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[Asimov]

---

Pulling the first scroll of a series from an ornate redwood bookshelf, the man ran his hand along the length of the parchment clearing some of the thick dust from its surface. Sitting at a dark stone table, the man unrolled the scroll while sighing and thinking to himself.

It is time to see what has been unleashed upon our world..

The scroll read:

Turbulence of the Spirit - Part I

The sharp, incessant breeze of Malas swept between the towers and fortresses of man. The nature of the dark and shifting continent often caused the winds to blow from all directions simultaneously. On this night, they collided in devilwinds about a structure long dormant.

Vines of long dead ivy clung to the walls of the Atalan Cathedral of Fury. The dry soil about its entrance still had multitudes of telling prints. The marks of armored boots, warsteed hooves; probably from a time when Atalan armies marched into Kaane or Vesper under the flag of Tenebrous. Clawed feet that would signify the uncommon arrival of the Soul Predators, or Fara. And then there were the cloven hooves of Etheral and Undead mounts...signifying a charge of the Void Demons.

But this soil was barren now. It had clearly not known footfalls in some time, and the neglect was evident on the facade pillars and parapets of the once-great Cathedral built by the very hands of Amadeus Radagast. For the Atalan had left this land, as they had done so long ago. Only this time, they had departed having completed their task...not swept away by a treacherous act of cowardly betrayal.

Several still lurked here and there. It did not take long for some to lose their true identities in the vacuum left behind by the Emperor and his High Cleric. Some had even begun assimilate into the human tribes once again, fearfull of being subjagated to the wrath of the dominant human tribes. Others went mad, embracing the violent nature of the Atalan...but forfeiting the reason that had made them such venerable survivors through the ages.

It is at this time of darkness and indecision that the father returns to his broken home.

Looking upon the lichen-filled steps that led to the main antechamber, a grey hooded figure strode forth from the Southern Wood. "Look not so ill, tabernacle of my only lord," whispered the form as it kneeled and touched the soil of a specific footprint. Pulling back the hood, the face of Amadeus Radagast, his hand groped the soil. Looking back to the Cathedral, the High Cleric scooped at the soil and then kissed the fist that clutched it.

"And fret not, o wonder of my very hands...for glory has not forsaken you yet."


...

[Asimov]

---

Turbulence of the Spirit - Part II

"Da, I don't understand. Why is he burnin' it down?"

The young boy broke free of his fathers restricting arm and crawled under the bushes a little closer to the spectacle that was the Atalan Cathedral of Fury. The High Cleric Amadeus Radagast hurled small bottles of what appeared to be nothing more than water at the fortress. As the bottles broke, flames burst and erupted about the structure.

Amadeus was audibly praying as he continued his razing ritual. As the boy peered on, a voice spoke to him. "Don't get too close, boy. To be seen watching this ceremony, is to forfeit your life." The child gasped slightly as he peered over to the large figure sitting with his back propped up against the tree. He was cloaked and took generous pulls from a wineskin he gripped tightly.

"He's been at this for nearly...three hours," murmured the stranger. The boy, named Farnym, was old enough to detect the slur of excess in his watchers voice. Obviously this man who sat alone in the darkness had been observing the Atalan the whole time...imbibing good spirits all the while.

"Pardon, sir. Me and pa live just a over the hill there. We know all about them Atalan. I remember well the ground shaking beneath us when they rode, or the chill in the air when those 'spirits' came." Farnym rubbed his neck at the mention of the 'spirits.' The hood of the shroud nodded slowly in agreement. As the wineskin came up a second time, the bright red hair of the man, as well as a good deal of facial stubble was revealed.

The man was dirty and clearly unable to divert his eyes from the burning cathedral. His eyes followed Amadeus throught the ritual, sometimes mouthing the words silently as the Cleric spoke in the distance. Propped against the tree beside him was some kind of weapon that was covered in a black silk sheath, tied off with a red tassel on top.

"He's not burning anything, boy. No, no..." The stranger stifled a belch as he looked over both shoulders in a paranoid manner. Being satisified no one had heard him, he finished off the final mouthfull of his cheap wine. With a look of dissappointment, the vagabond tossed the skin aside and stroked his chin. Darting his dark eyes to the child, he smiled slightly.

"Hes just dusting 'er off, is all..."

The boy looked on with fear as the stranger grasped for the silk-wrapped weapon with the red tie-off. "I...I knew this day would come. I knew he would not sit idly by..." Farnym began to feel nervous as the rogue stared at him, stroking the smooth silk of the weapons sheath. "Who...do you mean, sir?"

