He alone survived.
His master, Orwell the Wizard, had long since succumbed to dust. The Great War had raged on for what seemed like centuries (although only a few decades had passed) and it was devastating for their side. Many times victory seemed to be in their grasp but the illusory time never came. Pushed underground by their enemies, their ranks diminished until there the Great Wizards were down to only one – the most powerful of them all - Orwell.
Orwell had kept him hidden in a castle nestled high in the mountains, where no one but his creator knew of his existence. He saw through his master’s eyes the war as it happened. Each campaign delivered another casualty and with it things seemed to grow dire for the Order of the Pentacle. The One tried to help him as much as his limited abilities would allow but since he was only an infant there was not much he could do. Orwell was ruthless, killing mortal women, children, anyone who crossed his path. The wizard had no mercy for the weak – he despised them. The One knew his master was evil – but loved him anyway. He embraced the being that brought him into this existence with fervor that a son had for a father. Though they were not of the same species, Orwell lavished on him the type of affection he had not given to any other creature. The One was his son, his heir and he declared that all of his power would go to him when it was the necromancer’s time for forever sleep.
The One soaked up the knowledge Orwell provided and when his master was out battling the uhman infestation, he would spend his time studying from the vast library in the castle. He quickly had begun to share his father’s beliefs - the need for power and the necessity of greed. He grew to hate those who would try to destroy his creator – those pitiful uhmans – who like locusts seemed to devour everything they came in contact with. Their elf allies were no better. They were the wood-folk who idly stood by as the uhmans ravaged the land.
As it were, the moment came when his father, the last of the Order of the Pentacle, was delivered the death blow. In the midst of the battle field and surrounded by elvan invaders, the blow struck Orwell with a sudden ferocity. The One’s vision grew dark – he could no longer see through Orwell’s eyes. An elvan blade, golden and elongated, pierced the dark wizard’s chest, striking its mark with precision - none of Orwell’s magic could save him this time. The One felt the pain as if it was his own chest the blade punctured. A scream erupted from his mouth, trembling through the mountain fortress and into the winds that would carry it throughout Astania. His maker was dead, murdered by the elves and their uhman counterparts. The last of the great wizards had ceased to exist.
Instead of enjoying the spoils of their final victory, the elves did something he could not understand. Instead of occupying the land they had so bloodily fought to conquer – they gave it to the uhmans and returned to their hidden vales, isolating themselves as they always had. He thirsted for revenge against them. The fury raged in his soul like an inferno that could never be doused. He longed to take to the skies, unleash the magic that his master had taught him and make them pay for their transgressions. Logic, however, prevailed. His master had taught him this. He would continue to learn, strengthen his power to a point where he even surpassed his master, and prepared for the time he would exact his vengeance in a powerful and wrathful display.
Following Orwell’s death, he spent his days and nights in his master’s study – learning every spell and incantation. Each day that passed revealed new powers for him to harness. He soon gained the ability to walk unnoticed among the uhmans and used this power to learn their ways and culture. He retraced the steps that led to the defeat of the other wizards, the weaknesses the uhmans had exploited so he would not present the opportunity to them when his time came. To that end he began to collect the magic objects the elves and uhmans had used against their enemy. Many of the artifacts increased his power, but still he wanted more.
As the sands of time slipped beyond the eons, he continued to hear of one particular item. Simply referred to by the uhmans as the Stone, it was said to be the one object that swung the tide of the war. The myths told of the Stone’s immense power and its ability to enhance its owner’s magical prowess. The elves had harnessed the power of the Stone and with their heightened abilities, overpowered the great wizards, ultimately destroying the order forever.
As time began to obscure the memory of the Great War, the One applied his persuasive powers to convince some weak minded uhmans to follow him. In his guise as one of their own and using some rudimentary tricks an infant could do, he had impressed his new followers into believing he was the second coming of Orwell the Great. It was strange how the years had perverted history. Centuries had past and in that time the uhmans had revised their view of events. Gone from the story of the ultimate victory were the elves – who had been forgotten by the ages – and in their place a fictional hero – Serephon – an uhman. As the story now went, it was Serephon, not the elves, who wielded the Stone and finished Orwell with the blade of his golden sword. There were uhmans who were fascinated by the story and the tales of the great wizards. The One used this to his advantage, mixing truths with fiction and embellishing the greatness of Orwell. He used the power of his words to change around the myths – painting Serephon as a heartless coward who killed Orwell in his sleep rather then face him in battle. The uhmans took in the fables like a large warrior at his victory banquet. There was no end to their thirst for it. And so as it were, The One had his first disciples in the Order of the Serpent.
Using his new converts, he gleaned every morsel of information on the possible whereabouts of the Stone. Some said it was thrown in the bottom of the Ayson Gulf. Others believed it had been buried somewhere in the sands of the Desert of Aliqui, while still others believed it was taken to the farthest reaches of Astania, to island of Damhnait and tossed into the fires of Mount Towart. The years would pass by quickly and his new followers would soon become the old wise men who communed with the reincarnation of Orwell the Great. The wise men would attract followers of their own, spreading the lies that the One had imbedded. The truth of the Great War, Orwell, the Elves, and the final resting place of the stone became more and more obscured.
