A Meeting of Devil and Mage Alexander Barticel Deep within the confines of the Loralian empire sat the Ebon Spire. A twisted tower which rose from the earth—a single, carved mass of stone. None knew of its true origins except, perhaps, those that lay outside the bounds of mortal life. In a sparsely furnished room at the heart of the Ebon Spire sat the greatest mage of the time, Eisenwald. The man studied, searching for the secrets of these immortal beings. In doing so, he had drawn the attention of those who would prefer that their secrets remain as such. One being in particular had been watching and waiting for quite some time. *** Balthazar lounged on a cleared mantel above a lively fireplace. The stone’s heavy warmth reminded him of the fiery depths of home. The golden rings of his eyes seemed to dance as they took in the form of his prey. The devil’s long, spade-tipped tail waved languidly at his back. His form was invisible to all, except for those that knew how to look. Eisenwald hunched over his desk. His head shifted slightly from side to side as he read and took notes simultaneously. His round spectacles eased to the end of his nose while he studied, his left hand rising swiftly to meet them while his right continued his note-taking. There was no waste to his movements. Balthazar’s form flowed like smoke from the mantel as he eased towards the hearth. This was the one he had been waiting for. A mortal with a gift from the gods. This man possessed a boundless luck which the devil—and his masters—yearned to make his own. But how? he wondered. This man was unwavering. Ever alert and always working. As the devil’s foot met the wooden floor, there was the slightest hint of a creak. The devil immediately scrambled to return to his perch, but it was too late. A wave of light rushed from Eisenwald. The light spilled across the floor, covering furniture before climbing up along the walls to encircle the entire space. The light grew brighter, becoming almost blinding before it disappeared in a radiant burst. The traces of Eisenwald’s sealing spell could be seen along every sharp edge—a soft green-tinted glow. ‘Finally.’ Eisenwald’s chair grated across the floor as he moved to stand. The mage turned, looking out across the empty room. ‘Reveal yourself, whatever you are. You cannot hide or escape. I would rather not resort to violence.’ A torrent of thick, black smoke erupted from a point in the centre of the room. The smoke formed a column, rushing from the floor to the ceiling. The soft glow of Eisenwald’s barrier intensified and where it met the smoke a circular glyph formed, encasing the column. The smoke did not spread to fill the room, yet surged endlessly upwards. A single, swirling mass. The mage scrunched his nose as an acrid smell filled the space. Laughter followed. Deep. Rumbling. Directionless. The laughter gave way to three fiery tears, which ripped through the swirling column of darkness. Two featureless eyes and a gaping maw, filled with hellfire, shifted within the smoke before the mage. ‘You have done well, mortal. Few would have been able to detect me, but if you think your paltry magic will hold me, you are mistaken.’ The multitudinous voice seemed to resound from every surface. It vibrated throughout the entirety of Eisenwald’s body. The mage pushed his glasses back into place and clicked his fingers. In response, the column of smoke exploded outwards, now filling the room. With a short gesture and a formless word, the smoke began to coalesce, collecting rapidly in the palm of Eisenwald’s free hand.
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