Nights Over Varshikar

[Moirear Sian]

It was a dark night.
The campfire had shrunken to a dim, eery glow of intensively burning coal.
"To me right now, you are a message," spoke Athian Corulas in a sly tone.
"That's all. And that message needs to be loud and clear."
Merely a few dozen feet seperated the two men in physical distance. Only faintly, dark clouds with silver linings seemed to be lining up, far away in the horizon of the moonless sky. A rumbling was to be heard, but it was not the rumbling of thunder. It was the kind of rumbling that resonated in Sian's head, the energies of pure mana fluctuating around him and being drawn into the man who stood before him. Athian's hand was outstretched in a majestic pose, and an everburning ball of pure flames seemed to emanate from the very air upon his palm—Sian could feel the energies around him being all focused into that very point. The rumbling had persisted for minutes already, while they had been speaking, minutes during which the fireball had been resting in wait in Athian's very palm.
"I think you could make more use of me as an ally, rather than killing me," countered Sian, then muttering runes under his breath and letting the cool breeze and the air around him begin to amass like a thick wall. Frost unnoticeably flowing out of his mouth more forcefully, breath condensing more fiercefully with each uttered word. "But I don't think I can stop you now, can I," he concluded.
His lips twitched into a smile, almost appearing amiable, but with the ever-prominent feline quality they usually possessed.
"No, you won't be able to," Athian replied, his usual suave and cool fashion shining through. It was responded by Sian in a simple nod of his head—both faces almost frozen into position, like the forms of statues; their eyes locked onto eachother in a stare that had not been broken for minutes. The air itself seemed to have become solid around them.
"I thought so," Sian uttered, and his silky black-gloved hand tightened its grip around the staff in his right with a clearly audible noise, reminiscent of frozen leather cracking apart.
"Yes, life can be a pain in the ass. That's for sure," Athian elaborated, no motion or visible emotion entering his demeanor, but the energy around him now fully focused on the fire in his hand. "Here, catch," spoke the warlock almost playfully.
The ruins of Northerot suddenly flared up in a bright light, and a roar as if from one hundred lions boomed and echoed amidst the rocky, mountainous landscape.
Athian merely flicked his wrist, and the fireball bloated mid-air, roaring up and exploding into a huge flame, as it soared past Sian and scorched his cloak away—he slipped out of it the moment it combusted into flames. A fearful pant emitted the youth's lips as the air condensated again fiercefuly and he sprinted towards Athian's flank, staff now lurking to his back. Sian rolled forwards to dodge another fierceful flame that roared up from Athian's direction, but this time he began to perceive the stench of his own burnt flesh. Sian's swiftness of motion had let him roll right back onto his feet, allowing in to bridge the final distance between them.
That was when he had finally reached the silver-haired man who stood by the Fountain of Glory, and slammed him aside with staff—sound of a rib or two cracking from its pure force—and sending the warlock staggering dangerously close to, and almost over the fountain's edge.
Muttered words already whispered yet thundered from Athian's lips as he pulled his right back defensivefully and drew a red glowing sword with his till now empty left. It flared up against the night over Northerot. Sian's staff had already spun around to parry the blow, but a piece of the wooden weapon was smoothly cut off by the simmering blade and cut him accross his forehead, searing and leaving a perfect mark. He staggered back, startled by the ease the warlock had shown, and finally—
Let go.
Blue flames bolted forth from his presence as whispered words left his lips again, illuminating the ghastly ruins of Northerot, but in an eerier mood than the bright red flames Athian had cast. In return, Athian's eyes widened in surprise. The surprise lasted only split-seconds though, until the silver-haired man's eyes narrowed and seem to burn within. The blue flames suddenly and violently turned in direction as if thrown back by the wind, and the sudden blast of ice sent Sian hurling back several yards through the air, away from Athian, as if something had exploded in between them. Sian slid to a stop on the edge of the fountain. However, Athian still stood, nearly unscathed, and his eyes scanned over the youth on the ground carefully.
"My magic is much stronger," spoke Athian as if he had just ordered a pitcher of ale in the tavern. "I'm immune to spellcraft," stated the warlock devastatingly.
Sian was on the final brink between consciousness and death. It seemed though as if the warlock was keeping him exactly there. Keeping him alive and conserving him from the cold clutches of death. Layers of frost now glistened on Sian's exposed and shivering skin.
"But while time runs, it runs against us all", groaned Sian, dangerously slow in manner of speech. Ice and frost cracked aloud as his arm bent painfully and he felt the frozen wound on his forehead. A slashed mark that had diagonally cut down over it, only having grazed it slightly—but dangerously. Sian tried to lean himself up, but collapsed down onto his back again. His hand fell limp into the water of the Fountain of Glory, of which he lay beside, and next to which the silver-haired man still stood, carefully eyeing him.
"Make sure to tell your leader," said Athian in his usual fashion and added a warm smile.
He piled up the belongings that had dropped from Sian's body next to him. And then helped him back up.
They talked for many more minutes by the rocks northeast near the cross, and some of their voices carried down south. It appeared as if Athian in fact healed Sian afterwards. Eventually, they even politely bowed to eachother, and wished eachother 'good night'.