his fingers. He took a slow, deep breath in through his nose and exhaled sharply out his mouth. As he did this, his snapped eyes wide open in a surprising realization, revealing bloodshot eyes with emerald irises. He spoke aloud to himself, in a quiet, steady voice.

“Enough. I will not suffer this failure.”

The necromancer stood up and as he did his bones cracked and popped as if he were an old man, though he was only in his mid-thirties. He took a few slow, confident strides across the darkened hall to the corpse of a slave he had stabbed to death for intruding on his contemplations. Crouching down, he pulled a large, serrated dagger out of the corpse’s neck. He wiped it clean using the slave’s robe and some water that usually pooled on the floor in one of the throne room’s corners after it rained. It must have rained recently, he thought. He shrugged his shoulders and stood up straight, dagger in hand. He made a few motions with his hand in front of one of the walls of the throne room and a door appeared.

Tyranthraxus stormed out of the throne room and headed toward the top of Charnel Hill where the Ebon Skull was kept. As he turned at the top of the stairs and reached the pinnacle of the massive crypt, and prepared for what he was about to do, the necromancer’s mind repeated a short, simple mantra that members of the Order often quoted:

“All things die.”

[Dryzzid]

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Part II – Reflections

The night felt calmer than most. The warm desert air had subsided and was replaced with a chill breeze that was carried up from Gravewater Lake. The subtle change in temperature sent a shiver throughout the body of Tyranthraxus, who sat casually on the edge of the roof of Charnel Hill, dangling his feet over the edge with his arms at his sides, palms flat against the cool, grey stone. Lying on the floor near his right hand was a long, serrated dagger. Without warning a strong gust of cold air invaded his serenity and slapped him in the face. Tyranthraxus shuddered and was stunned momentarily, surprised by the bitterness of the wind. With the cold air, though, came memories of a different time and a different place; memories of another city once under the Order’s control. Located on Dagger Island in the facet of Felucca, this place was once referred to by friend and foe alike as the Dark Jewel of the North. The necromancer gazed out over the enclave of Charnel Hill and beyond to the city of Umbra as his mind began to wander. He recalled the city of Caina.

Tyranthraxus thought of the many times when, as a slave, he stood on the roof of Morn Cirith, the tower of dark arts and home to the Necromancer sect, and looked down upon Caina below. He would often fantasize about the day when he would rule the vast city and all the creatures within it. He remembered the city being more glorious and menacing than the Order’s current home. Caina was much different than Umbra and Charnel Hill. Caina needed no walls; no one in their right minds would cross the city’s limits willingly and expect to see the next day. Its army was vast, made up of anti-paladins, death knights, the militia, and countless slaves. It housed many allied guilds and provided a place for the most nefarious of plots to be hatched. Caina was a spectacle to behold. He closed his eyes, picturing the city in his mind as if he were there still, and he recalled the houses, towers, and keeps that sprawled across the northern half of Dagger Island, comprising one of the most evil places to ever exist in Britannia.

Tyranthraxus’s memory began with Morn Cirith, which was built on the most northeastern point of the island. Originally built in the time of the Stygian Empire, Morn Cirith was not always part of Caina. It had lain buried under rock and ice for centuries, destroyed during the fall of the Stygia. A ritual, crafted by the necromancer Anton Veneficus and performed by the Necromancer sect, had drawn it up through its icy grave to the surface. It was then that Morn Cirith returned to its original role, serving as the necromancers’ home until Caina’s last day.

Not far from Morn Cirith, west and slightly to the north, on a point of land that jutted out from the icy coast line, was a colossal keep that housed a definitive collection of literature from all across Britannia: the Scholomance. Tyranthraxus had spent many nights there pouring over the ancient writings and tomes of his mentors and his mentor’s mentors. South and west of the Scholomance was the tower of the Tal’mahe’Rah, the Kindred sect of the Order. Tyranthraxus gritted his teeth as his inherent hatred for the Kindred pushed to the surface of his thoughts and momentarily disrupted his reverie. It soon passed, however, and he fell back into his memory-laden trance.

Directly beside the Scholomance on its western side was the magnificently constructed and maintained home of the Ne’Sveti family. The Ne’Sveti family was a group of gypsies that migrated from Kos Heb, the frozen north of the Lost Lands. Tyranthraxus recalled the frequency in which the Ne’Sveti family caused more mischief than the Kindred. He often wondered if they were Kindred themselves. A road starting at the heart of the city ran west, passing the Ne’Sveti abode, passing between the Tal’mahe’Rah and the Scholomance, and ending at Morn Cirith.

Just north of the city center was the Well of Souls, the place where all souls harvested by members of the Order were trapped. It was believed that the second age of the Order began when the Lich Lord Azalin, as a mortal, discovered the Ebon Skull within the Well of Souls. Northwest of the Well of Souls was the Slave Pit. All those who wished to gain entry to the Order began their journey as slaves. It was here that they endured the tortures and suffered the whims of their respective masters. Many perished within the small tower and those who didn’t began their path of darkness in the sect that they chose upon reaching the end of their slavery. Directly north of the Well was a small cabin that served as the culling grounds of the Wraith sect. Tyranthraxus paused a moment to let a cynical smile purse his lips. The Wraiths, he thought, were always an insignificant part the Order.

Another road ran south from the heart of the city, first passing between two mammoth towers. On the road’s eastern side was the Sepulchre of the Damned, home of the Death Knights. The Death Knights served as the hammer and fist of the order and the zombies and skeletons within made up the bulk of the Order’s armies. On the western side of the road was the dark jewel of the Dark Jewel: the Tower of Skulls, the Golgotha. The Golgotha served as the home of the Lich Lord Azalin, whose reign encompassed the rise and fall of Caina in its entirety. Screams could be heard at all times coming from within the Golgotha’s plain, grey walls. Bones were strewn about in every possible nook and lined the steps up to the immense double iron doors that served as the entryway. It was here, inside the Golgotha, that Azalin and the Skull resided, weaving malice, destruction, and deceit to the far edges of Britannia. The Golgotha to Caina was what Charnel Hill is to Umbra.

