Thunder clouds rolled thick in the sky as the cloaked figure made his way toward the ruins. The stuff of raw magic permeated the very air, causing the man's hair to stand on end. Footsteps echoed off the ancient stone as he descended a flight of steps into the dark catacombs beneath.
Standing either side of the entrance to the dark below, two stone statues, each older than even the monoliths above. Each statue depicted a warrior with his hands resting on the pommel of his sword. The armour of the statues was strange and outlandish, compromised of apparent metal plates that would over lock at intervals and joints, crowned by a helmet concealing their faces with no more than two narrow slits allowing the would be wearer to see the outside world.
Yet time had not been kind to the statues. Centuries of neglect and rain had eroded away much of the once carefully crafted masonry, which artisans had spent their lives working on. Stones had fallen and we're riddled with pock marks. Nestled within cracks in the stonework, spiders crawled out as if to inspect the newcomer.
Despite the outward appearance of decay and ruin however, the figure remained as alert as only one who is in a place he knows he shouldn't be can be. The ancient warriors of the west had been careful in the laying down of their traps. Even though those who had cast the protective seals of the catacombs had long passed into legend, their creations were still as potent as the day they had been set into the stone itself.
It had taken almost fifteen years of blood, sweat and tears that had led the figure up to this moment. Travelling to all corners of the world, he had been forced to negotiate, barter and even fight with every last drop of his skills to get this far. Twisting his face into a sneer, he remembered how the old man had to resist his powers. Foolish old goat. It had been futile. True, it had taken weeks of interrogation but he had finally "convinced" to impart his knowledge onto him.
Now to find out if it had all been worth it.
Passing through the shadow of statues, the figure felt a unnatural feeling of dread. It was though those ancient sentinels saw him and disapproved of his presence. Pushing them out of his mind the figure studied the intricate carvings set into the walls. One misstep here would ruin everything.
Quietly muttering an incantation, the figure waved his hand out across him. Violet light flared from his hand, engulfing the corridor with an eerie illuminance. With another arcaic syllable, the glow leapt from the sorceror's outstretched palm and flew down the corridor before terminating in a spectacular pulse of light. Suddenly, the passage was a lit as like an eagle's eye spotting the slight rustle betray light the location of a cowering field mouse, the flare revealed a vast network of magic strands, interwoven across the corridor like a monstrous spider's web.
Allowing a smirk to spread itself across his face, the figure slowly walked up to the first strand. Once again he outstretched his hand but this uttered a different spell. For a split second, the strand of light flared before seemingly unravelling itself and dying out.
Repeating the process at each strand, the mage made his way slowly down the corridor until he finally reached a chamber on the far side. Seemingly as derelict as the rest of the ruins, the chamber was a dire state of disrepair. Only one part remained untouched by the cruel clutches of time. An altar, on top of which was presented a blade of unsurpassed beauty.
Gleaming in what little light made its way into the chamber, the long, curved blade had was not rusted in the slightest. Instead it remained as perfect as the day of its forging. No dust settled on it, as though it deliberately the weapon. Crafted in ivory, the pommel of the blade resembled an outstretched skeletal hand with long, clawed fingers.
" At last," The figure whispered to himself, stepping up to the altar. Grabbing the sword from its pedestal, he slashed the air slowly, listening to the ring of metal as the steel cut through the air. Now they would have to listen to him. Now those fools would see. Now they would pay.
Yelling out another dark incantation, the figure thrust out the relic. Now crackling with the dark energies of the spell, the blade jolted suddenly as though met with some force of resistance. Sneering the mage took the handle in a two handed grip and pulled down. Following the gut of the blade, a fissure compromised of pitch black appeared. For a split second, happened. Then a shadowed hand seemingly detached itself from the darkness, pulling itself by long, slender talons.
As more and more shapes ripped themselves from the fissure in the fabric of reality and danced in the shadows filling the chamber. Let loose to a manical laugh, the mage let the sword fall to his side. With the power now at his command, he would snuff out all resistance like a flickering candle in a black whirlwind.
Then the world would be his for the taking.