As if the words of the boy had frozen time itself, the man in the cloak simply ceased to move, blink or breath. After a long pause, he smiled and exhaled the response.

"No one. No one. Go home boy, and tell no one of what you have seen here." The statement was punctuated by the tassel undoing itself, causing the silken wrap to slide neatly off the gorgeous weapon and rest on the ground. Farnym gaped as the stranger twirled the double-bladed weapon with three fingers of his right hand, from one blade a trail of flame follwed...and from the other, a mist of winter frost. Gaping wide, the boy dashed for home. The eyes of the stranger glanced at his weapon once more as he rose.

"For the moon of Sosaria beholds you again, Equinox."

[Asimov]

---

Turbulence of the Spirit - Part III

"What are you doing here, Asimov?"

Amadeus Radagast crossed his arms and curled his lip in disgust. The sight of the stumbling Asimov, carelessly spinning his elven weapon. He had heard the rumors of what had become of the Atalan Firstborn, the bloodroot, from whence all other Atalan were spawned.

Asimov had fled to the dark facet after the departure of the Last Order of the Atalan. At the height of Atalan power in this age, Asimov broke ranks with Tenebrous and Radagast. He swore his soul to the dark god of his elven creators, Moraithin of Wrath. The dark god was one of unbridled rage and chaos. To cross his will was to forfeit your life.

At first, Asimov embraced the power the Moraithin channeled though him. But as the years wore on, the continous possession of the god began to wear on the beleagured body of the Atalan General of the First Order. Asimov was a man who lived for battlefield victory, and he was now cursed to fight daily, personal wars against man...and never see the battles first hand. Moraithin controlled Asimov in times of confrontation, ensuring bloody and violent victories that Asimov did not even remember.

Amadeus also knew that Asimov was now no longer an elite general, but an outcast murderer damned by all. He ran with a ragged band of rogues, but his roots never got very deep. The bounty on his head was enormous and the nets of man were closing in on him. It had been 5 years since the Atalan had departed. Asimov called no one friend.

"You look terrible."

Asimov planted the frozen bladeside of Equinox into the soil and a circle of permafrost covered the dirt one foot out from the spike. "I look now as you looked when I first beheld you, brother," Asimov belched and looked at the fire edge of Equinox acting as a torch, supplementing the burning Cathedral behind the Cleric. "Ragged, hungry..." Amadeus crooked a brow.

"You left out sober, as well as steadfast." Asimov waved off the cleric and brushed past him, taking in the sight of the burning structure. "I know what you are doing, Radagast, and I am telling you...he isnt coming back." Amadeus walked slowly beside his brother Asimov. He had been born mere hours after the bloodroot, and there were few secrets between the two. "You arent in possession of the facts, my brother. My motives are based in faith and loyalty, that state of mind that escapes you."

Asimov whirled on Amadeus and almost grabbed at the cloak of Radagast, his hands pausing a hairs' breadth from actual touch. The Cleric barely moved. "Do not lecture me about loyalty and faith, Amadrias, faith has burned me too many times. My loyalty is bound by my feeling of betrayal! I see a round ear, I cut off the head that dares to bear it before me!"

Amadeus shrugged slightly and glanced at the unholy weapon planted in the soil behind them. "You placed your faith in all the wrong places, Asimov. I sense your regret in the choices you have made." The Bloodroot walked closer to the double-bladed staff. "Attempt to read my soul cleric, and you will find the blackest of eyes staring right back at you."

"Do you remember when we first met, Asimov. You struggled with the realities that were forced upon you then. You did not solve them with the lance or the spear...you solved them with your spirit and your logic." Amadeus placed his hand Asimovs shoulder. "Lifespans like ours defy what the roundears call, 'writing in stone'. Its not too late for you to return."

Asimov closed his eyes and breathed slowly. Looking to his shoulder, he placed his own hand over his brothers. "Amadeus, faith is lost on me. I know only fury." Smacking the clerics hand away he turned on his kin. "I am not your answer, and you are not my priest."

"Asimov of Blood Isle! Atalan! Stand where you are!"

Both Atalan inwardly cursed, allowing this conversation to detract their attentions from the group of Malas Magistrates closing in on them, torches and weapons in hand. Amadeus failed at trying to remain serious. His smirk to his brother quickly faded, as the whitles of Asimovs' eyes darkened to complete onyx. "Just like old times, eh brother?" asked Asimov just before the red irises were engulfed in the darkness, and twin streams of blood ran from the corners of his mouth.

"So it seems."