Built directly off of the southwest corner of the Golgotha was the Asylum of Perdition. The Asylum stood to entertain the minds of the Order’s mortal members with games of chance and strong drink. Tyranthraxus recollected on an abundance of visits that he made to the casino. Occasionally, a wandering light bringer would test his luck against the corrupt game masters. Some lost their money, most lost their lives. Finally, at the end of a small alley that ran west from the Golgotha and in front of the Asylum of Perdition, there was the Temple of Oblivion. The Temple of Oblivion was home to the Clergy, who preached the lessons of Oblivion and Entropy every week at Black Mass. Tyranthraxus sneered as many nights of droning out the Entropic Chant at mass crept into his memories. He absolutely abhorred the Entropic Chant.

There were other buildings in the city but none were as important as the ones he had already recalled. The militia barracks were toward the southern perimeter and near the barracks was the Tribunal of Entropy, where the mayor, the vice-mayor, and the ambassador formed Caina’s governing body. Puppets, Tyranthraxus thought. The Lich Lord ruled all. There was also a vendor house that stood in front of the Sepulchre of the Damned: the Tainted Goods. He seemed to remember a sweet, yet fierce little Kindred girl who ran it. Caina was magnanimous in its prime. All things die though, Tyranthraxus thought. Now Caina was in ruins. The new Order had performed a ritual to move the Well of Souls from there to Charnel Hill. The lifeblood of the city was gone, and the city itself was buried beneath the snow. Still, the Seer thought, he had spent the most important days in his career there. His thinking began to wander back to Morn Cirith and his first months as a slave and aspirant necromancer in the Order.

Membership in the Order had already begun to diminish when Tyranthraxus joined. He remembered his time as a slave being brief whereas those before him spent a substantial amount of time as the boot heels of the established membership. Due to the departure of several figures of authority, the Necromancer sect had declined in power, giving way to the rise of the Death Knights under the leadership of the Daemon Lord Beleth. The Necromancer sect and the Death Knights were always at odds due to the significantly different methods in which they used to obtain their goals. The Kindred sect was, as was often the case, in turmoil. The Kindred spent their days at each other’s throats, squabbling between bloodlines and vying for positions of power within their own hierarchy. The Wraiths were non-existent, having no leadership and barely any active members. The Clergy’s numbers were few as well, but the High Priest Bal-Anon Dak still led the Order in Black Mass every Sunday. How Tyranthraxus loathed the Entropic Chant.

Tyranthraxus recalled his ascension through the ranks of the Necromancer sect being an expedient one. His way with words and natural ability in both magery and necromancy made it effortless to surpass his colleagues. In addition, his penchant for treachery and backstabbing aided him well on many occasions. Most of the remnants of leadership took to him quickly. He studied necromancy under Master Veneficus and the art of combat under Darlantan, the Magus of Blood. Both were unmatched in their respective professions. However, perhaps the most unique boon that Tyranthraxus had received was being named the apprentice of Ezerak, the First Necromancer of the Order.

Ezerak had existed and died in Stygian times, or so it was thought. He was one of the original Children of Nizar, the first Lich Lord of the Ebon Skull. Handpicked as a child and raised by Nizar to suit his desires, Ezerak became the model for what every necromancer would ever aspire to be. The dark arts flowed through his veins. Eventually betraying Nizar to save his only sister from becoming the first Wraith, Ezerak was served the punishment of the Nameless One. His eyes and tongue were removed and his eardrums were burned out. He was put into a mask and bound to Morn Cirith, his fate sealed to wander the darkened halls for eternity as a reminder to all of what betrayal to Nizar would bring. So it was when Morn Cirith was raised in Cainan times, Ezerak was raised with it. He could regularly be seen wandering the halls, still bearing the mask of his betrayal. None knew of what he really was.

Near the end of Caina’s time most of the Order was split in their loyalties. Half remained loyalists to Lord Azalin, while the other half heard whispers of an ancient power. With the raising of Morn Cirith came the knowledge of Stygia and Nizar, a history unknown to most prior. Many members, including the bulk the Necromancer sect, were intent on raising Nizar, having believed that the decline of Caina and the Order directly reflected on the leadership of Lord Azalin. Shortly after Morn Cirith was raised, Ezerak’s bonds were broken and he was restored. Many hailed him as the one who would bring back Nizar and Ezerak believed that he would atone for his betrayal if he did just that. It was during his brief reincarnation that Ezerak tutored Tyranthraxus in the Stygian arts.

Nizar’s resurrection never came to Caina. For reasons unknown the Lich Lord Azalin sealed the doors of the Golgotha and severed the link from the Skull to all the Order’s members. Perhaps it was fear of losing his rule, or vengeance toward the members who had lost faith. Tyranthraxus surmised that it was the latter. Lich Lords are a vengeful type, after all. With the Skull’s link to its members gone, Caina fell into disarray. The members of the Order dispersed and sought out new endeavors. Ezerak’s reincarnated form disappeared and Tyranthraxus lost his master. The gleam of the Dark Jewel faded. The only place that Tyranthraxus had ever felt at home was gone.

The Seer recovered from his dream-like recollections. In an uncharacteristic show of emotion, he smiled, overcome by nostalgia of the old days. Much time had passed since the fall of Caina and Tyranthraxus felt that maybe he should have fallen with it. His days in the Dark Jewel would forever leave a lifelong impression on the necromancer, but for all the lessons he learned there, the power he acquired, the titles he gained, they paled in comparison to the one thing he gained that left the most lasting, significant impression on his life.

Tyranthraxus reached deep into his robes and pulled out a small, ornate wooden box. Inside this box, he knew, was his lifeblood, his love, his ultimate controlling vice. He opened the box and stared down at the only thing he ever felt powerless against, an object which equated to a lifelong obsession.