As the only being remaining (other then the elves themselves) that knew the count of what had really occurred, the One deduced that a race as wise as the elves would never bestow an artifact of such great power to the uhmans. Their penchant for greed, power, and self destruction would be too dangerous to allow such a bauble to go on unchecked. He figured the only logical possibility was they must have taken it back to one of the Elvan vales – Aegruss, Somhairle or Jamesina.
The uhmans dared not venture into those parts of Astania – as legends of devils, ghosts, and goblins paralyzed them into fear. The elves were left in peace and guarded it vigilantly. They would suffer no trespassing near their lands – as they would conjure up the worst fears of the unsuspecting traveler that had wandered off the beaten trail. They would never harm the unfortunates, only scared them enough for them to vacate and again restore tranquility. The One knew his subjects would be no match for the Elvan mischief. He had to find another way to get access to his enemies without them catching scent of his intentions.
He returned to his hidden castle lair at the top of Mount Breandan where he poured over the same books he had read a countless number of times and searched for the answer. For a time it eluded him until he discovered one spell – a special spell. The one his father had used to create him. As he chanted the spell, he felt the dynamism surge from his inner-core, through his outstretched hands and like bolts of lightning, strike the floor before him. Before his eyes a creature took shape. Long, orange colored talons reached from the lightning to the floor, it was soon followed by large, purple-feathered legs, a torso, and eventually the entire giant fowl materialized, filling the majority of the space from the floor to the vaulted ceiling of the castle. He would repeat the process two more times, giving him three mindless beasts at his control. The Crownians, as he called them, lacked the ability to procreate and their small brains allowed them to only comprehend simple commands. The One knew their use would be very limited.
He poured over the historical documents his father had chronicled before his final defeat. In them, he discovered that one elf in particular, Alasdair, seemed to have been the keeper of the Stone. He would need to be found and if so – made to reveal the whereabouts of the Stone. It would be this task that the One would realize his failure with the beasts. As they each took flight to a different vale, the one Crownian brute he called Kree found Alasdair in the Elvan stronghold of Jamesina. A great battle ensued as the elves tried to stave off Kree’s attack and protect their kinsman. Eventually the Crownian would succeed, squeezing Alasdair in her powerful talons as she took flight back to Orwell’s Castle. The other Crownians, Sema and Deli intercepted Kree on her return. The two other birds, eager to please their new master attacked Kree, knocking her from the sky. As the animals fought, Alasdair took the brunt of the blows. With each assault, Kree increased her grip upon him and eventually crushed the elf under the pressure. The One seethed with rage at their failure. It was obvious he had overestimated his ability to create servant beings. He was not Orwell’s equal just yet. In one wrathful gesture the birds exploded in a fiery burst, cooking from the inside out before a hail of feathers replaced the complete form that had once stood before him. Their squawking echoed through the halls of the castle as the One lamented the loss of the only true source he had. The elf was gone and with him the last possible knowledge of the Stone’s location.
Finding Alasdair was hard enough, but following the Crownian attack, the elves cast spells over their vales making them even more imperceptible. Their ability for stealth made them the hardest of adversaries for the great wizards and with the power of the Stone – they were virtually invisible and thus invincible. Truth be told, Orwell never saw the elf who struck the final blow. As far as the One knew – Alasdair could have been that elf. In addition to their ability to conceal, the elves used thoroughly planned out strategies to execute their war plans. They would never make a move unless they were positive it would be successful. It would make perfect sense that the keeper of the Stone would be the one to deal the final blow.
While the wizards were powerful – they never seemed to have the organization of the elves. Vain to the last, none wanted the help of the others. Each felt they could squash the Elvan/uhman insurrection with not so much as a bat of an eyelid. They would each pay for their vanity – as one by one they fell until Orwell had been the last. Near the end, Orwell had tried to get the few remaining wizards to join together into a final battle with the rebels. But as they met, none could agree on which strategy to employ, how to attack the separatists and eventually they ceased communications with each other – sealing their doom. If there was one thing certain about the Order of the Pentacle, it was that they could never agree on anything. When the wizards were not fighting the elves and uhmans for supremacy in Astania, they were battling each other for place in the Order. Each wanted to be the Grand Master – the premiere wizard of the order – but each wizard that had challenged Orwell suffered an egregious fate. The hate, jealousy, and mistrust clouded their deductive reasoning – preventing them from joining together and becoming an indestructible force.
The One knew there had to be others among the Elvan contingent that knew the secrets of the Stone. He would need to be patient, as he was all the centuries before. Once time had erased the memory of his failed attack, the elves would ease their protection spells and would open the passage ever so slightly so he could take hold and infiltrate them once again. He just needed to find the right opportunity - the right pawn to help him take hold of the most omnipotent jewel in Astania.
He would bide his time, use the artifacts he acquired, strengthen himself by practicing his spells, scheming, watching, waiting…
