[Fan Fiction] Icathia Beckons (Part I)
##Hello Reader!
I've been toying with this story idea for a while, and I thought it best to put it out here and see if there is any available feedback. This part is not perfect by any means, nor is it likely finished, but I don't really have anything to lose by throwing it up here and getting some preliminary feedback.
##Icathia Beckons (Part I)
*And a magnificent light spewed forth! It’s great and terrible power poured out from the fracture like blood from an open wound! It overwhelmed me and in that instant I knew insanity! From the light boomed a deafening bellow, both singular and in multitudes, that uttered *
*“OBLIVION COMES!” *
– from The Morellonomicon by the Mad Explorer Jezeikriel
There are many truths to this world, but the one that all inhabitants of Shurima know is that the truth cannot remain buried forever. Once home to a host of great and mighty empires, Shurima stretched across the southern half of Valoran. Towering stone obelisks and statues littered the landscape, arrogantly dwarfing any mortals in their shadow. But now they lay along the desert sand reduced to rubble and boulders. Impregnable ancient pyramids and the ruins of civilizations long past are all that remain of the once great Shurima.
However, despite having become forgotten, remnants sometimes peak above the windswept dunes before submerging back into antiquity. Once lost knowledge becomes discovered once again, and things long since hidden away are returned to the light of the Shurima sun. Many an enterprising explorer has attempted to uncover some of the bygone secrets of the desert; while some have succeeded and gained wealth and knowledge beyond their wildest dreams many more have succumbed to the Sand and become lost for all eternity.
In some legends, brought to light by explorers of old, there existed an ancient font of power somewhere in Shurima. Unlike traditional magic, which must be controlled and borrowed from the arcane æther, this power was infused with the user, granting them utter dominion of this magical energy. The mages infused were granted untold magical ability, and some even say eternal life. But, with every story told of this power there came an equal story told of the terrible price that came with it. Only fools and those desperate enough to risk everything would seek such a place.
But, Kassadin was all too familiar with these stories. Wind rustled the flap of his tent and he momentarily looked up, distracted from the translation he was making. Stacks of books, scrolls, and tablets littered the tent covering every surface available: broken chairs, old tables, the tattered rug, even his bed. Nearly every piece of text was from a dead language, a remnant of some long forgotten people of the Sand, and needed his full concentration in order to be deciphered. While there was no one at the entryway this time, his mind had already been pulled from his work and the inertia of translation had passed.
He shook his head in disappointment, not because he had lost his place in the scroll, but because it had revealed nothing to him. Much like all of the other texts he had acquired, this particular scroll only told him what he had already known: that the answers he sought were somewhere else. Satisfied that he was not being further disrupted, he turned back to his studies and began rolling up the parchment.
For a brief moment, Kassadin’s hand brushed a brass locket that lay open on his desk. Stopping, he peered into the frame that held a sketch he had made what seemed like so many lifetimes ago. Catching a hold of himself before slipping into sentimentality, he slipped the locket chain around his neck and tucked it into his sand scarf where it would be out of sight and mind. His thoughts quickly returned to his work.
“Every story the same…”, he muttered under his breath. “Every book, every scroll, every forsaken tablet I’ve found. There must be a hint, a clue, somewhere.”
Putting the scroll to the side, he began rustling through yet another stack of tomes. Wrinkled fingers danced along the spines of numerous books as he glazed over the titles that had become all too familiar to him over the past two years. His eyes strained intently on each embroidered binding, the filigree sparkling under the natural light that cascaded down from gaps in the ceiling cover. With the grace of a stage magician, Kassadin drew a book from the middle of the stack without causing so much as a quiver. And yet, he struggled to lift the book, heaving it onto his reading desk with a sigh. He was not the young man he had once been.
“Now, let us see what secrets you have for me today, old friend.”
He gently wiped the accumulated sand from the cover of the tome, making sure not to scratch the fine markings that covered its leather binding. This was a particularly special book to Kassadin, one which had yet to reveal its full secrets to him. He knew, however, that it was only a matter of time before he unlocked what knowledge had been buried inside it. After all, no truth remains buried for too long.
But, before he could open the book and delve into its forgotten knowledge, the flap of his tent burst forward again. Turning this time, Kassadin noticed not a sand laden gust of wind, but a woman. She was dressed similar to himself, purple and blue linen that stretched down to the ankles, but with noticeably thicker leather around her vitals. The leather armor was heavily warn, covered in scrapes and scratches. Even her face had plenty of nicks and scars, indicating much of her youth had been spent in battle. Out of breath, the woman had momentarily placed a hand on the table next to the opening as to steady herself. Despite being a warrior, trained in tiring combat, it was still a chore to run under the Shurima sun in full armor. Gathering her breath, Tessa, Kassadin’s last guard and only daughter, spoke.
“Father,” she gasped. “Malzahar has had another vision. He’s asked you to come.”
“Bah! It’s about time,” Kassadin grumbled. “Take me to him.”
The scholar exited his makeshift study in a huff. The hot desert air hit him squarely in the chest and he wheezed into his hands. Coughing, he pulled away to reveal a small splatter of blood, his blood, on his palm. Startled, he quickly rubbed the blood spot off on the inside of his robe in such a way that Tessa would not be able to see. He pulled up the sand scarf on his neck to further protect his mouth and face from the sun’s heat and the sand, attempting to put his own sickness in the back of his mind.
“Father, are you sure you wouldn’t rather have me bring him to you? You are not well…” she pleaded. She was not blind to her father’s increased fragility. She had been noticing for months how his health had begun to deteriorate, and despite her best efforts it seemed her father was eager to throw what little life he had left into his work.
“Your concern is noted and appreciated. Now if we could see this vagabond, I would like to have a word with him.” Without waiting for a response, he started off into the desert. Tessa sighed and tightly fastened her own sand scarf around her face for protection.
“As you wish, father,” she whispered, following after him.
The desert winds pushed against the two as they made their way to Malzahar’s tent. As per his request, the prophet had been stationed near a small pool by the mountainside. It wasn’t enough to drink from, but Malzahar claimed it allowed him to experience powerful visions and, potentially, reveal the ancient knowledge that Kassadin sought after. Typically he had kept to himself during the main excavation, only coming to the supply tent for food and water, or when a vision had revealed itself to him.
The remains of their camp fluttered in the breeze, half consumed by the sand. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Tessa noticed a limp figure partially submerged in the sand. The dried and decaying flesh of one of their former companions cordially greeted the two as they marched onward, a hanging arm waving them onward in the breeze. Kassadin paid it no need, but Tessa grimaced at the sight. While Kassadin had originally traveled to Shurima with a full caravan of excavators and hired guards, to protect against the countless bandits and marauders that roamed the dunes, the three of them were all that remained. Some of expedition had been lost in excavation for artifacts or scrolls, some had left due to the harsh conditions of the job, but most had simply been driven mad under the intense and unrelenting heat of the sun. Shurima was not known for her mercy.
“What do you think he’s seen, Father?”, Tessa questioned as they made their way to the entrance of Malzahar’s tent.
“Whatever it is, I believe this may be the final revelation I need,” Kassadin grinned with wide-eyes, lips cracking in the heat. “I believe our journey is at an end at last.”
And with that Kassadin entered the tent, leaving Tessa to ponder whether her father was right, or if, for his own sanity, there were some truths better left buried in the sand.