Just as he had done countless times prior, Tyranthraxus gazed down into the Mirror of Morgaz.

[Dryzzid]

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Part III – The Mirror of Morgaz

As he stared fixedly into the face of the Mirror of Morgaz, still nestled in its satin laced box, Tyranthraxus sighed. He traced the long, thin index finger of his right hand around the frame while he held the box in his left hand. The Mirror was simply constructed; a plain silver handle and frame, unostentatious in design, surrounding a black, opaque face. Tyranthraxus knew that the Mirror only looked this way to him. The Mirror appeared differently to all who saw it. Its design reflected on the personality of the holder. Tyranthraxus had possessed the relic of Oblivion since just before Caina had fallen. In truth, he was never intended to have it for so long. He recalled the expedition in which the Mirror came to be his.

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“Our time shall soon be realized,” Ezerak spoke to his apprentice. Tyranthraxus nodded to his master solemnly. He spoke rarely to Ezerak as most of their time together he spent listening.

The elder necromancer continued. “We possess all but one object needed to summon the spirit of Nizar to this plane. I have had your lessers divining the location of the last artifact. It has taken several months but I believe they have located it.”

Tyranthraxus frowned slightly. He wondered why he was not entrusted with such a vital task and he did not like the idea of those below him knowing the location before he did. Ezerak spoke to ease his apprentice’s mind.

“Do not worry, my apprentice, I would not waste your time with repetitive, menial divinations. Besides, once they delivered the location to me, I slew them. I would not have them deprive you of the discovery with their ambitions. They are not worthy.” Ezerak often had a way of knowing what Tyranthraxus was thinking, so much that Tyranthraxus believed that his master actually possessed the ability to read his thoughts.

Ezerak unrolled an unmarked map of the island on which the artifact resided. Tyranthraxus recognized the island as Fire Island. He had harvested daemons on the second floor of Hythloth on many occasions. Ezerak motioned his hand over the map and closed his eyes. Tyranthraxus watched intently as Stygian runes began to burn themselves into the parchment. The edges of the map began to char as the runes shone brighter until the parchment had all burned away. The runes remained, however, suspended in the air. Ezerak slowly moved his hand toward the side of Tyranthraxus’s head. When Ezerak’s fingers touched his apprentice’s skin, Tyranthraxus immediately became aware of the location they sought. Ezerak removed his hand and opened his eyes.

“Now, take all those who will follow, and bring me the Mirror of Morgaz.”

Without a second thought and with the utmost haste, Tyranthraxus was off.

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The journey to Fire Island had taken too long. Ezerak insisted that Tyranthraxus sail to Fire Island instead of using a gate. He explained that a gate could be traced by the Ebon Council and that he would not have any of Azalin’s loyalists foiling the Mirror’s discovery. He laid out an intricate course for Tyranthraxus to follow and instructed the young necromancer to use different disguises in each port to ensure that they were not recognized or followed. In Nujel’m they were traveling nobles and in Magincia they were a band of merchants and fishermen. They bypassed Ocllo as Tyranthraxus detested his travel companions and could not bear another layover. This went against Ezerak’s plan but Tyranthraxus knew that the results would excuse a small amount of deviation. Still when Fire Island was in sight, Tyranthraxus was overcome with joy. He looked to each of his companions, one by one, and was sickened. The journey had taken too long.

Tyranthraxus ordered several of the slaves to scout the area once they made landing. The ranking members of the Order were instructed to set up a small camp as a base of operations. No one seemed too fond of accepting the demands of Tyranthraxus, as some of them belonged to the Order longer than he did. He did not care, though, as few of them could challenge his power and none of them knew exactly what it was they were looking for. As far as any of them knew they were acting in accordance to Lord Azalin’s will.

The heat of the jungle was sweltering, an extreme contrast to Dagger Island’s climate. Tyranthraxus had shed his always-worn dark grey robes. He had discarded his doublet along the way as well. Sweat poured down his face and turned his long, white locks into a rat’s nest. The heat coupled with the insolence and defiance of his companions began to grate Tyranthraxus’s nerves. He pushed forward through the jungle, though, because he knew what would result should he fail: death at Ezerak’s hands.

Finally, the group came to where Tyranthraxus knew the Mirror would be. He could not imagine how the Mirror came to be so far from Dagger Island; in fact he had many questions about the Mirror. Ezerak had not told him very much about it. Tyranthraxus could not fathom how an item of such power could exist under the nose of the Order and Lord Azalin for so long. He wondered of its origin and of ancient Stygia. Could a simple mirror possess the ability to summon Nizar, he thought.

The slaves dug for what felt like days. The sun was high overhead and the group was becoming restless. Tyranthraxus knew the Mirror was here, but the rest did not. They began to doubt him and suggested that they look elsewhere, the braver amongst them entertaining the notion Lord Azalin could be wrong. If they only knew who really sought the Mirror, Tyranthraxus mused. At last Tyranthraxus knew that they were close. He instructed the slaves to stop and for everyone step away while he dug the last few inches to their prize. He would take all the joy in their discovery, and all the credit. Lowering himself into the large hole he took up a shovel and struck it into the dirt. As he did, a trap, ancient and sinister in its design, was sprung.

An explosion of huge proportions erupted from the hole, sending Tyranthraxus and all those around the dig flying into the air. Body parts of slaves who stood closest to the dig were strewn across the jungle and launched into the trees and vines surrounding the site. Had Tyranthraxus not prepared for such a trap he would have surely been destroyed. As he and the remaining members of the Order regained their senses, they were beset by balrons, daemons, beholders, and wyrms. The weary group fought against the beasts for some time, many perishing against the might of the greater daemons and enormous dragons. Tyranthraxus remained on the defensive for most of the fight. He let his companions take the brunt of the assault while he gathered his strength. He would not come all this way only to be slain by mere beasts. After a long and taxing battle, the Mirror’s guardians were slain.

