TheVolumes by Maxus
Book 0 - Preludes and Prologues
2.1 - Mors // The Third Locus
Mors’ back rested against the root of a Whitebark Tree. The wind tickled his nose. A bit removed from the forest, this tree was almost free from greenmoss and perfect for meditation.
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He centered the etherflow through his rootkra while blood-red leaves spun gracefully as they completed their brief journey to the ground. Kereth’s energy cleansed his nervous system. Every cell in his body bathed in the warmth.
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Each inhalation took from the etherflow, each exhalation gave back.
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The etherflow pooled about his rootkra, the surplus pushing against his centrakra. The occasional opening of his centrakra brought clarity of thoughtflow.
Etherflow surging through his centrakra, his toraykra burst awake. Energy now swelled within him. He distributed it to his cells, favoring his hands.
Bringing his hands near one another, he allowed the etherflow to arc across his fingertips. Opening and closing his toraykra, he allowed more energy in, capturing it between his hands.
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The sphere of light grew until it was about four lengths wide, gradually pushing his hands apart. Placing it over his head he rose to his feet, then allowed it to shower over his body and back into the land.
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Mors opened his eyes.
The Whitebark Forest stretched out before him, a wall of massive trunks topped with a thick canopy of vibrant red and purple leaves. Roots as wide as Ancients snaked in and out of the glowing redgrass.
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He stared out into the midroht sky, starglow warming his face. Turning his back to the forest, he started back towards The Academy. His mind wandered.
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Three days ago, it was officially determined that he was a Locus. The third to ever exist. It was news to some, though he had suspected it since he was young. His time at The Academy had been far from arduous; little effort was needed to master each of the old magics. Now that he had finished his three cyps at The Academy, he anxiously anticipated the coming journey to Eghom. There, he would undertake a mastership with a High Wizard.
The Academy’s archway was made of polished whitebark, etched -- over the years by aspiring theoromages -- with various equations and theorems that formed the basis of the new magics. He recognized most of them now as he passed through.
Firestone bricks imported from Trakstan formed the stairway that cut into the hillside on which The Academy stood. He recognized now -- during his ascent -- the power they represented. Though a Locus, the legendary power of The Five seemed an immeasurable force to him.
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He pushed open the stained whitebark doors, forty lengths tall, and made his way into the main hall. A large group of council members were gathered in the far corner of the room arguing about the recent postulates, posed by Embel, in the gravitational magics.
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Mors kept walking, heading towards the north wing where he had resided for the last three revolutions.
Then something exploded.
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The blast threw him to the east wall of the main hall.
He hit and crumbled to the floor.
His ears rang for what felt like a full tyme.
The air was thick with smoke but Mors could make out the purple and gold coats of the Mage Guild. They surrounded the area where the Council Members were standing just moments ago.
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Mors tried to stand but his legs shook under his weight. He looked down and saw blood pooling around his feet. Debris protruded from his thigh. He collapsed, closing his eyes in pain.
The smoke was clearing. He heard his grandfather, Councilman Kors, shouting.
“Menevus!? Ten thousand cyps of peace for nothing!??”
Mors forced his eyes open. Menevus pulled the hood of his purple cloak off his head.
Kors was still yelling, “You think you can get away with this…”
Menevus held his left hand above his head and snapped his thumb and middle finger.
Kors’ head poofed into dust, his torso collapsing to the floor.
Mors gagged, vomiting into the pool of blood he laid in. Cries. Screams. Time spun into nothingness within Mors.
Can I do it?
The Council Members were being carved through with ease.
I have to do it.
The etherflow surged through his krai. It filled his body pressing outward on his skin. He heard his father’s voice in his mind, reassuring him, reminding him why he was different.
He coughed, blood spurting onto the floor. The etherflow lifted him off the ground. The Mage Guild, still carving through the council, began to see Mors rising above them.
Menevus’ eyes grew wide in fear, he ran to another guild member and then teleported from the hall.
Raising his arms out to his side, Mors allowed the etherflow to pool in his throat.
Arms perfectly straight, he clapped his hands together in front of him.
“COLLAPSE!”
A massive stream of light shot forward tethering each member of the mage guild together.
Then it pulled them into a ball no larger than a fist.
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At least one hundred men, killed in an instant.
Exhausted. Drained of etherflow. Mors collapsed back to the floor.
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