Deep in the Mountain kingdom of Thorbardin the dwarf worked. He was unbothered by the lightless depths, a level of claustrophobic confinement that bothered even the most stalwart of Mountain Dwarves, the Hylar clan. The silence and the darkness of the Theiwar cities within the Mountain Kingdom was a comfort to this dwarf, for he was of the Theiwar clan, and this was his home.
His pink eyes and stark white skin and hair made him stand out. Standing out was an undesirable trait amongst the Theiwar, even though albinos were far more common than any would care to admit. The constant beatings and bullying he received as a child had left him crippled, with a hunched back and a leg that never worked quite right.
But he had taken it all in stride. For he had what few dwarves would care to learn, he had the magic. He had been trained, and tested at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth Forest. But that had been so long ago. He had lived before the Cataclysm, when the fiery mountain sunk Istar. He had lived any longer than a dwarf had a right to live. At least those dwarves who knew his true age might have said. But He was a solitary dwarf. Few even knew his real name, and when a name was needed he would tell people to call him Auld Kilar, an ancient term that meant either Ancient or Wise, the two concepts not necessarily mutually exclusive.
Auld Kilar finished going over his spell book, his immense white beard braided to a single point, a point that he had been chewing on. It was a nervous habit he picked up when he first began studying magic, and given the grave danger he was about to place himself in he went right back to it. The end of the beard was slick with spit; the hairs were split from chewing.
He put the book on the altar in the middle of the room, and lit the two black candles at either end of the altar. Next to the book sat black goblet made of pure obsidian.
Auld checked the symbol he had drawn on the floor earlier. Its crimson red had dried to a dark brown as he knew it would. The blood had been hard to come by. He did not have many relatives left, let alone infants. It had taken months of research deep in the clan archives for him to locate the child. And only hours before he had cast his spells, slinking and sliding among the shadows and darkness. He stole the child’s blood. Using the sharp edge of his ritual blade, he pierced the infant’s curetted artery and filled his chalice. The pure silver of the chalice now stained with the pure blood of the infant.
Over a blue flame he said his incantations, while spicing and seasoning the blood. Now he was waiting. It was a nervous anticipation, an anticipation that was showing on the tip of his beard. But the anticipation was soon to be at an end. Nuitari, the black moon only wizards with the darkest of hearts could see, was soon at its apex.
Auld checked his diagrams one more time, as well as his spellbook. He picked up the goblet and entered his ritual circle, careful not to smudge the protections. If he were successful then he would need every bit of protection, as well as every spell at his disposal.
He swallowed. His mouth dry and his tongue swollen.
Gently he poured the blood from the goblet into the center of the circle, reciting his incantation and gesturing his hands in wide sweeping motions.
“Margash jorasa nollen grath Grissit dorsi,
Itel forna drilid shude;
Margash nepps u hallem grath!
Dumak suh belis dari terdalam dalamnya,
berlomba arryas ne Dumaksuri.
Menubai kado Ast kerugian,
ing Margash nepps u présénsi.
Tidak ke saya u besar présénsi.
Ast kerugian rabithah!
Ast kerugian Grath!
Ast Margash nepps u présénsi!
Tidak saya u terawan grath penganjur!
Tidak saya dia tahu akupun belis azral!”
Auld finished his hand movements as he ended his chant. He sat in patient silence. He could feel the magic flow through him. His blood raced through his aged veins. He could sense the magic working. Doors between the planes of existence began to open. Small holes in reality ripping, the universe whining and screaming in agony. A scream only Auld could hear. And his desired visitor drew closer. The room grew hotter as the flames on the candles grew. Soon they reached the stone ceiling, scorching and pitting the granite with their heat. The Mountain Kingdom of Thorbardin shook. Screams of terror pierced down to even the remote home Of Auld. But the elderly dwarf magus did not break is deep meditation and concentration. He could feel the sweat bead on his forehead and back. He could feel it soaking his black robes.
With a deafening roar his home cracked. His visitor arrived.