Tyranthraxus paid little attention to the rest of the group after the battle was won. As the last balron was felled, Tyranthraxus immediately jumped back into the hole. Again he picked up a shovel and again he struck it into the dirt. Not having prepared for a second trap, he almost expected to be disintegrated. All that happened, though, was the soft thud of metal on wood. He had found the prize. A few more shovelfuls of dirt and Tyranthraxus had unearthed a small, ornate wooden box. Picking the box up he could feel the power emanating from whatever was inside. His instincts told him, however, not to open the box until he had brought it to Ezerak.

Tyranthraxus wrapped the box in a large cloth he had brought and instructed the group to make their way back to the ship. When asked why he was not returning to the ship with them, he bluffed and told them that he needed to ward the box with protective spells. As the rest of the group began their journey to the coastline, they heard a laugh mocking them from behind, soon followed by the words “Kal Ort Por”. Tyranthraxus had recalled away with their prize. The group tried to follow suit but found their reagents and runebooks missing.

When Tyranthraxus returned to Caina he sensed that something was amidst. The streets of the frigid city were bare. He could feel emptiness in the wind. There were no screams of torture, no cackles of the Lich Lord. He walked into the Asylum of Perdition only to find it cleared out. No games were being run, no drinks were being served. Something was wrong. He made his way to Morn Cirith in search of his master but the ancient tower was empty; not even a slave could be found. In desperation Tyranthraxus rushed across the city to the steps of the Golgotha. Upon touching the massive iron doors, his hand recoiled in pain. The doors were sealed. The young necromancer was at a loss.

Just then Tyranthraxus felt a tug on his pants. He turned around and looked down to find a small boy standing behind him, staring up at him with fear in his eyes. Tyranthraxus recognized the child as an aspirant, a slave who intended to join the Necromancer sect. Tyranthraxus had kept an eye on the boy since he had joined. The boy had quite the amount of potential, he seemed to recall. This was rare at such a young age. Tyranthraxus tried to bring to mind the boy’s name. “Azunda,” he remembered. “That’s it.”

The boy finally spoke. “The master… gone. The Skull… gone. Everyone…gone.”

Tyranthraxus creased his brow, unsure of how to take the information presented to him. Could the Order really be gone? Had Azalin disbanded the guild and taken the Skull? He must have caught wind of Ezerak’s plan, Tyranthraxus deduced. After several moments of confusion, the necromancer sat down on the steps of the Golgotha. Azunda sat down beside him. As Tyranthraxus sat, the weight of something within his robes weighed down on his legs. He reached deep inside the pockets and remembered what was hidden within.

Tyranthraxus pulled out the box he found on his expedition. He looked around, still paranoid of what had happened and what may still come. With trepidation, and under direct defiance of Ezerak’s wishes, Tyranthraxus opened the box and gaped within. The boy studied the necromancer’s face as it twisted from fear to comfort, from comfort to desire, from desire to satisfaction. Several minutes passed and Tyranthraxus had not moved, seemingly stuck in the Mirror’s grasp. As the boy tried to peek inside the box, Tyranthraxus realized his surroundings once again and snapped the box closed. He looked toward the boy and grinned fiendishly. He stood up and waved one hand in a circular motion, drawing forth a shimmering red gate. He looked to Azunda again and motioned him to follow.

“Come, apprentice, we have no need of this place now.”

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The rustling of trees around Charnel Hill brought Tyranthraxus back. He looked to the Mirror once again longingly. He removed it from its home and carelessly slung the box over the edge of Charnel Hill. Holding the Mirror level with his face he peered into the Mirror as if he was trying to evoke something from it. Again, though, the Seer sighed. He sat the Mirror down beside him and dropped his forehead into his hands, running his palms and fingers down his face in frustration. He longed for what the Mirror used to show him. He longed for that feeling once more.

The Mirror was an artifact crafted by Morgaz itself, the Avatar of Oblivion. If the Lich Lord of the Ebon Skull could be likened to the mouth of Oblivion then Morgaz could be called the sword. Morgaz created the Mirror to show anyone who looked into it what could be if they followed the path of darkness. However, Tyranthraxus’s desire for power and overwhelming ambition had twisted what the Mirror showed him long ago.

When Tyranthraxus first looked into the Mirror of Morgaz on the steps of the Golgotha he saw what could be. He saw himself sitting upon the Throne of Skulls inside the Golgotha holding Azalin’s skull in one hand and Nizar’s skull in the other. Before him were an endless amount of minions all bound to serve his will. It was this first vision that enslaved Tyranthraxus to the Mirror. In the months and years that followed this first vision the Mirror began to control his every action, often destroying his short term aspirations.

When Caina fell and Tyranthraxus left Dagger Island, he gathered a few former members of the Order and formed the Children of Morgaz, a guild devoted to the Avatar of Oblivion. After all, if the Order was devoted to one artifact why couldn’t his Children be devoted to the other? He squandered his amassed wealth to build a cathedral dedicated to Morgaz and over time obtained a substantial following. However, as time passed the Seer of Morgaz, as he was known then, became more distant. Eventually he disappeared and his members dispersed. His church fell to ruins. This would be the first of many failings in his life after he discovered the Mirror.

When the Order of the Ebon Skull reformed in Malas and Charnel Hill was discovered, Tyranthraxus had intended on being an integral part of it. He watched from the outside though; most of his time was spent in a small house on a remote island near Ocllo. It was here that Tyranthraxus spent the latter portion of his life, withering away in his bed, staring into the false world he had created inside the Mirror. It had become an obsession, an addiction. There were periods of time when he would try to break his bond. He would venture out and make contact with the Order. He would promise servitude and glory in the name of Oblivion. In the end, though, he would find his way back to the Mirror and he would be gone again.

