Deep within the ground, scattered around the world, they sleep. The rulers of an empire long since destroyed, hunted down and torn from power, their resentment is the only thing that remains. As they sleep, they dream only of the past. As the world above them forgets and falls into a time of peace, they bide their time. They will not return, they do not want to return. The world they once ruled has rejected them, and they desire revenge, but their targets have long since disappeared from the world, escaped to another dimension like the cowards that they were. Until they return to the land of strange creatures and abundant magic, they will not wake.
They did not want to wake, not yet.
But the tremors of power had reached the depths of the earth where they slept. The lingering magic of the one who betrayed them caught their attention.
They stirred slightly, nervously shifting in their tombs as they wondered if it was time to exact their long-awaited revenge.
One by one, they fall back asleep, resolving that it was merely a coincidence.
But someone had other plans.
In a flash, one of them felt an immense magic power appear near them, forcing them awake as their long-dormant survival instincts kicked in.
They snapped awake with vigor, bursting out of their tombs one by one as they awoke to an age that had long since forgotten them.
-
Two creatures quietly make their way to the rubble of a destroyed castle.
"Dracoa, why are we here?" one asks, its small, winged, cat-sized frame shivering in the cold of the morning.
"You visited this place while I was fighting Shadowfang," the other replies, winding its snakelike body through the rubble. "I would like to take a look at it."
"But we already told you everything we saw in it!"
"I want to see it for myself."
"I don't like it. It's spooky."
"You're the one who agreed to come with me."
"That doesn't stop me from not liking it!"
The two creatures find a small doorway in the rubble, a trapdoor that leads into the ground, although the door has been ripped off its hinges. They move up to it, revealing a dark passageway. No light from the outside makes its way into the shadowed hall, however. This place has been wrapped in darkness and secrets to hide what lies within. The two creatures cautiously maneuver inside.
"I think Azor used this place as a dungeon," the first creature says.
They peer inside the cells.
They see chains hanging from the roof, enchanted to prevent the use of magic. Bars of iron that cannot be broken. Stone lining the walls and floor which let out a dim dray glow. Gloomy, yet pristine. No bones or rags are in the cells, no cries of despair or mutterings of dejection sound the passage. Those have been cleansed by the one who once lived in the fortress. Indeed, the room at the end of the passage is his, a place of magic and research. But off to one side of the passage is a dark doorway from which the scent of death was never removed.
"What's that?" the second creature asks.
"We decided not to go in since it was super creepy," the first creature responds.
"It may contain something important."
"Or not. Let's just say it doesn't and go back for now."
"No, we came this far. We can't give up now, Aavern."
"Let's not. Here, how about I vaporize this place after we leave so we never have to come back here again?"
"We are going down there."
"No we're not."
"Yes we are."
While the two argue, the second creature suddenly senses a presence, a living being from a time long gone. The second creature ignores the first and proceeds down the passageway. The first creature grudgingly follows suit. Through the doorway lies a staircase that leads into a dark dungeon. The second creature stops short.
"I've been here before," she says.
"Dracoa?" the first creature asks. "What is this place?"
"The dungeon of the Elder Dragons."
"Azor talked about waking them up, didn't he? Who are they again?"
"Do you remember how strong Shadowfang was?"
The first creature shudders. "It took all five of us, the Overseer, and Ezarik to bring him down."
"Imagine seven of him."
The first creature stops short.
"That's absurd."
"There's even a few among them who are stronger than Shadowfang."
"You're creeping me out, Dracoa. How do you know this, anyway?"
"Have you read the scrolls in Ezarik's library?"
The first creature sighs. "You keep hogging the scrolls in your room. It's not fair. But we really should go back. Who knows what dangerous criminals might be hidden within this place."
The second creature continues onwards. "None at all. This place was built to hold those who defied the rule of the Elder Dragons."
"So the Elder Dragons are our enemies?"
"More so than Shadowfang."
"Well, at least we don't have to face them. We just need to get to the Beyond and take back those orbs from Azor. Good thing Azor can't wake them up from where he is in the Beyond."
The second creature nods her agreement. The two creatures fall silent. The first creature suddenly has a burst of curiosity.
"Can we beat them?"
The second creature pauses. "Not even one."
The first creature shudders. "We should tell the others, just in case they woke up somehow. The end of our fight with Shadowfang wasn't in the dimensional link, so the shockwaves might have woken them up. Maybe we need to find out how strong Axel is. Maybe he can help, and maybe he knows a few wizards like himself who can also help."
"I don't think they would've woken up just from that short battle, though. Speaking of Axel, how do you think he's doing?"
"Cyil was still telling his story last I saw. Y'know, the one about how we got the gems and all? But we should talk to them as soon as we get back. This is serious."
"You're overreacting."
The two creatures move onwards through the dungeon. Their quiet discussion reverberate through the halls which have not heard voices for a thousand years.
-
Far to the north, on an island, there is a mountain. On that mountain, there is a cave, and within that cave, there lies a forge where a blacksmith works. The smith has been there since before the first people arrived on the island, dwelling in solitude. He carefully extracts pure metal from the rocks around him and works on it, gathering magic and darkening the metal, marveling at its quality compared to that from his homeland.
He pauses for a moment, wondering what to make. His mind wanders to the past, when powerful magicians walked the halls of castles and academies. Thousands of creatures had coexisted, gathering together under a single entity's rule. It was then that his parents were executed. He closes his eyes and thinks past the pain of emotion, not letting the cloud of hurt consume him again. He carefully picks through his memories, finally settling upon a single person, a single wizard. The first magic wielder, and most powerful wizard ever to exist, wielding the first magical weapon ever made. A large scythe, laced with powerful magic. The inspiration that made him want to become a blacksmith.
He expertly sets to work, molding the dark metal into the shape of a scythe. He crafts the entire weapon with refined, enchanted material, connecting different segments according to the shape of the weapon in his memory. The plated, segmented designs, the flowing curve of the handle, and the deadly blade with smooth curves and interlocking segments. As he works, he enchants the metal, binding magic to the raw material as it sets and attaches to the weapon. The colors, the abilities, and the enhancements, he recreates them all. The first wizard's scythe, recreated masterfully and precisely.
The blacksmith smiles. If only he were the one to craft this weapon for the wizard, the wizard may have tried to free his parents. He shakes the thought free as he finishes it. He holds it in the light, marveling at the lightweight weapon far larger than he, containing magical power surpassing that of the original. He adds a few finishing touches, making the scythe's massive curved blade a bright glowing gold, and adding a few extra enchantments. Satisfied, he steps over the massive pile of failed scythes while admiring his handiwork. He smiles to himself as he opens a dark smoky circle in the air. He walks through it, following a black path of smoke between a huge expanse of metal shelves and tall pedestals, and places the scythe on an empty display stand. He then glances around the void of gray mist at the hundreds of other weapons he created over the years, with a dozen or so displays left over for anything else he may want to create. Swords, spears, daggers, and axes each sit on their own stands in the shelves. Unique weapons like chakrams, glaives, reavers, and scythes like the one he just made stand on their own pedestals. Small piles of dark and bright metal, enchanted to the best of his ability but never used for any project of his, sit in open boxes at the ends of each line of displays. He sighs in contentment and leaves. On his way out, he sees a few empty spots.
"Maybe I should take back those weapons eventually," he says to himself, "but then again, Qassot, Axel, and Kyle do seem to enjoy having them."
He lets out a happy giggle. "It sure does feel nice to see others use the things I make. Maybe I'll leave a few more out and about and see who claims them."
The blacksmith cheerfully makes his way out of the void and back into his blacksmith's shop.
"Now, what should I make next?"