The path from one pile of rubble to the next was short.  Each glance around at the leveled town gave one more reason to fight on, one more reason to keep his word.  Despite the darkness within the walls, the sun cast its beams upon the man.  Each ray twisted about his body, and they gleamed out in each direction, turning his form into that of a beacon.  Perhaps the gods saw fit to watch him, or perhaps they taunted a futile pursuit.  Regardless of who watched, his steps were for himself, not for some far-off spectators. Despite the destruction all around, a single structure stood.  The unknowing would chock it up to luck or chance, but those who knew the magister knew why this house stood.  The enchantments on that home held more power than even some gods had seen elsewhere.  Not to say that the magister herself was among them, but her order defined an era.  The now old bridge creaked with each step as the man, even with senses for such things as untuned as his own, could feel the weave whispering around him.  Everyone knew what was beneath that home.  Some called it the worst-kept secret in all of Templehelm, but a secret it still was.  Not because nobody knew of it, but because the legends grew beyond what most dared believe.  A god was born beneath those halls. Nothing here could kill the man, but one wrong step could slay the knowledge within the walls.  Nobody was here now, nobody could be.  Still, his fist reached up to tap the door. “I am Zaigucrenth. I have come to learn from the magister.” He announced, as though someone might hear him.  The man never stopped offering respect, even for those who could not accept it any longer.  It isn’t as though respect is only for the recipient anyway; the man believed that to honor another was to make yourself stronger.  He stood firmly for a great length of time before lifting his hand towards the handle of the door. “Come in.” The door opened itself before the man could do it; something beckoned him inside.  It wasn’t quite a voice.  It was something strange.  It was almost a feeling, the knowledge that he was welcome without anyone there to greet him.  Still, to him, it became a voice. “I wish I had more gifts on hand to make up for the intrusion, but things are not going well outside.”  He admitted to the empty room.  His eyes scanned the walls of books; there was nearly no end to the knowledge that could be contained within them.  His feet marked the path to the flourishing tree at the center of the room.  He reached into his satchel and pulled out one of his more treasured possessions.   “I have nothing of great value for the magister, so I give something of great value to me.”  He knelt down and relinquished a small gem to the roots.  There was nothing of intrinsic value about this gem; it was little more than a pretty rock to the world.  To the man, however, it was a treasure.  “I grant you a gift given to me by a good friend.  May the thoughtfulness of its delivery to me bring peace to the resting magister.”  He retreated from the tree. “Search these halls.” The man could feel the house accept him by the way the wind brought a creak to the walls as it blew, the way the petals danced from the tree.  Despite the immense knowledge contained just in this room, each hall somehow led to more.  The man sifted through the shelves, uncovering tales of heroes, books of laws, accounts of diplomatic relations, even detailed recipes.  Even he knew that what he needed wasn’t going to be found so quickly.  His search had to go deeper.  He needed to find the way down, but the house had not invited him to it.  Zaigucrenth was resolved not to intrude on a path he was not invited down, so he began with what he had been granted.  He returned to the entrance of the home and reached for the first book on the first shelf. “I will start where the magister must have begun.”  He announced.  

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.