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“Take me home Zhambra.” Eli Travinus said aloud with open arms to his god and the archer poised at striking distance.

For over thirty years he could've sang the words like verse wholeheartedly, passed into the Grey, and chanced his eternal fate. From his parting lips to the broken and jaded soul, resolved to slay any and all practitioners of the arcane, the words came on reposed conviction. Such sentiment broke like birds in flight the moment acute accuracy came true upon his thigh. The impact of the unfurled arrow against his leg sent his frail body toppling backwards. In the moments in between his head cracking over smooth stone and the arrow passing through his light fur leggings, Eli noted an arrow piercing flesh through fur sounded entirely like one hitting a bale target.

Rubbish thoughts in crisis, a random kiss of fate upon your cheek— like a lord’s daughter choosing your hand for the first dance and later your agreeable companionship leads to a first kiss. Who knows what things you may think in that very moment, but we all think about death, the end, the new beginning to follow, but until you face that fate it’s merely poetry and prose. Many things did follow after the first blow, sounds and pain, the whoosh of violent wind, and the undulation of light and chaos.

Still corners subdued his mind. A place in the gap between this and the next. Eli Travinus, the mage, the aloof husband and father, the man of kind words to any stranger, struggled for his life. The place unknown but feelings familiar, he fought to find something of significance. In this place he heard voices and the light held soft like muted sunlight beneath Eldan oak leaves and branches.

He heard something in his own voice, a grumble of a distant noble beast, and endured the hate filled rage of another. Morbidly, perhaps, he enjoyed his own pain in tandem with foreign scenery and colors. His listless perfect darkness interrupted by moments of glorious light and tender whispers could not escape the hate and rage from something or someone out of reach. Their presence was near but their actual form distant.

The power there could not be denied, a raw power like lightning or wildfire. Eli wanted to shrink from this force but found no escape. In fact, the hate found him, one more time with a ravaging stroke. This blow felt like The fabled story. You know the one, the one told of an ancient hero, the last fiery beacon of hope who wielded his broken sword against pure evil.

Except, Eli Travinus was not the wielder but the inflicted. Through that blow his life force rushed through hell’s selected conduit, another arrow— but to the chest this time, a coup de grace.

From the gore of midday assault, a mage did die at the teleporter of Runewick. His stain upon the earth, polished stone, and enchanted pedestal would not vanish without effort. This could have— should have perhaps— been his last moments upon the mortal plane, but in the balance of this magical world his soul hung in discord.

Would it continue onward toward an unknown but eternal existence or ebb back to complete unfinished business?

Time, never in a human’s favor, held no power over this particular moment. Instead, an ease soothed this aching soul, the one of an old man far removed from his jovial youth. Pain ceased, and only his memories remained. So to this end, for now, he pondered and searched for the next moments to call his own; while, hate in corporeal shell wandered free, wandered to kill again, to feast upon more casters and channelers.

The witch stands in the hospital with dark eyes gazing sadly at Eli laying in one of the beds and makes a big attempt not to cry knowing it upsets Caswir standing next to her, yet mumbles..

Why does everything happen when I'm not here?

Staring at Eli's human frailties, Kyre wonders if something could be done besides the obvious tender touches of Aswe. A hex, a spell, the dragon blood she had in her bag..nothing seemed adequate. Whispering softly, she kneels by the bed.


If I could give you some of my years old man, I would. You need to be around, there are things to do, things left undone.

Reaching with her good hand to gently take his laying placidly by his side, she attempts to convey the thoughts rumbling around in her head..

You can't leave yet, your wisdom is still needed for one and I refuse it for another!

Deanna stands in the doorway to the lab and looks silently at the scene that presents itself to her. She sees the lifeless body of Eli. His face is obscured by Kyre, but she notices his hand hanging lifelessly, old and gray, and for the first time without the wand that it always held. Only the soft murmur of Kyre is heard. Caswir looks silently at the lifeless body. Deanna walks slowly to him and then sees the face of the old magician, it is as grey as his hand. What might have happened to him?
Was it an accident, or the grace of nature? Or did his zeal and haste, which were somewhat at odds with his aging appearance, become his undoing?
Her encounters with him were very rare, only recently had they got to know each other a little better. Eli obviously had great ambitions, she admired his ambition, but also looked at it with scepticism. Nevertheless she saw in him an extraordinary person who was worth getting to know better.
Deanna let her look around and noticed a cloth with traces of blood next to Aswe.
At first sight Deanna could not see any injuries. Suddenly a terrible thought came into her mind and she stepped forward to check for injuries...