No one suffered his crumbling devotion as much as his apprentice, Azunda. Loyal from the beginning, Azunda followed the Seer to the Children of Morgaz. He searched for Tyranthraxus when he disappeared. He would come around when Tyranthraxus would return to the Order. Time and time again, however, Tyranthraxus would disappear.

The Entropic Seer sighed heavily as he thought of his apprentice. He never gave him all that he deserved. He had never fully taught him the Stygian ways. Too much time was lost in a world of fantasy. All for nothing, he thought, as he looked over to the Mirror lying on the stone roof of Charnel Hill. Ever since he had taken leadership of the Order the Mirror showed him nothing. When he looked into it now only the withered and aged face of an obsessed man stared back. The thought disgusted him. He disgusted himself.

Tyranthraxus noticed that the sun was starting to rise. Soon the inhabitants of Umbra and Charnel Hill would begin their morning rituals. He slowly gained his wits and scrambled to his feet, his bones popping from sitting too long on the edge of the Hill. Once he was on his feet he looked down at the Mirror. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“No more,” he spoke aloud.

No more recollections. No more wallowing in the past. No more longing for a world that never existed. No more existing in a world in which he could not function. It had taken him nearly forty years of life to feel the emotions he was feeling and now that he did he couldn’t handle them. He had come to the roof of Charnel Hill with a purpose and now he would follow through. He reached down and picked up the Mirror of Morgaz. Looking upon it now he felt revulsion. He looked away from the Mirror and with every ounce of willpower he was able to muster, he flung his ancient obsession from the rooftop. Ironic, he thought, that he was only able to do this so close to the end.

Next Tyranthraxus picked up the serrated dagger and walked to the end of the roof. He glanced down over the edge, four stories down, and summoned his final resolve. He removed his robes, his doublet, and his elegantly crafted nobleman’s shirt, tossing them into the wind. The necromancer stood tall and stretched every muscle in his body. His basic knowledge of anatomy told him that if he severed the aortic arch it would only take mere minutes for his body to drain of all its blood. He grasped the hilt of the dagger tightly with both hands, the blade pointing downward from his pinky fingers. He held the dagger up to his chest and dug the tip into the skin covering the sternum, just below the breast line, flinching in pain as he did.

Tyranthraxus took one final, deep breath, and with every bit of strength, he plunged the dagger through his heart.

[Dryzzid]

---

Part IV – All Things Die

Tears of agony welled up on Tyranthraxus’s eyes. He heard a barely audible crunch as the dagger broke through his sternum. His breath caught in his throat and held there. His fingers lost their grip and slid off of the dagger’s hilt; his arms fell limp to his sides. Tyranthraxus glanced down at what he had done. The blade of the dagger was gone, buried deep into the necromancer’s chest. Only the bronze hilt was visible. Blood poured from the wound in short spurts. Tyranthraxus cringed. He had seen blood in this amount before but never his own. He began to lose strength in his neck and his head hung down. Dizziness set in and the world around him began to fade. He stumbled backward and his sight went black as he lost consciousness.

***********************

Tyranthraxus could barely decipher the discussion that was going around him as he came to. He kept his eyes closed as he gathered his senses and the muffled words began to ring clear. He was lying on some sort of table. He heard two voices talking; one was that of a young man who was frantically trying to prove a point and the other was a calm, steady voice, one that comes with age. Tyranthraxus was the topic of conversation.

The younger man sounded frustrated.

“He cannot stay here and you know that! He’ll never be welcomed anywhere on this island, especially at his home! You shouldn’t have treated him much less brought him here. I think you’re losing your mind with old age!”

Tyranthraxus heard the voice of the older man reply.

“He was in need and I deny healing to no man who is in need. I brought him here because it is his home. At least it was. And from what I can tell he did this to himself. Perhaps he has realized the error of his ways and tried to repent. Who are we to deny repentance? It is not for us to decide. We are only preachers of Virtue, we cannot judge.”

The volume of the young man’s voice rose. He was getting angrier.

“Do with him what you will. Wrap him up, heal him, but after that, send him on his way! He has no place here. And do NOT tell him about his home!”

Tyranthraxus heard rushed footsteps and a door slam. The room was silent for a few moments before the old man spoke again.

“We let emotions get the best of us when we are young do we not, master Corvalus?”

Tyranthraxus’s eyes popped open wide. He had not heard that name in so long he could not recount the last time. He tried to sit up but a paralyzing pain in his chest kept him lying down. He turned his head to look at the old man. Standing a few feet away from the table was a balding man dressed in plain, copper colored robes. He was short, Tyranthraxus could tell, and the necromancer guessed from the lines on the man’s face that he was in his seventies or eighties. He looked familiar to the necromancer.

“How do you know that name?” Tyranthraxus asked. The old man smiled though Tyranthraxus could tell there was a measure of fear in his eyes.

“I suspected that you were awake, master Corvalus, and I know that name because it is yours. You have aged well though the weight of stress is apparent in your face. How are you feeling? You caused quite a nasty wound to yourself.”

Tyranthraxus lifted his head up slightly and looked to his chest. It was heavily wrapped in white bandages. He looked back to the old man.

“Where am I?” the necromancer asked.

The old man chuckled softly.

“Do you really not know, master Corvalus? You do not recognize your home? You are in Magincia.”

Tyranthraxus’s head slammed down against the table and he winced. He had not set foot on Magincian soil without a disguise since he left the city of Pride to join the Order. His last memories of the city were not good ones. He looked back to the old man.

“You look familiar. Who are you and why did you bring me here? How did you find me?”

The old man chuckled again, this time louder and followed by a series of violent coughs.

“Have you blocked your entire childhood from your mind, master Corvalus? I spent many a day watching you and your brothers. In fact, when you were born it was I who delivered you and spoke the first blessings.”

Tyranthraxus’s eyes grew wide as he put a name to the face before him.

“Brother Maynard? How is it that you brought me here… I was supposed to die at Charnel Hill. You had to have brought me from there… why were you there?”

