Malachi looked back one last time at the village that served as his home for the past five years. He let out a sigh, one of sadness and relief. While he was sad about leaving his mother behind, he was relieved that he was finally able to break out of the boring and repetitive village life and go on an adventure. He expected a road full of nothing but wonder and prosperity. He knew he would have many stories to tell his children and his children's children.
Malachi, the town woodcutter and only member of the town guard, was leaving. It was unlikely that he would ever return. He took the first step of his journey; the tall, thin man's hair blew in the steady breeze. The wind blew steady, the sun was out, and there was not a cloud in the sky, and this was good; fantastic weather to start his journey. Malachi's violet eyes were fixed on the horizon, towards his future, one might say.
The twenty-three year-old mage walked at a steady pace. The village he was leaving behind grew smaller and smaller until it could not be seen anymore. He stopped for a moment, looking at his pale arms and feeling his gaunt cheeks. Malachi found it funny how no matter how long he stayed outdoors, he was always pale and no matter how much he ate, his cheeks remained gaunt and he remained thin. Malachi then gazed ahead, looking at the mountains.
The tallest peaks barely touched the sun high above. Noon is fast approaching, Malachi thought, continuing his trek through the dense forest. After nearly an hour, he came across a dusty path nearly overgrown with weeds. Malachi began to follow the path. He trudged through the forest for a couple hours.
At about three o' clock in the afternoon, Malachi had reached the mountains. The further the path went on, the higher the cliffs got. Soon, the cliffs merged, creating a tunnel. The tunnel ended at a large iron door. It was solid, as far as Malachi could tell, and it had a picture etched into it of a man wielding a key-shaped weapon.
There were two iron loops on either side of the door; the handles, Malachi assumed. He grabbed one and pulled with all his might. The heavy door didn't budge for a few seconds, but it soon began to move a couple inches every second until it was open enough for Malachi to squeeze through. A musty smell hit his nostrils, causing him to cover his nose. He stepped inside.
The walls of the room were solid rock, leading Malachi to believe that this place was carved out of the mountain itself. The room was small and circular. It had a diameter of about thirty feet. Around the room, rectangular holes were cut into the wall. Inside were the mummified remains of people.
A book lay on a table about ten feet into the room. The table was probably cut out of the rock too, since it seemed like the table was part of the floor. The book was on a black stone hand that was clenched tightly around it. However, as Malachi approached the table, the hand released, allowing the book to be grabbed. The book had a red cover; a golden trim bordered the cover and came off of each corner to the golden keyhole design in the middle.
Malachi almost didn't pick the book up; afraid it would crumble in his hands. Deciding to take a risk, he picked the book up. Relieved it didn't disintegrate in his hands, Malachi opened the book up. He frowned in disappointment; the book was written in Halden, a long dead language. He looked ahead at the gate on the other side of the room.
Perhaps there was a way to translate it through there. It would likely be dangerous. This place was, clearly, ancient. But isn't that why he left the village? So he could break out of the confines of his boring life and have some excitement? He would continue, Malachi decided. He would find a way to translate this book.