Asimov felt his soul retreat into the Void as Moraithin channeled into his body. Lying naked on the ground in a maelstrom of black wind, unable to move, he observed helplessly. Moraithin was in command of his body now. The Magistrates only saw Asimov leering at them, and the Cleric of Tenebrous mouthing a quiet hymm. "Atalan, ye both stand charges....too bloody numerous to mention here! You will come with us now, and no one 'ell be hurt."

Amadeus clasped his hands behind his back. He didnt know what disgusted him more, the roundears, or the dark god standing beside him...whom he would now be paired with in battle. "Forgive me, Tenebrous."

Moraithin scoffed. Extending his hand, Equinox leapt from the ground and spun between Amadeus and himself, the elfsblade under his power. Angrily wiping the blood from his mouth, Moraithin spat.

"Shadow has returned to your land, little men. Behold this blaze behind me. On this night, the spirits of your long dead fathers will weep openly in the heavens over the torment I shall inflict upon thee!"

Before the the magistrate could utter a witty retort, his head observed the boots of his own body. Lying beside them, in fact. The eyes darkened and watched the headless parent form topple over.

Equinox had been unleashed.

[Asimov]

---

Shivering slightly, the man reached a robed arm behind his head and tried to pat the hair standing on his neck back down. Placing the first three scrolls back into their respective slots, he pulled the forth scroll and returned to his seat at the table.

Turbulence of the Spirit - Part IV

"Do not listen to him, Lord Asimov...he will ensnare you with religious trickery."

The black wind of the purgatory void whipped about the naked form of Asimov, whose body was pressed to the moist ground by the unseen hand. The hand of the dark god Moraithin who had possessed his body.

Just barely able to turn his head, Asimov saw the battle differently than the participants did. As far as they were concerned, they were simply fighting the outcast Atalan general of old, along with the cleric of the Last Order.

What they were, in fact, fighting was a creature far more deadly.

"You are bound to me, Lord Asimov...as the cleric is bound to that whelp, Tenebrous. Do you wish to return to that life again? Is it not more glorius to crush those who oppose your will without consequence?"

Asimov listened to the seductive voice of Moraithin echo all around him as he watched the dark god cleave men apart with the ancient elvesblade Equinox. Moraithin looked more menacing than any Atalan, but only Asimov saw his true form.

A powerfully built creature who resembled the Atalan, but his hair was pure white, short and spiked in a random manner. He wore a goatee of the same color...and his skin was entirely hued in ruby red. His eyebrows grew long at the tops and arched menacingly on those he gazed upon.

"More will follow in your glory, Asimov. More will seek to join you, and they will in turn worship me as their own. Together, we shall eclipse this world and bend it to my will. Our will."

Moraithin stood between two magistrates, and with a rapid push-pull manuever with his bladed staff, he impaled both of them. The human behind him was struck with the frozen spike and screamed. He was then immediately silenced as his body froze into an glacial statue; the dark gods macarbe tribute to agony itself.

Shoving the forward edge into the male before him, the guard burst into flames. He fled the battle screaming, burning and mortally bleeding. Curling his lip in a sly grin, Moraithin back-kicked the frozen form behind him, shattering the suspended man into thousands of shards.

"We will rule, Asimov. I will reign supreme in glory of all those you bring to worship me."

There was a time where this prattle of Moraithin's was very tempting to Asimov's dark heart. But as the years wore on, he realized that this crimson god was in a scenario no different than that of Tenebrous. A god of a dead race, the race that had created and ultimately betrayed the Atalan, doing anything to lure minds to his worship.

"A god without the faithfull is no god at all."

Those words spoken by Tenebrous had always remained in Asimov's clouded mind. Yes, he and the now-restored diety of his people had thier differences...but the path of the Emperor was never as painful as this. Moraithin was chaotic and dark to the very core, and Asimov was slowly realizing that he was nothing more than a tool.

A tool that would one day outlive its usefulness.

...

Rolling the parchment up and placing it in the bookshelf with the others the man pondered where in the timeline these stories were recorded. How far had the Atalan come since then? Peering along the cellar wall before him, the man took in the sight of over 400 scrolls. If he were to find the answers to these questions, he mustn't waste any time..

[Asimov]

---

Reaching for a fifth scroll, the man grimaced momentarily...followed by a customary opening and closing of his right hand. Kharaos frowned as he rubbed the arthritic joints, easily aggravated after a lifetime in the blacksmith trade. There was a time when the man's blades were the finest in any land, sought after by all of Sosaria's inhabitants. That included, fortunately enough for his current needs, the Atalan.

