Reality was dark and silent from the time the moon rose in the sky.  It took quite some time to figure out what was happening, longer still to adjust to it.  Some are known to transform in these times.  To take on the form of a beast and ravage through cities.  For one, though, it wasn’t a time of rage, hunger, or destruction.  For this man, each full moon brought a much-needed rest, a repose ordained by the gods themselves.  Nobody should work at all times, even the divine do not always answer the calls of the devout. Kazmal’s groans could be felt deep within the earth as power surged from the mountain to the place where a man once stood.  Crystal shards vanished from their resting place in the sturdy stone walls of a familiar tavern, one that used to hold many celebrations as the heart of an era.  This time, however, the forsaken building has passed on beyond its life as so many others had before it.

Light began to spill into a newly formed orb, refracted by the now-standing statue.  A body immobilized by nature, but awoken to move once again by the will of the divine.  Each movement proclaimed a testament to the strength of Zelphair.  His eyes returned and opened, and the statue saw the wasteland around him. The crystalline body began to move. His eyes glanced past the shattered glass that once formed a window.  His hands ground across the pile of planks that once constructed a table.  His feet stepped across the ash that once constituted a bar.  His form drifted through the opening that once held a door.

“Is this what is to come?” His booming voice pleaded with the silence of a once beloved town.  Had his eyes the ability to water, perhaps his weeping could bring back life to such a tragic scene.  Like thunder brings fear to a stormy night, the man brought a strike upon the wall beside him.  “I reject this!  It will not come to be!”

“What can you do?” came a whisper from the winds.  “You saw it come to be; what is done has been done.”

“I will grab time.  I will go back and change what has happened.”  The man promised.  “I am no magister, but her notes must have survived.”

“You who has never touched the arcane?  Would you see yourself fit?” The whisper taunted.

“I may not grasp at magic, but it sought me.  The divine have not seen fit to end me yet, so I will devote however long it takes.” His voice cracked with a bitter determination.  He could not age; none had found a way to end him.  In effect, he was no more mortal than Planu himself.

“The elves spent lifetimes mastering their arts.  You truly intend to waste away for hundreds of years just to spend a few more with those who died here?  Your attachments are so temporary.” The winds blew harshly against the man.

“I would spend seven lifetimes for one more moment with any of my brothers or sisters.  Be gone from me.  This weight is heavy, but I will lift it.”  The man stepped into the wind.  He rejected the whisper.  Each crunch of the ashes beneath his feet echoed his determination to the world around him.  Nothing could stop his mission, even the divine may need to question their authority over him.  The wind raged against him.  When he had departed from the destruction, there was a crash at the door.  A sign fit itself among the wreckage, Cherry Grove Tavern.