Brother Maynard smiled.

“Those details are inconsequential. What is important is that you have repented for what you have done in your past. I have spoken to your father and your brothers. They wish to see you. They have forgiven you.”

Tyranthraxus shot up straight on the stable and spun his feet to the sides, ignoring the severe pain emanating from his chest. He peered at Brother Maynard in disbelief. His father and brothers were dead, slain by his own hand.

“That is impossible,” the necromancer started. “They are dead. They died when I…”
Brother Maynard cut him short.

“…when you set fire to your home and burned them alive? Yes, I suspected that you would believe that. I assure you that Aldos Corvalus and your brothers, Jules and Vincent, are alive. They know you are here and having heard of your…” Brother Maynard pointed at Tyranthraxus’s chest. “…little accident there, they have forgiven you. You can go home now, master Corvalus. There are robes just outside the door in the foyer. You may wear them to go see your family. I encourage you to.”

Tyranthraxus’s head was spinning. How was it possible? When his father refused to give him money to sail to Dagger Island and join the Order, having recently discovered that he was a necromancer in training, Tyranthraxus took the money he needed and burned his family’s manor down out of spite. His father was supposed to be dead. He was dead. How could this be? After a minute or two of contemplating, Tyranthraxus spoke again.

“I do not believe you old man. What deception is this? Am I meant to suffer this as my afterlife?”

Brother Maynard smiled.

“Ask me anything you wish master Corvalus and I shall assure you.”

Tyranthraxus paused for a moment and then pulled down his trousers. He pointed to a scar on the inside of his right thigh. He had been playing on the north beach when he was three and fell. When he did a small branch hidden under the sand stabbed him in the leg. Brother Maynard had tended the wound. Tyranthraxus recalled his father telling him about it sometime later in his life.

“You tended to this wound when I was a child. How old was I, old man?”

Once again Brother Maynard smiled.

“I believe you were five.” Tyranthraxus grinned fiendishly but was cut short as Brother Maynard spoke again. “No, three sire.”

Tyranthraxus paled. As he did Brother Maynard turned and started toward the door. He spoke to Tyranthraxus one last time as he exited the room.

“Your father and brothers are waiting. Don’t disappoint them again master Corvalus.”

***********************

Tyranthraxus walked slowly down the streets of Magincia toward his old home. The events over the last hour had left him perplexed. He could not fathom how his family had survived his vengeful arson many years prior. He tried to sum up what he would say to his father and brothers but was left wanting for the words. Clad in only a drab, brown robe, he turned the last corner to the street on which he grew up. Looking ahead he saw the home in which he was raised. Memories of his childhood that he had long ago suppressed flashed through his mind. He paused to take a deep breath and took a moment to shake off his fear.

The necromancer had often found himself regretting the murder of his family. It was a brash act of a vengeful youth and although he had committed many heinous acts since, none affected him so closely. He paused at the end of his lane and saw his father and his brothers standing outside waiting for him. Perhaps this is good, he thought. Perhaps closure would help him find peace. He did not understand how he came to be here from Umbra or how he had survived his assumed fatal blow, but now he was given a chance to make amends for the only act of wrong he ever felt regret for.

As he strolled up his lane towards his awaiting family, the necromancer smiled. When Brother Maynard first told him he was afraid. He was afraid to face those he tried to murder so long ago. Now, as he came close enough to make out his father and brother’s faces, he was excited. He could not remember the last time he felt this way. Perhaps his place was not with the Order; perhaps it was here at home. Perhaps he could start anew. He would welcome the change, he thought to himself.

Tyranthraxus finally came close enough to make out their faces but his short-lived happiness came to a halt. As he studied their faces he realized that they hadn’t aged. What is this trickery, he thought. He tried to storm toward them to sort out what he perceived as deception, but he could not. His legs became heavy and stiff; soon he was unable to move. He looked around in frustration and confusion. A metallic taste began to fill his mouth along with fluid. He wiped his lip with his hand and looked at it to find blood. His eyes widened and he looked down at himself. Blood began to pour from his mouth and a large red stain formed on his robe by his chest. In desperation, he looked up for his father and his brothers but did not see them. He did not see his home. Instead he saw the brightening horizon of Malas. The robe was gone. He was dying.

As his death dream ended, Tyranthraxus exhaled his last breath and his lifeless body fell forward, plunging off of the roof of Charnel Hill.

[Dryzzid]

---

Part V – Oblivion

Baltaszar skipped casually about the grove north of Umbra. It was early morning and he had already accomplished much before he had to wake the slaves and issue tasks for the day. He laughed at a dog. He rolled in the fresh horse manure in the stable. He poked a cow. He wrested with a sheep. The sheep had won the tussle but Baltaszar showed him who was boss. The Taskmaster reached in his robes and pulled out a wet, bloody sheep nose. He had bitten it off after he lost the bout with his wooly adversary. Baltaszar giggled as he thought about it. Life wasn’t so bad being the Taskmaster.

The Taskmaster was a short ways east of the Temple of Oblivion when he stopped to tell a tree about his morning. He noticed a fresh sore on his left forearm that was seeping putrid, yellow puss. He dipped a finger from his right hand into the puss and brought it to his mouth for a taste. He smacked his lips and shook his head in disgust. Not as good as yesterday’s, he thought.

Baltaszar continued frolicking to the west until he was in front of the Temple of Oblivion. The Skullies always gathered there but it was too early for anyone to be awake; only the rattle of the skeletal cleaning animations could be heard from behind the howling of the wind. The Taskmaster looked up to the top of the cathedral. He never understood the speeches that the Skullies made in the temple but it was fun to watch nonetheless. He always liked how animated the Skullies were when they were gathered in the temple and he often tried to keep up when they started speaking the chant. He usually failed though.

