The Legend Project

Year One

The five wizards made for an odd sight, standing in the snows of northern Ostia. Lestor was the tallest among them, sporting a magnificent auburn beard and long hair to match. The hem of his indigo robes rested on the snow, growing wet from the moisture.

Next to him was Malen, a much shorter man who hunched as if carrying a great weight. Though he was the youngest of the group at 42, his wizened features, receding gray hair, and bushy eyebrows made him look considerably older. Small rays of light cut through the darkness, projecting in all directions from his skin. Through his black robes a faint glimmer could be seen.

Erik stood off to the side, looking out at the frozen desolation. He was the oldest of the group, with 48 years, and looked it. His skin was cracked and browned like dry earth, and his were eyes sunk deep into his bald head. He had the appearance of a walking rock formation, at least, when he chose to lower the hood of his earthen robes.

Arms folded, a bored expression on her face, stood Ophala. Despite her thin azure robes, she did not shiver. Her eyes were as blue as the ocean, visible even in the dark, and her collar-length hair was platinum blonde. A bardugon was tattooed onto the bluish skin of her face, a pair of wavy red lines on each cheek.

Last, and most striking of all, was Elana, whose feet barely touched the snowy ground. Long, silvery hair floated behind her head, while her eyes glowed white with an intensity matched only by a thunderclap. She was exactly as she appeared in the tales, beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

"I trust you all know why you're here," Lestor said, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. He turned towards a small clump of buildings to the north. "Tonight is the night of our hero's birth. She - and I still don't get why it had to be female - shall be born here in this Ostian village of... um..."

"It's called Elwood," Ophala snapped. "And it should be female. Women are just as capable as men, you know. There aren't enough legends about them. Just ask Elana here." Ophala turned towards her, expecting some kind of an answer, but got only a glowing stare. Visibly unnerved, she looked back at Lestor.

"Right, anyways. Our hero shall be born in Elwood during a most violent and unusual storm."

"Sorry to interrupt," said Erik, scratching his hooded scalp, "But there aren't any storm clouds here. It's perfectly calm-"

"I know it is, you think I'm deaf and blind? That's why you two are here." Lestor pointed to Ophala and Elana. "You're going to MAKE the storm in this story."

"But why?" Ophala asked. "Will it affect the child at all if she's born in a storm or not? This seems so irrelevant."

"It's ALL relevant. We can't just skip a scene because it's inconvenient. There are many variables involved in the creation of a legend. If you remove one, who knows what could happen."

"Ugh. Fine." Ophala brought her hands toward the sky, closing her eyes in concentration. Slowly, clouds began to form and gather over the distant village, and fresh snow began to fall.

"That's good, keep going. I want to see freezing rain, hailstones, sleet! Elana, you can begin."

The quiet woman nodded once, and walked a short distance away from the group, towards the village. She stopped, and sat perfectly still for several moments, her palms together in front of her, as though she was praying. And then she began to move.

Lestor couldn't help but stare as Elana danced across the snow. Her movements were almost impossible to follow, extremely complex, he knew, but her grace and fluidity made them look simple. As she danced, the lightning came, striking all around the village, illuminating the entire plain with an electric blue that reflected off the ice like countless saphires. For its curiously small size, the storm had tremendous power, driven by two of the world's strongest mages.

The wizard brought his hands together, and when he drew them apart, a circular window was formed in the air in front of him. A mother squeezed a father's hand hard enough to make him wince, as she gave her final push.

"Now!" Lestor yelled at the stormdancer. The winds raged, the half-frozen rain pounded the ice and snow, and just as the baby was born, a bolt of lightning struck the family's dwelling, the point of impact sizzling from the rain. Lestor's window shattered as he cried, "We've done it!"

The clouds subsided, blown apart by the constant wind. "The girl's parents did it," said Ophala as she broke out of her trancelike state. The lightning had also stopped, as Elana sat cross-legged in the snow, recovering.

"You know what I mean. The storm, it was excellent. Not as big as I would've liked, but you did your best."

"I'd like to see you do better."

"I'm an Arcanist. I don't do big, clumsy displays of power. I focus on the nuances of magic."

Ophala rolled her eyes. Erik spoke up, "If that was all we needed to do, what am I here for?"