Had Eli Travinus been a fly on the wall of the Runewick hospital, the love, care, and expertise of his new and closest acquaintances would have warmed his Lion heart. New or old bonds, Eli valued friendships in their many shades. Zhambra, the true Lion, would have it no other way.

Alas, Eli Travinus did not know any of these things, the concerned people who worked tirelessly to save his life: the unshakable steady hand of Aswe and her sly charisma; the ever faithful chaos and curiosity of the witch, Kyre, to ward over him and shed empathetic tears, Caswir the steadfast guildmaster; and the pensive, calculating, enigma— Deanna. Under their eye, his body would be given every opportunity to live.

Beneath the bandages, salves, and pale skin the true fight waged, a place of dreams and deep emotions. Memories, as many dark as sweet, a room in flames with a half collapsed floor, the smoldering body of a dead hound, the sorrow filled eyes of a decaying old man, his own blood drenched arms in pale moonlight, the helping hand of a wealthy young noble, and boots upon the dock. The last, the beginning of hope filled days and the sweetest memories ever bestowed upon him. It was a clear day, in bright sunlight, blinding, blaring, a mask to his unknown independence and freedom. Little did he know, the history he would make and the love he would find on the Isle of Hope.

It was this love, some call it true, that held him in the place between Cherga’s calling and the world of the living. He searched for Kaila’s soul, to be one with her again. She’d passed beyond Cherga or wasn’t truly dead. Should anyone be near Eli at the moment of this understanding, his body would convulse for less than a minute then go still. His eyes would open and close rapidly for just a few seconds. For the remaining duration of the fit, his eyes would move behind closed eyelids rapidly. Once over, he’d collapse and his breathing would even.

Thus began the rending of Eli’s soul, held where it ought not, where Kaila promised to wait for him for a lifetime, to go together into paradise. Not to be, but he was not alone. Where he fought to remain defied the balance of the gods. Onto Cherga, the gatekeeper, the ruler of passage, was the demand upon his soul. This pull could not be denied, like a stranglehold on your neck, but you could resist, defy, be obstinate to order. Eli did so, he was no stranger to pain, he would do what Kaila couldn’t sustain. The pain was blinding, first white then the flames of hell. Fiends lurked all around, unseen, their movements felt but never revealed. Still he searched, calling for Kaila and their son Darren. Echoes answered in a mocking reverb.

He felt his resolve weaken, this must have been how Kaila felt, the thought registered a sorely blow. Sorrow wrapped him in lover’s loss. He spiralled with chaos in wayward flight. Ravenous beasts licked afoot, seeking his eternal soul. Lust and want, hate and destruction, but there was also power here- covetous, deceitful power, the kind robbed from ignorant souls and conquered mortals. Eli played the fool, prideful mage, had he not learned anything from his downfall with Riniao?

Some forces are better left alone, lest ye be devoured whole. The error in judgement brought swift panic and repentance, but the spiral continued. Down, down, down into the nether’s hold he descended. He sought Cherga’s pull again, but vaporous hands a plenty overwhelmed his senses. Eli had known better than to loiter in the spiritual abyss or trifle directly with its forces. He’d ignored the mage’s codex and the teachings of the gods, the newest and perhaps final offense in the name of love. A love that unseated his rational mind, the moment it vanished into thin air some thirty years prior.

Perdition was but a breath away when a stream of brilliant voices filled with life and warmth cut through the horde of ravenous wails, moanings, and whispers. Kyre, Caswir, Orren, Aswe, Artimer, Grdge, Deanna, Finnelle, Roza, and Ademar. They came in waves, some together, others in unison, beckoning. Unfinished deeds, new friendships, started as a small feeling in the back of his mind but grew into a surge rivalingly the ones he had for Kaila and his family. The pain of happiness against loss and despair. The old soul wept and in his weeping a rushing sound brought him into grey misty light.

“Foolish mage!”

Everything after that was a blur, a feeling, a lost memory, and none of it would come back clear in the mage’s mind- only in enough bits and pieces to remind his soul to fear tipping the scales of balance and defying the gods’ natural order. The journey back to the mortal realm felt like a javelin through the chest, in a spot that did not bring quick death. The pain radiated and burned deep in his bones. He’d never felt weaker, more vulnerable, more in anguish than when his eyes opened into consciousness. Light hurt his eyes and moans in his whispers. When he could not take the pain any longer he cried out.

Who would be there to see him stir, to hold his hand, to whisper him reassuring words? Anyone? Someone? Or, idle meanderings of day caught in the hustle?

A cry for help is heard from the Runewick hospital...

Eli has woken but is in great pain.. need a medic!