As Baltaszar was looking up at to the top of the Temple of Oblivion something else caught his eye a little to the left. He noticed the leader Skullie standing on top of Charnel Hill pouring blood down the wall of the crypt. Baltaszar fixated on the leader Skullie and watched on curiously. The leader Skullie stood very still on the edge of the Hill until suddenly he fell forward off of the edge. Baltaszar watched as the leader Skullie fell through the air and he shielded his eyes, waiting for the inevitable thump once the body hit the ground. The thump never came. The Taskmaster watched on with a child’s amazement as the leader Skullie vanished in mid air before his body hit the ground.

Baltaszar slapped his thigh and giggled madly, uncontrollably.

“Skullies and their silly games!”

The wretched thing laughed some more and then some more before finally growing tired. He skipped off toward the slave huts giggling like mad the entire way.

***********************

Tyranthraxus came to consciousness surrounded by darkness. It wasn’t the kind of darkness that filled a room without lights; it was the type that light could not pierce. The necromancer was lying face down on what felt like a stone floor but he could not tell exactly what it was. He reached his hands out to feel for something, anything, but it was to no avail. He began to crawl about in random directions trying to find an escape from the black. Minutes passed, then hours. He felt insanity creeping on as hours turned into what felt like days.

Intermittently throughout his foray in the dark, Tyranthraxus would stop and lay on his back to rest. He could feel the hilt of the dagger still protruding from his chest but he experienced no pain. No blood gushed from the wound. As he went on he did not experience hunger or thirst, just endless blackness. Still he kept on. Each time he tried to get up and walk and invisible force would catch his feet and he would stumble to the ground; Tyranthraxus crawled on. He began to talk to himself to keep himself company. After a while he wondered: is this madness?

Exhausted and mentally drained, Tyranthraxus finally gave up. He could stand no more. He asked himself if this was his afterlife, or perhaps Oblivion. If it was, he surmised, it wasn’t all it was made out to be. He laid in one spot for an immeasurable amount of time having given up on finding an end. He wished that he could die but he had no means to bring death upon himself. He tried continuously to pull the dagger from his chest but it would not budge. He would scream into the blackness and ask for death, or at least a release from his hell. Finally, he wept.

As if some force sensed his peak of frustration, a light finally shone on Tyranthraxus. His eyes seared with pain at the light and he tried to scramble away from it but it followed him wherever he went. It took hours for his eyes to adjust and when they did the necromancer found that he was not much better off. The floor was made of a dark, grey stone spread out in two by two squares. He could not decipher where the light came from and it only showed a radius of five feet or so around him. He tried once more to stand. A voice boomed all around him.

“You are not worthy to stand. Kneel or be left alone again.”

Tyranthraxus looked all about him frantically. The voice was coming from all directions, pounding its way into his brain. At this point, however, he dared not disobey. He kneeled slowly and dropped to his hands and knees.

“Kneel as a peasant would. You were given everything as always and as always you were unsatisfied. You are my worst experiment.”

Tyranthraxus tried to speak to ask a question but was stricken with overwhelming pain in every inch of his body.

“You will not speak. You will not stand. You will kneel as a beggar. You have not proven yourself to be more than such.”

Tyranthraxus hung his head low. There was not much left of his pride but what was left was stung harsh by his predicament. In Britannia he knelt for no one.

“Stay your rebellious thoughts. Save your questions. You are here because you have failed yet again. If I should waste the time the rebuild you again and again, I would expect results at least once. You have not given that. You have produced failure. You equate to failure. I should strike you from existence, and I would if that was not what you want already.”

Wounded in mind and pride, Tyranthraxus began to weep once more.

“Stay your tears. Pathetic. Hopeless. Beyond repent. Useless. Failure. I should leave you hear to rot in your own mind for a millennia. Even then you would not suffer as much as you deserve.”

For an instant all the pain, thirst, and hunger that he should have felt was thrust upon to the broken necromancer. The feeling was agonizing and he began to gasp through a dry throat for air, for food, for water. He wished for death. He wished for obliteration. He knew it would not come. Feeling helpless and hating himself for feeling that way, he could take no more. Tyranthraxus lunged at the darkness.

No mortal had even known the pain that Tyranthraxus felt as he was launched backwards. He was airborne for minutes on end and when he struck the ground he felt the pain of every bone in his body breaking.

“Foolish on top of it all. Pathetic. Hopeless. Beyond repent. Useless. Failure. ”

Behind the voice Tyranthraxus could hear a loud ticking. He drew in a shallow breath and waited for what was next. Still, the ticking persisted. The voice boomed again.

“There are thirty-one million, five hundred and fifty-six thousand, and nine hundred and twenty-six seconds in a year. Count them as you suffer.”

For the next year of his existence Tyranthraxus knew pain unimaginable.

***********************

Finally it stopped. Finally he could rest. Tyranthraxus lay broken in the same circle of light that he had known as his twisted home for the last year. During that year, he suffered. Now there was only silence. He reveled in what he assumed would only be a momentary relief. He dared not to speak or move. His moments of peace were interrupted quickly as he heard footsteps slowly approach him.

Tyranthraxus used what little energy he had left to look ahead of him. Into the circle of light came a man dressed in black robes. Tyranthraxus could not make out the man’s face but he could see the long, raven black hair that crowned the man’s head. The figure slowly strode up to Tyranthraxus and stopped just inches from his head. The Seer’s head fell to the floor and he could hold it up no more. Turning his head to the side and laying his cheek on the cool stone, Tyranthraxus peered up with one eye. On devastating sense of fear washed over him that even a year of torture could not have prepared him for. He could make out the face of the figure. The face was that of his former master.

Tyranthraxus stared up at the face of Ezerak.

[Dryzzid]

---

Part VI – Face To Face With One's Self

Tyranthraxus was a stranger to confusion. A lifetime of unraveling the fabric of any test thrust before him had not prepared him for what he was experiencing in this unknown void. His mind ached; any attempt to rationally explain recent events was asinine. He had planned for death but what he got was hell. A year spent in anguish had withered his body to almost nothing. His eyes were sunken and black around the edges; his skin was as paper and covered with tears, lacerations, scars, and bruises. His bones were brittle and he was sure that almost all of them were shattered. He could not fathom how he was still alive. He had not tasted food or drink but still he survived. His hell was beyond the laws of normal space and time.

