The Sacrifice

The old wise mage was now no longer filled with pain and sorrow; he was now filled with exultation and peace of mind and body. He stood in darkness, surrounded by the never-ending void of darkness, the only sign of life being the gray robed figure sitting on a chair before him. It held a white marble staff of ancient times, looking it over in admiration and then finally placed it on the ground making it disappear, nodding towards the mage.

Coughing lightly, the mage pushed himself down the road, leaning heavily upon his staff; a staff most ancient and unique in design, obtained from the possible depths of hell coming into the possession of a young - now old - dying magic user. The staff was made from pure white marble, reaching the same height as the bent old mage. The top of the staff was curled up in a disgruntled shape, encompassing an orb made from crystals: amethysts, emeralds and a topaz stuck in the middle. Upon close observation of the arcane staff, one could see that the disgruntled shape of the staff's top was in fact in the shape of a dragon, the orb symbolizing its pain filled heart bursting with both darkness and radiance.

The mage himself was clad in heavy blue robes, his long gray hair falling down to the floor in braids tied together by blue strings. The robe's hood was not over the mage's face, for the mage did not want to be feared and he hoped for those that would see him, would also see his deep sorrow and pain, not for himself or for his past but for the world itself. He hoped against hope that people would come to realize their own doom. His eyes themselves symbolized hope and determination; those clear sky-blue eyes were now clouded with sorrow and were almost as gray as a storm in the Season of the Moon. His ears were pricked up in tension but also symbolized that he was not fully human. The rest of the mage's face was devoid of expression, if he was feeling sorrow or happiness no one could tell.

He had travelled far and without rest, for even though he was the highest of his order, he did not want to waste any of his energy on casting magic spells, for a simple teleportation spell would drain him just as much as this long trek.

Suddenly the old one's eyes closed and he staggered forwards, catching himself on his staff and pushing himself up off the ground, "Polokis, please, do not do this," a strong voice, that showed pity but was as cold as ice, rang out across the empty desolate plains of the North.