By constructing their many instruments of death, Kharaos was privy to a personal knowledge of the beasts that no other could claim. He knew much of their tormented history and witnessed the subsequent rage it birthed within them. Despite this apparent gift, the gargoyle smith sought more. If he was to be a resource in the coming moons, he needed to bolster his awareness by memorizing every detail of the scrolls and diaries left by the human scholar and the unlikely seer. They knew more pieces of the Atalan puzzle than any man, and these scrolls were the only bastion of hope on a quickly darkening horizon.

Shivering while removing the next scroll, Kharaos wrapped his wings around his torso and unrolled the text:



Asimov tapped the loose soil with the toe of his boot. The earth in this part of the land took on a very grey hue, as opposed to many other plots across the world of Sosaria. Perhaps it was the high altitude of the mountain crater in which it resided, or the constant dampness of the rich forrests that surrounded it. This place was like no other.

Turning over his shoulder, he saw the massive spires of the mountaintop city of Aeyslin streaking into the vast expanses of the brightening sky. Asimov marvelled at the collassal gates that shielded her citizens from the savage Southern Wood, and the roundears that would dare threaten her. Nodding to the gatemaster, the threshold barriers parted, granting access to the savior of the ancient and mystic metropolis.

The Atalan Firstlord entered with a sense of deep enthusiasm. The ancient and hidden city of Aeyslin was the very birthplace of Asimov and his Atalan. Over there, he thought to himself. The Great Council Hall, the forum of Klevias. Yes, Klevias. If there were a father to the venerable Atalan Bloodroot and his kin, it would be him. The Atalan took a moment to recall the memories Klevias had shared with him, lobbying against great opposition for his kinds very creation.

Closer towards the center stood the Fortress Castle of Emperor Thi'Axor, monarch of the Uviel'en race and one-time benefactor of the Atalan. Asimov maintained fond memories of Thi'Axor long after the condemnation of the Atalan by the Uviel'en. You knew not the facts, old friend. Had you known of the treachery of your subjects. Perhaps it is time you heard the truth?

Asimov began to ascend the gargantuan staircase that lead to Thi'Axors Hall of Audience. Halfway through his climb, Tenebrous emerged from behind one of the magemortar pillars that adorned the perimeter of the palace. The Firstlord Asimov paused but for a moment. "Its just as I remember. The structures, the faces of the citizenry...nothing has changed since I have left." Leveling his gaze to the base of the staircase, Tenebrous was also appeared impressed with the magnificent architecture of the Uviel'en.

"Yes, the similarity of the people as a whole is what I find most striking. The radiant eyes, the glowing golden locks. Your 'parents' are a most impressive breed. They devoted all their power to the sustainance of this city." Turning back to Asimov, Tenebrous continued. "Is there any pride that remains in you for these you could call father and mother?"

Asimov sighed for a moment. "You tell me, Tenebrous, for I alone am not the child of Uviel'en. I was a product of their innovation, and you," Asimov chuckled. "You were a product of our imagination." Asimov smiled somewhat at the Atalan god.

Tenebrous did not return the sentiment, if for no other reason than Asimov had conveyed a tormenting, simple truth...the basis of the eternal chessgame of wit that bonded the Atalan god and his champion.

Asimov slapped Tenebrous on the shoulder. If there was one thing he knew about the arrogant god, it was that he preferred to be treated as a mortal brother by his own kind, especially in times of war. "Come on old friend. I think its time the Emperor met...the Emperor!" Tenebrous returned a wry grin. "So be it, Jerrick. Lead on."

Getting no further than five more steps, Asimov stumbled as the very staircase seemed to vanish beneath him in a maelstrom of flame and ash. He covered his ears as the stuctures and obelisks that made up the whole of Aeyslin disentigrated rapidly before him. The rising sun was blocked as the mountaintop city seemed fall in on itself, the apex of the mount now resembling a volcano...with Asimov and Tenebrous at the center of the crater.

"It is good that your memories have not betrayed you Asimov," bellowed a low and booming voice that seemed to come from all directions. The maelstrom of flame and molten lava subsided. The sky rapidly cleared and all evidence of the catastrophe Asimov had witnessed all but dissappeared. He was standing near the very edge of the mountain that still overlooked a forest...but no city, no sign of a city remained. Only the grey, loose soil Asimov had first seen upon reaching this place.

Off some ten paces was Tenebrous, whose wide eyes were a brilliant-yet-fading blue. When they returned to thier passive luster, he continued on. "You memories of Aeyslin will restoke the furies of hatred that drive you...

...and it is this very fury we shall depend upon to survive once again."


Clicking his tongue and closing his eyes, Kharaos inwardly cursed the human betrayal that caused the downfall of Aeyslin. It could very well mean the downfall of everything he knew.