Upon seeing the face of his former master Tyranthraxus let out a groan of desperation. How Ezerak had come to this place Tyranthraxus did not know. He did know, however, that Ezerak was a merciless man. He dreaded what was to come next. Tyranthraxus studied Ezerak with one eye though he could barely hold it open. His former master stood tall, looming over his broken form. Ezerak’s face was white as ivory; his hair was black as obsidian. He wore long, black robes covered in glowing runes of Stygian origin. His sharp facial features led Tyranthraxus to the revelation that the two looked quite similar. Ezerak’s hands were covered with black gloves. In his left hand he held a large tome; in his right was the Mirror of Morgaz.

Silence was the theme of the encounter. Ezerak stared down at Tyranthraxus with hollow, black eyes. His face was expressionless, emotionless, and Tyranthraxus could only guess what his purpose was. Tyranthraxus dared not to speak; he knew the punishment for that. For now he seemed content to wait. Finally, the silence was broken.

“You have failed once again,” Ezerak spoke.

Tyranthraxus tried to muster the strength to reply. He opened his mouth but no words came. He tried to move but he failed; his attempt only brought pain. Feeling shame for his inability to face his master, Tyranthraxus closed his eyes. Ezerak spoke again. His voice was not at all like Tyranthraxus remembered. It was hollow.

“You need not speak. I hear your thoughts; they ring louder and truer than your words ever will. Rise, Tyranthraxus.”

Tyranthraxus’s body began to freeze as sub-zero wind blasted his bare skin. The necromancer opened his eyes. He was no longer in the dark prison he had spent the last year in. He was no longer decayed and broken. He stood as he was the day he tried to take his own life. The dagger was gone and a gruesome scar was left in its place. He stood beside Ezerak in the Well of Souls. How and why he came to be here he did not know.

“You are here to learn, apprentice. That is why you have brought me here. You have failed now as you have many times before. I am but a servant of your will. You have one final riddle to solve. If you are unsuccessful you will have never existed. Triumph wins you another chance to live.”

Tyranthraxus, puzzled, listened as his master continued to speak.

“You have questions. Your questions will go unanswered until the proper time. You must purchase the answers with your willingness to learn. Only through learning does knowledge come. It is true here as it is in all places. You are more than you seem and when you discover what you are your answers will come.”

Ezerak turned toward Tyranthraxus. His face was still void of expression. It was as if he was only a shell, Tyranthraxus thought. Tyranthraxus inhaled deeply and nodded solemnly to Ezerak, acknowledging his desire to learn. Ezerak began to speak.

“You have spent your life in pursuit of your own desires. They served you well as you amassed immense influence, power, and wealth. You ascended to your long coveted dream. You led the followers of Oblivion, but they did not know what I know, what you know. The Skull never spoke to you. You are a charlatan. Your rule was never meant to be but your ambition blinded you. In the end you were discontent. Such is your way. A thousand times over you have reached this place. Each time you have been forced to remember your role in Oblivion’s play.”

Tyranthraxus stood in shock. He had never revealed to anyone that the Ebon Skull did not speak to him when he gazed into its eyes. He led the Order according to his own desires. He shaped it to be what he wanted; Oblivion be damned, the Skull be damned. He was truly in a place beyond reality; his thoughts were not safe.

Ezerak motioned to the entrance of the Well of Souls.

“You dreamed of conquering the city of Caina. You coveted the Mirror of Morgaz. You desired control. You were weak with vanity. You were weak. Now Caina is nothing. The Mirror is nothing. Your control is nothing. Your vanity brought you nothing. You are still weak.”

Suddenly the two were gone from the Well of Souls. They now stood in a circle of stone, the bottom tier in an amphitheater that surrounded them. Concentric circles radiated from the center; each one further out was higher than the last. Stairs ran in four directions from the center dividing the construct into four parts, as if it were a pie cut twice, once horizontally and once vertically. From what Tyranthraxus could tell the tiers went on endlessly, climbing higher and higher from the center. Each ring was crowded with standing mirrors of different size, shape, and construct. In the center was a large oval mirror with a silver frame and an obsidian face.

“It is here that you will learn, you who have never known peace. Follow.”

Tyranthraxus tried to walk toward Ezerak to follow him but it was an unnecessary effort. The two merely appeared on one of the rings. Tyranthraxus tried to find the center of the rings but they were so far up, so far out, that he could not see it. Ezerak pointed to one of the mirrors.

“A thousand lives you have lived in a thousand worlds. Gaze upon a life you have lived but never known.”

Tyranthraxus stared at the mirror cautiously. He did not understand what Ezerak meant but he stepped closer and gazed into the mirror’s reflective face. He did not see himself, however. In an second he lived another life as himself. He was the squire of a well known knight. He grew up under the knight’s tutelage and eventually followed in the knight’s footsteps; he became a knight himself. As time passed and he aged he fought many foes and slew countless creatures of evil. Toward the end of his life, though, he began to feel as though the wicked could never be completely cleansed. In the end he took his own life because his mission to rid the world of malevolence would never be obtainable. His life felt wasted.

Tyranthraxus shook his head violently as the images flooded his head and overtook his being. In the blink of an eye he was standing in the center of the rings again with Ezerak standing in front of him. Ezerak reached his right arm over and touched the face of the obsidian mirror.

“Your answers are here, Tyranthraxus, but you are not ready. Go and see yourself in other lives and witness the tragedy that returns you here time and time again. Go forth; learn.”

With those final words Ezerak and the obsidian mirror were gone. Tyranthraxus was alone amidst an infinite number of lives he could have possibly lived.