This time Malen spoke, for the first time since they'd gathered here. "Lestor may not have required us all tonight, but he will. This project has only just begun. We must watch the child, and if necessary, guide her."

"Yes," Lestor chimed in. "If she is to be a real hero of legend, her life must be rather extraordinary. And the extraordinary is what the five of us specialize in."

"Four of us," said Ophala. "Elana's gone."

"Right," he said, flustered. "She only agreed to help us this one night. Anyways, the rest of us will meet again. I shall keep an eye on the child, and when the time is right, I will contact you all."

The other wizards nodded. "Back to reversing waterfalls," Ophala said tiredly before Lestor teleported her away with a wave of his hand, a flash of crimson light, and a whoosh of frigid air.

"I'm looking forward to seeing the results of this project," Erik said, before he too was teleported.

Malen turned to Lestor. "Do you really think this will work?"

"You've asked me this before. If I didn't think it would work I wouldn't be here. It's that simple."

Malen shook his head, looking down at the snow. "I'm sorry. It's just... if what you told me was true, then-"

"Only a guess, Malen. At any rate, this is merely for fun. When you get to be old and powerful and learned, there's so little left to explore. I want to see what it would be like, to look upon a true legend in the flesh before I breathe my last."

"Are we not all legends, of a sort? The most powerful mages in the world?"

Lestor chuckled, his beard shaking with him as it fluttered in the wind. "You may be right. But when SHE comes into her own, I don't think that will matter any more."

"Hm. Goodbye, then. Until we next meet." With those words, Malen bowed his head and received Lestor's teleportation spell.

The middle-aged Metamancer stood alone outside the village, giving it one final look. Before the red glow engulfed him, he muttered, "I hope I'm right..."

Year Four

Elwood, west of the Winter Wood, an old dwelling with an old name. The home of the candidate, as the wizards took to calling her. Throughout her early childhood the wizards had intervened, weaving her "legend" with uses of magic. Her first steps were heralded by a flock of doves (imported all the way from Saint-Astan), her first words, transformed into something suitably heroic, were punctuated by a gust of wind (Lestor was quite pleased with himself after that display). But their biggest action was yet to come. Four of them stood outside of Elwood one morning, near the Winter Wood that was a good half-mile from the village. Erik was not among them, but a new face was.

"I would like you all to meet Vekner," began Lestor. "I found him right here in Ostia. He happens to be... well, why don't you just show them."

It looked as though Vekner been thrown into a fire, as he was covered in burns, his once-fair skin charred a dark grey. A great deal of his hair was missing, as was a large part of his left eyelid, which gave his face a disquieting asymmetry. His cracked lips curled into a sneer, exposing sooty teeth and a black tongue.

It was apparent what element he chose to work with. With a yell, he threw his arms out, and the ice turned to steam and from the ground rose a dragon of pure fire. The wyrm was a good 50 feet in length, and burned as hot as a blacksmith's forge. Its whole body flared up as it took to the skies, and the flames became white-hot. In a blue flash, the entire thing exploded.

"I would've suggested something a little more... subtle," Lestor said, glancing nervously at the town. Vekner flashed him his hideous sneer.

"This is a joke, right?" Ophala asked sharply. "Look at this lunatic. He's probably quaffing potions right and left."

"And yet look at what he just did. Twenty-seven years old, and capable of doing that. A worthy addition to our project if I ever saw one." Lestor glanced at the trees as a distant crash came from within the forest.

"Twenty-seven? He's already half-dead with a bad eye. I wouldn't be surprised if he just spontaneously exploded. Pyromancers, I swear."

"You have something against pyromancers, woman?" Vekner's voice crawled out of his throat as a dry, rasping sound, like burnt leaves. "Odd for an Asevian."

"I'm an Asevian who avoided my own destruction. One smart enough to think of dousing fire with water. That makes me a genius, apparently. At least among those fools." Ophala flinched as another crash sounded, only closer.

"You can't drown a dragon. Can't freeze one, either. One dragon's all it would take to thaw this whole land."

"Ha, that's where you're wrong. I've done it. I learned the power of water over fire," Ophala pointed to her bardugon, "and was hailed as Asevia's finest Neromancer."

