As Torval watched, his amazement grew. What emerged was a length of some sort of wood. It was dark, almost the color of ebony, and shone with a similar luster. He could see the wood’s grain or else he would not have believed the staff to be wood. As Grafeldr finished unwrapping it, he stood up and held it out at arm’s length for Torval to examine.
With tentative hands, Torval reached out and accepted the staff, for that is what it appeared to be – a six-foot-long walking staff of untold age. As his hands touched it, he felt a strange tingling surge up his arms and through his body. It caused a quickening feeling in his abdomen that passed after a moment. He grasped the staff then and inspected its length.
The surface of the staff was smooth; though not straight – it curved slightly at its topmost section – it had no nicks or gouges along its length. It was sturdy, but not heavy, and well balanced as Torval demonstrated by shifting it between his hands with little effort.
As he was turning it in his grip, something on it caught the reflection of torch-light. Torval stopped to look at what it might be, and gasped.
“Ah, so you have noticed the runes,” said Grafeldr. He watched the boy’s reaction with interest.
Torval moved over to the fire to inspect the curious markings closer. There were a series of strange marks, or symbols, along either side of the staff along its upper section, of a type Torval had never seen. He ran his finger across one of the symbols. Strange, he thought, I can feel it, but it seems to be recessed into the wood, so that cannot be. He looked up to find Grafeldr watching him with deep intent.
“What…” Torval said.
“The runes are the secret to the staff’s power,” Grafeldr said. He leaned over and stirred the fire with a length of kindling, causing a small eruption of sparks to fly toward the ceiling. Satisfied that the fire was burning properly, he stood and moved to join Torval who was still inspecting the staff.
“Power?”
“Yes,” Grafeldr said; “Unimaginable power, to the rightful possessor of the staff. And together, we shall discover if you are that person.”
Torval turned the staff over in his hands and looked at it again, even closer. As he ran his thumb along a series of symbols, images began to form in his head. He closed his eyes and allowed the images to come. At first, all he saw was a mist or fog with no discernable shape or color.
Then, as he struggled to make sense of what he was seeing, a faint shape began to emerge from the haze. At last, he saw it, a strange dark thing, hunch-backed, with coarse hair covering its grotesque body. The creature stood at the edge of a wood, looking about. It was the same hunch-backed, evil-looking thing that he had seen in his dream. Torval could almost smell its stench as it peered out from the mist-shrouded forest. Then, the hideous thing turned and seemed to look straight at Torval. Its black eyes squinted for a moment, and then opened wide. It pointed a gnarled fat finger and uttered a bark of warning. At once, Torval perceived danger and reflexively squeezed the staff as he recoiled from the vision. The result was immediate and intense. There was a brief flash of light that seemed to emanate from the staff. The pulse of light flowed from the staff and coursed through him. The light was warm and, Torval knew, undeniably powerful. It flowed through him and dissipated as quickly as it came. However, before it faded altogether, he heard the faintest, brief sound of a musical chord. Then, the vision was gone, and Torval was being gripped hard on the shoulders by the old man.
“What did you see?” Grafeldr demanded. “Tell me boy, and be quick.”
* * * *
Miles away, across the tundra and ice of the furthermost northern regions, an ageless evil wakes and takes note: the chord has sounded; the magic has resurfaced. After spending millennia waiting, its essence resting in a dormant half-sleep, it begins to stir. It is time to rise and take possession of that which has for so long eluded it.
After pulling itself from the pit it created for itself so many years earlier, the formless creature, insubstantial as smoke, but with two glowing, hate-filled, red eyes, sends a quick command to its minions, who have been waiting to do its bidding: “Seek the source of the magic; I will be with you soon.”
As the black thing coalesces, it knows it must locate a host in order to travel through this mortal world. It briefly considers the shape it will assume for its renewed search; perhaps this time it will take the form of a man. With that determined, Malik, dǽmon of Outworld, moves across the face of the earth once more.
With tentative hands, Torval reached out and accepted the staff, for that is what it appeared to be – a six-foot-long walking staff of untold age. As his hands touched it, he felt a strange tingling surge up his arms and through his body. It caused a quickening feeling in his abdomen that passed after a moment. He grasped the staff then and inspected its length.
The surface of the staff was smooth; though not straight – it curved slightly at its topmost section – it had no nicks or gouges along its length. It was sturdy, but not heavy, and well balanced as Torval demonstrated by shifting it between his hands with little effort.
As he was turning it in his grip, something on it caught the reflection of torch-light. Torval stopped to look at what it might be, and gasped.
“Ah, so you have noticed the runes,” said Grafeldr. He watched the boy’s reaction with interest.
Torval moved over to the fire to inspect the curious markings closer. There were a series of strange marks, or symbols, along either side of the staff along its upper section, of a type Torval had never seen. He ran his finger across one of the symbols. Strange, he thought, I can feel it, but it seems to be recessed into the wood, so that cannot be. He looked up to find Grafeldr watching him with deep intent.
“What…” Torval said.
“The runes are the secret to the staff’s power,” Grafeldr said. He leaned over and stirred the fire with a length of kindling, causing a small eruption of sparks to fly toward the ceiling. Satisfied that the fire was burning properly, he stood and moved to join Torval who was still inspecting the staff.
“Power?”
“Yes,” Grafeldr said; “Unimaginable power, to the rightful possessor of the staff. And together, we shall discover if you are that person.”
Torval turned the staff over in his hands and looked at it again, even closer. As he ran his thumb along a series of symbols, images began to form in his head. He closed his eyes and allowed the images to come. At first, all he saw was a mist or fog with no discernable shape or color.
Then, as he struggled to make sense of what he was seeing, a faint shape began to emerge from the haze. At last, he saw it, a strange dark thing, hunch-backed, with coarse hair covering its grotesque body. The creature stood at the edge of a wood, looking about. It was the same hunch-backed, evil-looking thing that he had seen in his dream. Torval could almost smell its stench as it peered out from the mist-shrouded forest. Then, the hideous thing turned and seemed to look straight at Torval. Its black eyes squinted for a moment, and then opened wide. It pointed a gnarled fat finger and uttered a bark of warning. At once, Torval perceived danger and reflexively squeezed the staff as he recoiled from the vision. The result was immediate and intense. There was a brief flash of light that seemed to emanate from the staff. The pulse of light flowed from the staff and coursed through him. The light was warm and, Torval knew, undeniably powerful. It flowed through him and dissipated as quickly as it came. However, before it faded altogether, he heard the faintest, brief sound of a musical chord. Then, the vision was gone, and Torval was being gripped hard on the shoulders by the old man.
“What did you see?” Grafeldr demanded. “Tell me boy, and be quick.”
* * * *
Miles away, across the tundra and ice of the furthermost northern regions, an ageless evil wakes and takes note: the chord has sounded; the magic has resurfaced. After spending millennia waiting, its essence resting in a dormant half-sleep, it begins to stir. It is time to rise and take possession of that which has for so long eluded it.
After pulling itself from the pit it created for itself so many years earlier, the formless creature, insubstantial as smoke, but with two glowing, hate-filled, red eyes, sends a quick command to its minions, who have been waiting to do its bidding: “Seek the source of the magic; I will be with you soon.”
As the black thing coalesces, it knows it must locate a host in order to travel through this mortal world. It briefly considers the shape it will assume for its renewed search; perhaps this time it will take the form of a man. With that determined, Malik, dǽmon of Outworld, moves across the face of the earth once more.
