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Broken pottery. Rough edges scraping. Staccato clicking and grinding. A dull hum of magic. A human form, draped in an ever-changing repertoire of odd attire. Patchwork 'skin', a spiderweb of pieces, broken and rearranged many times over. Dimly glowing runes and glyphs shift and rearrange position at random intervals. A doll, a mockery of life. An experiment, an accident. An abandoned passion. An automaton. A miniscule shadow of something that was. It serves its purpose, restoring life, providing sanctuary. This function is carried out indefinitely. A bottomless pit for experience and knowledge. As its power fades, the cracks widen. Movements turn slow and spasmodic. Clicks followed by longer pauses. It wanders back to the Vortex. Above the tomb, from whose earth its body's components were harvested long ago, and crafted into an imperfect humanoid vessel. Above its locus of power, it stands silently as a statue. As the source of magic passes through its shell on its way out into the land that is sustained by it. Re-empowering the glyphs, the runes, the seals, painstakingly counterfeited from an ancient magic that was not fully understood by the one who attempted to recreate it. In return, the power it gathered also seeps into the earth; small rivulets of energy finding their way through an imperfectly woven seal that keeps an ancient mage sleeping. Converging, slowly feeding his strength, little by little, every day. In the morning, it wakes again. The cracks are closed. The magic hums louder, the etchings glow bright once again. The master still sleeps, but a small bit of his influence still roams the lands. Seeking a path to his awakening. This daily ritual repeats. Again. And again. | |