Cascade: The Fall of the Fifth Empire

One

"Well, that's different," he thought as he hastily pulled open the massive wooden shutters that covered the window. The air was filled with a dense, gray smoke that lazily drifted around the frame of the window, dragging itself out the large window with finger-like wisps of gray tendrils that meandered into the still afternoon air.

The small man standing beside the basin was still unmoving, seemingly frozen stiff, and the young man standing beside the window was wondering what to do. Waiting seemed opportune, but the idea of the little man's brain slowly dying without air prompted him into movement. He quickly grabbed three small flasks from the cabinet nailed against the wall; all three had precisely measured viscous liquids that sloshed as he moved toward the large calcified framework that held the basin in the middle of the room. With his free hand he quickly wiped the basin clean with the bright, flawless cloth hanging on an incandescent dowel beside the glowing basin, poured in the contents from the three vials and hastily spoke the words of Arcane and Fire. He could feel the warmth literally flow from the room and into the basin. He averted his eyes as the compound brightly solidified into a rough, coarse mixture of anger and temptation. He plunged his hand into the basin, grabbed a handful of the fiery motes and flung them at the little man still frozen next to the vessel.

The effects were instantaneous and completely silent. As if pulled by a magnet, the motes swarmed and attached themselves to the small, swirling white cloud of vapor that surrounded the head and shoulders of the little, frozen man. Arcane and Fire met with this new, unknown magic that was now alive with Arcane and something...something not quite Water. Like two friends that meet after many years and sit and talk late into the night and in the morning only one of them walks away and the other lies dead against the unforgiving ground, Arcane and Fire seduced this newly found friend and then with a quiet violence that shook the foundations of the room, tore it from its host as easily as a knife across the throat. There was a dull pulse of light, used motes sprinkled the floor and warmth spread back into the room.

Deep, ragged breaths tore through the silence of the room. "Bloody Athoen and his Ragged Sisters..." the little man fell to his knees and sucked in what was probably most of the air in the room, his lungs rejoicing in the regained ability to breathe. He heaved and coughed and swore for another few minutes, his hands shaking and grabbing the floor as if they were grasping to hold onto life. His companion walked across the room and leaned against the door frame, waiting for the little man to recover.

"I was just about there, you know." The little man grumbled as he used the solid framework holding the basin to pull himself up from the floor. His auxiliary just nodded. "Really, I had the Arcane and Fire and, well, anyway...I would have been fine." He took his eyes and looked for something interesting to distract himself from his little lie. His auxiliary was generous enough to allow him the moments to step away from the fear of the death that had momentarily had him in her grasp. "But anyway," the little man mumbled and looked back at the thin and controlled young man leaning against the doorway, "Thank you for your help, Erron."

The young Erron nodded and smiled and was about to say something when the little man's eyes lit up with excitement, "But what just happened? It was unlike anything I have found within the Arcane before!" The little man jumped into action, ran to his books, grabbed one from the shelf and immersed himself in thought, completely forgetting that only a few minutes ago he had held hands with Sella and her Ravaged Sisters as they tried to gather him for his journey into the Desolation.

Erron used his shoulder to push himself from the doorframe. He watched the little man bustle around the room, nose buried in the book, once again oblivious to the danger that he had created only minutes ago. Erron stepped over to the basin in the middle of the room to gather the flasks he had just emptied. As he picked up the bottles from the thin edge around the basin, he noticed there were still two or three handfuls of the graveled ferocity at the bottom of the crystal bowl, red embers glowing dully against the slow rolling sapphire of the Arcane dwelling in the basin. Erron thought about opening the pouch at his belt and enriching himself, but Arcane and Fire were temperamental at best; even one mote could bring down the wrath of Vargos and his Vengeful Brothers.