תִּ י קּ וּ ן • ע וֹ לָ ם
Searing 49, 122 Age of Steel
Negation runes had become highly prized following the events of the 34th, and only a fool would be surprised by it. The Dread Mists had come to all Karnor, and a rift of impossible size had erupted above Zaichaer. Within Kalzasi, the Warrens were restless and whispers of threats came from all sides, even with the very likely prospect of the remnants of the City of Brass suing for peace. At least the stock of war materiel that had already been made was accepted by its commissioners, but the old contracts had been canceled.
This was not to imply that business was bad for Ale'Ephirum. Old contracts had been canceled, this was true, but a flood of new ones replaced them. It was no surprise that they were all for wards tasked against the Dread Mists. The formula for such glyphs was well defined, perhaps one of the earliest ever made for the magic, and the only alterations ever needed were for the shape and dimensions of the ward being made. Even the finest however would only protect against the aftershocks of that wretched day.
Whatever monstrosity had been birthed in the skies above Karnor defied comprehension, existing well past the scale of typical Dread Mist storms. The only thing it came close to was the Maelstrom, but thankfully the gap between the two was enormous in terms of both size and power. There was even word that the gods had worked a miracle in the ruins of the godless city and had quieted the rift. For how long however, none could say.
Regardless of what was happening in Zaichaer, Avamande was unsatisfied with the work before them today. Their own skills were lacking, and it pained them greatly. A true master would have been able to brave the swirling chaos for a time, even if it was short, without issue. The best Avamande could manage would be ripped away almost instantly if exposed to that hell, and it irked them. What use was their ambition if they could not seal the unsealed? Had they not spoken to Charlie filled with a sense of righteousness that they were doing magic correctly, but now were revealed as nothing more than a child. Despite all their work, the most that could be found for them to accomplish was the crafting of relatively minor warding scrolls.
Artistry was not something anyone had time for in emergencies such as these, and the scrolls were bare and unadorned. This was sensible considering the situation, but only served to compound Avamande's discomfort at their labors. They were forced to churn out second rate goods for the peace of mind of the general populace, many of which might never be used, while those more senior and trustworthy were tasked with preparing the wards for those who braved the truly dangerous depths of the region-spanning cataclysm.
It did not do to let ones mind wander, but in situations such as these even Avamande could not restrain themselves. They were bored beyond measure, and felt themselves a failure besides. The only solace that they could cling to in a situation such as this was ambition, and they clung hard. So be it if today they could only be trusted to defend against a moderate storm, scrolls that were comforts which would not withstand any true trial. It would simply have to serve as practice, an opportunity to refine their talents so that they could successfully complete the true work.
Unfortunately, this technique did not work particularly well. While it did alleviate some of the boredom that had plagued Avamande's thoughts, it did nothing to actually focus them upon the scrolls. They were able to scribe the necessary glyphs on reflex - their current mastery placing them in the awkward position where they were simply too skilled to be particularly challenged by what they were working on, while not yet trusted to work on the more advanced kinds - and so did not particularly need to, but their innate professionalism forced them to double check every one that they had made after realizing that they had paid no conscious attention to it, further slowly the entire process.
Occupying their thoughts in place of the actual work that they were supposed to be doing were the far more interesting dreams and ambitions, strategically placed and coaxed since birth, that the Doom of Zaichaer had reignited. The Sundering had left a wound in the world that was not merely physical but transcended the veil between the possible and the actual. All life suffered as a result of these wounds and the outpouring of chaos that ushered forth from them at seemingly random intervals. No one knew why the rift above the City of Brass had formed, or why the Warrens quaked, they knew only that dark days were once again upon the horizon and wished for them to end.
Hubris and ambition were close twins, and it was hard to tell which drove them to think that they could be a force capable of ending these days of chaos and bedlam. They were simply a scribe, among countless others, gifted with a rune that countless others had, working to stem the bleeding, as countless other did. Yet this, they were certain, was their destiny. Or at least the plan that had been marked out for them. If no one else would or could rise to mend that which was broken, it fell to them to at least try. The question of why them had never entered into their head, such doubts carefully removed during their upbringing. The path that had been prepared was very clear, though they had meandered far from it in recent years.
For ages, it had been the dream of many Hytori to reclaim the ancient grandeur of their earliest days. They worked in fits and starts, some bold and others cautious, together and apart, in friendship and in strife, building one another up and tearing each other down. But they all shared the same dream. The rift gates of the Boundless Empire were the greatest accomplishment in all mortal history, even if knowledge of them had faded away to distant and hazy recollections. Avamande themselves knew little other than that they were the ultimate form, or perhaps precursor of, Traversion - permanent portals that spanned far more than mere space. To recreate these would catapult the firstborn of the world back to what some of them viewed as their natural prominence.
Yet, it was these same wonders that led to the empire's end. Power unchecked and uncontrolled had proven disastrous, and all the world paid the price for that ancient arrogance. Avamande's role was not to recreate the glory of the days of old - at least, not at first. They were a living experiment, a fact that they knew and accepted with equanimity, viewing the weight of the responsibility placed upon them from their birth as one of the greatest interests they held in their life. Some would consider this cruel, many in Sol'Valen would, but it was their life. And they had spent far too long ignoring it.
Power was the root of all good and all evil, a force which cared nought for what it was used for, capable of the most beneficent and malicious of acts. It was misuse of power that had damned the elves of old, and they could only be redeemed by its proper practice. This was Avamande's task, the burden they had ever borne, that compelled them even now to interrupt their ruminations on the grandest of designs and ambitions to ensure a scroll worth five thousand gold avens was free of even the most minute of errors. They were to be example and embodiment both, the new way forward, living proof that the Hytori had mastered their power and were capable of trying again at their long smoldering dreams of empire.
Dreams such as these meant nothing to Avamande. The realization struck the mage like a thunderbolt, their pen clattering to their desk as a half worked scroll lay beneath them. Ambitions of elves long dead, traced back over countless generations to the age before ages, these were not their desires. Others had whispered to them that such was what they wanted, and they had agreed, continuing on with the great work for no other reason than that was their role. But why? Why should they care? Sitting back upon their desk, staring at the pile of scrolls that had grown besides them, Avamande felt a soft stirring in their breast as they picked their pen up anew. These scrolls may be of middling use, but each was a bundle of hope, a promise of life amid death and destruction, and that was enough.
Sorrow and sadness pervaded age after age, but perhaps it need not. In that moment, they endeavored to continue as they had been bid - but not for those ancient dreams. Success would mean safety and peace for the world entire, but sitting there, Avamande realized that to save but one was enough.