"Cute story. But one arrogant bitch killing a dragon the hard way doesn't convince me. I'll stick with fire, the dragon's power. Perhaps one day we can have a little duel, see which really IS the strongest, eh?"

"How childish. I don't have time for this nonsense."

"You're scared-"

"Enough!" commanded Lestor. "We're not here to have a contest of power. We ALL represent the leaders of our respective fields, and that is not in dispute. Let's not forget why we're here." There was another crash, and some yells from within the forest, growing closer.

"Why ARE we here?" growled Vekner.

"The Candidate's fourth year is upon us. I had hoped to do this on her third year, but once again, Ophala insisted-"

"You can't expect a three-year-old to remember any of this, or act accordingly. And anyway, I said to wait until she was five."

Lestor waved a hand. "Irrelevant, now. As we speak, Erik is luring out the forest-dwelling bandits and poachers with a localized earthquake. The trees shake, and fall, and drive them towards Elwood. It is the next chapter of the story, a tragic bandit raid that slaughters the child's whole family."

Right on cue, a horde of woodsmen fled from the trees, shouting in fear as they ran towards the village. Behind them, cracks formed in the ground, spurring them on.

"They're not attacking," Ophala interjected, "they're fleeing. This can't possibly work."

"You doubt me?" Lestor gave an amused smile. "Time to show you where the true power is."

Lestor turned towards the advancing group, making a swirling motion with his hand, bending the sound of their voices, changing their frightened wails into cries of battle. They ran towards Elwood with wood axes and skinning knives, unloaded bows and leather armor and furs. Unless one looked hard enough, they were no different from a large raiding party. It wasn't long before the arrows of Elwood's militia began to fly, and chaos broke out.

"I must admit, I'm ALMOST impressed." Ophala then turned to Malen. "You're awfully quiet. Did you know about this?"

"No, Ophala, I did not. This is... not what I had expected."

"Now, Vekner, do what you do best. The flames should only be enough to drive the Candidate away from the bloodshed. Do not level the houses, either. It has to look like bandit torches."

As Malen drew back in alarm, Vekner held his palms up on either side of his body. Flames shot from them, lighting the huts and town structures of Elwood.

Erik emerged from the forest at this moment, breathing heavily. His eyes fell on Vekner as he closed the distance to the group of wizards. "Wow... impressive."

"Can you believe he was up for execution?" Lestor asked Erik. "Such a waste of talent!"

"Yes, I can't imagine why anyone would want him dead," Ophala retorted.

Lestor ignored her and focused his attention on another of his magic windows. "It's not working! She's just sitting there, crying! Doesn't she realize her life is in danger? She needs to MOVE!"

"I'll get her to move," Vekner said with another sneer. The flames suddenly roared up behind the child, scorching her back. She ran screaming from the hovel and into the reddened snow. All around her buildings burned and fighters clashed. She miraculously managed to avoid the battle, by virtue of her short child's stature (though the way Lestor was scrunching his face was a bit suspect). She hid inside of a decrepit barn that the flames oddly ignored, and promptly collapsed face-first onto the straw.

"Vekner, are you listening to me?! Only enough to drive her away! You burned her entire backside!"

"You wanted her to move. I made her move."

"She could die from this, you fool! And even if she doesn't, she'll be permanently scarred!"

"So?"

"So? Our hero has to live past four, and if she must be a woman, she should at least be beautiful."

"Scars are beautiful."

Lestor sighed in irritation. "Malen, this is why I brought you. If it ever seems like the candidate is about to succumb to injury, you need to make sure that doesn't happen. Keep her alive, understand?"

Malen nodded. "Yes, but... I can't affect her at this range. I need to be close."

"Just take my hand and heal me. I'll do the rest."

Malen raised an eyebrow, but did as Lestor said. He channeled the succor into him, but it did not heal the Arcanist. Instead his power was sent on, relayed straight through the window as if the two of them stood just outside the barn. The child's back healed, not completely, but enough to spare her life.

"There is one bright spot to all this," Lestor said. "Any chance of her forgetting what happened here is now gone. The memory is right there, branded into her flesh. She'll never forget."

The others nodded, save for Malen. As soon as his spell finished, he had let go of the wizard and didn't once raise his eyes from the snow-covered ground. When he found he could still see the orange glow reflected off the ice, he shut them.